Thunder on the Plains (33 page)

That was all in his past now. And when a man's past was so full of painful memories, there was nothing to do but leave it all behind him and try his best to start over. He followed Brinks into the hospital.

***

Sunny sat in the balcony of the courthouse, an area reserved for privileged Chicago citizens. She stared at the flag-draped coffin below, watching the endless line of people who walked by to pay their respects, their low voices and occasional weeping echoing into the chambers above. This was the second day the president's body had lain resting here. They would take it away soon, put it back on the funeral train and take it to its final resting place in Springfield.

She had been there since the body first arrived, sleeping only a few hours last night in a hotel. Grieving for President Lincoln brought back painful memories of grieving over her own father. Bo Landers and the president had been good friends, and she could not help thinking back to how hard her father had worked to get Lincoln elected. He had literally died for that cause, and now, after serving the nation so well and so wisely, after suffering the hellish decisions a president must have to make during an agonizing civil war, Lincoln, too, was dead.

It didn't seem fair, but then, most things in life didn't seem fair. Slim never should have died, nor Miss Putnam. Her own mother shouldn't have died before she got to know her. Bo Landers should still be alive. There never should have been that horrible, ugly war. So many things happened in life that just shouldn't have. Why was it always the good people who died before their time?

Her tears were not just for the president and memories of her father, but for the nation as a whole. How would they ever rebuild and get back to the business of being a united country? She had read about the horrible destruction of whole cities in the South, some destroyed by Sherman, some destroyed by the southerners themselves who wanted to make sure that when Union soldiers arrived, there would be nothing to capture or steal. Atlanta, burned to the ground—Richmond, burned to the ground—so many other cities as well as elegant plantation homes lying in blackened ruins.

A way of life for the South was over. Slaves had been freed, but no one knew what to do with them. They were left to wander and fend for themselves, a poor, lost people who had no idea where to go. Some were already filtering into Chicago, others, she had heard, were heading west to find land of their own.

A lot of people would be heading west now, not just Negroes, but southerners who had lost everything and could not afford to rebuild—some who would lose their land because banks would foreclose on them—taxes would be applied that they would not be able to pay.

How could this happen? Everything was so wrong. The president's assassination had left her and many others in a kind of shock, especially when it came on the heels of a war that had touched so many lives. This latest tragedy had brought back memories she would rather not dwell on—memories of a man who had gone off to war after awakening her passions one moonlit night on the shores of Lake Michigan. She had never heard from Colt, and when she read the daily lists of so many wounded and dead, she had little hope that he was still alive. She had already made up her mind she must forget him, and now his memory was stirred in her soul all over again. If only she knew for certain what had happened to him, she could perhaps rest a little easier. She could only pray that if he was still alive, he was not hurting, or missing a limb; that he would at least send her one letter, just to tell her he was all right.

“Sunny, you should leave here and get some rest.” Blaine came to sit down beside her again, after he'd left her to talk to some nearby dignitaries. “We have that train ride to Springfield and the funeral; and then the long trip to Omaha. This has all been too much for you.”

“I'll be all right once I get back out to Omaha. When does the train leave for Springfield?”

“In three hours. I had Mae get all your things together and Page drove your trunks down to Union Station.”

Sunny took a deep breath and wiped her eyes with a silk handkerchief. “I'm so glad we happened to be in Chicago when the body came through.”

Blaine put an arm around her shoulders. “I just wish I didn't have to leave you at Springfield and go back to New York. I hate these separations.”

Sunny rose. “All the more reason we can't make any serious plans yet,” she told him. She met his eyes. “I'm so sorry, Blaine.” Just a couple of weeks before he had again asked her to marry him, and then the news came about President Lincoln, sending her spiraling back down into a world of confusion and grief. Again she had put off making a decision. How much longer was he going to wait? When would she know it was the right time, and why didn't she have enough passion for him to be more eager to be his wife?

“I know what this has done to you, Sunny,” he answered. “After New York I'll stop to see you in Omaha and then I'll be going back to Oregon for a few months. Maybe this time when I get back, you'll finally be ready. Construction of the U.P. should be well under way by then. Maybe you and I could get married and go to France, meet my mother and sister, get away from
all
of this for a while. That's what you need, Sunny. You just need to get completely away, relax and be a woman—just a woman.”

“I can't think about any of that now. All this has brought back so much—especially my promise to Father. I need to be
here
, Blaine. I want to follow every step of construction, be present when the rails meet.”

“That could take another three or four years. I know this isn't the time or place to talk about it, Sunny, but I simply won't wait that long! I'll be back in another year, and I want to be able to place the biggest diamond on your finger money can buy, and then set a date. Surely we can do that much.”

She took his hands, studying his dark eyes. “Maybe by then we can. You'll have a lot more straightened out as far as your new logging company, and I'll be more settled in Omaha. Now that I know I can count on Cyril Brown to do a good job of handling Landers Enterprises, I don't have as much here to worry about.”

“Except Vince trying to stick his nose into things. He must be furious that you appointed Cyril to the job.”

“Cyril knows how to deal with Vince. He was Father's right-hand man for a lot of years and knows as much about the company as I do. And he doesn't give me any argument over using funds for the U.P. Even Vince seems to be coming around a little. He's been sitting in on meetings involving the railroad. He hasn't said a word, but I think he's beginning to realize what a lucrative investment I've made after all. I'll win him over yet.”

Blaine sighed deeply. “You're not going to give up on him, are you? Do you realize how much of your life has been spent trying to prove things to your brother, Sunny? Not just to your brother, but to practically everyone you know.”

