Joy on This Mountain (A Prairie Heritage, Book 2)

by Kestell, Vikki

  The “light storm” the captain had predicted seemed to be something much more. Grant set out to find and ask someone about it. He grasped the rail as a blast of wind sheared down the side of the ship, staggering him.

  A sailor in full oilskins, holding the rail and crabbing down the walkway toward him, hollered above the keening wind, “Eh! Another like that one’ll put ya over the side if’n you don’t have a care, sir! Best to be inside, I’m thinkin’.”

  Grant agreed and acknowledged the sailor’s concern but shouted back, “I thought the captain said this was to be a light storm!”

  “Aye,” the man called into the wind. “But ’tis blowin’ a nor’easter. Turribly unpredictable they are. No tellin’ how long or bad she’ll be.”

  As though to punctuate the storm’s unpredictability, stinging rain began to pummel the ship. The sailor hustled away. Grant followed the man’s example and pulled himself down the deck, grasping the rail hand-over-hand.

  Then the sea did not pitch—it simply opened before the ship. He stared over the side as they swooped down into the hole the ocean presented to them.

  “Dear God!” he exclaimed in horror, unable to look away.

  As large as the liner was, the hole was surely larger. Finally, the Richmond nosed back up, but the wind veered freakishly again, hammering them from the side. The ship lurched over to starboard and momentarily wallowed. Grant lost his grip on the rail and slammed up against the ship’s wall. He quickly regained his feet and the rail. He continued to haul himself down the railing until he came to the closed hatch that led back into the shelter of the cabins.

  A crack of thunder right atop them momentarily stunned him. Then he threw himself at the hatch and grasped the handle—it would not turn! He pounded and pushed against the hatch to no avail. Grant felt the ship leap into the air again as the wild ocean rose—and then dropped from under them.

  Realizing how precarious his situation was, Grant again threw himself on the rail. To his right was a round life preserver tied off to the railing. He looped his arm through the ropes that secured the preserver and hunkered down on the deck, wrapping his legs about a railing post. Through the white bars of the railing he saw the sea open again to suck them down. They were dropping . . . and overhead the shadow of a mammoth wave grew.

  As the wall of water slammed into them from above, Grant clung for his life to the rail, grateful for the ropes securing him. His legs washed out from under him, but he held on, choking on the frothing salt water.

  Suddenly he dropped to the deck. Safe! O thanks be to God!

  The howling wind dropped off abruptly. The surface of the sea smoothed. Grant prayed the worst was over. After several moments he began to hope.

  But it was not to be.

  The ocean rose again, higher and higher, and a scream of agony ripped the air, the shriek, not of wind, but of rending iron and steel. The Richmond stood atop the sea, her bow hanging over an abyss. Down the length of the ship Grant saw it all . . . the bow end of the Richmond bending toward him, then with a screeching rend of metal . . . twisting and falling away.

  There would be no surviving this storm.

  As the rest of the ship began to tilt forward, Grant spoke softly. “O Lord, into your hands I commit my spirit.”

  Through the rain Grant saw people, machinery, and debris dropping from the broken ship into the chasm. And then the rest of the ship lurched over and followed.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 4

  Arnie Thoresen held the morning newspaper in stunned disbelief. The headline, in three-inch black type proclaimed, “STORM SINKS RICHMOND.” He stumbled to his feet grasping the paper, trying to read, trying to comprehend the article.

  The ocean-going passenger steamer, Richmond, out of Boston en route to Liverpool, is reported to have sunk Monday last during a fierce nor’easter. Richmond had departed Boston less than 10 hours prior to encountering the unseasonable storm, and is believed to have gone down southwest of the Canadian province of Nova Scotia. Debris found washed up along the coast between Yarmouth and Clark’s Harbour, Nova Scotia, has been positively identified as from the Richmond.

  American and Canadian vessels conducted a fruitless three-day search for survivors following Monday’s storm. The ship is listed with a complement of 175 officers and crew and 523 passengers. All hands and passengers are believed lost.

