Separate Roads (24 page)

She finished with the dishes, not giving Brenton’s silence much thought until he spoke to her in a gentle tone she’d not heard in weeks.

“Jordana, come sit with me.”

She turned and went to the table hesitantly. “What’s the matter?” She looked down at the letter in his hand. Another smaller envelope lay beside the bigger one. “Is it Mother?”

“No,” he said softly. “The letter is from Billy Vanderbilt.”

“Oh,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief. “You frightened me.” She had barely taken her seat when the realization began to dawn on her. “G.W.?”

Brenton nodded. “I’m afraid he passed away early in the year. I’m sorry.” He reached out and handed her the letter, his large, warm hand closing over hers. “Billy was devastated and apologizes for taking so long to notify us.”

Jordana didn’t want to look at the letter. She had long lived with the hope that G.W. would heal from his illness. After all, the Vanderbilts had money to spare and had taken him off to the best spa in Europe. The finest physicians in the world were available to see to his needs twenty-four hours a day. How then could he be dead?

She blinked back unbidden tears and looked down at the letter. Her gaze immediately caught the word “dead” and then further down saw her name mentioned.

“ ‘G.W. bid me to pass along this letter to Jordana,’ ” she read. “ ‘Her generosity of spirit and loving nature were present with him, even to the end.’ ”

“Oh, Brenton!” She brought a trembling hand to her mouth. “He can’t be gone. He just can’t be.”

Brenton reached down for the smaller envelope. “This one is marked for you. There are some other business papers here, so if you want to read this in private, I’ll understand.”

She nodded and got up from the table. Lighting a second lamp, Jordana took the letter and lamp and retired to her bedroom. She trembled as she placed the lamp on her night table. G.W. was dead. Gone was the laughing young man she had cherished during her days in New York. Her friend was dead.

Slumping onto the bed she tore open the envelope. The writing was hardly the bold and stylistic script of the once vibrant powerhouse of a man. Instead it was a spidery scrawl that belonged to that of a weakened invalid.

Dearest Jordana,

My illness must take me away from you, but I cannot go without dissolving this wall between us. I know I was the one to place this barrier. I built it brick by brick as I brooded over your refusal to marry me. I know now, seeing my own death before me, that you made a wise and fortuitous choice. Perhaps even ordained of God, for how could I leave a grieving widow in her prime? I go to my grave loving you, Jordana Baldwin. I will have that to carry me forward—to still my heart as I meet my Maker. Remember me fondly.

Ever your devoted servant,

G. W. Vanderbilt

Warm tears coursed down her cheeks and dripped onto the single sheet of G.W.’s letter. He had forgiven her refusal of marriage. He had gone to his grave loving her, not hating her for her rejection of him.

Tucking the letter carefully back into the envelope, Jordana curled up on the bed and sobbed softly into her pillow. Life was hard and cruel, and it seemed too much to expect a woman of eighteen to endure.

How could he be gone? Gone for months without her even knowing it.

She cried for his passing and cried for what might have been between them. She wondered silently what his funeral might have been like. Had they buried him in France or returned him to New York?

She had long mourned the dissolution of their friendship, but now she reflected on the days they’d once shared. G.W. had talked to her as an equal. He had respected her ability to reason and think. He had given her special attention, taking her on long walks where they would touch on important issues at hand. He had been a good friend, and now he was gone.

The thought of their friendship caused Jordana to think of Captain O’Brian. He too had offered her friendship. He believed firmly that men and women could be friends. Yet she hadn’t seen him in nearly a month.

Well, it’s best that way, she decided. I don’t need any more friends. It’s much too painful to lose them. G.W.’s passing only served to stiffen her resolve. She would be much happier to need no one. She would lean on God and her own abilities, but she would avoid the depths of friendship such as she had experienced with G.W.

Sighing, she thought of Brenton and Caitlan. These were dear friends, and she needed them. How would it be possible for her to gird herself against the risks of giving in such a manner? Perhaps it was a foolish notion, yet she knew that tonight something had hardened within her. A wall had formed that would not easily open up again.

20

Brenton shifted nervously in his seat and folded and refolded his hands. He didn’t want to appear anxious, but he was. He’d been summoned to attend a meeting of several important people associated with the Union Pacific. Peter Dey had sent a messenger with a formal-looking letter announcing his desire for Brenton Baldwin to be in attendance for a consultation regarding the survey assessments and building of the Union Pacific Railroad.

Now, seated in Dey’s small office, with no fewer than ten other men squeezed in around him, Brenton felt rather insignificant. Here he was, not yet twenty-one, and he had been called to a meeting of the most important men in Omaha.

“I can’t say that I’m happy about the Hoxie proposal,” Dey told them. “I’m not even sure who H. M. Hoxie is and why Mr. Durant believes him capable of constructing the first one hundred miles of this railroad, but nevertheless, his was the only bid received.”

Brenton found it surprising that no other construction firm had sought to bid on what would surely become the building project of the century.

