The Journey of Josephine Cain

by Nancy Moser

  He had to catch that last train or he’d die.

  When the second train passed, he saw Josephine at the window, looking for him. Her concern seemed genuine. He couldn’t believe that she’d been the one who’d done the digging into his past. It had to be Maguire’s doing. Had to be.

  The second train moved on, and the last train started its pass over the bridge. It was only three cars long. He waited until the second car passed, then burst out of his hiding place and ran toward the final car. His left ankle screamed as he ran, but he kept going. The train took up speed. He reached for the handle of the stairs, missed, then ran some more and grabbed it, swinging up onto the steps. Other passengers must have seen his plight, because they came out on the landing and helped him up.

  “That was a close one,” the man said. “You miss your train?”

  “Almost,” Lewis said. Then he settled into the back of the passenger car, hunkered down, and willed himself to disappear.

  For now.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Laramie!” called the conductor. “All off for Laramie!”

  Lewis didn’t waste any time but slipped off the back of the train before it was completely stopped. He hurried past the depot, away from all those who would accuse him.

  He had a destination in mind. Only one person in the entire world would understand and give him comfort.

  Two men were hanging a sign above Miss Mandy’s new establishment—a permanent place this time. No more pulling up stakes every time the railroad moved on. Laramie was a town of thousands. There was a sense of permanency here. Unlike a lot of the railroad towns, people thought this one would stick.

  He passed the men and went inside. The lamps were being lit, and one of the girls recognized him. “Now there’s a loyal customer.”

  “Where’s Vera?”

  She nodded to the back. “Where she always is.”

  He started in that direction, then stopped. “Is she alone?”

  The girl smiled. “For now.”

  He only paused a moment at the curtain that divided Vera’s space from the hall. Then he pulled it aside.

  She was lying on her side, reading a book. “Back from the bridge so soon?”

  He took off his hat and hung it on a hook, then sat on the bed, his head hanging low. “I’ve had a hard day.”

  Vera set the book down and moved beside him, pushing his hair behind an ear. “What happened?”

  He shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

  “You know you can tell me anything.”

  Vera was the only person in the entire world he could talk to. He turned sideways, bringing a bent leg onto the bed. “I had a run-in with Josephine.”

  “I thought she was in Washington.”

  “Not anymore. But the trains were backed up on the east side of the bridge because of the wind, so her train caught up with mine, and . . . and she attacked me.”

  Vera raised an eyebrow. “Attacked?”

  “Verbally. I was taking photographs, making good use of the opportunity to make some money, and she came barreling toward me, screaming that I’d stolen the engagement ring I gave her, and calling me a deserter, and—”

  She held up a hand. “You stole her engagement ring?”

  That seemed beside the point. “I couldn’t very well afford one to her liking. She’s a pampered rich girl. I did what I had to do.” He tilted his head to the side. “I always do what I have to do. That’s how I get through hard times.”

  She studied him a moment. “Hard times like the war?”

  He nodded.

  “So you are a deserter?”

  He wished he hadn’t brought that up. “Of a sort. I wasn’t alone. There were many of us who joined the army, ran away, then joined up again for the signing bounty.”

  “That’s awful.”

  He was shocked by her reaction. “It was smart. It was a way to get through the war alive.”

  She stood and moved her book from the bed to a dresser. “Did you ever fight in battle?”

  “Why would I want to do that? I didn’t care if the South had slaves or whether they even formed their own country. My father said smart people could get rich in wartime.” He grinned. “Once I left the Union side, I worked with my father for the Rebs. We didn’t get rich, but we were getting by far better than the poor slugs who died for nothing.”

  She faced him, her jaw hard. “My brother was one of those poor slugs who died.”

  He expelled a breath, then took another. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “We don’t usually spend our time talking.”

  And he shouldn’t have talked now. He went to her, stroking her soft shoulders.

  But she recoiled, moving to the doorway, pulling the curtain aside. “Out. I want you out of here. Now.”

  She had to be kidding. “Come on, Vera. You’ve done business with worse men than me.”

  “The thieving I can forgive, and maybe even the desertion and the treason. But saying that my brother was a poor slug who died for nothing . . . Even I have my limits.” She pointed to the hall. “Out. Now!”

  She was throwing him out for a few wrong words? “I’m sorry, all right? I can’t leave here. I have nowhere to go. The soldiers from the train will be looking for me, and I don’t have a cent. My wallet was with my equipment, which is still back at the bridge, and—”

  She pushed past him to the dresser, plucked a few coins from her jewelry box, and pressed them into his hand. “Here. Take it. But don’t come back. Move on to some other town. Some other whorehouse.”

  Miss Mandy appeared in the doorway. “Is there a problem?”

  “I want him gone,” Vera said. “And don’t let him back in. Ever.”

  The madam nodded once. “It’s best you go, Mr. Simmons.”

  “Don’t you want to hear my side?”

  “In my house there is only one side, the side of my girls. Go on now.”

