“What do I think of…” Violet strained to recall what her father had been discussing. Something to do with plans for the construction of a reaction device that would power a trip–in a cosmic submarine, no less–to the moon. “Sorry, Papa. A stray thought impeded my output. I think…caution is in order. Though Mr. Tsiolkovsky is a brilliant young man, his engine design is based on untested theory at best.”
“Ah. I’m sure you’re correct.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. “Just like your mother, always worried about my safety.”
The glimmering tear at the corner of his eye threatened a watershed of her own, so she fussed over his meal instead.
Joseph blinked rapidly while she switched out his empty main course plate with his fruit one. “Anyway,” he continued, “I neglected to mention that I received a letter from Westinghouse prior to our departure. George wants to collaborate on a new project, but was very cloak and dagger about the whole affair….”
Violet made a more concerted effort to listen, but her father seemed to have forgotten she was even present. It wouldn’t be the first time. Gesticulating with aplomb, he launched upon yet another long-winded discourse. To her dismay, his speech rose precipitously in volume, as though he were lecturing one of his classes at the university. With a slight frown, she imagined it carrying across the entire state of Wyoming by now.
Her frown deepened. Did she mean nothing more to her father than a passive sounding board for his theories, like a mindless automaton? The thought saddened her.
Violet needed a respite from the spectacle, if only for a moment. Her gaze drifted across the aisle. Hmmm . There was something unusual about the stranger two tables down from her. At first, his arm movements seemed random. Perhaps he was stretching to relieve cramped muscles, or was signaling the server. But the more she studied him, the more his actions became undeniably familiar.
The man was gesturing in perfect mimicry of her father. And he was grinning.
Shock compelled her to glance away. Surely he didn’t dare such public mockery… What kind of person would act that way? More importantly, why ? Why did this man display so much blithe indifference to society’s conventions?
But then, it was true that her father had a predilection for grand, melodramatic body language. Violet hadn’t given that quirk of his much thought–until now. The stranger’s actions placed her father’s habit into an entirely different context. Despite the inappropriate situation, the part of her that craved adventure was piqued.
While listening to her father, she kept apprised of the stranger’s movement in her peripheral vision. When her father raised his right arm, so did the stranger. When her father punctuated a statement by jabbing a forefinger in the air, so went the same digit belonging to the stranger. Up and down went her father’s hands. Up and down went the stranger’s.
What a horrid man he was, having fun at the expense of her father! But he wasn’t the only guilty party. Why couldn’t she look away?
Now their heads were bobbing in unison. Tilting in unison.
Her lips twitched. Violet fought to discipline her thoughts, but the truth was she found the whole effect rather comical.
The excruciating part was that even though she kept her gaze trained on her father, the stranger remained in her line of vision. Perhaps she shouldn’t be encouraging the man’s behavior, but Violet couldn’t remember the last time she had seen anything so entertaining. Desperate to conceal her reaction, she picked up her goblet and sipped her juice.
Mistake. Now her father had splayed the fingers of his hand and was engaging them in a twisting motion to make his point, whatever it was. While the stranger captured the antics with exaggerated motion, laughter bubbled hard in her throat. She set down her goblet, its bottom hitting the table with a loud thud . Violet feared she might discharge the contents of her mouth with the force of a fire breather, except that her act would prove far less astounding.
No. I mustn’t lose control . Her family’s reputation was too important for her to cause a scene. But her father was so charmingly oblivious, and that fact made the situation all the more amusing. Violet cut a glance to the stranger. His tomfoolery continued unabated, and he didn’t seem to care who noticed. She envied him that freedom.
Her urge to laugh persisted, its battle with the juice a gladiator clash in her mouth. She could stand it no more. With a great gulp, Violet swallowed her juice. She gasped so loudly that several other diners turned in her direction. Jamming her napkin against her lips, she masked her impromptu performance with a feigned cough.
Joseph paused mid-sentence. “Violet, are you unwell?”
