“Isn’t Arthur with you?”
Sophie was glad her mother had asked what she’d wanted to, and looked again at Noah for his answer. She was surprised to see he’d still been looking at her but snapped his gaze to her mother when he caught her observation.
“He must be done at the Reaper Works for the day but likely went straight to look for you once the whistle blew.”
“He got the job there, then?” asked Father.
Noah nodded. “Now that the canal is finished, a bunch of us were glad to get good jobs elsewhere, sir. I’m working with the Mechanics group myself.”
Sir. Humph. Noah Jackson hadn’t changed a bit. He had always sounded respectful around her father. Why didn’t Noah talk to him the way he used to talk to everyone else? Clever name calling was Noah Jackson’s specialty. “Squealer Sophie” had been a favorite, not to mention “String Bean Sophie” because of her skinny arms, and “Swan Sophie” because he said her neck was too long. Most of the time he’d called her “Tot,” short for toddler, which sufficiently reminded her she was four years younger than Arthur. As if that would make Noah more than just two years older than her.
“Arthur wrote to us about the place to camp our wagons, Noah,” Father said. “Do you know where it is?”
“Up on the Des Plaines Valley Road. I’ll take you there. The site’s about a half hour or so north.”
“So far?” Gordy complained. “I thought we were here already. In our new home.”
“And so you are,” Noah said, tousling Gordy’s light brown hair. “It’s a spot for wagon trains going west to assemble while they purchase everything they’ll need. Plenty of room for those coming to town, too, to settle in until everybody figures out where to live.”
Father waved again to Mr. Hobson, who had pulled up behind them. “Noah Jackson’s here,” he called, “and he’ll take us to a place to camp.”
Mr. Hobson saluted his acknowledgment, and Sophie spotted the head of her friend Alice pop up behind him. As much as Sophie loved her best friend, she had to hide the scowl she’d just inspired. Alice was likely looking for a peek at one of the “young prospects,” the main and awful reason she and Sophie and several other daughters had been dragged to Chicago in the first place. But really, did Alice want a peek at the bottom of the barrel?
Sophie meant to have a serious talk with that girl.
Noah moved back toward the horses. “We’ll get you out of this mudhole first.”
Sophie moved out of the way. Perhaps she would ride with Alice and start that talk right now. “I’ve never been so grateful for mud,” she grumbled as she pulled her skirts clear of another puddle between her and the nearest wooden walkway.
Mother sent her a surprised look, Father a frown, and Noah a quizzical stare. In spite of the attention, she had no wish to call back her words. “It’s what stopped us, wasn’t it? The mud?”
Noah raised one of his brows but said nothing, as her mother tsked.
“That’s a little like thanking the fire for a hot meal, dear. We wouldn’t have anything to eat without the cook.”
“What do you mean, Mother?” Gordy asked.
Sophie tilted her head, staring at her mother even though she felt Noah’s gaze more strongly than any other. “She means Noah’s the cook.”
“Oh! Sure, that’s right.” Gordy’s face burst into a smile. “I get it now. ‘Cause it was him who saved us. Not the mud. Right, Mother?”
Sophie couldn’t help but roll her eyes as she tugged her little brother along. Father went to Acer’s side while Noah went around to Dink’s, and between the two of them they coaxed the animals to pull the rig free of the soft, stubborn earth.
Sophie folded her arms. Noah Jackson might have grown into a strong, even handsome young man. She couldn’t help but notice the way his shoulders strained the material on that gray cotton shirt he wore. He had the same bold brows, broad chin, and thick, dark hair—hair that reached past the folded collar of his shirt.
But he was no hero. She knew that as sure as she knew Chicago was the last place on earth she wanted to live.
Chapter 2
For the first time in five years, Noah Jackson was living in better conditions than the folks he and Arthur had left behind in Ohio. The boardinghouse he called home since they’d finished living in tent quarters along the canal construction wasn’t much better—it was more like a dormitory above the long, wide stable below—but it had a solid roof, rope beds with straw mattresses, and real windows. All of that made it far better than sleeping under a cramped wagon or the crowded four-room home he grew up in with seven brothers and sisters.
