by Mona Hodgson
“A boy?”
Willow nodded.
“That’s how I felt carrying Hope.” Kat turned to Vivian. “Do you think you’ll have a boy or a girl?”
Nell giggled. “As big as you are, you could deliver one of each.”
“Twins?” Her eyes widening, Vivian pressed a hand to each side of her middle.
Kat shrugged, a little too playfully.
Vivian wagged her finger.
“We can’t help ourselves,” Ida said, between giggles. “Teasing you has always been so much fun.”
“For you, maybe.” A grin eased into Vivian’s golden-brown eyes.
Hattie reveled in the patter between the girls. Did the no-nonsense man she’d talked to on the telephone know how blessed he was? If he did, would he have run off to Paris and left his daughters to fend for themselves?
She shook her head as if the action could chase away her poor thoughts of a man she hadn’t yet met. It wasn’t fair to judge Mr. Sinclair. His daughters were all spirited but gracious, God-fearing women. And their father was no doubt a very nice man.
The telephone jangled as if to scold her for thinking such uncomplimentary thoughts. William squealed, Hope clapped, and the tower of blocks tumbled to the floor. More squealing.
Hattie trudged to the kitchen. Shame on her for passing judgment. Mr. Sinclair had lost his wife—the mother of his children—then a few years later lost his job and his home. He had no choice but to roll with the changes.
She lifted the earpiece off its hook on the wall and spoke into the cone. “Happy Wednesday, Myrtle.”
“Thank you. Doctor Morgan Cutshaw is on the line for his wife.” The operator spoke in a rush.
“Is she there?” Morgan’s voice sounded taut, like a violin string wound too tight.
“I’ll get her.” Hattie wanted to ask if everything was all right, but like Mr. Sinclair, the doctor sounded like a man on a mission. Instead, she let the earpiece hang from its wire and took quick steps to the doorway. “Kat, it’s Morgan.”
Kat stood, her eyebrows pinched. Hattie and Ida followed her into the kitchen. Kat picked up the earpiece. “Morgan?”
While Ida added wood to the stove, Hattie pulled a tin of peppermint tea from the shelf.
“A train wreck?”
Ida dropped a piece of firewood on the floor and rushed to her sister’s side. “Father?”
Hattie met Kat’s tense gaze. “Where?”
“Anaconda. In Phantom Canyon.”
Hattie looked at one sister, then at the other. “That’s the Florence Line.”
Ida blew out a breath. “It’s not Father’s train.”
Hattie patted Ida’s arm. Mr. Sinclair had booked passage on the Midland train. But still, the midday train from Florence was always full of people and cargo. There would be injuries, if not worse.
She breathed a prayer and set the tin of tea on the counter. The railroad would be taking a load of folks out to help with the wreckage and to tend to the passengers, and she needed to be on it. Thankfully, she had readied her guests’ rooms. Perhaps Willow would help prepare the family dinner tonight.
“I want to, Morgan, but I’m not sure I should.” Kat ran her hand over her swollen belly. “I didn’t sleep much last night, and I have Hope—”
Ida leaned toward the cone. “I’ll go.”
Hattie pulled off her apron. “Me too.”
It seemed Mr. Sinclair would have only three of his four daughters at the depot to greet him. He’d be minus a landlady as well.
Willow watched from the front porch as Vivian, Kat, Nell, and their little ones strolled the walkway to Kat’s carriage for a sweet reunion with their father.
Fighting a pang of grief, Willow walked back into the empty house and closed the door. The phonograph was silent, and so were the pots and pans in the kitchen. Miss Hattie had gone with Ida to offer aid at the site of the train wreck. No other boarders lived here until Mr. Sinclair and his sister-in-law’s arrival later this afternoon.
She was alone.
Leaning against the door, Willow looked up at the colorful banner hanging from the second-floor landing—“Welcome!” While the Sinclair sisters were saying a long-awaited hello to their father, she was still struggling to say good-bye to her own.
She needed something to do. Something new to say hello to. And painting portraits was the best prescription for what ailed her. Her work with Mr. Van Der Veer would help occupy her time, as well as her mind, while adding roots to her new life here.
