by Jodi Thomas
“Shall I hit you?”
Startled, he looked up. “What?”
“Do you want another card?”
He blinked, having forgotten to look at his second card. Seven. “Yes.”
She flipped up a king.
Twenty-two. Damn. With a sigh, he turned his cards facedown and awaited her question.
“Are you a lawman?”
He reared back. “Why would you ask that?”
“Curiosity. It’s a woman’s prerogative, you know.”
“I thought changing your mind was your prerogative.”
“It was, until I changed my mind.”
A laugh burst out of him before he could stop it. Wit to go with that sharp intellect. The woman was a constant surprise. “No, I’m not a lawman.” Not precisely.
She stared at him, her gaze fixed on his mouth. He tried to guess what she was thinking, but then she cleared her throat and thrust the cards at him. “It’s late. I’m too weary to concentrate.”
Then how about you sit on my lap for a while? Of course, he didn’t actually say that. Instead, he glanced at the other passengers and was surprised to see that most were asleep. The conductor had come through after the stop in Kearney, turning down oil lamps and stoking the coal stove at the front of the car. But, judging by the chill, the fire had burned low. It was unsettling that he had let so much time slip away unnoticed.
“I enjoyed our game,” he said and meant it. Women rarely got the better of him, but this one certainly had. Seven hours in her company and he still knew almost nothing about her. Tomorrow—after he looked over the other passengers, especially the one with the mustache and gun—he would try to break through that cool reserve. They were still a long way from Salt Lake, and he needed a diversion. And what could be more diverting than a beautiful madam who liked to play games?
• • •
WHILE Mr. Whitmeyer turned down the oil lamp above their window, Rachel pulled the cape closer and, using her scarf as a pillow, sat back and closed her eyes.
It wouldn’t do. With nothing to brace against, her head flopped side to side with every sway of the railcar. With a hiss of irritation, she shifted sideways toward the window so that her shoulder and head rested against the back of the seat. Better.
Her seatmate remained upright, staring into the blackness beyond the window, one long, blunt finger idly running back and forth across his bottom lip.
A nice lip, she thought drowsily. And a nice smile. With a mouthful of unstained teeth, marred only by a small chip in the second on the right.
How long since she’d noticed a man’s mouth or been entranced by a smile? And Mr. Whitmeyer did have a lovely smile. That, and a way of looking at her that made her feel pretty and clever and desirable. Plus, he made her laugh. She hadn’t felt so lighthearted in a long time.
Too bad she couldn’t trust him. Trust was a liability in her profession since she rarely knew who was a threat and who was an ally. She couldn’t afford to let down her guard for a moment or waste time playing card games with handsome strangers and trying to tease stern-faced men into smiling. There was too much at stake to lose her concentration now.
But one thing was certain, she thought, stifling a yawn. She wasn’t having fun anymore. She needed a new purpose. One that didn’t keep her on the move all the time. She was lonely enough as it was. Her strong reaction to Mr. Whitmeyer had proven that.
• • •
RICHARD awoke with a start. He looked around, wondering what had roused him, then realized it was the silence and absence of motion. The train had stopped.
He peered through the window at a night lightened by a swirl of white. They must have been stopped for a while: Snow was already forming crescents on the lower half of the windows. Where were they?
Not North Platte. He vaguely remembered the train stopping there to add a second locomotive for the long climb up Sherman Hill. Had they reached the pass? He started to pull his watch from his vest pocket then realized he couldn’t move his arm. Looking down, he saw a tousled dark head on his elbow. He frowned, tried to focus his sluggish mind. Rachel James.
Tilting his head for a better look, he saw that her hat had slipped and was now trapped between his arm and her cheek.
Smashed flat. Like his. Served her right.
She had slumped down so far she was half reclining on the bench, using her folded hands on his bent arm as a pillow. Her face was practically in his lap. If only. The incongruity of it made him smile.
