Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (3 page)

Ellen expected things to settle down once Ian had fulfilled his duty to President Lincoln by serving in the Fourth Missouri Volunteer Cavalry. It was not to be. Only six months after their baby girl survived the battle to be born, she succumbed to a high fever brought on by only the Lord knew what. Ellen grieved alone while Ian was off riding into the face of the good Lord only knew what. In 1862, grief and a longing for her husband’s arms occupied Ellen’s mind far more than either the Free Homestead Act or the Pacific Railway Act. Until, that was, the war ended, and Ian came home.

He was still the love of her life, but he, too, was forever changed by the things he’d endured. “I can’t be a farmer,” he said. “I just can’t. It’s too—” He broke off. Shook his head. He didn’t have words for a lot of things these days.

Ellen put her hand on his arm. “What is it you want to do, darlin’?”

They packed up and headed west, and Ellen’s only regret in the matter was leaving the little grave in the churchyard. If her father’s threat to disown her and a visitation from Death had not separated Ellen from the love of her life, then neither would Indians or rattlesnakes or any of the myriad horrors she had heard talk of among the other women whose husbands had caught the same fever as Ian.

As it happened, however, Ian McKenna’s westward fever was less about land and more about helping good people bring law and a semblance of order to Brownville, Nebraska, a bustling river city upon which dozens of riverboats a day spilled their contents and through which hundreds of wagons a week departed on their way to live their respective dreams farther west. Not long after the McKennas arrived in Brownville, Ian was elected sheriff. And Ellen gave birth again, to another redheaded child, this one born squalling, and flailing strong arms and pudgy legs. They named him Jack.

To her great surprise, Ellen loved Nebraska. She loved the sound of the whistles that announced the arrival of yet another boat; she loved the never-changing scenery that rolled by the front door of their modest home every day, and after nearly twenty years, Ellen loved her husband more than ever. So as she stood at the window, looking out on the place where she’d planned to plant her garden that spring, she envisioned scraping a bit of earth into her palm and then turning it over and letting it go. Much as a woman releases the earth over the grave of a loved one, Ellen released the dream of planting her garden in Brownville. She would not, however, give over her Brownville garden for a square of untamed prairie—at least not without a question or two. “Why can’t we get something in Lincoln right away?”

Ian moved to stand behind her. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her close and nuzzled her neck before whispering in her ear. “Well, I suppose we could. But I promised myself that if I survived the war, I’d never waste one more minute of my life than I absolutely had to waiting to see you again. Lincoln is nearly three miles away, and I’m selfish.” He nuzzled her neck again. “I want you closer.” Caressing one of the auburn tendrils curling at her neck, he traced the line of her bare shoulder along her décolletage toward—“Stop that!” She batted his hand away and turned around. As she looked up at him, she felt her cheeks warm.

“I love you, Ellen Rebecca Sullivan McKenna,” he said, as he took her hands in his. “Just try it for six months. Please.” He kissed first one palm, then the other.

“I know what you’re doing,” Ellen said, glowering up at him. “Jack’s gone for the evening and you want—you want—“

“What?” He laced his finger through the loosened curls at the back of her neck.

“You want to use your—wiles—to convince me.” With his free hand, he caressed one arm, then lifted it to kiss the inside of her wrist. “How am I doing?”

She pulled free. “Meet me upstairs,” she whispered. “I’ll let you know. After.”

Spring 1880
Dawson County, Nebraska

Max Zimmer’s heart thumped when he saw the state seal on the envelope.
From the Office of the Governor.
He tucked it into his breast pocket and tried to distract the combination postmasterstorekeeper by pointing to the row of candy jars lined up on a shelf in the display case across the way. “I’m out of horehound over at the office. I’ll take half a pound.”

