The Silver Star

by Gilbert, Morris

  Esther was a tall, shapely woman with a Latin look inherited from her mother. The daughter of Mark Winslow, an executive of the Union Pacific Railroad, she had made quite a name for herself recently as a successful news photographer. Her courage to cover the most difficult stories had garnered her the name of “The Iron Lady.” David Burns glanced at Jan beside him, noting that the tall South African was wholly attentive to the young woman as she came and stood on the other side of the minister. They’re a fine match, Jan and Esther. They’ll be happy together. But then Burns had no more time to think, for Tom Winslow appeared at the far end of the aisle with Ruth, his daughter, on his arm. As the organ fanfare announced the bride’s entrance, somehow Burns became completely and utterly calm at the first sight of the pair. He noted the beauty of the wedding dress, thinking of how much time Ruth and her mother, Faith Winslow, had spent on it. The dress was of the finest white silk available. It had a high-boned neckline and a loose bodice covered with sheer lace and pearls, accentuating it all the way to the waist. The full sleeves gathered at the wrist, trimmed with a row of delicate embroidery and pearls. Both the neckline and the train of the long skirt had been embroidered and were accented by tiny pearls.

  As father and daughter drew closer and came to stand directly in front of the three men and two women who now waited, Burns had a sudden gush of well-being. He had been a lonely man until he found Ruth, having had one unhappy attachment to another woman. But now as he met Ruth’s eyes watching him from behind the sheer white veil, he suddenly thought, If the world stops tomorrow, I’ll be happy.

  Ruth stood holding her father’s arm until the minister asked, “Who gives this woman?” Her father murmured, “Her mother and I,” then handed Ruth over to David, who stepped beside her and took her hand. She squeezed it and turned to look at him with a placid smile, though excitement brightened her cornflower blue eyes.

  The ceremony started, and Burns tried desperately to fix every detail of it in his memory, but all he could remember was promising to love, honor, and cherish Ruth, and the sound of her quiet, assured voice promising the same to him.

  After the minister said, “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride,” he lifted her veil, and she leaned against him. Her lips were soft and yielding under his with a hint of promise, and he vaguely heard the applause as it burst out over the auditorium. Then the two made their way out, followed by the bridal party, going at once to the reception room.

  As soon as they stepped inside, Kruger came forward with a smile on his strongly handsome face. “I will be the first to kiss the bride!” he announced. He then turned to Esther, and before she could move, he pulled her forward and kissed her squarely on the lips.

  For once Esther was flustered and pushed him away. “You mustn’t do that!” she protested.

  “In my country, it is always customary for the best man to kiss the bridesmaid first.”

  “I don’t believe a word of that!” Esther replied, but her eyes filled with laughter. She watched as Kruger turned and gave Priscilla a resounding kiss, then took his arm. “That’s enough of that,” she said pertly. “I don’t believe a word you say!”

  ****

  The reception had been as brief as David Burns could make it, but as he and his bride emerged from the church, they were showered by rice from the laughing members of the wedding party who had remained. “Come on! Let’s get out of here, Ruth!” he cried, and they ran toward the big yellow Oldsmobile.

  Tom Winslow was holding the door open for Ruth, and as the bride got in, he whispered, “God bless you, daughter. You’ve got a good man, and he’s got a good woman.” He leaned down and said, “Try not to wreck this thing. It cost Mark a fortune, David.”

  Burns could only nod nervously, and although he had practiced with the big touring car Mark had insisted they use for their honeymoon, David had to fumble while the car was surrounded by the party. When the large engine suddenly broke into a roar, he shouted, “Good-bye!” then jammed his foot on the gas pedal. The large automobile lurched forward with tires screaming and almost hit two of the well-wishers, who leaped back frantically. Overcompensating, Burns yanked the wheel to the left—resulting in a grinding crunch of metal as the fenders scraped another automobile—then careened back into the center of the street.

  “Don’t kill us before we have our honeymoon, David!” Ruth protested.

  David Burns took a deep breath and put his foot on the brake. When the car slowed down to a reasonable speed, he turned to her and smiled. “Don’t speak to your husband like that! Show a little bit more confidence.”

