Thunder on the Plains (32 page)

Sunny drank a little wine, and suddenly she thought she heard someone call her name. An intense, inexplicable wave of deep sorrow moved through her, and she set down her wine and looked around the room.

“What is it?” Blaine asked her.

She shivered, pulling her shawl back around her shoulders. “I don't know. I feel like something is wrong.” What was this ridiculous feeling? Had someone called to her? She looked around the room again, then back at Blaine. “I want to go back to my hotel, Blaine, and wire Chicago, make sure everything is all right.”

“Of course everything is all right. What's wrong with you?”

“I told you, I don't know. Please take me back.”

He shrugged. “If that's what you want. I'll go pay for our meal.” He got up and left, and again Sunny scanned the room. What was this feeling? If she discovered everything was all right with Stuart and Vi in Chicago, then what could it be?

Colt? She rose, angry with herself for thinking it. She told herself this had to stop. Colt was gone and had no intention of ever allowing a relationship. For all she knew, he could even be dead.

Blaine returned, and she grasped his arm. “I've changed my mind. There is a play on Broadway I'd like to see. It isn't too late for the last show. Will you take me?”

He grinned. “With great pleasure.”

They left the restaurant together, and other patrons stared and whispered. This was a place where only the very wealthy came to dine, and most knew Sunny and Blaine by sight.

“So, the beautiful couple is together again,” one woman told another with a kind of sneer. “Maybe
this
time they'll marry.”

“They say Sunny Landers is as cold as ice,” her companion replied.

“Quit the gossip, Helen,” the second woman's husband chided.

The woman sniffed. “You men are the ones who tell us these things, so who is
really
doing the gossiping?”

They all laughed lightly.

“All right, then,” the husband replied. “I have a juicy tidbit I never told you.” The women were quickly all ears, and the man grinned at their eagerness. “Word is,” he told them, “the reason those two split up a couple of years ago was over some worthless drifter she knew—part Indian, no less. Something about him being a scout for Sunny and her father a few years back. They kept in touch and he came to see her. It made Blaine O'Brien furious and he left her.”

“An Indian scout!” the first woman gasped.

“Good Lord,” the second put in. “What would a woman of Sunny Landers's position want with a man like that!”

The man shrugged. “Who knows what her secret passions are? Apparently, it's done with and she's back with O'Brien. But can you imagine her walking into a place like this with some long-haired, dark-skinned, buckskin-clad oaf on her arm?”

They all snickered.

“Apparently, the prim and proper Miss Sunny Landers is not
always
so prim and proper,” the first woman said snidely, relishing the chance to slam the wealthy Sunny Landers, who monopolized the society column every time she came to New York. It wasn't fair that any woman so young should be that rich and look that beautiful, let alone be the one to land the most eligible bachelor in New York City.

“Well, maybe it runs in her blood,” the husband replied.

“Runs in her blood?” his wife asked. “What does
that
mean?”

The man hesitated. “Nothing in particular,” he lied. “I just meant that Bo Landers used people as he saw fit. Maybe his daughter does the same. She probably decided on Blaine because of his wealth. Hell, together their fortune would be staggering.”

He was relieved to see that his answer had satisfied the women. He had almost slipped, and he was not about to be the one to spread the story. He didn't even know for sure if the old rumor about Sunny Landers's mother was true, and considering Sunny's wealth and power, he sure as hell didn't want to be the one to start new fires of such damaging gossip. Female or not, Sunny could destroy any man she chose to destroy. Her father had done it years ago to those who had objected to his marriage to the lovely young Lucille Madison. He had no doubt the daughter was capable of being just as ruthless as the father.

May 2, 1865

Colt watched from the window of the train that had brought him to Chicago. The engineer had slowed the engine to a stop in honor of the train passing them on the tracks to their right, also headed into Union Station but very slowly.

Men removed their hats, and women cried. The passing steam engine was decorated with United States flags, and each following passenger car was draped with black mourning cloth.

“That's it,” someone behind him said quietly. “That's the funeral train.”

The car in which Colt was riding was packed with people who had come from other areas of Indiana and Illinois to view their assassinated president's body, which Colt had heard people say would be displayed at the Cook County courthouse in Chicago.

The president's death was the only topic of conversation Colt had heard since the news first hit over two weeks ago while he was in Columbus, Ohio, where he had been sent to recuperate for several days before going on to Chicago to be mustered out of the army. The whole city of Columbus had been in near chaos, people swarming the streets, holding newspapers with bold headlines about Lincoln's shooting at Ford's Theater in Washington. That chaos seemed to have spread to each city where Colt's train stopped.

Although the car in which Colt rode was stuffed to standing room only, the crowd was nearly silent. One woman wept openly, and a man sitting ahead of Colt took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. Colt thought how he would have dearly loved to have been the one to shoot John Wilkes Booth. What an ironic way for all this hell to end.

