The Captive Within (A Prairie Heritage, Book 4) (25 page)

Father, it has now been nearly twelve months since the
lodge burned, nearly a year since you used the marshals and Pinkertons to free
our girls from the houses in Corinth. Almost a year since Grant returned to us.

Our lives—and the lives of our girls—have changed
forever, Lord, because of these events. Slowly, ever so slowly, we are gaining
ground here in Denver. We thank you, Lord, for the progress we see.

Gretl has secured a position in Littleton! It is
wonderful for her, but will be hard on us to lose her. Viola Lind assures us
that the family Gretl goes to is well thought of. She will earn a good living,
and we hope she will come home to us at Christmas.

Tabitha is making application to the nursing school in Boulder. Doctor Murphy has written a glowing letter of recommendation. Tabitha shines with
hope, Lord. I am convinced she will make an exceptional nurse.

And Pastor Carmichael reports that women in our
church—women, like our girls, who have found you, Lord—have been ministering on
the streets of the red light district. We may soon welcome new refugees to
Palmer House.

Lord, Joy remains insistent that we should open a sewing
school. Is this what you desire? I ask this because we have found no one to
lead us in this direction. It is beyond my skills, dear Lord. You know how
rudimentary my sewing abilities are! I trust you, but you must provide if this
is the direction you wish us to go.

—

She spent hours on the floor of her room crying out to God.
If not for her little book, she surely would have gone mad.

The door to Mei-Xing’s room suddenly slammed opened. A
drunken Su-Chong stood in the doorway. “Why are you lying on the floor?” he
demanded.

Mei-Xing quickly got up. He had not visited her bed in a
month. She picked at the dress that fit her so ill, grateful that it veiled her
body’s curves.

Su-Chong watched her with an intensity that terrified her.
It seemed the only way he looked at her now. He stared at her as though trying
to decide how to dispose of her. “What is that book you are hiding from me?”

“I-I am not hiding anything,” she said weakly.
Lord!
Please don’t let him take your word from me!

He ripped the book from her hand. “What is this nonsense?
You are no
Christian
.”

He smiled at her then, a poisonous smile so much like Fang-Hua’s
that Mei-Xing nearly fainted. “Let me tell you something, Mei-Xing, something
you must take to heart. You are a whore. I have enjoyed your body whenever I
wished, because you are nothing
but
a whore. You tried to trick me, but
I discerned the truth about you. You are a whore. You will always be a whore.
You can never be anything but a whore!”

He tore the book in two down its spine and tossed it on the
floor. Mei-Xing eyed the pieces hungrily and he spotted her desire.

“Oh, no. No, I won’t leave you even this deceitful garbage
for comfort. You deserve no mercy for your lies and perfidy.” He picked up the
two halves of the book and carried them with him through the door.

She remained frozen in place as he locked the door behind
him. She could hear his words resounding in her ears. Hateful, hopeless words.

Words that were, somehow, strangely familiar. She strained
to recall hearing those same words in another place and another
time . . . spoken by someone who had loved her so deeply.

“Those voices! They sneer at you,
you are a whore. You
will
always
be a whore. Once a whore, always a whore
!
You can
never be anything
but
a whore!
”

Mama Rose! Mei-Xing sank into a heap on the floor, squeezing
her eyes closed and shutting out everything but the sound of Rose’s voice,
speaking truth to her broken heart.

“Yes, we are all guilty of doing wrong things, bad things,
even horrible things. Those may be the
facts
but, when covered by the
blood of Jesus, they are no longer the
truth
.

“Choose instead to follow the voice of Jesus,
the voice
of truth
. He calls to us,
Come to me all you who are
weary . . . weary, worn, and heavy-burdened. Come to me, and I
will give you rest for your souls
.”

Oh, Jesus, thank you.

—

For a long week, O’Dell pressed Bao, and he was merciless.
No detail Bao spoke was insignificant. O’Dell made Bao tell all he knew of
Su-Chong and rehearse every conversation he’d had with Fang-Hua. He took
copious notes and then had Bao repeat it all again.

