Faith of the Heart (9 page)

             
One warm afternoon in late May, Claire locked her front door and hung a neat sign stating she’d be back shortly.
It was high time to visit the bank, perhaps make a deposit
,
and see about the mortgage.
She had been putting it off for some time.
  
 

             
Strolling down the street, Claire tried to put on an expression of nonchalance. Buried deep in her skirt pocket was the leather bag of savings from her teacher’s salary in Gettysburg and a cloth bag of store earnings. In her left pocket her fingers curled around the handle of her Colt. It was the middle of the day, but this was a frontier town and she
was
a woman. No one knew of her skill with the weapon and she hoped she’d never have to show it. It was all fine and dandy to shoot at bottles, but she’d never had to fire at a person
.
Secretly she feared she’d not be able to.

             
She rounded the corner and entered
t
he First National Bank. After asking to see the bank manager
,
she was shown to
his
back office
.
Jeremy J. Dawson was a middle-aged rotund man, his red hair receding far back from his forehead
.
P
ale blue eyes hid behind round spectacles. 

       “Miss Secord, what a pleasure, a genuine pleasure to meet you,” the banker pumped Claire’s hand in an enthusiastic greeting. Claire suppressed a grimace,
trying not to wipe the perspiration from his sausage fingers off on her skirt. She decided it was best to get right down to business. The less time spent in the presence of this man, the better.

             
“Mr. Dawson, I am here to open a personal account for myself and a business account for my store,” she said in her firmest voice. Claire had learned to assert herself as a schoolteacher and knew she’d have to do so now in order to be taken seriously as a business owner and the manager of her finances. Inwardly
,
her stomach was doing little flip flops.

Willing herself to be calm, Claire continued, “
A
s sole proprietor of
Weikert-
Secord’s Fine Mercantile, it is my intention to become a leading citizen of Omaha. Opening a bank account is a necessary first step.”

Mr. Dawson smiled jovially again, nodding as though he understood her situation perfectly. “Why
,
indeed, indeed Miss Secord. But I am obligated to inform you that a business account and a loan already exist for the mercantile.”

             
Claire
faltered
at this new information, startled. “A loan?
S
he asked, her voice sounding faint. “W
hat do you mean a loan?”

             
Dawson
scowled
, a practiced banker’s frown, preparing to relay unfortunate information to an unsuspecting customer.

“My dear, your aunt and uncle were decent folk, kind and generous, but they were lacking in, shall we say, business savvy? They were careless in their bookkeeping and accounts receivable. That is to say, they often brushed aside a debt when a customer could not pay. Many a time I tried to warn them that their kindness would lead to troubles, but they always said the Lord would provide.” Dawson sneered in dis
gust
. It was obvious that he didn’t believe a word—the bank would provide and everyone else was slave to the system.

He continued, “Th
e Lord
may
provide
,
but loans must be repaid and mortgage payments come due
.
”

             
Claire gathered her thoughts, trying to regroup,
and
regain control of the situation. “Mr. Dawson, what are you telling me? That I’m in debt? That I owe on a loan and a mortgage for the mercantile?”
She stuttered out the questions, hands wringing nervously in her lap, afraid of the answer she knew was coming.

             
“That’s exactly what I am saying. I thought it only proper to give you time to grieve for your relations and to get on your feet with the business before
burdening
you
wih
this news. As you can imagine, I was exceptionally glad to see you come in my door today. You saved me the unfortunate business
of
paying to a call to collect. Now we can discuss your situation in private.” Mr. Dawson leaned back in his chair and mopped his brow before reaching into a drawer to withdraw a sheath of papers.

             
“
This is the
loan
,
for the purchasing of goods and the mortgage amount on the building that you work and reside in.” He slid the papers across the shiny oak desk.

             
Claire hesitated and then grabbed up the documents. She pale
d
and her heart sank
as she quickly scanned the papers.

Dear sweet Gin and Richard, what have you done
, she thought disparagingly.
Oh my heavens!

Her mind began to race. All that merchandise she’d found in the storage area, here was the loan for that; the little rooms she now thought of as home and her beloved little
store, reduced on paper to stark
black numbers. Claire didn’t have near the funds to pay off the l
oa
n, and she had never been faced with a similar situation. Cared for by her parents, Caleb, and the
Buckleys
,
never once had she been in debt. Even her life savings and the earnings from the store would only cover a small portion of the amount she was now responsible for.

             
The banker sat back in his chair, his arms folded over his ample midsection. His
beady
eyes were searching Claire’s face as she struggled to hide her emotions from him. She could feel him staring at her and she inwardly
cringed
as she realized he was expecting her to cave at any moment, crying and sobbing in womanly frustration.