It wouldn’t be long before he and Artie introduced Artie’s folks to all the possibilities that Chicago offered. Soon they’d be settled in a proper home.
Pulling on his boots, he called to Arthur, still sleeping on the cot next to his own.
“Hey, better get going, Artie. Church in a half hour.”
“Huh?”
“Half hour. Let’s go.”
Arthur Stewart had only one thing in common with his sister: they shared the same color hair. Noah would never have bothered to describe the shade—a mix of gold and copper—until seeing it on Sophie. He wondered if he’d ever be able to look at Arthur again without thinking of her.
Which was too bad for him. She’d made a point to ignore him all the way to the campsite and forever thereafter.
Sophie had been mighty happy to see her brother, though. She’d laughed, because even though Artie was taller than she was, her brother’s height had stopped at the same spot as their father. She’d teased Gordy, saying that was likely all the taller he’d get, too.
Had she noticed how tall Noah had gotten? But then, how would she, when she made such a point to ignore him?
Who would have thought that little tattler would grow into such a lovely young woman? He knew she’d matured, because Artie had shared her letters with him over the years. Letters that hadn’t failed to impress, even intrigue Noah—something he’d kept to himself.
As usual, Artie was slow in the morning, even on Sunday after an extra hour of sleep. When they’d come to Chicago that was how Noah had been, too, especially on Sunday, a day both had proclaimed a day of rest, even from something like church.
But that had all changed once they’d met Ezra Pooley, the canal foreman’s father. Ezra was a patriarch of Chicago who had the goodwill—some might call it bad sense—to invite young men far from their homes into his own. Tasty meals, interesting conversations, even the patience to teach whoever cared to learn the craft of leather working. He’d given Noah plenty to think about, including God.
Ezra had also helped the boys investigate land and housing available if their families did decide to come to Chicago. Noah was sure their findings had encouraged his friends’ families to leave Toledo for the promise of such a growing city like Chicago.
“Better wear that tie,” Noah reminded Artie, who was still sitting on the side of his cot, rubbing palms to his face against remnants of sleep.
A light of anticipation ignited on Arthur’s face. “Oh yeah! We didn’t take baths for nothin’ last night, did we? We can reacquaint ourselves with the girls today. My parents said so themselves.”
“Hush up!” called a voice a few bunks away. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”
“And we’re no louder than O’Hananan’s snoring,” Noah said back, “so hush up yourself.” He pulled the duffel bag from beneath his cot, taking up his comb and facing Artie again. “I counted four, besides your sister, of course,” he whispered. “That’s five. Did I miss any?”
“Ha! Shows you how much you saw past Sophie. I saw you watching her. There are eight. Two in the Hobson family, three in the Cabots’, one each in the Hatten and the Selway wagons.”
“Two in the Hobson family? Alice is one. But you’re not counting Sally, are you? She can’t be any older than twelve.”
“She’s fifteen, and in a couple of years she’ll be just as
pretty as her sister.”
“I’m surprised you saw anybody past Alice then, if you think I didn’t see anybody but Sophie.”
“It was Sophie who told me how many came along. I think the pastor brought his sister, too, but Sophie didn’t count her, because she’s old enough to have stayed behind.” Then he cleared his throat, as if buying time to figure out what to say next. “Uh, there’s something I should say about Sophie. She’s not too keen on why my family decided to join us out here. Says they’re putting all their daughters up on the marriage block like ‘common property.’”
Noah laughed at Artie’s imitation of Sophie. He’d done a good job at capturing her disdain.
“If only it were that easy,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “Just to hand over some of our savings and buy one.”
Artie took a friendly swipe at Noah with the tie he would wear over one of the two new shirts his mother had brought with them—Noah was wearing the other. “Hey, that’s my sister you’re wanting to buy as if she’s on Chicago’s cattle market. A little bit of wooing will do both of you some good.”
