‘‘Thank you.’’
‘‘You must thank Mrs. de Mores. She donated all the prizes for today.’’
‘‘Congratulations. You did well,’’ Virginia whispered as they returned to their seats.
‘‘We will now have an arithmetic spelldown. Take sides again.’’
This time Robert Grady won the prize. The smile on his face made Opal wish Atticus had been there to see him.
The red team won the geography contest, and everyone received a tablet and a pencil.
‘‘Now for our attendance awards.’’ He called out the names according to age, with the Robertson girls and Opal all getting perfect attendance awards. Each received another book and a certificate. ‘‘How many years does that make it for you?’’ Mr. Finch asked Opal.
‘‘Two. I had the measles the first year.’’ Opal took her seat again.
‘‘We will now adjourn to the outside for the races.’’
By the end of the day Opal had two blue ribbons to add to her stack of books. She put all her treasures in her saddlebags and mounted Bay.
‘‘Am I glad that’s over,’’ she muttered when they were out of earshot.
‘‘Why, I thought you had fun. I did,’’ Virginia said from behind her.
‘‘I did. Today. I meant I’m glad school is over.’’
‘‘Oh, me too.’’
Opal stared up the street. A man riding into town looked familiar. No, it couldn’t be. She reined Bay off between two buildings. ‘‘What are you doing?’’
‘‘Did you see that man up the street?’’
‘‘No. I didn’t pay any attention.’’
‘‘He’s the one Atticus and I strung up.’’
‘‘Oh no.’’
‘‘Oh yes. What am I going to tell Rand?’’
‘‘Well, it’s not your fault.’’
‘‘Maybe I won’t say anything.’’
Emily and Ada Mae met them as they came out the alley.
‘‘What happened to you?’’
Opal told them and finished with ‘‘Let’s get on home.’’
Do I tell him? Do I not tell him?
The words kept beat with Bay’s easy lope. A covey of prairie chickens thundered up from their right. ‘‘Wish I had the shotgun along.’’
‘‘I don’t ever want to shoot anything.’’ Virginia raised her voice to be heard above the thudding hooves.
‘‘You help butcher chickens. What’s the difference? We need to eat.’’
‘‘I know. But wild things like the grouse and the antelope are so beautiful out where they belong.’’
Opal heard her, but her inner voice was louder.
That man is
back, and he was riding with another guy. It’s a free country. He can go
wherever he wants. He’s either pretty brave or stupid dumb to come back
after the men warned him away. What will Rand do?
I hate to have to tell him
. She clamped her teeth on the argument.
I am not afraid. I am not afraid. I’m not. I’m not
.
How could his life go to the dogs so quickly? Jacob wondered as the train clacked westward. He stared at the small body sleeping huddled under a quilt in the seat opposite him.
My son. Part of
me. And his mother committed suicide. All my fault
.
He’d not allowed his mind to even speak the word up until now. There was always the hope Melody did not throw herself off the bridge, but that bit of fabric snagged on the railing was pretty conclusive evidence.
I should have stayed in the valley and helped search the river for her
body
. He turned his attention to the land passing outside the window. Small farms, woods, small towns. Newly planted fields. New life everywhere but here on the train heading west and taking him from all he’d known.
He’d seen no alternative. He couldn’t face the lie. All his careful planning gone.
Coward! Coward! Coward!
Lord, what am I going to do? I cannot be a pastor again. I thought I
was following your plan for me. My church will wash their hands of me. I
should have gone to see the bishop. I wish I’d gone to Mr. Dumfarthing.
All my life I’ve been so circumspect. All but that one time, and it has come
back to haunt me, nay, not just haunt me but to tear my life limb from
limb. Drawn and quartered and all but my head stuck on a spike in the
town square.
And look who is suffering for my sin
. Joel’s dark eyes haunted him.
My son
. The words still felt foreign to Jacob.
How will I care for him? Where will we go?
Surely he could get a job somewhere.
The train’s
clackety-clack
lulled him to a half sleep.
‘‘Sir.’’
The small voice snapped him alert. ‘‘Yes, Joel.’’
‘‘I gotta go.’’
‘‘You know where it is. Do you need me to open the door for you?’’
‘‘Yes, please.’’
Jacob stood, picked up the quilt, and folded it in half and then half again to lay it on the seat. ‘‘Come on.’’