H
e cleared his voice loudly, breaking the silence. “
Now
Miss Secord, I know that this is a shock to your delicate system, but we can take care of this problem today. There is some collateral in the business and the bank is willing to forego the mortgage and the loan in exchange for the title of the establishment.”

             
Claire caught a steel glimmer in his eye.

Why
,
that dirty son-of-a-gun! He wants my store. He thinks he
’
s got some helpless little
girl
here and he
’
s going to steal my store. He doesn
’
t know who he
’
s dealing with! Sign over my store! I should say not!

             
She composed herself and replied as sweetly as she could muster, “Mr. Dawson, this is all such a surprise that my head is spinning. Might I just take these papers home and look them over this evening? It is such a big decision and I just don’t know what to do.” She batted her eyelashes at him and he swallowed the bait.

             
“Of course,
little lady, of course. I’ll just swing by tomorrow and we’ll take this problem off your hands. Why, I can even recommend a boarding house for you to move into. That is, until you decide you want to head back east.”

             
Claire forced herself to smile at the loathsome man, backing out the door as quickly as she could.

             
“Until tomorrow, dear,” he called after her, but she was already gone.

Grumbling to herself, Claire stomped down the street clutching the papers.

That stuck-up, pompous
miser
! No one
’
s taking my store and my home from me. There
’
s got to be a way around this.
Turning the corner, Claire bumped into someone
very solid
,
sending her grasping to right her footing. She found purchase on a shirt of sturdy course fabric. She quickly pulled her hands away.

             
“Oh excuse me!
” S
he looked up into the twinkling eyes of Sheriff Maxwell.

             
Maxwell
quickly took in her serious expression. “Well,
now. That doesn’t look like the smiling Miss Secord I usually run into. Something bothering you today?”

             
Claire
swallowed hard
and tried to smile reassuringly.
Right now the last thing she wanted to do was talk to another man.
She didn’t want anyone, not even the attractive
s
heriff, to know about her encounter at the bank. “I’m fine
.
J
ust a little preoccupied, I guess. Excuse me, please, Sheriff. I really have to get back to the mercantile.”

             
He
looked at her questioningly, “Why sure, Miss Secord, I understand. I’ll be ’round to see you later. I wanted to talk to you ‘bout somethin’.”

             
She agreed to meet with him later, wondering what he might want, but more concerned about the immediate problem. She hurried on, leaving the sheriff standing on the boardwalk with a puzzled look on his face.

             
             
             
             
CHAPTER
EIGHT

             
             
             
             
Baltimore, Maryland
, May 1868

             
As dusk deepened at the Baltimore seaport, Cal tidied up his desk, blew out the whale oil lamp, and started back to his boarding house. His slight limp was more pronounced when he was weary and tonight his head throbbed. After a quiet dinner in his room, Cal laid down on his narrow bed. Some days it was all he could do just to put his time in at the paper, days when all he wanted to do was sleep. Other days sleep came at a terrible price.
For years now, Cal had nightmares of horrific days in battle, nightmares of being left for dead, nightmares of Claire calling out to him, all a product of being a part of the
so-called
Civil War—the most
un-civil
war ever fought
.
             
             
             
             

“Claire! Claire!” Cal
a
woke
screaming
, drenched in sweat and his limbs tangled in the bedsheets.
It was early morning and he had slept fitfully through the night, still fully clothed.
             
             
             

After all these years
,
he still couldn
’
t stop thinking of her, of the life they’d planned together
, of his deep love for her and the terrible thought that she might belong to another man. No! The very idea of his woman being in the arms of
someone else, perhaps even another soldier,
was enough to
make
his head pound like a sledge hammer.
But it was too late now. Too much time had passed. He could
never
face her. He couldn’t explain his disappearance.
His cowardice.

Even if he could make Claire understand, he wasn’t sure he could convince the authorities of the same. Cal had been left for dead on the broken battlefield of Gettysburg, shot through the leg and with a severe head wound; soldiers Cal had once called friends left him on that stinking, rancid field, listening to the moans of other dying men around him. If he hadn’t managed to drag himself away, hadn’t managed to escape on that fateful night, he would have died as well.
Good riddance and all of them be damned!
While the war raged he’d been a deserter and could have been imprisoned
if anyone
had
discovered his true identity. That meant hiding himself from his family and Claire to stay alive. It was better if everyone thought him dead anyway—no one wanted to live with the shame of having a husband or son who was a deserter
, a yellow coward.
Even his precious Claire: how could she understand?
No, it was better just to stay away. He’d always been a loner, maybe that was to be his fate. But still…