“We? Who were you with?”
“Another time, dear. Another time.” Aunt Cora wiped a tear from her eye.
Chapter Five
The train whistle blew. Black smoke plumed into the air. Wyatt ran, regretting the idea to go for food and thankful he’d decided to send his valise to the baggage car. Panting, he grabbed the handrail with both hands as the wheels turned. He swayed on the bottom step as the train picked up speed. That was too close.
Missing this train could have ended his career or at least demoted him from reporter to selling papers on the street. And that would have forced his father’s hand. He swallowed back his anger at being ordered around.
“Ticket, sir?” The porter stood at the doorway just far enough back for Wyatt to enter the car. He spotted a purple hat and the copper tendrils of the woman he sought, sitting in the seats that faced each other. The one place he hated. There would be no leg room, but the chance to talk to these two women came before comfort.
“Got it right here, George.” He slipped his ticket from his pocket and handed it over with a few coins.
“This car is pretty full. If you’d like to look in one of the others—”
“This one will be fine. I can move later if I’m uncomfortable.” He took back his ticket and stuffed it in his pocket. Resisting the urge to whistle, he strode down the aisle, keeping his balance like a sailor at sea, and slid into the seat in front of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. How had he missed the green of her eyes when he took the umbrella from her?
Those same eyes looked loaded with ammunition and ready to take him out.
“What are you doing?” Her face reddened.
Did she think he was here to berate her about the child?
“I needed a place to sit, and this seat was open.”
Her mouth formed a small O, but no words, not even a breath, left her lips. He seized the moment before she might ask him to move. “I’m Wyatt Cross from the Daily Commonwealth. I’m hoping to ask you a few questions for a column I’m writing.”
“Aunt Cora?”
Good. Now he knew the relationship between them. He stared at the aunt and waited for her reply. Listening, not talking, brought him the best stories.
Aunt Cora patted her niece’s hand.
A nice hand, he noticed, smooth and without a blemish, her nails trimmed to exactness.
“Mary, it’s your chance to be part of history. Why don’t you help this handsome gentleman with his article?”
Mary nodded. “I’m Miss Owen. It’s nice to meet you.”
So, she wasn’t going to tell her aunt about their earlier incident. She didn’t appear to remember him from the Wagners’ dinner party. The woman who asked him about Africa now sat in front of him. God giving him a chance at the one he thought long gone?
“Thank you for agreeing to talk with me. Where are you from?”
“We’re from St. Louis.” Her voice was soft against the clacking of the wheels on the track.
“How did you get tickets for the excursion?” He leaned forward to hear her answer.
She pressed against the seat. “I’m not sure.” Her eyebrows knit together, and she glanced sideways at her aunt, then back at him. “Father bought them at the depot, or did you, Aunt Cora?”
Aunt Cora coughed. “Yes, we both did in a way. I told your father I was going, and he procured the tickets.”
“He must have thought you would be safe with all the dignitaries on this trip.” He’d have to do some digging when he returned to Topeka. The man had connections to be able to get tickets for the excursion. But why would he send his daughter and her aunt on a trip that hadn’t been tested? “The excursion is the first for the Santa Fe to Pueblo; there could be problems. You must be brave women to take a journey that hasn’t yet been experienced by men.”
“We both like adventure, or rather my aunt does. This is my first trip. I am going to enjoy it.”
“As long as things go well, I assume?” Wyatt scribbled first-time traveler. This would be a story to follow up on if all didn’t go smooth on this first train journey to Pueblo.
“Even if they don’t, Mr. Cross.”
Mary held tightly to the edge of the seat. Mr. Cross made her squirm. The space between their legs had to be less than two fingers’ width. Her skirt moved as he adjusted his feet.
“It’s a bit cramped in these seats. I apologize for mussing your outfit.”
Her face warmed, and it wasn’t from the woodstove in the corner across from them. She scooted her feet under the seat and smoothed the fabric a bit tauter. “Maybe you could find another place to sit?”
