by Rue Allyn
The clerk backed up. “Uh no, sir. The third train, sir.”
Before the clerk finished speaking, Dutch was moving toward the Wyoming train. He barreled through the crowd, dodging families, porters, and heaps of baggage. He ran down the platform on the near side of the caboose toward the engine.
“Last call. All aboard for Sacramento, Ogden, Laramie, and points east,” shouted a conductor standing on the steps of the farthest passenger car.
The crowd on the platform thinned rapidly. People hugged then rushed aboard the train or left the area.
No! Dutch’s brain shouted. He waved at the conductor. “Wait!”
The man nodded, indicating he’d heard Dutch.
Nearly out of breath, he skidded to a stop before the conductor. “I need to find a woman.”
“You and me both fella, but I can’t help you.”
“No, a specific woman; she’s supposed to be on this train.”
“Sorry, I got a job to do. If you’re traveling on the train, I suggest you get on board and then look for her.”
“But I’m not.”
“Then there’s nothing I can do.” The man signaled toward the back of the train. “Send her a telegram to Sacramento. We’ll stop there long enough for her to get it.”
“You don’t understand. A telegram won’t work. I have to talk to her, tell her I was wrong.”
The conductor bent a pitying stare on Dutch. “Like that is it? Wish I could help, but I cannot delay this train just so you can sweet talk your woman.”
“Then I’m getting on.” Dutch grabbed the handrail to haul himself up the high steps of the car.
The conductor blocked the way. “You got a ticket, son?”
“I’ll buy one.”
“You ain’t got time for the ticket window, but I could sell you one.”
“Great.” Dutch made to board the train once more.
Once more the conductor blocked access. “Let’s see your cash.”
“Cash?” Dutch felt the blood drain from his head. He felt dizzy, and his stomach churned. He didn’t have a plug nickel. “How much cash?”
“Hundred fourteen in silver or gold. Hundred fifty-three for paper money.”
“Will you take collateral?” Dutch pulled his watch from his waistcoat. “I’ll have the funds wired from San Francisco.
The conductor frowned. “It’s against policy.”
“Please.”
“All right.” He held out his hand. “But if there’s any trouble or the money isn’t sent, you’re off the train at the first available stop, and I’ll have the law on you for fraud.”
Dutch placed the watch in the man’s hand. “Don’t worry, there’ll be no trouble, and I’m good for the money.”
“So you say.” The conductor stepped aside. “Now get on board, you’re making my train late.”
Dutch grinned and climbed into the first car. He paced down the center aisle and searched the faces of the people there, but Edith wasn’t one of them. If she was on this train, he’d find her. He walked the length of the car, exiting at the far side and transferring to the next car. The story was the same. Car after car, no Edith. He counted cars as he went, reaching four by the time the train began to move. About then he encountered another conductor and asked how many cars.
“Seven in all, sir, including the caboose and the baggage car. We’ll pick up more in Sacramento.”
“Have you seen a woman?”
The conductor looked around them. The car was half full of women.
Dutch grinned and described Edith.
“Can’t say as I have, mister, but I’ve been plenty busy. She could have boarded when I wasn’t looking.”
The train rocked slowly as it moved at a snail’s pace toward the huge ferry that would take it across the bay to the track connecting San Francisco with Sacramento.
“Thank you.” Three cars left. She had to be on this train. If she wasn’t, he was in for a long, expensive ride to Sacramento. Heck, if Edith wasn’t on this train, he’d probably ride the rails all the way to Laramie and try to find her there. But he’d search the last two cars first before worrying about that.
At the end of the last car, Dutch resigned himself to visiting Wyoming. His heart hurt, but not as much as when he thought Edith was lost to him forever. He opened the door at the rear of the caboose and stepped outside. The train wasn’t moving fast enough for the wind to blur his vision, still moisture gathered in his eyes. Thank the Lord no one was around to see. He swiped at the incipient tears. As his hand left his face, he saw, running along the platform, a woman who looked exactly like Edith, right down to the two carpet bags she’d just dropped. What were the odds … ?
“Edith!”
• • •
“Edith!”
Dutch? Impossible. Her head swiveled. Who was calling her name? The platform was close to empty.
The train now moved at a slow, steady pace. Above the clack of wheels on the track came another shout. “Edith, why aren’t you on this train?”
That was definitely Dutch, and the shout came from the direction of the track.
She stared. As the last car headed toward the ferry, she saw Dutch standing on the flat area at the back of the train.
“Dutch!”
Abandoning her bags, she grabbed up her skirt in one hand and ran for her life.
The train picked up more speed.
He moved to the lowest of the steps that led onto the train car.
“Don’t jump, you’ll get yourself killed,” she cried.
Grasping a vertical bar with both hands he swung out into the air.
Heart in her throat, she watched, helpless.
