Something was eating at Pa. Callie could tell, the way he kept fidgeting and fretting. Every so often he'd get up and pace the length of the car. And the way he cracked his knuckles made her just want to scream.
At least he'd brought her food to eat on the train. Not that dry bread and cheese was any banquet, but it was better than nothing. She'd rather have the cornbread she'd bought at the little café across from the depot in Ogden, but she didn't dare bring it out as long as he was apt to see it. He'd give her the dickens for going out when he'd told her to stay put.
The Conductor came through, turning down the lamps. She propped her blanket roll against the window and leaned against it, shivering. The stove down at the end of the car didn't give out much heat unless you sat right close to it. The seats close to the stove had filled up before she and Pa had got aboard.
"You stay here, girl. I'm goin' to the observation car."
"Can I come along?"
"Didn't I just say to stay here? 'Sides, its' like a men's club there, No women allowed." He swayed his way up the aisle and through the door into the vestibule. Seconds later a cold draft made her shiver even harder.
At least she could lie across both seats while he was gone. It wasn't any warmer, but it was sure a lot more comfortable. Instead of just dozing, she managed to sleep well for long spells, as long as the train was moving. When morning came, she felt almost rested.
They were stopped in some desolate little town when Pa came back. "Wake up."
She sat up and looked around. It was almost light outside, so she reckoned it was morning. "Where are we?"
"It don't matter. Let's go. They're servin' breakfast." He turned away and headed toward the front of the car.
"Pa! Wait. I've got to--" But he's already pushed through the door. Knowing she risked missing her breakfast, she ducked into the women's necessary, giving silent thanks it was empty. As fast as her nearly numb fingers would allow, she took care of her needs and straightened her clothes. A quick glance in the small mirror showed a pink crease in her cheek and hair that would make any smart rat look for a better nest. "Oh, well, Pa won't notice, and I just won't worry about anybody else." She hurried through the train, stumbling often as it swayed and jerked.
The dining car was the fourth one forward. Pa was sitting at a table with two men and waved her to him. When she sat, both men stared at her and she ducked her head, unwilling to meet their eyes.
She'd no sooner sat down than a colored man in a white coat set a steaming bowl of porridge in front of her. Pa was eating ham and eggs, and had a cup of coffee next to his plate. "Pa, can I have some coffee?"
For a moment she thought he was going to refuse, but then he glanced across the table at the two men and nodded.
There was a silver pitcher of cream and a matching sugarbowl right in front of her. She helped herself generously. The first bite of the creamy, sweetened porridge was like heaven. She could feel its warmth all the way to her belly. When she took a sip of the coffee, she almost wept with how good it tasted. She heard Pa talking to the men across the table, but she didn't listen. His voice had that "I'm a great man" tone to it she'd learned to hate. Had he been such a liar, such a braggart, when she was little and thought he was only one step below God?
She didn't think so.
Her spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl with a sound that sent shivers up her spine. Pa looked over at her and frowned. "If you're done, you can go on back to your seat. I've business here."
There was still coffee in her cup. She grabbed it and drank rapidly, almost choking. Pa's fingers were tapping impatiently on the tablecloth by the time she'd swallowed the last drop.
When she stood up, so did the men across the table. Pa didn't.
* * * *
They arrived in Cheyenne late on the second day. As she was stumbling toward the vestibule on feet so cold they didn't want to work, she heard someone say the train was three hours late. The icy wind that met her as she stepped down to the platform made her wish it had been on time. Wouldn't it have been warmer in the daytime?
Inside the station, she collapsed gratefully on a bench while Pa talked to a man behind a brass-barred window. He was mad, and the longer they talked, the madder he got. She couldn't hear what they said, but decided it didn't matter anyway. She'd learn soon enough where they were headed next.
Why didn't I tell him I wanted to stay in Virginia City? He couldn't have forced me to come, could he?