He twisted his body and peered down the aisle, his foot stretched to the side. Once again, he touched her hem.
“Looks pretty full to me. They sold all the tickets, and with only ten coaches there aren’t a lot of open seats. I think I’ll be here until we stop in a few hours.” He sat back in his seat and scribbled in his notebook.
What was he writing now? She leaned forward a tiny bit, pretending to adjust her skirt while hoping for a glance at the paper. Or was he sketching?
He looked up.
She snapped back into place. His Wedgewood-blue eyes and coal-black lashes connected to some feeling she hadn’t felt before, not at all unpleasant. Her breathing quickened. Perhaps if she thought of him as a restless child instead of a handsome gentleman, it would be easier to sit across from him until the next stop. He looked as disheveled as a boy.
His coat, while of good quality, had sleeves a bit too long, adding to the childlike vision. One of his light brown waves slipped through his pomade and twirled to the side. She bit back a smile. It wouldn’t do for him to think she found him amusing.
“Mary, look.” Aunt Cora nudged her shoulder with hers. “Is that snow falling?”
The sky grew dark, and white flakes stuck to the window.
“Snow isn’t unusual for Topeka in early March.” Weather. He was a reporter and that’s the most interesting thing he could say? Wyatt struggled for something more thought worthy to jump the conversation to his desired topic.
“We have snow in March as well, Mr. Cross. Sometimes so much the roads are impassable. Isn’t that right, Mary?” Aunt Cora rubbed her forehead. “I do believe I’m getting a headache.”
And he’d lost the train right off the track. Now the women were going to discuss aliments. Perhaps he should search for another seat with a woman capable of conversing about more than aches, pains, and hunger.
“Aunt Cora, it’s too early for dinner, but maybe all this excitement has left you a bit hungry. Should I get you something from the basket?”
“I’ll be fine, dear. Let’s just give it some time and see if it disappears. Now, Mr. Cross, how did you get started in the newspaper business?”
Taken aback by her question, Wyatt almost told her he’d begun his profession as a way to irritate his father. “I’ve always liked to write stories, and this was a way to make my own money.”
“So you come from a moneyed family, then?”
Mary’s attention turned from her aunt to him. Wyatt’s throat closed. Another woman looking for a husband. He’d been mistaken to think she came on this trip for the adventure.
“What makes you think that, Mrs.—” He realized she hadn’t introduced herself.
“Miss Owen as well. I’ve never married.” She turned away. “Maybe we should ask George to get the basket.”
The younger Miss Owen glared at him. He’d made her angry by upsetting her aunt.
“I can retrieve it for you, Miss Owen.” He stood, smashing the younger Miss Owen’s dress again. If he kept this up, he’d have to buy her a new one.
“Mr. Cross, if you trample my skirt any more, you’re likely to put your boot through it. We can call George to help, and maybe you can find another place to sit.” She gave him a candy-sweet smile. “Then my poor unmarried aunt can rest. Your attempt at polite banter has most likely caused her a powerful headache.” With th
at, she punched the buzzer by the window for George.
Eager to be away from the bothersome Miss Owen, Wyatt nodded. Once more, words escaped him.
He ambled down the aisle and paused next to an empty seat beside a young woman who sat next to an older man. Maybe she would be willing to talk. “May I sit here?”
The woman batted her eyes at him. His heart sunk. A woman looking for a husband.
“Of course. I’m Winnie Periwinkle, and this is my uncle Albert.”
“Mr. Cross. I’m doing an article for the paper about women on the excursion. Would you mind answering a few questions?”
Miss Periwinkle brushed her shoe along his ankle then rested her foot on top of his. “What would you like to know?”
Trapped. Was this how Miss Owen had felt?
Chapter Six
Wyatt lurched across the platform to the next car. The rushing wind slid under the awning and attempted to steal his hat. He grabbed it before it took flight, holding it tightly to his head as he entered the car. The warmth from the stove hit him, and he relaxed.
