Through the Deep Waters (41 page)

“Fourteen, fourteen …” The clerk turned the registry book on its revolving stand and peered at the open page half-filled with signatures. He tapped one name with his finger. “Ah, yes, Mr. Sanger.”

Sanger … She finally knew his name. Chills broke out across her frame. She chafed her arms with open palms as the clerk continued.

“He leaves on this morning’s train for Denver, but he’s already arranged to stay with us again on his return trip at the end of the month.” His brows rose, and he sent Dinah an apologetic look. “I wish I’d thought to tell you about his arrival sooner, Dinah—I forgot you were originally from Chicago. You and he might have enjoyed a chat yesterday evening. Were your families acquainted?”

Dinah shook her head and backed away from the counter, needing to distance herself from the man’s bold signature in the registry. “No. Our families weren’t acquainted.”

He shrugged and then whirled the registry so it faced the entry doors again. “Well, since you hail from the same community, you might enjoy talking about the sights of the city with him. Shall I tell him you’re employed here so he can make arrangements to visit with you when he returns?”

“No!” Dinah didn’t realize she’d yelled the word until the man’s eyebrows rose and he drew back. She forced a light laugh, which sounded more like a strangled sob, and spoke calmly. “There’s no need to bother him by mentioning me. I’m sure a busy man like M-Mr. Sanger prefers his solitude when he travels. I’d better go have my breakfast so I can get to work.” She turned and fled before he could ask any other questions.

Amos

On Thursday, Amos prepared the eggs for transport to town. With winter’s shorter days and sometimes cloudy skies, the chickens had slowed their laying.
The Leghorns could be a bit finicky, only gifting him with eggs when the sun shone. A lesser number of eggs meant receiving less money for his chilly walk to town, but could he let the eggs sit and spoil in the barn? Of course not. So, grumbling under his breath, he nestled the creamy orbs between thick layers of straw to keep them from freezing.

He knew why he was so reluctant to deliver the eggs today. In the previous weeks there had been fewer eggs, too, but he’d headed to town with an eager bounce in his step. Because going to town meant seeing Dinah. Today, however, there was no promise of time with Dinah, no anticipation of a letter, no joy waiting at the end of the trek. He sighed and hung his head.

Samson and Gideon sat at his feet and whined up at him, as if sensing his melancholy. He took the time to give them each a scratch under the chin, but he didn’t speak to them as he usually did. A lump of sadness filled the back of his throat, and talking took too much energy. With another heavy sigh, he caught the handle of his wagon and set out at a trudging gait.

He’d waited until early afternoon, when the sun was high and had burned away the dark chill of morning. Even so, the air was cold, and he shivered. Automatically his hand lifted to pat his pocket, and he gave a start when he found the pocket empty. He shook his head. He would not be taking envelopes of folded pages all covered in words intended for Dinah to town anymore. Yesterday he’d thrown away the pretty stationery paper. The temptation to sit and write had tugged at him one too many times, so tossing the paper into his fireplace eliminated the means to pen words to her.

But the urge remained in his chest. How long before the habit died and he would chuckle at Samson and Gideon romping together or see a hawk circling in the sky or watch the moon slip above the empty tree branches without murmuring, “I should write to Dinah about that”? He sent an accusing glance skyward. “You put her in my thoughts and heart, God, and it’s caused nothing but heartache. So take her out now, do You hear me?”

His belligerent tone when addressing the Almighty would shock his mother and rile his father, but Amos chose not to hide his disdain. He’d repeatedly asked God not to let his affections for Dinah grow if they weren’t meant
to be together, and God had callously sent him down a pathway to destruction. So God would just have to get used to Amos’s antagonism. He would foster it until all thoughts of Dinah had been stripped from his head.

He stopped at the houses of each of his usual customers, but he didn’t take the time to exchange cheerful chatter as had become his custom. When one woman expressed concern about his stoic countenance, he gave the excuse that it was too cold to visit. His conscience stung because he’d lied. Cold had never frozen his tongue before. Losing Dinah had crushed the joy out of him. No joy within made for a sorry existence.

When he’d finished delivering the eggs, he headed to the grocer to purchase a few food items. Instead of passing the Clifton, which was the shorter route, he rattled the wagon two blocks out of the way to avoid the hotel. But when he left the store, by habit his feet carried him in the direction of the hotel. Not until he spotted the gardens, now brown and shriveled in the height of winter, did he realize what he’d done.

Immediately the desire to see her, talk to her, regain the friendship they’d created struck like a gale force. He stood with aching chest and galloping pulse, staring at the chair where they had left notes for each other. Caught up in the past, he began moving toward the porch. At the base of the stairs, his hand released the handle of his wagon, and he hitched his way up one, two, three steps, then crossed the boards to the painted wicker chair. It seemed as barren as the unadorned landscape with its floral cushion gone.

How many letters had he left beneath the cushion? A dozen? More? He’d lost count. He only knew he’d poured himself out on the pages, sharing pieces of himself with the girl he hoped would become his bride. All that time he spent writing and dreaming and praying now mocked him with its uselessness. Releasing a low moan of frustration, he turned to go, but his gaze caught sight of a small, square, folded paper pinned to the porch beneath one of the chair’s legs. His heart lurched.

Glancing right and left, he searched for prying eyes. Then, in an awkward movement, he bent over and yanked the paper free. His hands shaking, he worked to unfold the weather-dampened sheet. The layers wanted to stick
together, and he tore one corner, but eventually he peeled it apart and found a simple message: “Dear Mr. Ackerman, I beg your forgiveness. I truly hope we can be friends again someday. Sincerely, Dinah.”

