Eating was always a production. This trip was not like the one on the meridian train at all, with wonderful railcars fitted out with a chef and a dining car. Traveling west this time meant meals had to be found in the depots—quickly. With the mass of passengers disembarking for food and the sanitary facilities, one had to move fast, choose with little consideration to appetite, and eat almost without chewing.
In Chicago the lines were monumental, forcing them to take their food with them and eat on the way back to the train. Josephine ate a sandwich as they walked. The crumbs rained down on her skirt. “I am making a mess,” she said.
“We could wait until we get back to the car,” Lewis said.
“Too late now,” Frieda said. “Besides, I’m famished.”
So was Josephine. “Though a ham sandwich is my last choice. Isn’t this the third one we’ve had this trip?”
“Fourth,” Lewis said.
“Does no one have any creativity at these food stops?”
Frieda agreed. “If I had a café in such a place, I’d make my mother-in-law’s recipes of bratwurst, schnitzel, sauerbraten, sauerkraut, dumplings, and Bratkartoffeln.”
“Which is?”
“Fried potatoes with bacon.” She finished the last of her sandwich. “And Springerle biscuits. I still have her mold.”
“You are making me hungry while I’m eating,” Josephine said. A dollop of mustard fell from her sandwich onto her skirt. She stopped walking. “Where is my handkerchief?”
As she managed the rest of her sandwich in order to get into her reticule, a man ran past and grabbed it away from her. “Stop!” she yelled. “Stop him! He stole my bag!”
She glanced at Lewis, but he just stood there. “Do something!”
Again he hesitated.
What is wrong with you?
“Come on!” she said to Frieda.
Because the crowd was so dense, the man hadn’t been able to go far. And because they were women, the two of them carved a path. “Let us through! He stole my bag!”
Finally a man grabbed the thief and held him until Josephine caught up.
She was out of breath. “Thank you,” she said, taking hold of the reticule.
But the thief wouldn’t let go, and when she tugged harder, he broke free.
Until Frieda tripped him, making him fall. And then . . . she sat on him.
Josephine rushed forward with the man who’d first caught the thief, and snatched her reticule back. But before she let him up, she poked the tip of her parasol into his back. “How dare you steal from me!”
A police officer appeared. “Good work,” he said to Josephine, his eyes wide with surprise.
“Mrs. Schultz was the heroine.”
Frieda smoothed her skirt. Her hat was askew. “I couldn’t let him get away. The ingrate.”
As the officer took the thief away, the crowd applauded, and Frieda took a bow. Josephine was so proud of her. Of both of them. She thanked the first stranger who’d helped just as the train whistle blew, announcing its departure.
They hurried to their car, only to find Lewis standing outside, looking for them.
Waiting for them.
“Where were you?” he asked.
“Capturing a criminal. Where were you?”
“I . . .”
She pushed past him, up and into the car.
“There he is! There’s Papa!”
Josephine waved out the window of the train and was thrilled when Papa waved back. And smiled. Oh, how she had missed that smile.
The farther they’d traveled west, the fewer passengers remained on the train, allowing Josephine to be the first to disembark. Papa didn’t even let her feet hit the ground before he put his hands around her waist and lifted her off the step. Then he wrapped her in an embrace. “My darling daughter. I am so glad to see you!”
Josephine let the tears come. Happy tears were always welcome. To hold him, to smell the musky scent that was his alone, to feel his whiskers against her cheek . . . In spite of all the aggravation she had experienced on the trip, being here in his arms was worth everything.
He spread her arms wide, looking her over. “You have not changed a whit. Still the pretty girl with the flashing eyes.”
She took offense. “But I have changed, Papa. I’m not a girl anymore. I am a grown woman, an engaged woman.” For the first time, she thought about Lewis. He stood with Frieda nearby.
“Lewis,” Papa said, extending his hand. “How good to see you. Thank you for bringing my daughter safely to my side.”
To his credit, Lewis looked to the ground. Would he mention how brave Josephine and Frieda had been in Chicago? How they had taken care of the thief while he’d idly stood by?
“I’m glad to be here, sir. I’m looking forward to getting started with my photography.”
Photography? He mentioned photographs and not their remarkable feat?
Papa tipped his hat toward Frieda. “Nice to see you again, Frieda. These two lovebirds give you any trouble on the trip?”