For a while Miss Greenbow stayed in the tiny kitchen trying
not to listen or at least pretending not to. After a day or so she sat in the
living room watching and listening to the interplay between the two men, one
harsh and pressing, the other broken and compliant.

As the days passed and no helpful information emerged,
O’Dell became more frustrated. He began to berate Bao.

As this continued, Miss Greenbow chewed her bottom lip,
unhappy with O’Dell’s contempt, concerned about Bao’s lifeless responses. At
last she could keep quiet no more.

“Mr. O’Dell?”

With an impatient gesture, O’Dell turned.

“You are a bully, Mr. O’Dell. You are bullying him. I-I do
not like to see it.”

He glared at her. “This is not your concern, Miss Greenbow.”

Miss Greenbow pressed her lips together. “You will catch
more flies with sugar than with vinegar, Mr. O’Dell.”

“Again, this is not your concern, Miss Greenbow, O’Dell
snapped. “Kindly keep out.”

Her eyes flashed. “You are so intent on
punishing
him,
you would miss the information you seek even if it hit you square on the head.”

She jumped to her feet. “And it is not
your
job to
punish him.” With that, Miss Greenbow flounced into the kitchen.

O’Dell listened as she banged cupboard doors and pots and
pans. His mouth gaped. Demure Miss Greenbow was throwing a tantrum!

Then he caught himself.
Is that what
I
am doing?
Throwing a tantrum?
Her words convicted him.
And is that what I’m I
trying to do? Punish Bao?

He looked at Bao and, for the first time in days, really saw
the man. If possible, he had lost more weight. Although Bao was supposed to
sleep on the sofa at night, O’Dell knew he spent much of the long nights in the
back yard staring into the dark skies. His eyes appeared hollow, burned out.

At that moment Bao glanced up and O’Dell caught a glimpse
into his hopeless soul. He flushed and stood up, irritated.
This wasn’t
about Bao; it was about justice for Mei-Xing!

But he didn’t like the feeling that lurked just below the
surface, the sense that he’d lost Miss Greenbow’s good opinion.
A bully?
She’d called him a bully!
He stomped through the kitchen, ignoring her, and
out the back door. He needed to clear his head.

O’Dell lost track of how long he’d stayed outside. The
weather was cool, but spring was on the air. He could smell the perfume of
lilacs from some yard nearby. Scotch broom cascaded over the back fence in a
wild, yellow blanket. Tulips, nearly spent, wagged in a gentle breeze.

I’ve lost my objectivity
, he grudgingly admitted. For
a long while he watched rain falling in the distance, the mist of the downpour
tugging and pulling the clouds toward the ground.

He let himself back into the house. Bao and Miss Greenbow
were seated at the little kitchen table. She had fixed him lunch and was
coaxing him to eat it. What she said next stunned O’Dell.

“Now, when this Mr. Morgan was talking to Madam Chen, I
think I remember you saying that she called him some sort of nick name. What
was it she called him again?”

Bao chewed on a bite of sandwich and thought hard. “I think
she called him . . .
Reggie?
”

“Yes, that’s what it was! What do you suppose that means?”

O’Dell inched closer. Bao, with his back to O’Dell, did not
notice him, but Miss Greenbow, facing him, gave him a tiny, solemn shake of her
head. O’Dell stopped where he was, afraid to breathe.

“I-I think I’ve heard it before,” Bao said, unsure of
himself. “Because Morgan used to live in Seattle, you know. Grew up here.”

Miss Greenbow was tempted to pursue that line of information
but resisted. “Reggie. Do you think it is short for something else? Reginald,
perhaps?”

Bao rested his forehead on the heel of his hand. “Not
Reginald.”

Miss Greenbow glanced at O’Dell and then back to Bao. “No?
Not Reginald?”

He stopped chewing. “Regis. They called him Reggie, short
for Regis.”

She licked her lips. “Regis. Not a very common name, is it?
Has a nice ring, though. Um, Regis . . . what? Do you recall a
last name?”