Hiram Comstock followed Max across the store and, opening the sliding doors at the back of the display case, grabbed a handful of the individually wrapped candies and dropped them into the basket attached to the scale atop the counter. Peering at the numbers, he grunted and reached for a couple more pieces. “Looks like you’ve got some mighty important mail there,” he said as he reached for a small sack and bagged the candy. “You finally listening to reason and thinking about running for office?” He held on to the bag while he waited for an answer.

Max shook his head. “Not a chance. I’d be a terrible state senator. I’ve no patience with all the ballyhoo that goes on up in Lincoln.” He reached for the sack. “Don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve likely got an office full of patients waiting.”

Hiram glanced through the storefront window toward the doctor’s office on the opposite side of the town square. “You keep emptying that candy jar at this rate, you’re gonna have to raise your prices.” He grinned as he handed over the bag.

Max headed for the door. “Naw… candy’s worth its weight in gold. Best incentive there is to ensure the little ones’ cooperation with the doctor. Mothers think I have some kind of talent with children.” He grinned. “There’s no talent to it. I bribe them.” With a wave, he exited the store, then cut across the town square and rounded the courthouse. Widow Mabry had obviously preceded him to the office. A sign reading T
HE
D
OCTOR
I
S
I
N
beckoned, and Max could see that the chairs lining the front window were all occupied.

Skirting along the side of the emporium, with which his building shared a wall, he ducked beneath the overhang that sheltered the clinic’s back porch. Glancing around, he finally opened the envelope. He’d been writing letters to judges and the governor since the day Jane Prescott was sentenced. At times he’d been tempted to believe Jane had been right that one time he’d visited the penitentiary. Maybe he was wasting his time. But he couldn’t forget her, and he couldn’t give up. Sometimes he wondered why. Maybe it was the unforgettable scene when young Rose’s aunt came to take her away. Certainly Jane’s refusal to say anything negative about Owen Marquis at the trial had left an impression. And that dance. Max had gone over and over it in his mind and finally come to rest at a place where he felt culpable. Maybe Owen did have reason to be jealous, but if he did, it wasn’t for anything Jane had said or done. She was everything a man could want in a wife, and loyal beyond reasonable expectation. But Max had loved that dance. Maybe more than he should have. Maybe Owen had sensed it.

As he looked down at the letter, a knot of emotion rose in his throat. He gazed toward heaven and called out a triumphant “Thank You!” Folding the letter, he tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat, patting the place where it lay over his heart. As he grasped the doorknob and went inside the clinic, his mind raced through everything he’d need to do to get away. Patients to see… an announcement in the paper that he’d be gone for a few days… packing to do… and a train ticket to Lincoln. He had an audience with the governor. A chance to appeal for Jane’s release.

She would have to see him now.

April 7, 1880

J
ane started awake. As the moments ticked by, she realized she’d been awakened by silence. Nights here usually included snuffles and snores and the sounds of women rearranging blankets, or on occasion, muffled weeping. This night was different. Ominous. As Jane lay still, listening to that quiet, she realized that beneath it hummed a wire of tension.

“Hmpf—” “SHHH!”

“Hunh—hunh?”

Words. Murmurs. From the opposite end of the room. Another grunt, this time loud enough that it sounded like a protest. And then… nothing. Nothing but the unmistakable sound of bare feet padding…
Toward me,
Jane thought. She pulled the blanket away from her face and glanced over her shoulder.

Pearl Brand was out of bed, likely the cause of the grunts and protests, and…
she was looking straight at Jane.
A chill ran up her spine. Pearl was the first woman Jane had encountered in this place who truly frightened her. She was different from the rest of them in some fundamental, terrifying way. Whatever Pearl had been up to in the predawn darkness, she now knew Jane was aware of it.

Convince her you didn’t see anything. Didn’t hear anything. Sleepwalk.
With a shrill cry of terror, Jane threw her blanket off and, jumping out of bed, stumbled toward the cold stone wall just a few feet away. Pressing her palms against the wall, she began to sway from side to side, blubbering, “Out. Out. Let me out, do you hear? Let. Me. OUT!”

