Westward the Dream (27 page)

Brenton looked up and saw Jordana walking slowly back toward the wagon. She had obviously been crying, and Brenton's heart nearly broke in two at the sight of her.

He went to her, opening his arms. Jordana quietly slipped into his embrace, and mindless of the traffic upon the streets and walkway, she began to cry again.

“He was a good friend,” she murmured. “He made me laugh and he took me into his confidence. He trusted me and I betrayed him, and now I've caused him to—” She couldn't even say the word.

“You didn't cause G.W. to take sick, and your refusal to marry didn't worsen his condition. You simply weren't ready for what he had in mind. It didn't make you wrong and him right or even the other way around. It simply was the way things worked out.”

“But now he'll die and that's it. There'll never be a chance to tell him my heart. He won't even read my letters.”

“I thought of that,” Brenton replied. “Billy sails in a few days. There's still time to get a telegram to him. Why don't you put all of your feelings for G.W. into a message that Billy can take with him to Europe?”

Jordana sniffed and looked up at her brother. “Could we? Do you really think Billy would do that for me?”

“I'm sure he would. G.W. would have to listen, and maybe now, maybe facing the possibility of his own death, he'll put matters to rest.”

“Do you suppose he might get well?” Jordana asked hopefully.

“Of course, anything's possible. With God, all things are possible.”

“But that includes his death,” Jordana replied.

“If that's God's plan, then, yes, I suppose so.”

Controlling her emotions, Jordana squared her shoulders. “I must accept that possibility.” She gave the tiniest hint of a smile. “Of course, G.W. is rather stubborn. God might well want him, but G.W. may not be inclined to go.”

Brenton grinned. “It would be just like him to argue with God.”

She nodded. “Take me to the telegraph office, please.”

“On one condition,” Brenton replied.

“What?”

“That you promise to forgive me. You don't have to do it right now, but I couldn't bear it if you held this against me. I know I should have told you sooner, and I'm sorry—more sorry than you'll ever know.”

Jordana hugged him tightly, and he knew in that moment that she would never let anything come between them. “Of course I forgive you. I love you.”

Brenton breathed a sigh of relief. The burden was gone. “I love you, too, little sister. I only pray I've done right by you.” He glanced up to find Caitlan watching from the wagon. “I pray I've done right by both of you.”

The next day, the trio was deep into the Missouri woodlands headed for St. Joseph. They'd been advised, due to skirmishes between border ruffians, to take a riverboat. But paying the freight on shipping the horses and wagon was outrageous, and since Brenton had just managed to have the wagon made to his specifications, he wasn't about to leave it behind. And because the wagon and horses had cost more than Brenton had planned on, he was trying hard to be frugal with their remaining funds. He assured the girls that God would see them through, but at times he appeared worried.

Caitlan was still amazed at the strength Brenton and Jordana took in their faith. Jordana had spoken on many occasions of how following God's Word had given her life order, but Caitlan found it difficult to believe. So far, all she had ever known in association with religious beliefs and God had been chaos and struggles.

Yet to Jordana and Brenton, God seemed not only real and trustworthy but orderly and consistent. This baffled Caitlan in light of the many times she'd struggled to understand God. In her homeland, men of faith had argued among themselves as to who was right and who was wrong. One faith condemned another in such a way that Caitlan grew weary of the protesting arguments and the physical fighting. And while it was true that most of the physical violence was more directed toward heavy-handed landlords and English bullying, there was a constant underlying hatred between those of one religious affiliation and those of another. It didn't make sense, and it didn't matter to the parties concerned that it didn't make sense.

Sitting beside Brenton as he drove the wagon down the chilly wooded trail, Caitlan pulled her shawl tighter and glanced overhead at the dimming light. It was the first of April and the trees were just now greening up and their leaves were a pale, almost silvery green that came with new growth. The countryside around them was coming alive with the warming of the season. But as the wind picked up a bit, Caitlan was quickly reminded that April would certainly not yet offer them summer warmth.

“Should we be findin' a place to camp?” she asked Brenton, keeping her gaze fixed on the sky.

“I suppose so,” he replied, his tone rather breathless, weary, as if each word was an effort.

She looked at him and for the first time noticed that he looked pale. “Are ya ill, Brenton?”

“I think I might be,” he replied without much ado. “My head's been hurting since yesterday, but I thought it was only my ordeal over Jordana and G.W.”

“Here,” Caitlan said, reaching out, “let me feel yar head.” She touched him and found him to be burning hot. “Ya have a fever!” she declared. “Give me the reins and go inside to lie down. Jordana and I will find a place to stop for the night.”

“No, I'm all right. Let's just keep moving. I'm sure I'll feel better.”

Caitlan hated to argue with him, but she felt she couldn't let the situation go on. “Yar sick, Brenton. Now, let me help ya.”

He reined back on the team and looked at her with a glassy-eyed stare that left little doubt in Caitlan's mind that the illness was serious enough to stop. “Please, Brenton,” she said softly. “Don't be tryin' to impress me—ya do that all the time as it is.”

