Every Hidden Thing (7 page)

Bewitching intensity. I had clutched that phrase to me the rest of the day, and then wrote it down in my best writing and laid it in the bottom of a drawer, which I'd vainly reopen just to look at.

But it didn't burn as brightly as Samuel Bolt's compliment, or the secret he'd just given me.

“Our stop,” Father said. He stood beside my berth, shaking my elbow.

His hair was all askew, eyes bleary. Breath a pungent fog of spirits and tobacco. I didn't imagine I looked or smelled much better.

The whiskey had given me a fitful sleep. I'd been aware of each jerking station stop, knowing Rachel was getting off at one of them and feeling a spasm of loss. Also anxiety. I'd said too much last night. I'd told her all about the
rex
tooth. And where we were going. Stupid.

Head pounding, I dressed hurriedly, looking out the window at the great grass sea, still pale in the early morning light. The Cartlands were already far away; it didn't matter if I'd confided in her. She said she'd write. That was something. That showed she cared about me. I felt a bit cheered up.

As the train slowed, a few other people in our carriage headed for the door. I saw my father cast a quick backward glance toward the private compartment of Mrs. Cummins.

Many of the stations we'd passed in Nebraska were just a platform and water tower and shed built on the shore of the prairie. But Crowe was a proper town. As we pulled into the station, wood smoke rose from the low houses near the tracks.

Father hopped onto the platform before the train had even come to a complete standstill. Impatiently he stalked back toward the baggage car. But my gaze was pulled in the opposite direction, where four blue-uniformed army officers stood stiffly at attention. One of them had a captain's insignia and looked curiously in my father's direction.

“Professor?” he called out.

Abruptly my father turned and squinted in confusion, looking more like a crazed desperado than an esteemed scientist.

“Are you addressing me, sir?” my father asked.

“I'm Captain Longman of Fort Crowe. You are Professor Cartland, are you not?”

My father patted at his hair and stood to his full height. “No, sir, I am not Professor Cartland. I am Professor B—”

From the Palace Car, a blazered Yale student hopped down, followed by another and another and another. They looked like a scurry of bright-eyed chipmunks, darting eager glances at the town, the sky, the officers, their waiting horses and wagons, like they might burst into song.

Stunned, I watched as Rachel Cartland was helped down by the porter. Next came the journalist Landry. Professor Cartland brought up the rear.

“Ah, Captain Longman,” he called out to the officer. “Delighted
to make your acquaintance, sir. And thank you very much for the welcome.”

As the captain strode eagerly toward Cartland with his hand outstretched, Cartland looked down the platform at my father and tipped his hat.

O
NLY A MARCHING BAND COULD HAVE
made Cartland's reception any grander. The little receiving line of stiff blue-coated officers shook hands with the professor and his beaming students, then Landry and Rachel. I wouldn't have been surprised if the soldiers had fired off a salute and the professor been presented with a medal. Mr. Landry scampered here and there with his notebook, scribbling.

Rachel waited patiently on the platform as her father talked to various officers and nodded officiously. I tried to meet her eye, but either she didn't notice me, or was ignoring me, which was much worse. I felt betrayed.

“This can't be a coincidence,” Father muttered darkly.

His worst fear come true. I tried to douse a hot flare of guilt, telling myself I had nothing to do with this. Yes, I'd told Rachel where we were going, but just hours ago! What was happening
now had been planned in advance. Before Cartland even set eyes on us in Omaha, he'd
known
where he was going. Or else how could the army be here to meet them?

I told all this to my father, but I wasn't sure he was listening. He kept glaring at Cartland's entourage. I felt like I was managing a trained lion who still sometimes mauled people.

“There's our things,” I said, hoping to distract him. I nodded at the battered bags deposited on the platform. My father seized two and jerked his head at the others. I grabbed them and followed him inside the small station building.

“That student lied to me last night,” he muttered. “On Cartland's orders, of course. Like a fool I fell for it.”

Rachel hadn't lied to me exactly, but she'd let me keep thinking she was getting off earlier than us. I felt another pang of hurt and humiliation.

“Should
we
have an army escort?” I asked, staring back at all the soldiers.

“Not at all,” he said. “It's the army the Sioux hate most of all. Having them along would just antagonize them. I worry about Cartland's safety, not ours.”

I wasn't sure if he was lying but didn't feel like questioning him.

Inside the raw-timbered waiting room we looked around for our man Plaskett. No one stepped forward to greet us.

“You sent the right time in the telegram?” my father asked sharply.

“Yes.”

There was a clock in the station agent's booth, and we watched
miserably as a few more minutes ticked by. It would be hard to miss the arrival of the train, since the tracks ran right through the town.

“Let's go find lodgings,” my father said. “Then we'll make inquiries for our Mr. Plaskett.”

