The Railroad Baroness

by The Railroad Baroness (lit)

  Aileen, holding her own skirts free of the churned-up mud, grimaced. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like to go back and have a cup of tea?” Her tone made it clear that was the scenario she preferred.

  “If I have any more tea, I’ll float,” Lillian said. Tottering over the deep ruts and divots that scarred the ground beyond the crushed stone cradling the raised tracks, she devoutly hoped she wouldn’t twist an ankle. “Stop your griping. We can’t stay cooped up all day.”

  Aileen made a noise that didn’t sound like agreement.

  “Besides, don’t you want to have a look at the camp?”

  “After what we heard last night?”

  “Oh, you don’t fool me. You’re just as curious as I am.”

  Her friend chuckled. “Maybe. And your Mr. Lowell Adams did say it was better to visit during the day.”

  “Charles is hardly my Mr. Lowell Adams.”

  “Oh, no doubt. Don’t think I didn’t notice you batting your eyes like a shameless flirt. My mother didn’t raise any fools, missy.”

  “Perhaps I was flirting with Conn.”

  “No p’rhaps about it,” Aileen scoffed. “You were making eyes at both those lads. Your good mother, God rest her, would be shocked to her fingertips.”

  “I thought we agreed it’s time for me to start living.”

  “Living, yes. Turning into a hussy, no!”

  Lillian stopped walking. Aileen continued on for a few steps, then paused to see what was keeping her friend.

  “Is that what you think? That I’m a hussy?”

  Aileen’s expression was immediately contrite. She put a gentle hand on the arms Lillian had crossed over her waist. “No, Lillian, of course not. What I think is you need to be careful. They both look like good lads, to be sure, but you know how men can be. They see a pretty face and they lose what wits they have. If you don’t make it clear you favor one or the other, it can only lead to trouble.”

  Lillian nodded slowly. “Yes. You’re right.” After a few moments of silence, they resumed their pace. “This was a bad idea anyway.”

  “What was a bad idea?”

  “My adventure. My father is depending on me. I can’t disappoint him. I should just focus on what I need to do, instead of what I want to do.”

  “Oh, Lillian.” Aileen blew an exasperated sigh out between pursed lips. “Don’t listen to me. I think an adventure is just what you need. And, as you said, things will be much more difficult once we go home to Boston.”

  “What about two men and trouble and—”

  Aileen waved a hand. “Never mind what I said. You’re a good woman, and you deserve some happiness. That should be all I’m thinking about. There is no reason why you can’t please both your father and yourself. You go ahead and have your adventure, be it with Charles or Conn or any nice gentleman who takes your fancy.”

  Lillian couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled forth. “So not only am I to slip into sin with the gentlemanly Mr. Charles Lowell Adams and the delicious Mr. Conn Maguire, but you’re freeing my dance card for a third man?”

  Aileen’s laugh was rich and earthy, totally unlike the prim expression she habitually wore. “A dozen men, then. Just don’t tell your father I was the one who put you up to it.”

  As they neared the first row of tents, Lillian heard Yorke’s raised voice. Just the sound of his clipped, condescending tones made her head throb. From what they could hear, it was apparent he was dressing down some poor soul. She shared a commiserating look with her friend.

  “Wonderful,” Aileen said. “About that tea?”

  “Much as I’d like to avoid the man altogether, it’s simply not possible. Come on. Let’s see what he’s on about now.”

  They found him in the cookhouse, a large, squarish tent the next row in. Most of the flaps were open, lashed to the sturdy poles that supported the weathered canvas roof. Several smaller tents branched from the main structure like the wings of a house. Steam pushed out from beneath the lids of massive pots suspended from tripods over fire pits just outside the main tent. As Lillian and Aileen approached, a youngster scurried between the pits, adding coal or wood, and scraping the worst of the ashes into a rusty bucket. A steady stream of men passed between the flaps, apparently dropping off supplies or picking them up.

  The workers eyed Lillian and Aileen as if they were fantastical creatures who inexplicably appeared in their midst. Stepping aside, they created a path for the two women to enter the tent unhindered.