Dutch landed, both feet on the ground but off balance.
She had her arms around him, tipping him away from the tracks.
His legs tangled with her skirts. Before their bodies hit the platform his lips settled on hers.
“Ahem.”
Dutch lifted and turned his head. Edith stared beyond him into the face of a uniformed Railway Guard.
“You’re making a public spectacle. I’ll give you twenty seconds to get off this platform before I run you in to the police.”
“Sorry, sir.” Dutch rose, giving Edith a hand up and helping her with her skirts. We had a little misunderstanding.”
She stared up at him. “Misunderstanding?”
“Is that right, Miss? You’re sure this man isn’t bothering you?”
Keeping her eyes on Dutch, she smiled. “No, he’s no bother at all.”
“Well then, you’d best be moving along.”
“Yes, sir.” Dutch placed her hand on his arm and walked to the benches that lined the wall of the terminal building.
Seated with him beside her, Edith looked at him. “What did you mean when you said we had a misunderstanding?”
“I understood that you were leaving on that train.”
“I was.”
“But you weren’t on it.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I was thinking of how I was going to explain to you that I wanted you to go with me to Laramie and then Boston, maybe even wait here a few days until you and Marcus could arrange for the business not to suffer when you came with me. I don’t want an annulment. I love you, Dutch and want to share your life. All of it, for a very long time.”
He kissed her slow, gentle, lingering.
She eased away. “You’d better stop before we create another spectacle.”
He sighed. “All right, but only if we can go back home and make a spectacle in private.”
She arched her brows in mock innocence and smiled. “First tell me what you were doing on the train.”
“I was looking for you.” He grinned back. “To tell you that nothing mattered as much as being with you, that your troubles are my troubles whether you remain my wife or not. But I’d rather be married to you.”
“I have the same preference.”
; “Excellent.” He stood and offered her his hand. “Let’s stop at the ticket office on the way home, arrange for your trunk to be held at the next stop, and purchase a pair of Pullman tickets for a train to Laramie next week.”
More from This Author
One Night’s Desire by Rue Allyn
Second Chance
Linda Kepner
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2012 by Linda Kepner
ISBN 10: 1-4405-4529-4
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4529-0
eISBN 10: 1-4405-4528-6
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4528-3
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com/Yuri Arcurs, Irina Belousa
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
More From This Author
Chapter 1
Dr. Roth thought this class was tedious, and hated teaching it. However his graduate assistant, Bishou Howard, loved the practice. An aspiring woman professor needed all the practice she could get, Bishou reasoned. It might be 1969 and an age of feminism, but it was still a man’s world out there. It was a pleasure to have an advisor like Raymond Roth, who had a sense of humor as well as intelligence. A potentially adversarial relationship had easily become a friendship. Thus, Bishou Howard taught Introduction to World Literature 101 to incoming freshmen at East Virginia University — trying to make it interesting enough to keep a few sheep in the fold once the required courses were out of the way — while researching her PhD thesis on the theme “Passion in Literature.” This gave Dr. Roth time to do reading and research, with occasional spot-checks on his only graduate assistant.
Two hundred freshman students sat in this lecture hall, and Bishou could easily see what they called in Boston “light dawning on Marble Head” as she made her points and parallels, and asked questions to make them think. Many teachers didn’t allow a lecture to be interrupted, but Bishou pointed to students and asked questions to which she expected answers.
She dismissed her students and they gathered up their books. That was a sign of attention, as she well knew. They had been absorbed enough, or cautious enough, to refrain from slamming their piles of books together just because it was getting close to the end of the hour.
Dr. Roth dodged exiting students and stepped down to the center well from which Bishou taught. She nodded her greetings as she collected her notes from the lectern.
“Hey, Chief, what’s on your mind?” she said cheerfully.
“The dean spoke to me today about someone who might need a little tutoring. It’s a bit unusual, and I think a little confidential. Got a minute?”
“Umm, hmm,” she hedged. “Got an appointment with the Rare Books Librarian. He’s trying to dredge up something for me.”
“Sandy’s taking Roger to orientation night at the junior high, and I’m on my own tonight.” Bishou had supped with the professor, his wife, and son many nights. “Cocktails at your place later?”
“Sure, if your definition of ‘cocktails’ includes cheap Chardonnay, which is all I’ve got.”
Roth smiled. “My definition of ‘cocktails’ includes anything I don’t have to pay for. I’ll bring some appetizers.”
“Now, that sounds good,” she laughed. “I’ll be back at my apartment around five.”
Bishou had a minuscule apartment on the very edge of campus, close enough to the library to be useful, far enough from the lecture halls to give her some exercise each day. Sitting in an easy chair next to an unmatched couch and lounge chair, Dr. Raymond Roth eyed the books, typewriter, and study table approvingly.