Her meeting with him late Friday afternoon seemed to go well. Recalling her sudden exit and innocent return to the studio made her smile. The way the man’s jaw dropped, it was a wonder he didn’t bruise his chin on the flooring. She’d seen the amusement in his eyes too. His wife was no doubt the compliant sort, and he wasn’t accustomed to having a woman take charge. Normally she wouldn’t be so brash, but they’d gotten off to a confusing start. And it worked out all right. After all, he did hire her.
But she hadn’t heard from him since. A polite greeting on his way out of the ice-cream parlor didn’t count.
She turned away from the banner and walked to the kitchen. That and the parlor were her favorite rooms in the house—cozy spots for keeping company. Homey and comfortable. Mr. Boney had recently repainted Hattie’s kitchen a pale yellow with barn-red molding around the ceiling and the doors. It was a cheery room.
Willow set her reticule on the kitchen table and headed for the chromed stove. She’d never lived in a place with such a modern cook stove. She and Sam had taken their meals at the dining hall at seminary. The asylum may have had a nice stove, but she never saw it. And Aunt Rosemary’s was functional enough, like the one at the parsonage, but certainly not pretty.
Willow lifted the handle from its hook on the end of the stove and opened a front lid. She could see a faint glow, so she gave it a gentle blow to wake up the fire. She lowered the lid and picked up the kettle, carrying it to the faucet above the sink.
The flowing water seemed a fitting metaphor for her thoughts. She wanted purpose in her life and she needed a livelihood, but what if she wasn’t ready for a job? After all, she’d married Sam soon after finishing school and had never held a real job. She’d only sold a few of her portraits and landscapes to family and friends.
Willow pulled a floral mug from the shelf and tossed in a spoonful of tea leaves, continuing her deliberations. She’d buried her father, and her mother had returned to Colorado Springs, but she wasn’t truly alone. She was indeed among friends. She had Miss Hattie and the Sinclair sisters. She was sure to form friendships in her church family. Who knew? She and her employer’s wife might also become friends.
Speaking of her employer, if she didn’t hear from him this afternoon, she’d return to the Photography Studio tomorrow and inquire about his contacts and his advertising. Perhaps she’d even create an advertisement of her own that they could post around town.
In the meantime, she’d enjoy a cup of tea and a slice of Miss Hattie’s vanilla pound cake with berry sauce. Too bad she didn’t have anyone to enjoy the refreshment with her, but she wouldn’t feel sorry for herself and be a weeping Willow. Sam wouldn’t want that for her. Neither would her father. She’d enjoy the spread she’d set out and pursue contentment.
She was savoring her last forkful of cake when the doorbell rang.
Archie, the same young man who had picked up her application package, stood on the porch with a large manila envelope. “Missus Peterson, another delivery from Mr. Van Der Veer, the photographer.”
Her very first assignment, no doubt. “Yes, thank you. Come in.” She hurried to the kitchen and returned with his tip.
When Archie had closed the door behind him, Willow grasped the string on the envelope and slid out a neatly written note atop two photographs.
20 September, 1898
Dear Mrs. Peterson,
Enclosed you will find your first assignments as the portrait painter for The Photography Studio.
Mrs. Gortner, owner of the Mollie Kathleen Mine, would like a 14 × 20-inch portrait on canvas. I have enclosed the printed photograph.
Mr. Flinn, from the office of Eugene Flinn, Assayer, wants his family photograph colorized.
Please let me know if you have any questions.
Cordially,
Mr. Trenton Van Der Veer
The job was real. Mr. Van Der Veer had truly hired her, and she was now officially a commissioned portrait painter.
If only she were so confident.
Ida stood between Hattie and Morgan. They were three of about thirty people, mostly men, who had crammed into the stock car, including two of the Sisters of Mercy, distinguishable in their black habits. A switch engine groaned as it tugged the car up out of the valley toward Phantom Canyon. Most of the men were miners, but a man with a box camera and a tripod tucked under his arm leaned against the slats in an opposite corner. Likely Willow’s new boss, Trenton Van Der Veer.
