by Judith Pella
Start Reading
© 1999 by Judith Pella and Tracie Peterson
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-3408-7
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Cover design by John Hamilton Design
To Rich and Dianne
with love and thanks
for all you’ve done.
Tracie
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Part One: March-May 1864
Part Two: June-August 1864
Part Three: September-October 1864
Part Four: Nov. 1864-Jan. 1865
About the Authors
Back Ad
Back Cover
1
Jordana Baldwin stared at the clock on the wall for the tenth time in as many minutes. Why did Brenton have to choose today of all days to be busy? Normally he would have picked her up from her job at the Omaha Citizen’s Bank by four-thirty, but today he had business to attend to and had solicited her employer’s help in seeing her home. Unfortunately, her employer was in a meeting himself and was running unusually late.
She tried not to be too upset with her older brother. After all, ever since their arrival in Omaha, Brenton had felt rather displaced. His love of photography and desire to make a career of it was only just now receiving some satisfactory attention—even if his hopes of photographing the Union Pacific Railroad’s development had hit a snag. The UP, as folks usually called the eastern extension of the infant transcontinental railroad, was sitting rather idle at the moment.
She sighed and finished checking the final count on her ledger. She had long since completed her regular duties, and while waiting for Mr. Chittenden to conclude his business, she had decided to work ahead on one of her less important projects. But even that was done.
Now what was she going to do to occupy her time? She supposed she could sweep the floor of the lobby. Chittenden had a regular man who came in to polish the wood and clean up the place, but sweeping would at least give her something to do. Stretching, she glanced outside and noticed how quickly the light was fading. Why was the meeting taking so long? Impatient, she began putting her things away and tried not to be frustrated with Mr. Chittenden.
Hezekiah Chittenden was a fair-minded employer, who had taken an uneasy risk in hiring her on as the bank’s only female employee. He had been instantly impressed with her uncanny ability to work ledgers and numbers, but was equally unimpressed with the fact that she was a woman. Jordana had managed to convince him to give her a try, and now, after nearly four months of employment, even Mr. Chittenden had to admit to his good fortune in hiring her on.
“Miss Baldwin, I was a-hopin’ you’d still be here.”
Jordana looked up to see one of the five Wilson brothers standing at her teller’s window. His appearance startled her. She’d been so lost in thought that she’d not even heard the front door open.
“The bank’s already closed, Mr. Wilson,” she stated rather curtly. The Wilsons, along with half the male population of Omaha, made it to her window on a regular basis. They came so often—“Drawn in by her feminine charms and quick wit,” Mr. Chittenden had declared—that the banker had posted a sign stating that only customers were welcome inside the hallowed doors of his establishment. New accounts had tripled that day alone, and Jordana couldn’t count the number of men, mostly older, who came by simply to “check” on their money.
“I knew the bank would be closed,” the man admitted, taking off his dirty felt hat. “But I saw you through the window, and seein’s how you’re still here and the door’s unlocked, I kind of figured on doin’ my bankin’ business.”
She could smell the whiskey on his breath. He wasn’t really drunk, just comfortably at ease with himself. “Come back tomorrow,” she told him firmly. “The money is already counted for the night.”
He looked at her for a moment, disappointment clearly registering on his face. Then just as quickly he perked up. “Say, you wouldn’t be wantin’ to go with me to the dance next Saturday?” He smiled in a goofy sort of lopsided way, then puffed out his chest and tried to look confident.
“No, thank you, sir,” Jordana replied. “I . . . uh . . . shall be otherwise engaged.” She hated having to deal with the seemingly endless number of would-be suitors. Apparently just having her in a public position gave every eligible bachelor in the neighborhood license to try his luck with her. She looked at the clock again. Five-fifteen. Mr. Chittenden must truly have an advantageous prospect on the table or he’d have never let banking hours extend past four-thirty.
“I must ask you to leave, Mr. Wilson. I need to lock up and finish putting things in order.” She moved out from behind the teller’s window, something Mr. Chittenden had told her never to do with customers in the building. “If you come back in the morning, we can take care of your transaction.”
“But . . .”
She took him by the arm and pulled him toward the door. “Good day, Mr. Wilson. Thank you for stopping by.” She opened the front door and stood waiting.
The dust-laden man was instantly deflated. He scratched his head for a moment, then replaced the felt hat and tipped it at her as he passed by. “Guess I’ll see you in the mornin’.”
She sighed as he left and quickly locked up. Pulling down the shade, Jordana’s gaze fell on the calendar beside the door. March seventh. It was her birthday. Her eighteenth birthday to be exact, and no one had even remembered.
“I have no one to blame but myself,” she chided and went quickly to work sweeping the lobby floor. She hadn’t reminded anyone that it was her birthday, although Brenton knew full well what day it was. At least she thought he remembered. Surely her own brother would remember. Still, she could hardly expect him to miss an important business meeting just because it was her birthday.
