“Don’t start, Decorah,” Missouri said.
“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to Mama? Marrying that man the way you did?”
Missouri held her tongue. That man was her husband now. Her loyalties were clear. The minister at the Lutheran church three blocks from the mercantile was a regular customer and had been happy to perform a private ceremony. Lity had been there, along with the witnesses. But Mama wouldn’t come, and of course Corah did whatever Mama did. Missy doubted she would ever have a mind of her own. Would she ever find love, or would Mama spoil that for her too?
“Tennessee?” Corah said. “Why don’t you just go to Leadville or Colorado Springs or back to Denver. I hear most of the homeless men are gone now.”
“Loren has cousins in Tennessee,” Missouri said. “They’ve invited him to go into business with them. You know that. You were there when we explained it to Mama. We made the decision together.”
“Cousins.” Corah scoffed. “You have sisters here. And a mother.”
“Go inside, Corah,” Lity said. “You’ll catch your death out here without a wrap.”
Corah glared at Lity, but she was shaking with the cold, so she did withdraw into the house.
“You can’t leave me here.” Lity’s voice hitched. “With them.”
Missouri glanced down the street. Loren would be there any moment with their meager belongings and the train tickets. She had come to the house one last time only to see Fidelity.
“It’s your best chance to finish high school without losing credits,” Missy said. “So many girls don’t get that chance, and you’re so close. Finishing will give you opportunities you might not have if you don’t finish. The principal has already said you’re doing very well and you’ll have enough credits to graduate next December, a full semester ahead of schedule.”
“It’s still a whole year! And then what?”
“A lot of things can change in a year, Lity.” Missouri’s chest burned. Leaving behind her baby sister was the hardest part of this plan. “You love the store, and you’ve made friends here in Canyon Mines. You can work after school and all next summer. And in a year? Maybe the store is where you’ll want to stay. You could live above it. You wouldn’t have to live at the house.”
“And if not?” Lity’s voice shrank.
“I’ve already given you the address where you can write to me in Tennessee.” Missouri unfolded her arms from beneath her shawl and offered a package to Lity. “And you can always describe for me what you’ve done with these.”
Lity sniffled as she pulled the string to release the wrapping. She smiled past her pain. “More shades of green paint.”
“You always seem to be running out.”
“It’s the views. There’s so much green to capture.”
Missouri took both her sister’s hands. “I left something else for you in our room.”
“What is it?”
“Look under your mattress at the foot of the bed.”
“Papa’s journals?” Lity’s eyes widened. “That’s where you used to keep them on your bed.”
“They’re yours now. They belong here in Canyon Mines. I wrote something for you, and after that it’s up to you to write what’s on your heart.”
“I wouldn’t know what to write. That’s why I paint.”
“It will come to you.”
Lity ran a finger across her dripping nose. “Here’s Loren.”
He was driving a borrowed cart. The owner would meet them at the train station to reclaim it.
“I’ve always liked Loren,” Lity said, “from the first day he came to the back door in Denver.”
“Thank you.” Missouri whispered hoarsely into Lity’s ear as she pulled her into a tight embrace. “That means the world to me. It really does.”
She kissed Lity’s cheek and left her sobbing, freezing, on the front porch as she climbed into the cart beside Loren. Never would she forget this scene.
December 12, 1893
Dearest Fidelity,
My pen—Papa’s pen—quivers as I write because I know this day will bring our parting, and our family has endured enough parting in the last few months. Even when we have sat across the dining room table from each other, we have parted. Yet I know I cannot stay. Every day our mother speaks poison about the man to whom I have bound my heart and future. She speaks poison about our Papa to whom she bound her own future. And I can no longer live with this bitter poison.
Our Papa was a dear man. He was not a man of tremendous wealth, but he was a man of tremendous generosity. I always want to remember him that way, and I hope you will too.
