Separate Roads (12 page)

“It doesn’t matter. You treat me like I’m a child,” Jordana declared, coming across the small room. “I don’t care what you think. You are not my boss. I will make my own choices, in my own time, and it doesn’t mean I have to consult you just because you’re older.” She pushed past the now silent Caitlan and came to stand directly in front of Brenton. “I don’t need a guardian.”

“Mother and Father put you in my care,” he said simply. Brief and to the point was the best way to argue matters with Jordana. Her mind usually worked logically, but this time her emotions were overwhelming her senses.

“I’ve told you before, just as I told them, I don’t desire to be under anyone’s care. I’m fully capable of caring for myself. I think I’ve proven that by taking on a job that pays better than anything you’ve been able to earn.” She instantly clamped her hands over her mouth.

Brenton knew she regretted her words, but they hurt just the same. She was right. He’d been unable to supply them with any form of steady income. His dreams of photographing the country had been put aside in order to find a way to earn them money to move further west, and every time they began to see the possibility of continuing their trip, something came up to put a halt to their plans. The latest problem came in the form of Indian uprisings and threats to the safety of travelers moving west. But those were issues for another day. Right now he had to put his pride aside and deal with Jordana’s wayward spirit.

“You are under my care,” he stated, working hard to keep his own temper in check. “You’ll abide by my wishes, or I’ll pack you on the first means of transportation and send you back to our parents.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Jordana countered. “You have no right to treat me this way. You know full well that I know how to take care of myself. Damon Chittenden was only being nice. He simply offered me a carriage ride on a pretty day. That’s all!”

“That’s not all,” Brenton said, irritation edging his tone. “He intends to court you. He’d like to marry you.”

“Oh, what nonsense. I’ve no intention of marrying anyone!” she declared loudly.

“Well, maybe you should tell Mr. Chittenden,” Brenton suggested, his tone just as loud.

“Maybe I will!”

They were nearly nose to nose when Caitlan interceded. “Look at ya two. Ya need to calm down and leave off with the screamin’. Ya’ll have the neighbors over to be seein’ to the trouble.”

“Stay out of this, Caitlan,” Brenton said angrily. “This is between Jordana and me.”

“And for sure I’m seein’ that. But ya’ll not be solvin’ anything out of anger.”

He turned and looked at her. That was his first mistake. Her spirited expression made her most desirable. How was a man supposed to think rationally when she had eyes that green—no, they were almost turquoise—staring him down. He felt his resolve crumbling, and the only way he found to deal with his helplessness was to lash out.

“Caitlan, this doesn’t have anything to do with you! I’m not going to ask again for you to stay out of it. Just because your brother doesn’t have the decency to concern himself with your gallivanting doesn’t mean I’ll follow suit with Jordana.” Realizing too late what he’d just said, Brenton was instantly regretful. He hadn’t meant to take his frustration out on Caitlan. In fact, she was the last one he had wanted to strike out at.

He refused to look Caitlan in the eye. He focused instead on his sister. Jordana’s expression changed instantly, but not in the manner he’d expected. The anger dissolved to a stunned look, and she reached out, not for Brenton, but for Caitlan.

“He’s just mad at me, Caitlan. Pay him no mind,” she said in a comforting tone to her friend.

Brenton knew he was rapidly losing control of the situation. “This has gone on long enough. Jordana, I think the best thing for you to do would be to go back to Mother and Father. I’ll wire Father for the money to send you to them, and for money to send Caitlan to Kiernan.”

“No! I won’t be goin’,” Caitlan declared. “Ya’ll not be orderin’ me around, and I’ll not be takin’ yar charity. Go where ya will, do what ya like, but I’ll be seein’ to meself. Ya may be thinkin’ me nothin’ but a no-account Irish, but I have me standards and morals. And if me brother keeps hisself from worryin’ on my account, mebbe it’s because he trusted yarself to take care of matters.” Her voice sounded unsteady as she finished.

Brenton had no other choice but to face them both. Jordana had her arm around Caitlan’s waist, and there were tears in Caitlan’s eyes—as well as fire. He’d seldom seen her so worked up, at least not when he was the focus of her attention. Raising his arms in defeat, he went to the door and took his black felt hat from the wall. He couldn’t talk to them about his feelings. He couldn’t make them understand that he feared for their safety—that he feared he wouldn’t be man enough to keep them from harm.

Slamming the door behind him, Brenton headed in the direction of the small photography studio he’d set up. There was seldom enough business to keep him occupied and certainly not enough business to merit paying rent on the place. He only had the place because Hezekiah Chittenden saw a potential in his work with the Union Pacific, and because the place was really too small for much of anything else. The elder Chittenden had taken pity on Brenton, willingly loaning him the use of the building until a paying businessman showed up. So far there had been no takers. Not for the small two-room shop, nor for the photographer’s talents.

Feeling very sorry for himself, Brenton gave serious thought to giving up on everything. Maybe he should just wire his father and request money enough to bring them all back to New York. He grimaced and muttered an apology as he nearly collided with several uniformed soldiers.

“Is that you, Baldwin?”

Brenton looked up to find Rich O’Brian trailing behind the soldiers. “Hello, Captain. I guess I wasn’t being very observant.”

“You had me wondering what was so fascinating about the ground.” He grinned at Brenton, causing his thick mustache to twitch a bit.

“I just had something on my mind.”

“Let me guess. Is that something about five foot two, one hundred pounds, and packs a fine wallop?”

