Separate Roads

by Judith Pella

  She fought to restrain a responding smile and keep up her look of haughty affront. But it was a hard battle because Rich’s humor was so infectious, and she was so very grateful to him.

  After finding their horses, they returned to the wagons where they found the battle had ended. Sergeant Hart reported that their party had sustained only a couple of minor injuries. The attackers retreated after losing some three or four of their number.

  “Add two more to that,” said Rich. “I killed one, and Miss Baldwin killed another.”

  “Jordana!” Brenton exclaimed. “Are you quite all right?”

  “Yes. It was horrible, but it’s over now. And”—she glanced toward Rich and smiled sincerely—“I have Captain O’Brian to thank again for rescuing me.”

  Brenton said, “Thank you again, Captain. We are once more in your debt.”

  “Your sister saved my life as well.”

  “Nevertheless, your superiors will hear of your bravery and of your men’s bravery as well.”

  “Please, Brenton, the last time you wrote my superiors, I got this assignment. If you write again I might end up serving somewhere in the frozen north, where, given my luck, your sister will decide to settle.” His gaze skittered to Jordana, and he gave her a roguish grin.

  She knew he was just being playful. She liked it so much better that way, and to keep it in that vein, she responded with a click of her tongue and a haughty look.

  “The next time an enemy comes at you with a knife, Captain,” she countered, “I may just find myself too faint of heart to pull the trigger.”

  “Speaking of fainting . . .”

  “Don’t you dare!” she gasped, part warning, part imploring.

  He laughed but did not finish his statement, much to her relief, for she’d have been mortified for Brenton and the others to think of her as a swooning female. Then other duties called him away. Jordana watched him briefly before she too turned her energy to helping Brenton.

  Yes, she thought, Rich O’Brian might just be a pleasant friend.

  25

  If Jordana had hoped to find peace at home after the adventures of the trail, she was disappointed. When the survey team returned to Omaha, it was like being tossed into the middle of a fire, or at least a powder keg close to exploding.

  Rumors, never completely quelled, were rampant about various threats to the town. It was feared Quantrill’s raiders had set their sights on Omaha. After Quantrill’s devastating sack of Lawrence, Kansas, in the spring of ’63, perhaps the citizens of Omaha had a right to be nervous. The Confederate guerrilla leader—though many considered him more an outlaw than a soldier—along with his four hundred fifty bushwhackers, was an imposing threat.

  This, coupled with renewed Indian uprisings along the Platte and Elkhorn Rivers, had spurred on the forming and training of a local militia. Brenton and Jordana were still unpacking from their trip when an acquaintance of Brenton’s, along with two strangers, came to their little house.

  “We expect you to be there this Saturday when we drill,” said Jeff Tanner.

  “I’ve been away on railroad business,” Brenton explained, trying to remain cool in spite of Jeff’s belligerent tone.

  “Well, you’re back now. You ain’t got no more excuses.”

  “I’m not giving excuses—”

  “Sounds to us like you are,” cut in one of the strangers. “Sounds like you are just plain yella.”

  “That is pure bunk!” But because Brenton did feel a pang of guilt, he felt compelled to add, “I’ve just returned from fighting Indians out on the plains. I’m doing my part.”

  “Good, then we’ll see you there.”

  The three men stalked away.

  Brenton took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Jordana laid a comforting hand on his arm.

  “You are only doing what you believe is right,” she said.

  “Sometimes I no longer know what is right.” He sucked in a deep sigh. “I can fight Indians, and fighting Quantrill is only technically fighting the South. I expect there are many honorable southerners who deplore that man’s activities.”

  “Do you think you will join the militia, then?”

  “I may. The Indian threat is real enough. I just heard about a settler being murdered right on the outskirts of town.”

  “Goodness! No one we know, I hope.” She had bank dealings with many citizens and settlers in the area.

  “A man named Homer Stanley—”

  “Stanley?”

  “Do you know him?”