He opened the door to the necessary and waited until he heard his son call again from the other side.
He’s so little. Is he small
for his age?
He’d counted the months.
He just turned seven
. Jacob led the way back to their seats.
‘‘Are you hungry?’’
Joel nodded.
Jacob dug down in their satchel and handed him a sandwich, their last. They’d have to eat in the dining car or buy food at one of the stops, both outrageously expensive.
He could see his small hoard of cash disappearing like mist in the sun. His own stomach grumbled from lack of food. They’d already been on the train twenty-four hours. Should they get off in Chicago and he go look for work there?
The thought brought on a shudder of revulsion. Country was what he needed. Country where he could find work on a farm or a ranch until he could get enough of a stake to homestead. Dakotah Territory had opened more land for homesteading. The Sanders family had left Pennsylvania and gone west to homestead. He’d had one letter from them saying they’d found a good place, that God had led them to a place where someone else had already broken the sod and then left.
Jacob stared at his hands, calloused from chopping wood but not tough enough to guide a hand plow behind a horse. And where would he get enough money to buy a horse?
It all came back to money. While he’d never had extra, at least up until now he’d known where his next meal was coming from.
I should have gone home
. That thought brought on another wince. To bring Joel there would have been an admittance of his former lack of character.
‘‘I’m thirsty.’’
‘‘Oh, sorry. You know where the water is. Do you need help?’’
Joel shook his head.
‘‘Go on.’’
He watched the boy sway back down the aisle, a small hand seeking safety by hanging on to the seat armrests.
‘‘Hiram, did you read about Medora in that paper?’’ The voice came from the seat behind him.
‘‘Hmm.’’
‘‘That marquis sure dreams big dreams, don’t he?’’
‘‘You mean with shipping all that beef and such on refrigerated cars?’’
‘‘Yes, I find it fascinating.’’
‘‘He’ll never make it. Mark my words, the big packing houses will never give him a chance.’’
‘‘I heard he shipped salmon clear from the West Coast.’’
‘‘Hmm.’’
‘‘We might have eaten some of it at the Stanleys’.’’ The woman’s voice carried well.
Jacob knew better than to eavesdrop, but perhaps this was a gift from God. Medora. He liked the sound of the name. A woman’s name for a town. How had that come about?
Joel returned and rolled up the quilt so he could sit on it to see out the window.
Where was this Medora? Dared he ask?
‘‘He has no chance, a Frenchie like that taking on the establishment.’’ ‘‘From what I’ve read, he has plenty of backing.’’ The woman seemed insistent on keeping the conversation going.
How can I find out more about this place?
‘‘There was that scandal about him killing a man, gunned him down without a qualm.’’
‘‘I don’t believe that what we read was the whole story.’’ She rattled the paper she was reading. ‘‘You know those reporters, always going for the sensational.’’
‘‘Now, don’t you go making disparaging remarks about reporters. Remember, I was one for a time.’’
‘‘I know, but owning the paper is so much more satisfying.’’
What paper? Who were these people? Jacob took a huge bite of courage, put his most charming smile in place, and stood. He motioned for Joel to stay where he was and took the three steps that brought him even with the seat behind him.
‘‘Sorry to bother you folks, but I couldn’t help overhearing your talk of Medora. I was wondering if you could tell me more of this place.’’
‘‘And you would be?’’
‘‘Jacob Chandler, ma’am.’’ Had he a hat on, he would have doffed it. His name sounded naked without the title in front of it.
They both laid down their newspapers, the man folding his just so, leaving the headlines showing. ‘‘What is it you want to know?’’
‘‘First of all, where is it located?’’
‘‘Western edge of Dakotah Territory, right on the Northern Pacific Railroad. Little Missouri River flows through there.’’
‘‘I see. This Frenchman, what was his name?’’
‘‘The Marquis de Mores. He married Medora von Hoffman, the daughter of a New York banker.’’ The woman smiled up at him. ‘‘Are you thinking of going there?’’
‘‘Possibly.’’
‘‘What is it you do for a living?’’
Ah, you would ask that
. ‘‘I’m thinking of teaching school. But I wouldn’t mind working for a man like that. He sounds like a real forethinker.’’
‘‘Ach, dreamer is more like it. You’d do well to stick to teaching.’’
