Hidden Trusts Read online

  She wandered Boston's streets, keeping on the lookout for offers of work or an inexpensive place to stay but finding neither.

  In front of her lay the colorful stands and carts of the market.

  Rika clutched the carpetbag to her chest and squeezed past two men haggling over a fish. The smell of bread and smoked meat made her stomach growl. She hadn't eaten since yesterday, and market day with its smells and sights made her head spin. In search of food she could afford, she stepped around the yardstick of a vendor measuring cloth.

  "Crunch bread!" a deep voice called across the street, trying to be heard over the other peddlers. "Boston buns! Apple bread fresh from the oven!"

  That voice! She knew it.

  A shiver raced through her. She ducked behind a stand piled high with vegetables and peered at the man.

  The white apron covered a barrel chest, and the hands resting on the pushcart were as large as she remembered. Rika's heart stuttered, then calmed. It couldn't be him. Her father was in his fiftieth winter, and the man selling breads and pastries seemed younger than Rika.

  "Nicolaas," Rika whispered. It had to be him. When she'd left home six years before, he'd been just a boy, not yet twelve years old. Now her little brother was all grown up. She craned her neck and let her gaze slide over the crowd, making sure her father wasn't with Nic.

  She blew out a long breath.

  He was alone.

  Rika hurried across the street.

  Nic grinned a welcome. The twinkle in his brown eyes still reminded her of their mother. "Want a loaf of apple bread? For you, just two pennies."

  "No, thanks, I —"

  "Seed bread, then?"

  "I don't want any bread. It's —"

  His grin turned into their father's angry grimace. "Then get on your way. I don't hand out charities." He kicked out at her as if she were a stray dog.

  Rika cried out at the sharp pain in her shin. She clutched her skirt and stared up at Nic. The brown eyes that had once looked at her with adoration now held only cruel indifference.

  "Want more of that?" he asked when she still didn't run.

  So her brother had become a man who kicked people when they couldn't afford his bread. Rika's chest burned. "If mother could see you now, she would be ashamed."

  "How dare —" He lifted his fist, then stopped and blinked. "Rika? Hendrika? Is that you?"

  Rika nodded but kept her distance. She no longer knew him or what he was capable of. Six years under their father's tutelage had changed him from a shy boy into a hard man. To their father, being kind was a sign of weakness.

  "Lord, you have changed!"

  "So have you," Rika mumbled.

  "What are you doing here? Are you returning home?"

  Rika shook her head. The bakery had never been her home, just the house where she grew up. "When I saw you, I thought I'd say good-bye."

  "Good-bye? You going somewhere?"

  "West," she said. It was either that or the poorhouse, where she'd have to share a bed with the feeble-minded, the drunk, and the insane, as she had for the last two nights. She'd tried to find work in Boston, had even gone to the hospital to ask for a job even though she had never wanted to work as a nurse again after the horrors of the War. But the War was over now, and the hospital no longer needed so many nurses. Immigrants, fresh off the ship, worked for next to nothing. No one wanted to employ Rika, and Mr. Macauley had gotten her blacklisted, so no other cotton mill would take her in either.

  Nic nodded but didn't ask where exactly she was going or if he could come with her. "You have a husband?"

  Again, Rika shook her head. "The War left me a widow."

  "Then you won't make it very far."

  Her father had told her the same before she had left home. The hard, patronizing look in Nic's eyes reminded Rika of their father.

  Rika clenched her jaw. "I'll be fine." If she made do with a piece of bread and a bowl of beans a day, she would make it to Oregon with the money Jo had saved for the journey. "Good-bye, Nic. Take care of yourself, and don't become too much like Father." She stepped into the crowd and let the noise of the market wash over her, hoping it would drown out her pain.

  Post Office

  Cheyenne, Wyoming

  March 18, 1868

  "ALL ABOARD! Boise, Umatilla, The Dalles!"

  Rika lifted her wrinkled skirts with one hand and ran to catch the stagecoach before it could depart. The train that brought her to Cheyenne had been late, and if she missed the connecting stage to The Dalles, she would be stuck in this busy little town for another three days.

  She almost collided with a man who was lugging a large sack toward his wagon. A mule brayed next to her, and Rika jumped and dropped her carpetbag. She snatched it up and hurried toward the red and golden stagecoach.

  The driver sent her a glare. "Come on, Miss. I don't have all day."

  Rika produced one of Jo's tickets. When he nodded, she handed up her carpetbag, climbed into the stagecoach, and squeezed into the only free seat.

  "Good day," she said when the other travelers stared at her.

  The well-dressed, portly man next to her tipped his forehead, where the brim of his hat normally rested. "Welcome, young lady. James Kensington at your service."

  Instead of introducing herself, Rika asked, "Are you traveling to The Dalles too?"

  "Yes. I signed up for the whole four weeks of dust and misery."