She folded her arms and stepped over to the balcony railing, looking down at the coffin again. “I don't think you understand how hard it is being a woman in my position, Blaine. Certain people, especially Vince and Eve, have hurt me deeply. I see how men watch me, wait for me to make a mistake. Even you were that way in the beginning.”

“Sunny, that's all in the past.”

“Not completely. There are still a few men who won't meet with me directly. It's like, like there is something more wrong than my just being a woman. The way some of Father's old friends look at me—it's different from when I was a little girl. They accept my knowledge of the business, but there is still something about me they
don't
accept.”

“They're just a bunch of old coots who think Bo Landers was the only one who could handle things. You're proving them wrong. To hell with them.”

She sighed, turning to face him again. “It doesn't matter for the moment. Lying down there is one man who
did
listen, who received me with the same respect he would receive a foreign dignitary or one of his congressmen. He believed in the railroad, took time to give attention to it in spite of the ugly war around him. He was a good man, Blaine, one of the wisest I've ever known. Father saw that inner strength in him, knew this was the man who not only was capable of being broad-minded about this nation's progress, but who could carry on his shoulders the turmoil that was about to beset us. I'm just glad Father didn't live to see this.”

Blaine put his hands on her shoulders, feeling sorry for her, but in despair of ever getting her to the altar. He was beginning to wonder if she was incapable of physical passion. He knew people gossiped about their relationship, wondering when they would ever marry, and it annoyed him. He was beginning to consider it a slam to his own manhood, and it made him more determined to know the final victory.

Still, he had told himself he could not and would not wait forever. He already had his eye on the young daughter of a wealthy New York industrialist. She was only sixteen and not ready to be seeing someone his age, but she was a beauty and came from a family of good standing and great wealth. She was not as lovely as Sunny, or as rich or well known, but she was good enough material to mold into the beautiful wife of a congressman and future president. When he got back from Oregon he would be ready to get more involved in politics, and a married man was always thought better of by the public than a single one. Sunny was the only woman he wanted, but if she again refused to at least become engaged, he had already decided to begin courting Bess Hammond.

Much as he hated to think about it, he couldn't believe it was just the railroad and business and the war and all the other outside factors that were keeping Sunny from making a decision. He couldn't help the feeling that the woman was waiting for something…maybe for someone. She never mentioned Colt Travis's name anymore, but he guessed she was wondering if he had survived the war. How he hated the thought that she might think of him at all!

“Let's get out of here and get you something to eat before the train leaves,” he told her. “My coach is waiting outside.” He gently pulled her away from the railing. “You've been here long enough, Sunny. Let's go.”

She reluctantly obeyed, letting him lead her down the stairs and outside, where they were literally attacked by reporters asking about Sunny's friendship with President Lincoln, her relationship with Blaine. Blaine shielded her in his arms and got her into the coach, pulling down the shades to shut out the faces while his driver snapped the horses into motion, nearly running over some of the onlookers.

“Bastards,” Blaine fumed.

Sunny leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes as the buggy left. Minutes later, it clattered past a nearby hospital on its way to Union Station. Inside that hospital, Colt Travis lay resting.

***

Colt could see the fire creeping up on him, feel its heat. He rushed toward the only pathway out of the inferno, only to trip over something. He looked down to see a dead baby. He screamed and ran, then suddenly awoke with a gasp to find himself sitting up in bed, sweating and shaking.

“Here now, what is this?” a woman's voice asked. “You poor thing. Bad dreams about the war?” She set an oil lamp down near his bed. “Let me bathe you and cool you off. Do you want anything?”

Colt heard the sound of water as she dipped a cloth into a wash bowl and wrung it out. “A cigarette. I need a smoke,” he answered, breathing in near gasps.

“I'll see what I can do. Here. Just breathe deeply and try to put the dream out of your mind. This happens often in here, men like you with horrible memories.”

He felt a cool rag at his face, and he closed his eyes and breathed deeply as she moved the rag to his neck.

“Dear God,” she suddenly whispered. “Colt?”

He opened his eyes to a familiar face, but he could not quite place her. “Do I know you?” he asked.

“It
is
you! I'm Violet Landers, Stuart's wife! I met you that night at Sunny's dinner party. Why, that must have been at least three years ago!”

Colt thought for a moment, then took the rag from her and rubbed the back of his neck. “Jesus, go away,” he told her.

She touched his arm. “Why? Because of the way you look? For God's sake, Colt, we have a hundred men in here who look like this. It's only a matter of time before you're back to your old form.”

“Please go.”

She took the rag from his hand. “Don't be silly. Thank God you're alive and have all your limbs. Sunny will be so happy to know—”

“Don't tell Sunny!” he said in a louder voice. “Don't you
dare
tell Sunny I'm here!” He stood up on rubbery legs and grasped the bed rail, almost going down. Vi grasped his other arm.

“All right, Colt, I won't tell her. Just calm down and get back into bed, please. I'll go see about finding some tobacco.”

He leaned over the bed, half falling into it. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

Vi hurried away, returning moments later to find him sitting on the edge of the bed. “Here,” she told him. “We keep some pre-rolled smokes on hand since so many men ask for them.” She handed him a cigarette, then brought the lamp over and turned up the wick so he could light it. When she saw him in the brighter light, her heart ached at the embarrassment and agony in his eyes. She turned the lamp back down and set it aside again, then sat beside him on the bed. “Tell me where you've been, Colt. Belle Isle? Andersonville?”

He took a deep drag on the cigarette, closing his eyes and breathing deeply for a moment. “Andersonville,” he finally answered, his voice quieter now. “If I died and went to hell tomorrow, it couldn't be any worse.”

“I'm so sorry. We've all wondered what happened. You never wrote Sunny. She worried more than any of us, although she didn't speak of it. I saw it in her eyes.”