CHAPTER ELEVEN

JOURNEYS

Tiny beads of sweat trickled down her slender neck, slinked beneath the sheer fabric of her chemisette, and gathered between her ample breasts. Her delicate wrist ached, and as she flapped her white-lace fan back and forth she questioned the futility of continuing its use in the sweltering heat of summer. Although she'd remembered to slip her small, square, muslin pillow between her back and the rigid stage seat, every bump and thud of the rolling wheels brought a twinge or throb to her sore muscles. She'd left the stage at every opportunity, stretching her legs and easing the discomfort in her back, but her ankles remained swollen in the scorching August heat and she longed to remove her feet from the confinement of her best pair of dress boots. Her discomfort, though genuine, paled in comparison to the apprehension coursing through her veins.

She'd traveled such a great distance only once before at the care-free age of six. Her father, a well-known and equally well-to-do lawyer, had become fascinated by tales of the new frontier and the way of life in the big cities of the west. Having made the decision to leave his successful Philadelphia law practice behind, he, along with his wife and young daughter, had made the journey from Pennsylvania to San Francisco, California. Her memories of their passage across the country were pleasant, having spent a day here and a week there as they passed through desolate, fledgling towns and fascinating boom towns as well. Her father and mother had seen to it that she was occupied for as much of the journey as possible, regaling her with tales of the pioneers who'd carved out the trails they were now fortunate to follow. They'd brought onto the stage her favorite books and her best slate and writing chalk, and although their arrival in San Francisco had left her wide-eyed and animated, she'd often dreamed of being back onboard the stage, traveling to some new, distant place. That fascination with the stagecoach and travel had ended when she was just twelve years old.

The autumn rains had cooled the air in the city and transformed the dusty streets and walkways into muddy, puddle-covered thoroughfares. Her father, busy as always with the negotiations and formal trials of the mining companies he represented, gave due diligence to his desire to spend evenings with his wife and daughter. On one such evening, while reading near the warmth of the raging fire in their large, two-story home, she'd heard her father's footsteps as he climbed the stairs to the front porch, stomped the excess mud and dirt from his boots, and jiggled the door latch. Her book slid from her hands and onto the floor with a thud as she jumped up and rushed to the door to greet her returning father. That evening their embrace, routine, yet always heartfelt, left her confused. Her father clung to her, and her mother, who would always rush into the room asking, "Is there room for me in the middle of that hug?" stood silently, in the doorway to the kitchen, staring at her husband's grim face.

Moments later, the reason had been revealed. While in town that day, her father had received a telegram from a minister in Santa Rosa notifying them of the grave condition of her mother's aunt. The decision was made by her parents that a sensitive young lady of twelve should not be exposed to the anguish of death, and by morning, her mother was on the stage heading toward Santa Rosa. The farewell at the stage depot that day had been difficult, but her father had assured her that her mother would return as soon as possible, and that upon her return, they should do their utmost to treat her with care.

That was the last time she saw her mother, and the news of the stage, of how the wheels slid and wobbled in the thick, mud-washed hillside, sending the coach toppling over and over as it rolled down the knoll, had haunted her ever since.

And so, several days earlier, at the age of twenty-eight, she'd stood next to her luggage at the depot in San Francisco, awaiting the arrival and imminent departure of the stage coach that would transport her on her journey to the Nevada Territory town of Virginia City.

"Twenty miles to Virginia City, ma'am!" the driver shouted, barely able to be heard over the rickety sounds of the rushing stage.

"Thank you, Mister Curtis!" she yelled, clearing her throat after the unladylike manner in which she'd replied to his requested announcement. Truth be told, her heart had skipped a beat at the realization that her destination was upon her, and the rush of adrenaline had caused her face to flush and her pulse to race. "Calm down, Amanda!" she thought. "No good can possibly come from raising your blood to a boil over your arrival in Virginia City! There'll be plenty of time for that once you've checked into the hotel and prepared yourself for . . . for . . . Oh, gracious!" She reached for the canteen that had been stored next to one of her suitcases on the empty seat directly across from hers. She unscrewed the cap and after helping herself to a sufficient amount of water, she reached for her crocheted bag, pulled on the drawstring and removed a small item wrapped in a neatly embroidered handkerchief. She unfolded the pristine white cloth and gently tore a bite-sized piece from the biscuit inside. After three more similarly sized bites, she removed the pillow from behind her back and placed it instead behind her neck and head. Despite the rocking and pitching of the stagecoach, she was able to rest her head against the pillow, closing her eyes and repeating the exercise of deep inhaling and gentle exhaling until her heart slowed its rapid pace. In her respite, she berated herself for once again allowing her anxieties and doubts to give cause for worry, and she vowed that, indeed, she would find the resolve to carry out what she'd months ago deemed to be the 'right thing to do.'