“You don't think . . .” I began before I could check myself.

“What?” So sharply I knew he'd worried the same thing. “That he just took the money and disappeared?” He yanked out a nostril hair and winced. “I'm a good judge of character. I trust the fellow. He's genuine. Like the fossil he sent us.”

“Maybe he's waiting for us on the street.”

We hefted our bags out the door. I was blinded by the light off the sun-bleached facades. A far cry from the cobbled, leafy streets of Philadelphia. The dusty thoroughfare was treeless. The town looked like it was making things up as it went along. Buildings of wood, buildings of canvas, empty lots marked out with stakes. Horse manure mingled with the sweet scent of fresh-milled wood. Every other establishment was a saloon. Right now at nine in the morning things looked fairly sleepy, but I bet it would be wild at night.

Two boys loitered with a hopeful look, so Father paid them to carry our bags to the hotel down the street—one of the few two-story buildings in town.

Inside my father asked the reception clerk where we could find Edward Plaskett.

“I see him in town from time to time. He doesn't live here. Can't remember the last time I saw him. Maybe a couple weeks . . .” He
finished writing in his ledger. “Now, sir, if you could pay for your room in advance.”

My father balked. “Do we look like paupers?”

“No, sir.”

“Is this customary?”

“In Crowe it's customary.”

“Very well.” He pulled out his billfold and stared inside for a moment too long. “Excuse me a moment,” he said, and then ushered me a few steps away.

He whispered, “Did I give you some of our money?”

“No. I asked you to, in Chicago, but you forgot.”

“Ah.”

A hot tingle of alarm moved across my shoulders. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” He returned to the clerk. “Your simplest room is fine. My son and I can share a bed if necessary.”

He paid out some coins very slowly. Like it meant he was paying less.

“Room's not ready yet,” the clerk told us. “You're welcome to wait in the parlor, or they're serving breakfast in the dining room.”

We retreated to the empty parlor. A plank floor, a few chairs, and one sofa with a distressingly large stain on it.

“What's the matter?” I demanded.

My father stared intently out the window, like a man having a vision. “I appear to have been robbed.”

“What? On the train? How much is gone?”

“Not so bad, really. . . .”

I took the billfold from his inert hands and riffled through the notes.

“This is less than half!” I hissed.

Piously he said, “I have been the victim of a criminal plot.”

“Who?”

“She was good enough to leave me some at least.”

“She? Who do you—” My voice so low it was little more than a vibration: “Mrs. Cummins?”

Last night, after Rachel and Cartland had left, I'd headed off to bed. Leaving my father still carousing with a few students, and Mrs. Cummins. My last sight of them was cuddled up together on a love seat.

He lifted a hand. “We'll talk about this later. Possibly never.”

“She
robbed
you?”

“I had some doubts she was a war widow, but I didn't think her capable of such deceit.”

“We have to do something . . . the sheriff. Is there a sheriff in town?”

“No point. She's long gone by now,” he said. “What we have will be enough.”

“How?”

“We will be frugal. . . .”

“
Frugal?
Like buying drinks for everyone on the train!”

“I can have money wired from . . .”

“Who? Your father won't send you a cent.”

He stared out the window again. “What we have, we will make last.”

“We don't even have our guide,” I grumbled. I was on my feet, suddenly furious. I'd fought for this trip.
I'd
gotten the funds—yes, other people's money, but by my own plan! And my father had just lost most of it to a thief. With my anger came a stormy surge of panic. The
rex
was out there in the badlands, waiting to be claimed, and we were stuck here.

“What's our plan now?” I said, more to myself than my father. I didn't trust him to salvage the situation.

“Yes,” my father said absently, pulling at the bit of beard under his mouth.

Mr. Plaskett was supposed to take care of our arrangements. But where was Mr. Plaskett? Did he even exist? And if he didn't exist, was there even a fossil waiting for us out there? No. The tooth at least was real.

I said, “We need horses, a wagon, a guide, a teamster, provisions—”

My father stirred and sucked air through his nostrils. “Good.” From one of his pockets he took a pencil and a scrap of paper and handed them to me.

“Provisions for . . . thirty days. Write this down.”

I wanted to throw his pencil back in his face, tell him to be his own secretary, but I didn't. I just took dictation.

“Bacon, beans, rice, apples, onions, canned tomatoes, flour, hard bread, salt, pepper, and vinegar. And let's add to that: canned peaches, ham, and oysters.”

I rolled my eyes and left that last one off. Next he'd be wanting caviar.

“Get that filled.” He pointed out the window to a weathered sign that said
GENERAL OUTFITTERS
.

“What'll you do?” I asked.

“Make further inquiries about our Mr. Plaskett and hope I don't find him in a saloon. I'll also see about a wagon and team.”

