The Journey of Josephine Cain (40 page)

But first, he had to travel south. Southeast, to be exact.

Frieda had to walk double-time to keep up with Josephine. “Slow down!”

“I can’t slow down. I want to leave on the afternoon train, and we have a lot to do.”

Frieda grabbed her arm and pulled her to a stop. “Exactly. Which is why we should be back at the house, helping pack the goods into crates. At least I should be back there.”

She was right, but Josephine had no choice but to bring her along. “I can’t very well go to the police station by myself, can I?” She linked her arm in Frieda’s and walked.

“I still don’t understand what you hope to gain by this.”

It was very simple. “The truth.”

As he fluttered around her, it became evident Police Chief Brandon rarely had ladies in his office. After getting Josephine and Frieda settled, he returned to his chair behind the desk. “Twice in a few days, Miss Cain. To what do I owe this honor?”

For the first time since putting it on, Josephine pulled her engagement ring from her finger. “This.”

He held it between his beefy thumb and forefinger. “Your ring.” He cleared his throat and set it on the desk between them. “Is there some problem with it perhaps?”

“You tell me.” When he hesitated, she persisted. “The other day, you gave the ring extra scrutiny. I wish to know why.”

“Are you certain of that?”

Her stomach flipped. Was she? She nodded.

He turned his chair around to a pigeonhole cabinet behind him. He found what he was looking for and retrieved two papers. One was a drawing. He looked at it a moment, then handed it to her.

It was a drawing of her ring. At the bottom was the name
Tiffany and Co
. She had heard of that New York jewelry establishment. Mother had a necklace designed by them.

Designed by them
.

She picked up her ring and compared it to the drawing. There was no doubt the one was the result of the other. So Lewis had exquisite taste. Or . . .

“Why do you have a drawing of my ring?”

“Because it was reported stolen by a Mrs. Benjamin Troester.”

“Oh dear,” Frieda said.

Josephine was mortified, yet there was nothing that could make the moment less painful. She set the drawing back on his desk and placed the ring on top of it. “Would you please see that Mrs. Troester’s ring is returned to her?”

“Of course,” he said.

Humiliation propelled her to stand. “I assure you I had no idea it was stolen.”

“I know you didn’t. But . . . when I saw the ring, and you mentioned your fiancé’s name, I looked into him and . . .”

“Yes?”

“There’s more?” Frieda asked.

“I’m afraid so. It turns out your Lewis Simmons is actually Lewis Simon.”

Josephine sank to the chair. “I don’t understand. Why would he change his name?”

He brought forward a page for her perusal. It was from the United States Army. The words blurred. All except one.

“Deserter?”

“Apparently he deserted and rejoined the army for the signing bonus. More than once. Twice that we know of.”

“Once a coward, always a coward,” Frieda said.

None of this made sense. “Lewis said he spent the war in Europe, studying art.”

Chief Brandon shrugged. “Apparently he was lying.”

“He said his family had a fine house in New York and—”

The chief shook his head. “His father, Archibald Simon, was hanged as a spy. He pretended to work for the North while blockade-running for the South. . . . He was hanged on your father’s orders.”

Josephine gasped.

The chief continued. “I don’t know what happened to the mother, as there is no record of the family beyond the war.”

Lewis said she died of yellow fever
.

Maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t.

Josephine pressed a hand to her forehead. Everything she had known and believed about Lewis was a lie.

“I am so sorry, Miss Cain. I didn’t want to tell you, and yet . . . he is not someone a woman of your station should marry, whether you love him or not.”

His mention of love made her bristle, and she raised her chin. “Love should be freely given, and it should be based on honor and truth. Since Mr. . . . ?”

“Simon.”

“Since Mr. Simon has chosen to falsely insert himself into my family, I have no choice but to assume that his motives were far from pure, and his supposed love for me was a farce to be played out toward a profitable end.”

“Or revenge,” Frieda said.

Josephine looked at her.

“Think about it,” Frieda said. “
Your
father orders
his
father hanged. Was Lewis getting close to you to somehow hurt your father?”

It was too much to take in. Josephine extended her hand to the chief. That it was shaking couldn’t be helped. “Thank you, Chief Brandon. I think this concludes our business.”

“Best of luck to you, Miss Cain.”

