The Rails to Love Romance Collection

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

  She could tell he itched to be on the rail bed with the other men. Doing his job. Being a part of the team. And he would’ve been, except for her.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He half turned in the saddle. “For what?”

  “You’d be doing the work you love and with the men you inspire, if not for me.”

  His eyes widened. “Me, inspire?”

  “Yes, you. Your Irish comrades would lay track wherever you told them. They’d follow you anywhere. Like they did in battle.”

  Neil scrubbed his hand over his beard stubble. “I led some into an early grave. Which is why once this railroad is done, I’ll homestead and watch the wheat grow, that I will.”

  She gave him a cool, measured look. “Sure you will.”

  He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Clicking her tongue against her teeth, she steered her horse to higher ground.

  He dug his heels into the sides of his horse and followed. “Where’re you going?”

  “To the meadow to eat lunch.”

  “Don’t go too far. There’s guards posted for a reason.” He snagged hold of her horse’s bridle. “Figured you’d want the entire experience. Food car and all.”

  The dining car had arrived, and the walking boss who’d assumed Neil’s former position called time. Packed into the train car, the men would be served their daily staple of beef, bread, and coffee.

  She wrinkled her nose. “So many men in one place at one time.”

  A smile flickered in his eyes. “Too big a stench in one place at one time.”

  “I—I didn’t mean to imply… It’s honest sweat. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Neil laughed. “It’s better you don’t go. Not a good idea to get between a man and his hard-earned grub. No matter how pretty the face.”

  He thought her pretty? Perhaps he was being sarcastic. Neil MacBride hadn’t appeared bowled over by her feminine charms.

  In the big grassy meadow, she swung down. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll stay here in sight of the guards. You go enjoy lunch with your friends.”

  His face clouded.

  She shooed him away. “I’ll be fine. You’ve earned the break from me.” She unbuckled the saddlebag.

  He dismounted. He grabbed his own saddlebag and slung it over his shoulder. “It’s not that. You—” He took the bulging pack from her.

  Bees droned. She wished he’d finish what he’d been about to say.

  Instead, he plowed deeper into the blowing fronds of grass. “Where do you want it?”

  “Right there.” She motioned. “But Neil—”

  His face lit at his name on her lips. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Heat flamed in her cheeks. She fingered the brooch pinned to the lace collar of her blouse.

  Neil hefted the saddlebag in his hand. “What’s in here?”

  She removed the rolled horsehair blanket she’d stowed behind the saddle. “Mary-Margaret at the tent eatery packed it for me.”

  “Ah, the Scots-Irish lass. By way of Tennessee.” He smacked his lips. “Fifty cents a meal. You’re in for good eating.”

  Cordelia sniffed. “You’d be the one to know.” She billowed the blanket over the grass.

  Since Neil assumed over watch of her movements, she’d been careful to observe his, too. He didn’t frequent the sporting women at the saloon as did so many of the men. Mary-Margaret Gallagher, however, was a different story.

  Of course, ever since the young strawberry blond entrepreneur had pitched her eating establishment, lots of men made sure their feet were under one of her tables come suppertime.

  Mouth pursed, Cordelia eased onto the blanket and tucked her skirts around her legs. “I’m sure it’s no business of mine.” She reached for the saddlebag in his arms.

  Neil handed the pack over to her, but he didn’t let go. “No man among us would turn away a good plate of stew. But it’s John Tierney who’s sweet on the girl. He never misses a meal.”

  Cordelia’s eyebrows rose. “Tierney doesn’t seem the romantic sort.” She tugged at the leather.

  Neil held on and held her gaze. “John sits there and stares at her the whole time he’s shoveling food into his mouth. Strange what calls the heart of different men, eh, ’Delia?”

  Her heart hammered in her chest.

  “John’s more than you might suppose by looking at him. He watched his entire family die, you see, in the Irish famine. He made his way to America alone. Then the war chewed up what was left of his heart.”

  “He’s your friend.”

