The Rails to Love Romance Collection

by Brandmeyer, Diana Lesire; Cabot, Amanda; Carter, Lisa

  He broadened his shoulders. “Are ya daft, woman? Following us out here?” He frowned at the deepening of his brogue.

  What in the world had brought the lady reporter out from town and into the wilds? He didn’t like to think what a delicate creature like herself would’ve endured at the hands of—

  Her eyes flashed. And not with fear.

  Balling her fist, Cordelia socked him in the shoulder. “How dare you, sir!”

  She’d show him daft. She’d made a mistake—a mistake with potentially tragic consequences—but a mistake anyone, male or female, could make. And she’d been prepared to express her gratitude until…

  Until this Irish hooligan insulted her womanhood.

  Rubbing his shoulder, the handsome railroad man stepped back a pace. Handsome with sandy blond hair and in his Union army greatcoat. Cordelia might be outraged, but she wasn’t blind.

  A frown creased the strong brow over his hazel green eyes. “Of all the crazy stunts…”

  His coat gaped, revealing a revolver strapped to his side and a shirt open at the collar.

  A newspaper stringer, Cordelia couldn’t help but observe. Her job was to follow the laying of the track and write her eyewitness accounts. She was trained to notice details.

  He flung his hand toward the distant ridge. “I just saved yer life, not to mention yer virtue, lady.”

  She stiffened. “I’ll have you know I had everything under control before you came along.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You looked like you had everything under control about the time the Injun took control of your scalp.”

  The other men hee-hawed and slapped their thighs. She was sick of being treated like a half-wit. They wouldn’t have patronized her male colleagues.

  Riding out alone from the end of the rails into Indian country probably wasn’t the smartest thing she’d ever done. But she’d be dipped in tar before she’d admit anything of the sort to this blue-belly boor.

  “You’ve cost me the scoop of the century.” She panned left to right with her hands, blocking the imaginary headline in the air. “Captivity among the Red Indians.”

  He bracketed his hands. “Tenderfoot woman buried in lonely prairie grave when she stuck her nose in something not her business.”

  She drew herself to her full height. “Not my business because I’m a woman?”

  “You said it, Miss Cochrane.”

  He knew her name? Although, as the only female in the bunch of reporters sent to cover the great race between the Union and Central Pacific railroads, maybe not such a surprise.

  She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Your version costs too much to send over the telegraph. You pay for each word.”

  “A practice”—the man smirked—“you might be wise to adopt in everyday conversation.”

  The youngest one, a boy, snickered. Still mounted, the other two formed a semicircle around Cordelia and her handsome rescuer.

  She sniffed. He wasn’t that handsome. Not that much.

  The handsome one—stop it, Cordelia—studied her. She flushed, finding his scrutiny discomfiting.

  But he pivoted toward the men. “They did not capture the equipment, did they?”

  Something about the way he spoke… The brogue came and went.

  As for the other men? Irish, every one of them. Veterans by the look of their boots and the dark Union stripe running the length of their army-blue pants. Recruited like so many others to lay rails and join the continent east to west.

  The older one shook his head. “Too busy kidnapping the colleen, I ’spect.” His accent was thick.

  Her blond rescuer—late twenties?—crossed his arms over his chest. “Thank heaven for small mercies.” Muscles bunched underneath the man’s blue flannel shirt and the army-issue suspenders.

  She reddened. Making Cordelia angrier. At herself.

  Her self-appointed rescuer gave her a swift, penetrating look. “I reckon we got what we came for anyway.”

  The bewhiskered man on the middle horse cut his eyes at Cordelia. “Speaking for yerself, Neil?”

  So his name was Neil. Her insides did a treacherous flutter.

  Neil’s mouth flattened. “Hardly, but we’ll have to return to town for now.” And the look he tossed her way wasn’t flattering. “Money a’wasting ’cause someone can’t mind her own business.”

  Her temper flared. “Whose business ought to be in a kitchen?” Maybe he wasn’t as handsome as she’d believed.

  “Railroad business is not a woman’s business.”

