Separate Roads

by Judith Pella

  Brenton seemed not to have noticed Rich’s discomfort, for he was moving right along and making comments about things his father had spoken of in his letters from New York. “Father believes the war has to end soon. He sees the problem of too few industries in the South and feels confident that they will yield for lack of goods, if nothing else. I believe they will soon reason this thing out for themselves and realize that this nation should no longer be divided. Causes and standards are all well and fine, but I suppose they should mean very little in light of starving families and dying wounded. The Confederates must sooner or later realize the need to put aside their differences and see this nation healed.”

  Rich listened to Brenton’s idealistic notions before asking, “And how is it that you aren’t in the service of your country?”

  “I had thought to be,” Brenton replied, growing surprisingly sullen. “I labored over the decision because, you see, I have family on both sides of this war.”

  “Many do,” Rich replied.

  “I suppose that’s true enough, but I grew up in the middle of it all. Our family’s ancestral home is just outside of Washington. Our people dabbled in the political fanfare of that city and set up businesses accordingly. Our grandfather owned a plantation and held slaves but desired to free them long before it became an issue of war.”

  “I see.”

  Brenton stared into the flames of the fire. “I did go to enlist, but since my parents were abroad, I desired to seek my uncle’s counsel on what I was about to do. He had, however, taken up arms with the South, and I never made it to his home. Instead, I was picked up by Confederate troops and would have been hanged for being a spy, but my cousin, a captain like yourself, saved my life.”

  “I take it he was the commander of the soldiers who would have put you to death?”

  “Yes. We discussed the situation, and because he knew me to be answering truthfully, he took my plight seriously. I explained the dilemma. How could I fight on the side of the South, even though most of my family were doing just that, when I agreed with the policies of the Union? He took me to his commanding officer, and after we discussed the matter, I was given a letter to sign. It stated simply that I would be pardoned and released. However, I had to pledge to never bear arms against the South.”

  “And you signed this letter?”

  “I did,” Brenton said, looking from the fire to Rich. “I suppose you think that cowardly of me?”

  “Not at all,” Rich replied. “We all have to do what we think is right. I don’t have to live with your conscience, just as you don’t have to live with mine.”

  Brenton nodded. “Well, that’s why I am here, instead of there.”

  “And it’s probably to your benefit. The war has taken many a life on both sides. Families have lost sons, husbands, and fathers, and our country has lost a unity that will be many years mending. Things will never be the same.”

  Brenton nodded. “I suppose not.”

  “Still, there is the West to settle. That will help some. Folks will come here to put the war behind them. They’re already doing that. Some of the Confederates are even signing agreements such as yours and coming west to help fight the Indian Wars rather than go to the overcrowded prisons.”

  “I heard that southern prisons were certain death. That the conditions are less than humane.”

  “There isn’t enough food to feed southerners, much less northern prisoners. Given the choice between caring for their own and caring for their enemy, I guess we can both figure who they’ll see to first.”

  Brenton’s brow furrowed. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “I wish I weren’t,” O’Brian said rather harshly. “I also have friends in that war. Family, too. It can’t end soon enough for me.”

  “How is it that you’re not there?”

  “Someone had to stay behind and train volunteers and raise up support in the forts. The Indians hardly are going to cease to cause problems just because the East is at war.”

  “I’ve had nothing but pleasant encounters with the Indians around here. Why, some of the Omaha tribeswomen have been helping with the grading work for the railroad. It seems unchivalrous, but their menfolk stand about watching while their women work. Then come payday, they are there to take the earnings and spend it as they please.”

  “It’s their way,” Rich replied. “Men are warriors and hunters, not laborers. Indian men protect their families and hunt. Women do the menial tasks and see to the common work. The Omaha are at peace. There are Indian agents to provide government food and supplies. They have few choices that have not already been made for them, and because of this, they are left rather idle. We aren’t always very wise as educated men.”

  “How so, Captain?”

  “What did we expect them to do with their lives once we civilized them?” he asked ironically. He didn’t mean to take up a cause for the Indian and, in fact, knew that he would probably fight and kill many an Indian warrior before the wars were behind them and true peace came to the country. But still, he didn’t know why the white settlers and government officials were so surprised that the Indians would rise up against the onslaught of people coming into the territory. The coming of the settlers forced changes in the Indian’s way of life—a way of life that had existed far longer than the white way of life in this country.

  The clock on the mantel chimed eight. Rich looked at his own pocket watch as if to confirm the time, then apologized. “I’m afraid I need to be on my way. It was nice of you to invite me to share in your party.”

  “I’m sure Jordana was pleased to be able to offer this more formal thanks for what you did for her in Missouri.”

  Rich nodded as he caught sight of Jordana in an animated conversation with her sister-in-law Caitlan O’Connor. Her cheeks were rosy, and her eyes were sparkling from the merriment of the evening. He touched the place on his back where she had struck him. It didn’t hurt much anymore, and in truth, it more amused than encumbered him.

  She was some woman. His mother would say she was just the right kind of woman for a man like Rich. Then he frowned and turned to go. No woman was right for him. He wouldn’t saddle any woman with the miseries of his past.