  Neil gave her a slight smile. “I guess he’s the best one I have. I’m right pleased he’s taken an interest in the scrappy Mary-Margaret. She’s brought out something in him I feared lost for good.”

  “So now he only needs to work up enough courage to actually speak to her.”

  Neil’s gaze traveled from her eyes to her mouth and returned to her eyes. “Exactly.”

  She believed her heart might stop as he leaned forward. Then he seemed to recollect they both still clutched the saddlebag. He let go and shifted away.

  “We’re moving out tomorrow. It’s not too late to head back to Cheyenne.”

  “Trying to get rid of me?” she whispered.

  Neil fought the impulse to touch her hand. That or kiss her lips. Getting rid of her didn’t seem the coup he’d anticipated. He had to think of her safety, though.

  “It’s only going to get harder from here. Brutal. The men will get rougher and coarser as the work and the weather worsen. No place for a lady.”

  She cocked her head. “I appreciate you thinking of my sensibilities, but like you, I’ve got a job to do. It’s not just the Irish who have something to prove to the rest of the world.”

  Cordelia removed the lunch items one by one from the pack. “Go enjoy your lunch.”

  Feeling awkward kneeling beside her, his hands gripped his knees. Maybe he was right where he wanted to be. Where he was meant to be. He eased onto the blanket.

  Her eyes flew as swift as a bird’s wing to his. “What’re you doing?”

  “Inviting myself to lunch. ’Tis hungry I am. And what you’ve got looks better than anything else I’ve seen.”

  He pressed his lips together. Of all the thickheaded things to say—he wasn’t good with words like Cordelia.

  She opened her mouth and closed it. For the first time at a loss for words. A smile played along his lips as he helped her unpack the rest of the vittles.

  Her eyebrow quirked. “I thought I annoyed you.”

  “Only when you’re being stubborn and unreasonable.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “Which, I concede, is most all the time.”

  She arranged her skirts. “I can’t blame you for preferring Mary-Margaret’s lunch over the dining car.”

  “And the lunch companion who goes with it.”

  By the sweeping tilt of her lashes, he could tell he’d pleased her. Looking at her pleased him. Food for the soul.

  He seized a paper-wrapped sandwich. “May I?”

  “Suit yourself.” She settled onto the blanket with another sandwich. “I haven’t cornered the market on stubborn and unreasonable.”

  Lying on his side, he stretched out, glad to be out of the saddle. “No, I expect you haven’t.”

  “But it’s those very qualities that brought us success in our careers.” She took a small bite and chewed.

  “The railroad isn’t my career. Only a means to acquire the start-up money I need for the farm.” He tore off a hunk of the ham sandwich with his teeth.

  “Mr. Greeley promised me my choice of assignments after this.” Her gaze flew skyward, dreamy. “The finest European capitals, the—”

  “What do you want with Europe?” Neil gestured at the rolling expanse. “When you can have this?”

  She poked his hat with her finger. “Spoken like the truest American I ever met.”

  His shoulders drooped. “Spoken by a boy from Ireland.”

  She shook her head
. “A man who’s fought and worked hard for everything he’s got. I know something about that, too.”

  “Everything I know, I’ve taught myself.”

  “I admire that.” She smiled at him. A sweet smile. His heart stuttered. A smilemeant just for him? Was he being fanciful? But in her eyes, he caught a glimpse of himself as something other—something more—than he ever imagined he could be.

  The day had warmed. Not many golden days like this left in the year. He shrugged out of his jacket and rolled the cuffs of his shirtsleeves over his arms to his elbows.

  Forevermore when he pondered Wyoming, he’d remember the smell of sagebrush after a rain. And Cordelia, sitting among the green ocean of the prairie.

  “Tell me what you saw today.” His voice turned gruff. “What will you write in that eastern newspaper of yours?”

  Drawing her legs up, she rested her chin on her knees. “A story about what I see?”

  Her brown calico skirt brushed against the tops of the prairie grass. Small, yellow curls framed her face into a perfect oval. A meadowlark trilled.