  She lifted her chin. “Horace Greeley sent me here to bring a human perspective to this grand adventure. And I’m not about to miss out on the biggest story since the war.”

  “Trying to prove yourself?”

  She pursed her lips. “Aren’t we all?”

  His gaze hardened. “Not at the expense of me men’s lives you don’t, Miss Cochrane.”

  “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir. Your name?”

  He scrubbed his hand over the bearded stubble dotting his strong jawline.

  “It’s Neil,” the younger one offered. “Neil MacBride.” The boy grinned at her. “I’m Billy Doolittle. The old man here is O’Malley.”

  O’Malley tipped his cap to her.

  “And the one who don’t talk much is Tierney.”

  Tierney, a rough-looking sort, twisted his lips. “As opposed to people who talk a wee bit too much.”

  Billy Doolittle ignored him. “They served together in the Sixteenth.”

  She arched a brow. “The Sixteenth. Same as Chief Engineer Grenville Dodge?”

  Doolittle nodded. “Where our golden boy came to the attention of General Dodge after Neil saved his—”

  “Enough.” Neil moved away and took control of his horse again. “Tierney’s right. Too much talk. We’d best head to town.”

  He swung into the saddle. “Put some distance between ourselves and the Sioux before nightfall.” He peered at the sun descending behind the ridge. The horses nickered. The men tightened their grip on the reins.

  “And what about me, Mr. MacBride?”

  He cocked his head. “What about you?”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “With my horse gone, do you intend to leave me out here?”

  “Don’t think the thought hasn’t crossed my mind, Miss Cochrane.”

  Her breath caught.

  Neil MacBride gave her a funny, lopsided smile. “But the Indians got far and away enough trouble without adding a crazy lady reporter to their already dire situation.”

  “You, sir, are no gentleman.”

  “Sure, and that’s a fine way to thank the man who saved you from certain doom.” He extended his arm. “What’s it going to be? End of rail is a good day’s ride from here. Come with us or take your chances.”

  Her palm itched to slap his hand away, but as dusk deepened, she found herself with no other choice but to play by this aggravating man’s set of rules.

  She grabbed hold of his hand, and in a flurry of skirts, he swung her onto the saddle behind him.

  “Done the hostiles a favor today.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “’Cause I figure you—not smallpox—might singlehandedly bring about their early demise.”

  She sputtered.

  “More than likely, I rescued them from you.”

  “How dare—”

  “Better hang on, lady. ’Tis going to be a bumpy ride.” He spurred the horse forward.

  Almost unseated, she wrapped both arms around him and held on for dear life. “Y–you are the m–most—”

  “You are not the most grateful damsel in distress I’ve ever come across, either.”

  “And you are the most patronizing, condescending man, Mr. MacBride, I’ve ever had the m–misfortune—”

  Jolting over the uneven terrain, she cinched her arms tight around his waist. Sheburied her forehead into the rough wool of his coat and inhaled. Woodsy, sweet, and spicy. Bay rum. And something very male. Very Ne
il MacBride.

  An unexpected combination, which caused her pulse to beat more rapidly. She steeled her resolve. He was a complication she’d best avoid if she aimed to impress Mr. Greeley and secure the plum European assignment he’d promised.

  Provided, of course, she survived the Indians and the rough and tumble end-of-rails town. And Neil MacBride.

  Chapter Two

  Many a ragged colt hath made a noble horse.

  IRISH PROVERB

  Of course Neil knew who she was.

  Every man from the track-laying crew to the machine shop in the end-of-the-rails tent city knew about Cordelia Cochrane. The only female any of them had laid eyes on in months. The only lady, leastways, if you didn’t count the soiled doves.

  And even if Cordelia Cochrane hadn’t been the only woman for miles, he still would’ve been aware of her. He’d noticed her from the moment she stepped off the supply train.

  She was like a sweet breeze across parched prairie soil. With hair like the golden wheat he dreamed of farming one day. Her chignon coiled beneath her straw hat, the black ribbon around its brim fluttered in the ubiquitous Wyoming wind. Her travel clothes were smudged from dust and engine smoke. But her eyes… He swallowed at the memory.

