The Rails to Love Romance Collection

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

Despite the rapid beating of her heart as she waited with the railroad doctor for survivors, she realized Neil was far from being her man.

  When the engine returned bearing the wounded, she and the doctor were joined in the rail yard by the sporting women.

  And Mary-Margaret Gallagher. Who wrung her hands in the folds of her apron at the sight of the men on the flatcar—some bloody, some burned. “John!” she shouted and rushed forward.

  The almost unrecognizable man batted away her hands with a fierce scowl. His bushy beard was peppered with small bits of rock. “I couldna get to Neil or the lad. I have to go back…”

  Cordelia scrutinized the men being helped off the railcar. Where was Neil? God, please let him be alive.

  Neil and the men were so skilled it was easy to lose sight of the danger. Until today.

  Those still mobile crawled off the flatcar. Their clothes tattered and covered in grime, it was difficult to identify them. She followed the doctor’s lead and moved from man to man.

  She spotted a tall, lean man staggering across the track, his hair coated brown with dirt. “Neil!”

  His head snapped up at the sound of her voice. His eyes blazed, the green more pronounced than usual against his blackened face. From a jagged gash in his bicep, blood saturated his ripped shirtsleeve.

  In his arms, he carried a slight figure. She picked up her skirts and ran toward him. Billy Doolittle’s head lolled.

  Neil thrust the boy at her. “Promise me you’ll care for him. Stay with him.”

  She sagged under Billy’s weight. “I’ll take care of him, I promise. But you—”

  “I couldna save his da.” Neil tottered. “But I have to—I must save him.” His eyes shut.

  O’Malley took the boy. In time for Cordelia to grab hold of Neil as he slumped, unconscious.

  Hours later, she’d set a camp stool between their two cots. Neither had regained consciousness. Perhaps best with the doctor stitching the wound on Neil’s arm. And Billy…? Cordelia felt an unaccustomed protectiveness over the boy.

  Not far away, as fierce as a Tennessee wildcat, Mary-Margaret guarded Tierney’s bedside. Despite cuts and abrasions, he appeared largely unharmed.

  “The nitro worked fine, but a portion of the excavated ceiling collapsed.”

  “Hush yourself, John Tierney.” Mary-Margaret pushed him onto the pillow, and Tierney did as she bid him. Mild as porridge in her hands.

  “What did Neil mean about not saving Billy’s da, Patrick?”

  Billy moaned. The cot creaked as he stirred, yet without waking.

  O’Malley exchanged glances with Tierney. “The boy’s da fought alongside us.”

  The older man looked older than his years. “When the General was wounded, Neil managed to get him and the rest of us out of that fix while Doolittle’s father held off the gray backs at Pea Ridge.”

  “And died giving us time to get away.” Tierney’s eyes burned with unshed tears. “Saving our lives.” Mary-Margaret squeezed his hand.

  “Billy’s da—not me—is the real hero.”

  Neil tried sitting up and flinched. She eased him down. “Not so fast.”

  “Billy? Is he alive?”

  “The doctor says we have to wait for Billy to awake from the blow to his head he sustained in the tunnel.”

  She pressed a dipper of water to Neil’s mouth.

  He drank as if he’d never get enough, but eventually leaned back. “I didn’t take you for the nursing kind.”

  “I told you I’d stay with Billy.” She lifted her chin. “I’m a woman of my word.”

  A tired smile played across his mouth. “You and yer words.”

  He closed his eyes and drifted away, but into a more peaceful sleep this time. She found herself straightening the sheet, touching his hand, unable to resist brushing the shock of sandy hair fallen across his brow.

  What in the world, God, do You want me to do about this Irishman? She sighed. I’m supposed to go to Paris.

  O’Malley held Neil’s battered Stetson in his work-roughened hands. “I found his hat when I pulled him from the rubble. He’s not going to be pleased to see it so dirty.”

  A hat seemed the least of Neil’s worries.

  O’Malley sighed. “Neil will want this hat when he gets out of that bed.”

  Bending over Billy’s cot, she sponged his face with a cloth.

