Westward the Dream (34 page)

“But I'm Irish—nothing more than a poor peasant.”

“Ha! Not in my brother's eyes. And so what if you are Irish? Your brother is already married into the family, or have you forgotten? My family hardly worries about such matters, as they are usually too busy building railroads.”

They were silent for several minutes before Caitlan finally said, “I don't want to go to California.”

“What?” Jordana asked. She looked hard at Caitlan and found the barest hint of a smile on the young woman's face.

“I
have
grown an attachment, but it includes yarself as well. I'm enjoyin' the adventure as much as yarself. I'd just as soon stay on and help Brenton with his pictures. He's been teachin' me, ya know.”

“Yes, I do know. He said a good assistant is critical. But are you serious? You'd give up going to California and seeing your brother?”

“I don't even know the man. He left when I was just a babe, remember? It's hard to consider goin' to him if it means leavin'—”

“Brenton?” Jordana filled the word in with a twinkle in her eye.

Caitlan sighed. “Aye.”

Brenton returned to the top deck and felt the cold November air hit him. He was twenty years old and headed to Omaha on behalf of a man who was now across the Atlantic and quite unconcerned with his progress. Brenton had already decided that Omaha would be the limit of his duties for Vanderbilt. He would break the association and move out on his own. Considering Vanderbilt's new circumstances, Brenton was positive such a move on his part could not offend the man.

It wasn't that the association hadn't been a good one, but Brenton realized with a heavy heart that he'd spent nearly a year trying to get Caitlan west to her brother. It didn't matter that because communication was so poor he hadn't a clue as to where Victoria and Kiernan had taken themselves. The point was, he had selfishly kept busy with his photography and Vanderbilt's land schemes. Why, Caitlan had even taken an interest in his work, and she was becoming a very adequate assistant. Not two days before embarking on this trip to Omaha, she had taken her first pictures, and he had been thrilled to see the results. They weren't in fact the best quality, but Brenton thought them perfect, even if one was a photograph of himself.

He remembered fondly the way Caitlan had treasured the thing. She had refused to allow him to put it with his other pictures, insisting that this one belonged only to her. He recalled feeling possessive in that same way about his first photograph.

He leaned on the rail and sighed. The light was fading from the skies as the sun sank lower and lower onto the western horizon. The thick forests of trees were now mostly void of their leaves, and the black outlines of their branches cast shadows upon the water. They looked rather like bony fingers reaching out to touch the paddlewheeler.

“Oh, Caitlan,” he murmured, watching the landscape slip by. “If you only knew my heart.”

He knew he had crossed a line where she was concerned. His heart was totally hers, and now the thought of taking her west to her brother caused Brenton not fear but grief. How could he leave her once they finally arrived at Kiernan's door? He couldn't imagine life without her, and yet he could hardly expect her to jump at the opportunity to become his wife. He was only twenty, and his chosen occupation held no real promise of fortune or fame. He longed for life lived from the back of a wagon, with the smell of chemicals all around him and his eyes ever fixed for that perfect picture. He could hardly expect a woman like Caitlan to desire such a life. She had come from poverty and sorrows. She deserved more from life than he might be able to offer her. He certainly did not want to depend on his parents' money his whole life. He wanted to make his own way. But it might be a difficult way, which Caitlan did not need.

He shook his head. “It wouldn't be fair to expect such a thing of her.”

The paddlewheeler chugged on as twilight deepened. Brenton loved the colors in the sky and wondered if someday they might actually find a way to capture colors in photographs. It seemed an impossibility, but then, so too had the images he captured now on glass negatives. His mother and father had taught him that anything was possible. If one wanted it badly enough and worked hard enough at it, one could have most anything.

He wondered silently if that included Caitlan.

Guilt consumed him as he wrestled with the feelings of desire and longing. He'd been told of a stage line that ran out of Leavenworth, Kansas, all the way to California. Perhaps he should have them get off at the next port and go back south to that small river town. He could put Caitlan on the stage, unaccompanied, but at least chaperoned by the driver and other passengers. She could be in California in little over a week.

But then what? She'd be alone and have no one to care for her once she arrived. Brenton considered the possibility of going with her, but that would hardly be appropriate. It wouldn't be fitting at all for two unmarried people to travel alone together. Especially when one was in love with the other. He could book passage for all three of them, but he had little desire to encourage Jordana's flare for adventure.

Of course, that wasn't the strongest reason for pushing on to Omaha rather than turning back for Leavenworth. The strongest reason was Brenton's desire to keep Caitlan at his side.

“But that hardly seems fair or right,” he muttered with a sigh. There seemed to be no simple answers where the heart was concerned.

36

“Well, Omaha certainly isn't much to look at,” Jordana said from the window of the unpleasant hotel where they'd managed to take refuge. The place had only one room available, so Brenton took it and slept on the floor, while Jordana and Caitlan shared a small bed together. It was hardly acceptable procedure or convenient for privacy's needs, but together they had worked to create an amicable existence.

