A Bride for Donnigan (10 page)

“Oh yes.” He came back to attention and placed his hands on his knees. “Well—that, my dear, is still a matter of concern for me, as well.”

Kathleen did wish that he would stop calling her his dear.

“As a matter of fact,” he went on, “it has still not been decided.”

Kathleen frowned.

“Oh, never fear,” he said reaching to take her hand. “You will have a place, I can assure you. Even if I have to take care of you myself.” He winked and grinned and Kathleen felt terribly annoyed.

“Why am I here?” she asked boldly. “Why make an appointment just to tell me that there have been no arrangements?”

“There
have
been arrangements,” he said, and reached to give his mustache a twitch. “I would like you to take dinner with me tonight at my hotel. I’m staying at a rather elegant place downtown. I think you will like it. Perhaps without the tossing of the sea we will have better opportunity to—”

“That is unthinkable,” said Kathleen, standing to her full five feet two inches. Her face flamed with her disgust. “I will stay with the others—wherever they are staying.”

His face grew dark with anger. “You are a proud one, aren’t you!” he spat at her. “And after all I’ve tried to do.”

“Sure now, and I was of the impression that my passage was paid by an American gentleman,” Kathleen reminded him heatedly.

“Yes, Miss,” said the man, his anger now matching her own. “And he shall have you—pity him, whoever he is. I wouldn’t want to deal with such a temper every day for the rest of my life.”

Kathleen spun on her heel and left the room.

“Stay with the others,” he called after her. “I want you around to take the orders of where you are to go.”

Kathleen didn’t answer. She needed to get into the wind to cool off her hot cheeks.

But she would be there when it was time to find out where she would be going. And she hoped with all her heart that it was a long, long way from Boston and Mr. Jenks.

There was much commotion when the ship finally pulled in and docked in Boston Harbor. The women milled around, squealing and shouting and clutching belongings. Kathleen crowded close to her cabin mates, her dark eyes big, her face pale. As crowded as the cabin had been, she wished for just a few more days of feeling secure there.

Their names were called out and they walked the gangway by groups of four. As her feet touched the firm dock, Kathleen nearly lost her balance. Erma, close beside her, giggled.

They were all placed into carriages and taken through the streets to a large hotel. It felt strange to be back in a city again. Kathleen noticed that it was much newer, much cleaner, than her familiar section of London. She wondered if it would be possible for her to stay on here. She felt a drawing to this new American city. A feeling that she might soon be able to “belong” here.

But the very next day they were called to a drawing room where Mr. Jenks presided.

“Ladies—we are about to the end of our journey together,” he informed them as though this were a matter of deep sorrow to all. “You will be heading west—to one point or another. From here to Chicago you will share a train. There you will be met by a gentleman by the name of Mr. Henry Piedmont. He will give you your final tickets and send you on the last leg of your journeys. From Chicago on, you will be fanning out and heading in different directions—though still westward.

“I do wish each of you every happiness in your new land—and your new unions.”

He bowed low and gave them one final grin, smoothed his mustache, and then said firmly, “Miss Kathleen O’Malley—you will need to see me for final instructions.”

He turned on his heel and was gone.

All eyes seemed to fix on Kathleen. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and followed the man from the room.

He must have expected her to do just that, for he went only a few steps beyond the door and turned to wait for her.

“This way,” he said with a nod of his head, and Kathleen obediently followed him.

They crossed the hall and entered a small room, and he motioned toward a chair and turned to lift a sheet of paper from his pocket.

“Before I hand you this,” he said, looking straight at her, “might I say that I am a tolerant man. I am staying on in Boston. I am quite willing to forget your outburst of last evening—should you have changed your mind.”

For one moment Kathleen frowned, not understanding his words. When the truth finally dawned, she rose quickly from the chair, her face flushing, her eyes flashing anger. Without one word she reached out and snatched the paper from his fingers before he had a chance to react.

“You may be sorry, you know,” he called after her as she moved from the room as quickly as her limp would allow.

Kathleen did not return to her room immediately. She had to find some privacy before she dared look at the paper she held. At last she found a chair tucked in a rather dark corner of a distant hall and dropped onto it, trying to still her anxiously beating heart.

Carefully she unfolded the bit of paper.

