The Rails to Love Romance Collection

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

  What all of them—Irish, freedmen, and the Chinese from the CP—had accomplished together. As Americans. A new breed of Americans, forged by the fires of war, a new beginning for a growing nation—

  “Oh, that’s good.” She scribbled on her notepad before she lost the phrase.

  “You and yer words, ’Delia Cochrane.”

  A warm flush mounted from beneath the lace-fringed collar of her gray-checked gingham. But she kept her gaze on the paper, finishing her thought. Or trying to. Neil’s proximity did funny things to her nerve endings.

  Her attention was snared by a group of Chinamen with their long black braids who prepared the track for the last railroad tie.

  Neil sighed. “Sure and it’s the last rail. The last tie.”

  “Except for the ceremonial spike.”

  “It’s been a grand endeavor, has it not?”

  Her eyes cut to him at his wistful tone. “I imagined you’d be more jubilant. Finally, you can lay claim to that homestead.”

  Neil shuffled his feet, but the CP train with Stanford and other dignitaries rolled into view. The two iron horses—CP’s Jupiter and the UP’s Number 119—were uncoupled. Both engines were brought to facing positions across the gap in the track. Soldiers lined the grade on both sides. The railroad officials shook hands.

  “Ladies and gentleman, may I have your attention, please?” Ever the consummate showman, Durant pontificated on the perils and triumphs the Union Pacific had experienced in reaching this great American milestone.

  Not to be outdone, Leland Stanford of the CP spoke of “a riveting example of American ingenuity.”

  Durant scowled. “A feat of American engineering…”

  Cordelia rolled her eyes. Neil muffled a laugh with his hand. Dodge and Stanford verbally wrangled over to which railroad belonged the honor of driving the last spike.

  Neil leaned close to her ear. “Rivals to the end. Like us?”

  “I’d like to think we’re more than rivals.”

  She waited for him to say something more, but his gaze jerked to the ceremony playing out before them. She quelled a rising disquiet. His mind was fixed on finishing the job. And rightly so. Heartfelt declarations would have to wait for the evening.

  Cordelia resolved to tell him of her feelings for him. And of the wrenching decision she’d made after hours spent on her knees in prayer. Europe and a future without Neil MacBride had lost its appeal.

  She slipped her hand in Neil’s. At last, the culminating event of a moment long in the making.

  Neil squeezed her fingers. “We need to talk later.”

  She swallowed. “A telegram came a few weeks ago. Greeley’s pleased and surprised by my growing readership. He’s offered me my choice of European assignments.”

  Neil’s eyes widened. “Oh… I best be congratulating you.”

  Despite his words, he didn’t seem overly pleased. Maybe like her he didn’t relish an ocean and a continent between them? But he didn’t elaborate.

  She bit the inside of her cheek.

  Then Stanford brought the silver-headed sledgehammer down toward the golden spike—and missed. Jeers arose. Durant missed, too.

  She let loose of Neil’s hand to capture the mishap on paper.

  Neil scrubbed his hand over his face. “God preserve us from the fancy pants of the world.”

  “Still believe women don’t deserve the vote?”

  “You think the fairer gender could do better?”

  She gestured toward the grandstand. “There’d be nowhere to go but up.”

  He laughed.

  Finally, the spike was hammered in. Afterward, Cordelia was never quite sure by whom. In their eagerness, the spectators had pressed forward, blocking her view of the actual moment. Nonetheless, she wrote “Done” with a flourish on her notepad.

  The engines’ whistles shrieked. Telegraph operators sent the message across the vast expanse of the continent. Amidst loud cheering, hats were thrown into the air.

  Not Neil’s, she noticed with amusement. Not the precious symbol of his Americanism.

  The ceremonial spikes were replaced with more functional ones. The locomotiveseased forward until they touched.

  “Enough with the dandies,” called Doolittle. And he led a surge of workmen—CP and UP—onto the steam engines.

  As O’Malley climbed aboard, he motioned for Neil. “Come on, boyo. This honor belongs to you, too.”

  She gave Neil a nudge. “Go on. You’ve earned it.”

