“Looks like it,” Belle said. Yancy shouldn’t be alone at a time like this. She hastened to the tiny bathroom where she struggled to make herself presentable. She combed her hair, splashed water on her face, and washed up as best she could. By the time she stepped off the train, the coffin had been loaded into the baggage car. Yancy stood by himself at the edge of the platform, his face unreadable as always, yet Belle could easily guess the turmoil in his heart. “Good morning,” she said. “I saw the pine box and guessed it was for your brother.”
He nodded grimly. “At least he’s got a decent coffin now. Good enough until we get to San Francisco.”
He sounded all right, yet Belle easily caught the sorrow in his voice. “Have you eaten? We could get back on the train and have some breakfast.”
“Not hungry.” He looked toward a winding river that lay beyond the station. “Want to go for a walk? There’s time. Mr. Parkhurst said we’d be here for an hour, loading water and coal.”
“I’d love to.”
They started walking, following a path that took them along the tree-lined river’s edge. They didn’t say much until they came to a bench overlooking the water and sat down. Belle looked toward the high buttes that overlooked the town. “Beautiful, isn’t it? So different from Savannah.”
Yancy nodded agreeably. “You won’t find any moss hanging from the trees around here.”
How did he know about the moss? Had he ever been in Savannah? Surely not, and she wouldn’t bother to ask. She sought for something positive to say, anything to lift his spirits.
“By the way, I’m doing fine,” he said. “You don’t have to cheer me up.”
Had he read her mind? She’d better think carefully before she spoke. Yancy McLeish had an independent streak a mile wide. The last thing he would want was someone’s shoulder to lean on. “I can see you’re doing fine, but even so”—a small smile touched her lips—“I thought you could use some company, and, frankly, after yesterday, I could use some, too.”
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and clasped his hands. “Yeah. Matter of fact, I’d like your opinion.” He went on to relate his concerns about sending a telegram. If he didn’t send one, Ronald’s wife and maybe his children would be waiting in San Francisco at the ferryboat dock, all eager and happy to see their beloved husband and father again. Imagine how shocked they’d be, especially if they saw the coffin unloaded—a sight much too grim for the eyes of young children. But on the other hand, what if he did send a telegram to Ronald’s wife, Bernice? What would he say? Wouldn’t the cold, impersonal words of a telegram be just as shocking, not only to her but to his mother? “Only two more days and we’ll be there. I’ve got to decide.”
She immediately knew the answer and didn’t hesitate. “There’s another answer to your dilemma. Yes, you send a telegram, but why not send it to someone who can break the news more gently? Maybe someone at the bank where Ronald was president? Surely your brother was close to some of the people who worked there, someone who could break the news to his family.”
Yancy closed his eyes a moment, deep in thought. “I remember. Ronald often talked about his good friend, Leighton Canfield, who’s the vice president. Yes, that’s it. I’ll send him a telegram. I’ve got the address of the bank on Ronald’s card. Thanks, Miss Ainsworth. You’ve hit upon the perfect answer.”
“Call me Belle. Don’t you think it’s about time?”
“I do.” For the first time that day, he smiled. “Call me Yancy. You’ve been very kind.”
“Kindness has nothing to do with it. I wanted to help. I…” How strange that feelings she never talked about, the ones buried deep inside herself to escape the pain, had not only surfaced but for a reason she didn’t quite understand, she was about to reveal. “I, too, lost a brother.”
He frowned in sympathy. “You did? What was his name? Tell me about him.”
“Gregory was five years older than I. He was everything a brother ought to be—handsome, smart, successful, and such a tease.” She laughed, remembering. “Back then, I was such a vain creature. Thought I was the belle of the ball, but whenever I got too full of myself, he’d bring me down to size. Then the war came along. He joined up, of course. You should have seen how handsome he looked in his uniform. Lieutenant Colonel Gregory James Ainsworth of the Fifth Georgia Infantry. Ladies nearly swooned at the sight of him. He fought at the Battle of Murfreesboro and came home a hero. Then his regiment went off to the Battle of Chickamauga and…” She had to talk over the sudden lump in her throat. “He never came back.” For a time she sat in silence, gazing at the slow-moving flow of the river. “They say he was killed instantly. Shot through the heart. That’s what the letter said, but I suspect the colonel who wrote it was just being kind, and…” She could go no further. “Sorry. You have enough on your mind without having to hear my heartaches, too.”