  “Jordana!” Brenton called as O’Brian crossed the room toward the door.

  He saw her look up to catch sight of him taking his leave. She said something to her sister-in-law, then made her way to the door. “Are you leaving us already, Captain?”

  “’Fraid so, Miss Baldwin. Duty calls. I do want to thank you for an interesting evening.” He knew she’d understand his meaning.

  Jordana nodded. “I hope you didn’t find it overly stimulating.”

  She was teasing him. He could hear it in her voice and see it in her eyes. Were he not a confirmed bachelor with so many other issues to deal with, he might well have considered giving her more attention.

  “No, it wasn’t too stimulating. Perhaps a little out of the ordinary for me, but not to my detriment.”

  “Good,” Jordana said with a smile.

  “I do hope yar back gets to feelin’ better,” Caitlan said as she joined the others at the door.

  “I’m sure it will,” Rich replied as Brenton opened the door for him. He stepped out into the night air and secured his hat. “Good night, and thank you again.”

  He heard them close the door as he reached the gate. A part of him wished he could go back inside and spend the evening in companionable conversation, while another part of him was restless from the time away from his men. They had a job to do, and that should be enough to hold his focus.

  Jordana’s face came to mind, and Rich smiled. “Then again,” he muttered out loud, “there’s always something to draw you off course.”

  He remembered her look of surprise when she’d realized who he was and what she had done to him. He remembered too his own surprise to find that the fair lady in distress was none other than the wildcat he’d rescued in Missouri the year before.

  Laug
hing out loud, Rich slapped his leg. “What a woman!”

  4

  Jordana yawned as she and Caitlan stepped from the house the next morning. “It was a fine party, Caitlan. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Oh, go on with ya. ’Twas clear and simple that we needed some fun, and yar birthday was the perfect excuse.” Caitlan pulled her brown crocheted shawl around her shoulders and stifled her own yawn. “I’m supposin’ we shouldn’t have stayed up quite so long.”

  Jordana nodded. “I wanted only to crawl back into bed this morning. But instead, I have to go to the bank and explain to Mr. Chittenden why I refused to wait for him to escort me last night.”

  “He won’t be givin’ ya grief for it, will he?” Caitlan asked as they crossed the street cautiously. The city was only now starting to wake up to a new day, but freight traffic had seemed to double in the last months. And while Brenton deemed the rowdies were sleeping off the night before, giving Jordana and Caitlan safety in walking to work without his escort, there were other circumstances that often put their lives in peril.

  “Mr. Chittenden won’t say a word. After all, he was late. Nonetheless, he’ll give me that reproving look, staring down the end of his nose as though a bee had landed there. He’ll ‘tsk-tsk’ the matter, then go about his business,” Jordana replied.

  “Ya looked to be havin’ a good time with that Captain O’Brian,” Caitlan said, suddenly changing the subject. “He’s a right handsome man. Irish, too.”

  “Now, Caitlan O’Connor. I thought you were sweet on my brother. How dare you go looking at another?”

  “I didn’t say I was sizin’ the man up for a weddin’, just that he was handsome. Ya know ya think the same.”

  “I said nothing of the sort. Besides, what I happened to notice was that you and Brenton spent most of the evening looking at each other all moon-eyed. When are you two going to stop being so silly and talk to each other sensibly about your feelings?”

  Caitlan’s teasing tone instantly faded. “There’d be no sense to talkin’. Nothin’ can come of my havin’ feelin’s for yar brother.”

  “And why not? I happen to be quite confident that he shares those same feelings.”

  “We’re too different. I don’t feel about God the way he does, and by yar own admission he’d not go takin’ a wife for hisself that didn’t share his faith in the Almighty.”

  “But, Caitlan, I know you believe in God. I know you were brought up to have a strong faith. You can’t just throw that away because the Irish have had a hard time of it.”

  Caitlan looked at her friend indignantly. “It’d be for more than that. My people have had a bad time of it, ’tis true. But religion has played a big part in that sorry part of the world. The Protestants hate the Catholics, the Catholics hate the Protestants. The landowners hate the workers, and the workers spend so much time drinkin’ that they hate everyone.”

  “Not all of Ireland spends its time in hate, does it?” Jordana asked. “You simply found yourself in the midst of more problems than most.”

  “And what would yarself be knowin’ about Ireland? Ya never lived there,” Caitlan said in an accusing tone. “Ya’ve only known a good life, Jordana. Yar folks are good, upstandin’ people, and they’ve always had plenty. Ya don’t know what it’s like to do without. Not truly. Oh, we’ve done without some here in Omaha, but even this would be a king’s share compared to what my family has known.”

  “And that’s justification for hating God?”

  “Now, don’t go puttin’ words in me mouth or feelin’s in me heart. I just know that my thoughts on the matter are far from yar brother’s, and we both know that he’d not want a woman for a wife who refused to go to church.”

  Jordana stopped and looked at her sister-in-law. Since Caitlan had first arrived in America, determined to make her way to California where her brother Kiernan had moved with his wife, Victoria, Jordana had felt a special kinship with her. It was more than the fact that Caitlan’s brother was married to Jordana’s oldest sibling; it was a true meeting of hearts.

