“I found her a lawyer, didn’t I?” Brittany snatched the pen from Nolan. “Of course I don’t want my kid to go to jail over a dumb scarf.”
“I’m sitting right here,” Tisha said.
“We all want this to work.” Nolan laid the document in front of her and pointed to the signature section. “You have a good lawyer, so I’m sure he’s aware that if this falls apart and if the store were to decide to bring a civil suit, as a parent, you, Brittany, would be liable for any penalties the court might award.”
“But I didn’t steal anything.” Brittany’s eyes threw a dart at her daughter, and her hand hovered above the document.
Nolan had Brittany’s attention now.
“In this state in a civil suit, you could be liable for the damages caused by your minor child. The court could award other costs to the plaintiff as it sees fit,” Nolan said. “It is to your benefit as well as Tisha’s that you participate fully in this process.”
Brittany scrawled her name on the paper and pushed it back across the table toward Nolan. “I don’t know why everyone in Canyon Mines thinks you’re such a nice guy.”
CHAPTER NINE
Denver, Colorado
Monday, July 17, 1893
Nothing improved.
Clifford’s waistline thinned from his lack of appetite, and Georgina chided him for thinning his shoe soles as well with all his walking, when he had a horse he could ride anywhere he needed to go and even a carriage to hitch to the mare—and of course the streetcars ran everywhere in Denver.
He didn’t need to go anywhere—at least not for the economic welfare of his household. The daily wanderings were for the spiritual welfare of his own soul. Each day the miles he traversed took him more often to the People’s Tabernacle, and he paused longer to observe the activities at the church and the other locations where volunteers tried to keep up with the streaming needs of men, women, and children who had nowhere else to turn.
Now he stood across the street from a free dispensary. They recruited doctors and nurses from among the congregation, Clifford supposed, or perhaps the hospital. People with professional training could be prevailed upon to be charitable to the poor under ordinary circumstances, with the support of volunteers who could follow instructions for providing basic care. These were not ordinary circumstances, though. How did the Reverend Uzzell find enough people to keep the dispensary running for all the hours it must take to diminish the line that now wound, serpentlike, out the door and along the walkway?
A slender young woman, aproned in an unfamiliar way, exited the building and began speaking with people in line one at a time.
Missouri?
Clifford crossed the street.
“Papa! What are you doing here?” His eldest daughter smoothed the white apron meant to be a sign she was part of the dispensary staff.
“My question for you as well,” he said.
“I wanted to help. I’ve lost my tutoring position, and I’m no better at sitting at home at a time like this than you are.”
“Apparently you are more successful at putting your shoulder to the task than I am.”
“You have a lot on your mind, I’m sure. Thinking. I’m just thinking with my hands.”
Clifford glanced at a pair of little girls hanging on to their mother’s skirt. “Children will always need schools. You could apply for proper credentials to teach if you want them.”
“Mama would never agree. Being a tutor until I’m wed is one thing. Aspiring to a career is another.”
“Don’t underestimate your mother. She was a hard worker when we were first married. I could not have achieved what I did without her.”
“That was before you worked for the famous Horace Tabor and became a mine owner yourself. Mama has rather a different picture of life these days.”
“Life is changing. You’ll need something.”
“If I’m to marry Loren, you mean. The Missouri Rise might not be much of a dowry after all.”
Cliff shook his head. Missouri’s dowry was sunk in the front room renovation. “It’s not quite the reliable revenue I’d intended for you.”
Missy gasped and bustled down the sagging line. Clifford followed in her wake. What a difference ten days had made. Loren Wade was fifteen pounds lighter and his beard fuller than Cliff had ever seen it.
“Where have you been?” Missouri cried.
“I told you I’d get by,” Loren said.
“Are you ill?” She sank her fingers into his beard, feeling for his face. “Is that why you’re here?”
“I’m fine.” Loren grasped both her hands with his. “Someone I met was headed this way this morning. I wondered how he made out.”
“What’s his name? I’ll help you find him.”
Cliff was used to the odor of sweating men setting dynamite, blasting rock, and swinging double jackhammers, but at Mrs. Mitchell’s boardinghouse the men had access to hot water in the evenings and weekly baths. The fact that Loren smelled like he’d had neither for at least two weeks seemed not to bother Missouri.
“I only know him as Mickey,” Loren said. “An Irish redhead.”
“That could be a lot of men.” Missy sucked in a breath and let it out with a tilt of her head. “I’ve only been here a little while today, but I can see if one of the nurses recognizes that description.” She took Loren’s hand and led him toward the building’s entrance.
She’d always been the most self-sufficient of the three girls. Whether Georgina ever accepted her choice of a miner for a husband, Missouri would marry Loren. Clifford certainly would not stand in her way.
“Are you Mr. Brandt?”
Clifford turned toward the unassuming man approaching him. His wide, high forehead accentuated the unusual line of his hair, which at the moment could have used a good brushing.
“Yes, I am Clifford Brandt.”
“I thought you might be when I saw Missouri speaking with you. Your daughter is very capable. We’re grateful to have her.”