“A little bit of wooing?” Noah repeated. “You think that’s all it’ll take?”
Artie laughed all the way to the door.
Sophie let Alice loop their arms, but it wasn’t a solely affectionate gesture. Her friend surely knew that if Sophie wasn’t coerced into going to this afternoon’s meeting, she wasn’t likely to attend at all. Why Alice and Martha and Jane and even little Sally and the rest of those who’d been brought from Ohio wanted to be here was beyond Sophie’s understanding. She’d much rather stay back at the detestable wagon. At least there she could pass the time drawing the birds she’d seen on the trail here—something she hadn’t been able to do during the entire bumpy ride west. She only hoped she could remember the details she’d tried committing to memory along the way.
She’d had to ignore the stares of several young men at this morning’s church service behind the wagons. Not the least of which was Noah Jackson’s. Word had evidently spread that five foolish families from the East had come to town ready to add themselves to the Chicago census, both now and in the future, by bringing a crop of potential new brides.
Many men of Chicago were responding, even if the first price to pay had been sitting through a church service. The pastor had welcomed his new congregation, while silly girls like Alice beamed under the attention. Sophie wished she could have crawled under Father’s bench, away from the obvious scrutiny.
This afternoon’s meeting was supposed to address how best to proceed with their resettlement as well as the procurement of a new church building. She’d heard her father and mother discuss such things all the way from Ohio, as if jobs and homes and the church were their only concerns.
But the real reason for coming to Chicago was the one topic they carefully avoided around Sophie. It was, in fact, the true incentive behind today’s meeting. Now, boys like Noah Jackson, Alice’s brother Howard, the Selway and Hatten boys—all who had come to Chicago for jobs—would be allowed to look over their sisters and neighbors and see just how mature they had become.
Wife material.
“You changed your clothes from the service this morning,” Alice said as they approached the gathering spot behind their row of wagons. Tables had been added to the benches and chairs they’d used for the service, so it now looked like the setting for a party.
“I’m more comfortable now.”
“And why have you pinned up your hair that way?” The disapproval in her friend’s tone was clearer now. “It looks better free and down your back. Or maybe a single braid tied loosely like you did yesterday—a little softer than what you have.”
Sophie was half tempted to unfasten the tight bun at the back of her head, but not for the reason Alice suggested. She’d pulled it so severely away from her face it was giving her a headache. However, that, combined with her oldest and most faded skirt and topped by a thick and unnecessary shawl on this uncommonly lovely fall day, were her only methods of protest. She wasn’t here to exhibit herself.
“I can’t understand why you’re willing to go along with this scheme to throw us together with the boys already here,” Sophie said. “It’s not natural.”
“Oh fiddle-faddle. What’s unnatural about providing an opportunity to fall in love and start a new life? No one’s forcing us to get married, you know. I think we should be grateful to be here, where brides are needed far more than they are back in Toledo. We’ll have more choice here.”
Back in Toledo … Chicago might be bigger, but Sophie had left behind the one dream that was more important to her than marriage. Mr. Allenby was like a grandfather to her. After taking her under his wing three years ago, he’d taught her more about wildlife drawing than she could ever have learned on her own. He’d assured her that her drawings were good enough to be appreciated by anyone who saw them, often telling her of his friend in New York who published such pictures in books. Real books that might have someday included her own drawings.
Each and every thought of leaving such a future behind came with a pinprick of pain. She couldn’t see a bird fly or a mouse scurry across the plains without wondering what could have happened had Mr. Allenby introduced her drawings to his friend, as he’d promised to do when next he had the opportunity.
With a sigh, Sophie looked around. Others were already assembled with her parents and Alice’s parents. Although Alice pulled her forward, Sophie held back, lingering near the third table. They were close enough to catch her mother’s eye, however, and she gave Sophie a surprised glance at the skirt she’d worn through most of their travels. Her mother’s frown sent a silent question Sophie could nonetheless hear loud and clear: Why don’t you just cover yourself in sackcloth and ashes?