Raucous laughter sounded as a beefy hand clasped her shoulder and shook her. A cloud of putrid breath carried the words. “Having a nightmare, Janie? Don’t like the accommodations? Want to speak to the
manager?”
Pearl laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound.

Jane wheeled about and blinked, rubbing her eyes. “I—I—I was—” She hung her head. “I was asleep.”

“You were sleepwalking,” Pearl corrected her.

“I’m sorry.” Jane gulped. “Did I wake you? I’m so sorry.” Even Agnes Sweeney backed away from Pearl. Jane mimicked Agnes now. She didn’t challenge, made no eye contact, gave Pearl no reason to think she posed any kind of threat. Looking down at the gray stone floor, she rounded her shoulders and tried to become as small and nonthreatening as possible.

As Pearl loomed above her, Jane’s heart rate ratcheted up several notches. She had definitely heard something a few minutes ago. Something not good. Obviously, something involving Pearl. It took everything in Jane at that moment to keep her gaze down, to keep herself from looking toward the locked door. Where was the guard? Why wasn’t he checking on them? Couldn’t he hear? The sun would be up soon. Any minute now, they would hear a key rattle in the door, announcing Miss Dawson’s arrival.
Please. God.

“Can I—?” Jane pointed at her rumpled cot. She could feel Pearl looking her over, sense the hulking woman’s small, dark eyes get even smaller as Pearl peered at her. What was she looking for? Evidence Jane had heard—what? Jane didn’t know what she’d heard. She only knew she’d awakened to
something.

Giving Jane a little shove toward her narrow cot, Pearl turned away. “Get your beauty sleep, princess.”

Jane slipped back into bed and once again pulled the blanket up over her head, but not before noticing that every other woman in the dormitory lay with their backs to the part of the room Jane had avoided looking at. The part of the room where whatever Pearl was up to had taken place.

When Mamie Dawson had promised Jesus she would love every lamb He sent her way—including those who’d wandered from the fold—she’d never expected Him to take her quite so literally. But here she was, a matron living in an apartment on the premises of the state penitentiary, spending her days among a flock of wandering sheep the likes of which even her overactive imagination could never have dreamed into existence.

Stretching and yawning, Mamie padded barefoot from her bedroom into the large parlor that still tended to surprise her when she considered its relative opulence compared to the apartment she and Minnie kept in Lincoln. Passing through the parlor, she went into the kitchen and put a pot of water on to boil, then paused long enough to look out the tall, narrow set of windows toward the west. The sky was still indigo there, but on the opposite side of the apartment, the eastern sky was more of a pale blue. Soon it would be streaked with pink, and by then she’d have dressed and made her way down the stairs to the second floor, through turnkey, and onto the secure side. For now, though, she would enjoy the quiet before her workday began. Teacup in hand, she made her way back to the parlor and into the turret just off the northeast corner of the room. Setting the tea on the table beside her Bible, she settled in her rocking chair and bowed her head.

Lord, I’d be grateful if Pearl Brand would behave herself today. And if she doesn’t, then help me to bear up and show me how to handle it. I don’t like admitting it, but she frightens me. Please protect us all from whatever it is I see in those dark eyes of hers.

Help me know what to do for Vestal. Please let her time come easy on her… and make me brave when I ask the warden about the situation. Make him brave, too, because it’ll take courage for him to say yes, what with him being new and needing to please the governor and all. Please make a way.

I thought Jane Prescott was doing better, but this business with Vestal seems to be making it hard on her. Should I intervene? Should I try to find that Flora person who wrote that postcard? What about Jane’s daughter? Why doesn’t someone bring her to visit? And why’d that doctor who visited when she first got here give up on her? I just don’t know where to start with all of that, Lord, but I hate seeing Jane so heartbroken. She seemed to be doing better for a while, but now I think that was just her learning to hide her cares. I wish I could get her to trust me with her burden. Of course that doesn’t matter nearly as much as her learning to trust You.