Brenton couldn’t help but smile. “If you mean my sister Jordana, then yes. It has a great deal to do with her.”

O’Brian sobered instantly. “Is she well?”

“Oh yes, she is well, but she can be a handful. I pity the man whom she finally lets marry her.”

With a look that wavered between sympathy and pity, O’Brian said, “I’ll be praying for you.”

Brenton shook his head and glanced heavenward. “I need all the help I can get.” Then curiosity got the better of him. “What do you mean ‘packs a wallop’?”

O’Brian laughed. “Don’t fret about it. I’ll tell you another time. Right now I need to catch up to my men. We’ve been summoned to a meeting.”

“Have a good evening, Captain, and if time permits, you must stop by and see us again soon.”

Although he had already turned to leave, O’Brian stopped and turned to offer Brenton a grin. “Maybe after you get your female problems under control.”

Brenton nearly moaned out loud. “I could die an old man before then.”

He heard O’Brian laughing all the way down the street. For not knowing his sister that well, O’Brian certainly seemed to have a fixed opinion of her.

Passing by the telegraph office, Brenton paused and looked at the sign for several moments. He could go inside and put an end to their misery right now. His father would no doubt have the money wired to the bank in record time, and they could easily purchase tickets on a steamer or cross the river by ferry and take the stage or train. They could be home in New York in ten days, maybe even a week, if the war didn’t cause them any interference.

Of course, Jordana would hate him forever, and Caitlan . . . Oh, Caitlan, what have I done to you? He wanted to crawl under a rock when he remembered the way he’d acted and the things he’d said. He’d hurt her, and there was no way he could take back his harsh, unfeeling words.

Again Brenton looked to the skies, but this time there was a prayer on his heart. “Help me to make things right again. I never meant to hurt either one of them. Not by my words or actions. Or for that matter, my lack of action.”

11

When Brenton received a summons the following morning to meet with Peter Dey, chief engineer for the Union Pacific, he felt a tremendous exuberance. He’d been trying for days, even weeks, to get an appointment with this man, and finally his moment had come.

Striding into the Union Pacific’s plain office, Brenton found himself one of several men on hand to meet with Dey. So much for his thought of a quick meeting.

The men nodded in greeting, and Brenton did likewise as he slowly scanned the room. The furnishings were nothing to brag about. Wooden floors and simple, unadorned furniture made up the lobby. A large oak door, void of any placard to announce its occupant, was closed to them. With a sigh, Brenton slipped into a polished wooden chair and waited for his turn.

“This isn’t anything like the offices old Durant has for himself back in New York,” one man was saying to another. “I was there a couple of weeks ago. You should have seen it. Marble fireplaces and black walnut paneling on the walls. The carpets on the floor were probably worth a hundred dollars each.”

“Do tell,” the man replied. “Well, maybe that’s where all the building of the Union Pacific is taking place.” The men laughed heartily while Brenton fidgeted with the buttons on his coat.

“They can pretend all they like,” another man said, leaning forward from the wooden chair he’d chosen for himself, “grading here and there, ordering up supplies, and opening workshops. But until they get some fixed surveys for this line, they aren’t likely to be going anywhere.”

“You talk like one who knows,” one of the first men replied.

The man nodded. “I’m Samuel Reed, one of the engineers hired on by Dey. I was to be bound for Salt Lake City last month, but it’s been impossible to get transportation west. I was about to sign on and head there with the Mormons when Dey summoned me.”

His mention of finding transportation west impossible immediately caught Brenton’s attention. Maybe his concerns over getting Caitlan to California would be for naught. He could hardly be blamed for the delay if transportation wasn’t to be had.

“You’re surveying for the Union Pacific?” asked the youngest of the other two men.

“That’s the plan,” Reed admitted. “We’re going to figure out a way to lay track out of Nebraska and the high plains across to the Salt Lake Valley. There’s another party exploring through the Medicine Bow Mountains, and they’re supposed to hook up with my group near Utah. But we’ve got to get there first.”

“What’s the holdup with transportation?” the older man questioned.

Brenton listened with great interest, trying hard to look preoccupied with the simple, yet official-looking, railroad clock hanging on the wall opposite them.

“It’s a combination of problems,” Reed replied. “There’s too many people trying to get west, for one thing, and not enough stagecoaches for another. I’ve been working to get passage on the stage for me and my men, but it’s nigh impossible. The last I heard, the fare’s been raised to $200 a person, and any baggage over twenty-five pounds is charged at a dollar a pound. At that rate I’ll be paying over $150 just to ship my instruments to Salt Lake.”

“Two hundred! Land sakes,” the young man declared. “That’s outright robbery.”

Reed nodded. “Dey says it’s due to the Indian scare as well as the big number of gold prospectors heading to the mountains. The stages are running a risk even venturing west, and they intend to be well compensated for their trouble. I told Dey, with that kind of expense we ought to just buy our own wagon and team and head there on our own.”

Just then the door opened and a dour-faced man appeared. “Gentlemen, my apologies. I fear I’m running behind. Reed, we have passage for you and your men, but you’ll have to take a steamer to Atchison and catch the westbound stage from that point.” The man, obviously Peter Dey himself, then turned to the other two men in the waiting room. “Mr. McKeever, Mr. Daniels, I have that information your boss, Mr. Snyder, needs.” He handed them a long rolled-up document. “Also there are supplies at the river that need to be freighted to where Snyder is working west of town.”