Until September

by Brenda Jernigan

  Evidently, he was afraid he’d catch whatever she had.

  “I—I don’t understand,” he stammered in bewilderment. “Look at you—other than your color, you look fine.”

  “I have consumption, David. Doc Worden told me a few days ago. He hadn’t been sure until now.” Claire waited for David to tell her that he’d love her no matter what. But the look on his face told her everything. She could see the loathing in his eyes. There was no love, only pity. He wanted to get out of the house as soon as he could. And it was now apparent that he wanted nothing more to do with her.

  “What are you going to do?” David finally asked.

  She made sure her expression became a mask of stone. “I’m not sure,” Claire said honestly, and then with the courage she didn’t know that she possessed, she said, “David, I think that it’s better that we end our engagement” She saw the relief that washed over his face as a knife stabbed through her heart The fact that she could be rejected by someone who was supposed to love her hurt her more than she’d ever been hurt.

  “I think that is the wise thing to do, my dear,” David said. Then he turned and took his hat from the chair. “I do hope that you’ll get better.” And with those parting words David left her house and her heart. He hadn’t even bothered to kiss her goodbye. No kiss on the cheek. No handshake. Nothing.

  Claire sighed, weary of the thought as she traced a “C” in the condensation on the windowpane. She had hoped that he would take her into his arms and assure her that everything would be all right

  But he hadn’t.

  Claire could still picture David’s face. After the look of relief, she saw pity in his eyes. She never wanted anyone to look at her like that again.

  She wiped the moisture off her finger and again focused on the large icicle. A drop of water clung to its very tip, waiting to fall. It looked as if it were hanging on for dear life.

  Just waiting.

  Something inside Claire snapped. She sat a little straighter in her chair as a strange kind of warmth spread through her. A light... a spark from deep within her had ignited, and realization washed over her. It was the light that she’d been missing.

  The spark of hope. It had been taken away from her.

  She was much like that tiny drop of water... hanging on with her bare fingertips, waiting to die.

  Well, no more.

  She would not sit around and wait. Everybody needed a spark, and she would hang on to that spark as long as she could.

  Abruptly, she got to her feet, tossing the quilt aside. A plan began to form, and if it worked she’d be changing her life forever.

  Fetching her cloak from the peg on the door, she slipped it on and went downstairs.

  Margaret Holladay was strolling through the foyer when her daughter came down the stairs, her soft hair framing her heart-shaped face. Margaret smiled. What a beautiful young woman Claire had become. Her hair was as black as soot and her porcelain skin made her look like a fragile doll.

  And in many ways Claire was fragile, waiting to be broken by the disease that had plagued her over the last few years.

  Margaret sighed. She wanted to reach out and pull her daughter into her arms and assure her that she’d stand by her no matter what. But Margaret held back, not wanting to upset her daughter. How could anyone so beautiful be so sick?

  Margaret’s heart ached for her daughter, and she felt utterly helpless as to how to help Claire.

  “Why are you not in bed resting?” Margaret asked.

  “I’m sick of resting and being told to do this or that. I’ll not rot in bed anymore,” Claire said.

  “But you know what the doctor’s instructions were.”

  “Yes, but I don’t care.”

  Margaret saw a glow in Claire’s expressive aquamarine eyes. “I see you have on your cloak. Where are you going?” Margaret asked as she handed her daughter a gray wool scarf and a fur muff.

  “I’m headed down to Harper’s,” Claire told her as she wrapped the warm scarf around her neck and reached for the doorknob.

  “I thought you’d given up that reporting job,” Margaret said. She’d never liked the idea of her daughter working at a magazine when there were more dignified jobs for young ladies.

  “No, I didn’t quit. I am not a quitter, Mother,” Claire’s chin rose. “As a matter of fact, I have just had a brilliant idea that I want to tell my editor about.”

  Margaret knew how headstrong her daughter could be. “Well, at least let me summon the coach. You’ll catch your death.”

