Westward the Dream (4 page)

Kiernan nodded and tied down the flaps. Then, without warning, he turned and pulled Victoria into his arms and swung her around in a circle. “You're a sight, Victoria O'Connor.”

She grinned. “Oh, go on with ya, now,” she said, mocking his Irish brogue.

“Hmmm.” He let her feet touch the ground again and held her tight. “You smell like lilacs.”

“You
have
been in the sun too long,” she laughed. “I smell like lye soap and pork fat.”

“No, I smell springtime in your hair,” he replied.

Victoria loved him for his teasing. Though clearly defeated and discouraged, he proved himself a grand actor, and the fact that he longed for her to be happy was enough reason to give him his desire. Sometimes he tried so hard.

“I love you, Mr. O'Connor,” she said, reaching up to take hold of his face. She pulled him down to meet her lips. “I've missed you today. Almost considered taking up mining myself just to be near you.”

Kiernan kissed her long and hard before pulling away to eye her seriously. “If I thought you'd be a help, I'd drag you along. Truth is, the mine's played out, and we're gonna have to consider goin' elsewhere.”

“Move? Again?” Victoria tried to keep the disappointment from her voice.

“Not far and not for minin'. I've been told about a job in Dutch Flat. A man there needs help with some surveyin', and he's lookin' for someone with experience. I figured what with the trainin' I've had with your father, I could be his man.”

“And if you're not?”

“Sure, and why would I not be the right man for the job?” he replied lightly, though his green eyes watched her closely.

Victoria shrugged and walked back to their makeshift stove. “I didn't say you weren't, but moving on the hope that some man will hire you seems a bit risky.”

“No more so than diggin' in the dirt for your dreams—only to find it's your grave you've been diggin'. I'm weary to the bone, Victoria. We've scarcely enough to put food on the table, and what little I've been able to send to me family in Ireland can't begin to bring 'em all here.” He sighed and sat down on a rough split-log bench. “We live like animals. I could make us beautiful furniture, maybe even build us a house, if I had me a job I could count on for pay.”

Victoria nodded. “I've never faulted the idea of working for regular pay.” She brought the pan of pork and potatoes and sat it atop the crate. “But this job seems awfully risky. You heard from a man, who heard from someone else, no doubt, that a man somewhere wants help. It isn't like you to go on rumor and speculation.”

Kiernan laughed. “I came to California on little more.”

Victoria had to laugh at this. “I suppose you're right.” She retrieved their two tin plates and a pot of weak coffee. “But why not make a real move? Why don't we go back to Sacramento? You yourself heard talk of the railroad they want to build. You know the railroad, Kiernan. You could easily secure a job. A good job—one that wouldn't be nearly as backbreaking and hopeless as mining.”

Kiernan laughed. “Now, are ya tellin' me that railroadin' isn't backbreakin' work?”

“No, I didn't mean it that way, but the checks were regular,” she countered. She brought cups and forks and joined him on the crude bench.

“The Baltimore and Ohio Railroad issued regular checks—at least, they did in the end. But I'm not seein' the B&O mark on anything out this way.”

Victoria chuckled and poured the coffee. “Give Mother and Father a chance when they get back from Russia. They'll see to it that their beloved B&O Railroad makes it west. After all, I'm here. What better reason will they need?”

Kiernan frowned at this. “Aye, what better reason?”

4

Jordana pulled her cape tighter around her shoulders. She hated the ferry ride from school to Staten Island, where Margaret Vanderbilt lived. Meggie had invited her home for the weekend, and because G.W. Vanderbilt, Meggie's young uncle, would also be there, Jordana couldn't resist the invitation. George Washington Vanderbilt, now in his twenties and commissioned as a lieutenant in the Union army, was a handsome, broad-shouldered man who treated Jordana as a woman of intelligence, even if she was only sixteen. He had been gone to war nearly since its inception, leaving them at the mercy of the army and postal services for communications. Now he was home on furlough, having succumbed to some illness during the Battle of Shiloh. It would be wonderful to see him again. He never failed to discuss issues of the day with her, accepting that she had the ability to reason and consider matters just as well as any of his male counterparts.

Still, enduring the chilly harbor ride for the sake of being accepted as an adult left Jordana questioning her own sanity. Turning to Meg, she forced her teeth not to chatter and smiled. “I'll be glad when the weather decides to stay warm.”

“Oh, it's just a little storm,” Meg replied, looking heavenward. “Mother calls it winter's last hurrah. It'll pass before you know it, and then we'll be longing for some shady place to cool our brows.”

