“I know you’ve done a lot for my grandfather, Alexei, and my mother’s people. You do a lot for the Tlingit and Inupiat and Athabaskans too, but they need more than you stepping in and starting an argument when they’re about to be taken advantage of. They need actual laws on their side, and who better to find a way for them to have those laws than someone who understands both ways of life?”
“They won’t let you speak your native language.” It was the first thing that came to mind, one of the largest objections he had to the boarding schools. Indian youths were forced to speak English, even if they didn’t know a word of it upon arrival. And they were treated cruelly each time they spoke in their native tongues.
But Inessa was only shaking her head at him, her long black hair shimmering beneath the lamplight. “English is my native language. We both know I’m more American than Aleut. Or maybe I’m more Russian. I don’t exactly know what I am, but I do know that my people need a voice, and I want to be that voice. Going to a boarding school is a good place to start, and if it helps you procure the governorship, then that’s even better.”
He swallowed. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure.”
“I don’t want to go to a boarding school.” Ilya scowled at his sister. “I think it’s a terrible idea.”
“It would be a terrible idea for you.” He wouldn’t send Ilya under any circumstances, no matter what Secretary Gray said about the country’s Indian policy and him being governor. But it might not be a terrible idea for Inessa. “Secretary Gray might not offer me the position of governor again. He hasn’t brought it up since that first night in the office, and I can’t in good conscience ask tribes to leave the land they’ve been hunting and fishing for centuries and move into towns. That leaves me in nearly the same place I was in last summer.”
“Can you find a middle ground?” Inessa leaned forward, her dark eyes shining. “Some way to compromise? Because if you don’t take the governorship, it will go to someone else who will want to exploit the native tribes all over again.”
“She’s right.” Mikhail rested his back against the chair. “You would do a better job as governor than anyone else. I think you should find a way to take the position, even if you have to do a few things that don’t align with your views. You’ll be able to do far more good as governor than you will as a business owner who’s always fighting with the governor.”
Alexei tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling, though the wooden beams gave nothing away. Could he find some type of compromise with Secretary Gray? Was there a way for him to be governor and do good for Alaska without having to pursue policies that would harm the native tribes?
It seemed like something he should at least think about.
39
Rosalind scanned the sun-bleached hills and golden fields as the buggy carried them farther and farther from town. The road curved gently between pastures edged with live oaks and barbed wire, while the wind stirred the tall grass. She’d never been to Texas before, but it seemed peaceful, like the type of place a person could come and enjoy the feel of sun on their face or lie down for a lazy nap beneath a tree.
They’d left the little town of Belton nearly twenty minutes ago. Yuri had rented a buggy from the livery after the stagecoach had arrived in town. But she hadn’t expected the Commonwealth to be this far outside of town.
“Don’t be nervous, Ros. I’ve exchanged several letters with Mrs. McWhirter. You’re going to like it here.” Yuri reached out and settled his hand over hers.
It was a simple touch, but it still felt entirely too nice. There’d been precious few touches on the train ride from Washington, DC, to Waco, and just as few on the stagecoach ride from Waco to Belton. It almost made her wish for the days when her ribs were so injured she could barely breathe. Yuri hadn’t thoughttwice about touching her then, but he was being much more circumspect about things now.
It wasn’t that Yuri had been cold toward her on the trip, exactly, but there was certainly a distance between them that hadn’t been there on their trip to Washington or during their stay in the city.
Which was ridiculous, because it shouldn’t be possible to miss a person she was constantly with.
Yet it seemed like the gulf between them widened with each passing day.
A windmill creaked up ahead, and a pair of cattle lifted their heads as the buggy rolled past. They passed a clothesline next, and Rosalind could see glimpses of a white clapboard house set back from the road. It was likely situated by a creek, given the trees and other vegetation that grew near it.
The driveway to the house soon came into view. She licked her lips. “Is this the Commonwealth?”
“Yes. What do you think?” Yuri nodded toward the house and field that spread beyond it.
She looked around. There were several women moving about the property. One was hauling a basket toward steps on the side of the house, another was tending a garden tucked neatly beside a low fence, and a third drew water from the well beneath the windmill. Children played in a patch of shade near the clapboard house, their laughter mingling with the cluck of chickens pecking in the dust.
Beyond the main house, more buildings came into view—long, low structures with tin roofs, a small barn, a shed, and a laundry yard strung with fresh linens fluttering in the sun. A series of fences framed everything from animal pens to fields.
Something about it still felt familiar, almost like this place was a memory she couldn’t quite catch. “It seems pleasant,” she finally answered. “Like a nice place to live.”
Yuri sent her a lopsided smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “See? I knew you’d like it.”
She did like it. She just wasn’t sure that she liked it more than she’d like spending her future with Yuri. But that wasn’t an option they had at the moment, and from everything she could see about the Commonwealth, it seemed like a wonderful place to live until her father was in prison.
Yuri slowed the buggy, and the front door to the house opened to reveal a portly woman with a wide smile.
“Miss Caldwell, is that you?”
“Mrs. McWhirter?”