“I am further dismayed by the suggestion made by our colleague Colonel Silas Seymour.” All heads turned to the man of whom Dey was speaking. The colonel acknowledged everyone with a nod but said nothing, and Dey continued. “I made a valuable survey of the area surrounding Omaha. It need not be compromised with the suggestion by our New York consulting engineer that the grade is too steep. Neither should it be allowed that the Platte River valley is any more of a threat to flooding than any other river, suggesting hundreds of thousands of dollars to be spent on building up levees and flood control.”

“My honorable sir,” Colonel Seymour said in a low drawl. “I could not in good conscience tell our friend Mr. Durant that your original route was anything but questionable. I see the route as needing much in the way of assistance. I merely suggest we loop to the south and west. True enough it adds nine miles to the length of the railroad, but it would also allow for a more reasonable grade, which would eventually be to our benefit once actual rail travel becomes reality. As for flood control, I have spoken to many regarding this situation and feel confident that this is the most responsible way to proceed.”

Dey fumed over the colonel’s obvious disregard for his position. Durant was well-known for usurping authority. Even authority he himself had assigned, such as was the case with Peter Dey.

“To bring our attention back to the Hoxie contract, which, I might add, has not yet been ratified or approved,” Dey continued, “we must assure the route with the final surveys. Hoxie is working off of my original plans and information provided us by General Grenville Dodge. He has also, no doubt, included consideration for Colonel Seymour’s suggestions.

“Hoxie’s contract proposes,” Dey explained, “that he should build the first one hundred miles for the sum of fifty thousand dollars per mile. He further declares that the cost of all stations, water tanks, machine shops, roundhouses, and any other necessary structures not exceed five hundred thousand dollars. Further, that if the cost of iron rails should increase to more than one hundred thirty dollars per ton, the Union Pacific would agree to pay the excess.”

To Brenton, who was unfamiliar with contract issues and railroad management, the plan sounded reasonable. He was amazed that anyone could simply consult a sketchy survey and then decide for themselves that each mile would cost X dollars. He had corresponded with his father by letters and had learned that much of building a railroad was pure conjecture and prayer.

The meeting grew increasingly hostile as the colonel once again joined in the conversation to suggest that Dey’s concern was borne more out of injured pride than real concern. This in turn brought Dey to suggest that Seymour and Durant were simply bilking the United States Congress out of unreasonable amounts of money. Colonel Seymour merely smiled and replied that the amount was more than reasonable, given the task at hand.

Brenton listened impatiently as the group continued to argue. He couldn’t see what part he might play in the situation, and his patience was growing thin. He despised arguments. Talking calmly and weighing the facts was a much more effective manner of dealing with business. His father had instilled this in his mind from the time he was a youngster, and now that he was a grown man in his own right, Brenton still maintained that it was sound advice. Perhaps it was this that caused him such irritation with Jordana. She had always been reasonable, and for all her daring exploits and ability to bring him around to her will, she had listened to sound counsel. Now she believed herself to have all the answers. She no longer listened or cared about what he might advise.

“Mr. Baldwin, whose father is well-known in railroad circles,” Dey continued, immediately drawing Brenton’s attention, “has posted an interest in photographing our survey progress, as well as the actual building of the line once we begin to move out across the territory. His proposal has met with Mr. Durant’s approval, and I have asked him here today that he might witness our plans for the survey.”

Brenton was thrilled. No one had given him any word on the matter since he had expressed his interest.

“Mr. Baldwin, can you be ready to leave within the week?”

Brenton nodded enthusiastically. “I will make myself ready. I have most of the supplies necessary for my photography work. I will need to ready my wagon, which provides my means of transportation as well as my darkroom.” He failed to mention that he had no clue as to what he would do with Jordana. Now that Caitlan lived with the Cavendish family, she was no longer a worry to him. At least, not in the matter of whether she’d be safe and well cared for. It didn’t stop him from thinking about her on a daily, maybe even an hourly basis.

“Then we shall expect you to be ready to move out with our team at first light on Friday. We will plan to be out for two, possibly three weeks. At that time, we’ll return to Omaha and decide where to go from there in regard to your photographs and whether we see them as being of value to this endeavor.”

Brenton nodded. His dream was about to come true. He felt an overwhelming gratitude toward God.
Thank you, Father,
he prayed silently.
Thank you for seeing me through this time, and please let me know how to handle the situation at home.

——

“You said yourself that transportation out of Omaha is expensive and difficult to come by,” Jordana said angrily. “You can’t simply sit there and make plans for me. I won’t have it.”

“You can’t stay in this house by yourself. You’re barely eighteen.”

“Women all over the country are staying in houses by themselves,” Jordana curtly replied. “That pesky little war back east has totally interfered with polite society rules.”

Brenton shook his head, then took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “This is different. Those women stay alone out of necessity. Their husbands or fathers have gone to war, and they have no choice. You have a choice.”

“Well, I’m not taking it. If you even try to send me away, Brenton Baldwin, I will cash in my ticket at the first available stop and head out for parts unknown. You’ll have no idea where I am or what I’m doing. How would that suit you?”