Shaking her head, she stood. “It’s nothing. Food caught in my throat,” she whispered, although it had been at least three minutes since she’d eaten anything. She hastily pulled on her black-lace gloves. “Excuse me, please. I’ll be in the water closet.”
Avoiding the curious gazes of her fellow diners, and especially the one of the mystery man, Violet flew down the aisle. The clak-clak-clak of the train accompanied her steps as she escaped to the nearest water closet. Barely had she shut the door when she let loose a snort of glee, perhaps the most unladylike in recorded history.
A peal of laughter followed, then a second, and then a third. She giggled helplessly into her hands, tears streaming from her eyes. When was the last time she’d laughed so freely? Violet couldn’t remember.
The water closet door opened before she could do anything. Bother, she’d forgotten to lock it!
“Occupied,” she sputtered. She wiped her cheeks while turning around to confront the intruder.
Violet hit a wall of flesh. Two large, very warm hands grasped her waist and held her steady. Glancing up, she locked gazes with the man before her.
It was the stranger.
She froze, but from curiosity rather than fear. Why had he followed her here? She wanted an answer, but when he captured her gaze with rich brown eyes the color of chestnuts, her question lodged in her throat. At such an intimate distance, she noticed other details about him. The creases on his dark hat. His intense brows. A faded scar angled across his left temple–perhaps from a childhood accident?
Her gaze went lower. She noticed the playful smile upon his lips. She’d read about such lips in her weekly. They were the kind capable of pleasures infinitely divine…or hedonistically sinful.
The water closet wasn’t even large enough for one person, let alone two. Said fact made the stranger’s scent all the more noticeable–and alluring. Unable to resist, Violet inhaled deeply. He smelled of sun and desert and leather. Beneath that, she swore she detected the raw, masculine base of him. It roused a sharp, sweet stirring deep inside her.
“Ma’am,” the man said with a hint of a drawl, “you seem to be in a state of agitation. Can I be of assistance?” A twinkle lit his eyes.
“You…you shouldn’t be in here.” She waggled a finger at him, and quickly lost her battle to remain aloof when a smile escaped her. “Especially not after causing such mischief.”
“It’s a man’s job to see to a woman’s safety. I had to make sure you weren’t in dire straits.”
This time, Violet delivered a genuine scolding. “I was, actually, thanks to you. I nearly lost my composure back there.”
The man shrugged. “Out here, composure can be overrated. Trust me.”
“Not in my world, it isn’t. The man you so freely mocked is my father.”
The stranger visibly winced under the force of her animosity.
Violet bit her lip. This gentleman had clearly been performing solely for her amusement. Hadn’t she been hoping for adventure on this trip? Not adventure at the expense of her father’s dignity, but she hadn’t exactly been able to resist the show, either. Violet wondered if she’d been harboring more resentment toward her confining life than she’d realized.
Then the stranger’s expressive gaze speared her with its intensity. “It seemed to me like you hadn’t been acquainted with a smile in years. I cou
ldn’t stand by and do nothing knowing a woman as pretty as you felt so sad.” His hold on her waist grew firmer. At this proximity, his breath became a river of heat against her lips. “It’s not my way.”
Violet’s hands trembled. She was tempted to still them against the man’s broad chest, but that would only add another layer to an already inappropriate situation. She clasped them to her chest instead. “You’re too kind,” she squeaked out. “I’m…by the way, I’m Violet Whitcomb. May I have the pleasure of your name, sir?”
“Logan.”
She arched a brow at the single moniker. Man of mystery, indeed. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Logan.” She extended her right hand, the position of her arm awkward since they stood so closely together.
Chuckling, he brought his hand up, and they shook, pumping each other’s hands beneath the crowded space of his attractively sculpted chin. “Right pleased to meet you, Miss Whitcomb. But no ‘mister’ is necessary. ‘Logan’ will do just fine.”
“If that’s your preference, then I’m happy to accommodate you.” Violet smiled demurely. “However, I fear I can no longer accommodate your hands upon my waist.” She fluttered her lashes, like the heroines in her weekly. “At least, not until we’re better acquainted.”
