The news was conflicting for Cal. He was relieved to know the troops were out of the area, but he felt a stab of sympathy for his parents. They must be grieving for their only child. He told himself that it didn’t matter, if they did know he was alive, he was as good as dead anyway. Let all those generals and majors fight the war without him. Hadn’t he done his part? After all he’d been wounded in two different parts of his body. He’d darn near bit the bullet! Cal rubbed the pendant that hung from his neck, his fingertips tracing the inscription from Claire. He was giving up so much because of the war; his hopes, his dreams, his wife-to-be. It just wasn’t fair! Bile rose in his throat and he forced himself to swallow. He certainly didn’t need another headache and getting angry would only make matters worse.
Fall blew into winter and the duo was snug in their little house in the woods. On dry days Cal would chop firewood and hunt for game. Deer, rabbits, and squirrels were welcome additions to the stew pot. Cassie would bake bread or make dried berry pies. Evenings were spent reading the Bible, or the books Cassie surprised Cal with at Christmas. Cal also began to write down his opinions about the war. Experiencing the pain, hunger, and danger firsthand, he knew that the people deserved to hear what war was really like, and why it was a hindrance to the things that really mattered—love and freedom, family and friends. Cal was beginning to think of a time when he’d have to leave Cassie and strike out on his own. In addition to using his new name and appearance, he’d have to craft a new occupation for himself. He had always enjoyed reading and writing. In his previous life, that meant becoming a lawyer or a politician. Now he could aspire to write books or newspapers. Cal had studied the writing styles of the editors in the Gettysburg paper and knew he could write as well as they could, probably even better. He began to practice, writing editorials and articles on scraps of paper, defending positions as he had done as a law student. A plan was beginning to form in his mind.
To help earn his keep, and exercise his body, the recuperating ex-soldier began to repair Cassie’s dilapidated old cabin. He re-chinked the spaces between the logs with a mud and clay mixture designed to keep out the cold. He tanned the deer hides to be used as warm coverings during the cold nights. He rebuilt the old chicken coop and added a small porch to the front of the house. He wanted to make the old lady’s life easier as thanks for saving him and sheltering him for so long. He knew he could never truly repay her for her kindness, but at least he could try. He didn’t have many friends in his life, none now that Caleb Davidson was gone and he was Calvin Moore, so Cassie was all the more special. But really how could you repay someone who had saved you mentally and physically By now his wounds were healed, but the nightmares continued. Cassie would wake in the night to his mumblings and thrashings. She soothed his brow with a cool washrag and eventually he’d sleep while she sat and watched over him with worried eyes. In the mornings, she’d try to coax him into talking about the dreams, but he refused. He didn’t want to share the horrors he relived in his sleep. It was bad enough he’d encroached on Cassie’s privacy, he didn’t want to give her nightmares, too. How could he tell her he kept dreaming of men with limbs blown off, or that he kept calling for Claire while sprawled on the ground, unable to walk, think or control his fate? It was better not to talk about the dreams at all.
When April 1865 finally arrived amid warm breezes and fragrant flowers, Cassie left for town again. The two had depleted the supply of flour and coffee and Cal was anxious for news of the war. It had been months since they’d read a current paper or even stepped out of the woods, and he had to know how the north was faring, if the war was over, one way or another. Just yesterday he and Cassie thought they heard cannon fire off in the distance. Cal worried about the possibility, however faint, of nearby troops finding his safe haven.
The war had been raging since 1861 and nearly every man between the ages of 18 and 50 had been inducted into the Union or Confederate armies. As the war continued, more and more men slipped away either to return home or head west to disappear. A young man like himself could seem suspicious if he wasn’t in the service. He could be pegged as a deserter and brought up on charges. Cal, remembered what they did to deserters and shuddered at the thought. He had no intention of being stood up in front of a firing squad, but he did not want to be a virtual prisoner in Cassie’s shack either. Hopefully the feisty old woman would return with good news.