“I've checked with the telegraph office four times, but there is still no word from Vanderbilt's associates,” Brenton said, his voice betraying his concern. “Our funds have dwindled considerably, especially in light of shipping the wagon up here on the steamer. I suppose we should have just taken the roads and risked driving it ourselves, but with winter setting in, I was worried we'd get bogged down somewhere along the way.”

“Ya made a good choice,” Caitlan tried to encourage him.

Jordana nodded. She was coming to realize, by watching Caitlan's interaction with Brenton, that he was far more encouraged by positive words than negative ones. She had always chided him for his lack of self-confidence, but Caitlan chose another route. Caitlan helped him to see the strengths he had inside. It humbled Jordana to realize that, unlike Caitlan, she often made Brenton feel less of a man for the words and actions she carelessly aimed at him. It seemed in spite of her deep, abiding love for Brenton, hers were actions that did more to tear down than build up. Caitlan used her love to make Brenton strong, encouraged, hopeful. She was the best possible woman for Brenton, and already Jordana wondered how she might help her brother to see this for himself.

Of course, Jordana was certain Brenton felt the same way toward Caitlan. Yet ever since they'd steamed upriver to Omaha, he had distanced himself in a strange way. Even now, sharing a very cramped room, Brenton always seemed hesitant to comment much one way or another on things concerning Caitlan. Maybe he was worried about the issues of their faith. Caitlan might have softened a bit since their journey had begun, but she was still clearly negative toward religion and spiritual matters. Brenton hardly seemed likely to take a wife who didn't approve of his religious views, which were important to him.

“Since we plan to be here a spell,” Caitlan said, getting up from where she sat on the edge of the bed, “I think gettin' a job would be in order. I can do laundry for those busy railroad men. After all, once they actually break ground in a few days, the work will probably be plentiful.”

“I don't think it would be wise for you to take on such a position,” Brenton said rather curtly.

“And why not?” Caitlan questioned, hands on hips. “I know how to wash clothes. Haven't I proven as much with yar own things?”

Jordana saw Brenton blush ever so slightly.

“I think I should be the one to get a job. If the Vanderbilts aren't available to keep us supplied, I believe I should cease to be under their employ and seek out something else.”

“Ya needn't suggest that yar the only one to be responsible for such a plan,” Caitlan said, putting on her bonnet. “I won't be takin' charity. So long as we've been on this journey for Vanderbilt, I've tried to earn my keep. I won't be sittin' back and doin' nothin' while ya take on all the burden for yarself. Besides, washin' clothes might be hard work, but it's somethin' I know well.”

“You don't understand the connotation that accompanies the women who wash for the likes of railroad men and soldiers,” Brenton stated.

“Oh, so yar a-fearin' for me reputation?” Caitlan asked defensively. “Don't ya believe me capable of dealin' with such a thing? After all, I had it worse in Ireland than I'll ever have here.”

“But it might well become every bit as bad,” Brenton countered.

Jordana watched with amusement as the couple had their first real battle of wills. How funny they both were.

“Washerwomen have the reputation for being . . . well . . . being—”

“Yes?” Caitlan challenged.

“Well, you know what they have the reputation for being.”

Caitlan laughed. “I can hardly help what their reputation is. I can only vouch for meself. Now, stop yar frettin'. The sooner we get jobs, the sooner we'll have a bit o' money and can move from this place.” She took up her wool cloak and headed to the door.

“I'm coming too,” Brenton muttered. “Maybe there will be someone interested in hiring me on for the purpose of taking pictures for the ground-breaking ceremony. Jordana, you stay here.”

Jordana thought to protest, but he was already at the door before she could speak. As soon as he'd closed it, however, she went for her own cloak. “You don't know me at all, Brenton Baldwin, if you think I'm going to let an opportunity like this pass me by.”

Out on the muddy, windblown street, Jordana wrinkled her nose in a perplexed manner. There didn't seem to be much of interest going on in the small town. She strode away from the hotel and wondered exactly what it was she could do to help them earn money. She had a brilliant mind, or so she'd been told often enough. Maybe there would be a newspaper or business that could use her skills at writing.

The wind picked up and a light snow began to fall. Jordana couldn't imagine anyone calling this town pretty, but maybe it would look better buried in snow. She tried to picture such a winter scene as she walked past two saloons and a butcher shop. Wrinkling her nose again, this time from the smell, she crossed the street, and as she did so, she spied a red brick bank with the sign “Position Within” staring back at her from the window.

Opening the door, Jordana was greeted by a wash of warm air. Apparently the banker liked to keep the place heated for the comfort of himself and his customers.

“Good day, miss,” a black-suited man greeted her as she crossed to the tiny bank window. “What can I do for you today?”

“I'd like to inquire about the position,” Jordana stated matter-of-factly.

