Though she’d rather go with John and Matthew to get Cinnamon, Eve knew Clara would appreciate her company. Inside the building, the line to register exhibits, while long, moved rather quickly.
With the registration completed, Clara turned a knowing grin to Eve. “I appreciate your company, Eve, but you’re prancin’ like a filly that wants to run. I know you’re dyin’ to see that calf, so if you think you can find your way to the cow barn, you go right ahead.”
Concern tempered the excitement bouncing in Eve’s chest. “Are you sure, Clara? I hate to leave you here alone.”
“Alone?” Clara glanced around the room teeming with women and chuckled. “I don’t see a chance of being alone.” She patted Eve’s hand. “I might even make a few new friends. Now you go on and help get Cinnamon settled in.”
Giving Clara a parting hug, Eve headed out of the building and in the direction John and Matthew had taken earlier. A few minutes later, the familiar sound of mooing cows led Eve to the cattle barn.
She scanned the barn’s interior filled with row upon row of bawling cows and bleating calves. Her heart sank. How would she ever find John, Matt, and Cinnamon among the crowd? She’d walked several of the straw-strewn aisles when a flash of red caught her eye. Matt had worn a new red bandana around his neck this morning. Quickening her steps, she headed in the direction where she’d seen the color and found Matthew brushing Cinnamon’s coat.
He looked up and smiled. “Hey, Eve. Cinnamon seems in great shape.” His grin widened. “I think she enjoyed her first train ride.”
Eve patted the calf’s wooly head and angled a smile at Matt. “John thinks she’s worthy of at least a first-place prize if not champion, and I agree.” She glanced around the immediate area. “Where is John?”
Matt’s expression turned somber, and his gaze dropped to the straw-covered floor. “Eve, I have somethin’ I need to tell you.” He lifted his gaze back to her, and the sadness in his face sent a shudder through Eve’s heart.
Fear clutched at her throat. Had something happened to John?
“It was me that took Grandma’s butter-and-egg money,” Matt blurted. “I just wanted to get my special girl, Emily, somethin’ nice at the midway.” The regret in his voice pled for understanding. “I know it was wrong, but John said Cinnamon is good enough to win a money prize. I was goin’ to replace Grandma’s money with the prize money. Never thought she’d check it before the fair.”
A mixture of disappointment and anger tangled in Eve’s chest. “Why didn’t you just ask your grandma for the money?”
His face puckered deeper with remorse. “I know I should have, but she gave me five dollars two weeks ago and said it had to last till next month.” His gaze slid back to the tops of his dusty shoes. “I spent it on a music box and ribbons for Emily’s birthday. I knew if I asked for more Grandma would ask me what happened to the money she gave me, and I’d have to tell her.” His mouth slanted in a half grin. “Grandma pinches a penny till it hollers. She’d have said I’d spent enough money on Emily and would have refused to give me any more.”
Having become familiar with Clara’s frugal ways, Eve tended to agree with Matthew’s assumption. She also shared Clara’s likely sentiment and bit back the scolding perched on the tip of her tongue.
Matthew’s voice lowered with his gaze. “So when we got back from milk deliveries and John said Grandma had something to ask us, I got scared and put the money back when Grandma was in the garden pickin’ tomatoes. Didn’t want them to know what I’d done, and I sure didn’t aim for them to think you took it. Can you forgive me?” His brown eyes glistened with sorrow.
Still reeling from the boy’s confession, Eve stood mute while fear for John gnawed at her chest. At the dejection on Matthew’s face, her heart crumpled, and she hugged him. He could easily have kept the money and blamed her. That he didn’t spoke well of his character and upbringing. “Of course I forgive you, but you know you’ll need to tell John and your grandmother.” Pushing away, she gripped his shoulders, her greater concern for John swamping any disappointment at Matt’s transgression. “Where is John? Is he all right?”
“I was about to tell you.” Matt ran a shirtsleeve across his damp cheek. “I already told him, and he headed out to find you. Said he had some apologizin’ of his own to do.”
