Ida, is that you?”
Her heart racing, Ida spun around and stared into the ashen face of her father. “Father! Why are you here? You’re supposed to—” She stared at the knot on his forehead. Other than that, he didn’t look injured, but she’d never seen him so agitated. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, but you have to help me, daughter.”
Where was Aunt Alma? What were they doing on this train? By this time, her sisters had gone to meet them at the Midland Terminal depot.
“Is it Aunt Alma? Is she hurt?”
Father frowned as if her question confused him and shook his hatless head. “No. I can’t find Cherise.”
“Cherise? Who—”
“She came with me from Paris. I’d gone into the lavatory. I never should have left her side. We have to find her.”
He’d brought a woman with him to Cripple Creek?
Ida followed her father back to the farthest passenger car. She’d never seen him move this fast. Nor had she seen him this uneasy. Not since the night her mother succumbed to pneumonia. This woman who had accompanied him from France couldn’t be as important to him as their mother, could she?
Her father darted around a cluster of people, shouting the name Cherise . In pursuit, Ida picked up her skirts. Harlan Sinclair wasn’t much for corresponding, but he had sent a handful of letters over the past two years. Not once had he mentioned having met a woman named Cherise.
But then during the past several months his only communication had been a brief telegram stating the date and time of his arrival on the Midland Terminal Railroad. Not on the Florence and Cripple Creek Railroad. Nor had he mentioned a guest. Hattie had been the one to tell her Father had telephoned the boardinghouse and asked for two rooms. That meant he and this Cherise weren’tmarried, at least not yet. Since he hadn’t said for whom he’d reserved the second room, Hattie had assumed the guest was Aunt Alma.
Prior to today, Ida would’ve chosen the word logical as an adjective befitting her father. Now he raced toward a fallen train car, pushing people aside like a madman.
“Father!”
He stopped just short of the tipped car and faced her. “I’ve searched everywhere else.” He pressed his palm to the side of his head as if it pained him.
He wasn’t all right. Morgan needed to look at him. Ida stared at her father while she listened for sounds in the car. She didn’t hear any noises coming from inside. “I’m sure others have searched the car.”
“I wasn’t with her. She could’ve been hurt … buried by baggage and overlooked.” He pressed his right foot to a frame rail and looked at her. He’d aged. The laugh lines that once framed his blue eyes had been replaced by worry lines. He clamped onto a brake line and started to pull himself up the exposed underside of the car.
“Your head hurts. You shouldn’t be doing that.” Sighing, Ida pushed up the sleeves of her linsey-woolsey dress. “I’ll go in and look for her.”
He stepped down, his shoulders sagging. “Thank you.”
She decided to attack the end of the car, hoping the door could be opened. She checked the laces on her boots, then tucked the ruffled hem of her skirt into her stockings and started climbing. Using the pickets as ladder steps, she made her way up the railing, muttering to herself.
This Cherise must have been very important to Father, because there hadn’t been so much as an embrace before he put her to work. He’d left Portland in April of ’96. Ida hadn’t seen him in two years and five months. A “glad-to-see-you” would’ve been nice.
The door was open. As gently as possible, Ida lowered herself into the car. Crouching on the lavatory door, she peered into the clutter. The bolted seats stood on end, looking like rows of vacant confessionals. Carpet bags, boxes,and other personal belongings lay strewn on the windows now facing the ground. Light streamed in through the windows that now served as a ceiling. Ida
Her heart racing, Ida spun around and stared into the ashen face of her father. “Father! Why are you here? You’re supposed to—” She stared at the knot on his forehead. Other than that, he didn’t look injured, but she’d never seen him so agitated. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, but you have to help me, daughter.”
Where was Aunt Alma? What were they doing on this train? By this time, her sisters had gone to meet them at the Midland Terminal depot.
“Is it Aunt Alma? Is she hurt?”
Father frowned as if her question confused him and shook his hatless head. “No. I can’t find Cherise.”
“Cherise? Who—”
“She came with me from Paris. I’d gone into the lavatory. I never should have left her side. We have to find her.”
He’d brought a woman with him to Cripple Creek?
Ida followed her father back to the farthest passenger car. She’d never seen him move this fast. Nor had she seen him this uneasy. Not since the night her mother succumbed to pneumonia. This woman who had accompanied him from France couldn’t be as important to him as their mother, could she?
Her father darted around a cluster of people, shouting the name Cherise . In pursuit, Ida picked up her skirts. Harlan Sinclair wasn’t much for corresponding, but he had sent a handful of letters over the past two years. Not once had he mentioned having met a woman named Cherise.
But then during the past several months his only communication had been a brief telegram stating the date and time of his arrival on the Midland Terminal Railroad. Not on the Florence and Cripple Creek Railroad. Nor had he mentioned a guest. Hattie had been the one to tell her Father had telephoned the boardinghouse and asked for two rooms. That meant he and this Cherise weren’tmarried, at least not yet. Since he hadn’t said for whom he’d reserved the second room, Hattie had assumed the guest was Aunt Alma.
Prior to today, Ida would’ve chosen the word logical as an adjective befitting her father. Now he raced toward a fallen train car, pushing people aside like a madman.
“Father!”
He stopped just short of the tipped car and faced her. “I’ve searched everywhere else.” He pressed his palm to the side of his head as if it pained him.
He wasn’t all right. Morgan needed to look at him. Ida stared at her father while she listened for sounds in the car. She didn’t hear any noises coming from inside. “I’m sure others have searched the car.”
“I wasn’t with her. She could’ve been hurt … buried by baggage and overlooked.” He pressed his right foot to a frame rail and looked at her. He’d aged. The laugh lines that once framed his blue eyes had been replaced by worry lines. He clamped onto a brake line and started to pull himself up the exposed underside of the car.
“Your head hurts. You shouldn’t be doing that.” Sighing, Ida pushed up the sleeves of her linsey-woolsey dress. “I’ll go in and look for her.”
He stepped down, his shoulders sagging. “Thank you.”
She decided to attack the end of the car, hoping the door could be opened. She checked the laces on her boots, then tucked the ruffled hem of her skirt into her stockings and started climbing. Using the pickets as ladder steps, she made her way up the railing, muttering to herself.
This Cherise must have been very important to Father, because there hadn’t been so much as an embrace before he put her to work. He’d left Portland in April of ’96. Ida hadn’t seen him in two years and five months. A “glad-to-see-you” would’ve been nice.
The door was open. As gently as possible, Ida lowered herself into the car. Crouching on the lavatory door, she peered into the clutter. The bolted seats stood on end, looking like rows of vacant confessionals. Carpet bags, boxes,and other personal belongings lay strewn on the windows now facing the ground. Light streamed in through the windows that now served as a ceiling. Ida
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