Ticket to Tomorrow, page 15
part #1 of A Fair to Remember Series
Mrs. Trenton's lips twisted. "You don't care about my son at all. You're only after the money you think you'll make from this."
Will's father's face darkened like a thundercloud. "Isn't that just what I've said all along?"
Mrs. Trenton wept into her handkerchief. "It isn't enough you deprive us of our son. Now you want to keep everything of his for yourself."
Annie stared at the sobbing woman. "Deprive you of him? Will made the choice to leave home and pursue his own ideas long before he ever met me."
Mrs. Trenton looked up, her eyes wild with grief. "But he never would have stayed away, if it hadn't been for you."
Annie shook her head, seeking a way to deny the outrageous statement. "I had nothing to do with his decision to stay in Indiana. I would have followed him to the ends of the earth." Her voice caught in her throat. "I loved Will. I only wanted what was best for him."
"Do you consider what happened to him the best thing for him?" Mrs. Trenton's voice rose to a shrill pitch. Her bosom heaved, and her eyes glittered. She lifted her arm and pointed her finger straight at Annie. "If he hadn't married you, my son would still be alive today. Have you ever thought of that?"
Annie rose from her chair and took a step backward.
Graham knelt by his mother and patted her arm. Mrs. Trenton pushed him away and staggered to her feet. "You call us thieves, but you're the one who stole my son."
Annie recoiled, as if from a physical blow. She stretched out her hands. "Please. This isn't what Will would have wanted."
Mrs. Trenton advanced, her fingers curving into claws. "How dare you tell me what my son would have wanted. Get out of my house. Get out!"
Annie stumbled backward and threw an imploring look at Mr. Trenton. He drew himself up to his full height and looked down at her, stony-faced. "My wife is right. You had better leave."
16
Nick strode through the back lot, crossing an area of the encampment seldom seen by spectators. He waved to a couple of stable hands who called out a greeting, then slipped through a narrow gap between two mountainous stacks of hay.
Alone, he hunkered down in the open space beyond. Only a few yards away, the constant activity necessary to keep the huge show going went on unabated.
Nick broke off a stem of grass protruding from the haystack and twirled it in his fingers. Now that he gained a reasonable degree of solitude, he found himself at a loss for what to do next. How did he go about reestablishing a relationship he had all but walked away from?
He broke the stem in half and tossed it away. Seth Howell had known exactly the right prescription for what ailed him. Now all he had to do was figure out how to go about it. He guessed Howell's insight came from being a minister, being in tune to people's needs.
No—he corrected that thought as soon as it entered his mind. Annie would have known, too. She probably wouldn't have had to think twice about it. It would have seemed the most natural thing in the world to her. But how to start?
Maybe the best thing would be to plunge right in and see what happened. He looked up at the hazy sky and cleared his throat. "It's been a long time, Lord. Too long..."
To his surprise, once he started talking, the floodgates seemed to open and the words flowed forth. Nick poured out his concerns, his doubts, his need for forgiveness. By the time he finished, he felt like he had finally found his way back home.
God had listened to Him. Nick knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt. No thunderbolts shook the heavens. He heard no mighty voice from on high. Yet he had an assurance that the Lord had heard him and would show him the right path to take, one step at a time.
He squeezed back through the haystacks and walked alongside one of the pens that held the show's horses. Amazing how much lighter he felt after sharing his concerns with the Almighty. Seth Howell had been right. It felt good to get those things out in the open and dealt with. And it was a relief to lay his worries about Uncle Silas in the Lord's hands. His uncle wasn't getting any younger, after all, and yesterday's attack could have been much more serious. Nick still didn't know what to do on that score, but he was convinced he could trust the Lord to come up with something.
And then there was the animosity he felt toward the guard Bridger. Nick flinched at the memory of the curt way he had spoken to the man the day before. Better watch that, he warned himself. The actions of the past were now forgiven, but he would need keep an eye on his attitude from here on, even if the guard did seem to turn up every time Nick was around Annie.
Annie. Nick felt as if sunlight had broken through the clouds when he remembered her smile of welcome when he came near, and the feel of her hand resting trustingly on his arm. And what of her reaction when she thought she'd seen someone watching her on the Wooded Island?
Nick leaned on the top fence rail and rubbed the nose of an inquisitive bay mare who came over to socialize. That look on Annie's face had been one of out-and-out fear. But was it fear of something real? That was the question.
Why would a total stranger follow Annie Trenton? She was lovely enough to attract attention anywhere she went, but it didn't make sense for a total stranger to take such pointed notice of her. She'd been adamant about it, though, insisting she had seen the same man again and again. But Nick wondered.
He had traveled on two continents, been in some of the biggest cities in the world. After a while, it became easy to start categorizing people by types rather than seeing them as individuals. He knew from experience how much people could start to resemble each other after a while. How many times had he seen someone in Europe who reminded him of his favorite grade school teacher?
The mare nosed at his vest pocket. "Sorry," Nick told her. "I'm afraid I don't have any sugar for you." He patted her on the neck, then turned and walked on, lost in his musings.