The afternoon was sunny and mild, a light breeze playing at the tops of the trees, which were just starting to burst with buds. Cal decided to risk taking the rifle out and hunt some fresh meat for dinner. It had been weeks since they’d had food that wasn’t tough or dry or stale from the harsh winter cold and time spent in the cellar. Cassie had promised to make biscuits if Cal would kill a squirrel or two for the stew pot. Cal, for his part, was feeling better and his wounds had healed nicely. He had stopped getting so many migraines from the head wound, and though he would always walk with a limp, he had escaped gangrene and amputation. Warm sun soothed his leg and his mood was lighter than usual. He was no longer having nightmares every night, which made him feel more fit and rested than he had in months.
Striding through the woods, Cal began to whistle a jaunty tune and admire the early green undergrowth and budding trees. He was about five miles from the cabin when he heard the high clear barking of a hunting dog and the shout of men’s voices. Startled, he stood still. Had they heard him? Cursing silently, he searched for a place to hide.
A hundred yards away there was a clump of scraggly yews. Behind them stood a rock outcropping he’d played on as a child. A memory flashed—there was a small cave in those rocks where he had pretended to be a bear. He thought he could still wedge himself in there. Crouching low, he ran lopsided for the cave as fast as his good leg would carry him. Curling up tightly, Cal managed to get himself and his rifle hidden behind the yews.
A hound dog and two scruffy soldiers pushed into the area. “Jeremiah, I swear I heard some whistling, I swear! Lookit how old Bullit here is sniffing the ground. Someone’s been here.” The yellow hound was eagerly pawing the earth and running from tree to tree trying to catch Cal’s scent. Cal scarcely breathed and his heart pounded in his ears. It sounded so loud he was sure the dog would hear it and give him away.
“Now Ephraim, I didn’t hear nothin’, and neither did you unless it was the wind. That stupid ol’ dog probably smells rabbit or something. Nobody’d be out in these woods. You been hittin’ the bottle again?”
Ephraim scowled. “Lookee here, you idiot. If someone is in these woods they don’t want ta be found. There’s gotta be a reason for it. Could be a runaway, ya know. Could be some slave trying to get to Canada. Or it could be a deserter. Fellers are running off every day. I could use some of that there reward money. Don’t matter to me if they be white or colored. Money is money.”
Jeremiah nodded eagerly at the mention of a possible reward. “Well then let’s just look around some.”
The two spent several minutes scanning the forest floor for tracks. The hound had wandered closer and closer to Cal’s hiding place, but the men didn’t seem notice in their eagerness to spot something themselves. The ground was wet and covered with last fall’s leaves and they did not seem experienced at reading signs. Cal, curled into a fetal position, tried to see if they were Rebs or Yanks before realizing it didn’t matter. If they were Rebs he’d be taken prisoner and sent to a camp like Andersonville to die there. If they were yanks he’d be charged as a deserter and be shot by his own company commander. Either way he was in a bad spot. He began to pray.
The dog was only about twenty feet from his hiding spot.
This is it, thought Cal. Maybe I’d just better surrender and take my chances. He began to slowly uncurl himself and was reaching to part the yews when the mutt suddenly yelped and took off running. A strong odor assaulted his nostrils. The dog had discovered a skunk’s den and got sprayed right in the face. Cal froze. His eyes began to burn but he kept still, more thankful for t
he awful stench than he had been of anything else in his life.
“Woo wee, that darn dog found hisself a skunk. Let’s get on outta here,” Jeremiah hollered. “There ain’t no one here. Well, at least now maybe you’ll take a bath, Ephraim.” He chuckled as his friend wrinkled his nose and spat on a tree.
“You could do with some soap yourself. You ain’t been smelling like no flower neither.”
The two men followed after the dog and pushed off into another part of the woods. Cal stayed put. He breathed a prayer of thanks and waited till dark. When he was sure the men were long gone he slipped home, stinking to high heaven.
Cassie was waiting at the door with scrawny arms crossed over her waist.
“Land sakes, boy. Now where have¼” She stopped when she saw the exhaustion in his eyes.
