Mission of Hope (13 page)

N
ora sat gazing out her bedroom window that night, trying to make sense of her feelings. The warmth that surged through her when Quinn Freeman looked at her had yet to subside. His shoulders were so broad and his skin so tanned, she found her breath catching as she watched him work. Quinn was much more than just physically handsome—he had an energy about him, a presence that pulled feelings from her she'd never known before. Feelings so strong, in fact, that Nora was continually surprised that Mama or Papa hadn't noticed. She felt so changed that it must surely show.

Annette had talked about such feelings. She had been quite taken with a young man named Eric just before her death. Nora and Annette had stayed up many nights talking about him and, unfortunately, how Aunt Julia and Uncle Lawrence would react if they knew. Annette was a beautiful girl—the violet eyes they shared looked stunning against Annette's dark hair—and Aunt Julia had considerable plans to strike her an advantageous match. It was only Annette's fiery nature that had delayed such a match—her cousin had managed
to sidestep many of her mother's attempts by proving herself “a bit too spirited.” While Nora loved that about her, Aunt Julia considered it an unfortunate trait best stamped out at every turn.

Nora desperately longed to talk with Annette, to share with her the deep care growing in her heart for Quinn. A care she was sure would meet the same scorn as Annette's feelings for Eric. She'd lost so much when she lost Annette. Aunt Julia had moved her out of the pallet in the living room and into the room that had been Annette's—a touching and costly gesture for Aunt Julia, who had spent so many hours in Annette's room just after her death. Mama would find Aunt Julia wandering silently around the room, touching things, straightening the mess left by the earthquake, folding and refolding clothing. It was both comforting and harsh to be surrounded by Annette's things. As if she were all the more here and all the more gone at the same time. Without really meaning to, Nora found herself wandering the room just as Aunt Julia did, sorting through her possessions with aimless fingers.

She wasn't sure what made her look under the bed. Maybe it was the many times they'd played under there as girls. It was just no fun to explore alone.

As she poked her head under the dust ruffle, Nora noticed a whole host of articles that had been dislodged and scattered by the earthquake. Even the houses that suffered very little structural damage had been shaken like a snow globe with often disastrous interior results even if the exterior looked fine.

There was a small brocade sack. Nora recognized it instantly as the place where Annette kept her private treasures. She hadn't even remembered about the cache
until seeing it just now. It would make Aunt Julia so happy to know she'd found it.

Until she remembered that it was where Annette kept her diary. And Annette's diary would surely be filled with entries about Eric. Nora didn't have the heart to open that Pandora's box up for Aunt Julia. What Annette had planned for her and Eric would only make Aunt Julia sadder, and what would be the use of that? She'd only just barely stopped moping around the room, only just begun to rejoin the world and resemble herself again.

Pulling out the sack, Nora peered in to find Annette's brown leather journal. Perhaps she had been sent Annette's companionship—even if only in her words and thoughts. Reading Annette's thoughts and feelings for Eric would be so great a comfort. Nora clutched the book to her heart, thinking it a gift from God. There were no issues of violating Annette's privacy. On the slim chance the diary contained no mention of Eric (which was possible if Annette truly feared her mother discovering the book) perhaps by reading it she would know she could turn it over to Aunt Julia with confidence. If not, Nora said silently, closing her eyes and hoping Annette could somehow hear, I'll keep you safe to myself. It's the least I can do.

Nora stayed up for hours that night, poring over the nearly year's worth of diary entries. Several times Nora found herself laughing at Annette's atrocious grammar or spelling. She had never been one to tend to her lessons, no matter how many times Aunt Julia scolded her for it. Her penmanship, however, was artistic and lovely, with lines as long and flowing as her onyx hair.

