Love Blooms in Winter Page 4

  Harvey turned to look over his shoulder on his way out of the office. “What’s the joke? Is someone messin’ with your mind, Tom?” The boy flashed a grin.

  Tom reached for the envelope and read the return address. “Mae Wilkey. Oh, dear. My sweet senile aunt or cousin must be worse.”

  Lifting a shoulder, Harvey said, “Didn’t know you had an aunt or cousin. Hope she’s feeling better real soon.”

  Sobering, Tom said, “That’s just it, Harv. I don’t have one.”

  Shrugging, the mail clerk moved on and Tom took out the single sheet.

  Dear Mr. Curtis,

  I am writing again in hopes that somehow my letter of last month failed to reach you. I am searching for Pauline Wilson’s family. She is upwards in years and failing. I help all that I can, but I am unable to do enough to provide her with daily needs. If you are Pauline’s kin, I would deeply appreciate your immediate attention to this weighty matter. She needs her family, and I am quite certain you would want to help in this dire time.

  Warmest regards,

  Mae Wilkey

  He pitched the letter on the desk. The pranksters were taking this too far. Cousin. Aunt—he’d know if he had an aunt in Dwadlo.

  “Tom?”

  He glanced up to see Clive Letterman in his doorway, president of C&NW Railroad. Tom pushed back from his desk and stood up.

  “Keep your seat,” Letterman said as he entered the office and sat down.

  Tom did the same. Clive Letterman had been with the line since Tom went to work for the railroad in ’76. He worked well with Clive, even serving as his confidant many a time. Every seven to ten years C&NW set up a new town site, and track was now being laid in Brookings, Minnesota. Tom didn’t care for Minnesota weather in the winter. Too cold and too damp. He hoped Clive wasn’t sending him there.

  “How’s the Brookings project coming along?” Letterman asked.

  “Good. We signed the final papers yesterday. The new line should be up and running in a year.”

  “That’s excellent.”

  Maybe Tom wouldn’t be headed for Minnesota after all. He had one question he still needed an answer to. “Got a name yet?”

  Often a town was named or renamed for a railroad tycoon. Tom wouldn’t be surprised if Brookings would be called “Letterman.” Or, more likely, Clive would want to name it after one of his daughters, Grace or Marylyn.

  “The town’s name will remain Brookings. Marylyn wants a line closer to Savannah, and my dear Grace doesn’t care a duck’s feather about having a line named after her.”

  Tom smiled. He’d watched both daughters grow up and preferred Marylyn’s spunkiness.

  Letterman turned thoughtful. “Every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the state is vying for land rights now. I’m glad we had the foresight to buy early.”

  “There’s still plenty of land left. I purchased five plots last week. Other routes will open to us soon.” Tom grinned. “I saw the new poster.”

  “Which one is that?”

  “The one advertising thirty acres of prime land in North Dakota—simply there for a man’s taking.”

  “And we have the means to get them to it. We have immigrants coming from Europe. And they’re coming with no money. Just the hope of owning their own piece of land. What if I tout the fact that the Dakotas have the best wetlands, best farming land, and best grazing land in the world, and they are free to all? An adult man can have a hundred and sixty acres. Single women can stake a claim. Think of it, Tom. The railways are going to break wide open. Why, if a man doesn’t want land, he can make a tree claim. Imagine that. Agree to plant ten acres of trees and keep them alive for eight years, and you’re a landowner. The more people come, the more lines we open. With every new town settlers spread out, and then there’s need for more towns, more track.”

  Chuckling, Tom marveled at the man’s enthusiasm. Years of haggling with stubborn landowners, traveling long distances from home, derailments, and inept employees had somewhat dampened his own spirit, but the railroad was in his blood too.

  Letterman pushed back to leave. “I’ll see you later. I have a ten o’clock meeting.”

  Mae Wilkey’s letter sat on the desk, its message drilling through Tom’s mind. “She needs her family, and I am quite certain you would want to help in this dire time.”