Sophie looked past her mother to a new source of resentment. The pastor’s wife and three other women, all mothers, tended to the bowls and trays set off on a table to the side. On any other occasion, girls like herself and Alice would be serving the older folks. But no, not today. They didn’t want the girls distracted with work when there were gazes to catch, smiles to exchange. Love to inspire.
“You’re looking especially pretty this afternoon,” came a familiar voice behind them.
Sophie and Alice turned around. It was Arthur, looking directly at Alice. As she giggled and thanked him for the compliment, Sophie felt like teasing him about playing Romeo. But when she saw Noah Jackson at his side, the temptation to add anything lighthearted to the afternoon abandoned her.
Arthur’s eyes settled next on Sophie, where he started to smile anew but then looked outright confused. “And you, Sophie, well, you look pretty awful. That hair looks to be wound tighter than when I used to yank it. Why don’t you let it go?”
“Because I like it this way.” She turned around at the table, offering them her back as she took a seat and tugged on Alice to do the same. Unfortunately, rather than moving on, the boys claimed places just opposite. Arthur sat across from Alice, and Noah across from Sophie.
“It sure is nice to see some familiar faces around here,” Noah said, briefly glancing at Alice but letting his gaze rest on Sophie. “I forgot how good it is to be around somebody I’ve known my whole life, other than just Artie.”
Sophie raised her nose and looked away. “Then I suppose you know how hard it was for Alice and me to leave behind friends we’ve had all our lives, too.”
“Aw, Sophie,” said Arthur, “you brought along half the ones you know best. You weren’t closer to anybody than Alice. Can’t complain too much about that.”
Shows you how much you know, she wanted to say. Hadn’t he read any of her letters? She’d even sent him some of her favorite drawings, to show him how much Mr. Allenby had taught her. Her brother had obviously forgotten all about that. From the look on his face when he ogled Alice, she could see why.
But then he glanced back at her. “I suppose you miss Mr. Allenby. Guess I don’t blame you for that.”
; Sophie was so surprised he’d spoken her thoughts that she wouldn’t trust her voice not to reveal the depth of her loss. Alice quickly filled the growing pause.
“She certainly does miss that old man,” Alice said. “Not that he wasn’t kind, and a talented artist and teacher, too. But I keep telling her he was, well”—she tapped her temple—“addled. Do you know he used to call me by my mother’s name? And his neighbor saw him in his bathrobe on his front stair! He said he was looking for his hat. Outside!”
“He’s an artist,” Sophie reminded Alice. “Artists are always flamboyant.”
“I’m sorry you miss him,” Noah said softly, his gaze still on her. “Arthur and I have met that kind of man here, the kind to share his time. He’s taught me leather working. Guess I’d miss him if we left town.”
Sophie spared him a glance but not for long. She was waiting for him to come up with a new nickname for her. If she were to think of one for herself with her hair fashioned the way she’d pulled it back today, it would be “Tufted Duck.” If she drew a picture of one now, he would think of the name himself.
“And did he teach you how to make ground rats, perhaps?” She hadn’t meant to say that aloud, and when all eyes turned to her, she almost wished she could recall them. Almost.
“Father told me about how Noah saved the rig,” Arthur said. “You don’t really think Noah set off that ruckus so he could risk his life trying to stop it?”
She didn’t reply, letting her silence speak for her.
“That is what you believe, then?” Noah persisted. She was surprised to hear a touch of sadness in his voice.
It was that very sadness that angered her now, just as much as the defense her brother had launched for him a moment ago. “Why shouldn’t I assume such a thing? You, who tripped me whenever you had the chance, embarrassing me in front of the entire classroom? You, who waited behind bushes until I was in range of your slingshot to shoot peas at me? You, who started that fire in the school outhouse? You, who made sure I was startled out of my wits right over a puddle and made me drop my books into it. And those are only a few of my memories of you, Noah Jackson. Why wouldn’t you do something like set off a few firecrackers?”
The 12 Brides of Christmas Collection Page 35