“I kept them in line.”
“Then let’s get your luggage and I’ll show you where you are going to stay.”
Josephine took Papa’s arm and walked away with Frieda close behind.
She assumed Lewis followed.
Josephine and Frieda were staying in Papa’s personal railcar that sat alone on a siding. The four of them entered the car from a back platform and saw that it was outfitted with furniture like a parlor. “This is where you’ll stay,” Papa said. He looked at Lewis. “I am afraid you will have to stay in the bunkhouse in town, with the men. There is a boardinghouse and hotel, but they are full at present. I hope that’s all right.”
“It will be fine, General.” Lewis said. But Josephine could tell it wasn’t fine. She often felt that Lewis was pickier than she was. He certainly was less adaptable.
Papa stopped at a desk. “This is also where I work when we’re on the move. During the winter I stayed in a room off the railway office as the cars were too drafty—not that my room was much better.”
Josephine ran her fingers along a narrow table abutting a wall. It was set with three chairs. Then she sat upon a sofa sporting navy upholstery. The car was nice, but cramped. Thinking of all three of them living here was a stretch. She wanted to say something nice, but she also knew that Papa admired her habit of telling the truth. “It is very . . . functional.”
He let out a snicker. “That it is.” Then he crooked a finger at her and opened the left-most of two doors at the end of the railcar. Inside was a man-sized bed wedged between three walls. On the wall at its foot were hooks for clothing, and at its side was a narrow table with a kerosene lamp. There was enough space to stand beside it, but Josephine’s skirt touched both bed and wall.
“Your bedroom,” Papa said. “You and Frieda shall have to share. I am sorry it’s so small, but we are restricted by width and—”
She kissed him on the cheek. “It is more than I expected. Thank you.”
Frieda popped her head in the room, then pulled it out. “It’s very nice, General. We’ll manage just fine.”
He stepped back and offered her the right-hand door. Once opened, it revealed a covered commode, and between it and the doorway a wash-basin on a stand.
“It’s a tight fit,” Papa said, “But at least you’ll have the essentials.”
She was very impressed. For him to have thought of every detail was just like him. But then she started. “What about you? We are taking your room. Where will you sleep?”
“In the railway office, where I’ve been all winter. When we move on, your visit shall be over, and I’ll take over this space again.”
Papa went out to the landing and instructed some men to bring Josephine’s trunk inside. It took up what little free space there was. She hated that their visit was causing him discomfort. But before she could comment, he said, “Now. Let me show you Cheyenne.”
Josephine enjoyed being on Papa’s arm as he showed her the town. “Once the ground froze and we couldn’t lay track, we got to work building the town itself. There are railroad offices, a bunkhouse, washhouse, and mess hall. The windmill pumps in water needed for the trains. We even figured out a way to keep the water from freezing by having it warmed by a stove.”
“That’s quite ingenious, General,” Lewis said.
For some reason Josephine found Lewis’s compliments annoying, mostly because there were too many of them. He’d found the mess hall “of good size,” the offices “well organized,” and the water tower “of beautiful proportion.”
He was trying too hard to impress. Had he always been so fawning? Or had she not minded it before because she had been the beneficiary of the compliments?
“And this is the most important building for the railroad,” Papa said, bringing them to a large, round building constructed out of brick. “This is the roundhouse. Eventually it will hold forty engines, though currently it holds about ten.” He pointed to the stone of the foundation. “No wood here. At least we’re building this to last.”
“To protect your greatest asset, the locomotive,” Josephine said.
Frieda walked along the circular track in front of the building. “I don’t understand.”
Papa left Josephine’s side to explain. “The locomotive travels to this circle in order to turn around so it can rejoin the main line and head east or west, or it can enter the roundhouse for storage or repair.”
“How ingenious,” she said.
Why didn’t Frieda’s compliments grate?
In the distance, Josephine saw numerous tents and wagons huddled together. “Are those pioneers?”
“Mormons mostly. Hundreds of them headed west. They’re also about to head out now that the rivers and streams are running and the grass is growing for their livestock. They pretty much stay to themselves and away from town.”
It seemed an odd comment until Papa led them to the main street of Cheyenne. It boasted a gun store, general store, café, hotel, land office, and around the corner, a gambling house, more than one saloon, and a place called Miss Mandy’s. The latter was an odd building with a mixture of wood and dirty canvas tents. A half dozen scantily clad women lolled outside, their wares apparent.
