Separate Roads (22 page)

Sometimes Kiernan wondered if earthly life wasn’t of little concern to God. Of course God would concern himself over His people, but did He truly bother to get in on the little details of the day? Did God really care whether Kiernan O’Connor wore silk waistcoats and dined on poached salmon? After all, if he believed that good came from God’s hand, was he not obligated to believe that bad was also passed on that way?

But Kiernan remembered a sermon from not so very long ago. The pastor had spoken of God’s desire that all come willingly to the cross. That salvation was a free gift to those who desired it, but it wasn’t a gift that had come without cost to the giver.

“We must remember,” the man had preached, “that Christ paid with His life for that which costs us nothing. Why do you then raise protests when troubled times come into your life? If God allowed His own Son—a part of himself—to suffer and labor a death that we can only imagine with dread, why do you find it surprising that you too must suffer? Jesus told us there would be trouble—read the Word—it’s all there.”

Kiernan had read as much of the Bible as his limited skills allowed. It was there. Stories of good men who were persecuted by evil men. Accounts of trials and tribulations that God ultimately had victory over. He thought of Job and the way the devil had heaped trial after trial upon him, and all with God’s knowledge. How was that right? Was God not supposed to keep evil from His children? It was almost as if God waited on pins and needles to see if Job would curse Him and die. Yet He had to have known what Job’s choice would be. God told Satan that Job was a perfect and upright man, one who feared Him and eschewed evil. And while Kiernan would never pretend that he was perfect and upright, he did fear the Lord and refrained from evil.

Then a thought came to mind—a thought he’d continued to bury since leaving Maryland with Victoria. He wasn’t all that good about refraining from evil. He’d forced his wife to live a lie in order to save his pride. He’d kept Victoria from telling her parents that he’d lost her money, and the lie ate at him like nothing he had ever known. The only way he avoided dealing with it was to press it down deep into the darkest recesses of his mind.

His da had once told him, “A man is only as good as his word. If yar known for yar lies, then no man will respect ya.”

Kiernan shook his head and closed his eye. He was running from the truth, hiding out a continent away so that he wouldn’t lose face with Victoria’s parents, yet he’d already lost self-respect. His thoughts tried to go to prayer, but he felt such an overwhelming shame that he avoided even speaking the words.

A verse from the Psalms came to mind. “Search me, O God, and know my heart: try me, and know my thoughts . . .” Oh, it was certain God knew his thoughts. Thoughts of misery and pity and guilt for his actions. “. . . And see if there be any wicked way in me . . .” But could Kiernan really bear the truth? Could he look down deep in his own heart and let God show him the ugly, hidden places? “. . . and lead me in the way everlasting.”

Kiernan felt a lump form in his throat. “I’m not worth the effort,” he whispered. “I’ve lied, and in my hardened heart I’ve been unmerciful to me wife. I’ve been spiteful and angry, demanding and heartless. Why would yarself be wastin’ effort on me?” he questioned God.

“Kiernan?” It was Victoria. Her sweet voice called to him from the opposite side of the door. Timidly she opened it and questioned again. “Kiernan?”

“Aye.”

“I heard your voice. Did you call for me?”

He shook his head, not yet ready to confess his dealings with God.

Smiling at him, she came to sit beside him. “I’ve been thinking about something, and I wondered what you wanted me to do.”

He looked at her, frowning at the sight of her. She appeared so tired, and it was all his fault. He’d caused her no end of grief. “What’s troublin’ yar mind?” He kept his voice low and gentle.

“I suddenly realized the other day that I’d not written to Caitlan to tell her of your accident. I suppose I was just so caught up in what was going on. I’d like to write to her now and let her know of your condition.”

Kiernan thought on this for a moment. “I don’t want to be worryin’ her. I’ve been doin’ little but causin’ folk grief.” He felt a strange sensation wash over him, but ignoring it, he continued. “The doctor isn’t certain of my . . .” His voice trailed off as his thoughts blurred into incoherence. What was happening to him? He swallowed hard, but even that came by sheer determination.

“Kiernan?” Her voice was calm. Apparently she didn’t realize he was struggling.

With all his strength, he looked at her and said, “Write her a letter and tell her I release her from any pledge to come to me.”

“But I don’t understand. I thought you wanted her here.”

“I do,” Kiernan said, feeling as though his tongue had suddenly grown too large for his mouth. He began to twitch and then shake all over.

Now Victoria could see there was a problem. “Kiernan!” It was the last word he heard before fading into a world of shadows and endless noise.

——

“A convulsion,” the doctor told Victoria calmly. “We see this sometimes in patients who suffer head injuries. It could mean that there’s a clot on the brain, or perhaps that the brain is merely trying to right itself, or that your husband overtaxed himself. We really know very little about these sorts of things.”

Victoria forced her attention on the doctor rather than her now sleeping husband. When she’d seen Kiernan begin to jerk and twist, his one good eye rolled up in his head, she knew something was dreadfully wrong. She’d screamed for Li and sent her to get the doctor, but then there had been nothing to do but pray.

“Next time it happens—” the doctor began.

“Next time!” Victoria barely stifled a scream. “What do you mean, next time!”

Dr. Benson gently patted her arm. “It’s highly possible that until he completely recovers from his injuries, this kind of thing will happen again and again.” He looked at her intently. “I’m sorry to say this, but it’s also quite possible he might not recover at all. I’ve seen it before in cases of brain injury and swelling. You can never be sure.”