Bao ignored her. “They called him Reggie. I remember my
father and uncle laughing about it. Not because it was so terribly funny, but
because . . . because
he hated
it. I don’t know why, but
it made him very angry, and his anger amused Wei Lin Chen.”

Miss Greenbow looked to O’Dell for help.

O’Dell asked, as quietly as he could, “Regis. Can you
remember his last name?”

Bao started and turned fearfully toward O’Dell. He lowered
his eyes and shook his head.

He’s clammed up. Great job, O’Dell
!

“That sandwich looks great, Miss Greenbow. Ah, any chance I
could get one?”

She left her chair and began to pull out the sandwich
makings. He slid into the chair opposite Bao and tried to figure out how to
begin again with him.

“Bao, you haven’t told us much about your family, your
parents, brothers, sisters.” O’Dell made sure his voice was light,
conversational. He waited, not giving in to the urge to badger him as he’d done
previously.

When Bao still remained silent, O’Dell asked quietly, “You
mentioned that your father knew Reggie. Is he still around?”

Bao shook his head. “No.”

“Do you have any relatives who would recall Reggie?”

Bao thought. “I . . . yes; but only on Uncle
Wei Lin’s side.”

O’Dell frowned. “If only we could only talk to someone who
would remember. You see,” he leaned confidentially toward Bao, “we have
searched property records in Denver under every alias of Morgan’s that we know,
which is the problem. We don’t think we know them all.

“If Su-Chong is still hiding in Denver, it must be in a
place that was prepared ahead of time—stocked with food and other necessities.
What is called a bolt-hole.

“In Omaha, Morgan went by the name of Franklin. Franklin owned dozens of properties. One of them was prepared as I’ve described—but was
owned under the name of
Dean Morgan
. I guess I’m wondering . . .”

He didn’t finish his sentence and, after a few moments, Bao
dared look at him. “What are you wondering, Mr. O’Dell?”

O’Dell saw Bao, this time not as a piece of filth to be
wiped off his feet, but as a man. “I am wondering if Morgan has a bolt-hole in Denver under a name we don’t yet know. If he does, I’m betting Su-Chong knows of it and is
hiding there. And if he
is
hiding there, perhaps he has Mei-Xing with
him. I guess that makes Regis’ last name pretty important.”

The kitchen was utterly quiet except for the ticking of the
clock on the wall. Still O’Dell waited.

Tentatively Bao whispered, “My wife’s name was Ling-Ling.”

O’Dell was confused but nodded, pushing down his irritation.
“I understand she passed away recently.”

Miss Greenbow stared at him. He could feel her eyes boring
into him, challenging him, willing him, to not
bully
an already mortally
wounded human being.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” O’Dell added.

Bao’s eyes became moist. “Yes. She and a baby son.”

O’Dell would not look at Miss Greenbow. “I am truly sorry,
Bao.”

Bao shuddered. “The cook in the Chen home is related to
Ling-Ling. Her daughter is also a servant in the house. They were the ones who
warned me of Fang-Hua.”

“You think they would remember Reggie?”

He shrugged. “One of them may.”

O’Dell looked at Miss Greenbow then. “We need Liáng.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Will you walk to the grocer’s and use his telephone? If you
have to leave a message, just say that Mr. Jones has taken a turn and hopes
Minister Liáng will visit soon.”

She was already pulling on her gloves and hat. “I’ll be back
shortly.”

~~**~~

Rose rubbed her eyes and refocused her thoughts. The new
year was almost a third gone, the house still had so many needs, and managing
it required her attention to so many details!

Joy and Grant still felt that it was the right time to push
ahead to found a sewing school. Rose knew they felt it time for all of them to
shake off the listlessness that Mei-Xing’s disappearance and Flinty’s passing
had engendered.

But a sewing school and business? It had taken years of
plodding under the patient tutelage of her friend Vera Medford back in
RiverBend for Rose to become even a modest seamstress!