He was well aware of how people on the train had stared at him all the way here. He figured he must be as close to looking like a walking skeleton as a man could look. He wondered how long it would take for the nightmares to end, the awful dreams that made him wake up in a deep sweat. His hellish dreams of LeeAnn and Ethan had been replaced by haunting visions of life in Andersonville Prison—the ugly pain of his slow-healing wound, the lack of food and medical care. The polluted water they all were forced to drink, which came from the pitiful stream that ran through the dismal prison, gave everyone cramps and diarrhea, which were only compounded by the daily rations of three tablespoons of beans, a little salt, and cutting, unsifted corn meal that made a man feel like he had swallowed razors. For months he had seen nothing but gaunt, dying, dehydrated bodies, and he had become one of them. The only difference between him and most others was that he had survived.

Sometimes he thought the stench of blood and garbage and human waste and death would never leave him, as though the smell had penetrated his very skin. He had seen so much suffering and death that he felt numb, and he feared he had lost all human compassion. At one point the prisoners at Andersonville were dying at the rate of one hundred a day, buried in shallow mass graves like so much dead cattle. In the year he had spent in the hot, mosquito- and fly-infested hellhole, nearly thirteen thousand men died. But the camp was still overcrowded, thousands of men packed into twenty-seven acres. Many had tried to escape, none had succeeded. There was no place to hide in or beyond the compound, which was positioned in a wide-open, unshaded flat piece of land somewhere in Georgia. He had never been quite sure of its exact location, hardly aware of which direction he headed when he and several hundred others were told one day that the war was all but over and they were being released to return to federal troops.

Colt and the others had walked in sadly worn boots along a designated road, many of the men collapsing and dying along the way, some crawling. With what strength he had, Colt had managed to support one man he had befriended, getting him almost “home” to a Union camp, only to have the man become suddenly heavier as he slumped over in death. Colt did not have the strength to carry him. He left him in the road and kept going. He could still remember the gasps and stares of the men who greeted him, remembered his own shock when he looked at himself in a mirror for the first time.

He had been given clean clothes that didn't fit him very well, a few decent meals, and some kind of medicine that was supposed to be a revitalizing tonic. But he knew now that the only tonic he needed was to get back out to the open Plains and sandhills of Nebraska, to lie back in the western sun and let it bathe him. He would go on to the mountains, go to the highest damn peak he could reach and stand there, looking out over the country he loved, watching the eagles, feeling the cool wind, drinking from sparkling clean mountain streams.

He prayed Dancer was still being cared for and he could get the horse back. He would collect the money he had left in a Chicago bank, as well as money the Union Army owed him, and he would leave the war and cities and people behind him. After Andersonville, the thought of being totally alone sounded wonderful.

The funeral train passed by, and his own train chugged slowly into the station. Colt waited as the rest of the passengers got off, then made his way slowly to disembark, grasping the rails tightly to keep from falling down the steps. At twenty-eight, he felt more like eighty. People swarmed everywhere, a few turning to gawk at him, most rushing farther ahead and practically falling over one another. He heard a few wails of grief, and he realized everyone had been running to view the funeral train.

Although it was daylight, it was rather dark inside the cavernous station, and hundreds of lamps were lit so people could see better. It was one of the busiest places Colt had ever seen, and again the feeling of suffocation began to press in on him. Talk and even shouting echoed in the huge railway center, more engines rumbled by, some entering, some leaving, steam hissing from the great belching bellies of the locomotives. An ornate gold-trimmed hearse clattered by, and Colt watched as a man shouted for people to get out of the way.

“From the looks of you, mister, I'd say you've been in one of those godforsaken prison camps,” someone nearby said. Colt turned to see a middle-aged, friendly looking man standing near him. He gave Colt a warm smile and took his arm. “I'm Jonathan Brinks, a hospital volunteer. My job is to watch for you fellows and help you to the nearest hospital, where you do some healing before getting back into civilian life.”

Colt welcomed the help. He reached into the pocket of the lightweight Union jacket that had been issued to him and took out a piece of paper. “I'm damn glad to see you,” he told Brinks. “I wasn't sure how to reach the hospital. Here are the papers from officers in Columbus with orders that I'm to get medical care here. I'm Colt Travis.”

The man opened the paper to read the orders. “Well, from that southern accent, I'm surprised you served the Union.”

“I just thought it was the right thing to do. Now I'm not so sure the war itself was right. But it's over now.”

“Well, you just come with me. I'll get you out of this crowded mess.”

The man led Colt in the opposite direction from the funeral train, keeping hold of his arm for support. Colt guessed the man to be about fifty. He was short and plump, with graying hair and a great kindness in his brown eyes. Colt was grateful for the thoughtful people who volunteered their time to help the soldiers who had no one to meet them when they came home. “Looks like a lot of people are here just to see the president's train,” he commented.

“Yes, it's a sad, sad time for us all, Mr. Travis. I imagine just about everybody in Chicago will be going to the courthouse over the next day or two to view President Lincoln's body before it's taken to Springfield for burial, but not even something that important can put a halt to our hospital work. My job is to get you some help.”