  Yorke, all his attention on the large man who stood before him, didn’t notice them. With his broad shoulders and thick neck, the stranger looked more like a blacksmith than a cook. Rolled-up sleeves exposed hair-covered forearms roped with muscle. Lillian had no doubt he could crack the slender, polished Yorke in half with little effort.

  Apparently not intimidated in the least, Yorke said, “You will work with the supplies you are given, O’Brien. Have I made myself clear?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “Very clear, Mr. Yorke. You want me to use meat I wouldn’t feed to a diseased dog I didn’t like to cook the meals for your work crews.”

  Yorke’s face reddened, and he puffed up like a banty rooster. He opened his mouth, but Lillian cut him off before he could speak. “Mr. Yorke. Is there a problem?”

  The secretary’s head jerked, and he stared at her. “Mrs. Cabot.” He said her name as if through gritted teeth. “No, madam, nothing I can’t handle. You needn’t concern yourself.”

  “Nonsense. You know I am interested in all aspects of my father’s business.” Lillian tipped her chin in greeting to the man who watched them. “Mr. O’Brien, is it?”

  “Aye, missus.”

  “How do you do. I’m Lillian Cabot, Theodore Worthington’s daughter. I take it you’re the man in charge of the cookhouse?”

  “Aye, missus.” He gestured at the workers busy at various tasks around them. “Me and my men do the cooking for the crews. If they’re off, the lads come and get their beef and taters from the tent. If they’re working, the grub wagon takes it to them.”

  Lillian nodded her understanding. “And there’s something wrong with the meat delivery?”

  “You could say that.” He gestured for her to follow him. Stopping at a work table covered with chopped-up beef, he used a knife to stab a chunk of it. He held the meat impaled on the tip up for her inspection. Lillian grimaced as the scent of rot tickled her nostrils. As she watched, something tiny and white wriggled free of the grayish pink mass and dropped to the ground. A maggot. Looking closely, she saw more of the things writhing in the hunk of meat.

  Lillian lifted her hand to her mouth and took a quick step back. “Oh my.” She exchanged a glance with Aileen, and hoped she didn’t look as green as her friend did. Swallowing bile, she kept her voice even with effort. “I see what you mean. This was in the meat that arrived with us yesterday?”

  “Aye,” O’Brien said, tossing the chunk back onto the pile with a disgusted flip of the blade. “Rancid as it is, the men’ll be running for the nearest bushes every breathing moment.”

  She noticed he didn’t mention the maggot, just the putrefied state of the beef. She felt Yorke’s glower on the back of her head like a hot poker. “Mr. Yorke, please send a rider back down the line immediately to order a new allotment of beef. There is no way Mr. O’Brien can serve this disgusting offal to the workers.”

  “But Mrs. Cabot—”

  “Also, arrange a hunting party. Mr. O’Brien will need something in the pot until the next shipment arrives. It won’t be the beef and potatoes the workers are guaranteed in their contracts, but it will be something.”

  Lillian stared Yorke down, daring him to argue with her in front of the men. He seemed to realize it. The anger smoothed out of his expression, if not his eyes, and he gave a jerky nod of agreement. “As you wish, Mrs. Cabot.”

  Satisfied, Lillian faced the cook. “Mr. O’Brien, please dispose of the spoiled meat. I have no idea how such a horrible mistake came about
, but it won’t happen again. If you have any problems, please let me know immediately.”

  “Thank you, missus. That I will.”

  She was about to ask if this was typical of the food shipments he’d received when the roar of cheers and shouts interrupted her. The reaction of the men around them was startling. Except for O’Brien, they fled the cookhouse like ants from a kicked-over hill.

  “Oh, Lord,” Aileen muttered. “What now?”

  “My goodness,” Lillian said. “What’s going on out there?”

  O’Brien shrugged matter-of-factly. “Fight, most like.”

  “A fight! Oh dear.” She started out of the tent, Aileen at her side.

  Yorke hurried after them. “Are you certain this is wise, Mrs. Cabot? Perhaps I should escort you back to your private car.”

  Lillian didn’t waste her breath answering, just picked up her skirts and hurried toward the commotion. Yorke and O’Brien followed.

