“I will write Uli and David right away,” Joy told them.
Dear Uli and David,
I have prayed about your letter as have Papa and Mama. I believe that the Lord has directed me to come. I confess to thinking I may be less a help than a burden, but I must set myself to thinking differently somehow.
If you please, I will prepare to leave RiverBend in about two weeks. As you can imagine, I don’t have much to bring, but Mama and I will make sure I have adequate clothing before my departure.
Your loving cousin,
Joy Thoresen
P.S. My infamy under the name Michaels will do your work no good. I have, therefore, decided to take up my maiden name again and would be grateful if you would introduce me in Corinth by the same.
Joy
“Mr. O’Dell?”
O’Dell didn’t know why it felt like the man had crept out of the woodwork when he had merely stood up as O’Dell strode through the reception area.
“Branch? What are you doing in Chicago?”
Branch twisted his hat awkwardly in his left hand. He slanted an anxious look around the waiting area. The Pinkerton clients in the waiting area quickly feigned disinterest. “May we talk?”
O’Dell snorted. If he had a dollar for every time he and Branch had “talked,” he’d be a rich man. “Right. Come on then.” He led the way to an office he used when in town.
“All right, Branch. What’s on your mind?”
Branch hesitated. “Any news?”
“If I had news, I would have contacted you. We’ve discussed this before, right?” O’Dell pinned his client with impatient eyes. “Now look. I can’t contact you if you keep moving around, can I? What if I did have news? How would I have reached you?”
Branch looked down at the battered hat balancing on his left knee. “It drives me, you know? Won’t let me rest.”
“Why did you leave Boston? I thought you had a job. A decent one.”
“I did. But . . .” The man swept his hair out of his eyes. It had been dark brown once; now it was shot prematurely with silver. A patch on his cheek was roughly abraded. “Can’t keep my mind on the work, you know? I dream . . . such vivid dreams. I sometimes see her. Then I wake up and . . .” He shook his head adamantly. “I know she’s out there . . . and I can’t stay put.”
Something in the man’s manner always stirred O’Dell. “I’m looking. I’m following every lead. I don’t know when, but I will find her,” O’Dell promised.
He promised because he had never failed on a case he had really put his heart into. He promised because the man’s earnestness and pain haunted him. He didn’t want it to. He even fought it sometimes, tried to harden his heart against it. But every time he saw the man again, he promised.
O’Dell, yer a fool, he thought to himself. A bloody, soft-hearted fool.
“Look here, Branch. I need to know where you’ll be or how to reach you. If I think I’ve found her, I’ll want you to come right away. Perhaps seeing her will . . . you know . . .” He let that linger a moment but Branch did not reply.
“I’m following up on some promising leads soon. If you move around, let this office know where you are. If I can’t find you, I’ll leave word here for you.” O’Dell stood up. “Agreed?”
“Yes. Thank you,” came the soft reply. Branch plucked his hat off his leg and moved toward the door and then turned.
“You will find her?”
God almighty, O’Dell thought.
“Yes.”
“Thank you. I . . . I’m praying, you see. When I pray I feel like I’ve found a piece of myself. When I pray . . . I feel hopeful. Like things will break through,” Branch muttered.
Yeah; me too, O’Dell thought sardonically and then repeated aloud, “I’ll find her.”
“Thank you. I pray for you, too, Mr. O’Dell. The Lord bless you.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” O’Dell replied automatically.
Sifting through the particulars of Branch’s case again, he made a reluctant decision. He knocked on Parson’s door.
“Just letting you know. I’m off tomorrow.”
“Oh? Where to?” Parson didn’t really care. The question was more perfunctory than interested.
“Omaha, I think. Then on to Denver. I’ve delayed this too long.”
~~**~~
Chapter 12
September 1908
On that dripping-wet morning, the Union Pacific train eased out of RiverBend’s little station. Joy finished stowing her bag and packages and found Søren and Meg waving to her from the platform. She blew them one kiss before turning away from their somber faces. She had happily endured many cautions and words of advice from the two of them before boarding her car. She knew how much they cared for her. They would do anything to fix the ruin her life was in. If only it were so easy.
