“No, we’re fine. Just hurry back,” Jordana replied for them both.
Brenton found his banking business to be without complications. There was, however, a letter from Billy Vanderbilt. Opening the missive while still inside the bank’s lobby, Brenton was taken aback at the news.
G.W.’s health continues to fail. The commodore has asked me to join G.W. in Europe, as it is hoped that the curative powers of the French Riviera will soon see him right again. I suppose it couldn’t have come at a worse time, given our project, but there should be enough money here to see you through for a time. Go ahead with our plans for photographing the area towns, and I will instruct Daniel Davidson to act in my stead. He will advise you on what property to purchase and will wire you funding if that becomes necessary. Continue sending the photographs in care of my home, and Davidson will make arrangements here to pick them up for the investors’ consideration.
There were other details, comments on the war and the dangers that would no doubt complicate Brenton’s life should they go farther south than Kansas City. Billy advised them to continue working north, taking care to avoid any conflict with border ruffians. Brenton knew this would be the real challenge of the trip. Border ruffians, bushwhackers, and jayhawkers from Missouri and Kansas were in a constant state of war with one another. It came as a kind of unofficial extension of the Civil War, with younger, meaner, less organized warriors who marauded the Kansas-Missouri border looking for trouble and profit.
Billy had concluded the letter by stating that it was uncertain if G.W. would recover, but it was his intention to see him through to the end. Brenton felt a burden of guilt for not having told Jordana of the situation. She would no doubt have wished to have tried one last time to send G.W. a letter, and now it might be too late. Brenton noted that Billy wouldn’t be sailing from New York for three days. Perhaps Brenton could telegraph Billy a message from Jordana to G.W.
Hurrying back to the wagon, Brenton found Jordana and Caitlan laughing gaily over some matter. He hated to break into their happy moment but could think of no other way to allow Jordana to get word to G.W. except to do it immediately. Summoning up his courage, Brenton dismounted and tied the horse to the back of the wagon.
“Jordana,” he began hesitantly. “We need to talk.”
Caitlan seemed to sense his gravity first. “I’ll go recheck the equipment,” she offered, then slipped into the back of the wagon before anyone could protest.
Brenton studied his sister for a moment and wondered how best to break the news. She was nearly full grown, and as he studied her more closely than usual, the fact shocked his senses. She looked a great deal like their mother. Dark hair and brown eyes. She was spirited like their mother as well.
“So what has you looking so serious this time?” Jordana questioned with a smile.
“Come walk with me a ways.” Brenton reached out to help her down from the wagon seat.
Jordana nodded, hiked up her serviceable wool skirt, and stepped down onto the wheel. From here, Brenton easily lifted her to the ground and slipped his arm around her shoulder.
“Something happened a while back, and I didn’t tell you about it right away because I thought I would wait and see what came of it before worrying you.”
Jordana stopped and looked up at him. “Is it Mother and Father?”
“No,” Brenton replied softly. “G.W.”
“G.W.? Is he . . . ?”
“Dead?” Brenton shook his head. “But he doesn’t show signs of getting any better. Billy is off to tend to G.W. in Europe, and frankly . . . well . . . it doesn’t look good.”
“What?” Jordana said, shaking her head. “Are you saying that he will die?”
Brenton shrugged his shoulders and tried to think of some way to affirm her worry without just coming right out and saying it. “Billy says he hasn’t responded to the doctor’s treatments. They’ve spared no expense; obviously money wasn’t a worry.”
“He’s dying. That’s what you’re trying to tell me, isn’t it?” Jordana questioned, her voice rising slightly.
Brenton nodded. “I suppose it is.”
Her face contorted as her brows knit together in worry. “Why didn’t you tell me immediately?”
“I had hoped his sickness would be short-lived, and then I could just mention it in passing with the assurance that he was well and fine. But apparently that isn’t going to happen.”
Jordana looked down at the ground. “I can’t believe this. You should have told me sooner.”
“I’m sorry, Jordana. I was only trying to save you grief. I knew you’d feel bad, especially in light of his refusal to correspond with you. I just didn’t want you worrying about something you couldn’t do anything about.”
Her head snapped up at this. “You should have told me!” she declared more angrily. “I deserved to know. He was more my friend than yours. You were wrong to keep it from me, Brenton.”
Brenton swallowed hard, realizing that he’d hurt her more deeply than he’d ever intended. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” Jordana replied curtly. “Sorry you didn’t trust me to be strong enough to handle the truth. G.W. said he’d go to his grave hating me. I guess you’ve played right into his plan.”
She stormed off down the street, arms crossed to her breast as if trying to force her emotions to remain inside. Brenton thought to go after her, then decided it would be better to give her a few minutes to gather her composure. When she came back on her own accord, he would suggest sending Billy the telegram. He didn’t care if it cost a fortune. He would encourage her to say whatever she wanted, no matter the length.
He came back to the wagon and sat down on the back gate. Jordana was just a girl in many ways, he reminded himself. She had just turned seventeen. How could he expect her to deal with any of this? He began to feel guilty all over again. Guilty for having allowed her to talk him into going west. Guilty for having put her life in danger. Guilty for having kept the news of G.W.’s increased sickness from her for so long.
“Are ya goin’ to be tellin’ me what this is all about?” Caitlan asked from behind him.
Brenton looked upward over his shoulder. “G.W. Vanderbilt is dying. I just had a letter from Mr. Vanderbilt, and it would seem that recovery will now take a miracle. Billy is even going to Europe to be with G.W. through to the end. The thing is, I’ve known for some time that he was slipping away and I chose not to tell Jordana. I kept hoping that G.W. would get well.”
“I’m sorry, Brenton,” Caitlan replied, kneeling down beside where he sat. She put her hand on his shoulder. “Ya only did what ya thought was best.”
He reached up and touched her hand with his own. “Thank you for saying so. That was the plan, but now I fear I’ve hurt her more by keeping it from her.”
A nagging headache seemed to spread out from somewhere behind his eyes, and Brenton let go of Caitlan’s hand and pulled off his glasses. “I should have told her everything. The moment I knew about G.W., I should have told her.” He rubbed his eyes, trying to isolate the pain and work away the tension. It refused to go.
“Brenton, ya know I don’t share yar beliefs in God.” Caitlan surprised him with this bold declaration since she usually avoided the subject. He stopped rubbing his eyes and looked over at her. “But maybe this is one of those times of trial ya always seem to be talkin’ about. Maybe God is usin’ this for yar good.” She smiled. “I feel silly for even sayin’ such a thing.”
“Don’t,” Brenton replied. “I think you care more about those things than you let on. I think you’re hurt from what you’ve seen and heard in your country, but I think you still have hope that God is really a God who cares and loves us.”
“It’s a lovely thought, Brenton,” she replied, getting back to her feet. “But so, too, is the thought of pots of gold and fairies grantin’ wishes. Ya can’t convince me that one is more real than the other.”
Brenton wanted to say something more, but Caitlan spied Jordana.
“Ya should go to her,” she gently urged.
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.
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