  Claire swung around and gave her mother a half-smile. “Mother, I’m going to die anyway.” Claire’s laughter could be heard all the way down the icy steps.

  Margaret almost smiled at Claire’s jest She didn’t want to lose her daughter but she had to admit that she liked the spark she’d just seen in her daughter’s eyes. Anything was better than the blank stare Claire had worn upon returning from the doctor’s office.

  A few snowflakes began to fall as Claire walked toward the stable. A path had been cleared, so it was easy to walk through the snow. She felt so alive as the snow crunched under her boots. The air was crisp and felt good in her lungs. This was so much better than sitting in her room thinking and wondering and—worse—waiting. She had done way too much of that. And she wasn’t going to let her condition stop her from living anymore. She’d been careful and done everything that Doc Worden had wanted and what good had it done her?

  The carriage ride down to the ferry town took about a half hour. They boarded the ferry, then Claire stepped out of the carriage as the driver placed wooden blocks behind the wheels. She stood at the side rail and looked out over the river as the steamboat made its way across the river.

  Once they were off the ferry, the carriage was on its way through the streets of New York City. Soon they were passing between the tall rows of business buildings. Finally, they reached the five- story home of her publisher, Harper’s. Once she was there, she instructed the driver to return for her in about an hour.

  She straightened her cloak and entered the red brick building, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Pausing at the top to catch her breath, she realized how weak she’d become by staying in bed so much.

  When she regained her composure, she hurried down the hall to the familiar glass door that said Harper’s Weekly. She strode into the office.

  “Good morning,” Claire said to Alice, the receptionist. “Is Ann in her office?” Claire asked.

  “She sure is,” Alice said with a bright smile. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  Claire smiled as she removed her wool cloak and hung it on the coat rack. “Much better, thank you.”

  “We’ve been worried about you,” Alice told her.

  “Thank you,” Claire replied and then went to Ann’s office. She rapped lightly on the door but didn’t bother to wait for an invitation.

  Ann glanced up as Claire burst into the small office. “What are you doing out of bed? I thought you were going to stay home.”

  Claire sat in the straight-backed chair across from Ann’s desk. “I have had the most wonderful idea, and I couldn’t wait to rim it past you.”

  Ann’s eyebrows arched. “Oh, really?”

  “Really. I’ve decided that I want to write articles about the West.”

  Ann looked over the small reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. “How are you going to do that from here?”

  Claire gave her editor a slow smile. “This is the best part... I’m going to do it from out there, not from here.”

  Ann leaned back in her chair, completely star- tled. And it was hard to startle Ann. “But—”

  “I can wire you the articles. It will be something fresh. Exciting. What do you think?”

  “Well—”

  “I know ... my health. But look at it this way. I can die out there just as easily as I can die right here in New York. I have nothing to lose.”

  Ann frowned, then she said, “I don’t
like to hear you talk about—about—well—you know. However, you do have a point and it would be something different for the magazine.”

  “What do you think Henry will say?”

  A thoughtful smile curved Ann’s lips. “He’ll probably moan and groan and then rephrase the whole thing as if it was his idea. And once it is his idea—he’ll love it. I’ll ask him after you leave, but what about your parents? Have you brought up the subject with them?”

  Claire frowned. “Not yet. I wanted to talk to you, then wire my Uncle Ben before I tell my family.” “Uncle Ben?”

  “He is my father’s brother. He owns the Overland Stage, so I should be able to get quite a few ideas from him.”

  Ann leaned forward and rested her arms on the desk. “It sounds so very exciting. I almost wish I were going instead of staying behind this desk all the time.”

  Claire stood. “You can always come with me.”

  Ann gave her a wistful look from under her brown bangs. “Oh, how I’d like to, but who would make sure that the magazine got printed so our customers could read your fine articles? No.” Ann sighed. “I suppose I’m doomed to sit behind this ugly brown desk. However, I do hope that you’ll have the time of your life.” And then Ann must have realized what she’d said, for she blushed a tomato red. “That was a figure of speech.”