“Cass, they nearly found me. I was such a fool.”
Cassie’s eyes softened. “Now, now, you’re okay. You’re safe.” She wrinkled her nose as the smell of ripe skunk assaulted her senses.”But you are not coming into my home smelling like that.” She stepped into the cabin and brought out a bar of homemade soap and an old towel. “Wash yourself in the spring and I’ll put supper on. Leave them clothes outside. Tomorrow we’ll get the stink out. I’ll put out a fresh set of clothes. Now git.”
An hour later, Cal was clean and enjoying a simple supper of eggs and ham. He recanted his afternoon while the old lady pushed second helpings at him and listened thoughtfully.
“You took an awful chance, son. I coulda come back and you’d a been gone and I’d a never knowed what became of you.” Her voice cracked and trembled as she set down the battered coffee pot.
Tears began to fill her eyes. Cal slid his arm tenderly around her bony shoulders.
“Now, old lady. I’m here so let’s not talk about it any longer. I guess I just have to be more careful. Now tell me what news you got from town.”
CHAPTER NINE
Omaha, Nebraska, May 1868
Claire spent much of the evening hunched over the sheath of papers she’d gotten from Mr. Dawson. She had to figure out how to solve the problem without forfeiting her property to the bank. She wondered how Caleb would have handled things, and immediately had her answer. She stood, stretched, and smiled with delight.
Mr. Dawson you thought you had me lock, stock, and barrel. What you don’t know is that I studied along with my fiancé, a law student, and learned a few things .The store is mine and will stay mine. Humming softly, she went to bed and slept more soundly than she had in weeks.
Early the next morning after Claire had risen and bathed, she put on her nicest dress, the black damask. Carefully she brushed her long hair and twisted it into an elegant chignon. Pinching her cheeks added a pink glow to her face and she checked herself in Ginny’s old mirror.
There, she thought, I’m ready to take on that arrogant banker. Let’s see what he has to say now. At precisely 9:00 A.M. she stepped into the bank, head held high.
“Mr. Dawson, please. Tell him Miss Secord is waiting.”
The elderly teller took one look at her determined face and nodded.
“Right away, miss.”
Claire was shown into the banker’s inner office. Mr. Dawson pasted on a fake smile, when he greeted her, surprised.
“Well Miss Secord, I must admit I didn’t expect you quite so soon. You must be ready to give up that burden of yours. Let me clear off my desk and I shall take care of this for you. A fine lady shouldn’t concern herself with a man’s business. You should be worried about finding a husband, not running a general store. You’re only a poor defenseless girl.”
Claire said nothing, but her nostrils flared. Why that no good…whoa girl, keep your composure. You must stay in control.
In the sweetest voice she could manage, Claire said, “Mr. Dawson, I have looked over the terms of the loans as well as the will showing my inheritance of the store and living quarters. The loans require repayment of a certain amount on the first of every month.”
She reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a small cloth-covered ledger. “According to my records and the bank receipts written here, by your own teller, I have not missed a single payment since my arrival in this town. And upon careful study of the lending documents I noticed that there is a “good faith” agreement that states as long as the “holder” of the note pays down a certain percentage of the note at the specified interest rate on time every month the bank cannot foreclose on the property and the mortgage. I did the calculations and here is this month’s payment as well as the interest.”
With a flourish she placed the money in a neat stack under Dawson’s noise.
He stared at the stack and reached for the bills; Claire could practically see him salivating and counting the money in his head.
She placed her right hand firmly on top of his, stopping his progress toward the cash. Her left hand went to the pistol in her dress pocket.
“Hold on, there, Mr. Dawson. Before you make a move toward this money you had better be signing a receipt that shows I am current on my loan and that the store and rooms are mine and will stay mine.”
She casually sat the pistol on the desk with the barrel pointing toward him. He went pale, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his pasty forehead.
“You see, Mr. Dawson, I may be only a ‘girl’, but I am neither poor nor defenseless.”