“You're certainly waxing poetic today,” Jordana teased.

“I'm glad to be going home,” Meg replied. “I hate Deighton and long only to return home for good.”

“What about me?” Jordana questioned. “Who would keep me entertained at school if you were gone?”

Meg tossed back her hood and laughed, her brown ringlets dancing about her shoulders. “
You
are the entertainment at Deighton School. No one could come close to equaling your antics. When you were scaling the building, I thought old Pruney would faint.”

“She did appear a bit pale,” Jordana agreed. “I can only thank the southern states' rebellion for saving me from expulsion. Poor Brenton made me promise to be good until the end of this session. I don't think he's cut out for my kind of adventure.”

“Few people are.” Meg strained to see the shore. “Oh look, G.W.'s come to pick us up.”

Jordana grinned and suddenly she didn't feel quite so cold. “I feared he'd be too sick. I hope he has plenty of new stories for us about West Point and his travels. I simply love hearing his tales.”

“I think he simply loves you.”

Jordana frowned. “I certainly hope you are wrong, Margaret Vanderbilt.”

Meg looked at her in surprise. “You don't want him to love you?”

“I do not want him to love me. We're good friends, and that is how I want it to remain. I have too much to do with my life to consider settling down to be any man's wife. I want to learn what I can and travel. If I married G.W. he might treat me respectfully, but it wouldn't be long until he expected me to resign myself to keeping his house and bearing his children.”

“You don't want a husband and children?” Meggie asked in disbelief. For all her spirited nature, Meg wasn't quite as given over to unconventional thought as her dear friend appeared to be.

“I want them both—someday,” Jordana replied, waving to G.W. as the ferry approached the dock. “I just don't want them now. This war has people acting positively daffy, if you ask me. Three of our young ladies have returned to their homes in the South, two have left to marry while their beaus are on furlough, and the rest seem anxious to do likewise.”

“Don't you worry that another major conflict will take the lives of our young men?”

“Of course I do. My own brother is now old enough to fight,” Jordana said, frowning at the idea of Brenton going to war. She would have to do whatever was in her power to convince him that their mother and father would never approve of him joining up. President Lincoln had already called for seventy-five thousand state militia troops, and the last thing she wanted to see was Brenton obeying some patriotic conscience and following them into war.

The ferry docked and Meggie was the first to greet G.W. “I see Papa sent you to bring us home. How are you?” She reached out to embrace him and kiss his cheek.

Jordana watched their reunion, shocked at the amount of weight G.W. had lost. He was dreadfully pale and appeared as though he might even collapse. He released Meg, then opened his arms to Jordana. But her mind was on Meg's words of G.W.'s love, and she quickly waved him off. “Be gone with you,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You aren't my uncle.”

“Indeed I am not,” he said, grinning mischievously. “And glad I am of that fact.”

G.W. stood at least six feet tall and had once maintained the physique of an athlete. Of all the sons of Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt, G.W. alone was the one considered the hope for the family line. The commodore found Margaret's father, Billy, to be a blatherskite and a sucker, two of the older man's favorite terms. But in spite of the commodore's having exiled Billy to remain on Staten Island while he himself lived in luxury on Washington Place in the heart of New York City, Billy had made a good showing on the farm. He had turned the ground into productive land and had, in fact, increased his holdings many times over. For all his father's lack of interest and confidence in his son, Billy seemed to do quite well at moving his family forward. Billy's younger brother, and the commodore's namesake, Cornelius, or Corneel as he was more often called, had been the commodore's second hope, but this had been quickly dashed when it was learned that the boy had epilepsy—something the commodore blamed himself for in light of having married his cousin. Not only had this been a conflict, but as Corneel grew older, he also spent more and more of his father's money and had no interest whatsoever in making more of his own.

Therefore, G.W. was the hope of the Vanderbilt patriarch. He was dashing and spirited, bold and brazen, and above all else, healthy, at least until the war had rendered him otherwise. But most important, he was willing to do his father's bidding. None of these things mattered to Jordana, however. She simply thought G.W. a wonderful conversationalist and loyal friend.

“You look more beautiful than ever,” G.W. told her, then turned to cough fiercely into a handkerchief.

“Are you all right?” Jordana and Meg questioned in unison.

He tried to hide his weakness. “I'm fit as a fiddle, and don't ever think otherwise.” Then before either girl could reply, he swept Jordana into his arms and deposited her in the open carriage. The action so took Jordana by surprise that she could only stare openmouthed at the man while he reached back to do the same with Meg.