  Her eyes sparkled with life and intelligence. And he’d found himself hurrying away, his heart pained for something until that moment he’d not realized he lacked.

  That evening after the rescue, Neil watched Cordelia across the flickering bonfire. The stars glittered like jewels in the blue velvet of the night sky. And she entertained the men with her stories of her reporting adventures during the war. Young Doolittle hung on her every word. Every now and again, her eyes darted across the flames to Neil as if she sensed his contemplation.

  As she spoke, she raised her arms to the nape of her neck, braiding her hair and tucking the strands into the net brushing her shoulders. His pulse skittered, and he clenched the pencil tighter between his fingers.

  Soft tendrils of hair curled and framed her oval face. But he missed the shanks of corn silk previously hanging to her waist. His hand twitched, longing to feel those silky strands.

  He frowned and bent over his sketch pad. His heart beat at a furious clip. She with her fine, educated eastern ways was as far out of a lowly Irishman’s reach as stars in the sky.

  Tierney trudged into camp from guard duty. “Your turn, Billy.”

  Lips poked out, Billy got to his feet. “But Miz Cochrane was getting to the good part.”

  Tierney snorted. “Get out there, and don’t be a lazy dosser. I’d be more afeared for yer scalp if I were you.”

  O’Malley stretched out on his bedroll. “We best be getting sleep while we can. I’ll relieve you in a few hours.”

  Tierney threw himself onto his saddlebags. “You keep watch, Billy. We’ll sleep. Got it, boyo?”

  Stung, Billy grabbed his rifle. “I ain’t ever let you down yet, have I?” He stalked out of the circle of light toward the perimeter of camp where the horses made whuffling noises.

  Too restless to sleep, Neil continued to sketch. He kept his eyes down, off the woman. But Cordelia Cochrane drifted around to his side of the fire.

  “What’re you drawing?”

  He slammed the sketchbook closed. “Nothing.” He nudged his chin at the pile of blankets he’d loaned her. “It’ll be a long ride tomorrow to reach town.”

  She eased onto the ground beside him. His mouth went dry, and his heart took up a furious cadence.

  “You fought in the war?”

  He concentrated on the flickering tongues of the fire.

  “I begged Greeley to allow me to report from the battlefield.” She tilted her head. “Field dispatches. But he refused. Said it wasn’t suitable for a female.”

  “Not a good place for a man, much less a woman.”

  Her mouth tightened. “Is that how you see women, Mr. MacBride? As ‘much less’?”

  Neil frowned. “I did not mean it that way. Women are for cherishing, my da always said. And loving.”

  Her eyes glinted in the orange glow of the flames. “Men don’t need that, too?”

  The strange, restless yearning he’d first experienced at the railroad depot last week reemerged. A yearning for what, he wasn’t sure. For cherishing and loving? To be cherished and loved?

  He clamped his lips together.

  “Were you drafted into the Union Army?”

  “Drafted because I’m Irish?”

  She moistened her lip with her tongue. “I didn’t mean it that way. I’ve got nothing against the Irish. In fact—”

  “Born in County Clare, but I’m a New Yorker since the age of five.”

  Her face brightened. “I’m from New York, too.”

  “Not from the same New York I’m from, I’d be guessing.” He curled his lip. “ ‘The well-fed does not understand the lean.’ ”

  “What?”

  “An Irish proverb. Ever been to Hell’s Kitchen?”

  She shook her head.

  “I thought not.” By the sound of her refined speech, probably from an uptown enclave of wealth. “And for the record, after my parents died I enlisted in the army. I wasn’t drafted.”

  He’d worked hard to eliminate the telltale Gaelic brogue from his speech. Being Irish wasn’t exactly a career builder. He’d learned early only brains and hard work would help him to rise above the stigma of being Irish.

  “Like the restaurants in the City say, ‘No dogs allowed or Irish.’” He was embarrassed at how the Irish crept back into his speech. “For someone like me, the army was my only chance. So I seized it.”