He smiled in a crooked, lopsided way, then leaned back heavily against the wooden frame of the customized wagon. “All right. Take the reins, but I'm staying right here until we stop.”

She nodded. “Jordana!” Caitlan called to Jordana who was riding ahead. “We should be findin' some place to camp.”

“Looks like a clearing up ahead. I'll go check it out.” She urged the horse forward while Caitlan kept the team moving at a steady pace.

“We should be stoppin' soon,” she said to Brenton. He made no comment, and glancing over, Caitlan found that he'd already closed his eyes in sleep.

Worry consumed her. They should have stayed in Kansas City. Now they were well too far away to get back should Brenton require a doctor's attention, and St. Joseph was not anywhere near enough.

Jordana came back smiling. “There's a nice clearing up ahead with a good place coming off the river where we can water the horses.” She noticed Brenton and laughed. “Have we already worn him out?”

Caitlan shook her head. “He's sick, Jordana. He's got a fever.”

Jordana's smile faded. “Sick?” She let the wagon come up even with her mount, then reached out to touch her brother. “Brenton?”

“Hmm?” he barely stirred.

She threw a worried look at Caitlan. “What shall we do?”

“We'll make camp and take care of him,” Caitlan replied. What else could they do?

29

Caitlan fussed over Brenton while Jordana gathered wood and water. Neither woman wanted to admit her fear, but Caitlan knew Jordana was every bit as worried as she was. This part of the woods wasn't a safe place for anyone, not during these border-war times. Caitlan remembered Jordana reading an article in the newspaper while they were still in Kansas City. It spoke of the animosity between renegade groups who used the war as an excuse for all manner of lawlessness. And the authorities seemed to have little or no control over these ruffians.

Because of this trouble, Brenton had insisted they purchase a rifle to take with them, figuring it was cheaper than traveling north by river, but it gave Caitlan little reassurance. If a group of ruffians overran them, there would be little time in which to go running for the rifle. And now, with Brenton ill, they were essentially two vulnerable women—regardless of how independent both girls liked to think of themselves.

Brenton stirred and Caitlan swabbed his head with a wet cloth. “Ya have no right to go getting' sick now, Mr. Baldwin,” she chided, knowing full well he was beyond hearing her words. Somehow it made her feel better to just ramble in conversation to him.

“How's he doing?” Jordana laid another branch on the small fire. They knew to be cautious about fires in this area, but both agreed they needed the fire to keep Brenton from chilling.

“He's the same. Sleepin' mostly.” Caitlan glanced up to meet Jordana's worried expression. “I'm supposin' he could use some of those prayers yar so fond of.”

Jordana grinned. “I'm supposin',” she began, mimicking Caitlan's brogue, “that ya could be offerin' up some of yar own.”

Caitlan smiled. “I guess I had that comin'.”

Jordana shook her head. “You shouldn't distance God, Caitlan. He really does understand.” She paused and Caitlan was glad Jordana didn't choose to pursue the subject. She only added, “Look, I'd better see to the horses.”

“And for certain do ya think ya can manage? They can be a fiercesome pair.”

The younger woman laughed. “I'm as certain as I can get—under the circumstances.” She tramped off to where the horses were awaiting their care.

Caitlan felt a twinge of guilt. She supposed she should leave Brenton and go help Jordana. After all, she was more experienced in the care of animals. In Ireland, her brother-in-law had two rather mean horses that plowed the fields and pulled the wagon. She remembered being nipped by one in particular on more than one occasion. The memory would have made her laugh, except she couldn't take her eyes from the pale face of the man she'd fallen in love with.

It hurt to see him like this—so vulnerable and weak. That was how the world usually saw him, but not Caitlan. To her, Brenton was a pillar of strength. Perhaps he tended to fight his own conscience too much, but he only did so because his heart was so full of caring for those he loved. Of course, there was the issue of God and the faith that Brenton held dear. Caitlan smiled. He seemed to know her heart better on the matter than she did herself. He had told her on more than one occasion that he didn't believe she'd given up on God, but rather had given up on herself and her people.

Perhaps he was right. At least, at the moment she truly wished it were so. She reached down and smoothed back a strand of his light brown hair. His chin and jaw bore signs of stubble, and Caitlan smiled as she ran her fingers along the lines of his face. She thought him very nearly perfect.

“I know ya can't hear me, but ya just better get well,” she leaned down to whisper. “I've lost me heart to ya, Brenton Baldwin, and I won't have ya dying on me now.” Mindless of his illness, she leaned closer and, without thought to being seen by Jordana, kissed Brenton lightly on the lips. “Ya have to get well, me love.”

Brenton stirred in the night and, with a rush of fear, opened his eyes and tried to take in his surroundings. His head still ached, but he didn't feel quite so chilled. He wondered how long he had been ill. Glancing to his right he could see the outside of the wagon. In the shadowy light he made out a form underneath it and wondered if it was Jordana or Caitlan.

