The Rails to Love Romance Collection

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

  “There is no fireside like your own fireside.”

  C. COCHRANE MACBRIDE

  Fort Worth, 1877

  Texas and Pacific Railroad

  Cordelia laid her pen alongside Mary-Margaret’s letter, postmarked Wyoming.

  In addition to running her fine eating establishment, Mary-Margaret had her very capable hands full in the raising of her five boys. Born in as many years, like stairsteps. His Irish sons of thunder, John called them. Cordelia smiled. That they were.

  She glanced at the watch fob pinned to her shirtwaist. Time to be done with work for the day. Her gaze wandered to the framed sketch pad portrait of herself hanging on the wall. Smiling at the memory, she tucked another letter—from Patrick O’Malley—into its envelope. Her husband would be pleased to hear from his dear friend.

  With the completion of the transcontinental, Patrick believed his life and purpose were over. But then he’d met and married a California-bound widow, marooned in her broken-down Conestoga. Happy and prosperous, he was now busy raising cattle and three courting-age stepdaughters on a ranch near Sacramento. Patrick O’Malley had his hands full, too.

  As for Billy? Cordelia’s eyes watered. The boy—become man—would always have a special place in her heart. Her husband had worked for half a dozen railroads since leaving Corinne, Utah. And Billy Doolittle followed their family from one end-of-rail town to the next.

  But in Santa Fe, he left them to follow his own dream. He hired onto the rancho of a Spanish family who’d bred horses on the land bordering Mexico since before the United States existed. And there Billy struck gold of a different sort. Not only did he gain the respect of the don, but also the hand of the don’s pretty daughter.

  “Hide, brother. Quick!”

  Seven-year-old Annie shoved her brother behind the railcar drapes.

  Cordelia’s five-year-old son glared. “You’re not the boss of me. Stop telling me what to—”

  “Hush now, Billy Doolittle MacBride.” Annie laid her finger against her lips. “Do you wish to spoil Da’s surprise?”

  Little Billy scowled. “You’re not the boss of me, Annie Margaret MacBride.”

  Cordelia shuffled the papers on her desk into a stack. “Not so bossy, Annie. More flies with honey, remember?”

  Imperious and bossy Annie placed her hands on her small hips. “And what of the baby?”

  While Cordelia worked on her latest dispatch for the New York Tribune, the baby had played on the carpet at her feet. Wherever the rails took them, Cordelia created a home for her precious family. And met her deadlines as she chronicled the ongoing saga of the age of the locomotive for her weekly column.

  Omaha, Denver, Topeka. Their current home in Fort Worth, as construction on this particular project neared completion. With every move, her husband rose through the ranks from assistant engineer to superintendent of construction to general agent. There was talk he’d make general manager before long. Cordelia scooped up her baby and set the child upon her lap.

  “He’s coming!” Sandy-blond Annie dashed for the sofa. “Hurry! Hide!” She threw herself, petticoats and all, over the settee.

  Cordelia cut her eyes to the window. With long strides, he headed for the train car they called home. Even after eight years of marriage, pleasurable swirls fluttered in her chest at the sight of him. The same work Stetson on his head. Broad-shouldered and coatless, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows.

  The children giggled as his boots sounded upon the railcar steps. The door creaked as the hinges swung wide. Removing his hat, he ducked his head as he crossed the threshold inside. His gaze lifted.

  Catching sight of Cordelia with the baby, his face lit. His hazel eyes warmed. He gave her that crooked half smile, meant only for her.

  With a rush of tenderness, she answered him with a smile just for him. And he crossed the distance separating them. This was her favorite time of day. When Neil returned home every night to her and their children.

  Annie popped up from behind the sofa. “Surprise, Da!”

  Billy flung himself from behind the curtain. “Happy birthday, Da!” The child clasped his arms around Neil’s knees.

  Neil winked at Cordelia. “Is it my birthday, you say?”

  The Irish in his tongue thickened with her and the children.

  Annie launched herself over the sofa and rolled to her feet. “Happy, happy birthday, Da.”