“Not at all. Didn’t you say you had another brother?”
“Yes, Bridger.” Up to now, she’d never realized how deeply she’d buried her grief. But in those awful days of the war, death was so commonplace that like everyone else, she hid her sorrow and carried on. She never thought she’d reveal her hidden anguish, lay her deepest feelings bare, but never had she had a listener like Yancy McLeish. With that attentive look on his face, he was giving his attention to every word she said, his eyes brimming with sympathy. She told him all of it— about her brother, Bridger, so badly wounded that his life would undoubtedly be cut short; about Jeremy, her fiancé, killed at Gettysburg; about the father she adored who was killed at Antietam; about how her beloved mother died supposedly of typhoid, but in reality, after losing her husband, one son dead, another badly wounded, she’d died of a broken heart. When Belle finished, she sat back on the bench, drained, yet somehow vastly relieved that for the first time ever, she’d spoken of the constant pain she carried in her heart. “I didn’t mean to dump all my grief on you,” she said. “Please forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive.” He turned toward her. His hands gripped her shoulders. “It’s good to let it all out. My God, you’ve gone through hell, haven’t you?”
What was happening? She’d just poured out her deepest grief, yet the feel of his hands had caused a lurch of excitement within her. So unexpected. One minute she’d been baring her sorrow to a sympathetic listener. The next, that sympathetic listener had turned into a man so desirable he was making her heart hammer. She must stop this immediately, but his presence was so male, so appealing, all she wanted was to lean closer. But he was only being nice. She’d better pull away before she made a fool of herself. But wait, he’d just taken a quick breath, then another. Her gaze locked with his. The sympathy was gone. Now an unmistakable desire shone in his eyes. She moved toward him, hearing herself make a little humming sound as his arms encircled her and his mouth hungrily covered hers. She wrapped her arms around him and found herself returning his kiss with passion. When at last he lifted his lips, she leaned forward for more. “Ah, Belle,” he whispered. He planted kisses on her forehead and cheek before returning to her lips again.
A blast of the train whistle caused them to break apart. For a moment, they simply looked at one another in surprise, as if neither could believe what had happened. Yancy took a deep breath. “We’d better get back.”
Her heart hammering, she reached to smooth her hair. “Guess we better had.”
In silence, they hurried back to the train. “We’ll talk later,” Yancy said as he handed her up the step to her car.
She thanked him, climbed into the train, and returned to her seat. Everything seemed so normal. Passengers looked idly out the windows; Mrs. Hollister worked on her crocheting. On the outside, she supposed she looked normal, too, but on the inside, she still reeled from the effect of Yancy’s kisses. Men had kissed her before, but never had a man caused such a lurch of excitement within her and made her ache for more. What happened by the river had b
een the last thing in the world she’d expected, but now that it had, how could she forget? How could she look at Yancy McLeish and not feel this overwhelming attraction?
But what was she thinking? She had better get her head out of the clouds and face the facts. In all good faith, Robert Romano had offered to marry her, paid her fare, said he would give her a good home and good life in San Francisco. What kind of a fickle, deceitful woman would she be if she broke her promise? She could never do such a thing. She might not have much, but nothing on this earth would cause her to give up her honor and the respect of her friends and family. She might be falling in love with Yancy McLeish. Surely she’d never forget him, but without question she would marry Robert Romano as planned.
Chapter 8
For the rest of the day, Yancy sat alone. Belle didn’t join him like she had the day before, but even so, when he wasn’t thinking of Ronald, he was thinking of her. Too bad she’d chosen not to sit beside him. He would have liked to share the spectacular view as the train crossed the Wasatch Mountains into Utah’s Emigration Canyon, past places with curious names like Thousand Mile Tree and Devil’s Slide. It stopped at Ogden where the Union Pacific Railroad became the Central Pacific Railroad, and from there entered the Valley of the Great Salt Lake. In the late afternoon, the train stopped for water at a desolate spot so small it didn’t have a name, only a big water tank sitting next to a rickety wooden platform. He saw her get off and followed to where she stood.