  Joy was already in the store’s office when a pounding on the front door distracted her from her task. Blackie, curled near her office door, whined.

  “It is more than an hour until we open,” she fussed, deciding to ignore the early customer. When the pounding grew more demanding, she tossed her pencil down and strode to the large double doors at the front of the store, Blackie padding along next to her.

  “Why, Arnie! What on earth,” Joy remonstrated as she unlatched the door and took one look at his distraught face.

  Tears filling his eyes, he mutely held out the crumpled newspaper to her. Joy lifted it and began to read.

  The world slowed and her arms and legs ceased to belong to her. Staggering backwards, she fell to the floor senseless.

  Joy knew she would die, hoped she would die. Surely it was a mistake. She had only received Grant’s letter yesterday! He was not already dead, drowned, when she had read his loving words! She refused to believe it. Grant would be home soon—had to be home soon!

  But day after day passed. Newspapers reported more wreckage washing up in Nova Scotia. And then a small number of bodies. And Grant did not come home. Would never come home.

  Joy’s papa and mama came as quickly as they could, as did her brother Søren and her cousins Uli, Karl, Kjell, Sigrün, and their families, their grief as profound as hers. Her papa held her tightly to his chest and they stood together as she wept and wept. Her mama had to pull her away before Jan fell to the floor, his legs no longer able to support him.

  Later Rose found them in the same manner. Jan shook his head at Rose and endured the pain of his weak, crippled knees. He would suffer anything to comfort his little girl. So Rose stood and held them both.

  A week later, after a memorial service for Grant, Joy’s family returned to their homes with the exception of Rose and Jan. Rose cooked and cleaned and watched her husband carefully. He would be 80 years old the following spring, God willing, and she tried not to wonder how much longer she would have him with her.

  Joy spent hours staring at the gold band she wore on her left hand. Except for the business and Blackie, it was the most tangible reminder of Grant she still possessed. As long as she wore it, she could keep him close to her. As long as it gleamed upon her hand she could deny that they were parted forever.

  As she mourned, she cast about for something to grasp and hold on to. Poor Blackie received many tears into his furry back, and Joy took to keeping him always near her.

  Although she prayed, the emptiness was constantly upon her, pulling her into despair. Soon she determined to return to the store. It would provide the order and structure she craved and would stave off the void that seemed to loom wherever she turned. She would shoulder every responsibility of the business—and in so doing prevent herself from breaking into a million pieces. But she vowed she would never take off the golden promise she wore on the ring finger of her left hand.

  April 1908, Omaha

  In the months following Grant’s death, Joy worked steadily to prove to their customers that they could still depend on the store to meet their needs. Her community was sympathetic, but suppliers were more difficult. Grant had taken a large portion of their savings with him to buy inventory for the new store. Joy tapped into the balance of their bank account to pay ahead on orders so that the store had an uninterrupted flow of goods.

  Six weeks after Grant departed Boston on the Richmond, the fine household goods he had ordered arrived. Joy had put them out of her mind, and their unexpected appearance affected her like the arrival of a message from the grave.

  With no heart or energy to open
a second shop, she ordered the goods stored, unopened, in a warehouse near the station. She needed to give herself time. Time to grieve, time to decide how to dispose of the goods, and time to rent out the empty building they had purchased for the fine furnishings shop.

  She hired two additional workers, both reputable, knowing that many eyes were watching the store for any sign of weakness or failure. Some in the Omaha community, she realized with a shock, were hoping for her failure.

  Her parents wished to stay longer. Joy knew, though, that her father needed to be home, close to his fields, even though Søren and his boys managed them now. Jan stood and walked with such difficulty and pain. Joy knew that her father was 20 years older than her mother but he had always been the immovable rock of their family. She couldn’t bear to face his decline, especially while she was still reeling from the loss of Grant. When Jan and Rose finally returned to RiverBend, Joy found she was somewhat relieved.

