The Rails to Love Romance Collection

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

  His unconventional dress could mean but one thing. He was a man of the West, some sort of outdoorsman or mountain man. Ellen’s hand pressed her chest. She’d read about fellows like him in novels, but those were grizzled fellows with beards to their ribcages who reeked like skunks. This one, however, was shaven, clean, and indisputably handsome.

  “I’m not in line.” He was polite, too. “I purchased the last berth on the Express, but I couldn’t help overhearing your exchange with the ticket agent. I can tell it’s mighty important for you to be in California. I have a proposition for you.”

  “You’ll sell me your berth?” This mountain man was a gem of a gentleman. Even if he raised the price to make a little money for his trouble. “How much?”

  “Oh, no.” He smiled. “I thought we could share the ticket-for-two.”

  Ellen blinked. Then it all made sense. She might be a fool about many things, but she was not stupid.

  “Mister…?” She’d behave like the lady she was, rather than screech at him. For now.

  “Nash.”

  “Mr. Nash—”

  “Just Nash.”

  “Step away before I summon assistance.”

  His eyes went wide. Then one of his fringe-laden sleeves reached for her.

  She lifted her knee. Not enough so anyone would notice it beneath the bustled bell of her amethyst silk skirt. But it was ready should she need to kick him to make her point understood.

  “Not like that.” Nash yanked back his hand. What was he thinking, almost touching a strange woman, much less phrasing his offer as if he had foul intentions? Try to remember how to be around females, at least until you get home. Then you can go back to being normal.

  Which was what, lonely? Nash shoved away the thought. Alone didn’t necessarily mean lonely. Things were fine as they were.

  Meanwhile the blond in the dress the color of grape jelly glared up at him with rich brown eyes. She was a pretty thing, despite the glower.

  His hands raised in a gesture of peace. “I thought we could split the ticket, all businesslike. That’s it. I want to go home, you need to get west, no more than that.”

  Her scowl didn’t soften. “There is but one berth per ticket.”

  “True.” At least that was how Pullman cars worked, as far as he knew. Beds formed out of two seats or folded down from the ceiling. Despite a curtain, there was scant privacy for anyone on this ridiculous honeymoon trip, but it didn’t concern Nash. “I won’t be using the berth, whether you come or not.”

  She crossed her arms. The fingers of one hand tapped against the purple fabric of heropposite sleeve. A sign of her anxiety? “How can I be assured of this?”

  When was the last time he’d had to defend his honor? Then again, when was the last time he’d made such an idiot of himself? He couldn’t fight the smile that tugged his lips. “Truth is, I don’t like being closed up. Most nights I sleep outdoors so I can watch the stars—in warm weather, anyway. So I’ll sleep in the train lounge where I’ll have a good view of the sky. If you don’t take the berth, it’ll go empty.”

  She chewed her lip. Debating—it wasn’t hard to figure that out. Then she sighed. “At least I shall be well chaperoned with so many others on the train.”

  So would the newlyweds. He grinned and passed her the ticket.

  “Thank you, Mr. Nash. I insist on paying you.”

  “Just Nash. Miss—?”

  She hesitated half a second. “Blanchard.”

  She directed a porter to her trunks just as the band’s song ended on a flourish.

  “Honeymooners!”

  The yell made her jump. Set Nash’s nerves on edge, too. Give him the quiet of his mountain home any day.

  A thickset fellow waved from atop a bunting-draped platform several feet off the ground. His hand rested in a protective gesture on a camera. “Time for a commemorative photograph,” he hollered. “Stand in front of the engine, please.”

  Couples murmured and hurried over to find places before the black steam engine, but Miss Blanchard shook her head. “We’re not honeymooners.”

  “Nope.” Nash pulled his satchel strap over his shoulder. Truth was, he didn’t cotton to spending four days on a honeymoon train. Not that he wasn’t happy for the lovebirds clustering together, twittering while the photographer issued instructions. These folks had their whole lives ahead of them. At least, he prayed so.

  But happy honeymoons didn’t always lead to happily ever afters.

  Miss Blanchard stepped back, colliding with the little boy who’d preceded Nash in the ticket queue. She wobbled, and Nash caught her arm. She smelled nice. Like almonds.