He had no intention of finding a wife on this trip, despite his moment of insanity when he noticed the stunning Miss Owen’s eyes. No, thank you. He’d take his father’s anger. He didn’t need the family money or the name. He definitely didn’t need Miss Periwinkle either, despite her willingness to answer any question he asked. Her desperate friendliness had him asking a few rapid-fire questions so he could escape her obvious desire for a husband.
He strolled through the swaying car. Happy excursioners filled all the seats. He might as well return to the one he’d left. He resolved to ignore the green-eyed beauty and watch the scenery go by.
He turned to go back. The train had slowed. That wasn’t right. He glanced out a window. Snow still fell, but that shouldn’t affect the train. What was happening? The reporter’s blood raced through his veins. He smelled a story brewing.
He took off toward the engine where he could get answers. Thoughts of his father, marriage, and money dissipated with each step he took.
“Aunt Cora, what a dreadful man.” Why had they sat so near the stove? Mary traced her cheek close to her hairline, making sure no perspiration made an appearance.
“You’ll have to get used to those who are a bit rough around the edges if you want to see the world. If you’re serious about missionary work, you’ll stand in front of bulls who don’t wish you to be in their community.”
Mary handed her aunt a cookie. “Will one be enough, do you think?”
“I suppose we’ll find out. It is an odd thing that eating keeps me on my feet, or in this case, on the seat.” Aunt Cora sniffed the cookie. “I do love the smell of butter and sugar. Many times while in Europe, I longed for a bit of an American cookie.”
“Their treats are quite delightful, but I understand. Do you feel it is because it’s a memory of home more than the cookie itself?”
“Perhaps.”
Mary kicked her hem out in front of her a bit to inspect the damage left by Mr. Cross’s boot. A parade of dusty sole marks marched across the bottom. She would have to brush the skirt when they stopped for the night. The realization crushed her hope of an evening of leisure. “Do you encounter many like him on your travels?”
“A few, and sometimes the ones I thought were the worst of scoundrels turned out to be the nicest of gentlemen.”
“Tell me about one of them, please?” She patted her aunt’s arm. She loved her stories. While at boarding school, she’d retold her roommates the stories over and over. They all dreamed of living like her aunt, though they knew they would not. All of them were destined to marry a man who would improve their families’ positions or coffers.
All except her. She intended to live a rich and exciting life, the way her aunt did. She refused to be sent away to a loveless marriage to lose herself because her father deemed a union more important than who she was.
“There was a young man in Spain. Why is the train slowing?” Aunt Cora wrinkled her forehead.
“We aren’t to our stop yet.” Mary tried to peer around her aunt to judge the reaction of the others.
The murmur from the passengers built. A woman clung to Mr. Cross. She held on to him as if she’d known him for a long time. Mary fisted her hands tightly enough for her fingernails to bite her palms.
Mary sucked in a breath as Wyatt slid back onto the bench across from her. “It appears there is a problem up ahead.”
“Why aren’t you sitting with your friend?”
“Miss Periwinkle? We are acquainted but not friends. I prefer to be here where I can have the entire seat to myself. As I was saying—”
“What’s happening?” Mary couldn’t keep her hands still, plucking at her skirt and then her hair. “Are we in danger? There aren’t train robbers, are there?” She peered through the window and saw little but snow.
“Seems the snow has caused a problem farther up the line.” Wyatt spoke loudly and intentionally.
“How do you know?”
He put his finger to his mouth as if to shush her, then stood to address the car. “I’ve talked to the engineer. We have to stop at the next town because something happened to the snow plow.”
“Do they have a place for us to stay?” Aunt Cora leaned over to Mary. “And so your adventure begins. We shall see how you stand up to changes in plans.”
“I’ll be fine. It’s quite exciting to have things go off the rails. I mean having to stop, not the train itself. I wouldn’t care for that.” Mary peeked under her eyelashes at Mr. Cross. He stood there, acting important, talking to the gentleman next to them. His voice bounced around the car like a child’s ball. “I know this stop. There isn’t a place for everyone to stay.”