He swallowed and stuttered “Miss Secord, I stand corrected. On further examination I, uh, I see that an error was made on the part of this bank. Yes, um, yes, I can accept the payment and you shall retain ownership of the store and its contents as well as the Weikert,er, Secord home. I’ll just draw up a receipt for you and make a copy for the bank records. Please excuse me for just a moment.” He hurried out of the office, yelling for his teller.
Claire leaned back in her chair and drew a deep breath. She carefully placed the pistol back in her pocket and straightened her skirts. Moments later the rotund banker returned with two receipts and Sheriff Tom Maxwell. Claire looked up calmly at Maxwell and he gave her a slow grin.
“Hello, Miss Secord.”
“Hello, Sheriff Maxwell.”
The banker shot a look between the two, his forehead wrinkling.
“I thought it best we have a witness to these proceedings,” he managed to squeak out, mopping his brow with a handkerchief as he spoke. His eyes darted to the desk. No pistol in sight. Claire was as calm and composed as a statue.
“That is an excellent idea, Mr. Dawson.”
She carefully read each receipt to make sure they were identical and then signed them. Sliding them to the banker, she glanced at Maxwell, who was peering at her intently. Dawson signed them in his own shaky hand and motioned to the sheriff to add his name as witness. Tom bent over the desk and Claire caught his clean scent of soap and leather. Her heart unexpectedly lurched. She had to remind herself to keep breathing and stay focused.
Paperwork completed, Claire rose from her chair and carefully tucked the documents into her handbag. She extended her hand to Mr. Dawson and he gingerly shook it.
“It’s been a pleasure, sir, a real pleasure.” She gave a little laugh and swept out of the bank into the bright sunshine. The sheriff hurried after her, catching up to her easily with his long strides.
“Now, hold on a second Miss Secord. What was that all about?”
Maxwell came up behind her and took her elbow. She breathed in more of his scent and her knees shook, but he didn’t seem to notice. Inwardly, she blamed it on the little scene in the bank. He steered her down the sidewalk toward her store and asked again, “Tell me what just happened?”
“Nothing, sheriff, just a poor little defenseless woman having to protect herself, that’s all.”
He smirked, “Who’s protecting whom? That teller came hollering into the jail that Dawson was in trouble. I come a running and it’s just you.”
“Yup, just little ole’ me.” She giggled again before suddenly turning serious.
“Sher
iff, that scalawag was trying to cheat me out of my store. My store. He tried to claim that I’d lose the whole place because Ginny and Richard missed a few loan payments. Well, I studied the papers and found a way around his shenanigans. As long as I can make the payments on time, the store and rooms will still be mine. So that’s what I am doing. As long as nothing happens like a fire or a robbery, I should be alright.
Maxwell stared into her solemn eyes for a moment.
“I don’t suppose that pistol had any power of persuasion.”
“Why sheriff, a girl’s got to protect herself in the wilds of Nebraska, doesn’t she?” Dimples appeared as she smiled charmingly and Maxwell sucked in his breath. Shaking his shaggy black hair, he had to grin. He was going to have to think some more about this gal. She had a lot of spirit and, well, he liked spirit in his girls. But she wasn’t his girl, not yet anyways. There was time, though, plenty of time.
***
Late the following afternoon, as Claire was closing up the store, Tom Maxwell stopped in. Clutching a small bouquet of wildflowers, he bowed low.
“Howdy, ma’am,” he greeted her, his blue eyes twinkling.
“Why, hello Sheriff,” Claire’s green eyes twinkled in return. “What can I do for you, kind sir?”
Maxwell grinned as she played along. “Would you accompany me to supper this fine evening?”
He handed her the flowers and bent into a low bow.
Claire smiled and nodded. Again her dimples made his heart skip a beat.
“Let me just draw the shades and lock the door. I’ll tidy up my hair and then we can go.”
Maxwell followed her through the passageway into her private quarters. He took a seat in her tiny parlor and looked around as she put the flowers into a porcelain vase and headed to the bedroom to freshen up.
Faith of the Heart Page 7