  Her cheeks blotched pink. “Thank you.”

  Nash released her arm as if it were quilled like a porcupine’s hide, then stepped back to a more proper distance. Nodded, because saying you’re welcome seemed idiotic when he should apologize for—what, liking how she smelled? Holding on a second too long?

  “Gabe.” The boy’s father gripped the boy’s shoulder. “Apologize to these folks. Almost knocked them over.”

  Miss Blanchard’s smile was as pretty as she was. “Not at all. He’s excited, and who can blame him, riding such a fine train?”

  Gabe grinned. As ever when Nash encountered little boys, it was impossible not to think of his own. Would they have loved trains—the noise and smoke and excitement?

  The photographer clambered down from his perch to herd the gathered folks with his arms, and Gabe’s gaze riveted to him. “Sorry, ma’am. Come on, Papa, the photograph’s waiting.”

  “Not for us.” He drew Gabe to his side. “Honeymooners only.”

  The photographer beckoned them. “Every Express passenger, please, honeymooner or child and parent.”

  “No, thank you,” the man said. His boy’s face crumpled.

  “Sir. In the buckskins.” The photographer pointed. “Stand here.”

  Nash hadn’t posed for a camera since he wore the uniform of the Army of the Potomac. Didn’t want to start now, but the photographer took his arm and pulled. “Step closer to the group with your wife so we can finish and you can begin your bridal tour.”

  His wife. Nash should’ve expected folks to make that assumption, this being a honeymoon trip and all. But he hadn’t thought it through. Just tried to help somebody in need.

  The photographer had Miss Blanchard by the arm, too, ushering them to the right flank of the group and pushing them together so her shoulder touched his bicep. “What a fine-looking couple you make, if I do say so myself.”

  Chapter Two

  Oh, we aren’t married. Just traveling together.”

  That sounded horrible. Ellen’s face scorched. “That is, we are strangers sharing the convenience of a ticket-for-two.”

  The photographer didn’t appear to be listening. “Hold still, folks.” He scurried back up the ladder to his camera and hid under the black-cloth hood.

  She looked to Mr. Nash for help, but he just stood with a straight face. Traitor. Why hadn’t he spoken up? She spun, pressing into his shoulder since they were pressed cheek by jowl. “Mr. Nash, say something—”

  “Mrs. Buckskins.” She spun back. The photographer had thrust aside the hood to scowl down at her. “Please refrain from speaking to your husband.”

  “It’ll be over in a minute.” The way the words came out, it was clear her “husband” spoke without moving his lips—in obedience to the photographer. She couldn’t turn her head to prove it, though.

  Instead she answered him in kind, through clenched teeth. “We’re not married.”

  “He doesn’t care.”

  Well, Ellen did. Mrs. Buckskins, indeed. And to think she’d responded to it! Heat pricked her cheeks, just in time to look blotchy for the photograph.

  With a burst of light and puff of smoke from the flash lamp, it was over. The pressure of Mr. Nash’s arm disappeared from her shoulder.

  “All aboard!” The dark-coated conductor held up his arm. The crowd of honeymooners
moved as one to board the Express.

  “My portion of the ticket.” Ellen opened her handbag, but Mr. Nash held up a hand.

  “Later. We don’t want to hold up the departure.”

  Not with its urgent itinerary, with every other train traveling the same lines waiting on side tracks while this one passed. And not with water, coal, and crews standing ready to replenish the train on its brief stops along the way.

  A porter gripped Ellen’s elbow and hoisted her onto the gleaming-red passenger car—oh, the hotel car. The plush upholstered sofas were far more luxurious than the wooden benches she’d occupied on other trains. So were the shining silver accents, the carved woodwork, and carpet underfoot.

  “Take a seat, enjoy the complimentary newspaper you’ll find there provided by our sponsor, the New York Daily, and congratulations on your nuptials.” The conductor waved her through.

  “But—”

  “Thank you, sir.” Mr. Nash spoke over her.

  “Mr. Nash, really.” Negotiating her skirt around a gleaming brass spittoon in the aisle, she found the closest empty seat, scooped the newspaper and a guidebook from it, sat down, and plunked the publications on her lap. Headlines blared about the Express and those bank robbers terrorizing New York; she’d read the articles later.