  Unable to trust himself to speak, he nodded. And as she described what she labeled a symphony of movement, he drank in the light in her eyes. Her face became animated, passionate about what she loved. Words.

  She’d somehow managed in those words to capture the beauty of the prairie, the courage of the men, and the audacity of the entire venture.

  A venture to which they both belonged. Joined in a fundamental and totally unexpected way, he, the Irish orphan, with this sophisticated eastern woman. Everything else fell away from him.

  The hiss of the steam engine faded. The jocularity of the crew on their lunch respite muted. The wind sighing among the grass went silent.

  He was amazed at how well she understood him. How well they understood each other. And he wondered what it would feel like to be the object of her passion.

  To be loved by a woman like her. His pulse leaped. Not only a woman like her, but by Cordelia herself.

  As she spoke aloud her thoughts, he sketched her likeness. In an effort to capture this moment. Until she ran out of words. Until there no longer existed between them a need for words.

  Peace enveloped their prairie island. Her arms clasped around her skirts, Cordelia closed her eyes. And something long incomplete and aching within him righted.

  At the clang of the bell on the dining car, her eyes flew open. He laid his pencil down. And the sounds of the outside world intruded once more.

  The clang of steel on steel. This hiss of escaping steam. The soothing ch… ch… ch of the locomotive.

  “What do you draw, Neil?”

  He flipped the sketchpad closed. “Whatever is beautiful. Whatever is true. Whatever is lovely.” He rose and offered his hand.

  Cordelia’s slim fingers caught his hand. Her cool palm lay against his. And yet her touch ignited a quivering sensation within him. Like an iridescent dragonfly flitting against his skin.

  She tilted her head. “Philippians. My father was a minister before he became a chaplain in the war.”

  He found it hard to breathe with Cordelia so distractingly near. “Time to get back to work.”

  “I’m sorry to be keeping you from yours.”

  He didn’t let go of her hand. “There are compensations I hadn’t foreseen.”

  She stood so close he could’ve kissed her if he dared. He fought against a sudden lump in his throat. But a poor Irish boy had no business thinking such thoughts about a lady like herself.

  “Like lunch?”

  He needed to move away. If only to give himself the chance to draw a steady breath. “And your stories.” With reluctance, he let go of her hand. “Among other things.”

  Chapter Five

  It takes time to build castles.

  IRISH PROVERB

  March, 1869

  Utah Territory

  Neil lost count of how many times he’d relocated Cordelia’s tent as the westward trek of the rails moved ever onward.

  Something had changed within him since their meadow lunch. He felt as if he grasped at the shadow of his dreams. As the dream of golden waves of wheat—sustaining him through the hardship and terror of war—slipped inexorably from him.

  Neil and Cordelia spent a lot of time talking about their past, the present, and their dreams for the future while January snowstorms blanketed Wyoming. A cold wave swept the plains. Gravy and butter froze on the plate.

  In February, the worst storm in living memory shut down ninety miles of line. The graders worked in layered overcoats. At times, the UP crew was reduced to making the grade by blasting the frozen ground with black powder.

  Later, Neil regretted sharing so much of himself with Cordelia. He’d resolved to keep his thoughts and his words contained and as controlled as his horse, Mulligan. Yet inevitably Cordelia had a way of drawing Neil out of himself.

  As the weather slowly cleared, they resumed their forays to the end of the track. The surveyors had completed their job and disbanded.

  He chafed with inaction on the days she remained behind the line to interview the end-of-rail residents. As often as not, he suspected she invented reasons to visit the grade so he could be within sight of his men.

  The latest obstacle had stopped forward momentum in its tracks. Literally, as the men were confronted with blasting through a mountain. The crew was frustrated.

  Cordelia wrote out loud, “The UP’s hitherto rapid progress has been more about the open flatness of the plains and less about its much-touted superiority over the CP.”

  She rested her notepad against the saddle horn.

  “You’re going to write that?” On horseback, Neil glanced over at what she’d written. “About the UP?”

