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September 1908
ON THAT DRIPPING-WET morning, the Union Pacific train eased out of RiverBend’s little station. Joy finished stowing her bag and packages and found Søren and Meg waving to her from the platform.
She blew them one kiss before turning away from their somber faces. She had happily endured many cautions and words of advice from the two of them before boarding her car. She knew how much they cared for her. They would do anything to fix her ruined life. If only it were so easy.
Sensing her emotions beginning to tumble, Joy shook herself and pulled open her handbag. She tugged out her little green journal and opened it to the back. She removed five small newspaper clippings. Each was from a different paper in either Boston or New York, several weeks past: The Boston Globe. The Boston Times. South Boston Inquirer. The New York Times. The Tribune. The five clippings, while not exactly the same, read in a similar manner.
Help Wanted,
Young woman for light domestic work.
Must be able to relocate,
Denver, Colorado.
Travel paid. Good wage.
Children allowed with prior approval.
Send letter of inquiry to . . .
Joy pondered the dark intentions that Uli and David maintained were obscured within those simple words. If what they insisted were so, then the wrong being done in and around Corinth was truly monstrous.
Joy stepped into the aisle of the swaying train and took stock of her surroundings. Her train had originated in the east and come through many cities, including Omaha, before stopping briefly in RiverBend. She had counted the number of passenger cars before boarding and was determined to walk through all of them.
Making her way down the narrow aisles, she kept her eyes open, believing she would know what she was looking for when she saw it—if it was actually to be found on that train. The odds were against it, yes, but she was determined to look.
In the third car a young woman sitting alone caught her eye. She seemed a little nervous and fidgety as she looked around. Her dress and hairstyle were decidedly “countrified.”
Joy recognized the way the girl’s hair was done—two long, blond braids, wound in opposite directions from the base of her neck across the top of her head, and pinned so that they formed a crown around her plump young face. Scandinavian. Joy knew so from her own Norwegian roots.
She chided herself for not having a plan to “arrange” a meeting with the girl. She would be more prepared as she returned to her seat.
Joy kept moving toward the back of the train looking for other young women traveling alone. In the second-to-last passenger car she glimpsed a dark-haired girl. The girl was not much taller than a child—certainly much shorter than Joy—and could scarcely be seen over the tops of the seats. She stared out of the train window into the rain, and she gripped a faded handbag in her lap.
As Joy drew alongside of the girl, her book “slipped” out of her hands and onto the seat next the young woman. The dark-haired girl glanced over, picked up Joy’s book, and returned it to her.
“Oh! Clumsy me,” Joy smiled as she took the book. “Thank you.”
The girl offered only a tight smile in return and did not speak, so Joy plunged ahead. “I love a good train ride—how about you? What beautiful sights we shall see! I am going to Denver. We will see real mountains there—tall ones! Where are you bound? My name is Joy Thoresen, by the way.”
“I’m bein’ called Breona. Breona Byrne.” The girl ducked her head. “Denver! ’Tis t’ Denver I be goin’, too.”
Many of Joy’s childhood friends were McKennies. If she was hearing aright, Breona’s accent was Irish—as were the snapping black eyes that reminded her of “Aunt” Fiona’s eyes.
Joy forced herself to blather on. “Are you traveling by yourself? I am. We will be on this train for two whole days. It would be lovely to have someone to talk to.”
Breona tilted her head to the side in a charming way and studied Joy. After a moment, she said, “Yis. I’m belaivin’ I would enjoy yer comp’ny. Would ye care to set a spell?”
“Thank you so much. My things are farther up in another car, but they will be fine for a bit.”
They settled in and talked a little about the passing scenery and the weather, gradually warming to each other. Joy took careful inventory of Breona’s plain but clean skirt and blouse, her scuffed shoes, and the way Breona tried to keep her small hands in the folds of her skirt or under her bag.
But Joy had seen Breona’s hands when she returned Joy’s book, and the girl could no more talk without using her hands than could any of the McKennie clan: The girl’s hands were red and rough, hands accustomed to hot water, harsh soap, and hard work.
Joy was well aware of her smart new suit, gleaming shoes, and spotless gloves. No wonder Breona had set her head to the side and appraised Joy before inviting her to sit down.
If Joy were to guess, she would fix Breona’s age at seventeen—although, with her tiny frame, she could easily be mistaken for fourteen. And her face had that pinched, wizened look that bespoke too many days without enough to eat.
Joy mentioned, “I am from Omaha. My family lives in RiverBend, where the train just stopped, but I lived in Omaha for several years.”
She forced back images of Grant and thoughts of her lost love, home, and business. She pushed down all the things her short statement left unsaid. With effort she kept emotion from her voice and continued, “I am visiting my cousin and her family. Once we are in Denver, I will change trains and ride to their little town, Corinth, not far from Denver.”
Breona replied, fidgeting with her little bag. “I’m bein’ from Boston, at leas’ nearby, and am t’ be met by me new employer in Denver.”
“Ah!” Joy kept her tone innocent. “How interesting! But why ever did you secure a position so far from Boston? Will your family not miss you?”
Breona was silent for several moments before saying in her stout way, “Miss Joy, m’family is goon. As I am a grown woman, I mus’ make me own way in th’ worl’.”