  “I understand about seizing chances. The New York Tribune has enlightened viewsregarding female reporters.” She made a face. “But book reviews and society teas aside, when Mr. Greeley offered me this opportunity, I took it.”

  She threw him a look as if laying down a gauntlet. “This story is my chance. For more.”

  Men, apparently, weren’t the only ones born with ambition. He found himself intrigued by this woman like none he’d ever met. Although, he supposed his mam had been as ambitious in her own way.

  Ambitious enough to scrub rich men’s floors to give Neil a rudimentary education. He’d gone to work in the railroad yards with his da after that. But he’d made it a point to further his book learning when and where he could.

  “So you’re on your own now.”

  “I’m not alone.” He scanned the sleeping men. “I’ve got me boys.” His brow furrowed. What was it about this woman that brought out the Irish in him?

  “My dad was a chaplain in the war, his health wrecked. Neither of my parents lasted a year beyond Appomattox.” She stared out into the night. “The transcontinental railroad will be the story of the century. I intend to be there when the Central Pacific and Union Pacific meet.” Cordelia took a deep breath and released the air slowly between her lips. “This job is all I have, Mr. MacBride.”

  Despite his efforts to remain distant, he felt for her. She wore her aloneness like the cloak about her shoulders. Not unlike him, he reckoned.

  “It’s Neil,” he grunted.

  A smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Cordelia. So the army gave you an opportunity? For what?”

  “The Homestead Act promised one year off the residency requirement for every year served.”

  She tilted her head. “I never would’ve guessed you were a farmer. You seem so…”

  “So what?”

  He’d survived the conflict with his eyes fixed on acquiring his own land in the West one day.

  Cordelia gave him a long look. “You seem the ultimate railroad man. Or a soldier. What did Billy mean about you and General Dodge during the war?”

  His cheeks reddened. “That story’s been done. I was in the right place at the right time. Anyone would’ve done the same. Not the big deal the general made of it from the field hospital.”

  When Dodge discovered Neil had practically grown to manhood in a New York rail yard, he�
��d immediately given him greater responsibility in the Army of Tennessee. Their mission was to repair and rebuild telegraph lines, railroads, and bridges destroyed by the Confederates.

  “It was Dodge who brought you into the Union Pacific?”

  Recruited by Dodge himself because of the skills Neil had honed in managing men during the war. “I’m a walking boss.”

  “What does supervising the laying of track have to do with farming?”

  “The war reconnected the North and South…” He weighed his words. “This railroad will bring together the East and the West. Unite this country with an unbreakable ribbon of steel. Opening the way for homesteaders like myself.”

  “Mind if I quote you?” She scrounged in her skirt pocket and held up a black notepad. “You have a way with words.” She scribbled.

  The scowl returned to his features. “The so-called blarney tongue? And no, Miss Cochrane, you may not quote me. Feel free to claim it as your own. Leave me out of it.”

  She tapped the pencil against her cheek. “I’m surprised you’re able to swing a pickax, Mr. MacBride, with that large boulder you’ve got riding atop your shoulder.”

  There was a guffaw of laughter from the darkness. Doolittle sauntered into the light, the rifle cradled in his arms. “She’s got your number, truly she does, my fine friend.”

  Neil leaped to his feet. “You’re supposed to be on guard duty.”

  Billy grinned. “Himself got a heap of medals from his time in the war. Gallantry and valor. Neil here is also a whiz with the ’rithmetic, too.”

  Neil seized the rifle. “If all you can do is stand here acting the maggot, I’ll take point myself.”

  Billy winked at the other men. “Ruffle your feathers, did she now?”

  Neil growled as he headed into the darkness. “Grab some shut-eye, and that’s an order.”

  He’d been given oversight of his often rowdy Irish compatriots who provided the unskilled labor that aimed to bridge the continent by rail. An ambitious undertaking.

  But Neil was nothing if not ambitious. Again, something he and the lovely Cordelia Cochrane had in common. Lucky for him, his responsibility for the fair-haired maiden of the West ended when he dropped her off in town. Where he’d tip his cap, bid her good day, and wish her fare-thee-well.