Once the men were gathered, Pengra said, “We have good transportation between Oregon and California. At least by sea. We still need better roads south to Sacramento and San Francisco. But equally important are connections from Oregon to the East. Boise is the first stop.”
“The folks back East are too busy with the War to worry about Oregon,” another investor said. “But the War will end. The South can’t stand much longer. Then people will pour into our state.”
Mac wasn’t as optimistic as these men that the War would be over soon. But eventually it would end, and settlers would flock west again. Indian tribes and emigrants would continue to fight over the land, and someone would need to police them both. “A military road?” he asked. “Is that the idea?”
Pengra nodded. “That would be its primary use. At least at first. And that’s what we’re surveying this year.”
Another man chimed in. “But over time, our road should become the rail bed between here and Boise, and from there all the way to St. Louis. There will be a transcontinental railroad within the decade. I’d bet money on it. In fact, by building this road we are betting money on it.”
“But the transcontinental railroad is starting in San Francisco and Sacramento, not Oregon,” Mac said.
“We want another railroad east from Oregon,” the railroad proponent replied.
“That’s not likely,” Mac said. “California is far larger than Oregon now. The first route is already determined.”
“Then we’ll have to demand a rail connection soon after,” another investor said. “That’s how we’ll make our money—from federal land grants along the track lines.”
“And how do we recoup our monies if the railroad never comes?” Mac asked. “If the road never develops into a rail bed?”
“Tolls, perhaps,” Pengra said. “But we truly believe the railroad will arrive at some point. Are you with us?” he asked Mac.
Mac nodded. “I’ll invest. But in phases. I’ll help with the surveying costs this year. But that’s all I can commit to now.”
“That’s all we’re planning at the moment,” Pengra said, smiling. But Mac knew the man hoped for more.
Chapter 16: Quiet Before the Storm
Will tried to keep to himself in the days after Mac brought him home. He had to interact with his younger siblings—he supposed they were his siblings, or at least his half-siblings. Cal still pestered Will daily, and Nate followed Cal’s lead. Lottie and Eliza and little Maggie clung to him, wanting piggyback rides and stories. It all felt normal, and yet he felt like a stranger.
Will escaped the bustling household by visiting Jonah whenever he could. It was mid-April, and the air had finally warmed. Farm work kept Daniel, Jonah, and Sammy busy all day, and they welcomed Will’s help.
The first time Will joined them after he’d run away, Jonah questioned him about why he’d left home. “Leave Will be,” Daniel ordered. Will wondered what Daniel knew about his past, but he didn’t ask. He didn’t want Jonah to know any of it—Jonah would look differently at Will, and his friend might also think poorly of Mama.
Whatever happened, Will needed to protect Mama. She’d been through too much already for his sake. She must not have wanted him to be born, at least not at first, though he didn’t doubt she loved him now. He tried not to think about how he’d come to exist. He tried to work and work, to exhaust himself each day, so he could sleep at night.
One evening, Will found himself alone with Maria in the kitchen. She washed dishes after supper, and he volunteered to dry for her. If he stayed in the kitchen, the other children wouldn’t badger him—they’d already hightailed it upstairs to avoid doing any chores.
“Are you all right, Will?” Maria asked as she handed him a wet plate.
“What do you mean?” He swirled a towel over the plate, then set it on the table.
“I heard everything that man said.” She handed him another plate. “And I talked to Mama afterward.”
“Did she tell you?” he whispered. “About the three men.”
Maria nodded.
“Any of them could have been my father,” Will murmured. “Any of them. They were all wicked, and one of them is my father.”
“It doesn’t matter, Will. You’re still the same boy—”
“But I’m not,” he exclaimed. “I don’t feel the same. I don’t feel like me.”
“It doesn’t matter about those men,” she insisted. “Pa raised you and me both. Neither of us is his, and I’m not your mama’s either. But they’re our parents.”
“Don’t you ever feel like a stranger?”
She waved a soapy hand around the room. “This is all I know. This is what made me.”
Will grunted in response. How could she believe it didn’t matter who her parents were? Her mother had been a prostitute and part Indian. Neither Mama nor Mac were her parents—though Will sometimes wondered whether Mac was in fact her father.
Then it dawned on him. Even if Mac was Maria’s father, he wasn’t Will’s. He and Maria had no common blood—both their mothers and their fathers were different. She was no more his sister than Cordelia Abercrombie or Meg Bingham.
He would have to think about what that meant to him.
The next morning after breakfast, Jenny carried a load of clean dishes from the kitchen into the dining room to put away. As she set them down on the table to open the cupboard door, a sharp pain sliced through her belly.
The baby! She immediately worried about another miscarriage. But the pain only came once. After that, she merely felt a slight tenderness across her lower abdomen.
It must not be serious. She’d borne most of her babies with no problems. In the course of eight pregnancies, she’d experienced every symptom possible, she told herself, and she’d only had one miscarriage. This pregnancy would go fine, she was sure.
But she took her time lifting the plates into the hutch, no more than two at a time.
