Separate Roads (16 page)

Jordana shook her head. “It’s a good thing that doesn’t happen to be a public fashion, or all the women of Omaha might well find themselves victims of your ardor.”

“Not all the women, Jordana, just you.”

“Stop calling me by my name. We aren’t engaged or even courting. I refuse to be
handled
by you or anyone else.”

She turned to busy herself at her desk but quickly found that Damon was not put off. Coming up from behind her, he took hold of her shoulders and pulled her back against him. “I love you, Jordana. I won’t be put off.”

Jordana felt once again an air of something threatening in his tone. She stood stiff and still, not wishing to do anything that might encourage his behavior, but also doing nothing to anger him.

“You must know that I’m a wealthy man,” he continued. “I can give you anything your heart desires. I’ll build you a wonderful home, take you to Europe every year, and provide you the most marvelous gowns money can buy. Can’t you see I adore you?”

Jordana bit her lip and wondered what she could say. Her mind flooded with angry retorts, but something warned her that this was not the smart way to handle this particular situation.

“Mr. Chittenden, I’m flattered,” she began slowly. She stepped forward slowly, hoping he wouldn’t restrain her. He didn’t. She walked around the desk to put the length of it between them, then turned to face him. “I’m sorry if you see me as being unreasonable, but I’m not of a mind to settle down with anyone. I wish I could make you understand.”

Damon leaned back against the teller counter and crossed his arms. Jordana had to admit he looked very nice in his navy blue suit and silk waistcoat. If she were just a different kind of woman, she might have truly been honored to be so ardently sought after.

“I never meant to upset you,” he said softly.

She watched him study her for a moment, as if trying to make up his mind what to do next. He seemed quite perplexed at one point, and so she offered him a weak smile. “I know you didn’t mean to take liberties. I do forgive you, but in return I would very much appreciate it if you would just allow us both to put the matter aside.”

The clock bonged out the hour, causing Damon to take his eyes from Jordana. He grabbed for his pocket watch to confirm the time. “I have a meeting in my office in just a few moments.” He glanced out the front window. “Yes, there are my colleagues even now.” He quickly pocketed his watch and smiled. “I suppose I shall just have to be patient and wait for you to change your mind.”

Jordana didn’t know what to say and so said nothing. Damon didn’t even seem to notice—not her silence, nor her rejection. She had simply never met a man so persistent, so impervious to rebuffs. It was almost as if he truly had not heard her. What could one do with a man like that?

Damon quickly became preoccupied with the situation at hand. “We’re having an important meeting, and I’m not to be disturbed.”

“But I didn’t see your father come in,” Jordana commented, knowing that all of the meetings in the past had included Hezekiah as well as his son. “Should I send him to you when he arrives?”

“Father won’t be in attendance. He’s taking care of some long-standing business at the capitol.”

Jordana nodded as three well-dressed men filed into the bank. One of the men Jordana recognized as a Union Pacific official. She had seen him with Brenton once but could not recall his name. The other was Terrance Clayton, a local financier like the Chittendens. The third man was unfamiliar but, though well dressed, had the look of a man more accustomed to dark alleys than respectable banks.

Damon, quickly forgetting his and Jordana’s recent conversation and his romantic intentions, turned his attention to the men at hand and all but ignored Jordana.

“Ah, gentlemen, welcome.”

An hour later, the men were still working behind closed doors in Damon’s office. Jordana’s curiosity was aroused when Damon’s voice bellowed out in anger, “I don’t care what the old man says, we can make this work!”

Glad that no one else happened to be in the bank at that precise moment, Jordana moved from behind her desk and tiptoed down the hall to Damon’s office. The door was firmly shut, but the voices carried through the thin wood.

“Old Homer Stanley has had that land for some time, Chittenden. It’s going to be difficult to persuade him to just sell out.”

“But without it, we can’t proceed with Mr. Florence’s hotel, now can we?” The voice belonged to Damon, but the ominous tone was like nothing Jordana had ever heard from him.

“If you can assure us of getting that property, Chittenden, I will do what I can to guarantee the railroad’s position. It might seem a bit farther south than the original surveys had planned for, but you leave that to me.”

“It would mean a great deal of money,” Damon announced, “for all of us. The hotel and the railroad would make a fortune. Look at the number of people passing through this town already. And they only have a steamer or ferry to bring them across the Missouri. Once the Union Pacific is in place, complete with bridges across the river, we’ll be a prosperous city to rival the likes of St. Louis and Chicago.”

The front door of the bank opened, and Jordana hurried back to her teller window. She smiled at the widowed Mrs. Shoemaker.

“Come to make a deposit?” Jordana asked, knowing full well that this was exactly why the woman had come. She could have planned a calendar by the old woman.

Having set up one of the nicer boardinghouses in town, Mrs. Shoemaker collected her rents on Monday morning at precisely seven o’clock. By nine-fifteen she was standing before Jordana’s window, money in hand.

The old woman handed the cash to Jordana. “I’m full up again,” she announced. “Had a couple of men take my last room just this morning.”

Jordana smiled and recorded the money in her ledger. “I would imagine they heard about your wonderful pies. Next thing we know, they’ll be coming to church to enjoy the socials.”

Mrs. Shoemaker laughed. “You do go on, deary. But because you’re so sweet, I brought you a treat.”

This, too, was the routine. Jordana beamed her a smile and sniffed the air. “Fresh muffins? Cookies?”