He gave her shoulder a gentle nudge. “Ma’am.”
No response.
“Mrs. James.” Nothing. Slipping his arm free so that her head rested against his side, he ran his hand down her back. Even through her cape, dress, and who knew what assortment of lingerie a madam or confidence woman might wear, he felt the warmth of her body. The scent of roses teased his senses. Emboldened, he drew his hand higher, the tips of his fingers brushing against the side of her breast.
That did the trick.
Lurching upright, she batted at the hat hanging in her face, finally yanking it free—along with most of the pins that had held it in her hair. “W-what’s happening? Why have we stopped?”
“I have no idea.”
She looked ridiculous, blinking at him like a doe caught in a sudden flash of light, her hair in disarray and one side of her face crisscrossed with marks left by the wrinkles in his coat sleeve.
Ridiculous, yet oddly appealing.
Other passengers awoke, muttering and peering out the frosted windows until the conductor came in, his hat and shoulders white with snow. “Everything’s fine, folks,” he called out. “We made the Sherman Hill summit, but we’re stuck in a snowslide. Cheyenne is sending locomotives with a Bucker plow and crew to dig us out. Until then, since it’s snowing hard, I suggest you stay on board. Unless,” he added with a hopeful look, “any of you want to help shovel the tracks so we can pull back into the siding? It might get us out of here sooner.”
Unwilling to spend the rest of the night waiting in the cold, Richard motioned for Mrs. James to turn her knees to the side so he could get past her.
“You’re going out there?”
Stepping into the aisle, he reached above her to rummage through his saddlebags on the overhead luggage rack. “I’m tired of sitting.” After retrieving a wrinkled duster, he pulled it on, buttoned it, then dug in the pockets for his gloves.
“Take this.” She thrust her scarf into his hands.
He stared at it, nonplussed. The filmy bit of cloth had the weight and consistency of a woman’s underthing. What was he supposed to do with it?
“I know it’s not much, but it might keep the wind from blowing off your hat.”
Ah. “Thanks.” He tied it over his Stetson then headed for the door, wondering if any of the other men would notice he wore a silk scarf and smelled like roses.
• • •
RACHEL waited until the door closed behind Mr. Whitmeyer, then stepped into the aisle. Rising on tiptoe, she lifted the flap on his saddlebag and ran her hand inside. Clothing, a penknife, a box of bullets, and a book. She pulled it out. The Deerslayer. No inscription. In the other bag, she found more clothing, toiletries, a tin of tooth powder, matches, and a stub of candle. No letters, no photographs, no mementos of a personal nature.
Not an acquisitive fellow, Mr. Whitmeyer.
Returning to her seat, she quickly straightened her hair and repinned her hat—minus the broken ostrich feather—then rose and walked toward the open platform at the rear of the car. When she pushed open the door, a blast of icy air almost sucked the breath from her lungs.
“Watch your step. It’s slick out here.” A man with a satchel hanging from his shoulder stepped into the dim light cast by the lamp over the door. Muttonchops, a bushy mustache, eyes that took everything in but gave nothing back.
“Hello, Harvey.”
“I’ve been waiting out here for an hour, Rachel.”
“I fell asleep.”
/> He muttered something then let out a deep breath that fogged the air between them. “So what have you found out?”
“His name is Richard Whitmeyer, he’s from Texas, he’s not a lawman, and he had business in Omaha City. I haven’t learned yet what that business was.”
“That’s it?”
“He’s definitely not a cardsharp, and I doubt he’s a bounty hunter.”
“You doubt?” More muttering.
She had never felt comfortable around Harvey King. He had his uses and knew his business, but he was also volatile, officious, and prone to cruelty. For that, and the way she often caught him looking at her, he made her uneasy. Another reason she would move on after she got her share of the money she and Harvey would earn at the completion of this mission.
“Anyone else I need to know about?” he asked.
She shrugged. “They all seem harmless. Just travelers. Anyone in your car you want me to look over?”
