The Rails to Love Romance Collection

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

  She looked around the lavish bedroom. Pullman spared no expense in his private cars, of which this was one. From the mahogany woodwork to the stuffed, silk-covered chairs and fine lace curtains—all testified to the highest standards of quality a society could produce and those with means could afford. Yet it wasn’t gaudy. The large, ornately crafted bed filled much of the room, but still allowed plenty of room for a private toilet, a couple of chairs, and comfortable space to walk around two sides of the bed.

  The bed. Tilda sighed. She’d been wanting Jeffery to join her in their marriage bed, but he’d wanted to wait. Now he was ready, and she wasn’t. She shook her head. Father God, help me understand what is going on.

  There was a knock at the door. “Tilda, the porter is here with our dinner.”

  “I’ll join you in a minute.”

  The gentle rock of the train as it rolled down the rails lulled her to a place of calmness. She took in a deep breath, stood up, and exited the master suite. She turned to her left and walked toward the front of the train.

  The next room took her breath away. She entered a private living area decked out with a sofa, a couple of chairs, and a reading lamp on a small, decorative table. The walls were lined with books, knickknacks—all the comforts of home.

  Jeffery leaned against the doorway. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, quite.”

  He stood tall. “Come, sit with me in the dining room.”

  He reached out his hand. She didn’t take it. She wanted to, but she had to protect her heart. His hand swung down to his side. With his left hand outstretched, he ushered her to the dining area. Again, the room was decorated with the best of modern furnishings. The tables, as well as the chairs, were made of polished cherry.

  Jeffery pulled out a chair for her.

  She tucked the back of her dress toward her legs and sat down. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, my sweet.”

  A smile curled on her lips. Perhaps her heart was already giving into this man onceagain. He sat down and held out his hand. “Shall we pray?”

  She placed her hand in his. He wrapped his fingers around hers, his touch so gentle and warm. “Father,” he prayed, “we ask for Your guidance and thank You for Your provisions. Be with us as we begin this journey. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, amen.”

  “Amen,” Tilda said and gently pulled her hand away. She grabbed the silver fork and knife expertly set beside her plate filled with roast beef, gravy, mashed potatoes, and green beans. “It smells good.”

  “I have it on good authority that this railroad serves quality meals.” Jeffery dug into his dinner. “It is good,” he said a moment later, “but your gravy is better.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  He nodded and continued with his meal. When he had polished off half of his plate he glanced up at her. “Tilda, I know I’ve made a mess of our marriage. Is there anything I can do to fix it? Anything at all?”

  She put down her fork. “Before I answer that, tell me: did your father make all the decisions in your house?”

  Jeffery shrugged. “I don’t know. I never thought about it.” He leaned back in his chair. “Oh no, I did it again, didn’t I?”

  She nodded, unable to speak due to a lump in her throat that had nothing to do with the dinner.

  “I’m sorry, Tilda. I meant this trip as a surprise, and if I hadn’t gotten so upset with my clients I would have told you about my plans.” He paused. “Well, maybe not. I was planning this as a surprise. A man isn’t supposed to tell his spouse about a surprise, is he?”

  “I suppose not. But since I was heading home to New York, don’t you think you should have talked with me before I arrived on the train?”

  He knitted his eyebrows together. “How? You wouldn’t speak with me. I tried every night, but you refused to talk. When do you think I should have told you?”

  Tilda clamped down on her jaw. “Perhaps you have a point there.” She placed her silverware down and folded her hands in her lap. “You hurt me. I want to love you Jeffery, I really do but—”

  “It will take a week before we’re out to California. We have time.” He reached over and took her hand. “Tilda, I love you. Give me the week to prove it. We have all day to spend with one another. I won’t be running off to the office. I won’t even wire my office until I’m in California, and then simply to let Max know that we’ve arrived. Is that fair?”

  Her words caught in her throat again, and she nodded.