Willow would see Father before Ida did. She sighed.
Hattie patted Ida’s arm. “Your father will understand your not being at the depot, dear. He’ll be proud of you serving others.”
Father would understand. He’d do the same if the situation were reversed—forsake his own plans to help others. But disappointment still goaded her. She and her sisters had waited a long time for Father’s visit, and she’d so been looking forward to meeting his train, to welcoming him and Aunt Alma upon their arrival. To telling him about the baby she carried.
She pressed her hand to her stomach. The baby she’d lost.
As the short train rounded the next curve, Ida caught sight of the wreck. Her gasp was one in a chorus of them. The engine, all the cars, and the caboose lay on their sides, wheels up, on the ballast below the rails. Fifty or so people dotted the embankment like worker ants. Many seemed to be assisting the injured while others milled about.
The stock car buzzed with chatter. Speechless, Ida breathed a prayer for the injured, then for wisdom and skill for all the helpers.
“Remain calm, and don’t get in the way.” Morgan’s voice boomed above the buzz. “We’ll assist passengers with the greatest need first, according to the severity of their condition.”
As their transport drew closer to the wreckage below the bridge, Ida couldn’t stop blinking. The disturbing image didn’t go away. The locomotive lay in a heap, twisted, some of its pieces detached. Two passenger cars lay behind it, having slid several feet down the embankment. Three freight cars and the caboose lay in a zigzag, bringing up the rear of the calamity. Talk was that a rail on the downhill side had given way.
When their train came to a shuddering halt, one of the miners on board flipped the latch and slid open the door. Chaos erupted as people crowded the exit. So much for Morgan’s directive to remain calm. They were all in the way, some risking injury by jumping to the ground. Others sat on the threshold to lower themselves to the gravel roadbed.
As Ida and Hattie allowed Morgan to lower them to the ground, the cries for help assaulted their ears. How would they know where to begin? With Hattie at her side, Ida picked her way down the embankment behind Morgan. Medical bag in hand, her brother-in-law took long strides toward the passenger cars.
“I’m a doctor,” Morgan shouted.
“Over here!” The woman’s cry came from under a rock overhang, several feet away from the far passenger car.
Hattie tapped Ida’s arm and pointed to a young woman with antsy children. “I’m going to check on those families.”
Ida nodded.
Morgan picked up his pace, and so did Ida. A wisp of a woman stood over a motionless man with no obvious injuries. He lay in the dry creek bed as if in blessed slumber.
“You have to help my husband.” She blew at a strand of white hair that dangled from beneath her bonnet. “Harold was resting so peacefully until the train bumped off the tracks. He helped me out of the train and to the shade here, then said he needed to finish his nap.” She wrung her feeble hands. “Now he won’t wake up.”
Ida met Morgan’s stoic gaze, and her breath caught. The elderly man lay motionless. Placing her arm around the woman’s back, Ida watched as her brother-in-law reached to the man’s collar and placed two fingers on his neck.
Morgan stood. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Your husband is gone.”
Narrowing her cloudy blue eyes, the new widow shook her head. “No, that’s Harold, all right. Harold Sweeny. Look at his big nose.”
Morgan looked at Ida. “I’d say his heart gave out. I need to help the injured.”
“Go. I’ll see to her.”
“Doctor!” The call came from between the two passenger cars, where a groaning man sat on the ground, holding his leg.
Morgan answered the call, and Ida returned her attention to the confused woman at her side. “My name is Ida.”
Smiling, the woman looked at her deceased husband. “Missus … I’m Harold’s wife.”
Her blank expression pierced Ida’s heart. This poor woman was alone now. Ida fought the tears stinging her eyes and clasped Mrs. Sweeny’s hand. “There is someone I’d like you to meet. Do you see that nun there by the bridge?”
Ten minutes later, Ida left Mrs. Sweeny with Sister Mary Claver Coleman. She looked for Morgan but spotted Hattie first, a gaggle of children gathered around her. It looked as if she’d chosen to distract them with her storytelling. It didn’t look like help was needed there, so Ida started toward the group of folks milling about near the second passenger car.