  What if it wasn’t a joke? The men knew he would eventually tell them to knock it off. It was very unlikely Pauline was his relative. This Mae Wilkey had the right to ask for his help if the elderly woman was family, but for the life of him he couldn’t place her. If she wasn’t someone from his mother’s side, he had no idea who she was. Yet something gnawed at him about this situation, and he couldn’t completely dismiss the matter. Heaving a mental sigh, he pushed the missive back. This wasn’t going to stop until he checked into the matter. But heads would roll if this proved to be a wild goose chase.

  “Clive?”

  Letterman turned on his way out the door.

  “I need a few days of personal leave time.” He’d catch the Morganton line and take a few days to visit this Pauline. Perhaps they might discover a family connection. If she could prove that she was kin—then what? He personally couldn’t assume her care. He was a single man living in a boardinghouse and working fourteen hours a day. How could he be responsible for an elderly woman?

  “Got big plans?”

  “Family matters. I shouldn’t be gone but a few days.”

  His boss nodded. “Take all the time you need.” He stepped back in the office and closed the door, lowering his voice. “I didn’t want to mention this yet, but if you’re going to be gone this week you’ll miss the announcement.”

  “There’s going to be an announcement?”

  Letterman shrugged. “Nothing big. I just thought you might want to know that we’ve filled Horner’s position.”

  “Sure.” Tom’s stomach tightened. He might have wanted the upper management job, but he hadn’t applied for it. He liked what he did, and the last thing he needed was more headaches—not with the Populists raising cane. The railroads were thought to be part of the big business establishment, Republican and conservative, and only out to make a buck. The Populist movement was seen as liberal, reformist, and heroically trying to harness and control the railroads in the name of the people. Lately the matter was getting out of hand, and he’d welcome some help. “It’s been a long time coming.”

  Earl Horner had suffered a heart attack six months earlier. His coworkers found him slumped over his desk. The man was overworked, and the constant haranguing over freight costs vs. profit was getting on everyone’s nerves. Losing Earl had left a huge gap in the office staff and put important jobs on hold. “Who got it? Green?”

  “Not Green. A younger man.”

  “Sanderson?” Even as he asked, Tom shook his head. Sanderson didn’t know a railroad tie from a ball bat. Though he was well educated, graduating top of his class at Harvard, he was sadly lacking in common sense. Still, Tom thought he could work with him. He’d miss Horner’s calm demeanor and sound judgment, but he was traveling most of the time anyway.

  “There was some talk about Sanderson. He was close.”

  Tom tensed. “You can’t be serious.”

  Letterman just smiled.

  “It can’t be Warton! You’re giving Warton the promotion? He hasn’t been here but a couple of years. He’s still wet behind the ears!”

  “True,” Letterman conceded. “Actually, Tom, there wasn’t a lot of debate about who would take Earl’s place. Yours was the first and the last name considered.”

  Tom felt a silly grin break across his face. “Me? I didn’t even apply for the job.”

  “No, but you’re the only man who can fill it.” Letterman smiled warmly and reached to shake his hand. “Welcome to a passel of more headaches, Mr. Curtis.”

  Tom pumped his hand, still grinning. He’d been kidding himself. He had wanted the job. A promotion like this meant more money, benefits, and credentials,
but he hadn’t pursued it because he feared he would be passed over in favor of a college graduate. His youthful mistake to leave formal schooling early came back to haunt him. When he was fourteen, he thought he had enough knowledge to conquer the world. “Thanks, Clive. I appreciate it.”

  His boss held up a restraining hand. “Make that Mr. Letterman.” Another quick grin. “Next promotion and I’ll be out the front door.”

  Overwhelmed, Tom shook his head. “I never hoped to get the position.” He lifted his gaze. “I won’t forget this.”

  “Forget what? I didn’t give you the job, Tom. You earned it. There’s a big difference.”

  Six

  January 1893

  A shrill whistle shattered the air when the train pulled into the Dwadlo depot on an early Sunday morning. The track ran behind the town, with the back doors of businesses lined up in a row. The General Store sign stood out on the top of its building. Rubbing a clean spot on the dirty window, Tom studied the old station, faintly recalling the structure. It must have been one of the first depots in this part of North Dakota.

