All Things Hidden

by Tracie Peterson

  The tall woman stood straighter, placing both of her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “I most certainly will not.”

  Sophia dismissed him with a distasteful look and glanced away.

  His temper began to build, pushing aside the dull ache in his chest. “I have the right to speak to my betrothed. Don’t you care that I wasn’t at fault?”

  “She is no longer your betrothed. You have ruined our family name with your carelessness. I won’t have you ruin Sophia’s reputation as well.” Mrs. Hillerman’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I should have known better than to let a doctor worm his way into my daughter’s affections. You have nothing. You are worthless.”

  His anger died in a rush of pain. What had he done to deserve such hatred? He hadn’t done anything wrong! Had he really been this blind to how shallow women could be? “Sophia, don’t you even care about me?”

  The icy glare from her eyes froze his heart in place. “No, Jeremiah, I do not. How could I?”

  A scalpel to his chest couldn’t have done more damage. He opened his mouth but then slammed it shut. He clenched his teeth, allowing the rage within to burn. These conceited women didn’t deserve a response.

  Jeremiah turned on his heel. He wouldn’t give anyone else the chance to humiliate him.

  The walk home did nothing to clear his head. As he stood outside his apartment building, Jeremiah couldn’t go in. His feet propelled him away from the city. Away from the hospital. Away from Sophia. Away from everything he knew.

  The world around him muted. He bumped into a bum and knocked the man down, the man’s words not reaching his ears. Everything seemed like a dream. More like a nightmare—and all he could do was watch. Jeremiah helped the bedraggled man up and then kept walking. Thoughts battled inside his head. Why hadn’t God intervened? He could have saved Jeremiah from the humiliation. Could’ve saved Mrs. Brewster’s life. But no. God betrayed him just like everyone else.

  And he’d lost everything.

  God couldn’t be trusted. Jeremiah was done with Him.

  His anger built with each step. The pain from Sophia was the worst. All the words of endearment, sweet smiles, and promises for the future were a lie. Her manipulative mother was just as bad. All fake. The façades of those two women crumbled at his feet, and he’d seen what they really were. How could he have been so fooled?

  Females were not to be trusted. It was that simple. All they did was sink their claws in to get what they wanted. Vain, conceited, shallow creatures.

  He was done with women.

  He’d been under the impression he was in love. And his career was as good as gold.

  But that was all a lie too. His world crashed in around him.

  No more dreams. No goals. No hospital. No wedding. Nothing.

  The sounds of the city finally blasted through his barriers. Jeremiah stopped and turned back toward his apartment. The cold seeped into his bones. He didn’t know how long he’d been walking, but his hands and feet were numb. Anger had driven him, but now common sense reminded him of the threat of frostbite.

  Warmth blasted him backward as he opened the door to the building that he called home. Maybe he’d gotten colder than he thought. His lips cracked and burned, his feet, legs, and arms prickled and were stiff.

  He stopped in his tracks as his gaze hit the table. Piles of notes lay scattered. Notes from procedures, surgeries, tests, new ideas he’d had for the new intravenous anesthesia. Had it all been a waste? A lifetime of learning? Of research? Of love . . . for medicine, for helping people?

  Memories washed over him from his childhood. Any injured creature he found, he’d brought to Dr. H. down the road. The prestigious doctor had always taken time out to teach him. Had fanned the flames within young Jeremiah to pursue a career in medicine.

  Was it all for naught? In an instant, his arms swiped everything to the floor.

  He flung his coat and gloves over a chair and tried to quell the unconstructive thoughts. He needed sleep. Maybe tomorrow would bring a glimmer of hope. And some answers.

  A clanging down the street jolted Jeremiah from a hard sleep. He reached for the dark nightstand and checked his pocket watch—a gift from his grandfather when Jeremiah graduated from medical school. Three o’clock. As he sat up on the edge of the bed, his thoughts raced back to the events of yesterday. He rubbed his face. It couldn’t be over. If only it had all been a bad dream.