  Cordelia sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you, Annie? Ladies don’t behave like—”

  “Apples never fall far from trees.” Neil caught the girl around the waist. “And American ladies, so I’ve been repeatedly told, can do and be anything they wish to do and be.”

  He grinned at Cordelia. “Especially when the lass reminds me so much of someone else I’ve luved ever so long.”

  She sniffed, but her mouth curved into a smile. With Katie on her hip, she came around the desk.

  Neil kissed the top of the baby’s copper-colored head. “And how’s my wee one this fine evening?”

  Squirming, Katie reached for her da. Neil took the baby into his arms, and Katie hugged him close.

  He twined a strand of Katie’s hair around his finger. “Such luvly Irish hair, don’t you think, ’Delia?” He quirked an eyebrow.

  She wrapped her arms around the baby. “Our Katie is yet another reason why I loveall things Irish.” With the children hanging on to Neil, together they made one big circle of love.

  Annie tugged on Neil’s shirt. “There’s presents, Da.”

  Billy smacked his lips. “And cake.”

  “My, my.” Neil’s eyes gleamed. “Am I not the most fortunate of men?”

  Cordelia cupped his cheek in her palm. “Truer words…”

  He brushed his lips across her hand. “ ‘Empty and cold is the house without a woman.’ ”

  She fingered his collar. “ ‘It is a lonely washing that has no man’s shirt in it.’ ”

  His brow furrowed. “My old friend, Dodge, has asked for my help with a new endeavor on which he’s consulting.”

  She gave his shoulder a playful pat. “And where would the track be taking us this time, Neil MacBride?”

  His eyes crinkled. “Have I told you how I like it when you speak the Irish to me, woman?”

  Neil nuzzled her nose with his. “The Russians are trying to build their own transcontinental railroad. Think Siberia would be too cold for an American like you?” His face sobered. “But if you’ve no desire to go, I’ll not accept the offer. What say you? We can always return to Omaha.”

  To build a house on the magnificent wooded lot they’d purchased. But she had a feeling—knowing her husband as she did—like her, he’d always want to be in the thick of the fray.

  Hands-on with the work to be done. Wherever the work took him. Because she and Neil shared that most American of characteristics, the urge to wander.

  “Of course we’ll go. Where’s your spirit of adventure?” She fingered his chin. “It’s about time you took me to Europe.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “It’ll give me a chance to interview the czar.”

  “Heaven help the Russian empire.” Neil set Katie onto the carpet. “Take the baby and bring out the gifts, Annie my luv. After dinner, I’ll tell you how I once rescued the Sioux Nation from certain extinction.”

  Cordelia’s lips twitched.

  Billy tugged at Neil’s shirttail. “Don’t forget the cake.”

  “Cake, too.” Neil wrapped his big, strong arms around Cordelia. “But first, I must kiss my wife.”

  Annie took Katie’s hand and with Billy ambled toward another room in the rear of the railway car.

  “Kiss ’er, Da,” called Billy, trailing after his big sister.

  Katie toddled after her siblings. “Kiss… kiss.”

  “It doesn’t matter where we are, Neil.” She tucked her head into the curve of his neck. “Only that we are together. Always.”

  His breath brushed across the wispy tendrils of ha
ir framing her face. “Always.”

  Lisa Carter and her family make their home in North Carolina. In addition to writing historical novellas, she is the author of seven romantic suspense novels and a contemporary Coast Guard romantic series. When she isn’t writing, Lisa enjoys traveling to romantic locales, teaching writing workshops, and researching her next exotic adventure. She has strong opinions on barbecue and ACC basketball. She loves to hear from readers, and you can connect with Lisa at www.lisacarterauthor.com.

  Train to Eden

  by Ramona K. Cecil

  Dedication

  To Mary Jane Smith, a wonderful friend and beautiful lady,

  who loved my stories and left us too soon.

  Chapter One

  July, 1895 Indiana

  I should inform the conductor that he has a thief on his train.”

  At the man’s syrupy voice, Anne jerked around in her seat. Her pulse raced, sending her heart vaulting to her throat. He can’t know. There is no way he could know. Could the bank have dispatched a Pinkerton agent this quickly? Dismissing the thought, she gripped her beaded reticule in her lap and willed her voice to a cool calmness that belied the tumult raging in her chest. “I’m sure I have no notion what you mean, sir.”