Struggling to raise his head, Brenton looked to his left and found their only source of light, a small campfire. He saw just beyond this another form that he could now definitely identify as Caitlan sleeping peacefully on the ground. He smiled and fell back against the ground. What pleasant dreams he'd had of her. Dreams of sweet words and kisses as soft as summer rains. He closed his eyes, hoping the dreams would return. She was quite a woman, he decided. Sleep began to overtake him once again, even as he heard Caitlan stir and throw more wood on the fire. She was all that a man could want in a wife.

The next morning found Brenton's fever gone and his appetite returning. His companions told him he'd been two full days in the delirium of fever. The day after that he was much improved, but because he was still in a rather weakened state, the girls decided it would be best to remain where they were for another day.

“Ya'll soon be on yar feet,” Caitlan told him, “then we can press on to St. Joseph.”

“I don't think we should even bother,” Jordana surprised them by saying. “I mean, Billy Vanderbilt is out of the country for who knows how long. You have no way of knowing what the investors will want from you or how well they will keep to Mr. Vanderbilt's agreement. I say we head back to Kansas City and see about hooking up with a wagon train. I heard tell they leave out of there, or nearby, all the time. We could still get your pictures taken along the way, Brenton, and we'd get Caitlan to California in shorter order.”

“Don't be changin' yar plans on my account,” Caitlan protested. “Ya said yarself ya have no idea where to take me once we get to California. Better we wait until we hear from yar folks or that lawyer of yars.”

“The last we heard, Mr. Marcum was ill. Who knows when we'll hear from him again?” Jordana protested.

“I don't like running out on Vanderbilt,” Brenton said matter-of-factly.

“He's run out on you,” Jordana countered.

“For a very good reason,” Brenton replied.

“Well, this would be just as good a reason. Caitlan deserves our help. I think it's time we concentrated on getting to California.”

Caitlan smiled. “Ya've helped me more than I had a right to. We've had a good time together, and I'll not be havin' ya change yar plans on account of me and that's final.”

“To tell the truth,” Jordana said more solemnly than usual, “I think we're in more danger here than we've ever been before. I mean, you know what the papers said.”

Brenton nodded. This was perhaps the first thing she'd said that made a reasonable argument for leaving off with Vanderbilt's project and picking up with their own. “It is dangerous. I'd feel much better if we were farther north.”

“Or in Kansas City,” Jordana countered.

“I suppose she's right,” Brenton said, looking at Caitlan. Something stirred inside him as he met her gaze. He remembered his feverish dreams of her, and it caused an involuntary grin to bend his lips. Covering this as best he could, he added, “Even Jordana deserves to be right some of the time. But I think we should push on for St. Joseph. It would get us farther north, and also it's where Vanderbilt will expect us in case he has any communication for me.”

So it was decided that they would at least consider the possibility of ending their employment with Billy Vanderbilt. But they would wait until they reached St. Joseph before making the final decision. There would also be wagon trains departing from there should they opt for continuing immediately on to California.

“Are ya sure yar feelin' well enough to travel?” Caitlan asked Brenton as they ambled along toward the wagon.

“I'm much better,” he said, pausing to look at her. “Thanks to you.”

Caitlan blushed. “I cannot be takin' the credit. Jordana says that God of yars was the one to be doin' the healin'.”

“Yes, I believe that's so,” Brenton said, surprising her by reaching out to take hold of her hand. “I think you had something to do with it too. He used you to be His hands.” He squeezed her fingers, then climbed up into the back of the wagon, trying hard to ignore the way she'd trembled at his touch. “I'm going to take a picture of that area over by the river before we leave. I think it will make a nice addition to my own collection.”

“Ah . . . aye,” Caitlan murmured.

Brenton smiled to himself as he went into the wagon and gathered his supplies together. She had feelings for him, of this he was certain. Now if only he could help her to see that God really loved her—then Brenton would feel free to prove that he loved her as well.

As Brenton packed his equipment, he noted with pleasure that everything was holding up nicely. Even with the rain a few days ago, all the contents of the specially designed wagon with its wood canopy had remained dry. Brenton had customized the wagon to suit his needs. At the back was the tiniest of dark rooms where he could develop his photographs. All along one side were cabinets, built especially to house the precious chemicals for processing. On the other side a drop-down counter could be put in place for spreading out his work and allowing it to dry. When the counter was up and out of the way, there was a long boxlike structure that Brenton had deemed could be used for sleeping or sitting for those times when they were traveling in rain. He'd even managed to secure a goose-down tick for cushioning the top. Beneath this was storage for their clothing and personal goods, and overhead were hooks and nails for hanging a variety of goods. All in all, Brenton thought they'd made a marvelous use of the space.

He drew out his camera equipment, then went to work preparing the collodion glass plate. With meticulous care he arranged everything so that the moment the picture was taken, he could quickly return to the task of processing. He thought about how he wanted to set the scene as he prepared the glass negative. He could see it even now in his mind's eye—a steep embankment that overlooked the river. Framed by trees and distant meadowlands, Brenton believed it would make a most captivating photograph.