  After six months without any lapse in supply or standards, the Omaha community seemed to accept that Joy was at the helm of the business. She handled that helm mostly from her office, but her windows overlooked the store floor, and her keen eyes knew what needed direction and improvement. She held her staff to high standards and, as she withdrew into herself more and more, they became the face of Michaels’ Tools, Hardware, and Farm Implements.

  Against the odds, Joy was succeeding, and some days she nearly forgot her crushing grief. Forgot until the staff turned out the lights and locked up and she was faced with climbing the stairs to the dark, empty apartment with only Blackie at her side. Joy began spending evenings in her office until her eyes could remain open no longer.

  Once a week after work she spent an evening with Arnie and his family. Petter and Willem loved her selflessly and she doted on them. Those visits were both blessing and curse, for as much as she needed each of them and looked forward to the company, the visits reminded her of Grant and all that was now gone.

  When she stopped driving herself long enough to reflect, she knew in her heart that she was not dealing with her grief; she was only masking it with hard work and the exterior of a tough business woman. She knew she had grown distant and abrupt with her staff and had developed an exacting attitude with them and others who did work for her.

  Unfortunately, she sometimes carried that hardness to Arnie and Anna’s house. Arnie made an exasperated observation one evening. “You remind me of your father, Joy. You have developed his toughness and stoicism. Except he has always been fair and kind.”

  Joy blushed in shame at the recollection.

  One afternoon in August she received a caller at the store. Perhaps in his mid-30s, dressed well and quite professionally, he introduced himself as Henry Robertson.

  “Mrs. Michaels, thank you for seeing me,” he smiled as he took a seat in front of her desk.

  “It is my pleasure, Mr. Robertson. How may I be of service?”

  “Mrs. Michaels, I represent a very reputable consortium of business men here in Omaha. This group, Franklin and Chase Enterprises, is always on the lookout for successful ventures to which they might be of assistance.” He smiled again.

  “I have not heard of Franklin and Chase Enterprises,” Joy responded evenly.

  A number of salesmen had taken her for an easy mark. She had cut her teeth on them. They, and their slick delivery, generally went away empty handed but with a healthy regard for “that woman.” She had felt guilty for being unnecessarily rude on more than one occasion . . . but had also taken a rather perverse pleasure in cutting them down to size.

  “Really? How surprising! I assure you, they are quite reputable.” Robertson smiled again, nonplussed.

  “Yes, so you said.” Joy’s tone cooled a little. “And what can I do for you and your associates today, Mr. Robertson?”

  “Ah! Actually, it is what we can do for you, Mrs. Michaels!”

  “Indeed? May I ask in what way, Mr. Robertson?”

  Robertson reached into his breast pocket and extracted a fine linen envelope. “Franklin and Chase would like to extend their assistance with this offer of partnership.”

  Joy’s eyes narrowed. “I’m afraid you are misinformed, Mr. Robertson. I am not in need of a partner. Please thank your employer for me, but I decline their offer. Good day.” She stood.

  Robertson did not.

  “I do encourage you to look at our offer, Mrs. Michaels. It is quite generous. I assure you that you will find the offer to be mutually beneficial. One never knows when a strong partner is really . . . a healthy addition.”

  Joy’s stomach clenched. Robertson’s inflection conveyed a subtle threat, but a threat none the same.

  “Mr. Robertson, this interview is over. Please leave.” Joy’s voice was firm and a little overloud. Next to her desk, Blackie’s hackles rose and a low growl rose in his throat.

  Robertson merely smiled again, gathered himself to go, but laid the envelope on her desk. He tapped it lightly.

  “I do encourage you to consider this.” When he looked up at Joy, he no longer wore a smile and something dangerous flickered in his eyes.

  “I said good day, Mr. Robertson.” Joy’s heart was thundering in her throat.

  “A pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Michaels.” Robertson, his mask back in place, smiled once more.

  Joy didn’t know how long she stared unblinking at the blotter on her desk. Mr. Wheatley timidly knocked on her door. Startled, she snapped, “What is it?”

