The Journey of Josephine Cain (4 page)

“That he ever thought he could load that barge like he was still twenty . . .”

“See? He needs us. So does Mum and . . . Mum.”

Raleigh grinned. “Mum and Sa-rah-ann.” He sang her name.

Which was fitting because Sarah Ann was like a song, a gentle melody that hung in the air.

Hudson pushed his brother to get him going again. “It might do you good to find a woman to tame your mangy hide and get you to settle down.”

Raleigh shook his head. “I’m only eighteen. You had your time for adventure during the war while I was stuck at home with Mum and Da. I’m not near ready to settle for anything.”

“I’m not settling. I’m working toward a goal.”

Raleigh rubbed his fingers together. “So am I. I’m aching for the dough. The greenbacks. The silver.” He slapped the pocket of his coat. “I can’t wait to be weighed down with the money.”

“Money to send home.”

It was Raleigh’s turn to stop. “Not all of it. Right off the top the railroad’s going to keep twenty dollars a month for room and board, so
that’s already near seven days a month we’re working for free. A man deserves to keep a decent amount for all his trouble. Don’t he?”

Hudson felt bad for his little brother. He understood the attraction of being off on his own. When Hudson joined the Union Army with John and Ezra and they’d first marched off to battle, he’d felt puffed up inside, like he was finally a man. They were doing something noble and good by fighting for their country and the cause of freedom.

The lofty feeling only lasted until the first shots were fired and he actually saw a Confederate killed by
his
bullet, and then saw John killed, right there beside him. A few seconds was all it took. Their first battle had been John’s last. How unfair was that?

Hudson and Ezra had nearly given up and gone home, right then. If it hadn’t been for General Cain riding through the stunned and hurting ranks that evening, pausing to offer his special condolences for the loss of their brother . . . And so he and Ezra had managed to stay on and fight—for John’s sake. They didn’t want him to have died for nothing. And Maguires were not quitters.

Fighting never became second nature, though Hudson
had
become numb to the blood. He’d had to. A soldier couldn’t be heaving behind every bush. Dysentery caused enough problems.

Hudson was thankful the war was over so Raleigh would never have to see such violence, never smell death, never be scared into thinking that it would be better to die rather than to endure the constant fear.

A swat to Hudson’s hat brought him back to the present. “Ah, don’t worry about me,” Raleigh said. “I ain’t as dumb as I pretend to be. I know what’s what with saving a little money. As a spiker we’ll get three dollars a day—which is ninety dollars a month. Even after the room and board, we’ll have seventy.”

“Glad to know you can add.”

They weren’t alone in their trek to the work yard. Hundreds of men swarmed forward like ants converging on a crumb. The crumb was work. The crumb was money. The crumb was hope. Many were soldiers needing work after the war, but many were immigrants from the East—and even Europe beyond—lured by the promise of steady work, decent
pay, and the adventure of experiencing the mythical “West.” There were even ex-slaves working right alongside the men who’d fought to keep them enslaved. An odd thing, all around.

Hudson wasn’t as starry-eyed as some. There
was
fighting ahead. He’d heard awful tales from both sides of the Indian issue. There’d been Indian raiding parties and scalpings of railroad men. There’d been the Sand Creek massacre, where soldiers killed 150 Indians, including women and children. And the retaliation of a thousand Indians killing whites, pulling down telegraph wires, and burning Julesburg, Colorado, to the ground.

There seemed to be a lot of wrong going on, and very little right.

That’s what lay to the west, along with the hopes and dreams of a better future. Raleigh might still see the horrors of a different kind of war.

Hudson nudged his brother to get to the front of the group. There wasn’t work enough for every man, at least not until they got underway laying track. Hundreds had been waiting in Omaha, waiting for the Missouri River to be free of ice so supplies could come across. But finally the ground was thawed and they could get laying. The land ahead of them was mapped out and grading was underway. They had deadlines to meet or the Union Pacific wouldn’t get paid.

And if they didn’t get paid, all these men wouldn’t get paid.

Hudson and Raleigh shouldered past the crowd and settled right in front of the foreman. Hudson knew Boss had seen how hard they worked, so he was hoping—

“You and you,” Boss said, pointing at Hudson and Raleigh, then a couple dozen others. “I want these bunk cars finished by the end of the day.”

The men who weren’t chosen grumbled, but Boss yelled after them. “There’s a new shipment of ties to be loaded into the Burnettizer.”

The men ran toward that work, yet the Burnettizer was a mystery to Hudson. Somehow putting soft cottonwood railroad ties into a long cylinder, then taking all the air out and putting some chemical in, made soft wood hard. Supposedly. Hudson couldn’t help but think somebody at the railroad had been sold a bill of goods.

It wasn’t his problem. Hudson had to assume that Dr. Durant and Mr. Reed and all the others who were in charge had the best interests of the project at heart.

Boss interrupted Hudson’s thoughts with his usual, “Get on it, men!”

Hudson was not surprised that the bunk cars were General Cain’s invention. The general had always put his men first.

Up until these cars were built, the workers who’d laid the first forty miles of track had been forced to bring their housing with them. They’d slept in tents or shanties and moved their shelter as the work progressed. It was not entirely efficient. But these bunk railcars would let the workers move with the work without having to set things up from scratch at every stop.