  Jeremiah couldn’t give up medicine. It was like asking him to give up breathing. It was his passion. It surged through his veins.

  But what could he do?

  His resolve hardened. He would not go down without a fight. A new plan constructed in his mind. He would contest the board’s decision. Howard, his cousin, was a lawyer. Howard could appeal it.

  By nine o’clock in the morning Jeremiah was standing on the steps to his parents’ home pondering how they would take the news. He’d already met with Howard and laid out his case. He wasn’t sure they had any hope of beating Randolph Brewster and his rich cronies who ruled the medical community, but he had to at least try to be reinstated. It was a matter of honor. Brewster might be one of the wealthiest and strongest politicians in the state, but that wouldn’t stop Jeremiah from fighting for his honor. Brewster knew him. That was the biggest problem. Jeremiah had willingly worked under the tutelage and guidance of that man for years. How could Brewster stab him in the back this way? Had he been nothing more than a scapegoat all along?

  His mother greeted him at the door, eyes swollen. Her hug was brief and cool. “Your father is in his study.” She wiped her nose with a hankie and walked away.

  “Jeremiah? That you?” His father’s deep, gruff voice echoed down the hallway.

  “Yeah, Pop, it’s me.” A whiff of pipe tobacco brought back memories as Jeremiah entered the wood-paneled room. “Mother doesn’t look too good.”

  The senior Vaughan looked down at his desk. “Well, you know your mother. She’s worried about you. And worried what her friends will think. This news hasn’t been easy on any of us.”

  The real crux of the matter. So that’s how it would be. His own parents didn’t believe in him. They believed what society told them. The blow was like a hammer to his stomach.

  He cleared his throat so his voice wouldn’t betray the pain. “I’m sorry you’re having to endure so much.”

  “Don’t take that tone with me, Jeremiah. We support you, but these are tough times. If the people can’t trust the Vaughan name, we could go under as well.” His father tapped more tobacco into his pipe. “But your cousin called this morning, and we’re confident he’ll get all this straightened out in no time.”

  If only Jeremiah could leap forward in time to that point.

  “Your mother and I have a suggestion for you in the meantime.”

  “Oh?” This ought to be good. How was he supposed to save face at a time like this?

  “We think you should leave town for a while.” His father hesitated as he struck a match and lit the pipe. “Here.” An envelope was shoved toward him. “Here’s five hundred dollars. That should get you through for a spell.”

  Jeremiah’s anger burned again, his fuse all too short these days. “You want me to leave town? How am I supposed to appeal and defend myself?”

  “Howard will take care of all of that. He’s already assured me there’s no need for you to be present—”

  “So you’re saying you’ve discussed my leaving with him? And that’s it? Decision made? I’m dismissed?” A horrible thought sank in, dispelling all the anger. Once the pride of his parents, he’d now turned into a black sheep they needed to distance themselves from. He fought the clenching of his gut as it all became clear.

  His loving parents were too embarrassed to have their disgraced son remain in Chicago.

  3

  NEW YORK CITY

  MARCH 15, 1935

  The man allowed a deep chuckle to leave his lips as he read an article from the front page. This reporter was so idiotic. A
s the paper crinkled in his left hand, he reached for the china coffee cup with his right. It was a good thing he hadn’t used his real name in Chicago. No one was the wiser. And he’d like to keep it that way.

  The waiter was at his elbow. Again. Did he need anything? No.

  The draped towel over the man’s arm almost touched the table as he bowed and left.

  He must admit, he liked being waited on, but when people knew you had money, the cloying attention became claustrophobic.

  The headline on the front page caught his attention again and he smiled: Pinkerton Agents Search for Mastermind Behind First National Robbery.

  He had to give the snot-nosed reporter a little credit—at least he acknowledged the mastery behind the theft.

  The Pinkertons had their work cut out for them. The article suggested they guessed it might be an inside job. Little did they know. No need to worry, though—they’d never figure it out. He was clean as a whistle.