Lewis saw the direction of her gaze. “You’re not the only woman here, but I will say you are the only lady.”
Josephine tried to act nonchalant, but it was difficult. She had never seen such blatant, immodest, carnal . . .
Frieda yanked on her arm. “Look away, Liebchen. There’s no need for you to see such filth and decadence.”
Saloons and whores. If Mother could see her now.
“I agree with Frieda,” Papa said. “But you came to see it all firsthand. This is the truth of the West, of these hell-on-wheels towns.”
“Hell on wheels?”
“During the war, whiskey and women followed the soldiers, and now they’ve latched on to the railroad. When we move on, they move on.”
One of the women, who was greatly endowed in bosom, stepped toward them. “Care to rest awhile, gentlemen?”
Neither Papa nor Lewis responded, but Josephine saw Lewis’s eyes linger on the woman’s—
“Lewis!” she whispered.
He did not apologize but covered his action with another comment to her father. “I’m sure it’s difficult to keep the men in line. You should be commended for it.”
“I am commended for nothing. It’s impossible to keep them in line,” Papa said. “There is no law. And without their families close by to remind them of their morals, the weak men succumb.”
Josephine gripped Papa’s arm. “It seems most of the men carry guns.”
“They got used to guns during the war, and unfortunately those experiences carry over here. Many are battle-scarred.” He pointed to his head. “Those are the dangerous ones. The ones who can blow up without warning.”
To think of Papa living in such a place all winter . . . “Will you be glad to move on?”
“To get working again, surely. But the people of vice will follow us. There is no escaping them. I wish there—”
Suddenly, a Negro man spilled out of a saloon and ran past them. A second man followed, brandishing a gun. “You get back here, you cheater!”
A shot rang out.
The Negro fell.
Josephine and Frieda screamed and Papa herded them behind himself, shielding them.
But their screams were the only screams. The whores looked on as if nothing was amiss, and one fiddled with the laces of her high-top shoes. Others who walked along the street hurried along, but no one came to the man’s aid.
And no one tried to apprehend the killer. He simply walked back into the saloon—to shouts of congratulations. Job well done.
The man on the street groaned. Papa pointed to the general store nearby and told Josephine and Frieda, “Go in there. I’ll take care of this.”
The women scurried inside—only to find Lewis already there. In the melee, Josephine hadn’t seen him take cover.
And leave her out in the open.
“Why don’t you go out there with Papa and help that man?”
“I don’t know anything about medicine.”
Josephine didn’t know what to say. But she did know what to do. “Frieda, stay here.” She went to the counter. “Towels? Cloth? Bandages? Do you have anything like that?”
The clerk handed her a towel and a roll of bandages.
Josephine took them outside.
Hudson ran to the general’s aid. The injured man had turned onto his back, and Hudson could see a hole in his shoulder. “I’ll help you move him,” he said.
General Cain looked up and nodded. “Let’s get him to my office.”
Miss Cain came running out of the general store. She hesitated just a moment upon seeing him, then said, “I have some supplies.”
“Good girl,” the general said.
The men carried the victim back to the railroad office, and Josephine ran ahead to open the door. There was a large table with papers and maps on it, but she quickly gathered those up to clear it.
The man groaned.
“Get the basin and pitcher.”
Josephine brought them close. The two men removed the man’s coat, vest, and shirt. With a glance, the general said, “If you’re squeamish . . .”
She looked pale but shook her head. “Just tell me what to do.”
The general poked his finger in the wound. “Help me see his back.” Hudson helped turn the man over. The man screamed at the movement.
“The bullet went all the way through.”
“Is that good?” she asked.
“It can be. It means we don’t have to do any digging.”
She made a face and dipped the towel in the water. “Here.”
The general cleaned the wound with a gentle hand. Hudson remembered seeing him help a soldier on the battlefield with the same authoritative but calming touch.
He nodded at Hudson. “There’s whiskey over there.”
Hudson retrieved the bottle. Once the wound was clean, he offered the man a swig, then poured a goodly amount on both front and back.
The man’s scream was primal.