  Claire gave Ann a slow smile. “I intend to. No more being careful. I’m going to have fun. Now I had better go send that telegram. Give Henry my best.”

  A week later, Claire received the telegram from her uncle that she’d been waiting for. He said he couldn’t wait to see her and that she could stay as long as she wanted. Claire shouted for jay.

  Tonight she would break the news to her family over dinner. She took a deep breath for courage then smiled as she thought this would be one dinner where there wouldn’t be a lull in the conversation. She could hear their protests now.

  When she reached the dining room, her family had already sat down. “Hello, Father,” Claire said as she took her seat at the long mahogany table. One of the maids had made a centerpiece of evergreens with holly and red berries.

  Donald Holladay was a large man and still nice- looking for his age. He had a beard that ran along his jaw line, and his hair was as black as Claire’s except for a few gray hairs.

  He ran a prosperous shipping business with his three sons: Heath, Albert, and Bobby. They also raised thoroughbreds so there was never much idle time around Green Hills.

  Heath and Albert barely glanced her way as she sat down across from them. Bobby, the youngest of the boys, sat beside her. He had already snatched a roll before taking his seat, and was tearing off small bites as his brother spoke.

  They were discussing one of their ships that had gone down in a bad storm three days ago. Claire pulled out her small pad of paper and a pencil and began jotting down notes as their plates were served. What a good article this would be, she thought as she scribbled bits and pieces down. She could see the headlines: “Ship Lost at Sea.” A tingle started racing through her body as it always did when she began writing a good article. Maybe she would, one day, give Samuel Clemens a run for his money. She had seen him several times at the magazine but had yet to meet him.

  “You shouldn’t be writing at the table, dear,” Margaret scolded. “It’s considered bad manners.”

  Claire put down her pencil, then unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap, feeling much like a twelve-year-old reprimanded by her mother. Somehow, her family refused to let her grow up. They had been overprotective because of her illness. “Writing stories is what I do, Mother. The ship sinking will make a good story.”

  “You should be writing about women’s things, like fashions or the latest hair styles,” Bobby piped up from next to her and received a swift kick from Claire under the table.

  “Women do have other interests, brother dear.” “It isn’t ladylike, Claire,” Margaret pointed out, “And boys,” she shifted her attention to the other three, “that will be enough business discussed at the table.” Margaret looked to her husband for help. “Say something, Donald.”

  “Your mother is right. Business shouldn’t be discussed at the dinner table,” Donald said in an offhand manner before taking his first sip of tomato soup.

  “All right, Mother,” Albert said, reaching for a roll. “What else do we talk about?”

  Claire couldn’t believe that the perfect opening had been handed to her. “I have something.”

  Heath, the oldest at thirty and set in his ways, looked at her. “We’re all ears, puss.”

  “I’m going out West,” Claire said.

  Her father choked on his soup. A spoon clattered on the fine china as he snatched up his napkin. Suddenly, everyone was talking at once.

  Bobby jerked his head sideways to look at her. “You’re what?”

  “But you’re sick,” her mother cried.

  Heath shook his fork at her. “That is the craziest idea you’ve ever had.”

  “Well, I might be crazy, but I’m still going, and for the very reason that you just said, Mother. If I’m going to die, I’m going to do it my way. I intend to live life to the fullest over these next few months.”

  Margaret dropped her soup spoon. “Donald, speak to your daughter.”

  “When you bring up a topic at dinner, puss,” Heath said as he buttered his biscuit, “you choose well.”

  Claire wanted to stick her tongue out at her brother, but didn’t get the chance as her father spoke.

  “Have you thought about how hard this trip will be on you?”

  Claire nodded. “Yes, father, I have. I wired Uncle Ben, and he is sending one of his men to escort me West.”