  And he was rich.

  A beautiful dame sashayed by, her bright red fingernails tapping their way along the linen tablecloth. The not-so-subtle glance she threw over her shoulder made him forget all about the papers. Too bad she was only after his money.

  He took a long drink from his water goblet and stood. There was more than one beautiful dame in this outrageously expensive hotel.

  Tucking the folded paper under his arm, he headed toward the marble foyer.

  There’d be plenty of time to read the news later.

  MATANUSKA VALLEY, ALASKA TERRITORY

  Even though the temperature had warmed up into the double digits in the past week, two feet of snow still covered the ground and probably would for several more weeks. Gwyn stoked the fires in the upstairs fireplace, the stove, and the living room fireplace. Trying to keep their cabin warm in the depths of winter was always an undertaking. She loved their home with its huge log walls and giant windows. But the enormity of it for just the two of them overwhelmed her at times. She understood that her father had built it to her mother’s grand expectations because he loved her and wanted her to be happy. But after Mother and Sophia left, it seemed to mock the Hillermans who remained. The emptiness often engulfed Gwyn as she cleaned.

  She slid two pans of bread into the oven and surveyed the kitchen. She had plenty of time for it to bake. The long toll of winter the past year and the government’s new project propelled her out of doors. Gwyn walked down the path to the barn and cast a glance at her spade. How she ached to start her garden! Each year it was the same. Her father would tease her about having “ants in your pants” to start digging in the dirt. Before her mother left them, she would scold her husband for using such undignified language for a young woman, but Gwyn never minded. He’d been saying it all her life and it endeared him even more to her heart.

  Gwyn pushed on the gate to their fenced-in garden through the drifted snow. With a final shove, she moved it far enough to squeeze through. Kneeling down, she lifted her face to the sun. Spring couldn’t come fast enough for her this year. Oh, she knew she’d have to contend with the moose and other critters trying to get to her garden, but she longed for it anyway. Gwyn pushed a gloved hand down through the snow. The ground was hard and frozen, but it didn’t keep her from dreaming of spring. There was something about turning over the soil, the scent of it filling her head. Maybe it was that she loved watching things grow, or maybe she appreciated it all the more because the growing season was so short. She wasn’t sure, but her heart never failed to anticipate the coming of spring with great joy. It was the waiting part she had trouble with.

  Waiting.

  Today she had to admit her anxiousness stemmed more from her father’s absence than the long-awaited garden.

  The gate to the garden clanged shut as Gwyn headed to the barn to check on the animals. The ARRC had once again summoned her father to Anchorage. And since patience truly wasn’t Gwyn’s virtue, she’d been flitting from one chore to another, glancing every ten seconds or so to the horizon.

  Good heavens. It was ridiculous. The horses whinnied after her as she left the barn minutes after she’d entered it. Shouldn’t Father be back by now? The wait was killing her. What would the board say this time? What news would there be from the president? Since they didn’t have a newspaper yet in their little valley, she couldn’t even read the delayed newswires.

  Maybe she should have gone with him after all. This was silly. Pacing out in the snow while her sourdough baked.

  One long step brought her crashing down as her foot sank into a snowdrift. The icy greeting to her leg brought a little sense back to her. Crawling out of the hole, she scolded herself for not watching where she was going. She might dearly love this land, but it could be harsh and unforgiving if ignored.

  Gwyn brushed the snow off her pants and shoved her long underwear back into the fur-lined boots. Sadzi would be laughing hysterically if she saw Gwyn right now. The thought brought a smile to her face. She’d better get back to work.

  In the cabin, the delicious smell of fresh bread wafted through the air. The scent always made Gwyn feel a sense of peace and home. She had read that many folks bought their bread in stores—some even bought it sliced. It all sounded ever so convenient, but Gwyn thought it a sad loss. Convenience had no inviting aroma. Convenience brought no sense of comfort. Would they all soon be buying sliced bread?