Belle took a step back when she saw him but quickly recovered and smiled. “Hello, Yancy.” She looked out over the vast, salt-crusted expanse of the Great Salt Lake desert. “Not much of a view, is it?”
“We need to talk.” Passengers milled about. He took her arm. They walked past the water tank to the edge of the platform where no one was around. “About what happened this morning. Perhaps I—”
“You can stop right there, especially if you’re going to apologize. I…” She bit her lip in thought. “It was my fault as much as yours. You didn’t see me pushing you away, did you? Only the thing is…”
“Is what?”
“You and I—it won’t work.”
“Why not? When we get to San Francisco, I’d like to see you again.”
“That’s not possible because…” She sucked in a deep breath, as if she’d need all her strength to get her next words out. “I’m betrothed, Yancy. When we get to San Francisco, my fiancé will be waiting. I’m sorry I haven’t been honest. That’s because I didn’t want to admit I’m a mail-order bride.” She laughed wryly. “Yes, that’s right. So desperate to get married I got betrothed to a man I haven’t even met. I’m beholden to him, though. He paid for my train fare. I could hardly—”
“Go no further.” He forced a smile and tried to ignore the ache that had settled behind his heart. “Of course you must keep your promise. As for you being a mail-order bride, I can’t imagine what’s wrong with that.” He could hardly get the words out, but he’d be nice if it killed him. “I wish you the best. May you and your fiancé have a long and happy life together.”
“Thank you for that. I…”
He could see she wanted to say more, but thought better of it. He also wanted to say more, but what was the point? Besides, he hadn’t thought it through. Maybe this was for the best. What if she’d said yes, that she’d like to see him in San Francisco? Then what would he have done? He, Yancy McLeish, the loner, the man who lived isolated and alone and liked it that way. But then…
An unfamiliar tenderness swept through him. Would she be all right? Wasn’t she taking a risk marrying a man she’d never even met? So much could go wrong, but why should he care? He hardly knew her, and she wasn’t his concern. Tomorrow they’d come to the end of the line, and he’d soon forget about her, even her name.
* * * *
Belle had assumed that once she told Yancy she was betrothed, not only would she be filled with relief, she’d resume her daydreaming about Robert Romano and the wonderful life she was going to have in San Francisco. The problem was, Yancy stayed on her mind as much as ever. Try as she might, whenever she tried to picture her fiancé, she saw Yancy instead, felt his hands on her shoulders, heard his passionate whisper, “Ah, Belle,” as he pulled her into his arms. But she must stop thinking about him. Must forget him. Much as she yearned to be near him, most definitely she’d need to avoid him the rest of the journey.
Despite her mixed-up feelings, Belle looked forward to what Mrs. Hollister described as the fascinating scenery they would pass on the last leg of their journey. “You might as well sit by the window,” the older woman suggested in an amazing moment of generosity. “I’ve seen it all before and could not care less.”
So they switched seats, and Belle sat with her nose practically pressed to the glass as the train left the Great Salt Lake desert and began its trek over the Sierra Nevada Mountains. From Reno, the train made a slow, serpentine climb around the east end of Lake Tahoe until it reached seven thousand eighteen feet at Donner Pass. Mr. Parkhurst passed through the car occasionally, imparting interesting bits of information. “Laying the tracks across these steep mountains was an amazing engineering feat,” he told them as they started a 105-mile descent to Sacramento. “Be glad it’s summer. In winter, this section is always treacherous. Sometimes they’ve got to clear as much as fifty to sixty feet of snowfall as well as ice from water dripping in the tunnels.”
The miles of snowsheds needed to keep the line passable made Belle think she was traveling through a long, continual tunnel. In between the tunnels, there were times she had to hold her breath as the train crept along a grade literally carved out of the side of a mountain.