“But he’s been doing so well,” Victoria said in a strangled tone. “It’s been almost a month since the accident.”

“Yes, yes, I know. We must have faith that he will survive, but I don’t want to get your hopes up only to have them dashed. I said nothing as long as he wasn’t suffering from convulsions. But brain seizures are not a good sign in general. We’ll simply have to watch and wait.”

Victoria bit her lower lip to keep from crying. She wanted to demand that the doctor make things right. She wanted to insist that he knit Kiernan back together and ease her worry. But of course, he could do nothing. He was just a man.

“I’ve given him something to help him sleep, but should he suffer another episode, send for me straight-away. Oh, and don’t forget to put something in his mouth to keep him from swallowing his tongue. More die from this than from the seizure itself.”

“Should we stay with him around the clock?” she asked, knowing that she had no intention of leaving her husband’s side.

Dr. Benson nodded. “It would probably be a good idea. At least for a couple of days.”

Victoria nodded. “Then that’s what we’ll do. He’ll never be alone, I promise you.” She looked to where Kiernan lay sleeping and thought of the hideous scene she’d witnessed not even an hour ago. In those horrible moments, her beloved Kiernan had changed from the man she loved to become some sort of creature—writhing and twisting, foaming at the mouth. It was unlike anything she had ever seen, or ever wanted to see again. She had thought the worst was behind them. She had thought he would recover and be well again, and now the doctor was telling her he might even die.

Waiting until Dr. Benson had gone, Victoria sank into the bedside chair and buried her face in her hands. “I simply cannot bear this, Father,” she prayed in a hushed whisper between sobs. “I cannot do this alone.”

19

August on the plains of Nebraska had heated up in more ways than one. The questionable threat of Indian attacks had rapidly become a reality. In the Platte River area in the western part of the state, rumors held that massacres of white settlers had become a routine event. Territorial citizens began streaming into Omaha for safety, bringing with them their money and other valuables—spreading fear and terror among the occupants of the city, who were afraid they could be the next ones to come under attack.

The threat seemed only marginal, however, until a band of terrified homesteaders appeared in Omaha in the middle of one of the hottest nights of the summer. Without knowing what had happened, Jordana and Brenton showed up at the bank the next morning, only to be told that all business had been suspended for the day.

“There’s to be a town meeting at the courthouse,” Hezekiah Chittenden told them. “Two o’clock this afternoon, we’ll decide what’s to be done.”

“What’s happened?” Jordana asked innocently.

“Indians raided the west bank of the Elkhorn River not far from here. The settlers living there barely escaped with their lives,” Hezekiah replied. “They came into town with little more than the clothes on their backs.”

“Indians so close?”

“There’s been trouble afoot for months, even years. It seems to be heating up, what with survey teams and settlers disturbing the Indians’ hunting grounds. I don’t know a great deal about it, but I suppose we’ll learn at the meeting. Governor Saunders promises there will be action.”

“What kind of action?” Jordana asked.

“I couldn’t say, but I would imagine it will solidify the governor’s desire to form up an army.”

Brenton looked away at the mention of this. “Do you suppose it’s come to that?” he muttered.

Jordana looked at her employer. “Yes, do you really suppose we need more than the soldiers who are already here? I don’t see that we should worry so much that—”

“People are dead, Miss Baldwin,” Hezekiah said in an anxious tone that left Jordana little doubt as to his fears. “More will surely die.”

“Come on, Jordana. We’ll attend the meeting this afternoon with everyone else. Maybe then we’ll know what’s to be done.” Brenton took hold of her arm and moved her off down the street toward home.

“What do you mean by that?” Jordana asked. Her anger at Brenton’s bossiness had abated somewhat, but things hadn’t been the same between them since Caitlan had moved out.

“I mean, if there’s to be a militia raised, if they make it a matter of requirement, then we’ll have to move on.”

“Because of the promise you made Cousin Nate?”

Brenton eyed her seriously for a moment, then glanced to make certain the street was clear before tugging her along with him. “It’s more than that, and you know it. I promised I’d not bear arms against the South.” Jordana and Caitlan were among the few he’d actually confessed his situation to. He’d had little choice but to sign the agreement. If he hadn’t done so, even their cousin would not have been able to keep Brenton from being imprisoned as a spy, or worse, hanged.

“But this isn’t against the South,” Jordana protested. “Not that I care to see you in any militia.”

“There are those who would argue that point,” Brenton replied.

He glanced upward as they passed George Train’s latest creation of boredom, the Cozzen’s House Hotel. Train was a prominent shipping and railroad magnate who couldn’t abide the lack of progress on the Union Pacific. He also had a great disdain for the hotels in Omaha and deemed it necessary to build his own.

Jordana followed her brother’s gaze. “Old crazy Train, huh?” She knew everything that was said about the man. He was often in the bank for meetings with Hezekiah. Part of this was due to railroad business, but most of it was due to his pledge to create a chain of towns all along the Union Pacific. They were to be thriving metropolises to rival New York and Boston. He had pledged a great deal of his own money, buying up five thousand lots in Omaha alone. Not to mention building the forty thousand dollar Cozzen’s House at a time when many folks were suffering financially because of the war.

Jordana knew Train was considered a bit of an extremist. Many thought him to be quite mad, in fact, and avoided dealing with him, in spite of his wealth and success in business. One could never be sure just where old Train would head off to next, Hezekiah had told her.