  O’Malley caught her gaze. “When Neil enlisted, he exchanged the derby his da gave him for an army cap. Now, he likes wearing this western hat you gave him. He likes it was you who gave it to him.”

  She sank onto the stool again. “I’m sensing you’re referring to something more than headgear.”

  “Aye,” O’Malley nodded. “This venture has caused us to look at ourselves differently. To look at the world differently.”

  “You’re referring to a man’s identity.”

  O’Malley smiled. “A smart lass, you are. Smart as my friend Neil. Billy’s the only one among us actually American-born. He found us after the war ended. He had nowhere else to go.”

  “And you? Didn’t you have somewhere else to go?”

  The smile he gave her this time was sad. “Lost my family in the influenza that swept the tenement while I marched through Georgia. I reckon these boys are my job to finish raising. To make sure they’re settled, happy, and prosperous. Until then—” He shrugged.

  But she knew what he meant. After following the end of the rail, she saw herself differently. Visualized her place in the world differently. Paris differently?

  O’Malley shoved Neil’s rucksack over to her. “Figure you might find something there of interest, Miss Cochrane. Seeing as how you’re such a truth searcher.”

  Rubbing his callused hand over his bristly goatee, O’Malley shuffled to his feet. “Reckon I’ll get me some shut-eye since both my lads are well attended. After I give a good brushing to Neil’s hat. Send for me if anything changes.”

  She rummaged through Neil’s pack, and her hand fell upon the sketch pad. Laying it on her lap, she paused. Should she look at Neil’s private thoughts? But O’Malley obviously believed she should.

  Her breath hitched as she raised the cover to find an intricate rendering of herself. Beneath Neil’s talented hand, her face had come to life. He’d somehow managed to capture not only the curve of her jaw and the lift of her cheeks, but that indefinable something in her eyes, too.

  In every line and stroke, Neil revealed more than perhaps he intended. Her stomach fluttered. Could a man such as he draw a woman and not have feelings for her?

  “You weren’t meant to see that.”

  At Neil’s gruff voice, she flipped the sketch pad closed. “I think you made me more than I am. I’m only a reporter.”

  “I draw what I see. Whatever is beautiful. True and lovely. You’re beautiful.”

  She blushed. “I wish I could draw like you. To be able to show you what I see. You’re more than what you give yourself credit for being.”

  He reached for the sketch pad. “You draw with your words.” She handed it to him.

  Neil tore the paper with a ripping sound from the pad. He handed her the page. “So you won’t forget who you are.”

  “Will you forget me, Neil?”

  As soon as she said the words, she longed to take them back. What on earth had possessed her bold tongue to say such a thing to him?

  “No, Cordelia. I will not.”

  She dropped her eyes and smoothed the page across her apron. “I will always cherish this gift from you. I will always—” She swallowed.

  “Cordelia,” he whispered. “When the tunnel crashed around us, it was you who flashed through my mind. You with your eyes like prairie bluebells. I want you to know that—”

  With a cry, Billy’s eyes flew open. “Da? Boss?”

  Neil reached across Cordelia for the boy. “It’s me, Billy.” Flinching from the wound on his arm, Neil sat up and seized Billy’s hand. “Easy there, son. It’s Neil.”

  Placing t
he portrait on the ground, she dropped to her knees beside the cot. “How are you feeling?”

  Billy winced. “I’m okay. ’Cept my head hurts.”

  Neil grunted. Moisture welled in his eyes. “Thanks be to God for that hardheaded Irish skull of yours.”

  Her mouth pursed. “He’s not the only one.”

  She’d nearly lost him. Lost them both. Thank You, God, for saving them. Thank You. No time for weepiness though, when Billy tried to sit up.

  Cordelia put a hand on his chest. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Billy frowned. “Back to work. I ain’t no dosser. Railroad won’t build itself, right, Boss?”

  Neil exhaled. “You’re no dosser, boyo. But my advice is to enjoy the lady’s tender ministrations while you can.”

  Billy grimaced, but plopped onto the pillow. “You taking your own advice then?”

  Neil leaned back onto his cot. “Why not? I was told once men need cherishing, too.”