  With a wide grin, he strode toward the engine where he clambered aboard between a freedman and a Chinaman. The engineers of both railroads shook hands.

  And it was done. Elation filled Cordelia as she dotted the last i and crossed the last t on her notepad. A transcontinental journey that had also changed her life.

  The last story she’d write for the Tribune. Perhaps the last story she’d ever write for publication—if this evening ended as she hoped between her and Neil. And she was at peace about this fork on the track of her life.

  She’d fulfilled her mission here, and she trusted God had a bigger purpose for her future. Better than even she with her vaulting imagination could envision.

  Perched atop the steam engine with a Chinaman’s arm draped around his shoulder, Neil looked younger.

  Happier than she’d ever seen him. More at ease with himself, the past and the present. His gaze shifted west. Toward the horizon. Toward the future and bright possibilities.

  At that moment, all things seemed possible. And the future beckoned, shiny and new. Like gifts waiting to be unwrapped beneath the branches of an evergreen tree.

  What now?

  Neil scanned the sea of faces thronging both sides of the track. What was next for any of them? United in purpose these last four years, as divided they’d been in the previous four.

  He had an uncomfortable inkling he’d just participated in the most significant endeavor of his lifetime. And it was over. As the speeches droned on, the great American army of men began to melt away.

  Cordelia pantomimed to him. Lifting her notepad and pointing to what could be the story of the century. He nodded. He’d meet her back in Corinne.

  To say their final good-byes? His heart pounded. His discontent grew as the festivities erupted around him.

  What was wrong with him? He wasn’t sure what to do about his feelings for Cordelia. He knew what he wanted to do, but—

  “MacBride!”

  He jolted as Grenville Dodge clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, sir?”

  “I was hoping to have a quick word.”

  “Of course, sir. I wanted to thank you for allowing me an opportunity to learn about railroading.”

  Dodge’s face split into a grin. “You’ve more than earned the chance I gave you. You’ve a quick mind, mastering everything from surveying to the laying of track. You’ll make a fine engineer, Neil.”

  “I’m not an engineer like you. I don’t have your schooling.”

  “You’ve been an apt pupil to every task I’ve set before you over the last four years. You’ve proven yourself a gifted leader of men.” The general’s eyes narrowed. “And if you’d allow me one more request, I’d like for you to consider making the railroad your career.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Other railroads need to be built. If we truly aim to connect the country, to link Santa Fe, Kansas, and elsewhere to this shining ribbon of iron.”

  “You’re offering me a permanent job with the UP?”

  Dodge shrugged. “Don’t think so small. The UP’s not the only railway. There’s managerial issues here I won’t trouble you with. I don’t reckon to be long in these parts myself.”

  Neil crossed his arms over his chest. “Then what are you proposing, sir?”

  Dodge’s steely gaze met his. “I’m proposing you make your life’s work transforming this nation of ours into the industrial giant it can be.” He leaned forward. “This will be the age of the railroad. And it is a far-t
hinking man who hitches himself to this worthy endeavor.”

  Something pulsed in Neil’s veins. And he recognized this excitement as the purpose he’d unconsciously been waiting for over the last few days.

  A new adventure. New tracks to lay. New horizons to conquer. A new sense of purpose and direction.

  “What about my crew? We’ve come a long way together from Pea Ridge.”

  “There’s always room for good men. What do you say, MacBride?” Dodge stuck out his hand. “Stick with me. And wherever the rails take us, you’ll be an assistant engineer before you can blink.” Dodge laughed. “The sky’s the limit, Neil. You could have my job one day.”

  Neil’s heart hammered. Chief engineer of a railroad? Was that possible for an immigrant from Ireland?

  His breath quickened as he surveyed the majestic Rockies in the distance. The height of which they—he’d—spanned. Perhaps in America, anything was possible.

  Is this what You want me to do, Lord?

  But he couldn’t ask a woman like Cordelia to wander the earth and follow the rails. Nor follow a plow. Neither was the life she deserved.

  “What do you say, Neil?”