Annette had been in love. Dramatically—as one
would expect from such a spirited soul—and dangerously in love. She and Eric had been more serious than even Nora knew. According to her entries, the couple would have eloped by now. It struck Nora that earthquake or no, she'd have lost Annette—for the young couple would surely have run far away after their secret marriage. But I would have been able to say goodbye. To know you were happy. Aunt Julia, however, wouldn't share her good wishes. With a small smirk, Nora couldn't help thinking her aunt would see the elopement scandal as worse than a dozen earthquakes. Only you, Annette, could make me thankful for an earthquake in some ways. Yawning, Nora finally tucked the diary back into its brocade case and slid it to the bottom of the small drawer than held her nightgowns. God had sent her a bit of Annette after all. While it still stung to have known Annette kept such secrets from her, and her heart ached for the tiny photographs lost from her locket forever, her heart burned in a new, unfamiliar way for the man whose flowers were tucked in their place.

Now, it seemed, Nora had a secret of her own.

 

Ma stood in the doorway, staring holes in Quinn's back as he finished shaving outside and splashed the last of the morning's water on his numb face. “Did you think I wouldn't notice?” she barked finally.

Every muscle in Quinn's body ached beyond reason. He'd spent the afternoon sinking the second post into the ground, made a pretense at a few hours' sleep after dinner, then slipped off to make a few deliveries. He'd managed only three of the five requests before time and fatigue had caught up with him, forcing him back
to bed if he stood any chance at making it through the day's paid labor ahead of him.

Heroes need better wages, Lord.
Quinn prayed as he willed strength and reason to seep into his brain from the coffee cup he currently held. He needed to be three separate people in order to keep all this up.

“Notice what?” He didn't look at her, but he didn't even need the mirror's reflection to tell him his evasion wouldn't succeed.

Ma spun on her heels and turned back into the shack. “
Notice what?
he says,” she addressed the empty shelter loudly enough for him to hear. “As if fooling his ma comes easy to him now. It's come to that, has it?” Quinn wasn't quite sure who she was conversing with, but it was clear that he shouldn't answer that question at the moment. He followed her inside, only to have her turn on him with angry eyes. “Who is it you're keeping all kinds of hours with, Quinn? Out half the night, carousing with the likes of Heaven knows who? There's nothing but drinking and gambling happens that time of night. I'm no fool.” The look of disappointment in her eyes fell to the pit of his stomach like a dozen rocks. “You had such sense before, son. Where's it gone?”

She thought he spent his nights drinking. While it had never occurred to him she'd come to such a conclusion, once he thought about it there wasn't a single good reason she shouldn't suspect the worst of his midnight disappearances. Many a good man had let the stress and grief of the disaster lead him straight to the bottle. His own da had tripped along that path—to his own eventual end—years before with nowhere near the desperation that gripped the city lately. “No, Ma,” he said, not having
another excuse but not being able to bear the look in her eye.

She looked as if the loss of another of her men to the bottle would be her undoing. “Don't make it worse by lying,” she said quietly. Her knuckles were white around the spoon she held.

Quinn took an enormous, burning gulp of coffee and looked her squarely in the eye. “I'm not drinking, Ma. I promise. I couldn't. Not with Da…”

One hand flew up to stop his words, as if even his name caused her pain. She turned away, shaking her head. Her disbelief stung him worse than the bullet graze he still nursed on his left side. In all his eagerness for secretive heroics, he'd never considered it would cost him Ma's trust to be the Midnight Messenger. Still, it had to be that way. Telling her where he really was would only place her in danger if things ever went wrong. But he couldn't bear her thinking he was slipping down to his father's ugly end at the bottom of a bottle. He had to tell her something, and quick. Blurting out the first thing that came to his mind—mostly because it never left his mind—he offered a sheepish grin and said, “You'd like her, Ma.”

Ma went still, staring at him. “A woman?” she said suspiciously.

Well now, he hadn't thought through the details. What woman of decent character would keep the hours he'd been keeping? No woman of decent character. He could practically see his ma come to the base conclusion that his “woman” was no “lady.” “No, Ma, not that, either.”

Ma's hand went to her heart. “You're not giving me much hope to go on.” She got a straight-to-business look
on her face and sat down on her chair, placing her teacup carefully on one knee. “How about we try this again, and with the truth.”