“Cherise! Cherise!”
The distant plea came from behind her, the man’s voice reminding her of the suppertime call from her childhood.
But it couldn’t be him; he wasn’t here.
She walked toward another of the nuns, thinking Morgan may be nearby.
“Ida! Ida, is that you?”
Her heart racing, Ida spun around and stared into the ashen face of her father. “Father! Why are you here? You’re supposed to—” She stared at the knot on his forehead. Other than that, he didn’t look injured, but she’d never seen him so agitated. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, but you have to help me, daughter.”
Where was Aunt Alma? What were they doing on this train? By this time, her sisters had gone to meet them at the Midland Terminal depot.
“Is it Aunt Alma? Is she hurt?”
Father frowned as if her question confused him and shook his hatless head. “No. I can’t find Cherise.”
“Cherise? Who—”
“She came with me from Paris. I’d gone into the lavatory. I never should have left her side. We have to find her.”
He’d brought a woman with him to Cripple Creek?
Ida followed her father back to the farthest passenger car. She’d never seen him move this fast. Nor had she seen him this uneasy. Not since the night her mother succumbed to pneumonia. This woman who had accompanied him from France couldn’t be as important to him as their mother, could she?
Her father darted around a cluster of people, shouting the name Cherise. In pursuit, Ida picked up her skirts. Harlan Sinclair wasn’t much for corresponding, but he had sent a handful of letters over the past two years. Not once had he mentioned having met a woman named Cherise.
But then during the past several months his only communication had been a brief telegram stating the date and time of his arrival on the Midland Terminal Railroad. Not on the Florence and Cripple Creek Railroad. Nor had he mentioned a guest. Hattie had been the one to tell her Father had telephoned the boardinghouse and asked for two rooms. That meant he and this Cherise weren’t married, at least not yet. Since he hadn’t said for whom he’d reserved the second room, Hattie had assumed the guest was Aunt Alma.
Prior to today, Ida would’ve chosen the word logical as an adjective befitting her father. Now he raced toward a fallen train car, pushing people aside like a madman.
“Father!”
He stopped just short of the tipped car and faced h
er. “I’ve searched everywhere else.” He pressed his palm to the side of his head as if it pained him.
He wasn’t all right. Morgan needed to look at him. Ida stared at her father while she listened for sounds in the car. She didn’t hear any noises coming from inside. “I’m sure others have searched the car.”
“I wasn’t with her. She could’ve been hurt … buried by baggage and overlooked.” He pressed his right foot to a frame rail and looked at her. He’d aged. The laugh lines that once framed his blue eyes had been replaced by worry lines. He clamped onto a brake line and started to pull himself up the exposed underside of the car.
“Your head hurts. You shouldn’t be doing that.” Sighing, Ida pushed up the sleeves of her linsey-woolsey dress. “I’ll go in and look for her.”
He stepped down, his shoulders sagging. “Thank you.”
She decided to attack the end of the car, hoping the door could be opened. She checked the laces on her boots, then tucked the ruffled hem of her skirt into her stockings and started climbing. Using the pickets as ladder steps, she made her way up the railing, muttering to herself.
This Cherise must have been very important to Father, because there hadn’t been so much as an embrace before he put her to work. He’d left Portland in April of ’96. Ida hadn’t seen him in two years and five months. A “glad-to-see-you” would’ve been nice.
The door was open. As gently as possible, Ida lowered herself into the car. Crouching on the lavatory door, she peered into the clutter. The bolted seats stood on end, looking like rows of vacant confessionals. Carpet bags, boxes, and other personal belongings lay strewn on the windows now facing the ground. Light streamed in through the windows that now served as a ceiling. Ida stepped carefully on the window frames, wending her way past the seats and through the mishmash.
A shuffling sound stopped her. Had she heard someone, or had she only imagined the sound in her desperation to find Cherise and appease her father?
“Is someone in here?”
Silence.