Ripples Along the Shore (10 page)

As Caroline approached the front steps, she studied the crowd looking for Maren. “Pastor Munson.” Rutherford Wainwright’s voice caused her to turn toward the wagon lot. Maren was standing beside her husband, her arm looped through his. Gabi held her other hand.

“This is our friend, Mrs. Caroline Milburn.”

Caroline smiled.

“Welcome to the meeting of our church, Mrs. Milburn. I’m pleased you chose to join us this morning.”

She was pleased too. “Thank you, Pastor.”

After their greetings, Caroline followed Rutherford and Maren through the arched foyer and into the narrow sanctuary. Rutherford paused beside a pew that was uncomfortably close to the front and motioned for her to step out of the aisle first.

Caroline obliged him. She picked up the book of Psalms and hymns before seating herself in the middle. She returned the smile of the girl she sat near, who was about Gilbert’s age, but left a space between them in case either of them needed a little elbowroom.

Maren scooted in to her left. When Gabi was settled between her and Rutherford, Maren faced Caroline. “What a pleasant Sunday surprise to see you here. I’m so glad you came.”

“I am too.” She meant it.

It was her own fault she’d been cooped up. Except for the quilting circle, which she’d only joined at Jewell’s insistence, she hadn’t had any outside involvements. She’d considered getting a job to supplement her army widow’s pension, but she’d not had the energy. She’d been despairing, looking for any cave to crawl into. Not all that different from Jack.

But today was a new day. Tinted light streamed in through the arched stained-glass windows lining the sides of the sanctuary. Caroline relaxed her back against the smooth oak, letting her hands rest on the Bible and songbook on her lap. She saw a few people she recognized from town, but no one she really knew. And most of the men were seated with women. Didn’t seem single men were able to get themselves to Christian meetinghouses. Phillip had stopped attending before he met her.

Caroline scolded herself for such a self-centered focus in the house of the Lord. She was here for a boon to her faith, not for a husband. A musical prelude returned her attention to the front. A generously proportioned woman sat at the piano while a more petite woman stood in front of a simple lectern with an open songbook. The pastor walked in from the back, his long black vestment billowing slightly, and ascended the curving stair to the pulpit to the left of the chancel.

“Alas! And Did My Saviour Bleed.” The woman’s voice was not petite. “Hymn 85.”

A memory of Aunt Inez’s off-key voice plucked at Caroline’s heart. This had been one of her aunt’s favorites. One she often sang at the clothesline.

Caroline rose with the congregation and joined in the singing, remembering.

Alas! And did my Saviour bleed, and did my Sovereign die?

Would He devote that sacred head for such a worm—

Before she could finish the refrain, Maren tapped her arm and motioned toward the aisle. Caroline followed Maren’s gaze, pressed her hand to the bench in front of her, and leaned forward. Garrett Cowlishaw stood beside Rutherford, offering her a small, close wave that weakened her knees. Leave it to Mr. Cowlishaw to challenge her conclusion about single men and church attendance.

She scooted her Bible down the bench and sidestepped toward the young lady to make room for Garrett, her elbowroom gone. She hadn’t seen him since the night he’d told her she couldn’t travel west, and she wasn’t too keen on seeing him now. Even in the house of the Lord.

Stepping out of the aisle, Garrett accepted the open songbook from Rutherford. His mind should’ve been on God, or the song and the singing. On anything but Caroline Milburn. When, at the last minute, he’d decided to finally darken the doors of a church again, he hadn’t considered she’d be here. Smiling.

Rutherford was right. Garrett was at the least fascinated by the Widow Milburn. And he really needed to get over it. He was leaving Saint Charles.

She was staying.

He set his hat on the bench. Facing the song leader, he mouthed the words, listening intently to the soprano standing on the other side of Maren.

Thus might I hide my blushing face while his dear Cross appears;

Dissolve my heart in thankfulness, and melt mine eyes to tears
.

But drops of grief can ne’er repay the debt of love I owe;

Here, Lord, I give myself away—’tis all that I can do
.

Caroline being a single woman wasn’t his only reason for not allowing her to join the caravan. How else was he to protect his heart??

Thirteen

D
ressed in a green cotton skirt and a shawl draping her shoulders, Caroline left the house on Wednesday morning a week later. Puffy white clouds formed uneven rows across the blue sky. A slight breeze teased the lace collar on her pleated shirtwaist. She couldn’t apply for a teaching job until spring, which she intended to do since it would no doubt take an act of God for Garrett Cowlishaw to change his mind about her joining the wagon train.

She needed to do something with her time and energy. Something besides finding fault with her brother-in-law and frustration with her sister’s plight. Since Maren wed and moved back to the farm, Johann Heinrich was short-handed at the Dry Goods and Grocery. Emilie was still trying to help her father despite her own new marriage and classes at Lindenwood, but she couldn’t keep up with the demand of all the westbound folks coming in with their lists for provisions. Clerking in the store was a job Caroline could do, and it would give her the income she needed to move into her own room at the ladies’ boardinghouse.

Although the day seemed warmer, sweet smoke from hundreds of fireplaces still scented the air. Deciding to take the long way around for a nice leisurely walk, Caroline strolled up the dirt path along the river. Her reticule swung at her side. Memories of her return to church two Sundays ago splayed across her mind. The sense of belonging. The music. The teaching. Garrett Cowlishaw’s warm smile. How could she stay mad at the man?