  Ruth Winslow moved over closer in the seat. She reached up, ran her hand across the back of his neck, and squeezed it affectionately. “All right, husband,” she whispered. “I’ve just promised to love, honor, and obey, and I’m anxious to get started with it.”

  David turned to her, removing his eyes from the busy street. “You’ll never be sorry. We’re going to have a fine life together,” he assured her, then turned back and said, “Now, let’s get this honeymoon underway!”

  Back on the pavement in front of the church, Mark and Lola laughed with the others at the wild exit of the couple. Seeing Priscilla standing slightly apart from the crowd, Mark took Lola’s arm, and the two made their way over to where the young woman stood. “When are you going back to Wyoming?”

  “Day after tomorrow, Uncle Mark. I was going with Uncle Tom and Aunt Faith tomorrow, but I couldn’t get a ticket for their train.”

  “I wish we were going with you. I’d like to see Dan and his family.”

  “Why don’t you come with us, you and Aunt Lola?”

  “Can’t get away,” Mark shrugged. They spoke for a while, and then Mark moved away to speak to Jan Kruger. He had a real affection for this future son-in-law of his and was financing his final training at a New York hospital. Kruger had been qualified in South Africa as a doctor but would have to requalify for a year and a half, or perhaps two, in an American hospital.

  “How are you, Priscilla?” Lola asked. She was, at the age of fifty-seven, an intensely attractive woman. Her black hair showed only a few strands of gray, and her blue eyes made a startling contrast. She and Mark had met in a jail in a town in the south of Texas near the border, and their courtship had been difficult but extremely romantic.

  “Oh, I’m fine, Aunt Lola,” Priscilla said.

  Lola reached out and pulled Priscilla’s face around, studying the girl’s countenance carefully. “I’m fine,” she mocked Priscilla. “That’s what we say when we’re dying and don’t want to tell anybody how we feel. It’s one of those meaningless statements that we make every day. How are you really?”

  Priscilla felt a brief rush of anger, but she knew in her heart that her aunt and uncle had a very genuine affection for her. Her lips trembled for a moment. “We do say silly things like that, don’t we?” She hesitated, then said, “I’ve made a terrible mistake, Lola. I can’t stop thinking about what a fool I was.”

  “We can’t go over our past mistakes, raking them up. That does no good.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Priscilla whispered, and her voice was barely audible over the hubbub of talk. “But I just can’t forget. I don’t see how God can forgive and forget the things we do.”

  “I don’t think God keeps very good records about things like that,” Lola remarked. She was truly concerned about Priscilla. She and Mark had talked about it often, both of them being rather astute students of the human character. Though Priscilla smiled a lot and had achieved success in her chosen profession on the stage, each of them had noticed that there still was a fragility about her. “God forgives,” Lola said, “and that’s the end of it. He won’t come back after we’ve asked for forgiveness a week later and say, ‘Now, about that sin.’ That’s what you and I might do, but not God. The Scriptures say He throws our sins into the deepest sea.” She saw Priscilla taking all this in, then asked, “Are you bitter at Eddie Rich for the way he deceived
you?”

  Priscilla was silent for a moment. She did not like to talk about Eddie Rich, but now confronted by Lola’s dark eyes, she said honestly, “It’s not just Eddie—it’s me. I keep thinking if I was a fool once, I could be one again. After what he did, I don’t want to get too close to anyone.”

  “That’s not a very good way to think. You’ve got to be close to people. Even when you run the chance of getting hurt.” When the younger woman did not answer, Lola asked, “What about Jason?” She spoke of Jason Ballard, the young man who had followed Priscilla all the way to New York from Wyoming. He had been her father’s foreman and had a hopeless love for Priscilla Winslow.

  “I don’t need a man!” Priscilla said almost sharply. Then she smiled tremulously and suddenly leaned forward and kissed Lola on the cheek. “You’ve been so wonderful to me, but right now I just need to be alone.”

  Later, as Mark and Lola were on their way home, Lola recounted her conversation with Priscilla to Mark. “I’m afraid she’s headed for trouble. She’s closed the door on everything—especially on men.”