Hudson saw Josephine close her eyes and take a deep breath. He was impressed she’d held herself together. The sight of it made his own stomach roil a bit, though unfortunately, he’d gotten far too used to bullet wounds and blood.
The general took the bandage roll and wrapped it around the man’s shoulder while Hudson held him up off the table.
Finally it was done, and they all took a step back. The patient’s eyes were closed. The general was breathing heavily. “I think he’ll be all right. Thank you for your help. Both of you.” He gave his daughter a wink.
“Is he really a cheater?” she asked.
“It doesn’t matter. He didn’t deserve to be shot.”
Her forehead furrowed. “So sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that we shouldn’t have helped him. I was just . . .”
The general washed his hands in fresh water, then touched her cheek. “I know, sweet girl. It is a logical question. Unfortunately, Mr. Maguire and I have become hardened to the guilty and the innocent out here. The line gets blurred by the conditions and the varied histories of the men. We have to go back to the basics of what any human deserves and needs.”
Her forehead lost its tightness, and Hudson could see how much her father’s opinion meant to her. Mutual respect was evident.
Hudson took the bloodied water outside and emptied it on the ground to the side of the building. When he returned, father and daughter were locked in an embrace. “I am so proud of you, Josephine. But I am also sorry you had to witness such a thing.”
Hudson started to leave to give them privacy, but the general called him back. “Once again, Mr. Maguire, you have proven yourself indispensable.”
“I’m glad I could help.” He tipped his hat to Josephine, then turned again to leave.
“Will you join us for dinner tonight?” the general asked. “I have asked the cook to put together something special to commemorate my daughter’s visit.”
“I’d be honored.”
Sometimes good deeds earned a very good payout.
General Cain ordered a table set outside, near his railcar. It was covered with a tablecloth and set for five.
One too many, in Lewis’s opinion.
Everything Hudson Maguire did or said was like a needle jammed beneath Lewis’s skin. The man was being treated like a hero. All he did was be in the right place at the right time. Running to help that man who’d been shot . . . Maguire was used to this wild, awful place. Lewis was not. So it was logical that when he’d seen the man shot right in front of them, he’d run for cover.
That was only common sense.
But to make matters worse, the general and Maguire knew each other from the war. Soldiers. Bonding. All that rot. The soldier life was not for Lewis. The army was the cause of all his family’s problems.
“Remember before the Battle of South Mountain, when the cook tried to make raccoon, and a bunch of the men threw it into the bushes?” Maguire said.
“It was foul—at least the way he made it.”
“Lieutenant Hayes said he’d rather get shot than eat it again.”
“And then he got shot.”
Lewis perked up. He’d heard this story before. “Rutherford Hayes?”
“That’s the man,” the general said. “He was shot at Fox’s Gap while leading an attack on Lee’s flank.”
For the first time, Lewis felt involved. “Hayes was on the meridian excursion.” He looked to Josephine. “We heard his stories about the war.”
“He was wounded five times,” Josephine added.
Point one for me.
“Were you ever shot, Mr. Maguire?” Josephine asked.
He shook his head but looked to his plate. “My brother John was. He was killed at Gettysburg.”
Josephine reached across the table toward him. “I am so sorry. I lost my brother too.”
The two of them locked eyes, and Lewis didn’t like what he saw. Yet it was when they both looked away that he knew the gig was up. They had forced themselves to look away.
He hated Hudson Maguire.
Then Maguire looked directly at Lewis. “Which regiment did you fight with?” he asked.
Lewis tried not to hesitate, but his throat was completely dry. “I was in Europe during the war, studying art.”
Maguire’s right eyebrow rose.
“Where did you study?”
He remembered his faux pas at the Wilson’s party. “All over. I traveled to the great cities of Europe and studied the masters.” He’d learned it was best to remain vague.
Josephine cocked her head, her eyes on him. “Not the Louvre?”
She knows I was lying about that. He was appalled when he felt himself redden. “I certainly spent a lot of time in the Louvre, sketching the work of the masters, but the Louvre itself does not have a school.”
“How handy of you to miss the entire war,” Maguire said.
“You have no right to condemn me, Mr. Maguire.”
He shrugged. “Sorry to offend.”
Lewis hadn’t missed the entire war, but he couldn’t very well tell them that. He looked to Josephine, waiting for her to come to his defense by saying how she was glad that he’d been safely ensconced in Europe during all the fighting.