Joy was silent for a moment, stunned by the sudden recognition of how blessed she was in comparison to this young girl. When she next spoke, it was with forced cheerfulness. “Why, I do believe it is past lunch time! I scarcely ate any breakfast, what with last minute packing and getting to the station on time. And I am ravenous—how about you? My mother made me a huge lunch. I will go fetch it, and we shall have ourselves a little feast.”
Joy bounced out of her seat without waiting for a response from Breona. She glanced back and saw a hungry hope skitter across the girl’s face.
“And just try to talk me out of sharing it with you, Miss Breona Byrne!” Joy muttered to herself.
She made her way up the train, but the blond girl she had noticed earlier was not where Joy had seen her sitting. Joy made it back to her seat, pulled out the paper-wrapped bundle containing the lunch her mama had packed for her, and began her way back to Breona.
Her thoughts and feelings were awhirl. Had Breona answered one of the advertisements tucked into the back of Joy’s journal? Was she unknowingly about to be snared by unscrupulous men?
Joy felt fear and loathing swelling in her breast—and something else: She was gripped by a sense of righteous anger she had never before experienced. Joy set her jaw. Without intending so, her steps down the aisle quickened with purpose.
She paid no notice to a gentleman seated near the door of her car. His dark eyes were shadowed by the short, curled brim of a derby hat.
As she crossed from one car to another, she saw a man crushing a young woman against the end of the next car. The man’s tall, lean body mostly hid the woman, but Joy could hear her voice, and she did catch a hint of the woman’s blond braids pinned around her head.
“Please! Let me go! You are hurting me!”
Joy did not think; she only acted. She grabbed the man’s arm, pulled on it as hard as she could muster, and shouted, “You cad! Let her go, at once!”
The man stumbled back, his face flaming with anger and lust, his fist raised against Joy. A glance at her expression gave him pause, for she was emboldened by something or someone much greater than herself—and he saw so in her narrowed eyes. Instead of flinching back, Joy stepped closer and stared him down. He was tall, but Joy was too, and they locked eyes.
Something of Joy’s papa awakened inside of her.
Something right and holy, yet hard and unyielding.
“You are a scoundrel. If I were a man, I would thrash you within an inch of your life,” Joy declared. “As it is, I will have you thrown off this train if you so much as look at this woman again.” Her blue eyes, icy in their reproach, never flickered.
For a tense moment they stared at each other, he with a cooling lust, and she with a fury she had not known she possessed. Without looking away from the man, Joy reached behind him, grasped the girl by the hand, and dragged her toward the door and into the next car.
They reached the girl’s seat. Joy drew her into it and took the seat beside her. Somehow, she had maintained possession of her lunch and handbag, although the package was now crushed.
Neither of them spoke a word. Joy’s breath came in gasps as she tried to calm herself and take stock of her actions. What had come over her! What had she just done!
A tiny gulp from the seat next to her broke through Joy’s jumbled thoughts. She turned her head. The girl was trembling; tears streaming down her face.
Joy sighed. “Are you all right?” she asked. Joy touched the girl’s hand. The young woman started and sobbed again.
“It is all right. It is going to be all right,” Joy soothed. “I promise you. It will be all right.”
They sat in quiet companionship for a quarter of an hour. Joy wondered if Breona had given up on sharing Joy’s “little feast.” At last Joy turned to the girl next to her.
“My name is Joy Thoresen. I am from Omaha. Are you Swedish or Norwegian?”
The girl, still trembling, nodded her head. “Svedish.”
Joy nodded too. “Are you feeling better now?”
“Ja—I mean yes, denk you.”
“What is your name, if I may ask?”
“Marit Dahlin.” She hiccupped. “Sorry.”
“No need to apologize, Marit. ‘Little Pearl,’ ja?” Joy smiled because she had inadvertently lapsed into the familiar response of her home and childhood.
Marit nodded, offering a timid smile in return. As her mouth turned up, two dimples peeked from an otherwise unremarkable face. Marit was not a striking woman, but she was young and sweet and round in all the right places. Why would this lovely girl, perhaps only fifteen, leave a home where she was well cared for?
“Marit, I must speak to you on a matter of importance. May I be forthright?” Joy was beginning to feel weary. And she was hungry.
Marit looked confused but hiccupped and nodded again.
Joy sighed. How to begin? “Marit, I am going to show you some newspaper clippings. Is that all right with you?”
Without waiting to see Marit’s response, Joy opened her handbag, pulled out her journal, and opened the green book to the back. She lifted the clippings out one by one.
“Do you read?” Joy asked.
“Yes,” the girl answered, taking up the clippings. She leafed through them, and her brow furrowed as she did.
“These? They are all from same paper? Paper in Minnesota?”
“No. From different papers in Boston and New York City.”
Marit felt under her seat and pulled out a small suitcase. Setting it on her lap, she undid the latches and reached inside, retrieving a newspaper.
It was folded open to the classified ads. One ad was marked in pencil.
She handed the paper to Joy.
Help Wanted
Young lady for light work in family dairy.
Must be able to relocate,
Denver, Colorado.
Expenses paid; good wage.
Children allowed with prior approval.
Send letter of inquiry to . . .
Joy blanched. She looked again at Marit, happened to glance down at the suitcase in her lap . . . and saw the small mounding roundness between the suitcase and her waist.
She closed her eyes. Oh, dear Lord in heaven!
~~**~~