Forgive her? He crumpled the note into a wad and groaned. He should. Jesus Himself instructed His followers to forgive seventy times seven. He’d forgiven his father for rejecting him, his brothers for disdaining him, his schoolmates for taunting him. Would he be able to forgive Dinah someday when the pain wasn’t so raw? when time had erased the affection he held for her? Maybe he’d eventually find the ability to forgive her. But he’d never forget. And with the knowledge of her indecency always in the back of his mind, they could never be friends. Not again.

“Mr. Ackerman?”

The soft female voice came from behind Amos. His heart gave a leap—Dinah? He immediately squelched the hopeful reaction. She would have called him Amos. He looked over his shoulder and found Miss Mead standing a few feet away, her head tipped to the side as she gazed unsmilingly at him. Her green eyes held compassion, and Amos found himself wanting to lose himself in the kindness she silently offered.

She held the handle of a stiff-bristled broom in both gloved hands, and she twisted her wrists as if trying to ignite a spark in the length of unpainted wood. A nervous gesture. “Did you come to see Dinah?”

“No.” Amos jammed the wadded note into his pocket and took two clumsy steps toward the stairs.

She moved into his pathway, as stealthy as a panther. “She would welcome you.”

The memory of Dinah dashing across the floor toward him, her face bright with happiness, stabbed him with fresh pain. Amos set his jaw.

“She never smiles. She hardly eats. And every night she cries.”

Amos closed his eyes. He wanted to close his ears, too, his heart aching at the image Miss Mead’s words painted. But was Dinah’s anguish over losing his affections, or was it only because she’d been found out?

Miss Mead went on in a quiet voice. “She’s so … broken, Mr. Ackerman. I
don’t know what happened between you, but I know she’s sorry. Every night I listen to her proclaim apologies in her dreams. And her dreams … She’s had night terrors before, but now they must be especially awful, the way she moans and thrashes about.” She released the broom with one hand and reached toward Amos. Her fingers descended on his sleeve, the touch gentle. “At the end of the month, Mr. Irwin is sending her to train as a server. If she goes, you won’t see her again. Are you sure you—”

He sidestepped past her, ignoring the sorrowful look in her eyes that reminded him too much of the pleading look Dinah had turned on him New Year’s Eve. “It’s better this way. It’s what she’d wanted all along. Tell her I … wish her well.”

Miss Mead sighed, her breath forming a little cloud of condensation that billowed, then dissolved. A bitter thought entered his mind—
If only feelings could dissipate so easily
. She trailed him to the stairs, dragging the broom behind her like a deflated balloon on the end of a string. As he grabbed the handle on his wagon, she spoke again.

“If you need to talk to someone, you can call on me.” A hint of a smile tipped up the corners of her full lips. “Even though I’m often berated for talking too much, I’m also a good listener. So if you need a friend …”

Amos nodded a thank-you. “I’ll think about it, Miss Mead. Good-bye now.” He took off in his hitching hop-skip, eager to escape. His breath came in puffs, his ears stinging from pushing himself into the wind. A half mile up the road, he finally slowed his pace. He paused and looked back at the cluster of rooftops and the recognizable turret of the Clifton Hotel standing tall and proud. The farther he got from town, the deeper his loneliness grew. All he had waiting at home were two dogs and a henhouse full of clucking chickens.

“If you need a friend,”
Miss Mead had said. He needed a friend. Even more than a friend, he needed a helpmeet and a family. Cale had come and then gone. He’d sent Dinah away. In their stead they’d left gaping holes that begged to be filled. He chewed the inside of his lip and pondered whether someone else—perhaps Miss Mead—could fill the emptiness inside.

Amos

Broken …
As Amos went about his work during the weeks of January, the word Miss Mead had used to describe Dinah continually rolled through the back of his mind. His limp was more pronounced with the descent of cold, damp weather. Perhaps his lurching gait contributed to him not being able to set aside the ugly word. Whatever the reason, just as the ache in his hip was always with him, the reference clung to him and refused to let go.

He knew too well how it felt to be broken—unfixable. Compassion tried to stir to life in his heart for Dinah’s brokenness, but he stubbornly refused to let it flare. His brokenness and hers were different. He had done nothing to deserve his broken state—he’d only been a young boy, daydreaming a bit as he’d followed his father’s instruction to walk alongside the hay wagon and fork straw into its bed. Brokenness had been thrust upon him, but she had chosen to sell her body and then pretend to be chaste. Whatever sorrow she now experienced was a consequence of her choices. If she were broken, it was the result of her own doing, not his. So why did he feel sorry for her? The constant pondering left him unsettled and edgy.

He entered the barn early the Sunday after his birthday to grind dried corn to feed the chickens before leaving for service. Samson and Gideon roused from their sleeping spot beneath the egg wagon and dashed at him, releasing yips of happiness. Gideon danced around Amos’s feet, his stubby tail wagging so quickly it became a blur. Samson, the more reckless of the pair, leaped against Amos’s legs.

Amos grabbed the top rail of a stall to keep from falling, then aimed a swat at the dog’s speckled hindquarters. “Samson, bad dog! Down!”

With a whine Samson crept away, head low and little tail tucked downward. Gideon backed away, too, looking at his master in confusion. Amos watched the pair huddle together at a safe distance, both keeping watchful eyes pinned on him. Unbidden, two pictures formed in his mind—one of Dinah’s delighted expression when he’d entered the chambermaids’ parlor on New Year’s Eve followed by her stricken face when he’d confronted her about her indecency.