  Travelers waited on the plank platform as the train pulled in and released a big plume of steam. Something clicked in Tom’s mind when he stepped off the train and spotted the muddy sinkhole that contained the platform. An inch of half frozen water stood from melted snow. The ground sloped, and a thick row of bare-limbed oaks blocked the track’s progression. This was the end of the line.

  He’d been here before. Bursting with certainty, he gripped his satchel and waded through the crowd as though an anchor had dropped from around his neck. Nothing except the setting rang a faint bell, but he was certain it looked familiar. The Wilkey woman might be right. He must have visited Dwadlo when he was a boy.

  Tom stopped for a moment to search for the stationmaster, finally spotting his cap in the small ticket office. When he had pushed past the emerging travelers, his gaze skimmed the run-down station and he winced. This depot needed renovation. He made a mental note to telegraph Jay Morgan about the matter immediately. The C&NW prided itself on having the cleanest route on line. After all, the company had a reputation to uphold.

  The clerk glanced up as Tom approached the ticket cage. Showing his railroad credentials, he said, “Tom Curtis.” The man’s jaw dropped, and he nervously shuffled papers, smiling a friendly welcome.

  “Mr. Curtis! What an honor! Ain’t often that Dwadlo gets a big official passing through town.”

  “I’m happy to be here,” Tom said with a friendly smile of his own. “Can you direct me to Mae Wilkey’s place?”

  “Mae?” The clerk’s own smile brightened. “Why, she’s in church at this hour, sir. It’s across the street, three doors down.”

  “Thanks.” Tom pulled up his collar to protect his neck from the icy chill in the air and exited the building. He frowned when his boot hit a warped board. He should have asked if there was a telegraph office nearby.

  Tolling church bells met Tom’s ears a half hour later. Thankful the sun was shining enough to keep most of the chill off, he sat on a bench outside of the General Store thinking back. It had been years since he’d attended a service. He didn’t like the feeling the recollection caused. God had given him everything he had and he was thankful. He just didn’t take the time to officially tell Him so as often as he should.

  Glancing at the church, he saw that the doors were still shut. He got up to peer through the storefront window. The building was like a thousand others offering food, material, and sundries. His gaze focused on a table of men’s shirts, and he grinned when he spotted a green one. Green was his favorite color. Visions of his earliest memories flashed through his mind. It was his fifth Christmas. He’d been given a shirt like the one he’d seen in the town mercantile.

  Ma made the family’s clothing, but the exact material he wanted couldn’t be ordered, so at great sacrifice his father purchased the store-made shirt using Ma’s egg money. It still hung in his closet. Tom planned to give it to his son someday, if he ever found a woman he could truly love.

  He glanced again toward the church and saw that the congregation was starting to file out. He watched folks appear, trying to spot a familiar face. Men, women, and children emerged. One lady had to be assisted down the six narrow steps that led up to the entry.

  Pauline Wilson?

  Seconds later an even older woman came through the doorway, alert, dressed in black, and carrying an umbrella. She skimmed down the stairs like a woman fifteen years younger. He studied her weathered features and decided she didn’t have one Curtis feature. She certainly didn’t favor his mother’s side either. The Hollands were all stout people of German ancestry. For a second, memories of Grandma’s kitchen and the smell of potato cakes sizzling in a hot iron skillet on the woodstove played havoc with his stomach.

  A young woman and a teenage boy emerged. He tried to guess which one of the several men chatting at the foot of the stairs was her husband. The tall farmer with aristocratic features? Or possibly the man dressed in a red-and-green striped silk vest and dark suit? Tom mentally shook off the thought. He doubted any woman in her right mind would waste her time on that dandy. His gaze switched back to the doorway as an older couple started down the steps. No. Pauline didn’t have anyone to care for her, especially not a doting husband. Three chattering boys came out of the building and nearly fell, they were laughing so hard. Shortly after, the pastor emerged, turning to lock the door. Pushing off the bench, Tom approached the tall, painfully lean man.

  Straightening from his task, he started when he saw Tom and then put a hand over his heart. “I’m sorry, sir, but you gave me quite a fright!”