  The unspoken “loving” hung between them.

  His gaze flickered. “Unless you wish to be rid of me so soon?”

  The way he looked at her then… Her pulse accelerated. She didn’t wish to be rid of Neil MacBride at all. Not ever.

  She rose and took the drawing from underneath the bed where she’d stashed it for safekeeping. “Both of you need to rest.”

  Neil’s hand caught her arm, his fingers curled around her wrist. “You’re leaving?” He frowned.

  Cordelia bit her lip. “I need to change out of this dress. But I’ll return in a few minutes. I promise.”

  She wanted to weep. She wanted to shout for joy. She wanted to—she didn’t know what she wanted to do. Maybe dance.

  But she needed a few moments to herself. To marshal her thoughts. To explore these overwhelming feelings inside herself. And preserve Neil’s gift to her between the pages of her Bible.

  With a tired smile, he let her go. Billy’s eyes had closed. But his breathing was steady and easy.

  She moved toward the tent opening and angled to find Neil’s gaze fixed upon her. With a small flutter of her fingers, she stepped outside and headed toward her tent.

  What would Neil have said to her if Billy hadn’t awakened when he did?

  Could Neil MacBride truly love someone like her? A woman with no practical skills? She feared she’d make a poor farmer’s wife.

  Yet she, who’d always been so independent, found her happiness and subsequent well-being irrevocably hitched to his. It was both frightening and exhilarating. Because she loved him.

  For his grin. For his strength of character. For his adventuresome spirit. For everything that made Neil MacBride the man he was.

  Paris? London? Suddenly, neither the Thames nor the Seine held the same appeal they’d possessed a few months ago.

  When she looked at him, she saw blue-sky days and prairie. Not an easy life, but a good one. A future rich with love.

  To be cherished by such a man… Loved. It took Cordelia’s breath. Filled her with an indescribable yearning. And hope.

  A hope for a life she’d never before allowed herself to dream. But dreams changed. It would prove no hardship to exchange one dream for a better one.

  There’d be new skills to learn. New adventures. Although different adventures than what she’d imagined.

  And she was pondering how to be a homesteader’s wife—how to kill a chicken, how to make candles and soap—when the telegram from Mr. Greeley arrived.

  Chapter Six

  The only cure for love is marriage.

  IRISH PROVERB

  Last Stop, Corinne

  Utah Territory

  Weeks later, Neil nudged the brim of his Stetson. The lovely gift from Cordelia in Wyoming. Good as new, thanks to O’Malley.

  Neil reckoned he was a mite ridiculous over the hat. And protective. But the hat reminded him of that perfect time in the meadow with Cordelia.

  With the resilience of youth, Billy recovered quickly from his head injury. Neil reassigned Billy to the teamsters to manage the horses. Billy protested being separated from his mates. But being close to the horses soon stilled his grumbling.

  They’d arrived at what would probably be the last end-of-rails town. The CP and UP had negotiated an agreement as to where the rails would link. For weeks, the two railroad crews lay track within sight of each other in parallel grades. It’d be a race to the finish.

  But to Neil’s growing discomfort, he realized his time with Cordelia was also drawing to a close. And over the last few weeks, she’d become distant. Too quiet.

  With a troubled look in her eyes, she’d stop midsentence to gaze over the hills. Was Cordelia already separating herself and preparing him for their inevitable good-bye?

  Only two weeks old, end-of-rails town Corinne already boasted five hundred frame and tent dwellings. A blacksmith, livery, sawmill, a bank, opera house, and a newspaper office from which the members of the press telegraphed their articles eastward. One last time the gaming houses and soiled doves also followed the rails.

  It was merely a matter of waiting for the work train to catch up with the progress of the tracklayers. He and the men could nearly taste the final victory. They’d worked in driving rain and through snowstorms. Enduring high winds and scorching heat. In the burning sun, none complained. They kept at the backbreaking work.

  Every day. All day. His tireless Irishmen.

  The weather had turned. Turned as lovely as Cordelia herself. The mud was drying fast. The grading camps were thirty miles west of Corinne now.