Cliff placed the face. The man’s photo had been in the newspaper on many occasions. No doubt the disarray of his hair was a sign of his unending busyness. “Reverend Uzzell. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“My flock calls me Parson Tom. Are you interested in volunteering as well?”
“I want to help in some manner,” Clifford said. “I seem to find myself drawn to your work.”
“Walk with me for a few minutes, and I will tell you more.”
Cliff fell into step with Thomas Uzzell along Blake Street. “They just keep coming. How are you managing?”
“By the grace of God,” the pastor said. “We’ve always been doing what we could to care for the sick here at the dispensary. In the winter we provide warm clothing to those who need it. We have a bath house where the indigent can clean up at no charge. We teach women to sew so they have a skill to earn some income as well as make clothes for their families. And we have our own department of justice, you might say, to help men who have been cheated out of wages they deserve.”
Clifford winced. “I imagine you are hearing quite a few of those complaints right now.”
“We have had to put some constraints around the cases we can actually help,” Parson Tom said. “We must have some hope of recovery of the funds, and we only deal with the businesses in Denver. We don’t consider the mines to be our jurisdiction.”
This information made Cliff feel no less remorse at having been unable to pay his men their last month’s wages, though he had not shorted them with any intention to cheat. Yet if he had paid them out of the diminishing balance in his bank account, would Georgina’s concerns prove true? Missy might find herself in the line rather than serving those seeking aid.
“To be honest, Mr. Brandt,” Parson Tom said, “I’m uncertain how much longer we can continue our efforts. Caring for the poor who have lived among us in Denver has been a challenge, of course, and one which the congregation has answered with the love of Christ. And while we have no
shortage of love for the thousands of miners who have come down from the mountains with nothing but a pack of personal belongings, our resources are stretched. We must depend on the generosity of the faithful in ways in which we have not experienced before this—even as many of them have suffered a reduction in their own circumstances.”
Clifford slid his hands into his pockets. What else could he do? “Please accept this donation for now. When I can manage more, I will come prepared.”
“Jesus said, ‘What you have done for the least of these, you have done for me.’ ” Parson Tom shook Cliff’s hand.
At home Clifford satisfied Georgina’s preference and entered through the front door. She was in the dining room with Graciela, replacing the knickknacks and display pieces they systematically removed once a month for a thorough dusting.
“Hello, Graciela,” Cliff said.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Brandt.” The glass shelves in the corner piece sparkled, as did the crystal vase Graciela was setting in its spot. She’d been with the household long enough to know the precise angle Georgina would accept.
“Clifford,” Georgina said, “might I have a word?”
“Of course, dear.”
“In your office, then.”
They left Graciela to her tasks. Georgina closed the door behind them once they were in the small room.
“You’d think after all these years,” Georgina said, “I would get used to how much dustier Colorado is than Iowa. I would be lost without Graciela to keep the dirt at bay.”
“It’s the dry air,” Cliff said. The dirt never settled. “Couldn’t the girls help more?”
Georgina looked at him as if to inspect whether the screws in his neck required tightening.
“Decorah is quite helpful with the daily chores,” she said. “Missouri can put a lovely meal on the table on her own. Fidelity is barely more than a schoolgirl, but she does quite well also.”
“I realize they all pitch in,” Cliff said, “but our budget is growing tighter right now. We might need to cut back on how much Graciela works for the time being.”
“We hardly live like the Tabors,” Georgina said. “Goodness knows every spare penny has gone into investing in the mines for the girls, but our daughters are not scullery maids.”
“Of course not.” Even the Tabors did not live like the Tabors anymore.
“I hope better for them than that once they are settled. One day the mines will be working again.”
One day? Perhaps, but they could not plan based on vague speculation. How were they to manage in the meantime?
“I need to pay Graciela, of course,” Georgina said, “but that is not the only matter I wanted to discuss with you privately.”
Clifford fingered the money still in his pocket, hoping he hadn’t given away Graciela’s wages at the People’s Tabernacle. That was more explaining than he felt up to offering his wife just then. He would manage the coins to pay Graciela today—after all, she had already done the work—but he would have to find the right moment to have a realistic conversation with Georgina about Graciela’s ongoing employment.
“What else is on your mind, dear?”
“The banks.”
Clifford lifted his eyebrows. It was unlike Georgina to talk about the financial institutions so candidly. She had no privileges on his bank accounts.
“I was out this morning to see what the butcher had—precious little—and I heard the rumors. Surely you have too. Why didn’t you tell me?”
He sighed. “You don’t often wish to speak of these matters anymore.”
“You must get our money out.”
“If I do, I’ll be contributing to the downfall of a bank that has been good to our family for many years.”
“I don’t know where you spent your time today,” Georgina said, “but I was downtown. The news is everywhere. People’s Savings Bank. Rocky Mountain Dime and Dollar. Colorado Savings. They’ve all failed this very day.”
Clifford raked his hand over his head. “I thought they might.” The reports in the financial section in the newspapers suggested there could be runs on some of the more vulnerable institutions.