  Jordana thought back to the conversation between Damon and his visitors she had overheard at the bank. Damon had mentioned that name. Stanley had land Damon wanted. She still felt a chill when she recalled Damon’s threatening words and ominous tone: “I’ll take care of it!”

  “Jordana, are you all right?” Brenton broke into her thoughts.

  Blinking, she focused on her brother. “Yes . . . I think the Chittendens knew Stanley. He had land Damon wanted to buy.”

  “Well, he can probably get it for a song now,” said Brenton. “No one will want it with the threat of Indian attack so close.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” It did seem a good stroke for Damon, and if his hard words in the bank were any gauge, he would probably not grieve much over the death of the settler.

  “You are looking kind of pale, Jordana.”

  “I’m fine.” She did, however, find a seat on the parlor divan. “It’s just that we left home because of the war—well, not entirely because of it, but it certainly was a factor. Now it seems to have followed us here.”

  “There can be no getting away from such a catastrophe as civil war.” He shook his head morosely. “I should have realized it.” Pausing, he plopped down on the divan beside his sister. He lifted questioning, confused eyes to her. “Jordana, you don’t think me a coward, do you?”

  “Of course not! You are a brave and honorable man, and that is why you feel so caught in the middle. Why, Captain O’Brian told me how bravely you fought those Indians. You have nothing to be ashamed of, Brenton.”

  “I fired my gun,” he corrected wryly. “But it is questionable whether I actually hit anything or anyone, my eyesight is so bad.”

  “At least you tried. You didn’t go running for cover.”

  “I wanted to!”

  “But you didn’t, and in my mind that makes you even braver than Captain O’Brian, because you did it despite your fear. The captain simply revels in such activity.”

  “Well, I don’t know if ‘revel’ is the right word.” He cleaned the lens of his glasses on his sleeve as he spoke. “He’s very good at what he does, but I doubt he does it for the glory alone, and I am certain he takes no delight in killing.”

  “I suppose that’s true—”

  A knock at the door interrupted them. Jordana looked at the door before she even thought to rise. She prayed it wasn’t that Jeff Tanner and his friends. They had no right to treat her brother so.

  It was Brenton who rose to answer the door. And it was Caitlan who greeted them, but it wasn’t her usual cheery greeting.

  “Brenton, Jordana!” Her lip trembled, and her red eyes indicated she’d been crying.

  “What is it, Caitlan?” asked Brenton with concern.

  She held up a fist, which Jordana saw was clutching a piece of paper. Jordana now rose and hurried to her friend and put an arm around her, taking the paper as she did so.

  “’Tis me brother . . .” New tears spilled from Caitlan’s eyes. “Kiernan has been in an accident!”

  “Dear Lord, no!” breathed Brenton and Jordana almost in unison.

  “He was in an explosion . . . it’s . . . serious.” Caitlan’s tears now grew into trembling sobs. “Just like our brother . . . just like what killed . . . Red. . . .” She suddenly seemed to turn into a rag doll. As her knees weakened and she pitched forward, it was not Jordana but rather Brenton who caught her.

  Jordana watched her brother’s arms wrap around C
aitlan, his hand smoothing her hair, his voice murmuring words of comfort. Jordana’s own eyes were filling as she thought of dear Kiernan hurt and possibly dead. She had been so young when she last saw him, but her memories were only fond ones of the big, gentle Irishman who had won her sister’s heart. And suddenly, with an awful pang in her own heart, Jordana thought of Victoria and how devastating this must be to her.

  It was some time before the three friends had assuaged one another’s tears. They had taken seats. Caitlan and Brenton, still with his arm around her, had settled on the divan. Jordana was sitting in a chair adjacent to that. And it was she who made the first attempt to buoy them up in their grief.

  “We must have faith that Kiernan is all right,” Jordana said. “It has taken some time for this letter to reach us. He’s probably much better by now.”

  “Or—” Caitlan began but could not finish the other possibility.

  “Well, we just have to think positively, that’s all. Caitlan, I know you don’t want to believe in God, but I believe that we are all in His hands and we can trust Him for the best.”