  Dodge waited for his reply, his hand still extended. Neil had no time to pray as he ought, to weigh his decision. God? What say You? Help me, please.

  A sudden rightness filled his being as birdsong floated across the sagebrush basin. His nerve endings quivered. If he said yes, what then could he say to Cordelia?

  But the love of the railroading life and the lure of the track wouldn’t leave him alone.

  “I’d be most honored, sir, to join this undertaking. Thank you.”

  Yet as he shook the general’s hand, his stomach knotted. He understood what he could never say to Cordelia. And what tonight he must.

  Good-bye.

  Chapter Eight

  “…these are the men who won the war to abolish slavery

  and built a railroad across a wilderness.”

  END-OF-RAILS CORRESPONDENT C. COCHRANE

  Gazing at her reflection in the looking glass hanging from the tent pole, Cordelia did a slow turn. She studied the effect of the willow-green silk on her complexion. Her skirts swirled with a satisfying swish.

  She touched the elaborate chignon at the nape of her neck. And fingered the lace décolletage of the off-the-shoulder evening dress.

  Would Neil like her dress? She’d always relied more on her brains than beauty. But tonight she hoped—oh how she hoped—whatever small amount of beauty the Lord had gifted her with Neil would admire.

  She’d never felt about anyone like she felt about Neil MacBride. He was the smartest man she’d ever met. Driven, ambitious, restless. They were a pair, the two of them. How she hoped Neil thought so, too.

  From the other side of camp, she heard the discordant strains of a fiddle. Taking a deep breath for courage, she stepped through the flap of her tent. Neil’s tent lay dark.

  She frowned. Since arriving in Corinne, she’d seen little of him until today as the days wound down toward the completion of the railroad. Toward the finish line of the great adventure that had—for a moment in time—linked all Americans.

  Cordelia trembled, and not from the cool air of the spring evening. Had he been avoiding her? Or busy with last-minute details?

  After today’s ceremony, the work was complete. There could be no more excuses. No more hiding, if that was indeed what he’d been doing these last feverish days.

  It was time to acknowledge what existed between them. She bit her lip. Or mourn what did not. Would he dance with her tonight under the stars? Would he speak words of love?

  Hiking the hem of her skirt, she picked her way among the army of tents. The men called greetings as she passed—respectful greetings. Otherwise they’d answer to Neil, Tierney, O’Malley, and Doolittle, too.

  Crossing the track, she reached the boardwalk and continued to the open-air pavilion the townspeople had erected to celebrate this momentous occasion. An occasion that would signal the death knell of tiny, upstart Corinne, Utah. Like so many other end-of-rail towns, tonight was the beginning of the end.

  Would the same hold true for her and Neil?

  In the meadow, wooden planks had been placed for dancing. On the perimeter, tables were laden with delicacies from Mary-Margaret’s eatery. On a raised dais, musicians plucked desultory tunes.

  Yet the gathering had a surreal quality. The merriment forced. As if all these months they’d been pretending. As if tomorrow marked the return to their real lives.

  Cordelia shook her head. She hadn’t been pretending. She felt more real, more alive, than she ever felt in New York City.

  Railroad executives and their bejeweled wives mingled with the others who’d followed the rails to the joining of the track. As couples waltzed, the women’s skirts sashayed in a rainbow of color. Lanterns aglow, light flooded the pavilion. Pushing back the darkness as surely as the railroad had pushed away the wilderness.

  She scoured the crowd for the one man who set her heart aquiver. But he was nowhere to be found. Disappointment sank like a lead weight in her stomach.

  There were also no freedmen or Irish present, either. Except for Mary-Margaret behind one of the food tables. There to serve in what, Cordelia guessed, was her finest pink-sprigged gingham.

  And then, Tierney slipped into the circle of light from the darkness beyond. He had eyes only for Mary-Margaret. He whispered something in her ear.

  He twined his fingers in hers and pulled her away. The night swallowed them. As if they’d never been.

  Cordelia gave a quick, indrawn gasp. Her heart hammered. Gone. Finished. Done.