  “Why, you have completely stolen my heart, Miss…” He allowed the last word to dangle with expectation and plucked his black bowler hat from his head, sending a strong whiff of lanoline hair oil cascading to her nose.

  Anne ignored the man’s attempt to obtain her name and injected as icy a tone in her voice as she could manage. The last thing she needed was another inquisitive fellow passenger trying to ferret out her identity. “If I have, I assure you it was entirely unintended.” She glanced toward the train car’s open door, wishing she had joined her seatmate, Mrs. O’Reilly, who had taken advantage of the fifteen-minute stop at the water station to grab a bite to eat at the depot restaurant.

  “Elmer Trowbridge, at your service.” He offered her his hand. When Anne declined to take it, he cleared his throat and reached into his gray houndstooth jacket and pulled out a small card, which he handed her. “Salesman extraordinaire of the Dangler Stove and Manufacturing Company of Cleveland, Ohio.” He winked and leaned a shoulder against a brass stanchion pole. “I was top salesman last year and am well on my way to repeat this year. So when your mother returns to the train, be sure to give her my card. The telephone number of my company is printed there.”

  Anne was about to tell him that Mrs. O’Reilly was not her mother when the conductor’s voice from outside the train car bellowed, “Aaall Aboooard!”

  To Anne’s relief, passengers began to file into the car, forcing the ardent stove salesman to sway one way and another to avoid the stream of humanity amid a flurry of voices murmuring “Excuse me, sir. Excuse me, please.”

  Anne’s middle-aged seatmate was less polite. “Would you kindly get out of my road, sir, and allow me to sit?” The rotund Mrs. O’Reilly shoved her way past Mr. Trowbridge and sank into the seat beside Anne with a huff.

  “I was just telling your daughter—”

  “I have no daughter.” The older woman glared at the salesman. “Now be off with ya!” She flourished her ever-present black parasol in a menacing manner, sending Anne’s would-be suitor to his seat on the other side of the car, then turned a concerned face to Anne. “Was that feller pesterin’ ya, dear? Like I told ya before we stopped, a young lass like yourself, travelin’ alone, can’t be too careful. Trains are fullof thieves, miscreants, and sly-tongued liars.”

  Warmth suffused Anne’s face. What would the good Mrs. O’Reilly think if she knew that some of her descriptions fit her seatmate?

  The train began to roll again, and Anne leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, finally allowing herself to relax. If she pretended to sleep, perhaps she could evade the older woman’s prying questions until they reached Union Station at Indianapolis, Mrs. O’Reilly’s destination. The farther away from Buffalo Anne could get with the least amount of conversation, the safer she would feel.

  Thankfully, Mrs. O’Reilly took up the mundane, rhetorical chatter about her grandchildren in Indianapolis that she had engaged in since embarking the train car in Ohio. A faint clicking sound told Anne that her seatmate had resumed her earlier work knitting a pair of mittens for her grandson. Between the gentle rocking of the car, the hypnotic clicking of the wheels along the track, and the softer click, click of the knitting needles, Anne soon dozed off.

  A sharp jolt yanked her from her nap. Her eyes flew open at the sensation of the train car rocking wildly from side to side. What was happening? A distant rumbling built to a sickening crescendo of scraping and crumpling metal. The car began tumbling, and she grasped the seat in front of her in a desperate attempt to stay upright. There was no longer a distinct floor, ceiling, or sidewalls to the compartment.

  Luggage, reticules, shoes… bodies all swirled together as if in a fierce cyclone, pelting Anne with painful, relentless blows. Her screams joined in a panicked chorus with those of her fellow passengers.

  God help me! Please help us! Help us all! If she wasn’t so terrified, the disjointed prayer screaming from her frantic mind might have surprised her. But the thought seemed to come of its own volition. Would the tumbling never stop? God, please make it stop! The answer to her prayer came with a grinding shudder and an angry jerk that shot her forward. Her forehead smacked against something hard. A burst of white light accompanied the searing pain in her head before darkness engulfed her.