At last they left the mountains behind, stopped at Sacramento, and started on the very last leg of their journey to San Francisco.
“We’re almost there,” Mrs. Hollister said.
Belle’s spirits fell the closer they got to San Francisco. Since that painful talk when she told Yancy she was betrothed, he’d avoided her, as she had avoided him. But she couldn’t let it end that way. She would talk to him one more time before—her heart ached at the thought—she’d never see him again.
As the train pulled onto the dock at Oakland, Mrs. Hollister, who seemed to have reverted to her usual unpleasant self, sniffed her displeasure. “You’d have thought they would lay the tracks clear to San Francisco, but they didn’t, and now we have to take a ferryboat. Most inconvenient, I must say.”
Belle didn’t think it inconvenient at all. She looked forward to a ferry ride where surely she’d find Yancy so they could say their final goodbyes.
As the ferryboat, El Capitan, pulled away from the pier, Belle stood on the upper deck, both hands on the railing, and got her first look at the city of San Francisco. Bathed in sunlight, it sat on a series of hills that overlooked the entrance to the bay. The Golden Gate, they called it, and that seemed the perfect title. The day seemed golden, what with the sun sparkling on the water, seagulls soaring gracefully over the ship, and passengers in a happy mood, glad their long journey was coming to an end. She searched among the passengers who crowded the upper deck. Where was Yancy? She must find him and there wasn’t much time. But before she could move from the railing, he appeared beside her. “Nice, isn’t it?” he said. “Reminds me of Boston Harbor, the same salty smell.”
He’d found her. Her heart took a leap, but forcing herself to stay calm, she looked out over the white-capped waters and breathed deeply of the crisp, bracing air. She turned to him and remarked, “Savannah’s a port city, too, but it’s different. The air’s not salty, it’s muggy.”
“Will you miss it?”
A pang of longing shot through her. “More than words can say.”
“Ae you excited?”
“Of course! I’ll be meeting my new husband today.” What a lie. Her excitement at becoming a new bride had vanished, and it was all Yancy’s fault. Up until he kisse
d her, she’d been so excited over her impending marriage she hadn’t given a thought to what could go wrong. Yancy had changed all that, filled her full of doubts. No longer did she daydream of Robert Romano. Now she could only hope she hadn’t made a horrible mistake.
“He’ll be waiting at the dock?” Yancy asked.
“I suppose so.” She heard the doubt in her voice and made herself brighten. “I mean, of course he will. We’ll be married right away. Did I tell you he owns a restaurant?”
“That so? I’m glad.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “Here’s one of Ronald’s personal cards. It’s got his address on it, where I’ll be staying. I want you to take it, just in case.”
“Thanks, but I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’ll take it, though.” She reached for the card and tucked it into her handbag. “Just in case,” she echoed, wanting to make light of it, but sounding more serious than she’d intended. “So is someone meeting you?”
“I took your suggestion and sent a telegram to the vice president of Ronald’s bank. He’ll be meeting me.”
“Again, I am so sorry about your brother.” She had to force herself not to place a comforting hand on his arm, but she mustn’t touch him. “This is going to be an ordeal for you, I know. Your mother will need you, and I should imagine Ronald’s wife and children, too. Then there’s the funeral—all of that. I wish I could help in some way, but—”
“There’s nothing you can do.” His smile held a touch of sadness. “Don’t worry, I’ll be all right. I’ll do what has to be done, then head for home.”
“Ronald wanted you to stay in San Francisco, remember? He had big plans for you.”
Yancy shook his head decisively. “I’ll be counting the days until I’m back in my cabin again.”
“I can see you mean it.”
While they continued their light chatter, Belle yearned to tell him how much she’d like to see him again, but her good sense kept her quiet. She’d made her choice. Nothing more should be said. Only minutes passed before the ferryboat’s shrill whistle sounded loud and clear. They were nearing the dock in San Francisco. Passengers who’d lined the railing started down the stairs, getting ready to disembark. “So this is goodbye.” She gazed deep into his eyes, aware of him in every pore of her body—his nearness, the air he breathed, the heat from his skin.
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