A wave of relief rolled through Eve, leaving her weak. “So he went to the Fine Arts Building?”
“Yeah. Then he planned to take in a sulky race at the grandstand.” Matt grinned. “Said he hoped you’d go with him.”
Eve’s heart lifted like the helium-filled balloons she’d seen around the fair, and she gave Matt another quick hug. “Thanks, Matthew. And thank you for telling me. That took courage. I’m proud of you, and I’m sure John and your grandmother are proud of you, too.” She glanced down at Cinnamon munching on hay. “Will you stay with Cinnamon while I go find John?”
“Sure.” Matthew’s beaming face reflected the joy filling Eve’s chest as she headed out of the cow barn.
Anticipation at seeing John again and knowing he no longer suspected her of taking Clara’s money lightened Eve’s steps. As she neared the grandstand, she couldn’t stop the mischievous smile stretching her lips. Perhaps she should make him grovel a bit before accepting his invitation to see the sulky race.
A grip on her arm yanked her from her muse and pulled her up short.
“Anne Stanton?” A well-dressed man, still gripping her arm, stepped in front of her. “Are you Anne Stanton of Buffalo, New York?” He pulled back his blue seersucker jacket to reveal a pewter-colored badge pinned to his shirt. “Alfred Douglas, Pinkerton agent.” He gave his bowler hat a quick lift as a lazy smile raised the corner of his clipped mustache. “I’m here to take you back to Buffalo.”
The fear that sparked at the man’s first touch flamed to a conflagration of terror. Blind panic swept away reason. Breaking away from the lawman’s grasp, Eve dashed into the crowd milling in front of the grandstand, desperate to find John and to put distance between herself and the Pinkerton agent.
Dear Lord, let John be here! Inside the grandstand arena, the silent prayer screamed from her hammering heart as she scanned the bleachers. The figure of an auburn-haired man in a chambray shirt in the upper levels of the bleachers caught her eye.
“John.” Exhaling his name on a puff of breath, she raced up the steps dividing two sections of the raised plank seats then worked her way over to the outside edge where she thought she’d seen John.
“John.”
The man turned and Eve’s heart sank. It wasn’t John.
“Anne Stanton, stop!” The Pinkerton agent’s angry voice sounded beneath her.
Desperate to escape, she stepped back, realizing too late she’d run out of bleacher. The sensation of falling, her strangled scream, and the jarring impact of her body hitting the sandy ground all happened in the span of heartbeat. Then blackness.
“Eve. Eve, wake up.”
The frantic voice sounded like John’s, but echoey and faint, as if from a long way away.
“Eve, honey, wake up. Please, Lord, let her be all right. Please, God, don’t take her from me.”
The crack in John’s voice broke her heart. She had to find her way to him and let him know that she loved him, that she wanted to stay with him and never leave him.
“Eve.” His voice sounded clearer now, his breath warm against her face.
She needed to see his face. She struggled to open her eyes. Her lids fluttered open, allowing the daylight to stream in and her darling’s dear face to come into focus. With the light, a flood of memories poured over her, jolting her fully awake. She sat up in John’s arms, where he knelt beside her in the dirt, supporting her back.
“Anne.” The word came out in a tone of wonder as the events of the past several months flooded back. “My name is Anne Stanton. I live in Buffalo, New York, with my parents, Ezra and Margaret Stanton, and my little brother, Oliver.”
The enormity of the
pain she must have caused her family shook Anne to the core, sending an avalanche of regret tumbling over her. Tears blurred her vision and flooded down her face. “Oh John, what have I done? They must think I’m dead!”
Pounded by a mountain of grief and remorse, Anne gave in to the gut-wrenching sobs that overtook her. Cradled in her angel-man’s arms, she buried her face against his broad chest, luxuriating in the solace of his murmured endearments and the muffled beating of his heart beneath the soft fabric of his shirt.
“Don’t worry, my darling, we will let them know you are here and well.” Sadness tinged his voice. “And that you will be heading back to them soon.”
