Faith of the Heart (4 page)

             
Oh, Aunt Ginny
,
I miss you already.

For a moment or two she was caught in the memory of Ginny taking her to a tea parlor when Claire was a young girl in Pennsylvania. She’d felt so grown up and important to be having tea and cookies with her mother and aunt. That was a long time ago in another place, and now her parents and aunt and uncle were all gone. Claire had been an only child and now she was alone again.

Even her fiancè had left her. She knew it wasn’t really his fault; that awful war had left millions of broken-hearted mothers, wives, and sweethearts. But still, she couldn’t help feeling lone
ly
. Here she was in a new town on the frontier of America and she barely knew a soul. She was truly alone.
She had no family and no friends.

             
Once again Claire lifted her head, straightened her shoulders and decided to make the best of her new situation. Ginny had said she needed her, and that hadn’t changed. What she didn’t know was how much Claire had needed
Ginny
and a chance at a new life. Well. She’d been given that chance and she was going to make the best of it. She’d make Ginny and Richard proud, she’d keep that store going, and maybe she’d even find a home and a little happiness in the bargain.

             
Claire returned to the kitchen and lugged her belongings back to the bedroom. She removed her Colt pistol from her skirt pocket and hid it under the cornhusk mattress
before
carefully plac
ing
her two hatboxes upon the bureau. Opening her
trunk
,
she stared down at the precious possessions that were not only her memories of family members now gone, but also of the home she had left for this chance on the
prairie
. On top was her needlework, several packets of pins, needles, and couple of pairs of scissors. She’d learned long ago that the comfort of crewel work or knitting and embroidery could soothe her soul, pass a long evening and provide decorative items for a home. Finally, she’d have a home
where she could
display her creations. Claire
h
ad a flair for designing patterns and employing vivid colors that turned table runners, pillows
,
and the like into works of art. Fortunately, she’d packed a few of her pieces into her bag
to make the rooms feel more homey.

             
Putting those aside, she then removed a nightshirt, several undergarments and her two other dresses, an ivy green calico and a
black damask. Unwilling to remove Gin’s clothing from the wall quite yet, she spread her dresses on the bed.

I’ll clean out Gin‘s things later
, she vowed. Next from the bag came her good shoes and warm cape.

I’ve heard Nebraska winters are harsh
.
I’ll really need this come winter.

Finally, from the bottom of the
trunk
she gently pulled out her mother’s beautiful old quilt. Carefully unfolding it she retrieved the two silver candlesticks that had been handed down to her and two small but heavy leather pouches. One held the ammunition for her pistol and the other held her life savings.
Claire ha
d tutored the
Buckley
boys for three years and managed to squirrel away a tidy sum. No one knew she’d saved the money and no one was going to find out. Looking around for a safe place to hide the money, she spied a small drawer in the bureau.

Well, that’ll have to do for now. Tomorrow I’ll put it in a better place
.
Tomorrow, tomorrow I’ll
pay my respects at Ginny and Richard’s graves and have a look at my store. MY store. Oh my
goodness.

Fighting exhaustion, Claire went into the sitting room, banked the fire, and returned back to the bedroom. She pushed aside her dresses, removed her shoes, and lay down upon the bed. Within seconds she was asleep.  
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
             

             
             
             
C
HAPTER THREE

             
             
             
A New Day

             
             
 
Omaha, Nebraska, April 1868
             
             

“Cockadoodle do! Cockadoodle do!” With a start, Claire awoke to bright sunshine and the noise of a boisterous rooster. She stretched and peered at the
bare
window. Frowning, she decided
it
needed
polishing and pretty
curtains.

In fact this
entire
little room needs some attention. If I’m going to live here
¼
.live here
!
I don’t know if I can do this,
I’ve never had my own
home
before
,
let alone run a general store.

Yesterday’s memories came rushing back. The long train ride, the death of her aunt, Sheriff Maxwell’s kindness. Sheriff Maxwell—an
unexpected warmth flooded her cheeks.

If all the men in Omaha look like the sheriff, why, this could be an interesting place.
Surprised at her own thoughts Claire pushed them away and climbed off the bed.

             
She stripped off her wrinkled navy dress and washed herself with water from the bedside pitcher and bowl.
Grimacing at her reflection in the mirror, she unpinned her unruly hair and brushed it thoroughly. The repetitive strokes untangled her locks and
restored their shine.
             
             
The morning sunlight gleamed on the waist-long mass, revealing burnished red highlights. Claire deftly plaited the length into a single braid down her back. It was a relief to not pin the heavy hair at her neck. The sheer weight of it sometimes gave her a headache.

That done, she stepped into her
i
vy
green
dress and slowly fastened the row of tiny jade buttons. Carefully
,
she tucked her gold necklace inside of
the
bodice. The pendant was one half of a heart. The other half hung on a chain around Caleb’s neck. Or, at least, it used to. On their last evening together Claire had presented the necklace to her fiancè. They’d both sworn to wear their chains until they and their hearts could be reunited. But the war had dragged on and Caleb had never returned.