  As if from a long distance away, the clanging of bells and the sound of many shouting voices gradually penetrated her foggy brain. She reached up to wipe wetness from her face, then brought her hand away covered with blood. Screams and moans filled the air around her. Where was she? What had just happened?

  Panic gripped her chest like a giant vise. She needed to get out of whatever this place was. She needed to get away.

  To her left, she could make out a small rectangle of metal framed by shards of glass. Light. Blessed daylight streamed through the hole. She poked her head through it. Was the opening big enough to crawl through? She had to try. She had to get away from this terrible place. The jagged protrusions clutched at her clothes, ripping her dress, her arms, her legs. Ignoring the pain, she squeezed through the tiny aperture. All that mattered was finding a way out of this dim, confined space filled with hellish confusion. Gritting her teeth, she clutched at the weeds and grass in front of her and finally managed to squeeze her body through the opening.

  At last she was in the tall grass. She was free. Despite the trembling of her body, she somehow managed to stand. The grass felt cool to her stocking feet. She had no shoes. What had happened to her shoes? She couldn’t remember. Moisture trickled down her head and into her eyes. She touched her head and winced at the pain, then looked at her hand. Red. She was bleeding. An overwhelming desire to leave the confusion and mayhem behind gripped her.

  Across the meadow, several yards in front of her, a line of trees beckoned. She headed toward it.

  A rumbling that resembled distant thunder halted John Weston’s progression down the cows’ pens. He glanced out the open doors at the end of the barn but couldn’t make out so much as one fluffy white cloud in the faded blue summer sky.

  Setting the bag of crushed corn on the barn’s straw-strewn dirt floor, he cocked his head and listened. The only sound that met his ears was the bawling of the cows still waiting to be fed.

  “Roy had better not be dynamiting stumps again.” He picked up the sack of corn and poured a measure into the next stall’s trough. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to confront his neighbor again about the man’s method of stump removal, which scared the cows and cut down on milk production.

  John gazed down the line of cows, many with calves, and a sense of satisfaction filled his chest. “Uncle Phil would have approved.” The sentiment didn’t surprise him, but saying it aloud did. Two years ago he’d thought any meaningful life had ended for him. Worki
ng on Uncle Phil and Aunt Clara’s dairy farm had felt like a comedown after losing his position as sergeant on the Indianapolis police force.

  “John, John!” His young cousin, Matt, raced into the barn, his sixteen-year-old voice cracking with excitement. “Train wreck! There’s been a train wreck on the Big Four Line just west of Fortville!”

  John plunked the bucket of feed on the barn floor, his reflexive instinct to rush to an emergency perked. “I’d better head over there and see if I can help. You finish feeding the cows.”

  “Aw, John, I want to go, too.” Matt’s eyes turned hopeful, like a pup begging for a treat. “Four extra hands are better than two. I won’t get in the way, I promise.”

  “I don’t know, Matt. You might see things you’d rather not see—things that could be hard to get out of your head.”

  Matt’s chin lifted in a defiant tilt. “I’m not a baby. Uncle Phil was my age when he went off to fight in the war.”

  John grinned, unable to think of a reasonable rebuttal to Matt’s logic. “All right, if your grandma has no objection, you can come.”

  “Yippee!” Matt turned and sprinted toward the house, leaving John to hope he wouldn’t regret his decision.

  A few minutes later, the two jostled along the country road in the buckboard, heading north toward the railroad tracks.

  “Hurry up. You’re drivin’ like we’re on our Sunday drive to church.” Frustration filled Matt’s voice as he leaned forward with his hands on his bouncing knees. “The volunteer fire fellers’ll have all the work done before we ever get there, and there’ll be nothin’ to see.”

  “I doubt that.” John couldn’t keep the cynical tone from his voice. “Besides, I thought you wanted to come to help, not because of what you might see.”

  As they rounded a curve, a movement some yards ahead to their right caught John’s eye. At first he thought it might be a small animal preparing to dart into the road in front of them until the disheveled figure of a woman appeared from the tree-lined berm. Her face and tattered gray dress were streaked with blood. She turned and looked directly at their approaching wagon, but her dazed expression suggested that her mind wasn’t registering what she saw.