“Don't you dare hoist me up there like a sack of grain,” Meg told him. “There is no reason for you to be handling either one of us. You're sick and need to regain your health. Father would never hear the end of it from Grandfather if you somehow set your recovery back while on a visit to us.”

“I can hardly injure myself by assisting a lady into a carriage.” Then, helping Meg into the carriage in a more genteel fashion, he added, “I'll have you know, I'm well remembered for my strength. I made a name for myself at the Point last year when I lifted nine hundred pounds.”

“Surely you jest! No one could lift that much weight,” Jordana said before Meg could answer.

G.W. smiled. “Well, I certainly did. It's all a part of the record books now. Aren't you proud of me?”

“I scaled a four-story brick building,” Jordana countered. “Are you proud of me?”

G.W. laughed and turned to Meg. “Did she indeed?”

“Upon my honor,” Meg replied. “She nearly caused me to faint dead away.”

G.W. looked back at Jordana and studied her for a moment. Self-conscious of his scrutiny, Jordana said nothing. She didn't want to encourage him to think anymore along the lines of what Meg had suggested he already felt.

“I am impressed,” G.W. replied, reaching into his uniform to pull out a piece of newspaper. “But I already had it on the best authority.”

Jordana took the paper and gasped. No one had told her that the newspaper had written a story on her escapades. “Look here, Meg. It doesn't list me by name, but it says I showed uncharacteristic bravery for a woman.”

“Yes, and read on,” G.W. said as he climbed up to take the reins to the carriage. “It also says you showed less than proper judgment. I suppose it was necessary to point that out in case you were given over to having swelled pride on the matter. Probably a good thing everyone refused to release your name to the reporter. If your folks caught wind of this, you would probably be on your way to Europe even as we speak.”

Jordana ignored his teasing and refused to say another thing until they arrived at the Vanderbilt farm. She liked the coolness of the tree-lined drive and the scent of flowers on the air. The island was like another world compared to the busyness of the city. She smiled to think of G.W.'s assumption that it had been her antics that the newspaperman had written about. Having known each other only a couple of years, and even at that, years when G.W. had been mostly confined to the West Point grounds or Civil War battlefields, Jordana thought they were rather well-acquainted.

But this illusion met with an unceremonious ending when G.W. pulled up in front of the Vanderbilt house and spoke to his niece.

“Meg, you run along. I desire to speak to our guest for a few moments,” G.W. said as a liveryman stepped forward to help them from the carriage. He turned over the reins to yet another stablehand before directing his attention to Jordana. “You will take a short walk with me, won't you?”

Jordana handed him back his newsprint. “Are you sure it wouldn't be yet another example of me exercising less than proper judgment?”

G.W. laughed. “Well, what if it is? At least a city full of people won't observe you doing the deed.” He quickly took hold of her arm. “Please, walk with me.”

“Are you quite sure you are up to it? You do look to have been quite ill.”

“I suffered a bout of pneumonia and other complications, but I'll regain my strength. Your company will cheer me on to do so even more quickly.”

His eyes implored her and Jordana nodded. “Very well.” For all her fears of what he now might say, Jordana cherished their friendship.

“I'll tell Mother you had no choice,” Meg called after them. “She understands G.W.'s rudeness and therefore will excuse your tardiness in bidding her good afternoon.”

“Yes, tell her that G.W. was a complete ill-mannered oaf about the entire matter,” Jordana replied. “She'll no doubt believe every word.”

“You are ever the tease, Jordana,” G.W. said, pulling her closer.

Jordana maneuvered her arm from his grasp and stepped away from him. “What is it you needed to say to me that couldn't be said in front of the family?”

G.W. grew serious. “I have a great deal to say. We've been friends for just about two years; is that not true?”

“Yes,” admitted Jordana. “Good friends.”

“Exactly. And because of this, I feel certain you will want to hear what I have to say.”

“Very well.”

Jordana tried not to show her apprehension. She concentrated on the newly greened landscape. So much of it still bore winter's mark, but here and there daffodils and crocuses were raising their colorful heads to the sun.

Please God, she prayed, don't let G.W. make a scene with me about the war and his ardent love for me. I just want to go on being his friend.

“ . . . so it isn't easy for me to say this.”

“What?” Jordana replied quickly. She hadn't been listening, and now she was caught red-handed.

“I thought you were going to hear me out,” G.W. said, sounding hurt.

He began coughing again, and Jordana instantly felt guilty. “The landscape captured my attention for a moment. I promise it won't happen again,” she replied, silently wishing she'd gone with Meg into the house. She worried fervently that she was somehow causing G.W. more harm than good.