  She clenched her gloved hands at her side. She wasn’t ready to be done. She and Neil—they couldn’t be finished with each other. Not yet. Where was he?

  Cordelia became aware of another pool of light in the distance. She tilted her head at other, fainter strains of music. From another celebration across the tracks.

  Gathering her skirts, she followed the sound of the fiddles. And ran—after her dreams—toward the rails turned quicksilver by moonlight.

  His back to the glowing bonfire, nevertheless Neil knew the very moment Cordelia entered the circle of light. He pivoted.

  She skidded to a stop. She panted as if out of breath. Her eyes darted around the merry band of revelers.

  Panicked, stricken, fearful—until her gaze latched on to his. She took a jagged gulp of air to slow her breathing. Fiery, orange flames danced between them.

  He told himself to stay away. To leave her be. But he could no more stay away from her than his lungs not draw breath.

  She was like oxygen to him. Heady, necessary. He’d starved himself of her for the last few weeks.

  Distancing himself. Trying to prepare for when they went their separate ways. Steeling himself against the certainty of pain at her loss.

  And despite what he knew he must do, his traitorous feet followed his treacherous heart. He found himself at her elbow.

  She gave him that cool, elegant look of hers. Her pulse quivered at the beautiful hollow of her throat. But he made no move to touch her or to speak.

  Neil concentrated on committing to memory every beloved feature of her face. The crinkled coil of curls wound onto the back of her hair, burnished to a golden sheen by the fire. The curve of her smooth porcelain cheek. The rosy hue of her mouth. The dress—hisbreath hitched—like the misty green haze of a soft Irish morning.

  He swallowed. “ ‘A handsome woman is easily dressed.’ ”

  A smile licked her lips, but at the sudden intensifying of bow on string, they both turned. The three fiddlers began a fast-paced jig. Boots stomping, they gyrated to the crescendoing beat.

  “I didn’t see you at the dance.”

  He trained his eyes on the fiddlers, sawing at the strings. “This is more to my liking. But I would’ve come looking for you.”

  It was true. He would have, if she hadn’t shown up here when she did.

&
nbsp; Her foot tapped to the lively tune. He smiled as her skirts swayed. “There’s something in the music that calls to the blood, does it not?”

  She gave him a look out of the corner of her eye. “The one-quarter Irish in me, you mean?”

  He took her hand in his. “It calls to something in the lifeblood in each of us.”

  Tierney stepped into the light and began to dance the jig. Neil laughed as Cordelia’s jaw dropped. Tierney’s brown boots were quick and hard upon the earth.

  Arms at his side, faster and faster he danced. The crowd clapped to the pulsing rhythm. The fiddlers accelerated the jig. Tierney kept pace.

  Cordelia’s eyes were huge. “John Tierney dances like that?”

  “A man of many layers. And when he is filled with joy—” Neil took a deep breath. “Like every Irishman, he must dance.”

  Eyes shining, Tierney extended his hand to Mary-Margaret. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, the girl took his hand, stuck out the heel of her button shoe and stepped out in time with Tierney.

  Move for move, jig for jig—matching, at times besting—giving as good as she got. Laughter bubbled from her lips. Her green eyes sparkling, she held her skirt free of her feet. Until gasping for breath, John gave her a gentlemanly bow to the delight of the crowd.

  Whereupon the fiddlers—giving themselves no respite—changed with a sliding twang into another fast-paced Irish jig. Other couples joined Tierney and his wild Tennessee rose.

  “Come on.” Neil pulled her forward. “Your turn.”

  Both her hands in his, he swung Cordelia around. Her skirts flew, her hair tumbled out of its elaborate bun, and she laughed. Laughed as carefree and lighthearted as he’d ever seen Cordelia Cochrane. He knew because he felt the same.

  Round and round. The other dancers and the bonfire blurred. The night faded away till there was only Cordelia and him.

  He stopped. Abruptly, irrevocably. Her momentum carried Cordelia a few paces beyond till she, too, stopped. Her brow puckered.

  Above the roar of the music, someone shouted, “To Ireland!” Cups were lifted.