  He leaned back in his chair, relieved. “So, why don’t you tell me about Paris? I have never been. In fact, today is the first time I ever left Savannah.”

  Tilda sat back. “You’ve never left Savannah?”

  “Never. Another sign that I love you. I never had a reason to leave the city. It was home, all I ever knew or cared to know. You, my sweet, have changed me in so many ways. Now I am curious about the places you have been, the places I once read about in books. My grandfather was right about me. To be fair, you should know I was ordered by my grandfather— before my thirtieth birthday —to marry. If I did not, my inheritance would go to charity. Even back then Grandpa felt I was too focused on work rather thanlife. He also knew I would have a hard time giving up my inheritance, even if I didn’t need it.”

  Tilda laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I didn’t tell you about my inheritance because I wanted a man to marry me for love, not for money.”

  Jeffery laughed. “I see your point. It is true, I did marry you for that purpose. However, the reason I did not come home with you the night we married was because I was afraid of you. You were so beautiful, so… alive! Marriage had been a task to accomplish until then, a goal to achieve. Meeting you that very first time changed all of that. You changed me. I knew I needed to respect you, not simply make you my wife and move on to other tasks. I hope that makes sense to you, because I don’t believe I can explain it better than that. I have no education on how to speak with a woman, much less on how to speak to my bride. But if you’re willing to allow me to make mistakes and forgive me, I will work with everything I have to get it right. I wish my words would never hurt you, Tilda. But I’d be a fool to believe otherwise. I promise you this, however: I will never hurt you intentionally.”

  Tilda picked up the water glass and twirled it between her fingers for a moment. “After years of marriage, my parents still managed to hurt and offend one another from time to time. I believe that is a part of love and marriage.”

  “You are probably right, though I wish it were not so.”

  They talked for hours before settling down for the night. He kissed her at the doorway to the master suite before heading to a guest bedroom, and though he had not planned on it, she kissed him in return. A flicker of hope ignited in the pit of his stomach, and he prayed the flame would not go out.

  The next morning, he rose in time for breakfast. He went to the dining area and found her in her morning clothes. “You look fetching this morning, my sweet. May I kiss you?”

  “Hmm,” she teased. “I suppose a little kiss would be acceptable.”

  He swooped her into his arms and kissed her with the passion he’d been wanting to show her for weeks, if he had only been honest with himself.

  “My, my, Mr. Oliver! Where did that come from?”

  “From you, from the hope that we might possibly become one.”

  She laced her fingers through his. “I’d like that.”

  He leaned in and gave her a light kiss on the lips. “I would like that, too, Mrs. Oliver,” he said with a playful wink.

  Her smile seemed to brighten the room. More than that, it unlocked another chamber in his heart. “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are, Mrs. Oliver?”

  “My parents.”

  “No one else?”

  “Well there was this one young man in Paris…” She smiled.

  He groaned. “I don’t know that I want to hear
this.”

  “Perhaps not, but it was very serious. I was six and he was seven.”

  Jeffery doubled over in laughter. “Oh my, life with you is going to be interesting, Mrs. Oliver.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “No, I don’t, but I’m looking forward to it.” He lifted the cover off his breakfast plate. “Where’s my bacon?”

  “Sorry, I ate it,” she confessed.

  “That will never do, Mrs. Oliver. A man needs his bacon.”

  Tilda’s giggle tickled his ears. So much had changed since the day he’d waited for her at the railway station. “I love you, Tilda.”

  “I love you, too, Jeffery. And I will stay married with you, if you still want me.”

  “Goodness, Tilda, there is no question. I’d be a fool to not want the most enchanting, challenging woman on this planet. I love you.”

  Tilda’s smile evoked the same from him.

  “Will you sleep in the same room as me?” she asked. “I don’t think I could handle separate bedrooms.”

  Jeffery leaned back. “Ah.” He wiped his mouth with the linen napkin. “I spoke to my father about that. It seems my mother could not abide his snoring. Which, to be truthful, I found difficult to tolerate at times, and my room was down the hall from his. To this day they spend time alone with one another each night until he is ready for sleep. Then he goes to his own room.”