  “It’s not worth correcting everybody about our status. Twenty-four passengers and staff? Can’t get to all of them.” To her surprise, Mr. Nash took the seat beside her. A glance assured her there weren’t other options available. Half a dozen rows of sofas flanked the aisle, with two sofas facing each other so four people could speak easily. It appeared all the seats in the car were taken, except the one beside her. Ellen sighed. Of course. Everyone on this train traveled in pairs.

  Would she and Mr. Nash sit together the entire journey? A strange current of excitement traversed her bones. Something she hadn’t felt since Ambrose leaned over her shoulder that first time to decipher an incoming telegraph.

  Ridiculous. But it would behoove her to take advantage of Mr. Nash’s proximity to ask him questions about California.

  That notion proved fruitless the moment the train whistle blew. Cries of “Godspeed” and “Bon voyage” carried through the open windows. The engine pulled from the station, and the couples cheered. Ellen joined in, catching a mouthful of sooty smoke that must’ve come in through the open window. And coughed.

  “Here, ma’am.” A silver cup was thrust under her nose.

  “How kind,” she choked, glancing up at the porter holding out the beverage. She took a gulp, washing the soot from her throat. And coughed anew at the sickly-sweet cherry flavor. It wasn’t the water she’d expected.

  “Celebratory punch.” He offered cups to the others. At once, chatter broke out across the aisle, and cups clanked with cheers.

  Small talk was not Ellen’s strong suit. Just ask Ambrose.

  “How do?” The dashing young man in the seat facing her leaned forward. “I’m Lincoln Dewey, and this is my bride, Primrose.”

  Primrose, a pretty blond, blushed a becoming shade of rose. It was difficult not to envy Primrose’s coloring. Or the enormous emerald brooch at her throat. Ellen was not a connoisseur of gems, but its value was obvious.

  The groom across the aisle from the Deweys thrust out his hand for shaking. “Clifford and Stella Howell.”

  The men shook hands while Ellen nodded at Stella. Dark haired and thin boned, she appeared not much older than Ellen’s twenty-seven years. See, Ambrose? I’m not too old for matrimony. One need not be eighteen, like your bride—

  “You’re from New York?” Stella leaned forward toward the Deweys. “What do you do?”

  “Banking.” He looked it, with his tailored suit. “You, Mr. Howell?”

  “City management.” Clifford’s eyes narrowed. “Say, you’re a banker? Have any problems with those two robbers at your branch? The ones everyone in town’s talking about?”

  “None. More punch?” Lincoln hailed the porter.

  Ellen smiled to herself. No one asked what she did. Or Mr. Nash, either.

  “We’re from New York, too, Papa.” Gabe, the lad who’d almost bowled her over on the train platform, hopped from his seat across from Stella. “We’re goin’ to San Francisco. Not on our honeymoon. But it’s just us, leavin’ on an a–venture.”

  Everyone laughed but his father, who introduced himself as Jerome Prewett. “That’s enough, Son. Don’t want to disturb these nice people.”

  “Nonsense,” Ellen burst out, but Jerome Prewett bent to murmur to his pouting son. Lincoln whispered something to Primrose that made her giggle, and Clifford spoke softly to Stella—but they frowned.

  Unsure what to do, Ellen sipped her punch.

  “You a New Yorker, too?” Lincoln gestured at Mr. Nash’s fringed sleeves.

  Mr. Nash brushed a lock of hair from his brow. “I’m from Maine.”

  Ellen swallowed her sip too fast, stinging her throat again. “I thought you were a Californian.”

  “I am now.” My, his eyes were the loveliest shade of blue.

  Lincoln hooted. “And I thought Primrose and I didn’t know each other well enough when we swapped vows. You two must not do much talking.”

  His brows wiggled suggestively. The others laughed. And Ellen flushed hotter (and no doubt redder) than a brick oven.

  “We’re sharing the ticket-for-two, just like the Prewetts,” Mr. Nash said before Ellen could speak. “We didn’t know one another before today.”

  So much for not declaring their status to the other passengers. Maybe he was horrified by the suggestion of being married to her. Just like Ambrose. His face didn’t show disgust, however. But he was occupied with getting his ticket punched by the conductor. She handed hers over, too.