Loren is a dear man as well. I hope and pray that our parting now will not mean that this is the last opportunity for you to know the strength and goodness of this man who is my husband, and I hope and pray that someday you will know love like I know—and love like our mother once had and has forgotten.
I know that “home” right now is a hard place even for a spirit as cheerful as yours. When you have finished school, leave if you must. You will be old enough to make your own choice. Come to me then, if you wish. We will always have a place for you. Always.
Please, Lity, do not lose yourself in the poison as Corah has. And pray every day, as I do, morning and evening, for Mama to come back to herself.
All my love,
Missouri
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Nolan and Jillian came out of the Canary Cage gulping tall cold drinks.
“How pitiful is it that twice in one day we have woefully underestimated how to handle the way a kid on a bike takes bad news?” Jillian took a long draft of her raspberry Italian cream soda.
“She would be pleased with your choice of beverage.”
“It seemed the least I could do.”
“I really think she’ll be all right, Jilly. We all hoped Jayden would make a different decision, and of course it’s hitting Tisha hard, but when we think about the coping mechanisms she’s had to develop to come as far as she has—”
“Like shoplifting?”
“Not her best, I grant you, but her whole life is ragged. She could be in far more trouble. I’m not throwing the baby out with the bathwater because we have this one setback.”
“I hope you’re right, Dad.”
They sauntered in the direction of where they’d left the truck parked.
Jillian grabbed Nolan’s arm. “Do you see what I see?”
“I see a girl with pink hair getting off a green bike in front of Motherlode Books,” he said. “Please tell me I’m not hallucinating because I’m dehydrated with heatstroke.”
“Please tell me two people having the same hallucination is not even a thing.”
They picked up their pace, waving their hands at a couple of cars approaching the intersection. They had to get across the street. Tisha lifted the front wheel of her bike into the rack in front of the bookstore to park it and then went inside. Jillian and Nolan weren’t more than two minutes behind her.
Tisha was at a spinner rack at the rear of the store with Dave Rossi.
Dave glanced up at Jillian and Nolan. “I’ll be right with you.”
Tisha exhaled. “Really? Now you’re here?” She looked at Dave. “Are they supposed to bring drinks in here?”
“Technically, no,” he said.
Jillian snatched Nolan’s drink, found the nearest trash can, and dropped both half-empty cups in. “Problem solved.”
“Looks that way,” Dave said. “You folks come in for something in particular?”
“We’ll have what she’s having.” Nolan nodded toward Tisha.
“You are really off your game,” Tisha said.
“You’re both interested in journals as well?” Dave asked.
“Journals?” Jillian said.
“Did you think the new guy at the bookstore was dealing drugs to teenagers or something?” Tisha said.
“No!” Jillian waved both hands, fingers splayed. “Absolutely not. I thought
no such thing about either of you.”
“That’s a relief,” Dave said. “I would have a hard time explaining that to my daughter. She’d never let me see Nadia again—or my dog, who stays with them some of the time while I’m working. Selling books, not drugs.”
“So, journals,” Jillian said.
“We have a nice selection,” Dave said, “and they’re thirty percent off. Some people like to have a special pen to use with their journals, so we’ve got some of those as well.”
“Journals?” Nolan said.
“Am I not explaining this right?” Dave said. “This entire rack is journals. Big ones, little ones, leather ones, cutesy ones, lined ones, unlined ones. Tisha came in asking about journals, so I’m showing her what we have. We also have pens.”
Nolan and Jillian laughed
“You are perfectly clear,” Jillian said.
“These two are a little wacko today,” Tisha said. “I’ve had a couple of hard days, and they think—well, I don’t actually know what they think. Maybe that I’m made out of glass, which I assure you I’m not. Or that I’m going to start throwing golf balls at people’s heads or smash windshields with a baseball bat or run away from home or buy drugs from some old dude I hardly know.”
“But you’re not going to do any of those things, are you?” Dave said.