  “She’s young. She’ll get over it,” Mark said hopefully.

  “I don’t know. She’s a very stubborn girl, but she’d better get over it. She has a bitterness for Eddie Rich. She seems to think that every man is as untrustworthy and worthless as he is. Part of her heart tells her that’s not so, but still, she’s built a big wall around herself. She’s determined not to be hurt again.”

  The two rode on for some time before Lola spoke again. She took Mark’s arm in hers and squeezed it. “Sometimes it’s not much fun growing up, but Priscilla’s got to learn that she can’t live alone.”

  Mark turned, and his gaze was affectionate. “Yes, she does,” he said slowly, “and the quicker she learns it the better.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Homecoming

  As the locomotive pulled into the station at Mason City with a grinding of brakes and an explosive huffing of escaped steam, Priscilla stared out the window and felt a sharp stab of apprehension. So much had happened since she had left her home—and much of it not good—that she had a sudden impulse to simply remain on the train and make her way to Los Angeles. It was, she knew, a ridiculous notion, for all the letters that had come from her parents were warm and encouraging. They’ll never mention Eddie and the fool I made out of myself.

  As the car made a final jerk, throwing her forward, she steadied herself, then rose and left the car. Several men, who had been highly aware of her during the long trip, allowed their eyes to follow, and one of them murmured in an audible voice, “Now there’s a real pippin!”

  Ignoring the remark, Priscilla stepped out of the car, and the conductor lifted his hand and assisted her to the ground. He was a tall, grizzled man with hazel eyes and a sweeping, Custer-style cavalry mustache. He brushed it now with his free hand and smiled. “Been nice having you on the train, Miss Winslow.”

  “Why, thank you, Sam.” Priscilla turned and returned a smile for his compliment. She was wearing a charcoal gray cotton day dress with striped fabric trimmed in a brilliant yellow. She wore a matching hat and carried an umbrella, making a fetching picture as she turned from the conductor and searched for her father. Instead, she saw her brother Peter striding rapidly across the cinder surface of the station and at once felt at home. “Hello, Pete,” she smiled and took his kiss. Then he squeezed her until she cried out, “Pete, be careful! You’ll break every rib I own!”

  Peter Winslow grinned down at her from his six-foot, two-inch frame. He was wearing a pair of scuffed riding boots that raised him another few inches, and a flat-crowned Stetson was shoved back over his auburn hair. He had hazel eyes, wide-spaced and deeply set in his wedge-shaped face. The corners of his wide mouth turned up in a smile as he said, “You look good, sis. I’ll get your luggage, and then we’ll be on our way.”

  Priscilla waited, looking over the station as Peter disappeared into the train. The train station was a single rectangular building with a low-pitched roof painted an ugly dark red color. The station master, Tim McGivern, gave her a wave and a “Welcome home, Miss Priscilla!” as he unloaded freight from a car.

  Priscilla returned his greeting, then Peter was back carrying her two bags easily, though they were large and heavy. “This way,” he said, nodding his head. As they made their way to the side of the station, Peter grinned. “How do you like the vehicle?”

  Priscilla laughed aloud. “It looks like you made it from a dozen wrecked cars, Pete.”

  “Just about right!” Peter laughed, then heaved her luggage in the rear seat and helped her into the front. When she was settled, he cranked the engine to start it. Once it caught, he raced around the side and jumped into the front seat. The engine burst into a roar, and Peter released the brake. Priscilla grabbed the side door to hold herself steady as the car shot into the roadway and headed south, leaving a rolling cloud of pale white dust spiraling into the air behind them. Grabbing her hat, she blinked as the air bit at her.

  “Oh, there’s some goggles on the seat beside you, sis,” Peter shouted over the noisy engine. He reached down, handed her the goggles, then put on a pair of his own. “Hang on now! I’ll show you some speed!”

  Priscilla did hang on for her life, for her brother delighted in running the car at full speed. As they sped along, the noisy car succeeded in frightening several teams of horses so badly they reared. More than one farmer shook their fists at him and called out loudly what they intended to do to him if they ever caught him.