A slow burn of a grin spread across his face as he complied with her wish. “Is that a fact?”
A rush of blood heated her face. What had possessed her to say such a thing? Nonsense. She knew. A mad sense of adventure had seized her soul and refused to release it. She cast a sly gaze around the water closet. “Quite so. And certainly not until you arrange more suitable quarters.”
His eyes widened with obvious intrigue. “I should be taking notes,” he said.
She barreled ahead, a teasing tone in her voice. “A worthy endeavor if a gentleman like you hopes to impress a lady.”
His grin faltered and he scratched the back of his head. “Well, I’m flattered you think of me in those terms, but I’m hardly–”
A pounding at the door reverberated throughout the small space. The blood drained from Violet’s face. Someone was about to catch them in a very compromising situation. If anyone recognized her, the front page of every newspaper would declare the scandal within days. A cold chill rushed through her. She hoped to high heaven the newcomer wasn’t her father. “Logan,” she whispered fiercely, “you must escape from here without being seen!”
He glared at her, and only then did Violet realize she had requested the impossible. Easing toward the door, Logan locked it with a quick, quiet efficiency.
“Halloooo in there!” came the sing-song voice of an elderly woman. The doorknob vibrated as someone jiggered it from the other side. “Are you nearly finished?”
Violet grabbed his arm. “What are we going to do?”
Logan appeared thoughtful. “Act like you’re indisposed.”
“Keep your voice down! Indisposed how?”
A wicked gleam lit his eyes. “You tell me, Professor.”
“I’m not a–” Violet bit her tongue. She had to concentrate on driving the intruding woman away. Her father couldn’t afford any kind of scandal at this juncture in time–or any juncture, really. Pursing her lips, she brushed past him. But in order to reach the door she had to squeeze past his statuesque form. In the process, his well-muscled body brushed hard against hers. It would have been a spine-tingling experience if every inch of her weren’t so fraught with anxiety.
She stood at the door, all too aware of Logan’s low, rich chuckle behind her. Violet slid him a glance. His cocky grin had returned. Instead of embarrassed, the rogue was downright excited!
Well, if he wanted a show, she’d give him one.
“My apologies, Madam,” Violet said, loudly. “I’m afraid I’m indisposed with…discharges of a highly…explosive and…viciously odoriferous nature.”
Violet paused, because at that moment Logan had supplemented her message with an outrageous impersonation of bodily elimination sounds. At least, she hoped it was an impersonation. When she whirled around to investigate, she caught him with his mouth tucked into the crook of his arm. His face was red from his efforts as well as the laughter he was barely choking back.
Violet turned back to the door, torn between panic and a state of unbound hilarity. “Please, if you would be so kind as to locate another–” Then she gasped, unable to continue since Logan was punctuating each of her words with another round of his aural extravaganza. Leaning helplessly against one wall, she lapsed into a series of hiccups and smothered giggles.
Fortunately, the ruse seemed to work. The handle stopped moving. Violet heard the woman voice her annoyance. Shortly thereafter, the sound faded away. When all seemed clear, Logan extended a hand to guide Violet upright. The strength of his pull nearly swept her off her feet. Once again, his warm hands steadied her.
“Now or never,” he murmured, gesturing for her to precede him. “You’d better return to your father. He’s probably worried.”
Logan opened the door to check the passageway. It was empty.
Now that she was free to go, Violet felt desperate to stay. After Logan guided her through the doorway, she laid a bold hand on his arm. “Please join us for coffee.”
“I appreciate the offer, Miss Whitcomb, but I have a prior commitment.” His lips quirked. “Besides, how would you explain our newly minted acquaintance to your father?”
Her heart was sinking. Fast. Logan was about to walk out of her life forever. “Oh, I’ll think of something.” She smiled brightly. “Please, Logan. Join us for at least a few minutes.”
With a heavy sigh, he glanced away. “I can’t.”