“Donnigan Harrison,” said the paper. “He is a late signer like yourself. Not much is known of him. I hope you will not be sorry.”

Kathleen crumpled the paper in her hand and then felt immediate remorse. Carefully she placed it on her lap and tried to smooth out the wrinkles. She would need that piece of paper. It was all she had.

“Donnigan Harrison,” she repeated. Then her eyes lit up. She wasn’t really familiar with the surname, but Donnigan did sound rather Irish. For the first time she felt some hope.

The train ride was long and stuffily hot. Kathleen had thought the boat trip had been difficult—but at least then they had enjoyed the crispness of the ocean winds. Not given the luxury of berths, they were crammed together in seats with hard straight-backs and no place to put their tired heads. The long nights were spent in restless shifting to try to find some way to relax tired bodies.

At last they reached Chicago. Kathleen may have been interested in studying the city had she not been so totally exhausted.

The man called Piedmont was on the platform when they arrived. As they stepped off the train, he rounded the women up and hustled them to a side room, much like herding cattle, and grinned at the group nervously as he called out names and passed out tickets. Kathleen had not felt particularly close to many of the women, but as she sat and watched group after group being hurried out to catch this coach or that train, she felt panic tighten her throat.

At last her own name was called along with a number of others, and she stood up and walked numbly past the man and accepted the ticket along with its instructions of where to go and how to get there.

She was more than a little relieved to look around her and find that Erma was also in the group.

But Peg was gone. As were Nona and Beatrice. There were just Erma and her and four other women whom she didn’t know well. All four were from the Continent. She wondered if they spoke English. They seemed so shy and frightened. Kathleen moved closer to Erma, drawing some assurance from the presence of her friend.

Quickly they compared sheets and found to their relief and excitement that they shared a common destination. With excited cries they threw their arms around each other and wept unashamedly. It would be so wonderful—so
wonderful
to know someone, to have a friend in the new, strange land.

Soon they had boarded another train and were chugging their way out of the station. Though still not given a berth, they were not so crowded. By now they were so weary that Kathleen felt they could have slept almost anywhere.

She was right. The girls from the Continent fell asleep almost as soon as they boarded the train, the oldest of the group soon snoring loudly.

Kathleen did not stay awake to see if it annoyed other passengers. She rolled up her shawl against the coolness of the window, laid her head against it, and fell asleep.

She was stiff when she awoke in the morning, but at least she felt somewhat better.

“And how long are we to be on this train?” she asked Erma.

“I’m not sure. Someone said three days.”

Kathleen winced. She was so tired of travel. Travel and heat and people and dust. It seemed that it all went together in America.

After the train came the stagecoach, which they met in a small, dusty frontier town of gray wooden buildings and gray wooden boardwalks. The sign at the post office indicated that it was Raeford. Kathleen felt that they must be going to the end of the world. She had given up craning her neck to look out the window. There were so many miles of the same thing. She did find the herds of deer and antelope and buffalo rather exciting. She had seen no such animals on the back streets of London.

But for the most part, they rode in silence. There was really very little to talk about.

When they reached a small station by the name of Sheep’s Meadows, one of the girls from the Continent was separated from them and sent in another direction on another stage. Kathleen could sense the girl’s panic. She felt her own hand go out to grasp Erma’s. She was so thankful that she would not be going off all on her own.

Later, two of the other girls were sent off in another direction. Kathleen wondered how far they would travel before they were separated again.

There were still three of them when the stage pulled into Aspen Valley. They all looked at their sheets of paper one last time. They were home.

Donnigan wished he had made arrangements for Wallis to ride along with him to town. He could have used some support. Never in his whole life had he felt so nervous—not even when he had been treed by a big grizzly or the time he had been thrown in the path of stampeding cattle. Somehow he had managed to escape those perils. It seemed there was no escaping this one.

He cast one last glance around his snug cabin. All the dishes had been washed. Even the pots. They were all stacked carefully on the shelf beside the stove. He had made his bed rather than just tossing the blankets up to cover the pillow. He had even used a scrub brush and hot soapy water on the floorboards. Things looked pretty good.

He moved from the room and closed the door firmly behind him. As he walked the dirt path toward the barn and corrals, he studied his makeshift flower garden. He had lost only one of the plants that he had brought from the meadow. But only three were still blooming. Still, it was better than nothing, he reasoned.