She unlocked the front door only long enough to sweep the dirt into the street, then closed the door once again. She had just put the broom away when Damon Chittenden, Hezekiah’s youngest son, bounded into the lobby from his office down the hall.
“I thought you were gone for the day,” Jordana stated, feeling just a bit uneasy. Damon had pursued her with more ardent interest than any of the others, and this coupled with the fact that they worked so closely together kept Jordana from finding a way to put distance between them.
At twenty-one, Damon seemed to consider himself the most sought-after man in the Nebraska Territory. Whether by women for love or by men bent on business, he made no distinction and found either to be to his benefit. His blue eyes took in every detail, watching his companions as if they were adversaries in a battle.
He smiled broadly, the wide stretch of his mouth seeming to balance his slightly oversized nose. “I was, but unfortunately—or because you’re here, I should say fortunately—I promised my father I would attend to some business in Council Bluffs. I forgot the ledger I was to take, however, and had to make my stop here before catching t
he ferry. I slipped in the back door.”
Jordana nodded and turned to go back to her desk. Damon reached out and took hold of her, mindless that his act was a breach of propriety. He was always touching her, and Jordana had tried more than once to put a stop to his familiarity. Now, as at most times, she halted in her tracks and stared at his unwelcomed hand until he released her.
“I wish you’d come to dinner with me. I don’t bite, you know. You tell me I mustn’t touch you, as we are not well acquainted, yet you won’t allow me to get to know you.” His expression softened as he continued. “You are such a handsome woman, Miss Baldwin. I only seek to pay you the proper respect and attention you deserve.”
Jordana found her aggravation slipping away. It wasn’t that she was overly flattered by his pretty words, but he was always kind to her and very gentlemanly for the most part. Still, his constant attention was becoming quite annoying. He thought nothing of bringing her sweets or flowers. He wrote her line after line of sugary poetry, with nearly every poem ending in “and this is the woman I adore.” He even suggested that he would gladly pay Brenton to provide him with a photograph of Jordana so that he might have her lovely face gracing his room at home.
Brenton had thought it all rather funny, but Jordana saw it as an annoyance and irritation. She wasn’t interested in courtship and marriage. She wanted to explore her freedom by seeing a good portion of the country. She’d even taken to reading books on explorers, poring for hours over the accounts of Lewis and Clark, not to mention others.
“Oh, look at the time!” Damon declared and shook his head. “I’m going to be late.”
She watched, relieved, as he hurried past her desk to the black iron safe where all the records were kept. He quickly searched the safe, found what he was looking for, then started to close it again.
“I can take care of that,” she told him, going to her desk. “I have to put these away. Please be sure to lock the back door, however.”
He nodded. “I will, and I’ll speak to you again about dinner.”
She said nothing in reply and waited until he’d hurried back down the hall and out the alleyway door before letting out a heavy sigh. She likened him to a case of bedbugs in a store-bought mattress. Either you used the mattress and endured the bedbugs, or you lost out on what comfort could be had. Damon Chittenden was a necessary irritation if she was to maintain her comfortable job at the bank.
She looked at the clock and shook her head. “Five-thirty and it’s getting dark. I’d say waiting an extra hour to get home is plenty of time.” Having reached the end of her patience, she jotted a quick note to Mr. Chittenden, put the day’s records in the safe and locked it, then took up her coat from the broom closet. “I can surely walk a few blocks by myself and not compromise my reputation.”
She stepped outside the bank and relocked the front door. The sun had long since set in the west, and now the skies were a darkening lavender blue. Enough light remained to see her home, but with Omaha quickly outgrowing its small-town charm, Jordana knew her impatience could quickly become a liability.
Brenton had warned her, and their sister-in-law Caitlan, that walking about the streets of Omaha unescorted was asking for trouble. With the announcement that the Union Pacific intended to build a railroad west from this town to cross the entire continent came the riffraff and confidence men that every boomtown endured. Not only that, but the population had practically doubled overnight.
“He worries too much,” she muttered under her breath, heading down the alley behind the bank, which was a convenient shortcut home. Then as if to prove her wrong, she heard the unmistakable sound of someone else walking directly behind her. Wheeling about, she found Zed Wilson, the man she’d turned out from the bank earlier.
“A lady oughten to walk alone in this town,” the man said, coming to take hold of Jordana’s arm. “I’ll see you home.”
“I assure you,” she said, jerking away, “that I’m perfectly capable of taking myself home.” She hurried on down the alley but found the man to be most intent on his decision.
“You don’t need to go gettin’ so uppity with me,” he said. He grabbed for her arm and this time clamped his fingers tight to maintain his hold. “I’m good enough for the likes of you.”
“I never said you weren’t,” Jordana replied, feeling her breath come in rapid, panting gasps. “Please . . . let me go.” She tried to pull away. “My house isn’t that far.”
“I know where you live,” Wilson replied, stepping closer. “I’ve watched you walkin’ home with your brother.”