She had to set him straight on that. “There is no such thing as luck. God arranged for our paths to cross in order to give me His assurance and the truth, and so I thank Him, and you. Good day.”

Josephine assumed Frieda followed her out to the street, but she didn’t dare dally or look back.

There would be no looking back.

Once home, Josephine went up to her room and quietly shut the door. Although she was teeming with anger, humiliation, and grief, she didn’t react as she had done in the past when confronted with disappointment: with a tantrum or sulking. Instead she crossed the room with slow deliberation, feeling the gentle sway of her skirt, hearing the subtle rustle of her petticoats, conscious of the beat of her heart.

She removed her hat and placed it on her dressing table with the care reserved for a piece of delicate sculpture. Then she sat at her desk, chose a single piece of paper, and turned it in a writerly direction. She took up the pen and removed the lid from the inkwell. She took a cleansing breath and began the letter as she always began it:
Dearest Papa
.

But then she stopped. What should she tell him? Everything or nothing? There seemed little possibility of anything in between. She couldn’t tell him about her sudden idea to start a store without telling him about Lewis’s deception—and warning him of Lewis’s possible revenge. Nor could she tell him about the latter without mentioning that she had fallen in love with Hudson Maguire—who had recently been sent away by her mother.

In the last few days, the high and low points of her life had converged, changing it completely. Truth was deceit, old love was proved false, new love was out of reach, and her future had been moved from an eastern city to a western plain. A life of mindless privilege, where she was expected to accomplish little, had transformed into a life of hard work greatly dependent on her own abilities and determination.

Yet for the first time in her life, Josephine felt a surge of exhilaration at the possibilities that were within her grasp. Her future was not destined and designed by others, but would be molded and fashioned by herself.

For the first time in her life, she was in control. Before the war, she had only thought she controlled her life. Whatever she wanted she could acquire through charm. Yet that wasn’t really control. It was manipulation. Papa was the one in ultimate control of everything; Josephine had simply learned how to maneuver his wishes to match her own.

And then Lincoln’s assassination and the deaths of the boys had mocked her so-called control, showing her that she had no say in any of it. What she wanted didn’t matter.

Did it matter now?

She moved her gaze from the page to the window. It had not been her choice to be duped by Lewis, drawn into a relationship based on lies and, she was beginning to believe, some diabolical plan. It had not been her choice to fall in love with Hudson, a man who was beyond the image and description of any man she had ever met or expected to meet. And now he was gone, sent away by her mother because he didn’t fit into a nice, neat box. Where was Josephine’s control in all that?

It seemed that love, which was intimate and invisible, was beyond her control, while the choices of starting a store and moving west—choices that were pragmatic and social—were hers to do with as she wished. Hers to control.

But you are not fully in control of any of it, Josephine
.

She sucked in a breath, hearing the inner check. “No, I am not,” she whispered. “You are.”

And so she set the pen in its holder and clasped her hands, leaning her chin against them.
Father God, You are leading me on a journey into the unknown. Thank You for the path ahead and the choices You have placed before me. Help me make the right ones
. She opened her eyes, finding it hard to say the final words that begged to be said.

To have achieved control only to relinquish it? It was like being given a gift and being asked to give it back.

A gift. A gift had been
given
to her.

And then she knew that every door that had opened—and closed—had been orchestrated by the Almighty. He had been leading her on this journey from girl to woman, from socialite to merchant, from easterner to woman of the West. She had walked through the doors, but they would never have opened if it hadn’t been for God, who was working toward a bigger plan for her life.

He deserved her gratitude, her worship.

And even more than that, her surrender.

With a nod she closed the deal, mentally handing the gift back to the Giver.

Take control of all that is before me, Lord. It is Yours
.

As am I
.

Josephine and Frieda checked a list of the boxes of inventory to make sure each one bore the
End of the Line
designation before it went out the door and onto the wagon that would accompany it to the depot. It was odd to see those words, because they seemed the opposite of what Josephine felt. The destination where those boxes and trunks were going—where she was going—was not the end of the line, but the beginning of something new. It was exhilarating.

And terrifying.

They both looked up when they heard Aunt Bernice on the stairs, giving directions. “Make sure my trunk has the same destination designation as the others. I wouldn’t want it to end up in Minnesota when I am going to Wyoming.”