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July 8, 1881
Near Washington, D. C.
Sarah walked through the well-appointed foyer of the home of Mrs. Crenshaw, her hostess. Mrs. Crenshaw's home, just outside of the city proper of Washington, was the largest house Sarah had ever been in. Even the home of the Goodmans, the well-heeled black family back in Fayetteville, and that of her boss, hotelier Barney Ford, seemed somewhat small in comparison.
Mrs. Amira Crenshaw was tall, slender, and had skin the color of rich mahogany. Her black hair was carefully coiled low on her neck, and held in place with several pearl-accented hairpins. Dressed in her fine, white-silk blouse, edged in lace, and a dark skirt, Amira moved quickly through the house. "The Capital Suffrage Society ladies are all seated in the parlor. They're eager to hear from you, Miss Webster."
Tamping down her nerves as best she could, Sarah nodded. "I hope I won't bore them." This was only her third speech before a group, so she aspired to keep them awake so she could arm them with information.
"Oh, nonsense. You live in the Territories. To a bunch of eastern ladies like us, that in itself is interesting."
They turned toward the open door of the parlor, and Sarah could hear the myriad of female voice seeping out of the room. Seeing the long, oval-shaped mirror mounted on the wall just outside the parlor, she stopped to check her reflection. "I'll be in momentarily, Mrs. Crenshaw."
With a nod, her hostess disappeared through the doorway.
Regarding her reflection in the mirror. She straightened the collar of her yellow blouse, and then smoothed a lace gloved hand over the navy-blue skirt. Touching her hair to be sure her bun was secure, she then reached into the pocket of her skirt and extracted an extra hat pin. Using the pearl-tipped pin, she secured her hat, a flat blue disk adorned with yellow flowers. Satisfied with her appearance, she slowly made her way into the parlor.
As she entered, she saw the members of the Capital Suffrage Society for the first time. About thirty well-dressed ladies of various hues, heights, and ages were seated in the room. Sarah was somewhat surprised by the makeup of the audience; she hadn't expected to see such a diverse group in the room. Most of the women were black, but there were also quite a few who were white, or Oriental, and even one who appeared to be Native.
She knew from her correspondence with Mrs. Crenshaw that the group affiliated with the American Women’s Suffrage Association. AWSA founder, Lucy Stone, advocated for racial harmony and encouraged the efforts of women of all races toward suffrage. This was in direct contrast to Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony’s National Women’s Suffrage Association, whose leaders had opposed the passage of the fifteenth amendment.
All the seats in the room were positioned to face a lone, empty armchair. A smattering of applause greeted Sarah's entrance, and as she took her seat in the chair, the room quieted.
"Good afternoon, ladies. My name is Sarah Webster, and Mrs. Crenshaw invited me here to speak to you about my experience voting in last year's presidential election, and my life in the Wyoming Territory."
A female voice called out, "Good show, Amira!"
Mrs. Crenshaw, seated up front, waved off the praise with a bright smile.
Sarah shared in the smile, and then continued. "As you know, women were given the right to vote in Wyoming Territory in eighteen sixty-nine. I felt very fortunate that, after moving to Cheyenne to take a position at a hotel, I was able to cast my vote for president this past November." She paused, gauging the somber mood that descended over the room. "I voted for President Garfield, and like all of you, I was shocked and saddened to hear of the tragedy that befell him. I truly believe he will advance the cause of suffrage, and the rights of people of color, if he survives this terrible ordeal."
"We must all pray for the president's recovery." Amira's sage words were followed by murmurs of agreement from all over the room.
Sarah spent time speaking about her experience at the polls, and her passion for submitting essays to eastern newspapers on the topic of suffrage for all.
Amira announced, "I contacted Sarah after I read her essay in The Christian Recorder."
After that, Sarah chatted about her life in Cheyenne. She did her best to quell the persistent myth of “The Lawless West," and paint a more accurate picture of the bustling town she'd come to love, and to consider a second home. She spoke of the famous Inter-Ocean Hotel, where she was employed, and of some of the other institutions and businesses in the city. The women's eyes widened as she described some of the places she passed by on a daily basis: St. Mary’s Cathedral, the Union Pacific Railroad Depot, and the vistas of the Rocky Mountains rising in the distance.
Her speech ended to rousing applause, and she smiled in response. Amira stood then, calling everyone's attention with several sharp claps of her hand. "Now that we've heard Ms. Webster's story, let's put our thinking caps on. What can we do to further our cause here on the East Coast?"
The Native woman said, "Yes, let us think on it. If women having the ballot in Wyoming Territory have not led to famine and pestilence, why can't we have good results here as well?"