For a moment she questioned her expanding role in their
endeavors. Her heart was in ministering to the young women in the
house—teaching them how to remake their lives and find peace with God. She had
not bargained on all these other, more practical details.

Joy was far better at these things than she was. But Grant
and Joy were fully immersed in running the store. Rose groaned inwardly. She
needed a cup of tea. And her Bible.

She took her cup and saucer and returned to her desk and the
many details demanding her attention. While the tea was steeping, she thumbed
through her Bible and began to read Psalm 37. She stopped at verses 4 and 5 and
smiled. Oh, yes!

Delight
thyself also in the Lord:
and he shall give thee
the desires of thine heart.
Commit thy way unto the Lord;
trust also in him;
and he shall bring it to pass.

She fed on those words and prayed over the many needs of the
house. She was sipping her tea and gathering her energy when the front doorbell
sounded.

The doorbell rang again, and Rose sighed. Breona, Marit, Mr.
Wheatley, and the girls were likely at the market. Grant and Joy were due home
from the shop in a while.

She pushed herself to her feet wondering again how they
could begin a sewing school let alone a sewing business. And yet the rest of
the girls—and those who would be coming after them—must have employment. They
could not sit idle. They needed to be working toward their future independence.

“Lord,” she whispered as she trod toward the door, “Let
every plan of ours begin and end with you. If a sewing business is not your
plan, we will look elsewhere for your hand. If it is not your timing, we will
wait on you until it is.”

She glanced through the peephole. Rose saw a fashionably
dressed woman facing away from the door, looking with interest at the yard and
the porch that wrapped itself around the front of the house. A mass of tight,
glossy-black curls peeked out from under a wide, beautiful hat.

What a gorgeous hat!
Rose thought. Everything about
this woman bespoke elegance and the finest style.

Rose glanced down at her dress and then touched her hair self-consciously.
Her dress was simple and of good quality, but downright primitive compared to
the visitor on the porch!

The bell rang again and Rose pulled herself together,
quickly unlocking and swinging wide the door. The woman, now facing her, smiled
pleasantly. Her glowing skin was the color of warm, creamed coffee.

“Is this the residence of Miss Thoresen? Miss Joy Thoresen?”

“Yes it is, but she is away at present. I am her mother,
Mrs. Thoresen. May I be of help?”

The woman smiled again. “Mrs. Van der Pol speaks very highly
of you, Mrs. Thoresen. But I apologize. May I introduce myself?”

She offered Rose her card. The stiff ivory paper had a gold
border around the engraved words
Miss Victoria Washington
.

“How may I be of service to you, Miss Washington?” Rose
asked, her curiosity aroused.

“I have only arrived in Denver, just last evening,” the
young woman replied, “and I am staying with Mrs. Van der Pol for the present.
However, I came back to Denver to offer my services.”

Before Rose could respond, she heard the front gate open and
the sounds of Grant and Joy’s voices coming up the walk. The woman also heard
and turned eagerly toward them.

Joy stopped when she saw their visitor. Something was so
familiar about her . . .

“Tory?”

“Yes, miss!”

“Oh, my goodness!” Joy rushed to embrace her. “Oh, my dear,
but I am so happy to see you!” She pulled back and gazed in Tory’s face. “You
look so well, so
lovely
!”

Tory blushed, her cheeks reddening prettily under Joy’s
praise. “I am equally happy to see you, miss.”

“Forgive me,” Joy said, “I would like you to meet my
husband, Grant Michaels.”

Grant offered Tory his left hand and she graciously took it,
confused both by the arm hanging lifelessly by his side and by the
introduction.

“But . . . I mean, I thought—” she pulled
herself up short and managed, “A pleasure to meet you,” while trying hard to
mask her puzzlement.

“Yes, I see we have confounded you,” Joy laughed. “My
husband died nearly three years ago—and yet here he stands. Perhaps we can go
inside and explain. But first, have you met my mother?”

Joy turned to Rose. “Mama, this is Tory. She is one of the
first girls we helped to escape from Corinth!”