  Depositing her coat and boots at the door, she tried not to let her heart be heavy. With a sigh, she gave the bread a quick check. It was done. She pulled out two round crusty loaves to cool and put two more into the oven. Taking up several pieces of wood, she added them to the stove in order to keep it hot.

  The long blast of a distant train whistle pulled her attention from the bread. Father! He was finally home.

  She rushed to get back into her boots and coat. Forgetting her worries, she hurried to meet him at the tracks.

  He’d barely stepped from the train when Gwyn called out. She flung her right arm in the air and waved. “Father! You’re back!”

  He rubbed his hands together as he approached. “Here I thought it had been warming up, but my hands aren’t agreeing with me on that point.”

  She wrapped an arm around his back and swallowed the million questions she wanted to ask as they walked toward home. “How was the trip?”

  He glanced down at her, “You mean, what did they want and what information do I have to share?” The laughter in his eyes couldn’t be missed.

  He knew her so well. Ignoring his teasing, Gwyn feigned disinterest as they walked arm in arm toward the cabin. “Well, if you’d like to talk about it, I’m all ears, but if you’re too tired, I’m sure it can wait.”

  Deep laughter filled the air. “Oh, you do my heart good, Gwyn.”

  She opened the door and the aroma of sourdough hit them both. Father smiled. “You’ve been baking bread. I hope you’ll allow me to have a piece right out of the oven.”

  She tried to hide her smile. “Let me help you get your boots off first. Then I’ll get you some coffee . . . and perhaps a piece of bread. Maybe that will help you to feel like . . . Well, maybe you’ll feel warmer.” He laughed and it momentarily helped to sweep away Gwyn’s worries.

  Finally seated with a cup between his hands and a hot slice of bread on the table, Father didn’t keep her waiting. “They’ve set aside another 180,000 acres. That makes a total of 260,000 acres, including all the land from the first homesteaders who didn’t stay.”

  Gwyn remembered how many families had tried to homestead in the valley when her family first came to Alaska. Only a quarter of them remained, Gwyn and her father included. She raised her eyebrows. “Are they expecting more people?” Would it fail like the first time?

  “Not right now, but they want to be prepared. The choosing of the colonists is underway. The board has asked me to make medical supply lists and asked for your help as well in supplying information to the government, so they know what they need for this project.” He took a long sip from his cup.
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  “You sound a little overwhelmed.” The chair scraped the floor as Gwyn pulled it out and sat. “And you don’t get overwhelmed very often.”

  “I want to do whatever I can to help, but I must admit that the task at hand boggles the mind.” He looked up at her. “I understand their timing and the need for it, but I think we need to spend more time in prayer over this project. It feels so rushed. It’s hard to believe that in the next month they’ll start sending up construction workers and freight. And soon after that, the families.”

  “Will we be ready? I mean, is there any possible way everything can be in place by then?”

  “I honestly don’t know. But we’ve got to do our best to help.” Her father exhaled a long sigh and took that opportunity to sample the bread. After a long pause he picked up the conversation again. “I’m a bit concerned about the condition of all those folks coming up here. Who knows how many of them will get seasick, and with that number traveling together, there’s bound to be a lot of sickness, especially among the children.”

  Gwyn’s heart quickened. The thought of little children suffering was the worst. Maybe this idea wasn’t so good after all. Maybe God was trying to get their attention—to tell them that the travel would be too risky, with too little health care, not enough time—so they could stop the project.

  In an instant, guilt flooded her insides. All the discussions she’d had with her father since they found out about the colonization came rushing back. He’d dug up newspaper articles for her to read about the poverty and drought-stricken people. A lot of them had no work, no food, nothing.

  In their private world in Alaska, away from the “real world,” Gwyn and her father had been affected by the Depression as well, but not nearly as much as people in the States. A vivid memory crashed in of her father bringing the newspaper home a year or so ago that stated the New York City Welfare Council tallied 139 starvation or malnutrition-related deaths in 1933. And that was in just one city. How many more would suffer?