  A continuous line of tents, wagons, mules, and men from there to here. And a farther twenty miles west were the blasting crews jarring the earth with glycerine. Hurling the limestone hundreds of feet into the air. Scattering rock in every direction.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t imagine Cordelia keeping house in a prairie dugout. Although, the image of the intrepid reporter collecting cow patties for fuel brought a smile to his face.

  Other pictures swept his mind. Cordelia and him sharing a life under the big sky of the Nebraska Territory. His child—their child—one day rounding Cordelia’s belly.

  But the lady reporter weeding a garden patch? His imagination failed as hecontemplated her sure and quiet misery. An unhappiness that would destroy them both.

  Neil was ready at last to admit it. The truth he could no longer deny. He loved Cordelia Cochrane.

  He loved the way she smiled. He loved how her eyes crinkled when she laughed. He loved her intelligence. He even loved—which showed how far gone he was—her independent, fist-in-your-face spirit.

  But loving her brought Neil only increasing confusion. About his own place in the world. Who he was and who he’d yet become. He could never hope to offer Cordelia the kind of life and future she deserved.

  In a few short weeks, this grand adventure would end. She would return to New York—on the tracks Neil had laid—to pursue her career. And from New York, she’d sail for Europe.

  He’d be free finally to stake a claim on a tract of land and build a life. But a life without Cordelia. An empty life. And he wrestled with an equally tough question.

  After all these years of chasing the rail, would farming satisfy Neil in the way he’d believed? Was farming how God wanted him to spend his life? Or was that a wrongly placed yearning for a permanence only found in God Himself?

  The more he thought about waving rows of golden wheat, the more restless he felt. He stared across the desert flats to the west. He’d come so far—from across the sea.

  Across the grassy plains. Tunneling through mountains the likes of which he’d never have foretold. But something drove him to yet see the other side.

  Surely he’d already had more adventure than one life could hold. More than his fair share.

  He sensed there was more. He wanted more for himself. Further adventures awaited him, he was almost sure of it.

  Almost… How selfish and greedy to want more when he’d been allowed to be a vital part o
f the grandest race in history. Suddenly, farming wheat the rest of his livelong days held no appeal.

  But what else could a poor man born in Ireland do?

  And like so many times over the last few days, Neil found himself on his knees pouring out his heart, his doubts—and beyond words, the longings he didn’t rightly know how to express. Into the safekeeping of the One who’d always loved him the most.

  Loved him on a ship from Ireland. In the Irish tenement in New York City. On a war-scarred battlefield. In the midst of brutal conditions, implacable enemies, and the herculean task of bridging a continent.

  For now, Neil could only finish what he’d begun with the UP and his Irish brothers. And wait in faith for what the Lord would have him do next.

  But loving Cordelia while waiting on God’s direction was proving for Neil the most challenging task of all.

  Chapter Seven

  “Done.”

  END OF RAIL CORRESPONDENT C. COCHRANE

  May 10, 1869

  Promontory Summit, Utah Territory

  Cordelia glanced around at the dry, flat basin surrounded on three sides by the mountains. Hung on a telegraph pole, an American flag flapped in the morning breeze.

  In a cloud of steam, a UP construction train unloaded tracklayers and graders. As the train chugged away again, O’Malley grinned at her and Doolittle waved. Even Tierney appeared cheerful. A visceral anticipation hummed among the onlookers and workers.

  She scanned the crowd for Neil. His gaze caught hers for a moment before he turned away and said something to O’Malley.

  Cordelia fought the sense of disappointment. She reminded herself she had a job to do. As did Neil. Business must come before the celebration.

  With a small smile, she tapped her pencil against her chin. The town of Corinne had organized an End of Race dance this evening. And she planned to dazzle Neil MacBride with the one fine dress she’d brought from New York.

  Thinking about waltzing across a dance floor with the handsome walking boss set her pulse aflutter again.

  “Stick to business, Cordelia,” she whispered.

  The UP train, carrying Durant, Dodge, and the Casement brothers, arrived. She wove in and out of the gathering of men and women, trying to capture the sense of pride and accomplishment.