“Don’t be shy. We’ll have a grand time!”
His lips compressed into a thin line. “No, Miss Whitcomb,” he said while slowly closing the door. “I’m afraid we won’t.” He tipped his hat, though it lacked the warmth he had displayed earlier in the dining car.
Violet frowned, puzzled at the way his manner had turned abruptly distant. Was it something I said? Possibly, but she doubted it. She studied his face more closely. Tense muscles lined his clenched jaw. The man was hiding something. She wedged a booted foot into the narrow opening to prevent it from shutting. “What’s wrong? You can tell me.”
Logan raised a finger to her lips. “Don’t you worry none. Do me a favor and remember the fun we had.” Like a fox slipping into its den, he eased back inside the water closet. “My line of work is…” Then he shook his head. “Never mind. Go on back to your father now.” Just before the shadows swallowed him whole, he added, “I’m sorry we couldn’t have met under better circumstances.”
What was he talking about? Violet couldn’t have dreamed a better set of circumstances, not in a hundred years. She opened her mouth to protest, but then a pair of women strode through the passageway. Whirling around, she nodded at them politely as they passed her.
By the time she turned back to the water closet, Logan had shut the door. If she attempted to knock and call his name she’d only invite suspicion. Violet stared numbly at the polished wood. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. His act swiftly ended the only true adventure she had ever known.
* * * *
Violet dragged herself back to the dining car. Several times, she glanced behind her, hoping Logan had changed his mind. But she didn’t see him. Not even a glimpse.
Her heart grew heavier since she couldn’t share the enchanting encounter with anyone –least of all her father. With the forthcoming symposium, he was far too preoccupied. Her mother, on the other hand… Violet sighed. Now she had yet another reason to pine over her mother’s death.
When she reached the table, her father rose. “I was about to launch a search. How are you feeling?” He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.
Violet mustered the most reassuring smile possible given that her heart had shredded into a million pieces. “Much better, thank you. I think the sausage disagreed with me.” She glanced down at the table, but her appetite had vanished as thoroughly
as her former partner in crime had. “I’ve had enough to eat.”
“Likewise.” Joseph flicked a few errant crumbs from his charcoal frock coat and straightened his blue and green paisley waistcoat. “I thought I’d pass a few hours in the parlor. Order some coffee. Think you’re up for it?”
Violet retrieved her copy of The Lady’s Fireside Collection . She considered retreating to her berth, but part of her yearned for one more chance at encountering Logan again. The Golden Arrow wouldn’t reach the next station for another ten hours yet. The prospects were high that she’d at least see his face, even if his business precluded any further contact.
She nodded. “Yes, that would be lovely.”
They reached the parlor about a quarter past nine. Rich purple drapes and plump, cream-colored seats gave the room a warm, inviting ambience. Several oval windows, gilded in gold, bathed the area in natural light. Assorted passengers filled most of the seats, but Violet and her father found two by the north-facing windows in the middle of the car.
Joseph ordered coffee. The waiter returned shortly with a tray laden with a porcelain pot and matching cups. Cream, sugar cubes, and a plate of miniature pastries completed the presentation. He deposited the tray on the puddled iron table between their chairs and poured them both a cup of the hot beverage.
Joseph puffed away on a cigar. After adding a dollop of cream and two sugar cubes, Violet sipped the smoky, full-bodied brew. While conversing with her father, she paid closer attention this time. It wouldn’t do to neglect him any further than she already had. Nevertheless, each time her father paused to drink, she surreptitiously scanned the room for Logan’s ebony hat with its distinctive leather band.
Violet bit her lip. Why did she feel so torn?
She could still recall her encounter with Logan in vivid detail. He had made her laugh like no one else in her life. Truth be told, until the death of her mother, she’d never been unhappy. Her parents’ marriage had been a loving one. Her father’s work ensured their financial security. But ever since her mother had died, one very important need had gone unmet: A life–and a love–of her own.
Iron Guns, Blazing Hearts Page 2