by Judith Pella
But Jordana had gone over the items too many times for that to be the case. She had also mentioned to Hezekiah—casually, of course—about Damon’s several meetings with the man from the Union Pacific, whom Jordana had learned was named Albert Scoffield, and Clayton. Hezekiah had little reaction to the name of Scoffield, but he did rankle at the mention of Clayton, whom he said was a scoundrel and one of his longtime rivals. He had no idea what Clayton had to do with his son or the bank, but he also seemed disinclined to dwell on the matter.
If Damon was up to no good—and she was almost certain he was—then perhaps she had a small trump card to play against her would-be suitor. Of course, the idea of taking such an action was at best distasteful to Jordana, but she saw little other choice. Had she seriously believed Damon was even vaguely involved in Stanley’s demise, she would never have considered using such means to get to Damon. But she had convinced herself that, although Damon was a lot of nasty things, he was not a killer.
So, taking up the second ledger, she knocked on Damon’s office door.
“Come in,” he said.
She chided herself when her hand trembled a bit as she grasped the door latch. She was being absolutely foolish. There was nothing to worry about. Damon was a romantic fool and a hard-edged businessman, but that was all. He wasn’t going to bite her head off. He hadn’t thus far even with her numerous rebuffs, so why should he now?
“Mr. Chittenden, do you have a moment?” Jordana’s throat was dry despite the bravado of her inner encouragements.
“Always, for you, Jordana.” He smiled. It was the nice smile she remembered from before. His friendliness disarmed her. What had she been thinking? Perhaps she had the man all wrong.
“Listen, Damon, I—”
“Ah, so you have decided to be familiar after all! I am pleased.” This time his smile was just a tad oily.
“I wasn’t thinking . . .” But she guessed she was probably thinking just fine and had spoken in this manner, albeit unconsciously, to wheedle her way onto his good side. “Mr. . . . uh . . . Chittenden, I still have some questions about this ledger.” She held out the book in question.
Damon’s expression noticeably fell. “And here I thought you had finally come to your senses about my marriage proposal.” His tone was dead serious.
“I haven’t changed my mind about that.”
“You should, Jordana . . . you really should.” Each word was even and well studied, his look as sharp as a dagger. This was no request by an eager suitor. It was a warning.
Jordana swallowed and continued to tell herself she was overreacting. “Do you wish to discuss this ledger?” she asked with a resolve she did not feel.
“Why should I?”
“Because if you don’t make an attempt to satisfactorily explain it to me, I might be forced to take it to someone who can.”
“Do I detect a threat?” He smiled. “Will you show it to my father, then?”
“I have taken it to your father, and he is ignorant of it all and wishes to remain so. I think he refuses to believe ill of his son. I, on the other hand, have no such compunction. Your father may not be interested in this matter, but I’ll wager I can find men who are. Have you heard of Peter Dey? Or Colonel Silas Seymour? Or perhaps a Mr. Durant?” Jordana hoped she was wearing her best poker face. These men were on the UP board, but they hardly knew her from Adam. Even Brenton would be hard pressed to get an interview with them over this matter. No doubt they would think her nothing more than a silly woman should she attempt to approach them. She was gratified to see that Damon, at least, was taking her seriously. His expression fluttered slightly at the mention of these UP officials, who would surely consider Damon’s schemes, whatever they were specifically, to be opposed to their own.
“What are you getting at?” His voice rose slightly.
“I believe you are doing something, if not outright illegal, then certainly underhanded. You are going to bring this bank to ruin, and though I don’t give a fig about you, it pains me to see your father ruined as well, because he has been kind to me—”
“I have been kind to you also, Jordana,” Damon cut in, not sharply, but with a soft tone that so contrasted with previous moods it made Jordana jittery. She wondered more and more about a man whose moods and expressions were so mercurial. “I have loved you,” he added with emphasis.
“I am sorry about that, Damon,” she said earnestly. And she truly was, for she believed he did love her. She didn’t understand it, nor did she understand the sudden fear that realization caused in her.
“You don’t have to be sorry.” He rose from his desk and walked to where she stood. He placed his hands, feeling heavy and hot, on her shoulders. “You also ought not to fight this any longer. You will marry me, Jordana. Of that I am certain. I will not take no for an answer.”
“I . . . I don’t see how—”
“Shush . . . I said don’t fight it.” He laid a finger against her lips. “I’ll be patient, you know. Very . . . very patient.”
She knew then she had to get out of Omaha any way she possibly could. She had to get away from this man. He wasn’t safe. But it also wasn’t safe to soundly reject him. She must be subtle.
“Damon . . . you know, I must get to California. I must go comfort my sister. I can’t think of anything else until I see for myself that her husband is well.”
“You’ll forget about that ledger? You’ll forget about Homer Stanley?”
She blinked. She had said nothing about Stanley, had she?
“H-Homer Stanley . . . ?” she stammered. For one rare moment in her life, speech was nearly impossible. His eyes were boring into hers . . . his hands felt like hot irons on her shoulders, his voice as slippery as ice. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I told you once before, I get what I want. Nothing stands in my way.” He was so close to her, his hot breath made her eyes tear up.