Another image appeared before her eyes, rekindling her panic. Edmund. She pushed away from John’s embrace. “I can’t. I can’t go back. I can’t marry him. Please, John, don’t make me go back.”
“Who can’t you marry?” The pain in John’s eyes slashed at Anne’s heart.
“Edmund Bickford, Miss Stanton’s intended.” The Pinkerton agent stood over them, his arms crossed over his seersucker-clad chest. “Miss Stanton’s father is president of Buffalo Bank and Trust. It seems she convinced him to give her two hundred dollars from her trust account to spend on a trousseau, then disappeared.”
The man’s cool description of her duplicity smacked Anne in the face. John must find her repugnant. Still, the need to explain her actions and perhaps soften his opinion gripped her. She turned to face the man she loved, praying he would understand. “I never wanted to marry Edmund, John. Father chose him for me. Father and Edmund’s father are business partners. To them, our proposed marriage is little more than a business deal.” She took John’s hands in hers, willing him to understand. “I begged my father not to make me marry Edmund, not to force me into a loveless marriage, but he told me to do as he said and that I’d get used to it.” Anne hated the tears streaming down her cheeks, blurring John’s dear features. “I didn’t know what else to do, so I lied to get the money and headed to St. Louis, hoping a distant cousin there would take me in.”
A series of indescribable emotions played across John’s face, but his silence confirmed Anne’s worst fears.
Dropping her gaze to their clasped hands, she managed to croak, “You must hate me.”
“No.” His tone turned incredulous. “Of course I don’t hate you. I love you.”
Hearing the words she’d longed to hear her angel-man say sent a fresh cascade of tears down her face.
“Do you think you can stand?”
When she nodded, he stood and helped her up, then immediately went down on one knee. Taking her hand in his, he gazed up into her sodden face. “Anne Stanton, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Unable to speak through her sobs, Anne nodded, finally managing to squeak out a yes.
John stood, wrapped her in his arms, and sealed their promise with a kiss. Then he turned to the Pinkerton agent, who emitted a soft cough into his balled fist and looked as if he wished to be somewhere else. “Whatever my fiancée owes her father, I’ll be happy to repay.”
The lawman grinned, his gaze sliding between Anne and John. “Mr. Stanton cares nothing about the money. He simply wants to know the whereabouts of his daughter, and that I can tell him.”
John gave the agent his mailing address and that of Sheriff McCord’s office, then cocked his head, a bemused look on his face. “So what about the woman bank embezzler from Buffalo?”
Mr. Douglas nodded, a knowing expression blooming on his face. “The Bouchard woman? Apprehended last week in Montreal by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, extradition pending.”
The two men exchanged a handshake, and Agent Douglas congratulated John and Anne on their engagement, wished them well, and with a tip of his bowler hat, headed out of the grandstand.
John drew Anne behind the grandstand and slid his arms around her waist. “Are you sure this is what you want? Sounds like you had a much different life in Buffalo.” His gaze broke away from hers. “I wouldn’t want you to regret—”
She touched her finger to his lips, silencing him. “Anne Stanton may have belonged in Buffalo, but Eve belongs in Eden.”
A grin worked its way across John’s lips before he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, as the crowd cheered amid a cloud of dust and the cacophony of racing sulkies and pounding hooves.
Ramona K. Cecil is a wife, mother, grandmother, freelance poet, and award-winning inspirational romance writer. Now empty nesters, she and her husband make their home in Indiana. A member of American Christian Fiction Writers and American Christian Fiction Writers Indiana Chapter, her work has won awards in a number of inspirational writing contests. Over eighty of her inspirational verses have been published on a wide array of items for the Christian gift market. She enjoys a speaking ministry, sharing her journey to publication while encouraging aspiring writers. When not writing, her hobbies include reading, gardening, and visiting places of historical interest.
Love on the Rails
by Lynn A. Coleman
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my granddaughter Leanna and her fiancé as they put their
final plans together for their upcoming marriage and life together. May you and
Andrew continue to deepen your love, friendship, and relationship with God;
each has blessed your grandfather and me all these years and will for years to come.
