I check behind the bales to make sure there’s no one else stowing away. Even though I spent most of my time in the first-and second-class carriages as a child, I’d occasionally ridden in a boxcar to get back home. It’d only taken one encounter with a territorial hobo to show me I needed to check every inch of a car before bedding down. Being picked up and dumped out of a moving train was not a pleasant way to wake up.
After I’ve searched the car, I motion for Seth and Morris to come over. “This’n is empty. Hurry up, now.”
Morris turns to Seth. He whispers something in his ear, and then they hug for a long time. I swallow the lump in my throat, all the while nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers. We need to hurry. The loggers could show up for work at any time. Finally, they stop canoodling and amble toward the tracks. With the way he’s leaning on Seth, I can see Morris is still hurting bad. With any luck, this train will make a long run, and he won’t have to hop on another one for a while. We’re doing the best we can. The rest is up to Morris and fate.
Seth hands up Morris’s pack and then helps lift him onto the edge of the car. I take his good arm and try to pull him inside. “I got it, Gracie,” he says, waving me away. “I need to be able to do the rest on my own.”
Once he’s inside and hidden behind the hay bales, it’s time to say goodbye and I ain’t good with sentimental bullshit. “When you get to Montana, you better write to me.”
“How? They’ll see my name on the envelope.”
“You’re Seth’s cousin Myrtle, dummy. Remember?” Morris has never been the brightest bulb in the room, and that’s part of why I’m so worried.
“You take care of Caro and Granny for me, ’cause Lord knows Mama won’t.” Tears glisten at the corners of his eyes. “And Gracie, if they . . . If they catch me, I’ll be okay, hear?”
“Now, don’t start that. They won’t. Just use the sense God gave you.”
He laughs. “If there really is a God, He wasn’t too generous when it came to me.” Morris smiles sadly. “I know this ain’t easy. And I know what it cost you to do this for me. Thank you.”
I try not to think about anything other than Morris getting to Montana safe, working cattle with Seth’s pa. I can always make more money. But the feeling deep down in my gut, that scrapes at me like a rusted nail, tells me that after today, things are gonna get harder than they’ve ever been, and it’s real likely this is the last time I’ll ever see Morris. A tear snakes its way down my cheek, and I wipe it away, annoyed.
“Don’t cry, Gracie.”
But I already am, and then Morris is crying, too. There ain’t enough time or enough words to get to the heart of what we need to say to each other, so I give him an awkward half hug and stand to go. I glance at the sky, starting to lighten to a grayish pink above the ridge. “I love you, Morris Clyde. You take care of yourself, hear?”
Morris chokes on his words. “I love you, too, kid.”
Before it becomes too much, and I lose my resolve, I turn and hop out of the boxcar. Seth stands there, his arms crossed. “He gon’ be all right?”
“Yep,” I say. “He will. You will, too. You better get on home before the town wakes up, though.”
Seth nods and wipes at his eyes. “I’d give you a ride, but . . .” He shrugs.
“I know.” A white woman riding in his truck ain’t the kind of trouble Seth needs to borrow. “I could use the walk to stretch my legs. It’ll take some time to chew on things, I reckon.”
“I hear that.” Seth runs a hand over his hair and gets behind the wheel, his eyes wet at the rims. “Be careful, Gracie. Stick to the road. And I ain’t forgot about your star map. I’ll get it to you soon.”
“I’ll hold you to that. Tell your mama and them little sisters I said hi.” I wave him off, waiting until his taillights fade to two dim red eyes in the distance. I square my shoulders and head for home, ready to face whatever comes next, even if thinking about it scares me near out of my skin.
SIXTEEN
DEIRDRE
1881
Deirdre raised a tentative hand and knocked on Miss Munro’s office door. She’d done her best to make herself presentable—changed into her least wrinkled shirtwaist and her best walking skirt, though it had already seen far too many seasons.
A moment later, the headmistress answered. The only resemblance Miss Munro had to Hannah Bledsoe was the color of her hair, although her fallen-leaf auburn was streaked with wide bands of silver. She motioned Deirdre through and bade her sit before a wide desk bedecked with one of the new typewriters Deirdre had only ever seen in a catalog. She leaned forward to study the monstrous thing. Her fingers ached to touch it—to test out its keys.
Miss Munro cleared her throat. “Typewriting is taught on Wednesdays, Miss Werner.”
Deirdre sat up straight in the ladder-back chair and clasped her hands on the desk to still their shaking. The headmistress swept her skirts aside and sat across the desk from Deirdre, blinking at her over half-moon spectacles. “Do you know your letters?”
“Yes’m. I read the Bible every day, and I can even multiply and long-divide.”
Miss Munro pursed her lips. “Excellent. Some country people never learn how to read, so I must ask, you see. As a finishing school, we do not engage in remedial education. We read the poets and great works of literature here. A well-bred woman must be well read, I always say.”
Deirdre ducked her chin, not sure how she should respond.
“Miss Darrow showed you to your room, I take it? And you found Miss Buchanan welcoming?”
“Oh, yes.” Deirdre beamed at the mention of Esme.
“Very good.” Miss Munro extended a piece of paper. “This is the daily schedule for girls in your level—the senior cohort. We begin our mornings at seven o’clock, with a light breakfast in the main hall. After that, we do chores. Your level oversees cleaning and polishing the stairwell treads, risers, and banisters. Afternoons are for studies. You’ll see the classes listed. Miss Nancy Caruthers is captain of your cohort. I’ve arranged for her to sit next to you at dinner this evening.”
At the mention of dinner, Deirdre’s stomach growled. She took the schedule from the headmistress. As she examined the neatly typed list, Deirdre’s eyes swam. There were so many items on the page the letters moved over the paper like fleas on a white cat.
Miss Munro rose, the soft fabric of her day dress whispering against the edge of the desk. “Dinner is at eight o’clock every evening. You’ll hear the dressing gong ring at seven. You may retire to your room until then, and rest, as you’ve no doubt had a taxing journey.” She motioned Deirdre into the hall, where she fixed her with an unflinching gaze. “My niece has a caring, congenial nature. She’s explained your situation to me, Miss Werner, and I’m very sorry for your troubles, but I must warn you that we hold our girls to the highest standards. I’ve devoted my life’s work to turning out young women of character. The schedule is rigorous and there will be no tolerance for rule breakers. Your being here is a charity. Do you understand?”