  He couldn’t believe this was happening. He left the brothel and looked up and down the street for the soldiers from the train. He didn’t see any of them. Maybe he could get himself a room; once they all moved on, he’d be safe. Give it a few days and he’d go back and retrieve his equipment—if there was any of it left.

  It all depended on how much money she’d given him. He paused in the street and pulled out the coins. Three, four, five dollars . . .

  Suddenly, he heard a loud sound and felt a sharp sting to his chest. He touched a hand to the pain and felt something wet.

  It took a moment to comprehend.

  I’ve been shot? No. That can’t be.

  But then the pain gained ragged teeth. His thoughts spun and his legs gave out. He fell to his knees. Then to the ground.

  A man carrying a smoking gun strode over and snatched the money from Lewis’s hands.

  “Thank you kindly,” he said.

  Lewis Simon closed his eyes.

  And died.

  As Hudson, Frieda, and Nelly saw to the task of getting their baggage off the train and onto a wagon, Josephine continued her plea with the soldier. “But Sergeant, someone has to go back to the bridge and pick up Mr. Simmons. He just got spooked.”

  “The guilty often do.”

  Aunt Bernice added her two cents. “But to leave a man in the wilds is inhumane.”

  The sergeant scuffed a toe of his boot in the dirt. “Now there’s a word we could debate.” He looked at Josephine. “Do you really want me to go after him, miss? ’Cuz if I get him, it won’t be to save him, but to take him into custody for desertion and a slew of other charges. What it comes down to is that his odds at living are better on his own than with me.”

  A man came toward them, removing his hat. “Begging your pardon, ladies, Sergeant, but the man you’re looking for might already be here.”

  “Why do you say that?” the sergeant asked.

  “Just as we got over the bridge back there, a man jumped onto the last car. Didn’t say anything but made himself scarce, hun
kered down in the back row. Someone said he was the man who’d been taking pictures.”

  Relief swept over her. Josephine looked toward the last train. “Then let’s go talk—”

  “He’s gone, miss. Got off the train before it was even stopped. Jumped on, then jumped off.”

  The sergeant gave her a knowing look. “The guilty run.”

  He was right, of course, but Josephine was relieved just the same. The thought of Lewis out in the dark . . . it was her fault he’d had to run.

  If something happened to him, she would never forgive herself.

  Josephine was forced to leave the problem of Lewis behind. It was dusk, and they needed to find Adolf Richter per Papa’s instructions.

  After some inquiries, they were sent to Richter’s place on Second Street. The Fill ’er Up Café was sandwiched between an empty building on a corner and a hotel. The smells from inside were enticing.

  “Can we eat?” Nelly asked.

  Josephine was hungry too, but, “First things first. Let us talk to Mr. Richter.”

  “Then we eat?”

  “Then we eat.”

  They entered the café, which contained five mismatched tables. Everyone looked up when they came in the door. “I am looking for Mr. Richter?”

  A man stirring a pot on the stove looked up. “Ja. Dat’s me.”

  “I am Josephine Cain. My father—”

  He handed the spoon to a young girl. “Do not let it burn. I be right back.”

  He ran a hand through his hair and removed his apron. “The general’s daughter. I been waiting for you. Come, I show you your store.”

  “My store?”

  “It not mine.”

  Her store. It sounded so odd. “Is it far?”

  He chuckled. “Ten steps.”

  He led them to the empty building next door. Inside, he lit an oil lamp hanging on the wall, then turned toward the room. “There is top floor you live in. Being on corner, traffic ist gut.”

  They heard a gunshot, and everyone looked to Richter.

  “Sorry to say, you must get used to gunfire. At least till gang of outlaws . . . getötet.” He made a cutting motion beneath his chin.

  “Outlaws?” Aunt asked.

  “They wild bunch who steal for fun, shoot first, ask later.” He held up a hand, touching his fingers as he named them. “Der Kid, Big Ned, Ace Moore, Con Wagner, and . . .” He touched his fingers again, mentally going through the list. “Und Big Steve. Böse Menschen. Evil men, up to no good.”

  “Why doesn’t the sheriff do something?” Josephine asked.

  “Likely because there isn’t a sheriff,” Hudson said.

  Richter touched his nose. “There was ein Bürgermeister, but he quit after three weeks because of threats. And then the city treasurer ran off mit the city money.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Do not speak too loud, but there is talk of making vigilante committee to take care of riffraff.”

  “Oh dear,” Aunt said. “Maybe we shouldn’t have come.”

  “I not mean to scare you. We need people like you in Laramie. It just so new it not right yet.”

  Indeed, having thieves and murderers running loose sounded far from right.

  “Anyway,” Richter said, spreading his arms to show the room. “Place not much, but is enough, ja?” Then he looked at Josephine. “What you say, Fräulein?”

  She was speechless. It was a large room, sixteen by twenty. The wood smelled new. There hadn’t been time enough for it to be built since she’d made her decision to start a store, so how . . . ?

  Richter leaned close to Hudson. “Is she liking, or not?”

  “Oh, I am liking,” Josephine said. “But how did it happen so fast? I just sent my father a letter and cable and—”

  “When General Cain want something, he get it done.”