  Tilda smiled. “Do you snore, Mr. Oliver?”

  “I don’t believe so, Mrs. Oliver.”

  “Good.”

  “How would you like to spend our day?” he asked.

  A delicate pink rose on her cheeks. “With you.”

  He jumped up, swooped her in his arms, and twirled her around. “I have great affection for the railroad.” He carried her toward the master suite.

  “Pardon?”

  “The railroad brought me the love of my life, and we recognized our love for one another while riding the rails. For that, I will be eternally grateful.”

  “Ah, love on the rails. I like that.”

  He kissed her lips. “Grandpa was right, you know.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “ ‘Whoso findeth a wife,’ ” he quoted from Proverbs, “ ‘findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the Lord.’ ”He pulled the pocket watch out and flipped it open for her to see. “This is what he was trying to teach me. Now I understand. I love you, Tilda.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Lynn A. Coleman is an award-winning and best-selling author of Key West and other books. She began her writing and speaking career with how to utilize the Internet. Since October 1998, when her first fiction novel sold, she’s sold thirty-eight books and novellas. Lynn is also the founder of American Christian Fiction Writers, Inc. and served as the group’s first president for two years and two years on the Advisory Board. One of her primary reasons for starting ACFW was to help writers develop their writing skills and encourage others to go deeper in their relationship with God. “God has given me a gift, but it is my responsibility to develop that gift.”

  Some of her other interests are photography, camping, cooking, and boating. Having grown up on Martha’s Vineyard, she finds water to be very exciting and soothing. She can sit and watch the waves for hours. If time permitted, she would like to travel.

  She makes her home in Keystone Heights, Florida, where her husband of forty-two years serves as pastor of Friendship Bible Church. Together they are blessed with three children, two living and one in glory, and eight grandchildren.

  The Honeymoon Express

  by Susanne Dietze

  Dedication

  To Hannah and Matthew, two of the most amazing people on the planet. I love your jokes,

  your desire to please Jesus, and your willingness to brainstorm plots with me (I just couldn’t

  work in a hamster or epic battle this time—sorry, guys). I’m blessed and proud to be your mom.

  God sets the lonely in families,

  he leads out the prisoners with singing.

  PSALM 68:6 NIV

  Chapter One

  Jersey City, New Jersey

  Evening of August 27, 1876

  Ellen Blanchard cringed. She had no business standing in the ticket queue at the Pennsylvania Railroad Station. At least, no business standing under a banner which read BON VOYAGE, HONEYMOON Express.

  She—a woman most definitely lacking a husband—did not belong on a transcontinental train occupied by celebrating newlyweds. The awkwardness of it all set her body afire, dampening her with perspiration. Heat suffused her face. And when she blushed, she splotched like a half-ripe tomato.

  With fumbling fingers, she tugged her fan from her reticule and flicked it open with a snap, flapping blessedly cooler air over her hot cheeks. Thankfully, an observer might attribute her flush to the summer evening heat trapped inside the stuffy depot and the crush of bodies—canoodling couples, reporters, photographers, and a brass band performing a polka—pressed into the platform.

  No one would likely suspect the true reason for her presence. Which was going on a wedding trip. By herself.

  Enough foolish embarrassment. Ellen may not belong on this train, but it was open to the public if not enough newlyweds purchased tickets, so she had every right to ride it. She squared her shoulders and fixed her gaze smack between the buckskin-clad shoulder blades of the man in queue ahead of her, right where his too-long hair fell in gold-streaked brown curls.

  This was not a wedding trip. It was an adventure. The start of a new life.

  As long as she could procure a ticket. She peeked at the station clock—a quarter to seven. The train might leave without her.

  Dash dot dash dot. Dot. Dot dot dot.