Sensing her emotions beginning to tumble, Joy shook herself and pulled her handbag open. She tugged out her little green journal and opened it to the back. She removed five small newspaper clippings. Each was from a different paper in either Boston or New York, several weeks past: The Boston Globe. The Boston Times. South Boston Inquirer. The New York Times and the Tribune. All five clippings, while not exactly the same, read in a similar manner.
Help Wanted. Young woman for light domestic work. Must be able to relocate, Denver, Colorado. Travel paid; good wage. Children allowed with prior approval. Send letter of inquiry to . . .
Joy pondered the dark intentions that Uli and David maintained were hidden in those simple words. If what they insisted was so, then the wrong being done in and around Corinth was truly monstrous.
Joy stepped into the aisle of the swaying train and took stock of her surroundings. Her train had originated in the east and come through many cities, including Omaha, before stopping briefly in RiverBend. She had hastily counted passenger cars before boarding and was determined to walk through all of them.
Making her way down the narrow aisles, she kept her eyes open, believing she would know what she was looking for when she saw it—if it was actually to be found on that train. The odds were against it, yes, but she was determined to look.
In the third car a young woman sitting alone caught her eye. She seemed a little nervous and frequently looked around. Her dress and hairstyle were decidedly “countrified.” Actually, Joy recognized the way the girl’s hair was done—two long, blonde braids, wound in opposite directions from the base of her neck across the top of her head, and pinned so that they formed a crown around her pleasantly plump face. Decidedly Scandinavian, Joy knew, from her Norwegian roots.
She chided herself for not having a plan to “arrange” a meeting with the girl. She would be more prepared as she returned to her seat.
Joy kept moving toward the back of the train looking for other young women traveling alone. In the second-to-last passenger car she glimpsed a dark-haired girl. The girl was not much taller than a child—certainly much shorter than Joy—and could scarcely be seen over the tops of the seats. She stared fixedly out of the train window into the rain, holding tightly to a faded handbag in her lap.
As Joy drew alongside of the girl, her book “slipped” out of her hands and onto the seat next the young woman. The dark-haired girl glanced over, quickly picked up Joy’s book, and returned it to her.
“Oh! Clumsy me,” Joy smiled as she took the book. “Thank you so much.”
The girl offered only a tight smile in return and didn’t speak, so Joy plunged ahead. “I love a good train ride, don’t you? What beautiful sights we will see! I’m going to Denver. We’ll see real mountains there—tall ones! Where are you bound? My name is Joy Thoresen, by the way.”
“I’m bein’ called Breona,” the girl replied shyly. “Breona Byrne. Denver! ’Tis t’ Denver I be goin’, too.”
Many of Joy’s childhood friends were McKennies. If she was hearing correctly, Breona’s accent was Irish. As were the snapping black eyes that reminded her of “Aunt” Fiona’s.
Joy for
ced herself to blather mindlessly. “Are you traveling by yourself? I am. We’ll be on this train for two whole days. It would be lovely to have someone to talk to.”
Breona tilted her head to the side in a charming way and studied Joy. Finally she said, “Yis. I’m belaivin’ I would enjoy yer comp’ny. Would ye care to set a spell?”
“Thank you so much. My things are farther up in another car, but they will be fine for a bit.”
They settled in and talked a little about the passing scenery and the weather, gradually warming to each other. Joy took careful inventory of Breona’s plain but clean skirt and blouse, her scuffed shoes, and the way Breona tried to keep her small hands in the folds of her skirt or under her bag.
But Joy had seen the girl’s hands when she returned Joy’s book, and the girl could no more talk without using her hands than could any of the McKennie clan. Her hands were red and rough, hands accustomed to hot water, harsh soap, and hard work. Joy was acutely aware of her own smart new suit, gleaming shoes, and spotless gloves. No wonder Breona had set her head to the side and appraised Joy before inviting her to sit down.