  Misery? Surely nothing could be worse than the last five days spent in the stuffy passenger car of that box-on-wheels calling itself a train. Her back still hurt from the hard wooden bench, and she couldn't get the coal soot out of her mouth.

  "I'm sorry," Mr. Kensington said, "but I didn't catch your name."

  There it was, the dreaded question.

  Better learn to be convincing now.

  "Johanna Bruggeman," Rika said and suppressed a shiver. Her father had never talked about God, but surely taking the name of a dead woman was a sin.

  Mr. Kensington gave her a friendly smile. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Bruggeman."

  * * *

  All right, Rika silently admitted hours later. This is worse than traveling on the train.

  The stagecoach bumped over a rock. Rika grabbed the leather strap dangling from the ceiling.

  Mr. Kensington crowded her from the left, while on the right side, a mailbag pressed against her feet. Every now and then, her knees collided with that of the traveler facing her in the cramped space.

  "You hungry?" Mr. Kensington held out a piece of cold ham.

  "Oh, no, thank you," Rika said even though she hadn't eaten today. She pressed a hand to her belly. Every time the stagecoach lurched, her stomach did the same. She had no memory of the long journey across the ocean when she had been just one year old, but she imagined her parents must have felt like this. With the leather curtains closed to keep out the dust, the inside of the coach was as stifling as the train's passenger car despite the March breeze outside.

  "In a year or two, once the transcontinental railroad is finally done, we'll make it from the East Coast to the West Coast in just seven days," the man opposite Rika said.

  As heavenly as that sounded to Rika, it was of no use to them now. She had been traveling for days and was still nowhere near the Willamette Valley.

  The coach slowed, and Mr. Kensington stiffened. His hand crept to the mother-of-pearl grip of his revolver.

  "Easy, easy," another traveler said. "Probably just a rest station. No need to worry."

  "I'll stop worrying when we arrive in The Dalles," Mr. Kensington said. With the ruts and rocks in the road, his interrupted words sounded as if he had the hiccups. "This is a major route. Bandits and marauding Indians could lurk behind every bush."

  The only other woman on the stagecoach gasped.

  Surely he's being overly dramatic.

  The stagecoach rocked to a halt before Rika could ask.

  Her backside rejoiced when she climbed off the stage and stretched her cra
mped legs.

  Just a few minutes later, they were on the road again with six fresh horses.

  Silence settled over the travelers. Sleep was impossible on the swaying coach, though.

  Rika took the bundle of letters out of her coat pocket and smoothed her finger over the carefully knotted ribbon that held Jo's treasures together. Jo and Phineas Sharpe had been corresponding for six months, and now Rika held half a dozen letters on her lap.

  She undid the knot and slipped the first letter from its envelope. A newspaper advertisement landed in her hands, and she lifted it to her eyes to read the printed text despite the coach's swaying.

  A good-natured, hardworking fellow of twenty-five years, six foot height, is heartily tired of bachelor life and desires the acquaintance of some maiden or widow lady not over twenty-five. She must be amiable, loving, and honest. Please respond to Phineas Sharpe, Hamilton Horse Farm, Baker Prairie, Oregon.

  Honest. The corners of Rika's mouth drooped as if she tasted something foul. Lying and pretending had always come easy to her. With a father like hers, she had ample practice.

  She stared at the advertisement. Ordering a bride through the mail... how strange. What kind of man advertises for a wife? But the answer was clear. Someone as desperate as you. She folded the advertisement and straightened her shoulders.

  This can't be worse than marrying Willem. She wanted a house and a secure position, and maybe Jo was right. Few women ever got a house of their own without marrying.

  She studied the artful pen strokes on the letter and read some of the sentences. Phineas Sharpe was a simple ranch hand, yet his words had a poetic beauty that surprised her.

  Deftly, she stuffed the letter into its envelope. She'd never allowed herself to be blinded by beauty. Beautiful words hadn't filled her siblings' stomachs when her father was too drunk to work, and they hadn't kept Mrs. Gillespie from putting her out on the street.

  When she bundled the letters, her glance fell on the dented tintype Jo had placed between two envelopes.

  The small, slightly out-of-focus image showed a blond man sitting stiffly with his hat on his knees. He craned his neck as if he was uncomfortable in his starched shirt, worn only for the occasion of having his image taken. His hair was parted on one side and his handlebar mustache neatly trimmed, probably from a recent visit to the barbershop.

  Rika had never cared much for mustaches.

  With every mile on the bumpy road to Oregon, her doubts grew. Had her desperate decision been foolish? If she found out Phineas Sharpe had misrepresented himself and was neither good-natured nor hardworking, what would she do? What if he discovered she was not the woman who had sent him the letters? Could she take the next stage out of town and go home?

  Rika shook her head. She had no home, not for a long time.

  No. There's no way around it. Rika would have to become Mrs. Phineas Sharpe and get used to a mustache.

  Hamilton Horse Ranch

  Baker Prairie, Oregon

  April 18, 1868

  "PHIN?" AMY SHOVED open the creaking door.