  “But ya can’t deny God takes folks sometimes, too,” countered Caitlan.

  Brenton took Caitlan’s hand gently in his. “That’s true,” he said quietly, “and if that’s the case, then He will give us the strength and courage to bear it.”

  “I never got to see him,” Caitlan said, fresh tears rising to and overflowing her eyes.

  “That’s my fault alone,” said Brenton. “I should not have wasted time in getting you to California.”

  “No, Brenton,” said Caitlan, obviously finding some strength in comforting him, for her tears had abated a bit. “We all agreed to do what we did. ’Tis no one’s fault. It’s just that . . . oh, I so wanted to see him again.”

  “And you will!” Jordana said, as if she were announcing a given fact. “We can still get to California. And I feel certain we will find Kiernan there to greet us.”

  “But the money—” Caitlan protested.

  “This is no time to worry about money,” put in Brenton firmly. Jordana’s words seemed to have brought him to a sudden resolve. “I’ll hear not a word about charity either! We must go to California. It is your duty, Caitlan, to get there any way you can. You have to do it for Kiernan. And even if . . . well, even if the worst has happened, Victoria will need us.”

  A small smile bent Caitlan’s lips. “Yar right, of course! I can’t be lettin’ me pride get in the way of doing what I can for me brother.” She dashed a hand across her damp eyes. “I’ll be worryin’ about how to pay the money back later.” When Brenton opened his mouth to protest, she shook her head. “Later, Brenton. But even that aside, how will we be findin’ the money for such a trip? Ya said yar own self that a seat on the stage could be as much as two hundred dollars.”

  “I’ll wire my parents,” said Brenton without hesitation. “If they have heard about Kiernan, they are probably frantic with worry and will be relieved to send us on our way, since we are closer and can get there much faster than they.”

  “Thank you, Brenton,” Caitlan said humbly. “I don’t know what I’d be doin’ had ya not been here for me.” She looked up at Jordana, “And yarself too, Jordana. I’ve never had good friends, and if I were of a mind to, I know I would be thankin’ God for ya both right now.”

  Jordana and Brenton smiled, but both seemed to sense this was not the time to press the issue. Jordana just knew Caitlan’s words were the most precious she’d heard in a long time, and as she’d always believed, Caitlan was slowly being drawn back to God. It might be that Kiernan’s accident would be the thing to finally bring Caitlan fully into the fold of God. But Jordana hoped it would not be at the expense of Kiernan’s life.

  Her thoughts were arrested by Brenton’s voice.

  “. . . Damon Chittenden or his father might help there, don’t you think, Jordana?”

  “What?” Whatever it was, she didn’t like that Damon might be involved.

  “I said,” Brenton repeated, “that our biggest problem will be finding stage passage. And I wondered if the Chittendens might be able to pull some strings for us.”

  “In what way?” Jordana hedged.

  “They have some influence in this town. Could they wrangle us stage tickets?”

  “Well . . . uh . . . I don’t know.” Her sudden hesitancy brought questioning looks from her companions. She was ashamed of her attitude, especially if it would keep them from California, but how could she do as Brenton wanted? She knew she had to be honest about it. “Brenton, the last thing I want is to be indebted to Damon Chittenden for anything. He’ll want me to marry him as payment.”

  “Even he couldn’t be so crass,” said Brenton.

  Jordana was no longer sure of that. “Perhaps I can ask his father.”

  “I will inquire of some of my railroad acquaintances, too,” offered Brenton.

  Jordana nodded, then glanced at Caitlan’s hopeful, tear-streaked face. She would do it for friendship’s sake. The worst Damon could do was say no.

  26

  The next day, Damon approached Jordana at the bank. “My father tells me you have asked him about securing seats on a stage bound for California.”

  “Yes, I asked him this morning,” Jordana replied coolly.

  “What’s in California?”

  “I believe I told you my sister and her husband are there.” Jordana paused, wondering how much she wanted to tell him but could think of no reason not to tell him what she had told his father. He probably knew it all anyway. “My brother-in-law was injured in an explosion, and we—that is my brother, Caitlan, and I—need to go to them.”