  He swallowed nervously. “Ah, Mrs. Michaels? Everything is in order and I’ve locked up. The rest of the staff is just waiting for you to dismiss them.” Mr. Wheatley, a man near her father’s age, drew back timidly and stared at the floor.

  Joy tried to focus. She recognized his discomfort and was first confused and then embarrassed. When had she started intimidating this kind man? When had her staff become nervous and uncomfortable working for her? Had she really become a taskmaster, a shrew instead of a gentlewoman?

  Her face burned as she stood. “Mr. Wheatley,” she spoke gently, “I, um, I want to . . . apologize for my tone just now. Please dismiss the staff and . . . no, wait. I will do it.”

  She laid her hand on his arm. “Please forgive me, dear friend. My bad behavior has no excuse. I . . .” She shook her head.

  He met her look. “Mrs. Michaels, we are all cheering for you. You are doing a fine job running this establishment . . . and . . .” he paused. “I accept your apology.” His honest brown eyes glistened a little. “Things are going to get better, missus. I hope you can believe that.”

  This time it was Joy who looked down, eyes glistening. Would things get better? Would she get better?

  “I thank you, Mr. Wheatley, and I appreciate your hope and good wishes. More than you know.”

  Blackie at her side, she walked the shop floors quickly, scanning the shelves, counters, floors, and window dressings. All in order. Neat and tidy. Her small staff waited patiently by the front entrance. Most of them did not meet her eyes. Recalling some of her recent rants, Joy could not blame them.

  “I, ah, thank you all for the good work you did this day. I want you to know that I appreciate all you do . . .” Her voice failed her.

  A few looked at her curiously. Billy, whose laughter and goodwill had always seemed boundless but whom she had excessively chastised—only this morning?—stared sullenly at the floor boards.

  “Thank you all, for your support and hard work these last six months. I, uh . . .” she gulped. “Please enjoy your evening. And perhaps tomorrow, when you come in, I won’t be quite the terror I’ve been lately.” She laughed a little in discomfort, but no one joined her.

  She turned to Billy. “Billy, I need to apologize for taking you to task this morning, especially in front of your co-workers. I was unnecessarily harsh. I . . . It won’t happen again.”

  Nodding and murmuring good nights, the staff slipped out the door and Joy locked it behind them. She caught Billy looking back at her, hurt still stamped on his hon
est face.

  Joy gulped in shame. Then she remembered the not-so-subtle threat lying on her desk in a fine linen envelope. She clutched her sides and sobbed once. She felt so alone! She needed advice—and perhaps help!

  A gentle nudge turned her attention downward. Blackie stared at Joy, his eyes soft with the compassion a dog can often give. Joy wordlessly stooped to hug him and receive his comfort.

  As she knelt there, a smoldering anger slowly replaced her fear. No one was going to insinuate themselves into what she and Grant had worked so hard to establish and make profitable. No; she could take care of this Robertson herself—would take care of him. By herself.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 5

  April 1908, Seattle

  Mei-Xing Li stood beneath the flowering plum trees in her father’s garden and sighed. It was here she had turned away the man she loved. The soft pink beauty of the tree’s blossoms stood at odds with her heart. The plum trees had still been stark and bare when she had sent him away, more than a year ago now. Her heart had frozen that day, just as stark and bare as the trees.

  Although she had done so many times, she retraced her decision. As much as she loved that man, he had chosen a life she could never share with him. A dishonorable life. If her father had known him as she had come to know him. Her heart clenched again in familiar pain.

  In the last year she had also suffered her family’s anger and recrimination. Her mother had not spoken to her for months afterwards. Even now her beloved father looked at her only with confusion and disappointment. Perhaps she should have confided in her father. Mei-Xing revisited her decision not to tell him her real reason for rejecting the offer of marriage but the situation was much too complex.

  Mei-Xing’s father was a wealthy man, owner of many ships and warehouses along the Seattle harbor. His best and oldest friend, Wei Lin Chen, owned many restaurants, laundries, and import shops. The two friends had hoped that their only children would marry. It seemed propitious, the perfect means of joining two friendly, prominent families and thereby increasing their wealth and power.