  “Slow down, Pete!” Priscilla gasped. “We’re not in that big of a hurry!”

  Peter obediently slowed the speed of the car, and soon they were chugging along at a more moderate rate. “Glad to be home, sis?” he asked, finally turning to glance at her.

  With only a slight hesitation, Priscilla nodded. “Yes, I am.” She glanced around, taking in the familiar landscape. Suddenly she realized how much she had missed the rolling expanse where a person could see for a hundred miles. Far off to her left were the Indian Head Mountains, and to her right the land fell away, marked only by small spirals of smoke that rose from ranch houses. They passed several large herds of cattle, and finally she said, “I didn’t realize how cooped up I was in New York.”

  “You’re right about that,” Peter said. “I miss all of this, but I have to go where the action is.” He shifted in the seat, twisted the wheel abruptly to avoid a pothole, then when he had the car running evenly again, he said, “I’ve been to St. Louis.”

  “Oh, did you go to the fair?” She referred to the St. Louis Louisiana Purchase Exposition that had been the highlight of 1904. She had read that twenty million Americans had already gone to visit the place, viewing exhibits on air travels, the telephone, and more than one hundred of the latest models of the automobile.

  “It was like nothing you ever saw, sis,” Peter replied. “And everybody was singing the song about the fair. Have you heard it?”

  “The one about St. Louis?” Priscilla smiled. “Yes, I’ve heard it.” She lifted her voice and began to sing the theme song of the fair that had swept over the country. Peter joined in with her, and their voices rose above the rattling of the car as it made its way along the rough road:

  Meet me in St. Louis, Louis,

  Meet me at the fair.

  Don’t tell me the lights are shining,

  Any place but there.

  We will dance the hootchy-kootchy,

  I will be your tootsie-wootsie,

  If you meet in St. Louis, Louis,

  Meet me at the fair.

  “Well, I didn’t know I was such a good singer. Now you’ll have to give me a part in your next musical play.”

  “That’ll be the day,” Priscilla said, smiling at her brother.

  He began to speak of the fair, and most of the way home he described in detail many of the new cars that had been on exhibit there. “And they had a giant ferris wheel imported from Chicago’s fair, and a death-defying roller coast
er. I got on that contraption, but I was ready to get off before the thing stopped. It’s a wonder it hasn’t killed somebody by now.”

  As they were approaching the house, Priscilla asked, “Are you going to stay here on the ranch?”

  “You know better than that, Priscilla. Next week I’m returning to Detroit. I took a little vacation, but I’m going back to work for Mr. Ford again. I’m going to learn everything I can about building race cars.”

  “Is that what you want to do, Pete?”

  Turning to her, he suddenly put one hand on the back of her neck and squeezed it, a gesture of affection he had done since they were small children. “You’re already rich and famous, Priscilla,” he said quietly, “and I’m going to be, too.” Grim determination stretched his lips into a straight line for a moment, and two parallel marks furrowed between his eyes, a sign that he was deadly serious. “I’m going to build the fastest car in the world, and then I’m going to race it and beat every man that drives a car!”

  All this was no news, of course, to Priscilla. Reaching up, she covered his hand with hers and squeezed it. “I hope you do, Pete. You’ve got more energy than any man I ever saw—and you’re smart. One of these days I’ll be saying, ‘That’s my brother, Peter Winslow, the famous race car driver.’ ”

  Peter squeezed her neck again, laughed, then put his hand back on the wheel. Soon long, low buildings came into view, with the corrals all in the back, and the bright glint of flowers that her mother always had blooming in the front yard. As they pulled into the driveway, Peter asked suddenly, “What about Jason?” Priscilla turned her head away, and when she said nothing, Peter insisted, “He’s in love with you. I think he always will be.” He braked to a stop and shut the engine off. “Don’t you care for him at all?”

  Slowly Priscilla turned back toward him. Her eyes were half-lidded, and there was a stillness in her expression that revealed nothing at all of what she felt. She had learned to wall out everything painful that came into her life, and now she said quietly, “I am not thinking about Jason or any other man, Pete. I just want to get on with my life. Please don’t say any more.”