A shrill steam whistle broke through her thoughts, drawing her gaze to the river’s edge and the large side-wheeler docking there. The
New Era
.

Caroline stilled. Seemed fitting that the boat would return just as she was attempting to embark on a new era of her own.

Had Lewis G. Whibley made another round trip from Memphis?

He was obviously a man who embraced adventure and didn’t mind traveling. Perhaps he would consider a wagon caravan west an intriguing proposition. People had married for less noble reasons.

Caroline shook her head. Those were not the thoughts of a sensible woman. She’d met the man once. On a boat. He’d been the first to flatter her since she’d lost Phillip. That’s all. But even Mrs. Kamden had noticed the man’s attentions on that January day.

He’d told her he would welcome the day she agreed to run away with him. Even when she’d laughed and refused, he’d remained a gentleman, continuing to see to her every need on the boat. She would simply see if he was aboard. And what could it hurt to greet him if he was? A cordial greeting would afford her the opportunity to see if Mr. Whibley’s interest in her remained intact. After all, he knew she’d gotten off the boat in Saint Charles and was living here. Had he returned with the intention of finding her?

She chuckled. Her desperation for change had her fishing without sensible bait. More than two months had passed since their friendly encounter. A lot could’ve happened in that time.

Doubtful the man was even on the boat.

But despite her doubts and reservations, Caroline slipped the handle of her reticule over her arm and tugged her sleeves straight. She took careful steps toward the river. A week of
sunshine had done a good job of melting the snow and drying out the bank between town and the river, but it was a far cry from being without rocks and ridges.

The waterfront teemed with activity. Wagons lined the bank down to the freighter. Folks crowded around the lowered stage of the
New Era
. Since she wasn’t there to meet a loved one, Caroline moved to one side of the crowd and slowed her steps. Keeping watch for Lewis G. Whibley, she studied the passengers pouring off the deck. Couples disembarked. Women and children greeted husbands and fathers. Men came ashore dressed in fine suits—some in full military regalia. But no sight of a particularly dapper fellow in a white top hat and tails. When the crowd dissipated, Caroline approached the uniformed steward.

“Ma’am.” He raised a thick hand. “We won’t be boarding until tonight. Starts at eight o’clock for a ten o’clock departure.”

Caroline moistened her lips. “I apologize for the misunderstanding. I’m not a passenger.”

“I see.” His bushy eyebrows waggled. “What business do you have here?”

“I, uh, I’m here to see a Mr. Lewis G. Whibley. Is he aboard?”

“He is.” The man was as tall as he was square. “You his sister?”

“An acquaintance.” A very uncomfortable one.

“This way, ma’am.” He stepped aside, leaving room for her to enter through the louvered door. “Last I saw him, he was in the dining room.”

She waited just inside the door, then followed the square man down a corridor, past the door to the kitchen. The pungent aroma of smoked meat floated in the air, making her hungry for lunch and the adventure the riverboat promised.

Approaching an open door, Caroline recognized Mr. Whibley’s smooth baritone voice. Her escort halted his steps. So did she, listening.

“God created woman for man, not for widowhood.” Mr. Whibley paused, no doubt for emphasis. “The war is to blame for that injustice.”

Pressing her hand to her mouth to suppress a huff, Caroline took a quiet step into the dining room. Lewis G. Whibley sat at an intimate two-seat table, his back to her. His hand draped over that of a young woman with blond curls and exquisite lace framing her shoulders.

“A lovely woman such as yourself, Penelope Reinhart, should not for a moment have to suffer alone.”

To the letter, the exact words he’d sprinkled on her ears.

Setting the huff free, she marched toward the man. Of course he’d flattered her. That’s what he did. Apparently, that was his job. “You, sir, are a scoundrel and a scavenger.”

Rising to his feet, Lewis G. Whibley turned to face her, his movements characteristically calm and calculating. “Caroline.” He looked past her. “Where is your nurse?”

“My nurse? Ha! Mr. Whibley, you are a forager preying upon wounded women.”

He took quick but composed steps toward her. Cupping her elbow, he twirled her toward the door and spoke over his shoulder. “Please excuse me, Penelope. I must attend to my sister, lest she harm herself.”

His drivel numbed her ears as he escorted her past the steward, to the deck.

Garrett walked around the rig, looking at the new harness in the bed. Wasn’t a fancified prairie schooner like Kamden ordered, but Garrett’s new wagon suited him fine. At least it would, once Harry over at the Wagon House added bows and a canvas bonnet.

“I thought about checkin’ with you today but got lazy.” He shook Captain Pete’s hand. “Thanks for sending the messenger.”

Pete gave a wheel a good shake. “Long time gettin’ here, but it should take you to California right comfortably. Can’t do much about the other stuff that might get in your way, though.” He chuckled, showing holes where two teeth had gone missing. “You stocked up yet on ammunition and jerky?”

“I am.” Garrett shuffled the harness, picking up the collars and inspecting them. “Even have a poke of willow bark for staving off headaches.”

“Too many women goin’ along, are there?”

Garrett laughed, but his heart wasn’t in it. The one woman he cared about seeing on the journey was staying behind. Remembering his first encounter with Caroline Milburn this year, he glanced upstream at the
New Era
he’d seen making waves minutes ago.

He yanked his hat off his head. Blinked feverishly. Couldn’t be her. Feeling gut-punched, he looked at Pete, then nodded toward the passenger boat. “You see a redhead there on the deck?”