“Tory! Mei-Xing spoke often of you,” Rose responded warmly.

“There is no word of Mei-Xing?” Tory’s eyes saddened. “Mrs.
Van der Pol sent the news to me months ago and I have
prayed . . .” She stopped and cleared her throat.

Rose took her by the arm and led her inside. “No, nothing to
date, but we still hope. We have placed our trust in the Lord.”

They moved into the parlor and seated themselves. Tory
gracefully arranged her skirts and crossed her ankles demurely. Joy sat close
beside her.

For more than an hour, Joy, Rose, and Grant explained all
that had happened in the 15 months since that bitterly cold January when Tory
and her friend Helen had arrived at the lodge in the dark hours of the night.
Tory listened intently, her brow creasing in fear and sorrow as they told of
Banner and his men burning the lodge and taking Joy prisoner.

Her worry turned to triumph as they described the U.S. marshals and Pinkerton agents descending on Corinth and arresting Morgan, Banner, and
his gang of thugs, finally breaking their hold on the girls in Corinth’s two infamous houses.

“I would have loved to have seen it all,” she whispered,
breathing hard. “I would have loved to have seen Banner and Darrow and Roxanne
taken away in handcuffs.” She dashed away a few tears. “I would have given
anything for Helen to have seen it.”

Joy touched Tory’s hand gently. “I’m so sorry about Helen,
Tory.”

Tory nodded. “Thank you. Thank you for everything you did
for us, Miss Joy.
For everything
. Mrs. Van der Pol sent us to the Misses
Wright—Miss Eloise and Miss Eugenia Wright—in Philadelphia, and they have been
so good, so kind to us. They, they cared for Helen until the end. She had the
finest doctors, but they all said . . . they said they could do
nothing for her.”

She was quiet for a moment, lost in her thoughts. “Miss
Eugenia spent the most time with Helen. She sang to her. Sang for hours.” Now
tears trickled down Tory’s face. “She sang the most beautiful hymns to her.
Then she would describe heaven to Helen, how beautiful it would be, and how
much Jesus loved her and how he would be waiting for her.” Tory choked and had
to stop speaking.

“It’s all right, Tory,” Joy soothed her.

“I want to tell you, Miss Joy.” She looked from Rose to
Grant and back to Joy. “I want to tell you what happened.”

Grant handed Tory a clean handkerchief and she dabbed her
eyes. “Thank you. I want you all to know.” She took a deep breath, composing
herself. “Helen was so weak and in so much pain, but she asked Miss Eugenia how
Jesus could possibly be waiting for her, after, after all the awful things she
had done.”

Here Tory bowed her head and spoke as though remembering
each word of the conversation. “Miss Eugenia told her, ‘Child, Jesus has been
waiting for you all your life. If you will go to him right now and ask his
forgiveness, he will certainly receive you.’ Well, Helen prayed right then—and
oh! I saw it! I saw it, Miss Joy! I saw the forgiveness wash over her and the
grief leave her poor, thin face! She became young and lovely again, even though
the disease had wasted her so. It was the most wondrous thing I ever saw.”

Tory wiped a stray tear with Grant’s handkerchief. “Helen
died three days later, yet in those three days she was so happy, so peaceful.
When Miss Eugenia would sing to her, Helen would smile and she was beautiful.”

Grant cleared his throat, clearly moved, but Joy and Rose
were weeping unabashedly.

“Thank you, dear Lord,” Rose murmured. Joy nodded in
agreement, unable to speak for the awe of that moment.

“I gave my heart to Jesus when Helen passed,” Tory added,
sniffling through her tears. “And I am determined to serve him however he leads
me. The Misses Wright apprenticed me to Monsieur LeBlanc, and I have been
working for him for more than a year.”

Joy looked up sharply. “M. LeBlanc is well known, even in Europe,
for his designs.”

“Yes, miss. I began in the workroom, but when I showed him
some of my sketches, he assigned two seamstresses to me to make two of my
designs.” She ducked her head modestly. “The dresses were well received, and M.
LeBlanc moved me permanently to my own design table with my own seamstresses.”

