The Rails to Love Romance Collection

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

  The face that popped into her mind was that of Mr. Nash.

  In the morning, Nash ambled from the lounge into the dining area for breakfast, shaking his head. “That’s enough, Ridley.”

  The large fellow at his heels thumped Nash’s shoulder as a comrade would, almost knocking him into a table occupied by the breakfasting Howells, Clifford and Stella.“Sure looked like you were sleeping in the lounge. Got booted from your berth by your bride on your honeymoon? Must’ve been some sort of disagreement.” Ridley plunged his elbow toward Nash’s ribcage. It might have hurt, if the train’s swaying motions hadn’t prevented Ridley from making contact.

  “It’s not like that.” Folks and their assumptions.

  “All women are naggers. Maybe Mrs. Nash wants you to wear real shoes, eh?”

  Nash was accustomed to folks teasing him about his moccasins. And his hair, and the cabin he slept in during winter. But he wouldn’t stand someone casting aspersions about another, “Mrs. Nash” or not. “She’s a fine lady, Ridley, and I’ll thank you to remember it.”

  From the disapproving looks on the Howells’ faces, it was clear they’d overheard. Clifford’s head tipped to the side. “Mr. Ridley, where’s your bride? And what were you doing in the lounge this early morn?”

  Ridley’s jowls trembled in time with the train’s chug-a-chugs. “All that noise switching to the Pittsburgh, Fort Wayne, and Chicago line woke me. Not that I slept well to begin with. Got cinders on my face from the open windows.”

  Clifford exchanged meaningful looks with Nash. “So it wasn’t an argument with your bride that drew you to the gentlemen’s lounge, either.”

  Ridley snorted, then pushed past to exit the car.

  Nash extended his hand to Clifford. “Thanks.”

  Clifford’s handshake was firm. “Think nothing of it, Mr. Nash.”

  “Nash.” He hardly knew the fellow, but he liked him already.

  “Join us, please,” Stella offered.

  Nash was about to sit when Ellen Blanchard wobbled into the dining area. Wherever they were in Ohio right now, they traveled so fast the train seemed ready to fly off the rails, making everyone and everything on it struggle to hold its place. The pale bun at her nape was askew, just like her steps. But her eyes sparkled, and her smile was brighter than the early morning light that streamed through the windows. Made him almost forget the ache in his bones from resting on the hard bench in the lounge.

  He made his way to Miss Blanchard’s side, hand extended to help her. “You all right?”

  She nodded. “How can you walk without stumbling?”

  “Moccasins. And years walking on uneven ground, I s’pose.” But then the train lurched, and he did, too. They both laughed.

  “Did you sleep well?” Her whisper was conspiratorial.

  “Fair enough.” He whispered back, grinning.

  “Me, too. Oh, good morning.” She greeted the Howells and took the seat Nash pulled out for her, landing hard on her bustle as the train braked. “We’ll all be black and blue before we reach California.”

  She laughed again, testifying to her good humor, and Nash’s appreciation of her rose a notch. She wasn’t concerned with appearances, unlike Primrose Dewey, who almost fell out of her chair at the train’s pitch and then snapped angrily at their porter for not holding the chair in the right spot.

  A second porter arrived at Nash’s elbow with a pot of coffee, biscuits, and boiled ham. All cold. But after Nash offered grace, their table of four ate, holding their cups in place with one hand while they forked food from skidding plates with the other. The dining area filled with the other passengers.

  “Eight years,” Stella answered Miss Blanchard’s query of how long the Howells had been wed.

  Clifford held up a hand. “That is, we’ve known one another eight years. The wedding was a fortnight ago.”

  “Congratulations.” Nash remembered when he’d been married a fortnight. He’d kissed Leora goodbye and marched south with the Twentieth Maine. The recollection filled his mouth with a sourness that couldn’t be washed away with tepid coffee.

  “Pretty bad, isn’t it?” Clifford held up his coffee.

  “I’ve had worse.” Like in the war. It’d been over ten years, but he could still taste stale hard tack dunked in muddy camp coffee.

  “I’m certain it’s difficult to cook, the way we’re all heaving to and fro,” Miss Blanchard suggested.

  “Hear, hear.” Stella eyed her husband in that way wives had, communicating something only he would understand. At once, Clifford rose and assisted Stella up.

  “See you in the hotel coach,” Clifford said. And they were gone, leaving Nash and Miss Blanchard with their near-finished ham. Miss Blanchard smiled, but her finger tapped the side of her coffee cup in an odd rhythm.