“Yes, you did. But I have to get to California, Damon. I have to . . . first.”
“First?”
“Before I can think of anything else. . . .”
“You give me your word?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
He grimaced. “That’s not a very direct answer.”
She tried to smile and sound coy. “Why, Damon, if you can’t believe me, who can you believe?” She prayed he wanted her enough to accept her vague response. She would not be able to tell him an outright lie.
“I will think about it,” he said just as vaguely.
And he dropped his hands from her shoulders and returned to his seat. She left the office not quite sure what she had agreed to, hoping she hadn’t sold her soul to the devil.
But when she returned to her desk from an errand later in the day, she found an envelope containing three tickets for passage on the westbound stage.
The celebration at home was short-lived when she confided to Brenton about the scene in Damon’s office. Brenton was ready to challenge the man to a duel. At the very least he was going to report him to the police. Jordana agreed this must be done, especially if Damon had anything to do with the death of Homer Stanley. However, she felt traitorous in doing so. She hadn’t actually given her word to Damon about anything, but she had let him believe she had. Brenton assured her that she had merely acted in self-defense. Even if Damon were innocent of their suspicions, he hadn’t acted honorably in preventing them from getting tickets, so Jordana was justified in her actions.
The irony was, after all that soul-searching, when Brenton spoke to the sheriff, the man all but laughed in his face. The Chittendens were one of Omaha’s finest families. Surely Jordana’s accusations were all in her imagination. The man even intimated that Jordana might be attempting to discredit Damon because he had rejected her! The sheriff did say he would look into the matter, leaving the distinct impression that he would do it as soon as he saw a Nebraska pig fly through the sky.
Jordana could not have been more ready when, two days after her confrontation
with Damon, she and Brenton and Caitlan boarded the stage and jerked away from the Omaha depot.
27
Even Kiernan’s spirits had lifted briefly from his morose mood that first day he had been able to get up and walk. He had taken it slowly at first, but now, almost four months since his accident, he was getting around quite well. His left arm was weak, but he was using it and religiously exercising it so it would return to full capacity. Only his eye continued to evade improvement, still seeing only shadows, and it was so sensitive to light he continued to wear the patch. The doctor hinted it might be a permanent fixture. Victoria told him it made him look rakish and mysterious.
“I look like a silly pirate,” he had countered. “And there’s nothin’ rakish about a redheaded pirate!”
“That’s your opinion.” She bent down as he sat on the sofa in the front room of their borrowed house and kissed him passionately. “I rather like it.”
“Victoria, me love, I don’t deserve a woman like you.”
She opened her mouth, and he knew she was about to give him her usual lecture when he made such statements, telling him what a good and fine man he was, how handsome, how loving, how he was the best husband a woman could want . . . and so on, and so on. He wanted to believe her. And most of the time he at least acted as if her words encouraged him. But today he was feeling especially useless. He had tried to do too much, helping Victoria and Li in the laundry, but after an hour, he had been exhausted and had flopped down on the sofa like an old man at the end of his years.
Nevertheless, Victoria was forced to save her lecture for another time as a visitor knocked on the front door. It was Charlie Crocker. Kiernan appreciated that the man paid regular visits and attempted to keep Kiernan up-to-date on the happenings with the railroad. The man was trying to make Kiernan feel useful, but the visits only made him feel restless and more helpless than ever—not that he would ever tell his friend that. No matter what the visits made him feel like, he didn’t want them to stop, because they were his only outlet in an existence that had become excruciatingly dull.
“Seems I’ve come with my usual tales of woe,” Crocker said with a wry grin.
“Makes us even, then,” Kiernan said. His own grin was far less sincere.
“So what problems are there now?” asked Victoria.
“Progress continues to be at a standstill.” Crocker sighed. “We are beset by lawsuits, and everyone imaginable is challenging our funding. Kiernan, you chose a good time to be laid up. I wonder if I could have kept you on anyway.”
“I’m glad I could accommodate,” said Kiernan dryly.
“What work I do have, I am hard pressed to find laborers, much less pay them. I fear when the funding is finally established, I won’t have anyone left to do the work. It’s the same old story, I’m afraid.”
“The call of the goldfields,” Victoria put it wistfully.
Kiernan knew how glad she was those fields no longer called her husband.
“I should be able to work soon”—Kiernan stopped when Victoria shot him a surprised glance, then he went on quickly—“if ya can use a one-eyed pirate. Why, I’d even be takin’ a cut in pay just to have somethin’ worthwhile to do.”
“I was merely jesting about what I said about you working, Kiernan,” said Crocker. “There will always be a place for you, no matter how many eyes you have. Half blind and with an arm tied behind your back, you can still do the job better than many men I’ve encountered.”
“Thank ya kindly, Charlie.” Kiernan hated to admit it, but having a male colleague offer such approbation went further to encourage him than any of Victoria’s lectures.
“But you would still need a crew.”
“If you are this concerned,” said Kiernan, “then it must mean ya’ll be moving forward soon.”