  “Look at all you fine honeymooners on this train.” He punched and then grinned at Gabe. “And folks wanting to get somewhere fast.”

  “Or get away from somewhere fast.” Stella held out her ticket. “This would be ideal, wouldn’t it? Hypothetically?”

  Lincoln’s laugh was loud. “Now that’s an idea.”

  Primrose pulled him close to whisper. Clifford did the same to Stella, leaving Ellen and Mr. Nash awkward with their punch. After a minute, he drained his up. “I think I’ll stretch my legs. Look at the other coach.”

  Understanding dawned. Soon the porters would convert these sofas to berths. And he’d sleep in the so-called gentleman’s lounge, just as he’d promised.

  His thoughtfulness touched her. “Enjoy the view.”

  “Seems unfair, the gentlemen getting their own car.” Primrose rolled her eyes.

  Maybe, but without it, Mr. Nash would have nowhere else to sleep.

  “You go, too.” Stella shooed her husband to stand. If Ellen ever married, she’d not want to part from her groom so soon, would she?

  Lincoln rose, too. “I’ll join you fellows.”

  So did several other men, including grooms who introduced themselves as Mr. Ridley and Mr. Fisher, whose wives jabbered with enthusiasm.

  Little Gabe hopped up, but his father shook his head. “You need to stay here.”

  “Aw. I’m a gentleman.” Gabe’s chin jutted forward.

  “Would you like to sit with me?” Ellen patted Nash’s vacated seat. She’d far prefer chatting with a child than her peers. Stella crossed the aisle to sit by Primrose, and soon they’d start discussing hats or husbands, and Ellen would sit there ignored asthe spittoon in the aisle.

  Gabe hopped on the seat beside her, pointing at the guidebook left on their seats, The Honeymoon Express: Sponsored by the “New York Daily.” “What’s it say?”

  “Let’s see.” She was curious, too, and thumbed open the booklet, holding it at an angle to catch the last rays of sun before dusk fell. “Many things, like when to look for buffalo.”

  “Papa says we may go sixty miles an hour, like the Jarrett-Palmer Express,” Gabe added.

  “This book says we won’t go as fast as they did, because we have
more cars.”

  It was still a short train. The engine-tender first, then the baggage car/staff commissary, and then the hotel car, where they rode, which included the saloons, or necessaries. Last in the train was the converted car containing the dining area and gentlemen’s lounge. Still, they might make top speeds.

  Traveling that fast sounded thrilling. Then the car lurched around a curve. Ellen wavered into Gabe. Stella swayed toward Primrose, or rather, the open valise at Primrose’s feet. “My, what a pretty bag.”

  Did her fingers sweep inside it? Or did the motion of the train pull her down?

  “It’s new.” Primrose helped Stella upright. “I didn’t imagine we’d be jostled about like this, but it’s worth it to make the speed record.”

  Ellen didn’t care about the record. Just getting to California. Then Gabe shoved the guidebook in Ellen’s face. “Read, please? Like my mama does?”

  Tears spilled over his baby-round cheeks. Oh dear. “What’s wrong?”

  “I miss Mama. But Papa says don’t talk about her.”

  Ellen’s lips compressed. He’d just spoken of his mother in present tense, but perhaps she’d recently died. Maybe the train trip west was a distraction for the Prewetts, poor things. “Let’s read, then.”

  She did until Gabe patted her neck.

  “Mama’s in New York, but don’t tell Papa I told. This trip is our secret.”

  Ellen’s heart thumped out of time. “Secret?”

  “Gabe.” At Mr. Prewett’s voice, Ellen startled. Before she could blink, Mr. Prewett lifted Gabe from beside her. “Not bothering the nice lady, are you?”

  “Of course not.” Her voice croaked. “We were just—”

  “Dusk is falling. Time to make up the berths. Let’s visit the saloon.”

  Ellen should prepare for bed, too, but her legs had begun to shake, and it had naught to do with the jerky car. The Prewetts’ trip was none of her business, and Gabe was such a young fellow he may have misunderstood the situation. Nevertheless, her stomach clenched with unease. She tapped a prayer in Morse code on her left leg. What am I to do, Lord?