  Phin flinched and whirled around. His razor dangled from his fingers, and the scent of castile shaving soap filled the small cabin. "Damn it, Amy! If you keep coming in like this, I'm gonna kill myself one day." He wiped a drop of blood from his throat and turned back around. "Or your father will do the killing for me. A young, unmarried lady visiting a bachelor without a chaperone..."

  "You're our foreman. How else can we organize our workday if Papa or I don't come to talk to you?"

  Phin's blue eyes met hers in the mirror. "Talk about it over breakfast at the main house?"

  "With Mama there to try and get me out of the most interesting things? No, thanks."

  "Don't know why you bother," Phin said. "Your mama always knows what you're up to anyway. Your parents never keep secrets from each other."

  Yes, because they have nothing to hide. Unlike me.

  She pushed the unwelcome thought aside and fiddled with the edges of a saddle blanket hanging over a chair. "Besides, most people would say I'm not a lady." Not that she cared. If it meant being like the young women in town, Amy wanted no part of being a lady.

  "I'd give anyone who said that to my face a good thrashing." Phin's jaw clenched beneath the shaving soap. Then his expression softened. "You better learn to knock or meet me at the main house anyhow. I'm not gonna be a bachelor for much longer."

  "What? You're joking, right?" To her knowledge, Phin wasn't courting anyone. She rode stirrup to stirrup with him every day. She would know if he had a sweetheart somewhere.

  He turned toward her, and Amy sensed that he was blushing under the thick layer of shaving soap. Wordlessly, he pointed at the table against one wall.

  Amy pivoted. Her fingertips slid over the burned corner of the table where she and her younger sister, Nattie, had toppled over the kerosene lamp years ago, when they fought over something Amy couldn't remember. Traces of flour still lingered in the fine grain of the wood, remnants of countless apple pies Mama had made for Papa when they had lived in the cabin, their first home in Oregon.

  Amidst the childhood memories was something new. A stack of letters. On top, the tintype of a young woman looked back at Amy.

  She frowned. "Who's that?"

  "My future wife." Phin's chest swelled like that of a rooster.

  "You're really getting hitched?" She gave the image on the table a curt nod. "To her?" It wasn't that she was jealous. Not like that. Phin was like a brother to her. She just didn't like the thought of him moving away or another woman invading her home.

  "To her," Phin said. "Johanna Bruggeman. Ain't she pretty?"

  She was. Her enchanting smile dazzled Amy even in its black-and-white form. But pretty or not, would she fit in at the ranch? Amy looked around the small cabin. "Papa says the cabin isn't fit for a woman to live in. Not that I think so, but she looks like the kind who'd agree. Didn't you ever wonder why none of the ranch hands has a wife?"

  "They're too ugly?"

  They broke out in laughter, but it didn't last long.

  Amy pressed her fingertips to the table's familiar contours. "You're leaving, aren't you?"

  "I can't be a foreman forever," Phin said. "I like working for the Hamilton outfit, but I want to have my own place someday. Your father promised to set me up with a few acres of land and some horses."

  It was true, and Phin had earned it, but she still bit her lip at the thought of him leaving. Papa would hire a new foreman, and for Amy, the struggle to be accepted and not sent away to the kitchen would begin anew.

  "Hey," Phin said. "Why the long face? I'll still be your friend. Seeing how Johanna doesn't know a soul 'round here, she's going to need a maid-of-honor for the wedding. Would you do us the honor?"

  Amy slapped her hips. "What's with you and everybody else wanting to see me six inches deep in petticoats?"

  Phin eyed her as he would a stubborn filly. "Maybe you should think about getting married too."

  Not that topic again. It was why Amy hadn't been in town for weeks. The whispers and glances made her feel like the only unmarried twenty-year-old on the face of earth. "Where did you meet her?" she asked instead of answering. "She new in town?"

  Shaving soap dripped onto Phin's shirt, and he wiped it away. Then he found a few more spatters that needed his attention.

  "Phin?"

  "I haven't exactly met her yet."

  "What do you mean?" She eyed him suspiciously.

  Phin drew in air as if he were about to face a lynch mob. "I put an advert in three fancy eastern papers, and I got an answer from a young lady in Boston."

  "You advertised for a wife?" Amy had heard of that but never understood it. What kind of self-respecting woman would sell herself to a complete stranger? "You're kidding."

  His gaze veered away from hers. "I knew you'd think it tomfoolery, but you gotta understand. There's nary an unwed woman in town and none who'd have me, so..."

  "There are a few
."

  Phin snorted. "Yeah, the likes of Ella Williams and Fanny Henderson. No, thanks."

  "So you thought you'd just order yourself a woman from the catalog, like you'd order a new saddle?"

  "What's a feller to do if he's aimin' to marry? Since you won't have me."

  His grin was contagious. Amy could never stay angry with her friend for long. "So... Johanna Bruggeman." She risked another quick glance at the picture of the smiling woman. "Is that a German name?"