  “I see.” He thoughtfully tapped his lip with his finger. “I told my father I would take care of the matter.”

  Jordana’s heart sank. It seemed he had found a way to foil her attempt to avoid his involvement. “That’s not necessary, Mr. Chittenden.”

  “Ah, but it is. . . .”

  His eyes were so cold. Jordana had never noticed before, or had never let herself notice. She wondered now if he was capable of murder.

  “At any rate,” Damon went on, “my father is a very busy man and was happy to unburden himself of his task. Also my connections are far better than his. I should have no problem acquiring stage passage for you.”

  “At what cost, Mr. Chittenden?” she forced herself to bluntly ask.

  “The usual price is two hundred—”

  “That’s not what I meant. I don’t think you are a man to act simply for charity’s sake.”

  “Oh, I am cut to the quick!” he exclaimed mockingly. Then he smiled, a rather benign smile she found difficult to read. “Jordana, there is but one thing I want from you.”

  “My brother was wrong—you are crass enough to expect me to marry you for tickets!”

  “I appreciate that at least your brother sees me in a good light. How can I get you to do the same?” Another smile twitched his lips. “I would never trade a woman’s favors for gain. However, I must tell you my friends who are in a position to make stage passage would probably be far more inclined to do so for my fiancée than for a mere bank employee.”

  Fury swelled up within Jordana. “No matter how you couch it, Mr. Chittenden, you are a crass, self-serving scoundrel! I wouldn’t take tickets from you now no matter what!”

  He laughed icily. “Jordana, you approached my father and me believing we had the power to obtain passage for you, and you were right in your thinking. But do understand that we also have the right to block your getting passage—from anyone else. All I need to do is drop a word to my friends, and neither you nor anyone associated with you Baldwins would be able to find even a broken-down mule to carry you to California.”

  “You can’t do this!”

  “Try me!” he sneered.

  Jordana spun around and left the bank, not caring if she lost her job for leaving in the middle of the day. She no longer wanted the job anyway if it meant spending even a minute more
in Damon’s presence. He acted so superior, so all-fired powerful. He was barely twenty-one years old! She’d just like to see him pull those strings he tried to brag about. A broken-down mule indeed! Brenton had connections, too. And Caitlan’s employer, Mrs. Cavandish, was also from an important family in town, and she had taken a liking to Caitlan.

  Jordana now wondered why she had bothered to approach the Chittendens at all. She would find her own way.

  But three days later it appeared as if Damon had indeed made good on his threat. Brenton had a good lead that was so firmly shut down the next day that Jordana had to wonder about the validity of what Damon had said and her low estimation of it. Stage seats were suddenly as scarce in Omaha as ice in summer.

  Jordana had returned to work, the immediate need for finances overtaking her distaste for Damon. Hezekiah Chittenden avoided Jordana, which made her think he was as much under his son’s thumb as everyone else. But he didn’t upbraid her for her departure from work the other day, and when contact was unavoidable, he was civil, if not his usual warm self. Damon, on the other hand, did not avoid her at all. He seemed to go out of his way to be near her and to make sure she saw his gloating expression.

  Jordana hated to admit it, but he might just win out. Caitlan continued to be beside herself with worry, and Jordana knew her friend would be comforted by nothing else but the sight of her brother, alive, if not well. More than once in those terrible days, Jordana asked herself just how much she was willing to sacrifice for stage passage. When her parents wired the money necessary for the trip and expressed their grateful encouragement of the plans, Jordana knew she must do something.

  Perhaps she didn’t have to agree to marriage. There might be another way to get to Damon. Since her discovery of those discrepancies in the ledgers some time ago, Jordana had been subtly investigating, redoubling her efforts in the last few days. She still had not come up with anything specific, but she was almost certain that something crooked was going on. And she was just as certain that the elder Chittenden was unaware of the inconsistencies in the bank’s books. She had approached him about some of her discoveries, and he had responded with genuine surprise, but he had assured her there must be merely an error.