Annie, on the other hand, had spent her life in Indiana. Not exactly a backwater, but hardly a crossroads of humanity, either. He thought back to her description of the man—thin, with a narrow face, and wearing a slouch hat. How many men in Chicago would that fit? Dozens, probably. Maybe hundreds. And a good many of them would likely show up on the fairgrounds at some time or other. It would be easy for her to confuse several different men with similar features. That had to be the answer.
Nick pulled off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. Had Will Trenton realized what a lucky man he was? Women like Annie came along only once in a lifetime. Maybe not that often. He remembered how she looked when he came upon her, sitting on the bench and reading Will's Bible, holding it with such familiarity it seemed like an extension of herself. And in a way, it was. There was far more to Annie Trenton than mere outward beauty.
* * *
John James Frost checked his pocket watch for the third time in as many minutes. He snapped it shut with a decisive click and paced the narrow room, made even narrower by the presence of three other men, all watching him closely.
Burns stepped back out of his way. "They should be here any minute."
"They should be here now." Frost ground the words out. Late again. But why should he be surprised? The Cubans were always late.
Miller shrugged. "Maybe they're not coming."
Frost slammed his fist into his palm. "What's the matter with them? Do they think they can pull this off without our help?"
The dark-haired man in the corner stirred. "Calm yourself, my friend. They need us, but we do not need them. If necessary, everything can be set in motion without their help."
"True." Frost swung around to face him head on, hating the way the other man always placed himself in the shadows. Did he do so deliberately, to see without being seen? Frost wouldn't put it past him. "But a plan is only as strong as its weakest link, as you well know, Señor Díaz."
The Spaniard eyed him coolly, unruffled by his goading. "Are we sure the Cubans are our weakest link?"
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
Díaz stepped forward into the scant light afforded by the room's single window. "I refer to one small item that has gone astray." He paused long enough to let his meaning sink in. "Have you recovered your missing property?"
Frost felt his features harden into a stiff mask. "No. Not yet."
Díaz lifted one elegant eyebrow. "Then I suggest that you, and not the Cubans, may prove to be our greatest liability."
Frost scooped the inkwell off the desk and flung it against the wall. "Whose idea was this to begin with? There wouldn't be a plan without me."
"But you yourself have insisted from the first that no detail be overlooked." Díaz's voice flowed like syrup. "And so the question remains...where is it?"
It would be the work of only an instant to spring across the narrow space between them and close his hands around the man's throat, cut off his insolent words forever. Frost flexed his fingers and forced himself to relax. He could deal with Díaz later, if he chose to. Once he no longer needed him.
Burns shrugged, unmoved by the underlying current of emotions. "I still say the girl or the old man must have it."
Frost nodded slowly, bringing his anger back under control. "They have to know where it is, at least. They obviously haven't done anything with it, or we wouldn't be standing here today." But did they plan to do something? That was the question that haunted him.
Miller wagged his head. "The old man doesn't have it. We went through all his pockets when we roughed him up yesterday. And we know it isn't in their rooms."
Silence settled like the dust motes that hung in the air. The four men looked at each other. Díaz tapped his fingernails on the desk, a clicking sound that gated on Frost's nerves. "Then it seems obvious." Díaz spread his hands wide. "Señora Trenton must have it."
"So what if she does?" Burns shrugged. "She's just a woman. What's she going to do?"
Miller gave a harsh laugh. "You didn't have her dogging your heels. And she knew me, too. Recognized me right off. That is one smart lady. Look at the way she figured out where we were meeting the other day."
Díaz spoke again. "She is a very perceptive woman. I have seen that myself. She could pose a significant threat to our mission." He paused long enough for his words to sink in, then added, "If she is allowed to do so."
Burns's lips curled into crafty grin. "There's one sure way to make certain she won't talk."
"No." Frost slashed through the air with his hand. "That's one thing I won't consider. There are other options." If he didn't assert himself now and reestablish the fact that he was in command, the entire campaign could unravel before his eyes. He turned on his heel and pointed at Miller. "Thanks to you, we've already drawn the guards' attention. If she turns up dead, they might come asking questions."
He pulled out his pocket watch again. "Apparently, the Cubans have decided not to come." He nodded to Burns and Miller. "Go find them. Tell them we have made our arrangements. If they want to be a part of them, they need to get in touch with me. Now." The two left without argument.
Facing Díaz, he went on. "Our plan will go forward, with or without them. You take care of your end, and I'll see to the rest. You can be sure of it."
He watched the door close behind Díaz, then leaned his hands on the desk and bowed his head. No one appreciated the burden of command except for those who bore it. What was he going to do about the Cubans? They were turning out to be completely unreliable. Sometimes he got the feeling they were beginning to distrust him. Did they have some foolish notion of going off on their own, trying to start a rebellion without his help?
He made a noise deep in his throat. He couldn't let that happen. The plan was his. He would be the one to bring it to fruition, a gesture so staggering it would bring two great powers to blows and result in independence for the island nation. And assure him of enough wealth to last him all his days.