‘‘So the region is good for raising cattle?’’ He figured that, since they’d mentioned shipping beeves.
‘‘They drive them up from Texas to fatten there. Quite the frontier—cowboys and Indians and all. Pretty rough life if you ask me.’’ The man gave him a nod. ‘‘But you’re young and strong. Takes that to make it out there, or so they say.’’
‘‘You and your little boy . . .’’ The woman hesitated.
Please don’t ask about his mother
. ‘‘They say there is land in Dakotah for homesteading. Is that around Medora?’’
‘‘I doubt it. Those ranchers don’t like sodbusters coming in.
Free range is what makes it possible for them to raise cattle the way they do.’’
‘‘Where are you from?’’ the woman asked.
‘‘Pennsylvania.’’ Jacob smiled at her but turned back to the man. ‘‘How could I learn more about this place, short of going there?’’
‘‘I grew up in Pennsylvania, near Philadelphia. Lovely city.’’ She leaned forward. ‘‘What part did you come from?’’
‘‘Now, Mrs. Thornwald, don’t badger the young man so,’’ her husband admonished.
Jacob nearly sighed with relief. How difficult this was, trying to get information without sharing much about himself. He’d gone to school in Philadelphia. Perhaps they knew much of the same area. Conversations were built that way. As a pastor he’d enjoyed just such chances to meet people as this. The lie. It always came back to the lie. Was it going to color the rest of his life?
‘‘I thank you for the information. Please forgive my bothering you like this.’’
‘‘Not at all. If you have more questions, we have hours yet before Chicago,’’ Mrs. Thornwald assured him. ‘‘Mr. Thornwald likes nothing better than talking about the West. Why, I think he’d go be a cowboy himself like Mr. Roosevelt did, if he were younger.’’
‘‘Mr. Roosevelt?’’
‘‘Yes, Theodore Roosevelt. He’s from New York. Ailing son of a wealthy family, who went west for his health after the tragic death of his wife and fell in love with the country and the people. He has a ranch there now and runs cattle somewhere near Medora.’’
‘‘Oh really.’’ Jacob glanced over his shoulder to see Joel staring at him again. Those dark eyes so sad. What could he do?
‘‘My thanks again for your time.’’ He backed away and turned to sit down in his own seat.
Surely this was providence.
The next day he waved good-bye to the Thornwalds as they departed and then, taking up their possessions, he nodded to Joel. ‘‘Stay right with me now. We have to change trains, and I have to buy new tickets. We’ll get something to eat here too.’’
Joel nodded.
How could this child sit so still and never say a word unless asked a direct question? This extra burden weighed far heavier than the satchel carrying the few books he brought along with his clothes.
Once they had their tickets in hand, Jacob took Joel up to the counter to eat. ‘‘What would you like?’’ He pointed up to the reader board.
Joel shrugged.
‘‘Can you read what it says?’’
This time he gave the barest shake of his head.
‘‘Can you read at all?’’
A nod small as a blink.
‘‘So you’ve been to school.’’
Another blink.
‘‘Good. You can have a ham sandwich or beef or cheese, unless you’d like a bowl of soup. And there is milk for you to drink. Which would you like?’’
Joel stared at him, eyes rounder than normal.
‘‘Joel, you can make a choice.’’ Jacob kept his voice gentle, for whenever he raised it at all, the boy closed the shutters to his soul as though a big storm lurked just over the hill.
‘‘Ham, beef, or cheese? I’m having ham.’’
A slight nod.
I do hope that means he wants the same. Is it always going to be like
this, me trying to understand sign language? Ah, Melody, how do I reach
him? I know he can talk, and he isn’t slow. But he certainly has shut me
out
.
‘‘That’ll be two ham sandwiches—if you could put cheese on them, that would be better—one glass of milk, and a cup of coffee. Oh, and two of those cookies you have there.’’ He indicated the cake plate with a glass cover.
They took their meal to a table and chairs out on the black-and-white squares of marble set in a diagonal pattern.
Jacob set out the food and bowed his head. ‘‘Lord, we ask you to bless this food we have, and we thank you for caring for our every need. Amen.’’
Joel sat with one bite in his mouth, as if chewing might be cause for trouble.
‘‘We say grace before we eat, and from now on I will ask that you pray some of the times too.’’