If Joy were to guess, she would fix Breona’s age at 17 although, with her tiny frame, she could easily be mistaken for 14. And her face had that pinched, wizened look that bespoke too many days without enough to eat.
Finally Joy said casually, “I’m from Omaha. My family lives in RiverBend, where the train just stopped, but I lived in Omaha for several years.”
Joy forced back images of Grant and thoughts of her lost love, home, and business. She pushed down all the things her short statement left unsaid. With effort she kept emotion from her voice and continued, “I’m visiting my cousin and her family. Once we are in Denver, I will change trains and ride to their little town, Corinth, not far from Denver.”
Breona replied quietly, fidgeting with her little bag. “I’m bein’ from Boston, at leas’ nearby, and am t’ be met by me new employer in Denver.”
“Ah!” Joy answered, keeping her tone innocent. “How interesting! But why ever did you secure a position so far from Boston? Won’t your family miss you?”
Breona was silent for several moments before saying stoutly, “Miss Joy, m’family is goon. As I’m a grown woman, I mus’ make me own way in t’ worl’.”
Joy was silent for a moment, too, suddenly recognizing how blessed she was in comparison to this young girl. Then she said with forced cheerfulness, “Why, I do believe it is past lunch time! And I scarcely ate any breakfast, what with last minute packing and getting to the station on time. My mother made me such a huge lunch! I’m ravenous, aren’t you? I’ll just go fetch it and we’ll have ourselves a little feast.”
Joy bounced out of her seat without waiting for a response from Breona. She glanced back and saw a hungry hope flicker across the girl’s face.
“And just try to talk me out of sharing it with you, Miss Breona Byrne!” Joy muttered to herself.
She made her way up the train, but the blonde girl she had noticed earlier was not where Joy had seen her sitting. Joy made it back to her seat, pulled out the paper-wrapped bundle containing the lunch her mama had packed for her, and began her way back to Breona.
Her thoughts and feelings were awhirl. Had Breona answered one of the advertisements tucked into the back of Joy’s journal? Was she unknowingly about to be snared by unscrupulous men? Joy felt fear and loathing swelling in her breast, and something else: She was gripped by a feeling of righteous anger she had never before experienced. Joy’s jaw clenched. Without intending so, her steps down the aisle quickened with purpose.
She paid no notice to a passenger seated near the door of her car. His eyes were shadowed by the short, curled brim of a derby hat.
As she crossed from one car to another, she saw a man crushing a young woman against the end of the next car. The man’s tall, lean body mostly hid the woman, but Joy could hear her voice, and she did catch a hint of the woman’s blonde braids pinned around her head.
“Please! Let me go! You’re hurting me!”
Joy didn’t think; she only acted. She grabbed the man’s arm, pulled on it as hard as she could muster, and shouted, “You! Let her go, immediately!”
The man stumbled back, his face flaming with anger and lust, his fist raised against Joy. A glance at her face gave him pause, for she was emboldened by something or someone so much greater than herself and he saw so in her narrowed eyes. Instead of flinching back, Joy stepped closer and stared him down. He was tall, but Joy was too, and they locked eyes.
Something of Joy’s papa awakened inside of her.
Something right and holy, yet hard and unyielding.
“You are a scoundrel. If I were a man I would thrash you within an inch of your life,” she said coldly. “As it is, I’ll have you thrown off this train if you so much as look at this woman again.” Her blue eyes, icy in their reproach, never flickered.
For a tense moment they stared at each other, he with a cooling lust and she with an icy fury she had not known she possessed. Without looking away from the man, Joy reached behind the man, grasped the girl by the hand, and dragged her toward the door and into the next car.
They reached the girl’s seat, and Joy drew her, a bit roughly, into it and took the seat beside her. Somehow she had maintained possession of her lunch and handbag, although the package was now a bit crushed.
Neither of them spoke a word. Joy’s breath was coming in gasps as she tried to calm herself and take stock of her actions. What had come over her! What had she just done!
A tiny gulp from the seat next to her finally broke through Joy’s jumbled thoughts. She turned her head. The girl was shaking, trembling, tears streaming down her face.