There wasn't another way. At least not one that he could see at the moment. “The truth is, Ma, that I can't say. That's the whole of it and the best I can give you. But I can tell you that it's not drink. But you can't know more than that, and I've my reasons.”

“What kind of reasons would make a son lie to his mother?”

“I've not lied to you, Ma. And I'll make a promise to do my best never to lie to you. But that means you'll not get answers to some questions. At least not now.” If he made enemies as the Messenger—which he most surely would—anything she knew would put her at risk.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What in Heaven's name are you up to, lad?”

“You can't know, Ma, and it's as simple as that.” He felt ancient this morning, and it had nothing to do with lack of sleep. “But you can know that I doubt I can do it well on an empty stomach.”

Ma addressed the empty room again. “All secrets, but I'm to feed him breakfast. What's happening to the world, I ask you?”

“It's getting a little bit better day by day, Ma. And that's the truth of it.” He reached out and gave her a hug, noticing how small she felt in his embrace. It felt odd to think of her as old, nearly impossible to think of her as frail, but the months had taken their toll on her much more than they had on him.

She opened the little tomato box that had become their pantry, pulling out a hunk of cheese he'd managed to procure the previous afternoon. “Is there really
someone,” she asked with careful words, “or were you throwing up smoke to your own ma?”

Quinn polished off the last of his coffee. “There is, and there isn't.”

His mother cut the last of their bread into two thick slices. “What kind of answer is that to a simple question?”

“I suppose Reverend Bauers would say some simple questions don't have simple answers.”

She only heaved an enormous, burdened sigh as she handed him the bread and cheese. “I suppose I can only pray for you. God Himself only knows what to make of the likes of this.”

With a sad smile of his own, Quinn thought his mother was absolutely right.

 

Quinn slowly squeezed his finger and felt the gun's kick as it released its bullet.

Square into the straw target Simon had set up a good distance away. Quinn turned out to be an excellent shot. Within a week of training, Quinn already bested most of the regular infantry and half of the officers. While it surprised him that such a dark skill came to him so readily, he couldn't ignore the admiration and respect fellow infantrymen gave him when he shot as well as he did. He understood how the Wild West got so wild now—and why Ma had been so against him owning one. Guns gave very attractive power on very short notice.

Major Simon took off his hat and squinted down the line at the hit target. “I ought to enlist you,” he said with a dark look. “This minute.”

Quinn shook off the tired ache in his neck, aimed
and fired. A hole burst dead center on the second target. It rarely took him a second shot.

Simon shook his head. “You're wasted on the swords, Freeman. The pistol is your weapon by far.”

It was the first compliment Simon had paid him in days. Things had been tense between them since the major's oh-so-well-received dinner with the Longstreets—but the tension had mostly been on Quinn's part. From what he could see, Simon was oblivious. Part of him knew the circumstances held immovable obstacles between him and Nora.

Another part of him refused to accept it. It was as if he and Nora were cut from the same cloth, but neither one seemed suited for their present circumstances. She was bolder than society cared to allow young women, and he craved more than what society cared to allow men lacking a formal education. It seemed unjust that neither of them be able to reach toward the middle ground they somehow seemed to share. He was not at all bothered by her boldness—something men like Simon probably considered unfortunate. He'd heard Simon speak of young, bold recruits as “loose cannons” or “liabilities.” Quinn, on the other hand, was fond of Nora's boldness almost as much as he was fond of her eyes. No one should tamp down Nora's boldness any more than they should change her eye color. It was how God had made her.

“I'm not sure how you did it, but word is out,” the major said once they returned inside, handing Quinn a cloth to clean the pistol. “People are talking about a mysterious ‘Midnight Messenger.' Very dramatic name, by the way.”

Quinn had “signed” one or two of the deliveries as the “Midnight Messenger.” It was important that folks
in Dolores Park knew someone was out there on their side. He'd done it as an act of reassurance more than any ploy for fame. “I wasn't shooting for drama. Just something people could remember.”