“I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, stay close to Whitmeyer. There’s something about him that feels off. We’ll talk again in Laramie.”
Without another word, he opened the gate, stepped onto the platform of the second car, and went inside.
Rachel stayed out a moment longer, enjoying the silence, the stillness, the gently drifting snow that hid the world’s ugliness under a glistening mantle of white. When dawn warmed the low-slung clouds to a faint pinkish glow and she was shivering so hard her teeth chattered, she finally went back to her seat.
• • •
RICHARD’S hands felt like blocks of ice dragging at the ends of his aching arms. His toes throbbed, his eyes burned, and his nose had been numb for an hour. But at least they were making progress. The switch frog was finally uncovered. If they could clear enough track to back the train into the siding, then the bucker plow and locomotives could come through without having to slow down . . . assuming no trees or rocks had come down with the slide and were now laying across the tracks.
As he worked, he thought of Rachel James.
Was she really a widow? A madam? Most madams started out as whores. But he had doubts she was a woman of negotiable virtue. She seemed too confident . . . too composed . . . too proud to allow herself to be used that way. And with her looks she could easily find another husband to take care of her.
Unless she preferred to take care of herself.
Either way, she was a puzzle. He liked puzzles.
Dawn came and went, barely noticed through the overcast. But by the time the sky brightened from dark gray to sooty white, they had cleared enough of the siding to back in the train. And in the nick of time—above the rhythmic exhalations of their idling locomotive they could hear Lucifer’s own orchestra racing toward them in a deafening cacophony of screeches, whistles, clangs, and roaring engines.
“Take cover!” the conductor yelled, running behind their train.
Frozen in place, Richard gaped at the immense ice-crusted apparition hurtling out of the mist, spewing a cloud of fire and brimstone into the morning sky. Like great arched wings, walls of snow rose from either side of the giant plow, and vibrations from the churning engines rattled windows and shattered icicles hanging from the passenger cars beside him.
Clapping hands over his ears, he ducked under a wave of snow as the rescue train sped past, side rods clanking, whistles howling, the pounding heartbeats of six locomotives at full throttle making the ground shudder beneath his feet. With a thunderous clatter, the plow slammed into the snow piled over the tracks. The straining engines drove it as far as they could before losing momentum, then they stopped, pulled back, and ran at it again. Over and over they drove into the snow, carving a path through the drift by sheer force. When they finally broke through, the diggers waved their shovels and gave a great cheer, echoed by those watching from the railcars.
It was the most amazing thing Richard had ever seen.
The conductor waved them aboard. Stomping off snow, he and the other diggers turned in their shovels and climbed into the passenger cars, glad to be out of the cold.
“Did you see that?” Richard said a few minutes later when he flopped into the aisle seat beside Rachel James. “Wasn’t that astonishing? I could feel the heat of the engines on my face. It was unbelievable!”
“It was. Would you mind taking off your coat? You’re dripping snow.”
“What? Sure.” Still talking, he pulled off his duster and gloves and put them, along with his damp hat, on the luggage rack overhead. “Can you imagine the power?” he went on, sitting down again. “Six locomotives at full speed. The ground shook when they went by. And the noise! My ears are still ringing.” He laughed, excitement still coursing through him. He’d been enamored with trains ever since he’d seen his first one go by over a decade before. After all of his rail trips since, he would have thought he’d outgrown his fascination, but he hadn’t. “I’ve never seen such a thing. Amazing.” Realizing he still held her scarf, he handed it to her. “Sorry it’s wet.”
“Good heavens, your hands are like ice!”
He looked down at his reddened fingers, tried to flex them, but could only bend them halfway. He noticed then how cold they were . . . especially when she clasped them in her warmer ones.
“You should have come in earlier.” She began to rub his right hand vigorously between her palms. “You could lose your fingers.”