Hudson climbed on top of the first car, which was taller than a normal railcar. There were three rows of windows mirroring stacks of three bunks. Both ran the length of the car, which was eighty-five feet long. Hudson knew. He’d measured and cut the floor planks to fit. Today, they were installing skylights on the roof.

“Catch,” said a worker on the ground. He heaved a rope up to Hudson. At the ground end, the rope was tied to a large pane of glass. “Careful now. Pull ’er up.”

They installed the glass and continued the process many times across the top of the bunk cars. After repeatedly squatting down to nail the mullions in place, Hudson stood and arched his back.

Raleigh laughed at him, though he also stretched. “What is it Da always says?”

“That which does not kill us makes us strong.”

Raleigh pointed his hammer at him. “Yeah, that’s the one. I hate that saying.”

Maybe so. But it was true. And Hudson knew that this work was nothing compared to laying rails.

The clock on the mantel was an instrument of torture.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock
. And the occasional
tock-tick
.

Aunt’s snorting snore interrupted the incessant reminder that time was passing. Josephine’s youth was passing; her life was passing.

Mother seemed unaware as she read a book, her chin occasionally bobbing against her chest.

Was this
it
? Was this all there was? Spending day after day in a luxurious parlor that had been decorated for gaiety and society? It wasn’t fair that Josephine’s coming-out years had paralleled those of the war. What should have been the sunniest years of her life had been rained on with worry, and then drowned with mourning. Those years had slipped away, never to be recovered. The bloom of her youth had been left untended and was shriveling before her eyes.

This parlor, which should have held musical soirees, parties, and flirtatious conversation, had instead been used as a place for women to roll bandages and listen to abolitionist lectures.

And now that the war was ended? The country was trying to rebuild.

The
rest
of the country. The Cain residence had its foundation fully mired in the past. There would be no rebuilding here. That Josephine was barely twenty . . .

She glanced at the clock and saw it was past six. Papa should be home by now. Although he’d remained firm in his decision to bar her from traveling west with him, she was not about to surrender. He’d always—always—given in to her wishes before. That this particular request was more substantial than her previous desires (which admittedly had
tended toward the frivolous) only meant that persistence was needed. Father
would
cave. Family history said so.

When she heard his voice outside and his footsteps upon the stoop, she rushed to greet him.

Dowd opened the door to Papa—and another man. He was shorter than Papa, with dark eyes. After removing his hat, he ran a hand through longish black hair, making it bow to his will.

Josephine kissed Papa’s cheek, then turned toward the man. “You’ve brought home a guest?”

“Indeed I have.” He motioned the man forward. “Josephine, I would like you to meet Mr. Lewis Simmons. Mr. Simmons, this is my dear daughter, Miss Josephine Cain.”

He offered her a neat bow, and she nodded.

“So nice to meet you, Miss Cain,” he said, putting his gloves into his hat and handing them to Dowd. “Your father has spoken of your beauty and gracious nature.”

“Oh, has he now?” she asked, giving Papa a look. For they both knew that “gracious” was not one of her attributes.

Papa ignored her and instructed Dowd to have another place set for dinner. By now, Mother and Aunt had awakened and joined them in the foyer. Josephine let the introductions recede into the background. Her eyes were glued on Lewis Simmons.

My, he was a handsome man. Perfect actually, with just the right length of nose, and square of chin. The only flaw seemed to be the hint of danger in the way he handled the moment, as if he had a winning hand but wasn’t about to show it. Yet.

But perhaps that wasn’t a flaw at all.

As Papa took Mother’s arm and led her in to dinner, Mr. Simmons offered his arm to Josephine. “Shall we, Miss Cain?”

Please help me say the right thing
.

Lewis Simmons took a seat at the table next to Josephine Cain. He saw the tablecloth move above his lap, and realized it was his very own
leg causing the movement. He slipped a hand atop his thigh and pressed it into submission.

He was so nervous he wasn’t sure if he could eat. An unexpected dinner invitation from General Reginald Cain, when Lewis had just promised himself that he
had
to meet the general’s daughter . . . He wasn’t used to having things go his way.

He’d been watching Miss Cain for months—not that she went out much. He’d wanted to meet her but wasn’t sure how to scale the tall wall of mourning that surrounded the Cain household. He’d heard from the Cains’ coachman that the general was coming home for a visit, so he’d planned on finding a reason to call. But today when he’d seen the general enter the offices of the
Washington Chronicle
, a better plan had hatched in his mind. Lewis had a valid excuse to also be in the building, as he was trying to sell some of his illustrations to the editor, so meeting the general there was a pleasant happenstance. And then, when the general had remembered a published sketch Lewis had drawn of President Lincoln . . .

That one sketch, plus a little charm, had led to this invitation to dinner, and now he was seated next to the general’s daughter. That one open door caused his mind to swim with possibilities. Lewis was nothing if not an opportunist, a trait that had saved his life more than once.

Now he was in. Now, his plan could proceed.

Winning the heart of Josephine Cain would not be a hardship, as she
was
a beauty, though the reddish tint to her blond hair was a color more unique than fashionable. He found her freckles pleasant—though he knew society looked upon them otherwise. He liked her voice too. It was strong yet feminine. He could already tell she was spirited, a girl who knew what she wanted and was used to getting it.