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He arched an elegant eyebrow. “Is that what makes you so hesitant? My dear Miss Copley, we would not be having this conversation if I had not seen enough to know they are not. However, should your sketches prove to be less than I anticipate, I will send you a cordial letter thanking you for your time and you will not hear from me again.” He smiled. “Simple.”
And potentially devastating. She toyed with her spoon, saying nothing. Mr. McAvoy leaned forward. “Really, Miss Copley,” he said gently, “what do you have to lose?”
NINE
It took two more days for the train from Chicago to reach Santa Fe. Ellen felt as if she’d been traveling forever, and even the elegant charms of the sumptuous Pullman Palace Car had begun to lose their appeal.
By the time the train rolled into the Santa Fe depot, the track had been winding its way through rocky gorges, crossing perilous chasms on narrow iron bridges, with Ellen’s nose fairly pressed to the glass all the while. She’d never seen such sights—an endless blue sky stretching above the canyons and arroyos of a sculpted landscape, frightening in its strange and yet beautiful barrenness.
The depot was impressive in its own way, yet completely different from Chicago’s palatial Union Station. Made of adobe with brick archways and Spanish roof tiles, it made Ellen feel as if she’d left the United States entirely.
As she stepped off the train, the crisp, dry mountain air hit her in full force, seeming to suck the breath from her very lungs.
There were few people getting off the train, and even fewer on the platform, yet she still didn’t recognize Da. She looked around nervously, aware of how strange a place this was and how far from home she had traveled.
She’d sent a telegram informing Da of her arrival, yet who knew if he’d received it? What on earth would she do here, if he didn’t come? This was far worse than being left at the little station on Amherst Island, or even in Seaton.
“Ellen?” The uncertainty in the Scots’ brogue had Ellen turning. A man stood before her, a man she’d passed over in her search for Da. A man, she saw now with a lurch of her heart, who was her father.
“Hello, Da.”
He looked at her in wonder, and then took a shuffling step forward as if he wanted to embrace her but was afraid to reach out and touch her.
Ellen moved as well, putting her arms around him. He was thinner, stooped, his hair gray under his greasy cap, his jaw flecked with white stubble.
“You’ve changed,” he said in a voice choked with emotion as they stepped back from each other. “I’ve never seen you so fine.”
Ellen inclined her head, unable to put into words that her father had changed as well. Of course, she should have expected him to be older, grayer. But she had not anticipated how worn and work-weary he would seem, as if the joy of life had been sucked right out of him. There was no sparkle in his eyes, no spring to his step. He had become an old man, and he was not yet fifty.
Ellen remembered their hopes from the ship, the house they would build, the life they would lead together, the dog and the garden, and swallowed past the lump of regret in her throat.
“I’ll take you home,” Da said with a shy little smile. “It’s not much, but it’s mine. For now, anyway.” He bobbed his head and reached for her valise, although Ellen was afraid it might be too heavy for him. “We’re together now, Ellen. It’ll be good for us.”
She nodded mutely, wondering how this place could ever be home, how this man could be her home. He was a stranger, as much as the elegant Henry McAvoy had been.
Da shouldered her valise as they stepped out onto Front Street. All of the buildings in Santa Fe were similar to the depot, built in the Spanish mission-style with mud bricks and terra-cotta roof tiles.
“You’ll like it here,” Da said with a bit of his old confidence as they walked along the wooden platform that served as a sidewalk. “There’s nowhere with cleaner air or better living, I warrant you.”
Ellen nodded again. With his gaunt face and stooped shoulders her father did not look as if he’d had enough good living, to her eyes.
“I wanted to get a cab for you,” he admitted sheepishly, “or at least a mule. But these are hard times for everyone.”
“There’s no need,” Ellen said swiftly. “I can pay my own expenses while I’m here.”
“I won’t have that.” Her father straightened, fire flashing in his faded eyes. “I know I paid little enough for your keep over the years. I never thought things could be so dear.” He looked away, embarrassed, and Ellen’s heart ached.
After a few more minutes of walking, the sharp mountain air searing her lungs, they reached a row of mud-brick shanties huddled against the rail line, the bleak shape of the mesas jutting against a crystalline sky in the distance.
“Here we are,” Da announced cheerfully, and ducked into one of the squat buildings.
Ellen blinked as she adjusted to the dim light of the hut. The dwelling comprised two rooms, crude windows cut into the mud brick walls with waxed paper nailed across. The floors were made of packed earth and covered with bright but threadbare woven rugs, and she saw a pot-bellied stove in one corner. The only other furniture was a table with two stools, and in the back a cot with some woven blankets thrown over it.
It was, she thought sadly, poorer than anything they’d had in Springburn.
“It’s not much, I know,” Da said, “but it’s home. I’ll make us some tea.” He picked up a tin kettle and went out to the communal pump for water.
Ellen sank onto a stool and pressed her fists to her eyes. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but not this, the pitiful remnants of the life Da had carved out for himself from this harsh and unforgiving land.