But if they tried to steal a march on him...
The thought plagued him like a boil. Could he count on them to do as they had agreed? Not for the first time, he regretted the necessity of bringing them into the venture. What were they, anyway, but a group of ragtag renegades? Men of their stripe could easily blunder. All it would take was a word in the wrong place and—
"No!" The shout reverberated in the tiny room. He would not let that happen. Failure was not an option.
* * *
"Are you sure this is what Will would have wanted?" Martha Trenton stared out the tall, narrow window.
Richard looked at his wife, then at the tranquil room with its masculine appointments. His study. His domain. Everything within view spoke of his authority and power. He tolerated no frills, nothing to distract him from the job at hand. He glanced back at Martha, and his lips tightened. The business world was no place for sentimentality.
"It doesn't matter. He wasn't thinking clearly—that much is obvious. He didn't know himself what he wanted." Richard ran his fingers along the edge of his vest lapel. "Will made the choice to turn away from us. He has to bear the consequences."
"But Will won't be the one who has to live with them, will he? He isn't here for you to punish anymore." His wife looked at him, her eyes deep pools of sadness.
"No, it will be that snippy upstart who'll have to pay the piper." The corners of his mouth drew down when he remembered how she stood up to him, the arrogant way she rebuffed his offer. "What was she thinking of, refusing to concede she is incapable of handling business affairs of that magnitude? Preposterous!" He punctuated the statement with a blow of his fist on the desk blotter.
"Did Will truly love her, do you think?"
Richard glared at his wife. "What difference does that make? He may have been besotted by her, but she obviously has no more business sense than any other woman. She's out of her mind if she doesn't recognize the fact that our family has the ability, the right to handle Will's affairs."
Martha stared at him a long moment as if seeing him for the first time. "Sometimes I wonder if you aren't more concerned with business than with losing your son." She left the room without a backward glance.
Richard clasped his hands behind his back and paced the floor. Physical activity had always proven a good means of letting off steam. So Martha believed him to be a cold fish who never thought about their son.
A foolish notion, that. A day never passed that he didn't think of Will. He lifted the silver-framed photo from his desk and stroked the glass. His lips twisted. What were you thinking of, Son, to leave us like that? To go off with that... that...
That what? The words he had used for the past few years to describe his son's wife no longer seemed appropriate now that he had seen her in the flesh and heard her voice.
Listening to the woman talk about Will, it was almost as though he could hear his son's voice again, see the bright smile that used to bring a glow to his heart and fill his soul with paternal pride. If he closed his eyes right now, he felt sure he would see Will as he used to be, with the wind ruffling his fair hair and excitement lighting his eyes.
He pressed his eyelids shut to test his theory, but saw nothing but a dim grayness. A swell of emotion tightened his throat until he could barely draw breath. What wouldn't he give to see his son again, talk to him one more time? Maybe this time he could convince him his destiny lay here in Chicago instead of chasing an engineering degree in the hinterlands of Purdue.
Or perhaps Will would do the convincing this time.
His eyes sprang open, and he felt a trace of moisture along his lower lids. If he had it all to do over again, would it be so bad to let Will go, knowing he was only a day's journey distant? A few hours away, instead of an eternity out of reach?
If only he could see him, touch him, talk to him again...
And if he could, then what? Even thinking about the possibility made his heart ache. What would Will say? If he had the chance to speak to his father one more time, what would his message be?
Take care of Annie.
The words came unbidden as clearly as if Will were in the room, speaking directly to him. Tears stung his eyes, and he stretched out his hand as if he could reach across the great divide and touch his son once more.
Take care of Annie. Could he do that? Perform this one last act of love for his son? Excitement seized him. Perhaps he could arrange to showcase the horseless carriage somehow, maybe put it on permanent exhibit in Chicago after the exposition ended in October.
His enthusiasm mounted. With enough exposure and financial backing, the carriage's commercial success would be assured. There would be income enough to satisfy them all, Annie included.
"Sir." Blevins stood in the doorway, a silver tray in his hands. "A message has just arrived."
Richard took the square envelope Blevins proffered and broke the seal. He scanned the missive quickly. An invitation to a reception Bertha Palmer planned to give for the visiting Spanish princess. Perfect.
According to Graham and Martha, the Spaniards were interested in the carriage as well. He could use this opportunity to spread the word about Will's grand invention right away, make the horseless carriage known to the most influential men in the city... and even beyond the borders of the country, given the international nature of this gathering.
He might even speak to the princess herself and make sure she knew him as the father of the great inventor, William Trenton.
As the father of a dreamer who threw away his heritage as the scion of one of Chicago's finest families.
He stretched out his hand again, this time to bolster himself against the door frame. What was he thinking? He had been about to admit—no, embrace—the fact that his son spent his short lifetime as little more than a grease-stained laborer.
He shook his head like a swimmer emerging from a deep pool. That woman must have cast a spell over him, to twist his thinking so. He looked at the invitation dangling from his fingers and shuddered at the thought of what an admission like that would mean.