The station was so packed that a few people bumped into them as they made their way outside. Colt glanced in fascination at another monstrous, black steam engine, noticing B&L painted on its boiler. So, here was another part of Sunny's world, he thought. He had done a lot of traveling by train the last few days, and he couldn't help wondering how much of each person's ticket went into the pockets of people like Sunny and others who owned and invested in the railroad. He wondered what it must be like to actually own a railroad, to sit in boardrooms and make decisions that affected the way so many people traveled. He still preferred a nice, quiet horse, but he couldn't help being a little awed by the eight-wheeled monstrosities that pulled the trains, and he shivered to think what people like White Buffalo would say when these big engines rumbled across the plains and prairies.

Brinks led him to a waiting buggy, and Colt grimaced with the effort it took to climb up into the seat. He waited for Brinks to untie the horses, remembering Stuart telling him years before that more trains came into and out of Chicago than any other city in the country. He could well believe it from all the activity. He watched a freight train arrive, a passenger train leave. Some engines read
Illinois Central
, others
Chicago & Rock Island
; he saw yet another that read B&L.

“Washington wants to give the nation time to mourn and a chance to pay their respects,” Brinks was saying. “The funeral train has been through several major cities on its way to Springfield, with funeral processions and viewing at each stop.” The man climbed up beside Colt and picked up the reins, guiding the carriage slowly through crowds of people. “I read in the newspaper a few days ago that some people were actually injured in the rush to view the body at Independence Hall in Philadelphia. The whole nation is in grief and turmoil. The war may be over, Mr. Travis, but I am afraid that the hatred and bitterness will be with a lot of people for a long time to come.”

Colt thought of his own personal hellish memories. “Yes. I imagine it will.” He thought about the young boy he had killed back in the Wilderness, wondering if his body had been burned up in the brush fires that awful night he had managed to escape. In his present physical and emotional condition, the memory made him want to weep. Whose son was he? Had his family found out what happened to him? How many soldiers on both sides would simply never return, their families never knowing how or when they had died, what had happened to their bodies?

He took in the sights as Brinks headed for the hospital. He was amazed at how much Chicago had grown in the three years since he left. Was Sunny here, or was she in Omaha? Surely she was grieved over Lincoln's death, since she and her father had known the man and had worked so hard to get him elected his first term. Being here again brought back memories, memories of stolen kisses one night on a beach, the taste and feel of sweet, beautiful, forbidden Sunny. That seemed like such a long time ago now. He was a different person then. They both were. Sunny was probably up to her neck in railroad matters now, maybe engaged to Blaine, or even married. It didn't matter anymore. She had her life, and he had his; and in his present condition the last thing he cared about was trying to find her. He would never want her to see him like this, and it would be useless to see her anyway, even if he were healthy. When he left her that night on the beach it was with full knowledge that it was best never to see her again.

“Maybe you can help me find my way around after I get a little more of my strength back,” he told Brinks. “I left my horse and some personal possessions with a Jake Winters before I left. He was volunteering to take care of such things for men who wanted to join the war for the Union cause. I hope he still has them.”

“Well, I imagine we can find Mr. Winters through the center for volunteers. I'll check it out for you. I'll also see about your army pay.”

“I appreciate the help. I have some money in a bank here too—First Federal, I think it's called. I'd like to get it out of there, get things together within a few days and head back west. That's where I grew up. I was a scout for several years, led wagon trains to Oregon, that kind of thing.”

“My! How exciting!” Brinks glanced at him, squinting curiously. “You're Indian, aren't you?”

Colt figured he looked more Indian than ever, since he hadn't bothered to get his hair cut for quite some time. It hung past his shoulders. “Yes, sir, part Cherokee. My father was white. That's where I got my eyes—and my size.” He looked down at his bony thighs. “My height, I guess I should say. Can't say much about my size right now. I used to be pretty big.”

“Well, we'll fatten you up and give you more tonics. Within the year you'll be back to normal. Just don't go riding off into the sunset too soon. You need time to heal.”

“I'll heal better when I get back out to the country I love, Mr. Brinks. That's all I want. Once I feel that western sun on my back, set my eyes on the Nebraska Plains, see the Rockies on the horizon—then I'll start to heal.”

“Well, most every man wants to be wherever he calls home, that's for sure. Me, I was born and raised right here in Chicago. I've always wondered about the West though. Looks like things are going to start to grow and develop out there, especially if they build that transcontinental railroad. The Union Pacific already has headquarters set up out in Omaha, I hear, had their ground-breaking back in sixty-three, but they're still having trouble getting construction started. I imagine now that the war is over, things will really get under way. Congress can give more attention to rebuilding the country.” The man halted the buggy in front of a large brick structure. “Fact is, once you decide to head back west, you can get a real head start by taking the Union Pacific. It connects clear to Omaha now.”

Omaha. Colt thought how many memories that city held for him. He wondered if Billie was still there. He imagined that Omaha, too, was growing rapidly. Everything was growing and changing. Time and circumstance stood still for no one. LeeAnn and little Ethan were long buried, his short but happy married life over. Slim was gone, his parents. He had been through a hellish war and ungodly agony in a southern prison. Now here he was back in Chicago, where he had held the beautiful, wealthy Sunny Landers in his arms three years earlier. He had to grin at the kind of reaction he would get if he told that to Jonathan Brinks. The man would think he had lost his mind.