Joy sighed. “Are you all right?” she finally asked. Carefully, Joy touched the girl’s hand. The young woman started and sobbed again.
“It’s all right. It is going to be all right,” Joy soothed. “I promise you. It will be all right.”
They sat quietly for a quarter of an hour. Joy wondered briefly if Breona had given up on sharing her “little feast.” At last Joy turned to the girl next to her.
“My name is Joy Thoresen. I’m from Omaha. Are you Swedish or Norwegian?”
The girl, still trembling, nodded her head. “Svedish.”
Joy nodded too. “Are you feeling better now?”
“Ja—I mean yes, denk you.”
“What is your name, if I may ask?”
“Marit Dahlin.” She hiccupped. “Sorry.”
“No need to apologize, Marit. ‘Little Pearl,’ ja?” Joy smiled because she had inadvertently lapsed into the familiar response of her home and childhood.
Marit nodded, smiling timidly in return. Two dimples briefly showed themselves in an otherwise unremarkable face. Marit was not a striking young woman, but she was sweetly lovely and round in all the right places. Why would this lovely girl, perhaps only 15, leave a home where she was obviously well cared for?
“Marit, I need to talk to you about something important. May I speak plainly?” Joy was beginning to be weary. And she was hungry.
Marit looked confused but hiccupped and nodded again.
Joy sighed. How to begin? “Marit, I am going to show you some newspaper clippings. Is that all right with you?”
Without waiting to see Marit’s response, Joy opened her handbag, pulled out her journal, and opened the green book to the back. She lifted the clippings out carefully.
“Do you read?” Joy asked.
“Yes,” the girl answered, taking up the clippings. She leafed through them and her brow furrowed as she did.
“These? They are all from same paper? Paper in Minnesota?”
“No,” Joy replied. “All from different papers in Boston and New York City.”
Marit felt under her seat and pulled out a small suitcase. Setting it on her lap, she undid the latches and reached inside, retrieving a newspaper. It was folded open to the classified ads. One ad was carefully marked in pencil. She
handed it to Joy.
Help Wanted. Young lady for light work in family dairy. Must be able to relocate, Denver, Colorado. Expenses paid; good wage. Children allowed with prior approval. Send letter of inquiry to . . .
Joy blanched. She looked again at Marit, happened to glance down at the suitcase in her lap, and saw the small roundness between the suitcase and her waist.
Dear God in heaven!
~~**~~
Chapter 13
An hour later, Joy and Marit walked together down the train to find Breona. When she saw Joy, her response was cool and distant.
“Breona, I need to apologize to you. I was delayed in bringing our lunch, but I have it right here. I hope you will forgive me.” Joy pointed to the paper-wrapped bundle under her arm.
Glancing at the package, Breona involuntarily swallowed and licked her lips.
Joy gestured toward Marit. “Breona, this is Marit Dahlin. She is also going to Denver. May I suggest that we turn this seat in front of you around to accommodate all three of us and our very overdue lunch? Then I will explain my delay.”
As the bench in front of Breona was empty, they flipped it over so that it faced Breona’s seat. Soon all three of them were sitting and Joy was sharing out the lunch. Breona placed a dilapidated case across their knees. It was held together with twine, but worked admirably as a table.
Joy’s mama had packed two large roast beef sandwiches (slightly squished now but edible), two apples, pickles wrapped in paraffin paper, a small cake of gingerbread, an apricot tart folded up in a napkin, a small knife, and a jar of apple juice. Joy deftly divided all the food, placing Marit and Breona’s parts onto the napkin, leaving her portion on the brown paper wrapping.
She bowed her head. “Father God, today is a good day—a great day. We are fed by your bounty and give you honor. We are in your hands and thank you for every good and perfect gift in our lives. Amen.”
They tucked into the food and left no crumb remaining. Joy handed round the jar of juice and they took turns sipping it until it, too, was empty. Then they cleared the suitcase and stowed it again under Breona’s seat.
Joy on This Mountain (A Prairie Heritage, Book 2) Page 9