“Let’s just say I’m not going to do any of those things right now.” Tisha turned back to the rack. “In the first place, you don’t sell golf balls. Or bats. I just thought I would see if I had enough money for a journal.”
“A journal,” Nolan said.
Tisha looked over her shoulder at Nolan, scowling, before shifting her gaze to Jillian. “Is he all right?”
Jillian stepped toward the girl. “Out on the trail, up on the rocks, you were pretty upset.”
“I was just trying to work things out.”
“You shot off pretty fast.”
Tisha shrugged one shoulder. “Biking helps. By the time I got back to town, I had decided to start a diary. Maybe that will help too.”
“That actually sounds like a solid idea,” Nolan said.
“You don’t have to sound so surprised.” Tisha gave the rack a slow spin.
“Tisha Crowder,” Nolan said, laughing, “nothing about you can surprise me.”
“Not sure how to take that,” she muttered. “But anyway, I’m going to start a diary. A real one. Not like Georgina’s two pages torn out of somebody else’s, but my own, from start to finish.”
Joanna poked her head around the end of an aisle. “How’s my puppy?”
“Wriggly is doing very well,” Dave said. “I’m sure he’d love to see you. Let’s arrange a visit.”
“I’ll take plenty of allergy medication first.”
“Good thought.”
“Does Clark know you’re here?” Nolan said. “Are you sure you’re supposed to be on a break?”
“Very funny,” Joanna said. “I actually have the whole afternoon off. Legit. That happens sometimes.”
“I suppose so.”
“I heard you talking about journals and diaries,” Joanna said to Tisha. “Do you like old ones?”
“What do you mean? Like old-fashioned covers?”
“No, actual old diaries.”
“Somebody else’s diaries?” Jillian’s radar turned on.
Joanna nodded. “I have a small box up in my apartment. It was just there, in the closet, when I moved in. I left it alone because it doesn’t actually belong to me, but I don’t really know what to do with it, either.”
“You found it in this building?” Jillian said.
“That’s right.”
“The Brandt Building.”
“I guess. There are several. They’re not very big. They all have dates from 1892 and 1893. Maybe a little bit from 1894? I haven’t tried to read them all, because that’s not really my thing, but maybe someone else is interested.”
Tisha’s eyes were enormous. Jillian’s heart rate kicked into high gear.
“A lot of people have lived in these apartments over time,” Jillian said, “but of course journals that old would be interesting to see.”
“Then let’s go see them.” Joanna led the way through the back of the store. “There’s a stairway out here. Stephanos says it’s not original, but it’s rickety enough that I’m not sure I believe him.”
Everyone but Dave traipsed up the creaking steps. Inside Joanna’s compact apartment, the rooms and fixtures had been modernized, but the bones of the exposed beams and supports captured the nineteenth-century construction of the building. A small kitchen, living room, bath, and one bedroom made for cozy living.
“Supposedly I got the storage side of the old upstairs,” Joanna said. “The other apartment is a little larger because it was always living quarters. At least that’s what they tell me.”
“This is cool.” Tisha marveled, soaking up what she saw.
“There’s this little closet in the entry.” Joanna tugged on a door. “It’s not much, but it holds a few coats and has a couple of shelves up top. That’s where I found the box. I have a feeling somebody stuck it up there ages ago and no one has ever known what to do with it, so they just leave it. Maybe they didn’t even see it when they remodeled, because who cares about the closet?”
Joanna pulled a small stool from the bottom of the closet, stood on it, and reached for the box, not even the size of a shoebox. Tisha was ready when she handed it down. It held four slim volumes.
“One person must have started them.” Joanna tucked away the stool. “But I flipped through the last one and noticed several different handwritings. The name in the front says Clifford Brandt, but later it seems like someone named Missouri took over. Then she gave it to Fidelity. Those are strange names, don’t you think?”
Jillian, Nolan, and Tisha laughed.
“Well, the names aren’t that funny,” Joanna said. “Just old-fashioned, I guess.”