He turned from her and lowered his voice. She couldn’t pick up the words. But she knew enough to know she and Aunt Cora needed a plan for the night. Maybe they could sleep in their seats. Not comfortable at all, but what other choice would there be? She intended to find out as soon as Mr. High-and-Mighty sat down.
Chapter Seven
Wicker baskets crackled as their owners opened them. Was that fried chicken he smelled? Wyatt’s mouth watered. Missing breakfast and lunch turned out to be a big problem.
“Stuck? The snow plow is buried?” Mary unwrapped a sandwich and handed it to her aunt.
“Eat half. I have plenty.” Aunt Cora shoved the sandwich into Miss Owen’s hand. “We’ll be at the next town by morning, and we can get breakfast.”
He could taste the saltiness of the ham piled high between bread. Would the young Miss Owen share with him the way she had the boy? He slid his pencil out from behind his ear and chewed the top while considering how much to tell the women. “We aren’t going to make it that far. The engineer said two plows are ditched and one of them is halfway on the track. We’re stopping in Larned until they build a temporary track.”
“Mr. Cross, where is your dinner?” The older Miss Owen sounded much like his mother. “I hope the railroad has secured rooms for us there.”
“I’m not hungry.” His stomach roared like thunder.
“But he must be, Aunt Cora. Did you hear—”
“Mary, don’t be impolite.”
She tore her sandwich in half, leaving herself a mere quarter. “Here. We know you didn’t bring a dinner basket with you. What were you thinking? We were told to bring a meal.”
He didn’t want to take it from her, but last night’s dinner was a distant memory. “Yes, I knew. I forgot. I had a late night and slept too long. I missed breakfast and didn’t have time to get lunch, either.”
She pushed it at him. “Go on, you must eat something.”
He reached for the sandwich, brushing her gloveless fingers as he did. A spark of electricity shot between them. He pulled back. Had she felt it, too? “You’re cold. Why don’t you change places with me, so you can be closer to the stove?” Why did he feel a need to put her comfort before his? Would he have done the same for Miss Periwinkle? He might
have, not because he wanted to, but to be polite.
“I’m fine. Thank you.” She took a birdlike bite.
“Reconsider, please. It will be cold by the window, and we’ll all be sleeping on the train tonight.” She was stubborn. He liked that.
“Aunt Cora?”
“Part of the adventure, Mary.”
He was right. They were stuck sitting on the track for the night. She chose to stay by Aunt Cora. At least they could use each other’s shoulders for pillows. Mary leaned against her aunt and tried to doze.
What if they were stuck more than one day? That wouldn’t happen, would it? If it did, what would they do for food? Would the railroad send another train? Maybe Mr. Cross knew. How did he find out information before the others? Possibly because he was a reporter? What it must be like to be free to chase a story across the country? What would it be like to be married to a man like Wyatt? Would he allow her to travel with him if she married him?
Her legs tingled and numbed. She moved them but couldn’t get it to stop. Much like her father’s request. She’d have to answer to her father’s wishes soon, but how could she marry someone she didn’t know? It wasn’t fair that men could choose not to take a wife. Why couldn’t her father be like her aunt?
Please, God, help me find the words to explain to him how much I need, want to be different? That I want to be a part of something bigger. Helping orphan children discover who You are would work for me, if it works for You, that is. Always Your will, Father, even if it means I marry someone my earthly father has picked out for me.
Sleep would bring the morning faster, but it continued to evade her. The soft glow from the lamps along the sides of the coach didn’t help. She liked a dark room when she slept.
George explained it would be best to keep them lit to protect the ladies. Mary shivered. Safety hadn’t been a concern until he said those words.
Mr. Cross closed his eyes and dropped off into sleep. How did he do that? Maybe reporters were given that gift so they could be ready to follow a story at a moment’s notice.
The Rails to Love Romance Collection Page 3