Mrs. Flynn had said she had to go because she wasn't of age yet. But she would be, come Christmas. Leastways she thought she would. Wasn't eighteen a woman grown?
How much duty does a daughter owe her folks, anyhow? Don't they owe her something in return? Those were ungodly thoughts and she quickly banished them.
After a few minutes, she heard him swear. Fingers crossed, she hoped he wouldn't take his anger out on her. The bruise around her eye had faded, but was still tender.
He was digging in his pocket when he came back to her. His hand came out, holding coins and a couple of crumpled bills. "Here, take this. You're on your own 'til I come back. Shouldn't be more'n a week." He picked up the valise he'd left with her and stared to walk away.
"Pa? Wait!"
"What?"
"Where are... What am I supposed to do?" She looked down at the money he'd handed her. Two dollar bills and half a dozen coins. One was a five dollar piece, but the rest were silver and copper. No more than eight dollars in all. "Where will I stay?"
"Find a place. Get yourself work. You can't expect me to take care of you all the time." Without a word of farewell, he strode to the door and disappeared into the night.
The station agent was a nice man. He let her stay in the station until morning.
* * * *
Eight weeks after leaving Dodge City, Merlin rode into Denver. He'd climbed three-quarters of the way up the mountain they called Pike's Peak, nursed a homesteader with a broken leg until he could hobble around on his own, and spent near a week in a snow cave when winter swept down from the peaks as he was making his way out of the Rockies.
Denver was a mighty fine city, but it looked to be a lot quieter than Dodge had been. He'd heard Colorado was going to be a state soon and some said Denver was to be the capital. Maybe next year was the word he'd heard in some saloon or other, if Congress would get off its collective arses.
For the first time since he'd ridden out of Dodge City, he was glad to see other folks. Before anything else, he got himself a room in a hotel with indoor plumbing.
What the day was didn't matter much to him. When he heard church bells somewhere, he decided it must be Sunday, which explained the lack of traffic on the streets. There was a bath house next to the hotel, so he took advantage of it. Got himself a shave too, and vowed to buy a new pair of socks to replace the ones he'd wore holes in, first thing on Monday.
Maybe while he was here, he'd look up that woman Buff and Silas were acquainted with. Tilly Something-or-Other. "Bet if I ask about high-class bawdyhouses, I'll find her, "he mused as he turned off the gaslight.
The next morning he took himself over to the Post Office to see if there was any held mail for him. When he'd sent the telegram from Dodge City, he'd let the folks know where he was heading.
"Lachlan? I did see something with that name," the clerk said, when asked. He turned to a wall full of cubbyholes. "Lachlan. Yes, here 'tis." Pulling a bundle of envelopes from a well-stuffed cubby, he checked their addresses.
"Merlin Lachlan?"
"That's me."
"Then these are all yours. 'Pears you've got a sight of readin' to do."
"I'm obliged," Merlin said, taking them. He restrained his curiosity until he was outside.
Most of the envelopes were from his folks, but there was one from Regina and one from Iris. The return address on the forwarded one with foreign stamps was illegible, but his name was carefully printed. He reckoned it was from his older brother. Buff's handwriting was a caution. He crammed the bundle into the pocket of his duster and headed toward the hotel. He had all afternoon to spend on his mail, before he went out to see what Denver had to offer after dark. Maybe he'd have dinner sent up, with a pint of brandy. After more than a year of living rough, he felt like enjoying a little luxury. He hadn't slept on ironed sheets since he left New Orleans.
Later, replete with rare steak and creamy mashed potatoes, he leaned back against a pile of pillows and started with the oldest letters first. Ma and Pa were well, and starting to plan their trip to Australia. He reread the paragraph where Ma said they were thinking to come home the long way, through Europe. She'd a hankering to see Rome and Paris.
He had to chuckle. His ma had always said she was done with traveling, but he guessed trains and steamships were a far cry from covered wagons.