But Josephine remained silent.
This wasn’t good. He had to do something to regain her favor.
But what?
The dining table had been cleared and removed, and Papa had gone back to the railway office for the night. Lewis and Hudson were off to their respective lodging, and Frieda was preparing for bed.
But Josephine wasn’t ready to sleep. Not even close.
She realized she should be exhausted from the day: the arrival in Cheyenne, the tour of the town, the shooting.
Images and sounds flashed through her mind, but not surprisingly, the sound of the gunshot took precedence.
She walked away from the railcar, on the side away from the bustle of the town. She needed to be alone. She needed to let the memory of the sound of President Lincoln’s assassination merge with the sound of today’s gunshot. A mere second where the air split with a blast and flash. The descriptive word bang was not sufficient. She could bang two pans together. But she could not create a blast. An explosion. That killed.
She drew her shawl tighter and closed her eyes. The memory of the president slumping over into his wife’s lap merged with today’s image of the man falling to the ground right in front of them.
And then the imagined picture of her brother being shot on the battlefield. Away from his family. Gone forever in an instant.
Josephine shivered.
“Are you chilled, Miss Cain?”
She turned around and saw Mr. Maguire approach. An impulse to say yes so that he might put his arm around her was quickly usurped by the truth. “I am chilled by the memory of today’s shooting—and the one I witnessed the day President Lincoln was shot.”
He took a place beside her, the two of them facing west where the sun was making its last stand against the day. “Life is precarious.”
“And dangerous.”
“It can be.”
“I used to think otherwise.”
“Until the war?”
She hated to admit the next to anyone. “Not even the war could change my penchant for seeing life through rose-colored glasses. The war was going on, and Papa was off leading soldiers to battle, but I was too young, too naïve, and too self-absorbed to let it color my ridiculous view of life.”
“Believing life is good is not ridiculous.”
“It seems so now, in hindsight. My brother and cousin were killed, and I saw the president murdered. . . .”
“You were actually there?”
She drew in a breath, trying to curb the tears that usually accompanied the memory. “I was there with my parents, watching the play, but not watching it, because I was too busy being jealous of the young woman who had the honor of sitting in the box next to the president.” She faced Hudson, letting a tear fall unimpeded. “I was looking right at the box when Booth came in and shot him. I saw the flash. I saw the president fall into his wife’s arms. I saw Booth stab Rathbone, the young woman’s escort, before leaping to the stage.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I’m sorry too—for the president, for the country, but also, selfishly, for me. Because that night was the beginning of the end of my ridiculous optimism.”
“Optimism is never ridiculous. Optimism is hope. And hope is essential. Without it, we might as well dig ourselves a hole and crawl inside.”
She gave him a smile. “Somehow it doesn’t seem appropriate to pair the talk of hope with a grave.”
“It’s very appropriate. For the opposite of hope is apathy and despair.”
Perhaps he had a point. She changed the subject. “Do you think the man who was shot today will be all right?”
“Until the next time.”
She was taken aback. “You are implying he’ll be shot again?”
“If he takes risks by gambling with crooks, yes. If they win, they get shot. If they lose, they shoot. And if they cheat . . . you saw the results of that.” He pointed west. “There are enough risks ahead of us that we can’t control. I don’t choose to risk death when I don’t have to.”
“You sound very wise, Mr. Maguire.”
He shrugged, then pointed to the sky in front of them. “Look. Another day is done.”
The last sliver of the sun fell beneath the earth. Rays of pink and blue shot upward, marking the sun’s passing with fanfare.
“You should get back to the train. It’s not safe out here at night.”
“But I feel very safe with you.” She immediately realized how presumptuous and intimate that sounded. “Yes, I should get back.”
He led her to the platform of her railcar. “Good night, Miss Cain. I hope I will see you tomorrow.”
“That would be nice.”
Once she got inside, Frieda was in her bulwark position, staring at her. “Off with Mr. Maguire? In the dark?”
“I took a short walk and he . . .” Found me? Sought me out?
“Joined you?”
“Yes.” That was a good word. A safer word.
“What are you doing, Liebchen?”
Josephine tossed her shawl on the sofa. “I am not doing anything.”
“But you’re thinking about it.”
Yes. Yes, she was.