He probably would if she kept rubbing them that hard. Much as he enjoyed her attentions, he pulled his hand free before she peeled away skin. “They’re fine.”
“They would warm faster if you slipped them under your shirt.”
“I’d rather slip them under yours.” Had he said that out loud? Her expression said he had. Damn.
“I meant you should put them under your arms,” she said stiffly.
“That’s what I meant, too.” He smiled innocently.
She picked up her valise. “Let me out, please.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. James. It just slipped out. Probably the cold.”
“Must I crawl over you?”
Oh, please do. But instead of adding to his indiscretions, he rose and politely moved aside so she could sweep into the aisle. “Poker later?” he asked hopefully.
No response, other than the slamming of the door behind their bench as she exited the rear of the car.
His earlier euphoria fading, he slumped against the window. Who knew madams could be so sensitive? Unless she wasn’t a madam. Hell.
A scream from the back platform brought him to his feet. Flinging open the rear door, he saw Rachel hanging by her gloved hands on the other side of the railing, her feet dangling in air. “What happened?” He stepped toward her, slipped on the icy deck, and careened into the railing beside her, narrowly avoiding flipping over the side as she apparently had. Righting himself, he braced his feet against the supports and peered down. “Are you all right, Mrs. James?”
“No, I’m not! Help me!”
“You want me to take hold of you?”
“Of course I do, you nitwit!”
“I wouldn’t want to offend you again.”
“Hurry! I’m slipping!”
“If you’re sure . . .” Bending over the railing, he gripped her under her arms and hauled her up and over. As he set her on her feet, he gave a broad smile. “It seems you’re going to warm my hands after all.”
“Oh!” She tried to jerk away, started to slip, and grabbed his jacket.
“Be careful, Mrs. James. It’s icy out here.” He continued to hold her, his palms pressed against the sides of her breasts, which were warming his hands nicely. “Imagine how much more dangerous it might have been had the train been moving. Or if you had been more than a foot above the ground. A nasty fall.”
“I despise you.”
“No, you don’t. Your heart wouldn’t beat this hard if you did.”
“My—?” She looked down, saw where his hands were, and gasped.
Which made him laugh. “Just a bit of fun, Mrs. James. No harm.�
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“Release me!”
“You’ll fall.” But he let her go, keeping his hands up and ready to grab her if she slipped. She didn’t, and managed to keep her footing to the door. “Shall I get your valise?” he asked. “I believe it’s just there, in the snow.”
She looked up at him, blue fire in her eyes. “You’re a hateful man.”
“You’re welcome. Meanwhile”—reaching into his jacket, he pulled out the deck of cards—“you’d best deal. My hands are still too cold.”
“Go to the devil.”
Richard retrieved her valise and returned it to their bench, where she sat, glaring out the window; then, to allow her time to get over her snit, and since the train hadn’t started moving yet, he took a stroll through the other cars.
Many of his fellow shovelers were recognizable by their red noses and cheeks. Not so, the fellow with the sweeping mustache and sideburns sitting alone near the rear of the second car.
Richard sank down beside him, accidentally stepping on the satchel by his foot. “Sorry,” he said, slipping his hand inside as he brushed it off. Only papers.
Muttonchops snatched it from his grip and stuffed it between his hip and the window. “That seat’s taken.”
“I won’t be long. Just waiting for the lavatory.”
“What lavatory?”
Richard bent over to straighten his trouser cuff, then twisted in the seat to look behind him. “I was told there was a lavatory at the back of this car.”
“You were lied to.”
“Hell.” With a sigh, he sat back. The train jerked, then rolled slowly forward in the wake of the locomotives and bucker plow, which had gone ahead to clear the rest of the track between Sherman Hill and Laramie.
“Where you headed?” Richard asked after a while.
“West.”
“San Francisco?”
A terse nod.
“What a coincidence.” Shifting in the seat, Richard extended his right hand. “Richard Whitmeyer. Texas, mostly.”