Buff was in England, still working for the Coalition, but he was setting up an office of Dewitt Shipping there, too. The kids were fine. There would soon be a fourth little Lachlan. He chuckled when he saw the P.S. Silas says we'll change the name of the company to D&L Shipping if I don't manage to run us into bankruptcy. He's given up hoping Tony will take over.
Hard to imagine Buff a daddy, after the adventurous life he'd led for so long.
Regina had decided to stay in college, even though she'd graduated once. What good all that education would do her, he hadn't a notion, but he wished her well. Iris now planned to study economics, whatever that was. He had a feeling she'd get tired of it within a year, just as she had science and mathematics, literature and philosophy. His littlest sister was smart as a whip, but had a butterfly mind, flitting from subject to subject, never staying with one for any time at all. Nobody said what Rhys was up to, which he was afraid meant his younger brother was raising hell instead of minding his studies.
There was another letter from his ma, not nearly so fat as the first one. It was postmarked just last week. Curious he opened it and started reading.
...strangest thing, but I thought it might be important. We didn't get it for near a week after it came, because it was addressed wrong, but when Randy Strange came back from his trip to San Francisco, he figured out real quick that it had to be for us.
I'm sure it's really for you, because I can't make head nor tail out of it. That's why I'm sending you the telegram just as we got it. If it's not yours, send it back, and I'll let Randy figure out who's suppose to get it.
He pulled the folded yellow sheet from the envelope. The words meant nothing at first, until he got to the last two words. Cal Smith.
Great God. Cal. I can't believe-- He read again, this time forcing himself to make sense of what he saw.
What sense he could, anyhow. The message was so cryptic it seemed nonsensical at first. Then he forced himself to think about what it didn't say.
That father of hers was a bad man. He'd realized that much in the few minutes before the man had all but run him off. A hard man and a mean-spirited one.
He'd never forgotten the expression of loss he'd seen in Cal's eyes as he'd left her alone with him. Oh, yes, she'd been where she'd traveled a thousand miles to be, but Merlin hadn't been convinced then--or yet--that he should have left her with the man.
He laid the telegram on his thigh and leaned back against the headboard. Cheyenne. It was what? Less than two hundred miles away. He'd no compelling reason to stay in Denver, nothing beyond curiosity and a hankering for bright lights and fancy women.
Nothing he couldn't live without.
There was a calendar hanging on the wall beside the door. He walked over and contemplated it.
If he left in the morning, he and Gawain could be in Cheyenne by Christmas.
The next day he bought supplies and loaded up for another journey. The gelding made it clear he didn't hanker to go anywhere but back to his feed trough.
"Settle down, there," Merlin told him, when he went to buck. "We both know I'll win this war."
Sure enough, within a mile Gawain was stepping out just like he had places to go, mares to see.
* * * *
Cheyenne surely didn't look like much, for all its reputation as a shipping center. He checked Gawain into a livery stable, got advice on a decent but not fancy hotel, and started in the direction the hostler pointed. Just after he cleared the door, the man said, "Afore I forget, we ain't gonna be open tomorrow, 'less you make special arrangements. Not much call for stock on Christmas."
"No worry. I figure to have myself a good dinner, maybe a bath, and not go anywhere for a spell" He stopped, looked back at the hostler. "Where's the best place to eat?"
"I fancy the Bijou Café myself. It's a block west of the Platte Hotel."
"I'm obliged." Shouldering his saddlebags and slinging his rifle, he strode along the street toward the hotel. A familiar excitement sizzled inside him. There was an adventure out there, just waiting for him.
But first he had to find Cal.
A week later he was wondering if the telegram had been a hoax, even though he couldn't figure how. Or why.
Nobody he questioned had heard of a Lemuel Smith. Nobody knew about anybody new in town with an interest in a saloon, a bawdyhouse or a card room. He'd described Smith as best he could, from his memory of six years ago, and all he'd got back were headshakes and shrugged shoulders.