“Then you know he’ll be expecting me now,” Jordana replied, putting her hands on the man’s barrel-like chest to push him away. “I must be going.”
“How about a kiss first?” he questioned, licking his lips. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little kiss between friends, now, is there?”
Jordana began to grow truly afraid. She glanced quickly to the end of the alleyway, wondering how fast she could run—if she could loosen Zed Wilson’s hold. “I have no interest in kissing you,” she said rather coolly. “Now, if you don’t mind—”
“But I do mind. I have this here bet with my brothers. I told them I could get you to kiss me afore you kissed any of them. Now, don’t be makin’ me out to be a liar.” He pressed her back until her foot made contact with a small stack of firewood that edged up against the rear wall of the building.
“Help!” Jordana screamed, seeing some movement in the street at the end of the alleyway. She could only pray that it wasn’t another Wilson brother. At the same time she screamed, she kicked Zed hard in the shin, angry that her long skirts kept her from delivering a very heavy blow.
“Ow! Why, you little wildcat. I ought to—”
“Release the lady,” a voice sounded.
Jordana breathed a sigh of relief to see the shadowy form of a man running down the alley toward them. She took the opportunity to push hard against Zed’s chest. He found her action surprising, but no more so than the sudden appearance of the man who’d interrupted his pleasure.
Jordana turned away quickly as Zed drew up his fist to attack her rescuer. She knew she should run, but her anger got the best of her. How dare Zed Wilson force himself on her—and on her birthday! She bent down to grab a long, thin piece of firewood. She’d give him something to remember her by. Maybe next time he wouldn’t be so intent on attacking young women.
It was extremely difficult to see in the growing darkness. She tried to gauge the situation by noting the size of the men, but as they fought and dove at each other, it was increasingly difficult to keep track of who was who. Finally her opportunity came, and Jordana brought the wood down hard against the back of her assailant. Only it wasn’t her assailant.
Zed Wilson looked up at her as the other man moaned out in pain and grabbed his lower back. Sinking to his knees, the man continued to moan. Either Zed feared that he was next, or he realized this was his only chance to escape. Whatever the reason, he took off running like someone had lit a fire under his feet.
Jordana tossed the wood aside and began to apologize. “I’m so sorry,” she said, taking hold of the man’s arm. “Let’s get you some help.”
“I’m fine,” he said, allowing her to pull him to his feet. He kept one hand at his back while she assisted him down the alley to the street.
“I only meant to help,” Jordana continued nervously. “I hope I didn’t hurt you. Well, I mean, I know I hurt you, but I hope—” She stopped in midsentence as the man lifted his head. “You!” she gasped.
“Miss Baldwin.”
She stared up into the face of Captain Richard O’Brian, the same man who had rescued her from bushwhackers in Missouri. She noted the uniform for the first time and realized there was no doubt that this was the same man.
“Captain O’Brian,” she murmured. “I had no idea.”
“Neither did I, or I might have given it a second thought before rushing to your rescue.” He rubbed his back and tr
ied to straighten to his full height. “At least you aren’t wielding a knife this time.”
She felt her cheeks grow hot at the memory of his rescue in Missouri. He had thrown her to the ground just after the bushwhacker’s bullet grazed her arm. She had held tight to the knife she’d taken from her captor and, thinking O’Brian to be yet another of the renegades, had tried to stab at him. Of course her eyes had been closed, luckily for O’Brian, but because of this she had missed seeing that he was a Union soldier—her rescuer.
“I really am sorry,” she said, clearing her throat uncomfortably.
“What in the world were you doing in that alley by yourself, and at this hour?” he asked gruffly.
She watched him continue to rub his back and felt a mixture of guilt and anger. Who was he to question her actions? Still, he had helped her in her hour of need. Perhaps she should just overlook his attitude.
“I was walking home,” she said, striving hard to keep the emotion from her voice. “I’m sorry, but I thought you were . . .” She saw his smug expression and slightly raised brow and knew then she couldn’t talk civilly to the man. “Oh, never mind.” She took off down the street, not at all surprised that he quickly matched her pace.
“I believe battling border ruffians is a much simpler task than keeping the company of highbred young ladies,” he told her as he gently touched her elbow with his hand.
“I didn’t ask for your help,” she said.
“Oh, but you did,” he reminded her. “You specifically yelled, ‘Help!’ ”
“But I wasn’t yelling for your help,” she countered and stepped out into the middle of the street just as a freight wagon rounded the corner and bore down on her.
O’Brian easily pulled her back to safety. “The East may have its Civil War,” he told her quite seriously, “but here in the West we have Jordana Baldwin. And that, to my way of thinking, is twice the work.”
2
Jordana stared at O’Brian for a moment. She remembered the handsome face and blue eyes. He seemed genuinely amused with the situation and not at all as angry as his gruff voice might suggest. She jerked away from his hold and squared her shoulders.