  “One of these days, God will make himself real to you.”

  “Oh, He’s real enough now,” Caitlan replied. “He just doesn’t seem to be carin’ about the needs of the folks down here.”

  “But of course He cares.”

  “If He cares so much,” Caitlan replied, a strand of cinnamon hair catching the breeze, “then why do so many Irish go hungry? Why do they go a-killin’ and hatin’ until no one is left untouched? You tell me why God hisself allows such doin’s.”

  Jordana shrugged. She couldn’t very well tell Caitlan what God’s reasonings were for allowing heartache and misunderstanding to abound. “I guess He allows it because we do. I mean, the war back East is pitting brother against brother and tearing a nation apart. I don’t suppose I understand why God allows it either, but then I go to wondering why we have allowed it. I have absolutely no say whatsoever in that outcome, but I won’t go distrusting God just because it happens to be ripping my country in two. We make our own choices. God doesn’t force them upon us.”

  Caitlan’s expression softened. She reached out and touched Jordana in an almost motherly fashion. “I admire yar faith. I do. I just don’t happen to have it in me to believe the same. And we both know I can’t very well go acceptin’ it just for the sake of yar brother’s love.”

  Jordana knew she spoke the truth, but it bothered her deeply that Caitlan wouldn’t simply listen to reason and invite Jesus into her heart. It seemed so simple. Just a little matter of acceptance. Why should that be so hard? She could simply let go of her anger and let God guide her life. Why was that so difficult to understand?

  They moved up the street, and Caitlan waved to a portly, dark-headed woman who was carrying a basket of laundry on her head. “I see Sadie is near done with her deliveries.”

  Jordana nodded. “Either she’s early or we’re late. I’m guessing we’re running a bit behind the clock.”

  Caitlan agreed. “I’m not supposin’ Mrs. Cavendish will be likin’ it one bit. I’ll be leavin’ ya here and headin’ on up.” She paused at the street corner where they usually parted company. “Don’t take my attitude to heart, Jordana. It has nothin’ to do with yarself.”

  Jordana nodded and watched as Caitlan hurried up the street. Her goal was the big brick mansion at the end of the next street. It was here that she’d recently taken the position of housekeeper to the Cavendish family. Mr. Cavendish would drive Caitlan home every day at the conclusion of afternoon tea, unless, of course, they were giving a party or having some other event that required Caitlan to stay on. Mrs. Cavendish had a personal maid who attended to all of her needs and lived on the premises, so Caitlan was free to return home in the evenings and tend to Brenton and Jordana—although Jordana strived to do more of the tending on her own account. She hated that Caitlan always saw herself as a servant to the family. She hated, too, that Caitlan allowed this anger toward God to ruin her life.

  Crossing the street, Jordana marched into the Omaha Citizen’s Bank as though she might well find an answer to her dilemma inside. She was determined to find a way to get through to Caitlan. It was just a matter of time.

  “Good morning!” Damon said as Jordana swept past him.

  “Good morning,” she replied, unfastening the buttons of her coat. The weather was still quite chilly these mornings, and while Jordana had hated the harshness of the Omaha winter, she was told that the spring storms could be even more fierce. She supposed it was all something to be endured and taken in stride. Much like Damon Chittenden.

  “You look quite beautiful today,” he said, coming up behind her.

  Jordana continued to the broom closet. “Thank you, Mr. Chittenden.”

  “I thought you were going to call me Damon.”

  “That would hardly be proper, Mr. Chittenden,” she said, reemphasizing his name.

  “I thought you might like to see some information on the sale of land in the Omaha area.
It’s quite fascinating,” Damon said, holding out a sheaf of papers.

  Jordana glanced over her shoulder for a moment, then ignored the man. Instead, she put her coat in the broom closet, prayed for patience, and straightened her dark blue serge jacket. She wore the same basic outfit to the bank every day—blue serge jacket and skirt and white blouse with dark blue ribbon at the throat. She thought it allowed her to look businesslike without compromising her femininity. Not that she worried overmuch about such things, but Brenton would be mortified if he thought she’d conducted herself in less than a ladylike manner. It was already scandalous enough that she was holding a man’s job.

  Turning, she found that Damon continued to stare at her with a sickening look of devotion, the papers still extended toward her like some sort of peace offering.

  Eyeing Damon with a sense of caution, Jordana replied, “Land sales aren’t usually all that interesting.”

  “They are when the land is being developed for a university.”

  “A university? Here?”

  Damon grinned triumphantly at her sudden interest and waved the papers. “It’s all in here.”

  She knew he was appealing to her love of intellectual discussions. Frankly, it was the one thing she enjoyed about the younger Chittenden. From time to time, Damon had talked to her about plans he’d been in on for city development or social reform. She had listened to him speak about territorial affairs and the financial benefits of the railroad. And always she learned new tidbits about the city and in turn was able to take them home to Brenton.

  “Who’s behind this plan?” She moved to her desk in the teller’s area.

  “Oh, several important men are behind it.” Damon followed her. “We could discuss it over dinner tonight.”