Worse, his questions about a girl with coal black hair and eyes as green as spring leaves had gone just as unanswered. After the third time he'd been taken for a pimp, he started explaining he was seeking a runaway sister. Some folks even believed him and tried to help.
He'd been in Cheyenne nearly a week when it occurred to him they might have come on a train. "You are purely a fool, boy," he muttered. He'd spent too long away from civilization. That had to be his excuse.
The station agent denied seeing any young woman matching his description of Cal, but when the night clerk came in, he said, "Sure. I recall her. Came in with an older man. He left her here. Just walked out and left her." He shook his head in evident puzzlement at any decent man who'd abandon a girl in a depot.
"When was that?"
"A while back." He scratched his balding scalp. "Maybe a month ago."
Great God! Anything could have happened to her in a month. "Do you have any idea what happened to her? Did the older fellow come back?"
"Nope. She slept here that night, curled herself up on the bench closest to the stove." He sort of hunched his shoulder when the agent cleared his throat. "Yessir , I know I shouldn't have let her, but hell. What kind of man would turns a pretty girl out on the street in a strange town, middle of the night?"
"You did the right thing," Merlin said. "Have you seen her around town since then?"
"Nope," he said again. "Not a trace."
Thanking both the agent and the night clerk, Merlin walked out onto the street. He stood on the depot steps and looked up and down the street. Where did you go, Cal? Did you put on britches again? Or did you find a safe haven?
* * * *
Callie was finally getting used to rising in the middle of the night again. It had been hard the first few nights, because she'd been afraid to let herself sleep soundly for fear of not waking when it was time. After the difficulty she'd had finding work, she didn't dare do anything to get herself fired.
The little cubby where she slept was warm, anyhow. Right in back of the oven, its one brick wall held the heat all the time. Come summer it would be miserable, but now she appreciated the warmth.
She washed quickly, for the water was like ice. Once she'd braided her hair and tucked it into the muslin cap she wore in the kitchen, she was ready for work. Frau Trebelhorn was a bear about cleanliness, which suited her just fine. Imagine finding a hair in your bread. That would put anyone off his appetite.
What a funny woman the restaurant manager was. She spoke English just as good as Callie did, but she insisted on being called "Frau" instead of missus. She always wore a fancy skirt with a band of embroidery around the hem, and her white apron never showed a spot of dirt. "Not like mine," Callie mused, as she tied her coffee- and cherry juice-stained apron around her waist. It was clean, but some stains were just stubborn.
She'd a lot to do today. Frau Trebelhorn had given her a list of fancy breads to bake for tomorrow, besides the usual bread and pies. "It is our proud tradition, to invite our neighbors in for coffee and bread while we celebrate the new year together," she'd said yesterday, when she handed Callie the list and some recipes.
"Brambrack, that's easy. It's not so different from Mrs. Flynn's receipt. But this stollen... I'll need more candied fruit from the storeroom. Julekage, that doesn't look too hard. But what's Makosgubo?" She stumbled over the pronunciation. "Do we have any poppy seeds? Limpa? Sounds like a broken leg." As she muttered, she searched the cupboard where the spices and herbs were kept. Yes, there was cardamom, and a pint jar of black poppy seeds. Yesterday she'd been sent to buy half a dozen oranges at the market, and dear they'd been, too. "That's everything. I'm going to be busy."
The restaurant would be open for dinner and supper on New Year's Day, but they would also have tables full of breads and cakes and fancy German desserts, along with gallons and gallons of coffee, free to anybody who came in the door.
She'd never heard the like, but as long as she was getting paid for the extra work, she couldn't complain.
A new year. As she worked, she wondered if it would bring anything different from the old one. If she could work a way to get free of her pa, she'd settle for that. Seemed to her he was getting meaner all the time. More peculiar, too.
Women had the vote here in Wyoming Territory. Did it mean they weren't obliged to mind their menfolk once they were full-grown?