“You must go down to Union National before it’s too late.” Georgina rapped the desk with her knuckles. “You can’t ask me to scrimp on what I’m paying Graciela while you risk everything we have by leaving it in the bank. This is no time to be weak.”
Cliff nudged closer to Georgina, cradling one of her elbows in each of his palms as he leaned in toward her forehead. “Georgie.”
She nuzzled his forehead but remained adamant. “Clifford, this is urgent.”
Cliff pulled his watch from his vest pocket. In the hall, the grandfather clock chimed a warning that he would not likely make it to the bank before closing time.
CHAPTER TEN
Jillian tried a new approach with Tisha, a completely new task.
Her dad’s account of the previous afternoon was a mixed review, with enough drama that Jillian withheld chastisement for his failing to mention to her that Tisha would be running off to Denver and likely have a short morning. He didn’t often draw a hard line as he had with Brittany, motivating her to do the best for Tisha by planting threats of the worst in her mind. Time would tell if Brittany would truly come through. But Tisha arrived on Thursday at nine o’clock sharp with her raspberry Italian cream soda. She politely set it on the space Jillian had cleared on the sidebar.
“I decided we need to get stuff off the floor,” Jillian said. “The folders can wait. It might even be easier to do them if we get these loose piles grouped better first.”
Tisha nodded mutely and reached for a slurp of her cream soda.
“I found this stack of bright blue construction paper,” Jillian said. “That’s what gave me the idea. The sheets are a little bigger than most of the papers, certainly easy to see. We can use them to separate piles. If we offset the piles with the construction paper separators, things will get much more organized on the table, and we’ll have space to get papers off the chairs and floor.”
Tisha looked confused.
“Do you know how to play solitaire?” Jillian asked.
Tisha shrugged.
“Like that. You stack the cards so you can see the top of each one. Ace, King, Queen, Jack, and on down the line. We’ll paper clip each pile and stack them that way, with the blue sheets like the cards.”
“What about your sticky notes?”
“Great question! You can leave them, but also use a marker to make a larger label at the top of a blue sheet. Then if we discover things that go together logically, we can put those piles together. Like suits in a deck of cards.”
“What do you mean, go together logically?”
“Another great question. I’m still figuring that out. You might even come up with some connections yourself. Feel free to ask if you do. Be on the lookout for things like sibling groups, or infants as opposed to older children, or even simply boys or girls.” Jillian picked up a stack from a chair. “For instance, I already know this stack contains all boys under the age of two.”
“Some of them are the old folders,” Tisha said, “and some are just sheets of paper.”
“Exactly.” Jillian set the stack down. “Some of the file folders I received had groups of single sheets, rather than being about one child, and I’ve been trying to figure out if there were patterns to them.”
“Like if the file mentions a city anywhere?”
Jillian perked up. “Yes. That’s a great example. We may not know for sure if the city has to do with where children came from or ended up, but it could be useful information in tracking someone down, so we’ll want to figure out a way to track it. And if there’s a group of kids associated with the same place, that could be significant.”
“Isn’t this kind of sorting going to be different than the names on the folders?”
Tisha’s questions encouraged Jillian. She was starting to think about what they were doing.
“W
e’ll still put everything in folders,” Jillian said, “but eventually I’ll also need more than names to add to a computer software that will cross-reference details of the leads we find. This is all preliminary organization. I’ve cleared up some other work, though, and I should be able to give this more time. Soon we’ll get to the point where you can help with scanning.”
Tucker Kintzler’s retainer fee was considerable. Jillian didn’t want to cut off all her other steady clients, but she would prioritize the St. Louis files enough to bring order, create a plan, and subcontract some of the searches to other genealogists.
Jillian wrote a label for her stack of boys under the age of two and nudged some cross-stacked piles aside to make a small space on the table for it. Tisha slurped her soda again before picking up a marker, a blue sheet, and a sticky note from one of Jillian’s piles. Jillian side-eyed the girl while she marked up another large blue page herself and set it atop seven files that clearly contained information on groups of siblings. Most likely few of them had ended up together, but finding one might begin a trail to finding another. Tisha wrote in large, clear letters, to Jillian’s relief, and carved out a clear space on the table for a stack of papers related to a particular last name.
Jillian labeled another stack and offset it from the boys-under-two and sibling piles. At her end of the table she had three stacks now, like three cards turned up in a game of solitaire.
“There’s only one page with this sticky note,” Tisha said. “Do you still want a blue sheet?”
“Yep. Just clip it together. We might find something later that goes with it, and now we’ll have a place to put it.”
Tisha wrote the words on the blue sheet and set it on top of her first pile.
“Don’t forget,” Jillian said, “offset, like solitaire.”
Tisha huffed, but she rearranged the piles.
Jillian marked several more divider sheets at her end of the table and added the corresponding stacks to her own solitaire-style arrangement. Eventually she had fifteen blue cards along the edge. Looking at them, she pulled out three stacks to begin a separate line of files.
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