The old woman brought up a basket and plopped it down on the counter. “Raisin bread.”

“Oh, that’s my brother’s favorite,” she declared, then added, “and I’m pretty partial to it as well.”

“I knew you were. I saw both of you gobbling it up at the dinner last week.”

Jordana nodded. “Nobody can come close to outdoing your cooking, Mrs. Shoemaker.”

“I’m planning on you and your brother to sit with me at the church dinner. Bring that sister-in-law of yours, too.”

“I don’t even know if Brenton and I will be there,” Jordana replied, remembering Brenton’s anger.

“Why is that? Are you fretting over what old Mrs. Phipps said about seeing you riding without your sidesaddle?”

Jordana blushed but shook her head. “I know I’m always scandalizing the citizens of Omaha for one reason or another. I don’t know why some of those ladies get so riled. I had two pairs of woolen bloomers under that dress and enough skirt to cover it all good and proper.”

Mrs. Shoemaker laughed. “I imagine they’re just jealous.”

“Maybe so, but they give my brother cause to complain.”

“Oh, there’s always someone complaining about something. I wouldn’t worry over it for long.”

After the old woman chatted about the affairs of her boardinghouse, she departed just as the clock struck nine-thirty. Jordana busied herself with paper work at her teller window and nearly forgot about Damon and his meeting until she heard Damon’s voice again. This time she knew the door must be open because the sound of his voice was sharp and clear—and rather chilling, too.

“I’ll take care of it!” he growled.

“Just remember that we—” began one of the other men.

“Quiet, you fool! We need not speak on the matter again. I have it in hand,” Damon said. Then in another moment, he appeared in the main part of the bank with his three companions in tow.

“Until next week, then,” Damon told them as he opened the front door.

When the men had gone, he closed the door and headed back as if to go to his office. His face was a taut mask, or perhaps she was glimpsing him before he’d had a chance to don his usual mask. The thought sent a chill down Jordana’s spine. The contrast between the man she’d just heard in his office and now saw and the one she had known previously was quite pronounced.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Chittenden?” she asked. “Was there a problem with your meeting?”

The mask now jerked quickly into place. A smile slipped across his face. “Just banking business. Nothing to worry your pretty little head about.”

“But I’m in the banking business. In fact, you told me I was a very important part of this bank’s business.”

“That you are,” Damon replied. “We’ve had a great deal more business these last months, thanks to your wit and charm with the men of Omaha. At first I thought Father had gone positively daft hiring you, but you have proved to be a most valuable asset to this organization.”

Jordana rankled at the tone he took with her. He sounded like a father figure soothing and reassuring his child. “So if that’s the case,” she pressed, “why can’t you tell me about the meeting?”

He grinned. “Why can’t you say yes to marriage?”

She crossed her arms and stood her ground. “Because I’m not ready to marry just yet.”

“And I, my sweet Jordana, am not ready to divulge the purpose of my meeting.” He turned to go, then called back over his shoulder, “Just yet.”

There had been a glint in his eyes that made Jordana shudder. “I’m being silly,” she convinced herself. “Some men, perhaps most men, deal with business matters far differently than they deal with women.”

If Damon was upset about something and he didn’t want to talk about it, then it wasn’t her place to pry. She certainly wanted no more involvement with the man than necessary. And after today’s display, she wasn’t sure she even wanted that much. She didn’t care if men generally behaved that way. It seemed rather two-faced to her.

14

Caitlan finished dusting the front parlor, mindful to ensure that not a single speck of dirt remained to mar the beauty of Hazel Cavendish’s collections. The woman had traveled extensively in her youth, and now as she neared sixty, the collections were prominently displayed as constant reminders of her glorious days abroad.

Caitlan found herself fascinated by the pieces. Sometimes they were not at all the expensive pieces of crystal or porcelain that she had seen in other homes of wealth, but instead were strange pieces of bric-a-brac crudely fashioned from wood or stone. Mrs. Cavendish had grown up the daughter of missionaries—a hearty stock who took it upon themselves to visit the darkest reaches of Africa and beyond. Why, they’d even gone to Australia.

Caitlan had heard a few of the stories. Near-death experiences from snakebites or native uprisings. Strange new tastes and smells originating in native cooking so very foreign to Hazel and her parents.

Caitlan stopped and reached up to wipe a bit of dust away from an oil painting of Mrs. Cavendish as a teenager. The woman had been quite striking—her skin beautifully smooth and clear, her cheeks rosy with color, and her eyes bright, almost mischievous in their glint.

“I was only fifteen when that painting was commissioned,” the woman said, coming into the parlor. “We were living in India at the time. It was completed just before I came down sick. Eventually, Mama sent me to Aunt Louise in Liverpool. It was there I made a rather poor recovery from the aftereffects of malaria and smallpox.”

Caitlan looked at the short, softly rounded woman. Her face still showed the scars of smallpox. Her once beautiful skin was pitted and shallow, never again recapturing its youthful glow—or so Caitlan deduced.

“And were ya very sick, ma’am?” Caitlan asked lamely.

Mrs. Cavendish smiled and took her ease on a lovely oak and brocade settee near the front window. “I thought I would die. My folks thought so too. I still have times when the malaria hits me, and all I can do is take to my bed.”

Caitlan nodded and went back to ensuring that the painting stood free of dirt. She felt a bit uneasy with her new arrangement, and Hazel Cavendish seemed to sense the same.