A few laughs rose in the room in response to the woman's sassy remark. Looking around at the assemblage, Sarah knew she liked these women. They were from all different backgrounds, but their passion for the cause of suffrage united them to each other, and now, it seemed, to her.
The women rose from their seats, rearranging the chairs until they were all in a circle. Once seated again, they all spent another hour or more spouting ideas.
"What about a bake sale to raise funds for our travel fund? So, we can protest in other cities?"
"We should form a committee to paint signs and keep a ready supply on hand for marches."
"Let's start a petition for suffrage. If we can get enough signatures, those lazy men in Congress will have to address it, won't they?"
Sarah waded in with her own suggestion. "If you want to get the attention of Congress, I suggest a letter writing campaign. Bombard them with so much mail that they'll have no choice but to hear our demands."
Amira turned her way. "You are truly a gem, Miss Webster. Thanks for coming."
Speaking truthfully, she replied, "It was my pleasure."
"You'll make some lucky gent a wonderful wife someday." Amira winked at her before turning back to the conversation at hand.
The mention of marriage set Sarah's mind in motion again, but this time, her thoughts were not focused on advancing the cause of suffrage. No, her traitorous mind wandered to thoughts of Owen. Despite his stubborn ways, there was something about him that called out to her. Being with him had made her feel safe, whole. And now, as she thought of him for the first time in two days without becoming angry, she realized something.
She missed him.
Why had she lashed out at him the way she had at the train depot? He'd gone out of his way to come there, to try and stop her from coming to Washington. She'd been so angry and so determined to go her own way, she'd missed the whole point of his words. He was worried about her. And if he were worried enough about her to go there and try to stop her from leaving, that meant he cared about her.
Amira touched her hand, drawing her back into the present. "Are you all right, dear? You look rather stricken."
Drawing a deep breath, Sarah nodded. "I'll be fine."
And she knew she would be, once she set things right with Owen.
***
July 8, 1881
Fayetteville, NC
After the lunch hour, Owen made his way to the telegraph office. Hitching his horse to the post outside, he entered the place to find it as busy as he expected it to be in the middle of a workweek. Removing his hat, he stood at the back of the line to await his turn.
A quarter of an hour later, Owen stepped up to the counter and was greeted by Marla Jackson, the assistant telegraph clerk. "Afternoon, Owen."
"Afternoon, Marla. What's the latest on the President?"
She shook her graying head sadly. "No improvement. They say the doctors can't find the bullet that lodged somewhere in his middle."
Owen shook his head as well. It was tragic to think of any man suffering through such agony, and the fact that the man was the President of the United States made it even worse.
Marla announced, "You got a few letters, and a telegram. Came in about an hour ago." She handed over a stack of envelopes and the telegram slip. "Sorry for your loss."
A somewhat confused Owen took the stack from her, and moved away from the counter so the next person in line could be served. Taking a seat in one of the old wooden chairs by the door, he set the envelopes aside to read the telegram. His mother had sent the message from the Edenton office.
Owen. Grandmother has died. Come home soon for burial. Love, Mother.
Reading the message made his heart clench in his chest. His grandmother Ethel had been one of his closest confidantes throughout his life, and he'd loved her fiercely. Knowing that she'd slipped away to be with the ancestors, and that he hadn't been at her side to hold her hand, pained him. What had happened? Had she been ill? And if so, why hadn't his parents told him? He had so many questions, and he knew the best way to find the answers would be to do as the telegram had instructed. He had to make arrangements to wrap up his last order and close his shop, and get home to his parents as quickly as he could.
With a wave to Marla, he pocketed the telegram and his letters, and replaced his hat atop his head. Then he returned to his horse. Once he was astride his spry gelding, he clicked his heels and turned the horse toward home.
As his mount sailed across the countryside, he thought of his grandmother and how he hadn't had the chance to tell her that he'd fallen in love. Yes, he loved Sarah, and he was willing to admit that to himself now, as well as to her.
But telling her would have to wait. For now, he needed to be with his family.
Chapter 10
July 11, 1881
Washington, D.C.
Sarah gave Amira Crenshaw one final, tight hug. The two of them were at the New Jersey Avenue Station, where in a few hours’ time, Sarah would board a train that would take her back to her life and work in Cheyenne.
"God speed, Miss Webster. I hope you'll write me, and please know you're welcome in my home whenever you find yourself in Washington."
"Thank you for everything." Sarah spoke the words into her hostess' ear before releasing her from the hug.
With a wave, Amira departed, leaving Sarah on the platform with her valise, her handbag, and her wandering thoughts.
Before leaving the Crenshaw's home, she'd again donned her pink traveling costume. Mrs. Crenshaw had been kind enough to have it cleaned and pressed in preparation for Sarah's long journey home, so it looked as clean and fresh as the day she'd purchased it.