“I beg your pardon?” The man, an older, balding fellow with a stocky midsection and beady blue eyes, raised a quizzical brow as he studied her in return.

“I saw your sign in the window,” Jordana explained. “I've come to inquire about the job you have available.”

“Oh, I see. Is this for your father or perhaps your husband?”

Jordana smiled. “No, it's for me.”

The man let out a bit of a chuckle. “Well, we can hardly consider that, now, can we?”

“And why not?”

“Well, because you are a woman.”

“Yes, I've noticed,” Jordana replied snidely. “And you are a man. Now that we have that established, perhaps you could tell me what the job is.”

“The position is that of bank teller and that requires a man.”

“And why would this be?” she pressed.

The man put his thumbs in his pockets and threw his shoulders back in a stance that appeared to Jordana to be some sort of authoritarian position.

“Because, my dear woman, the job requires an ability to deal with columns of figures, and to understand the workings of bank transactions.”

“My grandfather owned a bank in Washington,” Jordana said without taking her gaze from his face. “It was, of course, much larger than this one and held a great deal more money. Actually, the bank provided service to the federal government. The workings of bank transactions are something I've grown up with all of my life. The men in my family did not limit the women in learning, nor did they relegate them to the hearth. Banking is in my background,” she said, letting it be implied without having to give an outright lie that she had been a part of such a background.

“I see,” the man replied, clearly intimidated by her ability to stand her ground. “Perhaps then I could at least administer the test.”

“A test?” Jordana cocked an interested brow. “Why, that would be wonderful.”

What had she gotten herself into? What would a banking test consist of? Would there be questions about current investments and philosophies of government regulations? Well, she wasn't about to reveal any insecurity to the banker.

The man went to a desk and pulled out two pieces of paper. He held one out to Jordana and kept the other for himself. “Take these columns of figures and sit here to work them. There is a pencil for you to use. I have the answers and will verify whether you have an aptitude for mathematics when you have completed the problems.”

Jordana looked down at the columns. Math had always been an easy subject for her. “The answer to the first column is three hundred sixty-five,” she replied without bothering to use the provided pencil. The man gasped lightly. “The second column is four thousand, six hundred fifty-three. The third column,” she paused for only a few moments, “ten thousand, two hundred and one.” She looked up and smiled before glancing back at the fourth column. “The last one is . . . two hundred sixteen thousand and thirty-four. And if you add all four together, you get—”

“Never mind,” the bank man replied with a loud “harrumph.” “You've proved yourself to be more than capable. How did you learn to do that?”

Jordana handed him the paper and shrugged. “Mother says it is a gift from God. Father says it's because numbers have always been in our blood. So do I get the job?”

The man looked down at the papers, shook his head, then replaced them in the desk drawer. “I suppose I could try you out for a short time. However, if and when a male applicant applies for the job, I will have to let you go.”

“Even if I'm better at the job?”

“Well, you have to understand,” the stocky man continued, “a man would be likely to have a family to support, and jobs are scarce out here. I couldn't very well allow a young woman, who probably has a father or husband to care for her, to steal food from the mouths of a man and his family.”

“Well, I suppose I understand your reasoning, even if your assumptions are false. I am here in Omaha with my brother and sister-in-law. I am responsible for myself, and earning a living is something I shall take very seriously.”

“That may well be, but I will stand by my statement. You may take it or leave it.”

“I should like to accept the position, Mr.—?”

“Chittenden. I own this bank, and my son Damon works with me. I'm afraid he's out of town on banking business, however, and you will have to wait to meet him another time.”

“I am Jordana Baldwin,” she replied with a smile. “When shall I report to work?”

The man shook his head as if still stunned that he was actually giving the job to a woman. “Well, tomorrow is Saturday and the bank is closed for the weekend. Be here at nine o'clock Monday morning and I shall begin your training.”

“Very well. Now I have a request,” Jordana said, deciding to brave yet another sticky situation. “I'd like to request an advance against my salary. My family and I need to find a place to live, and our funds are running precariously low.”

“I couldn't even consider such a thing, Miss Baldwin. Why, we haven't even discussed salaries.”

“No, that's true. We haven't. So what, then, shall you pay me?”

“Well, you are a woman—”

“Yes, we've established that,” Jordana said impatiently.

“Fifty cents a day should be more than enough,” Chittenden replied.

“More than enough for what?” she ventured boldly. “Would you pay that poor unemployed man with his needy family fifty cents a day?”

“No,” the man replied, clearly flustered by Jordana's ability to twist his words into something useful for herself. “No, I wouldn't.”

“Then I shall expect you to pay me more reasonably,” Jordana replied. “I would think a dollar a day would be acceptable.”

“A dollar a day would be entirely too much.” Chittenden took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead.

“Sir, as I've stated, we must find a place to live. I certainly cannot see us managing on less than a dollar a day. What if my brother and sister-in-law are unable to find employment?”