“The Brandt Building,” Jillian said. “This building. Clifford Brandt. Missouri and Fidelity were two of his daughters. The third one was Decorah, who was Tisha’s great-great-great-grandmother.”
“No way!” Joanna’s jaw dropped. “See, I’ve only been in town a few months. I don’t know all this stuff.”
“I’m only learning it myself.” Tisha took the box to Joanna’s love seat and extracted the final journal and carefully turned to the back. “I wonder.”
“I do too,” Jillian said.
Tisha pulled up the image of Georgina’s torn diary page on her phone. “I think it matches!”
Jillian leaned in. “You might be right. We’ll have to take this down to the Heritage Society to know for sure, but the tear looks like it could have come from this journal.”
Tisha flipped back to earlier in the book.
“June 28, 1893. The day has come. On the surface, this will look like an ordinary excursion to Canyon Mines, where I can stay in a decent hotel while I do business I never imagined a few months ago. But it’s unavoidable. For now, and probably for good, I have to shut down my own mines. Is my equipment worth anything? That’s hard to say. Who needs ore carts when there is no market for the ore? I suppose the carts could haul other freight if the railroad could be persuaded. One step at a time. I see no hope for silver to recover—certainly I cannot hold on long enough to find out.”
“Very sad,” Nolan said.
“May I see?” Jillian asked, and Tisha handed her the volume. Jillian gingerly turned the yellowed pages filled with black ink.
“July 27, 1893. Violence is worsening. One can feel it in the streets. I have not told Georgina how close Missouri and I were to being caught up in the Arata business, and I will not. She would not be able to cope. Who can cope? That is the question, is it not? No money. No jobs. Only uncertainty and stress and impossible choices. ‘The LORD is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust.’ Psalm 18:2.”
She turned to another entry.<
br />
“August 9, 1893. I have received word from Parson Tom that my donation, as feeble as it feels to me, is considerable enough to do substantial good. I have his assurance that he will be able to channel it in the manner I have designated to allow men who choose to return to their loved ones to do so with dignity, well fed and well kept and traveling in comfort. It is my wish that no man fall into the arms of those who love him looking as poor in body as he may feel in spirit, but that he may have a bit to tide him over until he stands on his feet again. If I can share with some of the destitute miners the same dignity that I myself preserve even as I also reconcile the changes in my financial standing, I will feel that I have heard and answered the voice of my Maker to do unto the least of these.”
Nolan took the book now and turned a few pages with care. “This is where it looks like someone else took over.
“August 21, 1893. Reading what Papa has written in this volume overwhelms me. Such a mild-mannered man who thinks not only of his own gain but for the situation of so many others. He has done his best by us—by Mama, whether she can see it or not, by my sisters and me, by my sweet Loren, by miners he knew to call by name and many others he did not. When I look through my papa’s eyes, I see that he saw people whom God dearly loves and for whom God calls us to sacrifice even as Christ sacrifices for us. I know he will give his blessing for my nuptials to Loren. Mama needs some time still. Life will be different here in Canyon Mines, but it can still be a life rich in love.”
Tisha reached for the journal again. “I want to see the end, where the last person wrote.” She turned a few pages. “I see here where Missouri gave the journal to Fidelity and where Fidelity started to write. Here’s the last entry.
“October 3, 1894. I’ve made up my mind. I know Missouri will encourage me to persevere. My high school graduation is only a few weeks away in December. I will be eighteen and have a diploma. I realize many young women do not have this opportunity. But I cannot wait. Truly I cannot. Missouri is not here. She doesn’t understand that Mama and Corah get worse by the day. Their words bite into me, taking pieces of me with every conversation. If I stay, there will be nothing left of me to get on a train to Tennessee once I have that diploma in hand. So I’m going now. I’ve saved enough money for the fare, and I’ve made up my mind.”
What You Said to Me Page 25