             
Claire thought about the battles that had torn the nation apart.
The Civil War was supposed to last only a few months. Men had joyfully joined up, anxious to whip the enemy and be home for Christmas.
Ninety
day
enlistments
turned into six months, then two years, and finally three
.
Heavy casualties on both sides meant longer commitments for the north and the south. Brothers were killing brothers, uncles were killing nephews, and there were even instances reported of fathers killing sons.
Northern soldiers
, commonly
known as
Billy Yank
s
,
and
southerners
or
Johnny Reb
s
,
were both fighting for what they truly believed
in
. President Abraham Lincoln desperately wanted to keep the union together and free the slaves. His Union Army was larger, better equipped, and expected to win the war. But for the smaller and scrappier Confederate Army, the fierce commitment to maintain their homes, families,
and way of life gave them an edge. For many that also included the right to own slaves. Truth was, though, that very few southerners actually owned slaves. Plantation owners held the majority of slaves. No one else could afford them.

             
The war
that was supposed to be quick
dragged
along
for four terrible years. Hundreds of thousands of men died from their battle wounds. Even more died due to lack of nutrition, sanitation, and resulting diseases like dysentery, consumption, typhoid fever, and scurvy. Thousands were simply gone. Whether they’d been blown to bits from cannon fire or died in terrible prisons, it wasn’t known. They just didn’t come home and Claire’s Caleb was one of them.

             
For months after Lee’s surrender at Appomattox Court House
,
Claire had gone to the train station to look for Caleb
Davidson
. She
would dutifully
scan the faces of the weary soldiers as they’d depart from the rail cars. She checked at the local sheriff’s office and poured over newspaper lists of soldiers hospitalized or dead. Caleb never surfaced. His parents had no word of him either, and after
months
of searching and waiting, Claire gave up. She didn’t want to; her heart told her he was alive
,
but her head told her she was foolish. The odds of him survivin
g were practically non-existent.
Claire simply decided she’d have to live without him
,
even with a broken heart. So each day she
would
teach her two students and in the evenings she’d prepare the next day’s lessons or work on her
stitching
. Three years had passed lonely
and quietly
, but Gin’s letter had changed everything. It was turning out to be an extraordinary diversion.

             
Properly attired, Claire decided it was high time to
find the cemetery, visit the family plots and then, if she was up to it, check out the mercantile.
After all, she had a responsibility to her aunt and uncle and to herself. She no longer had her teacher’s salary to depend on; she needed to make a go of this store. The only way to
accomplish
that
was to jump in and
try it.
She knew that the best way to master something was to actually do it, so she was anxious to get to work. But first she needed to take care of her rumbling tummy. Breakfast was in order.

             
She decided to treat herself and go out
for a hearty meal. It would fortify her for the day ahead.
Ham, eggs, and coffee
sounded good
after her meager supper of jam and bread. Carefully locking the back door behind her, Claire took in the beautiful April morning. A slight breeze moved through the yard and the scent of warming earth wafted around her. Birds were singing nearby and the leaves were beginning to form on the oaks and elms lining the pathway to the main street. A short walk brought Claire to Rose’s Café, where the irresistible aroma of freshly brewed coffee was luring customers into the
bright blue doorway. A cheerful placard mounted in the
spotless
window announced the morning specials and Claire could hear laughter and china chinking as she stepped over the threshold into a room of
happy patrons.

             
“Good morning,”
a
young,
bouncy waitress smiled at Claire,
m
otioning to an empty table. “Coffee?”

             
“Oh yes, and eggs, ham, and bisc
uits please.”
             
             
             
“Yes, miss, r
i
ght away.”
             
             
             
             
             
             
             
The café was charming with ruffled curtain
s at the windows and rose-print
tablecloths. Bright blue and white china added to the cheeriness. Several tables were occupied with folks laughing, chatting, and enjoying their meals
.
Usually it was awkward for a single lady to go into a restaurant alone—people tended to stare—but not here. This was a neighborhood spot and no one looked at her oddly, which was a relief to Claire, so unused to being on her own.

             
Moments later the waitress brought her breakfast. Two perfectly fried eggs, sliced ham, and buttermilk biscuits along with a steaming mug of coffee were placed in front of her. “This looks delicious,” Claire said with a smile.

             
“It is
,
it is
.
I’m Connie, just let me know if you need anything else.”
She said wiping her hands on her floral apron.
Claire nodded, already cutting into the eggs.
They were perfect, firm on the top and yet runny enough to sop up with the tende
r
golden biscuits.
  The thick sliced ham was sweet and salty and slightly
grilled.
Claire sighed with delight at the simple feast. Noticing a
             
row of pies on the counter
,
she made a mental note to return soon. Rose
’
s could become
her
new favorite place.
             
             
             
             
             
             
Savoring her second mug of coffee, Claire’s thoughts were interrupted by a deep yet pleasant voice. “Miss Secord, good morning.” Looking up
,
Claire was
surp
r
ised to see Sherriff Maxwell again, smiling kindly. She was
again struck by
his
good
looks
and polite demeanor, neither of which had she expected to find in a raw frontier town.
“Why, good morning Sheriff.”