“I keep hoping. The war can’t last forever. The South is practically beaten. Sherman has taken Atlanta and demonstrated the Union Army’s determination to bring a decisive conclusion to the war. It is only a matter of time now, and when the war ends, as you well know, it will mean full steam ahead, quite literally, for the transcontinental railroad. It could happen in a matter of months, and I want to be ready.”
“As do I, Charlie,” Kiernan said with as much enthusiasm as he’d felt in weeks.
Victoria cleared her throat daintily, then interjected, “I believe you may be overlooking an important labor pool in the state. Li tells me there are Chinese arriving daily to this country and all in dire need of work.”
“Of course, it is not the first time I’ve been approached with that idea,” Crocker responded. “But I think it would cause as many problems as it would solve.”
“I know for a fact,” added Kiernan, “that the Irish I’ve worked with on the line despise the Chinese and would refuse to work with them.”
“But most of those Irishmen hate any who are different from them,” countered Victoria, “and they hate some of their own people as well. Not all Irish are as tolerant as you, dear Kiernan.”
“’Tis true enough. But one thing the Irish have that many of the Chinese don’t is sheer size and brute strength.”
“Yes,” agreed Crocker. “I simply have my doubts that such small-statured men have the stamina and strength for the job. The rails alone weigh fifty pounds a yard, and then there’s the tons of rock that have to be moved on a daily basis. And I have seen many a brawny Irishman weary at driving spikes.”
“But Kiernan has complained to no end about the laziness of many of the men on his crew. He’s said they have even gone so far as to post guards along the line to warn the others that he is coming to inspect so that they can make a show of working.” She glanced at Kiernan as if for approval, and he had to nod because her words were true enough. “I have gotten to know many Celestials through Li, and I find them to be serious, hardworking people.”
“I won’t argue there,” said Crocker. “Perhaps it would be no worse with the Chinese, perhaps even better. And no doubt they would work for less pay as well. But there is still the question of stamina.”
“And ya are forgetting the cultural differences,” added Kiernan. “I have me doubts about supervisin’ people whose needs I know so little about. And that’s not even to mention the language problem. Even the ones who speak some English are mighty difficult to understand.”
Victoria gave him a wily smile, and Kiernan knew what she was thinking. How many times had he been criticized for his thick accent, especially in those first years after coming to America? And he supposedly already spoke English! But he hadn’t liked the criticism, and often felt it was simply an excuse for employers not to hire him. He didn’t want to be like that. America was quickly becoming a nation of many nationalities, and that should not stand in a man’s way toward success.
He cocked an eyebrow at his wife. “And I’m supposin’ ya have an answer to that?”
“I’m sure there must be some Chinese competent in the English language who could act as interpreters. Li’s husband, for example, learned his English from missionaries in his country and is quite good. He could act as Kiernan’s assistant and liaison to the Chinese crew.”
Crocker rubbed his chin, then grinned at Kiernan. “The little woman here has quite a head on her shoulders, doesn’t she? And she makes a good case.”
“She does that indeed.” Kiernan grinned proudly, then added playfully, “I know it well, since I am hard pressed to ever win an argument wi’ her.”
Laughing, Crocker said, “Well, I shall give this conversation some serious thought. Perhaps we have found a way to solve at least one of our railroad problems.”
After Crocker departed, Kiernan and Victoria continued to visit. Kiernan was pleased at his wife’s buoyant spirits. She chatted about the laundry and about all she was learning from Li. Kiernan refrained from his usual speech about hating her to be working as a common washerwoman. Victoria also went on about little Jia’s antics, and again Kiernan made himself not think about the emptiness he somet
imes felt at not having children of his own. He’d felt this more since the accident than ever before, because it had occurred to him that had he died, he would have had no part of him to live on.
Victoria’s laughter broke discordantly into his thoughts. He smiled, though just for form, because he had no idea what she had said that was so amusing. Well, at least she was finally happy, and he must try to put on a show of the same himself. He must not think about all the ways he was letting her down. Or how he was also letting Charlie down. He needed to keep thinking how daily he was getting better.
But for some reason, it was just not enough.
28
Sunday morning brought a warm September day to Sacramento. Humming a little Irish tune that was one of Kiernan’s favorites, Victoria prepared a breakfast of potatoes, side pork, and a half dozen precious eggs someone had given her in payment for their laundry bill.
Kiernan came into the kitchen as Victoria dumped the chopped potatoes into the lard. Grease spattered loudly.
“Music to me hungry ears!” Kiernan remarked as he poured a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table.
“It is fortunate I married an Irishman for all the potatoes we eat.” It was a glib comment, but she saw immediately it was ill spoken. Any amusement that might have crept into Kiernan’s usually dour expression faded. “Goodness, Kiernan, you needn’t be so sensitive!” She tried to chuckle lightly. “I feel truly blessed to have what we have and . . . well, you don’t need to feel bad.” She laid her hand on his shoulder, which tensed beneath her touch.
“And from what charitable hand did ya get those eggs?” he asked snidely.
“They are payment . . . for services rendered.”
“Oh, I see, ya worked for them yarself, eh?”
“Sometimes, Kiernan, I don’t even care to talk to you.” She returned to the stove to stir the potatoes. “To be perfectly honest, I think it is time you stop all this confounded self-pity and begin to count your own blessings.”