Moving away from the road as Mrs. Crenshaw's carriage departed, Sarah contemplated going inside the station to await her train. As she glanced around, though, she noticed a small cafe adjacent to the station. The front window displayed an array of pies and pastries that looked so enticing that Sarah started walking in that direction.
Soon, she was seated in the cafe, enjoying a steaming cup of café au lait and a heavenly berry tart. She tucked her valise beneath the small table for two to keep it out of the way of anyone who might need to walk past. While she lifted the silver fork—loaded with buttery crust, which overflowed with strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries—she kept her gaze focused on the scene outside the cafe window.
Traffic was heavy, as would be expected on a warm summer day in the nation's capital. People rushed to and fro on foot, mounted on horseback, and seated behind the reins of various buggies and carriages. The city was alive with activity, even as the president convalesced in an undisclosed location, while the doctors tried to figure out if his life could be preserved. Everything she'd heard pointed to President Garfield's immense fortitude and will to live, but she still worried that his injuries might not be curable.
She sipped from her coffee, minding the time as displayed on the big clock hanging about the pastry counter. She still had a good hour before her train was scheduled to arrive, so she settled in and turned her attention back to the window.
Is that Owen?
She squinted, thinking her eyes must be tired. But as she looked again, she saw him striding down the walk, passing the cafe window. He wore a well-fitting pair of denims and a crisp, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose his powerful forearms.
As if he sensed her watching him, he turned and looked directly at her. Stopping in his tracks for a moment, he touched the glass with his open palm.
She placed her hand against the inside of the window, as if to touch his.
A smile broke over his face, and he moved swiftly to make his way inside.
Moments later, he was at her side. She stood, and the two of them stared into each other eyes for a long, wordless time. She hoped her eyes conveyed her feelings, but if they didn't, she would tell him later.
Suddenly, he reached out and pulled her into his arms. As he held her against his chest, she sighed. Being in his arms felt marvelous and welcoming—like being home. And while she was curious to know what brought him here, she decided that could wait until she'd had time to enjoy the feeling of him holding her.
***
Owen felt the smile stretch his lips as he held Sarah's trim, feminine form against his own. Holding her like this made him feel whole and fulfilled, and he never wanted to let her go.
He'd been intent on reaching the train station, where he'd assumed she'd be waiting for her train to Cheyenne. He'd come to Washington as soon as he'd completed his business with his family for his grandmother's burial. He'd been heading for the station when something made him glance into the cafe. Seeing her there, in that fancy pink getup with the black lace trim, had made his heart skip a beat.
When he felt he'd squeezed her sufficiently, he released her and stepped back. "I've never seen a lovelier sight."
She blushed prettily. "Heavens, Owen. What are you doing here anyhow?"
"I was looking for you. I've been in town since last night. I remembered that today was the day you'd return to Cheyenne. So, I checked the train schedule and headed for the station, thinking you'd be there."
She offered up a sweet smile. "Well, now that you've found me, what is it?"
He grasped both her hands in his own. "Sarah, I love you. I couldn't let you go back to the Territory without telling you that."
Tears began to well in her beautiful brown eyes, but she blinked them back. "I...love you, too, Owen."
No sweeter words had ever been said to him, and he leaned down to kiss her. Mindful of their surroundings, he settled for a chaste brush of his lips against her forehead.
Suddenly, she pursed her lips. "Oh, goodness. Have you come to stop me from boarding my train?"
"No, darling." He shook his head. "After the way that played out last time, I don't plan on ever doing that again."
Her smile returned. "Good. But speaking of that, I apologize for being so flippant with you."
"You were right. I had no claims on you, and no right to tell you what to do. I'm sorry I was so bullheaded." He'd come to Washington knowing that if he could catch her before she boarded her train, he'd have to apologize to her. And it wasn't simply to get back in her good graces. That day, he'd let his worry cloud his judgement so much that he'd been unable to see the truth in her words. The many days he'd spent without her had shown him the error of his ways.
"Wait. If you're not going to stop me from going back to Cheyenne, how are we to properly court? Are you coming with me?"
"No. I'm not cut out for life out West. Plus, my business is established in Fayetteville."
She sighed. "I love my parents and my sisters, but I don't want to move back home."
He caught her hands again. "Sarah, we'll set that aside for now. Your train will be arriving soon. When you get home, write me. I promise we'll iron all this out. For now, all that matters is that I love you."
"And I you." She leaned up, kissed his jaw.
Then, he helped her retrieve her valise from beneath the cafe table, and carrying it for her, escorted her to the train station.