  If the shouts hadn’t drawn them in the right direction, the wall of large, sweaty male backs would have. A small figure darted from between two tents, almost bowling into Lillian and Aileen. “Watch it,” Aileen yelled after the boy as Lillian stumbled against her. Without sparing a glance for the women, he dove into the crowd of men. Slick as an eel, he wriggled between their larger bodies and was soon out of sight.

  Linking arms for stability, the two women ran on. A cloud of dust drifted in the air above the centre of the ring of men. As they neared, the cries of encouragement became more intelligible.

  “Give ’im a right, laddie!”

  “Watch yer gut!”

  “Block! Youse gotta block!”

  “I’ve got two bits. Any takers?”

  The crowd reeled back with a collective groan. The roars of encouragement quickly resumed.

  “Maybe we should go back to the car,” Aileen shouted in Lillian’s ear.

  “And give Mr. Yorke the satisfaction of being right?” Lillian took a tighter grip on her friend’s elbow, where it was tucked inside hers, and tapped on the broad, plaid-covered back in front of her. “Excuse me. Pardon me.” When that got no reaction, she poked harder. “Sir!”

  Finally, the man turned. It was hard to tell if his skin was weathered brown or simply dirty. She preferred the view of his back. Greasy brown hair tucked behind his ears, thick brows lowered over narrowed eyes, he barked, “Bugger off, ya …” His words trailed off as he saw who had drawn his attention. His eyes trailed down her body, and his lips spread in a grin that showcased big, yellowed teeth. “Well, now, missus. Didn’t see ya there.” He leaned closer and said, “What can Harley do for ya?”

  His breath was bad enough to make her hold her breath, but she stood her ground. “My friend and I wish to see what the commotion is about, Mister, uh, Harley.”

  “Do ya now? Well, I can surely help ya with that.” Without another word, he wrapped one hard hand around her upper arm. With the other, he pounded on the backs of the men immediately in front of them. “Make way, fellas, make way!” he bellowed. They lashed out at him every bit as quickly as he had at Lillian and Aileen. After an instant of gap-jawed staring, the men parted to let the women through. By that expedient method, Harley cleared a path for them toward the center of the ring, clearly enjoying his role as guide.

  “Now, yer in for a treat, ladies,” he said. “Rube’s been winding up that Irishman all week. Right proud of his hams, Rube is. Know I wouldn’t like to go a round or two with ’im. But that Maguire’s got some tricks up his sleeve. Seen ’im meself. It’s the quiet ones you gotta watch out for,” he said with a wink.

  “I see,” Lillian said faintly. Just then, Harley elbowed aside the last few men blocking them, and she got her first good look at the main attraction. A fistfight was nothing like she imagined. There was no circling, no gentlemanly trading of jabs, no elegant sparing as she’d seen acted out on stage from her theater box.

  It rather looked like two dogs she’d once seen brawling in the street—ripping, tearing, vicious.

  Conn’s opponent was at least a head taller than the Irishman, a brute on two legs with an unholy grin and blood dripping from his nose.

  Conn’s black hair, the curls damp and defined with sweat, almost covered his glittering blue eyes. He shook his head to get it out of the way, and droplets flung free. Wetness touched Lillian’s hand. She looked down and saw not a beat of sweat, but a drop of blood. Conn’s hair wasn’t wet with sweat. It was blood, from a cut over one brow. He swiped a sleeve across it, but otherwise didn’t seem to notice.

  Their gazes connected. Conn’s eyes widened a fraction in shock. He didn’t see the fist coming. It struck the side of his head. Lillian gasped, and Conn dropped to the ground. Beside her, Harley shouted in disappointment. “Come on, lad. Get up!”

  The brute didn’t do the gentlemanly thing and wait for Conn to find his feet. He hauled back and kicked him brutally in the stomach. Conn grunted. His opponent laughed and drew his leg back for another blow. “Stop!” No one listened to Lillian’s cry. She started forward, but Aileen clutched her arm, stopping her.

  “No, Lillian! You’ll get hurt!”