  “But he only got the letter a few days ago.”

  “I know nothing about letter, but I get wire saying you coming, and to find you space for store. Blast the cost, it said.”

  Josephine looked at the space with added appreciation. “He bought this for me?”

  “Bought it from me for you. I to make Fill ’er Up more big, but your Vater . . .” He rubbed his fingers together. “Gave me money so you have it.”

  Aunt Bernice moved to the window. “We could display all sorts of goods here.” She looked back at Richter. “But we need some tables and shelves.”

  “Plenty of men look for work,” he said.

  “I could help,” Hudson said. He crooked a thumb to the left. “It’s a good location. Not far from the depot, and you’ll earn business from the café and the hotel.”

  Josephine strode to the front, looking out at the Freund Gun and Ammunition shop across the street. Not the best neighbor, but she couldn’t be choosy. “I will have to order more items for travelers,” she said.

  “And maybe I could make some Stollen and Springerle to sell,” Frieda said. “And Spätzle.”

  Richter’s eyes grew large. “Köstliche deutsche Küche? Mmmm. Ja, bitte.”

  “Richter,” Frieda repeated, giving him a long look. “My husband was Deutscher.”

  His eyes lit up. “Ich bin aus München. Woher kommt er aus?”

  “He was from Hamburg. My name is Frieda Schultz.”

  “Freut mich, Fräu Schultz.”

  “Mich auch, Herr Richter.”

  Josephine followed the gist of the exchange and was shocked to see Frieda blush.

  Was Richter blushing too? He tried to cover it up by pointing to the wagon outside. “Let us unload. By the by, what is name of place?”

  “Josie’s Emporium,” she said.

  “Sehr gut.”

  Ja.

  Hudson left the women all talking at once as they made plans about the store. He was happy for them. Proud of them. To start from nothing in a strange place. To finish something that just days ago had been a dream.

  You should be so brave.

  He should be. Which was why he walked back to the depot. He had some things to clear up.

  He stepped into the telegraph office, but the man was just closing up for the evening.

  “Need something?”

  “I have a wire to send.”

  “I’m closed.”

  Hudson played his ace. “It’s to General Cain at the end of the line. It concerns the arrival of his daughter in Laramie.”

  The man sighed and nodded. “That girl’s been the subject of more’n one wire from here to there and back.” He returned to his desk and took up a stub of a pencil. “First off, what’s yer name?”

  “Hudson Maguire.”

  “Mc-Guire?”

  He spelled it for him.

  The man wrote it down, then said, “Let’s have it.”

  “Josephine arrived Laramie safely. Store perfect. I am coming to EOL to ask question.”

  The man looked up. “Why doncha just ask it now?”

  Hudson shook his head. “It needs to be done in person.”

  The man grinned and winked. “Think he’ll say yes?”

  “I sure hope so.”

  Hudson returned, only to find all the women but Josie gone from the store. As it was dark, he tapped on the glass so as not to scare her.

  She was sitting on the floor, armed with a pencil and piece of paper.

  “Where are the others?” he asked.

  “I sent them to the hotel.” She flapped the paper in the air. “Look at this list of things we need to set up, and this list of more things we need to sell.” She pointed to the ceiling. “There’s not a stitch of furniture up there, so we’ll need beds first thing. Frieda is serious about making food to sell so we’ll need a stove of some sort.” She held out a hand, and he helped her to her feet. “We have decided to put a counter over here with a small table and four chairs, just in case someone wants to eat a bite before they leave. I was thinking of changing the name to Josie’s Emporium and Café, but Frieda doesn’t like the sounds of that, just in case no one lik
es her food, and she doesn’t want to fully compete with Mr. Richter.” She finally took a breath. “What?”

  He laughed, totally delighted by her enthusiasm. “It’s as though you were always meant to do this.”

  She considered this a moment, then strode to the front window, looking out at the dark. Lamplight shone from down the street where the saloons’ business was just starting. “That is silly, of course, because there is no way I should be doing this, thousands of miles from home, in a wild place that has just decided to become a town.”

  He put his arm around her waist. “You didn’t know, but God did.”

  Her eyes glimmered in the lamplight. “Do you really think so? Do you really think this is part of His plan for me?”

  He nodded. For us. But he kept those two words to himself until after he spoke with her father. “It feels right, doesn’t it?”

  “Alarmingly so.”

  “Feeling peace is a pretty good indication you’re on the right road.”

  “Is it?”

  “That’s the way I’ve always found it.”

  She wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning her head against his chest. “I feel peace about us too.”

  He wanted to propose right then, but he also wanted to do things right. So he only said, “Me too.”

  She looked up at him, clearly wanting more.

  In place of words, he gave her a smile.

  And a silent promise.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  When Josephine felt Aunt Bernice slip out of bed, she greedily spread her limbs into the empty space. The bed in the hotel was barely made for one, much less two.

  Aunt groaned, and Josephine opened her eyes enough to see her press her hands against her lower back and arch it. “Not as comfy as our beds back home, is it?”