Joy and Grant murmured their compliments and
congratulations, but Rose’s heart began to beat a little more quickly.

“Many months back I received a letter from Mrs. Van der Pol
about this house, the girls you have living here, and some of your plans,” Tory
continued. “I have been praying for you and wishing I might help in some way.
Of course, since I am apprenticed to M. LeBlanc for five years I could not come
to help, although I felt the desire to do so very much.”

“But one day just two weeks ago, M. LeBlanc called me into
his office.” Tory paused. “He had received a visit from the Misses Wright.”

She looked earnestly at the small group gathered around her.
“M. LeBlanc is a good man, a man who loves the Lord. He knew who I was—what I
had been—when he took me on, but he had compassion on me.

“We all agreed that it was best for his business to keep my
past in confidence, but . . .” here her voice trailed off, “my
designs were beginning to bring me recognition, and we were both somewhat
concerned that eventually my past would come out.

“When I received the letter from Mrs. Van der Pol, the
Misses Wright explained to M. LeBlanc that I was needed in Denver. They
expressed their confidence that the Lord would make a way. And he has.

“M. LeBlanc has released me from my apprenticeship. He and
the Misses Wright have decided to anonymously establish me in my own shop here
in Denver. M. LeBlanc is sending a large selection of fabrics and notions and
several machines here.

“The Misses Wright have provided funds to rent space for the
first year. They will remain silent partners in my endeavor, and I will share
the profits with them. All I need is a suitable building to begin.”

Instinctively, she turned to Rose. “Mrs. Thoresen, that is
why I am here. I want to train your girls to design and sew.”

“Merciful heavens above!” Rose exclaimed.

Joy gaped. “Mama!”

—

Minister Liáng looked over his shoulder—again.

I would not make a very good investigator
, he
fretted. He checked his pocket—again—for the note Bao had written. It wasn’t
signed, and the contents were terse:
Tell this man what he asks
.

Liáng pushed farther back into the shadows, waiting for the
woman who cooked for the Chens to return to her home.
The cook in the Chen
home is related to Ling-Ling
, Bao had said.

He heard shuffling steps approaching and froze. The steps
came closer and Liáng saw the woman, probably in her early fifties, approach
the door of the little house.

“Madam Wong.” Liáng spoke softly.

The woman jumped and peered into the shadows fearfully. “Who
is there?”

“A friend of Bao. May I speak with you?”

She shivered and looked about her, much the same way Liáng
had done a moment before. “Quickly.” She opened the door and they disappeared
inside.

She locked the door behind them and ushered him into her
kitchen, closing the door behind her and pulling down the shade on the single
window. Only then did she light the lamp on the table nearby.

“Who are you?” She examined Liáng’s face. “I do not know
you.”

“No, nor I you. Our mutual, ah, friend sent me.”

“He is in great peril,” she hissed. “My daughter has
overheard Fang-Hua give orders. If they find him . . .”

Liáng nodded. “We suspected as much. I am sorry to involve
you, but I have come on an important errand, important enough to risk his
safety and ours.”

He handed her the note; she read it quickly. “What do you
want?”

“May we sit?”

Reluctantly, she agreed. Liáng studied the woman. Her face
was lined from years of hard work, but he sensed a good heart in her.

“A few months ago a man who calls himself Morgan came back
to Seattle after a long absence. Do you know the man of whom I speak?” He
looked steadily at the woman, hoping she could sense his heart, too.

She slowly inclined her head. “Yes.”

Liáng hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until he
let it go. “This man, Morgan, grew up in Seattle?”

She nodded again.

“Do you remember when he was young and they called him
Reggie
?”

She chuckled once, silently and without mirth. “Yes.”

So close, Lord
!
So close
!

“His real name was Regis, no? Do you remember his last
name?”

This time she frowned and thought for a moment. “No; I
didn’t know him as Regis. I only remember ‘Reggie.’ He was an arrogant white
boy, full of himself, but I do not know a last name.”