  “No, please. I’m sorry to have startled you.” Tom smiled warmly as he extended his hand. “Name’s Tom Curtis, and I’m looking for Mae Wilkey. I don’t know if she’s a Miss or Mrs.”

  “Mae?” The gentleman’s gaze roamed the now empty churchyard. “She was here a moment ago.”

  “Oh?” Tom turned to follow his gaze. Disappearing buggies met his efforts.

  The man smiled. “I’m just filling in for the pastor this morning. He has a touch of dyspepsia.” He straightened his vest. “Which reminds me, I must be getting on home. The missus will have dinner on the table, and she hates it when I’m late. Mae is probably already home. Jeremy has a big appetite, and he loves his Sunday fried chicken.”

  Jeremy. So it was “Mrs.” A play by Thomas Morton came to mind: Speed the Plough or something like that. There was a character by the name of “Mrs. Grundy”—a lady with a prudish personality. He’d only read the play because his teacher had made him, but this Mae Wilkey sounded like her. He bet she looked like her too. Nose in the air. Straitlaced. Priggish.

  “I’m sure she will welcome you inside so you can get out of the chill, and she’ll have plenty on her table to share.” The man pointed down the road. “She lives in that white house with the blue shutters.”

  Tom couldn’t miss it. The buildings and houses were built so close you could spit on the neighborhood. Nodding, the pastor stepped back to let Tom precede him down the steps. Sunday fried chicken. Right about now, if he were home, he’d be sitting down to a plate piled high with his favorite meat at the boardinghouse.

  Instead, he was in Dwadlo, North Dakota, looking for possible kin. The idea still didn’t make a lick of sense.

  Tom thanked the man and set off down the road. Smells of pot roast, fried chicken, and fresh coffee lingered in the mild air. Everything in Dwadlo was shut tighter than a tick burrowed in. The local café’s “Closed” sign hung in the window in observance of the Lord’s Day.

  He counted the houses as he walked. He couldn’t remember ever being in a smaller town, and the homes had been built within a couple hundred feet of the train depot. He thought with all the available land that folks would have spread out a bit.

  Everything appeared to be tiny in comparison to Chicago dwellings. One house on the left had a large shed or some sort of outbuilding that sat near the ba
ck of the lot. The sound of rushing water met his ears, and he figured a river sat behind the house. Dogs and cats milled about the yard.

  Tom focused on the house with the blue shutters. This must be the place, from what the pastor said. Resentment crowded him before he rejected the feeling. He should thank Mrs. Wilkey instead of begrudging her. If this Pauline Wilson was family who needed him, he would want to know and be of help, but the letter had come out of nowhere, and he was having a hard time accepting the news. Exactly what could he possibly do? He couldn’t move her into his boardinghouse.

  Even if he left there and found a bigger place, Pauline would be alone almost every day in Chicago. It was a shame that someone in the area didn’t start a home for aging people who were unable to care for themselves. In his travels he’d seen such establishments starting to spring up in Florida, Wisconsin, and Illinois.

  Before he reached the house, a dog spotted him and bound out into the street, barking. Others followed. Backing away, Tom said, “Git!”

  Three of the larger dogs took turns jumping up and planting dirty paws on the front of his shirt. Wet tongues lapped at him while small dogs tangled around his feet, yipping. Memories of being bitten when he was a boy flooded his mind and sudden fear gripped him. Stumbling, his satchel went flying, spilling its contents. He fell to the ground in a sea of fur, unable to fight off the animals. “Git! Git!”

  Barks and yelps grew and the animals turned aggressive, latching onto the hem of his heavy coat. More dogs joined the fray. He was amazed they were only biting his clothing and not his flesh. Turning his back, he tried to push the animals off him. When that failed, he shouted louder. “Get off me!” The scuffle seemed to go on forever before he heard a sharp whistle.

  The assault immediately stopped and the animals trotted off. Stunned, Tom lay on the ground, head spinning. His right hand felt the tears in his coat. He finally shifted his gaze to see the source of his rescue.

  A young woman with the warmest brown eyes he had ever seen loomed above him—if a five-foot woman could loom above anything. She wore a long black cloak and huddled against the cutting wind. She spoke softly with concern on her pretty face.