Chapter One
Savannah, Georgia
Summer, 1885
Jeffery glanced at the hand-engraved gold pocket watch for the fifth time in less than a minute. He closed his eyes, removed his handkerchief, and sopped up the sweat beading down his forehead and the back of his neck. His bride had been due here thirty minutes ago with the arrival of the Charleston-Savannah Railroad. He’d arranged this marriage because it was what his parents wanted.
Truthfully, he didn’t have the time to court and make nice with a woman to determine whether she was worthy to be his wife or not. But on the other hand, he couldn’t imagine marrying one of the women of his own social class. None carried a thought in their heads beyond the next social ball. Savannah had its share of social events—enough to keep a couple well entertained throughout the year. But Jeffery always found himself drifting off into business conversations, plotting new ventures during such events. He would dance with a man’s wife or daughter all for the purpose of business. No woman had ever succeeded in turning his attention from work. The many who tried soon gave up on him. All of which suited him just fine… until the reading of his grandfather’s will.
Jeffery caressed the gold watch… his grandfather’s watch. His heart ached for Grandpa Joe, as the man had preferred to be called by family. He’d been gone for the better part of a year now, and life just didn’t seem the same without his grandfather in his life. Grandpa Joe was a self-made man who had taught his son and grandson the value of hard work and industry.
Jeffery flipped open the watch cover and read the message within: “Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the Lord. Proverbs 18:22.” That was Grandpa Joe, he thought with a sigh, always praising his wife, even a decade after she’d passed on. He’d always said he would not be the man he was if it weren’t for Grandma Bertha. And that explained his Last Will And Testament, which stipulated that if Jeffery didn’t find a wife before his thirtieth birthday… Jeffery snapped the watch shut, turned away from the empty rails, and strode back to the station under the shade of the veranda.
A distant whistle blew. Jeffery leaned from the shade into the blistering sun, then back again. With any luck they’d make it to the courthouse in time to be married before the office closed.
He pulled out the letter of response he’d selected following his advertisement posted in a New York City newspaper:
475 W. Broadway
New York City, N.Y.
Dear Mr. Oliver,
I am responding to your offer in the newspaper. I am a strong woman, in good he
alth, and looking for a husband. I can cook and sew, per your request. I am handy in the garden, and while it is not my favorite activity, I can wash and clean clothing. I have a fair appearance. I would not call myself a beauty, but one should not be bored with my features. I love children and look forward to being a mother one day if the Good Lord blesses.
Sincerely,
Tilda Green
The ground rumbled beneath his feet as heavy wheels braked on the steel rails amid clouds of steam and the shrill warning of the train’s whistle. He tucked the letter back in his right coat pocket and stepped forward. Dear Lord, I hope I haven’t made a mistake.
Tilda grabbed her carpetbag as the train came to a stop. Steam released into the air with a great gasp as the big iron horse finally stood still. Her body continued to vibrate. She’d been riding on the train for a day and a half. Jeffery Oliver had spared no expense with her ticket, reserving a spot on a Pullman Palace Car. She’d never traveled in such luxury. She’d had her own bedchamber, and he’d paid for all her meals. She’d probably gained five pounds.
Inside her one small trunk, she’d packed a few mementos, a couple of dresses, undergarments, and a picture of her parents. Her letter to Mr. Oliver had been sent on a whim—or was it desperation? Never in a million years would she have guessed she’d be moving to the South to marry a man she’d never met before.
Pushing a stray hair behind her ear, she slipped into the private bath chamber, glanced into the mirror, and pinned her chestnut brown hair back in place. She checked the pins in her hat, then straightened her dress. She’d heard that Savannah was a beautiful and historic city. Tilda loved exploring, and Savannah sounded perfect. She couldn’t wait to become familiar with this new place.
The train jerked as she stepped into the passageway. She grabbed the doorframe so she didn’t land on her backside. Out the window, people milled about, waiting for the passengers to exit. She scanned their faces. One of them was her husband, though she’d been given no description of Mr. Jeffery Oliver.
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