  Jesus, please. Her fingers tapped out a prayer in Morse code against her thigh while she waited an interminable time, unmoving in the queue.

  The haircut-shy man ahead of her was broad-shouldered enough that she had to bend at the waist to peek around him at the ticket agent. What took so long? The bespectacled agent adjusted his glasses and then took bills from the gray-haired, smartly dressed gentleman at the front of the line. A towheaded boy clung to the gentleman’s coat. “Welcome to the Express,” the agent hollered over the brass band’s oom-pahs, his expression not the least bit welcoming.

  His grimace didn’t dampen Ellen’s burgeoning excitement. If a father and son—no more newlyweds than she—could purchase a berth on the Express, then tickets were still available. She bounced on her toes.

  Moving forward in the queue, her fingers tapped against her thigh, repeating her prayer. Dash dot dash dot. Dot. On the second S in Jesus, the buckskin-clad man ahead of her took his ticket and stepped aside, leaving her first in the queue. My, that was faster this time.

  Stuffing her fan into her reticule, she leaned over the counter, the better to not be overheard. “One for the Express, please.”

  He cupped his ear. “Speak up, ma’am. Can’t hear nothin’ over them flugelhorns.”

  So much for trying to be discreet. “The Honeymoon train. I was told if any berths went unsold, they would be available for purchase by, er, nonhoneymooners. I’d like one ticket.”

  “No single tickets, this being a promotion for newly-hitched couples. Tickets-for-two are all we sell.”

  Double the expense, but she had no choice. “Then I’d like a ticket-for-two.”

  “If’n there was any more left, but I just sold the last one. You got somewhere to go, ma’am, I can get you a spot on another train tomorrow morning.”

  Ellen’s head shook so hard her hat slipped toward her ear. No other train would do. Only the Express, this only-once-before attempted coast-to-coast mastery of engineering and cooperation, would get her to California in time to claim employment.

  She shoved her hat aright. “I must reach Sacramento by September first. Any other train will take days longer than that.”

  He sighed. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “If the berths are sold,
I’ll take a seat in the passenger car.” Although she’d miss the privacy of one at nighttime.

  “No seats were ever for sale. Just berths in the Pullman. The final coach on the train ain’t a passenger car, either. It’s repurposed with a galley, dining area, and gentleman’s lounge.” From his weary tone, it sounded as if he’d had this conversation already and resented repeating himself. “These advertising stunts cause nothin’ but headaches. Sorry, but if you don’t want a ticket for a different train, move aside.”

  “Forgive me.” She stepped to the side, uncertain what to do next.

  She couldn’t go home—she didn’t have one anymore. Once Father died, she’d been granted a few weeks to vacate their rooms above the telegraph office. She’d applied for Father’s job, of course, but the company preferred a man. As had every other place she applied.

  Rawlings Mining and Transport Company in the pleasant-sounding town of Poppy, California, hadn’t minded her being a woman, however, so long as she started work September 1. Five days from now—something that wouldn’t have been a problem had Ambrose not misplaced the telegram offering her the job.

  Misplaced, her eye.

  At least she’d discovered what he’d done. She’d telegraphed Rawlings, accepting the job, tidied Father’s grave a final time, and packed her necessities in the valise and two trunks now waiting for her on the platform. There was no going back.

  Squaring her shoulders, Ellen returned to the end of the ticket queue. She’d telegraph Rawlings Company regarding her tardiness and pray they’d take her nevertheless.

  Her fingers tapped against her leg. God, help me.

  “Ma’am?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, were you here first?” The words were hardly out before she recognizedthe man who’d stood ahead of her in line. Not that she’d seen his face, just his broad back, but who else stood out in a crowd like this? The fellow’s gold-streaked hair curled to the shoulders of his buckskin jacket. His trousers and shoes appeared sewn of similar-looking leather, as did the thong threading a necklace of white beads around his neck. Beneath the jacket, however, he wore an orthodox blue-striped shirt that matched the hue of his eyes.