Calder Brand - Janet Dailey Page 0,14
her face and pinned up her hair. She wanted to look presentable when she met her great-uncle in Denver. He had her photograph, and she had his—a studio portrait of a distinguished, silver-haired gentleman in a gray suit. They should have no trouble recognizing each other.
On this short final leg of her journey, there was more to see—ranches and farms, small towns and stockyards, wagons, coaches, and buggies on the roads. Sarah’s pulse quickened as the train sped through the outskirts of the city and headed into the bustling heart of Denver.
Because the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe ran through her hometown, she’d been able to board the train there. Before that, Sarah had never even been away from home, not even as far as Kansas City. Denver, with its crowded streets and sidewalks, seemingly endless blocks of dwellings and businesses, and its constant barrage of sights, smells, and sounds, was a thrilling new world, where everything seemed to be fashioned on a grand scale.
The most imposing structure of all was the railroad station. On approach, it appeared vast enough to cover a large field, its walls rising skyward and topped by an ornate cupola on the roof. Inside, the cavernous space dwarfed the trains and the people who swarmed the platforms like bees in a hive.
Clutching her carpetbag, she stepped down from the car. She’d hoped that her uncle Harlan would be waiting to meet her. But as her eyes scanned the crowded platform, there was no sign of the gentleman in the photo she carried. Maybe he was still looking for her.
Finding an open spot where she could be seen from more than one direction, Sarah rested the heavy carpetbag against her legs and stood still. Surely, at any moment, Dr. Harlan Blake would come rushing along, apologizing for making her wait.
Minutes passed, then half an hour. Between the hot sun on the roof and the steam and fire from the trains, the air inside the depot was stifling. Sarah could feel the sweaty dampness under her clothes. Her feet felt like swollen lumps in her boots. Maybe Uncle Harlan was waiting for her somewhere else. Wherever he was, it wasn’t here. She needed to move.
Lugging the heavy carpetbag, she wove her way through the crowd. Nobody paid her any heed as she sank onto a bench, too tired to go another step.
What could have happened to him?
What would she do if he didn’t show up?
Uncle Harlan had mailed her the train ticket to Denver along with ten dollars for food. But he’d planned to buy their tickets to Ogallala when they left here together. If she couldn’t find him, the only safe option would be to get to Ogallala on her own.
In her head, she counted the money remaining in the small purse she kept pinned inside the pocket of her dress. Between the lunch she’d shared with Joe Dollarhide in Dodge and the breakfast she’d bought in Pueblo, she’d spent a little more than three dollars. Would the money she had left be enough for the ticket she needed?
What would she do if it wasn’t?
The railroad line that would take her from Denver to Ogallala was the Chicago and North Western. Lugging the heavy carpetbag, she trudged along the line of ticket windows, looking for the right one while she continued to watch for her uncle. She’d been tempted to wait for him a little longer. But if he didn’t come, and waiting caused her to miss the next train, she could be stranded here all night.
The people she passed paid her little attention. If Sarah had been less tired and less worried, she might have enjoyed the colorful parade around her—wealthy women in stylish summer traveling ensembles, cowboys fresh off the cattle drive, businessmen wearing suits and hats and carrying leather briefcases, ragged boys with shoeshine boxes, nannies with baby carriages, and Chinese porters laden with baggage. The air rang with the sounds of hissing steam and train whistles, the shouts of conductors urging all passengers to board, and the newsboys’ cries of “Denver Po-AY-OST” as they hawked their papers up and down the platform.
Sarah passed a vendor with a tray of sandwiches. By now her stomach was growling with hunger, but she knew better than to spend another cent before knowing how much her ticket would cost.
At last she spotted the ticket window for the Chicago and North Western. Clutching the carpetbag in her aching arms, she took her place at the end of