Outside, I squinted into the heat and glare. I found the least muddy place to cross the street. When I walked into General Outfitters, it took a moment for my vision to adjust.

No shelves, no barrels of goods, no promising smell of cinnamon. Just a deep and arousing musk of perfume. At one end was a caged bar and a tired-looking man within it. Behind him a long hall lead back into gloom and the muffled squeal of women. I was curious about the sounds, wanted to listen more. But the man behind the counter was watching.

“What's your pleasure?” he said.

“You don't sell provisions?”

“You'll want Smitherman's.”

I left the bordello and walked the sidewalk. In my city trousers and shoes and jacket I stood out. Not nearly dusty enough. Some of the planks underfoot were wobbly, some dark with stains. Maybe urine and vomit, given their ghostly smells. Outside a saloon there was one reddish-brown patch that still looked sticky. I stepped carefully over it. I crossed the street toward a store that proclaimed:

T. SMITHERMAN

FIREARMS & AMMUNITION

HARDWARE TINWARE LUMBER

And then, like an afterthought, on a painted cloth banner below:

GROCERIES PROVISIONS

It was a welcome sight to walk in and see the place so well stocked. I handed my list to the proprietor, and he tilted his chin up to peer beneath his spectacles.

“Quite a list.”

He looked up questioningly, which confused me. Didn't this happen every day? I wondered. People striking out for the wilderness from here? Homesteaders and gold diggers and soldiers? What else was there to do in Crowe—except leave?

“Let's see now. Bacon, no. Coffee, no. Beans, some, but not as many as you want. Apples, sold out, rice, no . . .”

In confusion I looked around the bursting shop. “But that's rice there,” I said, pointing at a mighty pile of sacks. “And onions!”

“Spoken for.”

“Well, that flour, then!”

“Spoken for in advance.”

Maybe he was punishing me for being from out east. “What about salt? Can you spare a few grains?”

He grinned. “Salt we got.”

At that moment the door opened and Rachel Cartland entered.

“Good afternoon,” she said to the proprietor before seeing me. “I'm here for the Cartland order.”

“It's all ready for you, miss,” said the shopkeeper, stepping into the back. “I'll go get the boys to bring it out.”

“So,” a voice said, off to my right. “You've bought the entire store.”

Turning, I saw him and felt terribly awkward. I'd avoided meeting his eye on the platform, because he'd looked so astonished—and hurt.

“We telegraphed ahead,” I explained. “You can't buy anything?”

Gone was his usual smile. He seemed angry with the whole world. “We both ended up in the same town. What a strange surprise.”

“It shouldn't be! Last night you said you knew where we were headed.”

“And you let me go on thinking it.”

“You didn't give me any time,” I retorted—and felt dishonest because this was only partially true. I'd been overwhelmed by his confidences, and his compliment, and hoping it was true, despite the whiskey on his breath.

“You could've told me,” he said.

“What does it matter? What would anyone have done differently? We'd still be here at the same station. Our fathers would still be going about their business.”

“And what's your father's business in Crowe, exactly?”

“He's been planning this expedition for months,” I said, offended by his accusing tone. “The reason we have food, and you don't, is because we planned ahead. We are
not
following you.”

He was being pigheaded. He must have known all this. There was no other explanation for it—and certainly no sinister one.

“But your father, he must've picked
this
area for a reason.”

I hadn't thought anyone could be so annoying. “Yes, he'd heard there were excellent Cretaceous hunting grounds around here.”

“Who told him that?” So insistent!

“I don't know. He corresponds with lots of people. Just like your father.”

“You told him about the tooth, didn't you.”

It was not phrased as a question. I didn't like him very much at all right now, and I wanted to say,
Yes, of course I told my father. We were spying on each other, weren't we? And you're not good at games.

It hadn't been an easy decision. It was something I could give my father, something to prove my value on this expedition. I would be his helpful spy. But Samuel had told me in confidence, and it seemed a shameful thing to betray someone's secret. And the
way
he'd told me, so reckless and excited, so eager to share it. What good would it do my father anyway? He had his own goals for this expedition. He didn't need to poach someone else's.

“No,” I told him. “I said nothing about your tooth.”

His shoulders dropped as he exhaled. He looked embarrassed. “Thank you. I'm sorry I was rude. This day has—”

Mr. Smitherman returned with two boys carrying crates. I did feel sorry for Samuel, even his reckless father.

“Perhaps we could decrease our order a bit,” I told the shopkeeper.

He pulled in a breath. “I'd need to get the okay from
Professor Cartland or Captain Longman to do that, miss.”

Hurriedly Samuel said, “It's all right—please don't.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, it's fine.” I could tell he was proud and didn't want to be beholden to us—to my father anyway. “I'm sure there's somewhere else—”