  “No daughter of mine is traveling across the country with a perfect stranger. I’ll not have people talking about you,” Margaret said.

  Claire glanced at her mother. “I am a grown woman.”

  “An unmarried grown woman.”

  “I’m sure Uncle Ben wouldn’t send somebody he didn’t trust,” Claire argued.

  “We’ll have a talk with him once he gets here,” Heath said.

  “I have the perfect solution,” her father said. “Why not send Aunt Ute with you? She is an experienced world traveler and can help Claire get settled. Ute will be the perfect chaperone.” He smiled at his idea and added, “She’d box the ears of any man who made advances to Claire.”

  “She is also a nurse,” Margaret added. “Excellent idea, Donald.”

  Claire watched as her family talked amongst themselves as if she weren’t there. Would they ever let her do anything on her own?

  Probably not.

  The whole group was too protective, so it was probably for die best that she was getting away. Claire smiled. She knew they loved her, but she had to go. And she really didn’t mind Aunt Ute. She was a large German woman who came from the old country. She had a wonderful sense of humor, and she didn’t take any guff from anyone.

  “I think Aunt Ute is a wonderful idea,” Claire said.

  “Good. Then it’s all settled. You’ll be leaving next month,” her mother said, as if the whole idea had been hers.

  Chapter Two

  “You ’re a dead man, Billy West!”Ralph Kincade swore, glaring up at Billy as he clutched his wounded son.

  Billy re-holstered his Colt. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Kincade, but Jake drew on me first. ” Hell, Billy thought, he could have killed the snot-nosed kid who was looking for a reputation. At least the kid wouldn’t be drawing a gun on anyone else anytime soon, if ever. With Jake’s hot temper it was just a matter of time before someone killed him. Just maybe, Billy had saved his life.

  Billy rode on the Overland stagecoach, which hit a deep rut and jarred him out of his thoughts about the Kincades. He grabbed at the side of the wooden seat, his gaze moving over the trail ahead. Why the hell the Kincades were on his mind today was a mystery to him. Unless it had something to do with that bullet which had barely missed him last night—a bullet t
hat seemed to have come out of nowhere. Or maybe it was the fact that Billy heard that Jake was dead, having taken his own life. Again the coach hit another deep hole.

  “Shit, Rattlesnake,” Billy swore at the stage driver, sitting next to him. “Are you going to hit every damned hole in the road?”

  “Yer so danged boring today,” Rattlesnake Pete said as he spit tobacco juice out of the side of his mouth. “I keep nodding off.”

  “All right. All right,” Billy said as he replaced the rifle across his arm. He’d ridden shotgun for so long that every once in a while he’d get complacent, which wasn’t good if robbers or Indians attacked the stage. “You miss the holes, and I’ll keep you awake. I reckon I haven’t been much company today.”

  “Dang it, boy, what’s ailin’ you?”

  “Damned if I know. Feel kind of restless ... like I have an itch I can’t scratch. I seem to be doing the same damned thing over and over, day after day. I’m ready to do something different, but I’m not sure what”

  “Yer complaining about my gol-danged company?”

  “Why would I complain about that?” Billy twirled a piece of wheat straw in his mouth. “I’ve seen your ugly hide forever.”

  “It is right handsome,” Rattlesnake said, stroking his scraggly whiskers with his gloved hand. “Maybe that little filly at the way station has gone and got you all stirred up! I seen how she bats them pretty eyelashes every time we stop there to eat.”

  “Nelly’s a good cook,” Billy admitted and then cut his eyes to Rattlesnake Pete, who was one of the best damned drivers Billy had ever ridden with. Pete had white hair and his whiskers were pepper-colored, which made him appear a lot older than he really was. Pete had been around for a long time, and he knew these roads like the back of his hand.

  Ben Holladay, owner of the stage line, was careful to employ only experienced and trustworthy men. At last count, he employed seventy-five drivers on the stage line, and Billy had ridden with most of them. However, Rattlesnake was his favorite by far.