  “It’s the truth. Crews are still tunneling through Number Three. Only building the runaround tracks from Echo to Weber Canyon allowed you to get a start on Tunnel Number Four. You’ve simply rolled the hoop—or the tunnel as it were—down the track to tackle at a later date.”

  “What about the Thousand Mile Tree?” He jutted his chin in the direction of the ninety-foot giant on the ridge. “One thousand miles of track from Omaha to that tree.”

  “The Central Pacific has surmounted much harder terrain over the mighty Sierra Nevada. A triumph of modern engineering.”

  He scowled. “The point of the race was about which railroad tracks the most miles.”

  “And here I believed the point was to connect both sides of the continent.” She fluttered her lashes at him. “Silly me.”

  “Truer words, Cordelia Cochrane…” He gripped his horse’s reins. “O’Malley! Get yourself over here.”

  O’Malley straightened from working the grade. “Meself?” He pointed to his chest.

  “Today would be grand if you can manage it,” Neil growled.

  Ambling over in no great hurry, O’Malley tipped the peak of his cap to her. “A top of the mornin’ to you, Miss Cochrane. How be you?”

  “I’m doing well. How about you, Mr. O’Malley?”

  “He’s fine,” Neil answered before O’Malley could. “Doing a decent hard day’s labor, which is what I should be doing instead of lollygagging with a know-it-all—”

  O’Malley had the nerve to laugh.

  Neil jabbed his finger at the man. “You and me are going to do a prisoner exchange, Pat.”

  Cordelia leaned forward. “Prisoners?”

  “A swap. Exchange his freedom for my incarceration for a few hours.”

  She bristled. “Are you suggesting I’ve been holding you captive, Mr. MacBride?”

  Neil swung his horse toward the direction of the tunnel. “Let’s call it time off for good behavior, shall we?”

  He gritted his teeth. “I have a burning need to smash rocks.” He nudged Mulligan into a trot. He didn’t bother to turn around.

  Cordelia rammed her notepad and pencil inside the saddlebag. “Of all the mule-headed…”

  O’Malley sighed, not unlike a long-suffering sa
int before the lions.

  “If you’ve got something to say, Patrick O’Malley, then I suggest you say it.”

  “You’ve managed to get under the boss’s skin, Miss Cochrane. I’ve not seen him as rattled under an enemy barrage. What did you do now?”

  “I merely observed the Central Pacific appeared to be winning the race in terms of actual accomplishment, notwithstanding the UP’s greater mileage.”

  O’Malley’s goatee quivered. “That woulda done it. Our Neil’s a mite sensitive about his railroad.”

  She squared her shoulders. “Heaven help the woman stupid enough to ever try and come between that man and a locomotive.”

  O’Malley laughed outright. “I reckon that’s exactly what you did. And put the poor lad in full retreat.”

  Without Neil’s company, the sunshine lost its glory.

  “I’d just as soon head to town, Mr. O’Malley, if it’s all the same to you.”

  She was in her tent when the first rumble shook the ground. The lantern hanging from the pitched roofline swayed. She’d been working at her desk on an article.

  O’Malley had not drifted far. He warmed his hands over the fire in the barrel outside her tent. Where he could also keep an eye out for her.

  At the second thunderous blast, she rushed outside. “What’s happening?”

  “It reminds me of cannon fire, but—” O’Malley scanned the Wasatch Range where the crew worked the tunnel. “The men were thinking on using that newfangled nitro stuff.”

  She pressed her fist into her mouth. Why had she goaded Neil? What if he was hurt?

  “Who else is with Neil?”

  “Tierney.” O’Malley gulped hard. “Our young lad Doolittle, too.”

  She caught hold of O’Malley’s coat. “What should we do?”

  He disengaged from her stranglehold. “I and the rest of the men will be taking the engine as far as we dare to see what we can find. Someone here should help the doc prepare the medical tent for casualties.”

  “I can do that.”

  He patted her hand. “And if ye’ve a mind, girl, I’d pray for yer man and the rest of them.”

  Tears stung her eyes. “I will.”