  “But I’ve got to do something!” She couldn’t. She knew it. She could only watch in horror as the man kicked Conn again. Instead of writhing in pain as she expected, Conn grabbed the man’s leg and held it. Then he punched the man in… The men around her winced as one. Even Lillian felt a stab of pity as Conn jerked the man’s trapped leg, hooked his ankle with his foot, and felled the incapacitated man. Dust billowed as his opponent hit the ground. Lillian swore she felt it shake under her feet. Fast as a snake, Conn was on the man. Grabbing a fistful of his shirt, Conn began delivering a series of sharp, powerful jabs to his face and upper body, too fast for the other man to counter. Finally Rueben dropped his hands to his sides. Conn stopped immediately.

  “Do you yield?” he growled.

  The man nodded weakly. Conn leaned down, staring right into his eyes. He said something, too low for Lillian to hear. The man nodded again. Satisfied, Conn stood up.

  The fallen man’s friends rushed to his side. He refused their help and got up under his own steam. He and Conn exchanged another look. The stranger, blood-stained teeth flashing, smiled and raised a hand before loudly inviting his friends to buy him a drink to wash away his aches. They ambled off, as if nothing untoward had happened.

  With the fight over, the spectators quickly dispersed. Lillian noticed that money changed more than a few hands. All the onlookers looked satisfied and entertained. None appeared shocked by what had just happened. None, save her and Aileen.

  “Lillian.”

  Surprisingly, the voice laced with shock and disapproval didn’t belong to Yorke. It was Charles. He stood before her, a bulky camera tucked under one arm, a wad of paper money sticking out of one fist. His winnings, she supposed.

  “Charles,” she said, glad her voice didn’t quaver. “Aileen and I were just in the cookhouse when we heard the shouting. Naturally, we thought we should find out what the workers found so entertaining.”

  “Entertaining,” he echoed. “Right. Well, you see…”

  “Yes?” She lifted her brow, waiting. What could he say? They both knew a fistfight was no place for a lady. Yet he wasn’t in any position to dictate her actions, especially when she knew he was attracted to her and hoped to kindle a relationship between them. Plus, as Theodore Worthington’s daughter, she was the closest thing to his employer, making his position untenable.

  A new voice broke their standoff. “You’ve got blood on your dress.” Conn’s accent was, if anything, thicker than it had been at breakfast. Sweat and blood dripped down the side of his face. The skin over one cheekbone was starting to redden. As she watched, he pulled up the corner of his shirt to swipe at the wound over his eye. The sight of his bare belly riveted her. The muscles rippled under his skin in stark definition, sprinkled with dark, tantalizing hairs that trailed away beneath the waistband of his trousers. Conn dropped the sh
irt back into place.

  Lillian, mouth dry, tried to regain her senses. “What?”

  “Blood. On your dress,” Conn said.

  Lillian glanced down. He was right. A few specks of blood dotted the front of her dusty rose jacket and the paler pink of her skirts. “Oh. Yes.”

  Conn shoved the tail of his shirt back into his trousers as if he did so in front of ladies all the time. Maybe he did. Well, if he could be so casual, so could she. “Are you hurt?”

  He shrugged. “I’m fine. It was just a scrap. Man was asking for it.” He looked at Charles, who seemed to have regained his composure. “So, Charlie? How’d we do?”

  “Well enough,” Charles said. Without further explanation, he handed over half the notes in his hand and some coins, then put the rest in his jacket pocket. Conn took the camera from him, and that seemed to be the end of it. “Ladies,” Charles said. “May we escort you back to your car?”

  Lillian tipped her chin up. Damned if she would let them see she was unsettled. Truthfully, now that she understood that the fight meant nothing to them, nor to any of the onlookers, it had been rather exciting. And that’s what she hoped to find, wasn’t it? Excitement.

  “Actually, Aileen and I are in the midst of a tour of the camp.” Ignoring Aileen’s humph of disagreement, she added, “We’re not ready to go back yet. It’s a lovely day, and we have much more to see.”

  “Not that much,” Conn said.

  “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen. We must be on our way. Shall I tell the cook to expect you for breakfast?”

  “Yes, please. Thank you for the invitation,” Charles said. She noticed the discreet elbow he put to his friend’s side.