“People looking at this flat would know you were a grad student. Although, admittedly, they might not be able to tell which sex.”
“Which is as it should be,” Bishou agreed with a laugh. She handed a glass of wine to him, while he shook crackers and cheese cubes from a paper bag onto a plate. “The height of academic luxury.”
“Here’s to it,” he said, and they clinked wineglasses.
She sipped the Chardonnay and found it good. “What’s the tutoring about? I’m kinda stretched, Dr. Roth. Do you owe Dean Clements a favor, or something?”
“No, no. It would be for actual money. I think it’s the Dean who owes the President a favor.”
“Come again?” She blinked.
“Well, you know this World Tobacco Conference the University has been setting up,” Roth began.
“Goodness, who doesn’t? It’s been the only topic of the school newsletter for months. Oh, let me guess. On parle français seulement.”
“Well, pas seulement. Apparently they’ve got someone coming whom they didn’t expect, and he might need a little tutoring in English. I’m not sure of his background — the President didn’t tell the Dean — but there’s something odd.”
Bishou frowned. “Odd how?”
“I don’t know. Something about his passport or visa.”
“French colonial, maybe? When you say ‘French’ and ‘tobacco’ I think Africa.”
“That might be it, but I’m not sure. Anyway, your name came up because of your French Canadian family and your Parisian studies, and Dean Clements nobly volunteered you,” Roth said dryly.
“We both must remember to thank him,” said Bishou, deliberately keeping any editorial tone out of her voice. After all, she was a student. She never forgot that things like this, little comments, might come back to bite her.
“Mmm. Well. Since it’s a conference, there’s conference money there, some of which can be used to pay an English tutor. Might not be much, but it’s pocket money, Bishou.”
She nodded. “Income instead of outgo. Do you know anything about this unexpected someone?”
Roth pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “Only his name. Louis Dessant.”
“Dessant like the cigarettes?”
“That’s all I know.”
Bishou whistled. “That’s like saying R.J. Reynolds here, Dr. Roth.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Dessant is tobacco big time. I think the cigarettes come from Réunion Island, maybe, near Madagascar in the Indian Ocean. Sort of like Hawaii for Frenchmen.”
“I might have the name wrong,” Roth warned. “What’s the frown for?”
“I think I read something about a Dessant, in the news, maybe a year or two ago.” She tried to remember, but failed. “Family scandal or something.”
“Then that’s probably our fellow,” said Roth. “Heaven forbid any parent send us a student who isn’t in trouble somewhere else.” Again, they both laughed at the inevitable fact of life, and returned to the wine and cheese.
A few moments later, however, Dr. Roth grew a little more serious. “I know I’m preaching to the choir, Bishou. You’ve been negotiating academic landmines all your life. But if this fellow is — rather, I mean to say, if you sense some kind of trouble with him — you must tell me up front, and not try to soldier on through. When you receive your doctorate from here, you’ll be only the third woman to do so in EVU history, and,” he paused and cleared his throat, “that
means people tend to watch what you are up to.”
Equally seriously, Bishou said, “Both of us. You took me on.”
“I know. I won’t rehash everything we’ve said before. After all, we both know what we’ve said and done, and — knock on wood,” he rapped on the rickety little end table, “we’re turning into a pretty good prototype for advisor-advisee relationships for female PhD students.”
“Amen, Lord,” she said wryly, and they both chuckled.
“I’m just a little concerned that the dean is a little concerned, if you see what I mean. This isn’t just a student whose transcripts we can look up. He’s a businessman at a seminar.”
“We’re only talking two weeks,” said Bishou. “Relax, Dr. Roth. We’ll take it easy.”
“It’s early days,” Dr. Roth observed. “We’ll see.”
Chapter 2
East Virginia University was a perfectly logical place to hold a tobacco-growers’ conference, Bishou mused the next day as she walked to the Medlin Conference Center after her morning class and tuition sessions. And certainly a world tobacco-growers’ conference. Most of the money behind the university was tobacco money. They were situated in the heart of tobacco country, a great place for tours. The university’s Ag Department had done a lot of tobacco research, and was forward thinking in the face of medical discouragement about the health dangers of tobacco. She frowned wryly. And in the rear guard as far as women’s rights were concerned.
A female teacher was still expected to wear high heels and stockings here, and always to appear well-groomed. Bishou had short dark hair, clear light skin with dark features, grey eyes, and a decent healthy body. She had seen women almost walk into walls admiring her “twin” brother Bat, so she supposed she wasn’t bad-looking either. She could deal with stockings and high heels.
Wonder how Bat’s adjusting to having me so far away from New England, she thought. I miss them all, even our annoying parents. But there’s no going back. Thank God Bat is there for our brothers, at least. She shook her head. Save dreaming for another day, Bishou, she reminded herself. It’s time for the men’s world of tobacco.