  He recognized it. “Is that Morse code?”

  Her cheeks flushed—no, that was too gentle a word for it. They enflamed. “I’m a telegrapher Mr. Nash.” Her tone sounded both proud and defensive. As if she’d received no end of judgment over her profession.

  She’d get none from him. “An admirable skill. And I’m just Nash. Please.”

  “Nash.” Her cheeks muted to roses.

  Not a nosy sort, he usually let folks be. But he didn’t want to leave the table just yet. Didn’t want to stop talking to her. “What made you decide to head west?”

  “My father—he’s the one who taught me how to be a telegrapher—passed away. There was nothing to hold me in New Jersey, so I answered an advertisement for a job.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “You’ve had loss, too, I think.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, sympathetic but not melodramatic the way some people were, so he decided to tell her.

  “I lost my wife and twin boys during the war. So I came to California.” Suddenly, he became all too aware of the clattering of silver and china around him, murmuring couples, and Primrose Dewey’s grumbles. “I needed a new start. Guess you feel that way, too, to leave family and friends.”

  “Father was my only family. Friends? In truth, I’m most comfortable with a telegraph machine. It is straightforward, to the point, and one knows where one stands with it.”

  There was no artifice about her, something he admired. But a fine lady like her should never feel friendless. Nash frowned, praying for words.

  “And you?” She spoke before he could. “What do you do?”

  His index finger traced the brim of his cup. “This and that.”

  Her mouth twisted, as if she’d hoped for more of an answer. But it was true. He did a lot of different things these days.

  “Did you ever mine for gold?”

  He chuckled. “Sure did, although it’s been a while. Here.” He dug the quartz from the small pouch that hung from his belt and held it out to her. It was thick as two of herfingers and just as long, white and pink, sparkling in the morning sunlight.

  “It’s lovely.” She fingered the streak of gold bisecting the quartz.

  “It’s the first gold I found after I came west eleven years ago. After I lost my family. I keep it to remind me where I came from. That God provided for me.”

  And that his heart could heal, but it did so with a long, ugly scar. Losing people he loved hurt too much to risk opening his heart again.

  “Perhaps God will give me something to hold onto when I arrive in California, too. In the meantime I have my mother’s cameo to remind me where I come from.” She sipped her coffee. Then frowned. “Nash?”

  He liked that she’d used his name without the Mister attached. But something in her tone aroused his concern. “Yes?”

  Her gaze flickered to the Prewetts. “May I count on your discretion?”

  Surprise skittered up his bones, but so did an odd sense of pleasure. Her confiding in him—and him helping her—felt right. “Of course.”

  She cleared her throat. “We were given copies of the New York Daily last night when we boarded the train, remember? I read our copy a
fter Gabe went to sleep.”

  “Front page story about the Honeymoon Express, I’d bet. And probably something about that bank-robbing couple.” Big news in New York, both of them. The robbers were especially notorious because, even though they wore handkerchiefs over their noses and mouths, one of them was female. And she didn’t just take cash and coin, but she also nabbed the jewelry off the customers.

  “Their carriage driver was caught two days back and admitted the duo planned to escape town yesterday on a train.” She shuddered. “But there was something else, an article about an heiress, Magdalena Pierce, whose husband, Jerome, and son are missing. She’s offering five hundred dollars for information leading to her son’s return. The boy is six, towheaded, and goes by the name of Gabriel.” She glanced at the Prewetts again, and Nash’s stomach churned.

  “You’re saying Jerome Prewett could be Jerome Pierce?” He leaned in to whisper.

  She leaned forward, too. Their foreheads were a hairsbreadth apart. “Last night Gabe told me his mother was alone and his trip was a secret. He cried for missing her.”

  Lord, have mercy. He’d heard of this before. Read the legal debt disclaimers placed in newspapers by parents seeking the return of children their spouses took away. “A father taking a child from its mother isn’t necessarily illegal. I’m not saying it’s right, but I don’t know if there’s anything to be done.”

  “That poor mother should know where her son is, if the Prewetts are in fact the Pierces. At first opportunity I’ll send a telegram to a friend of my father’s in New York. I’ll ask for more details before I inform the conductor of a possible problem.”

  Her intent to seek more information and not to jump to conclusions was noble. But tricky. “They won’t let you off the train since they’re trying to set a speed record.”

  “We’re taking on supplies in Chicago. Maybe then.”

  Helping her—and Gabriel, if he was a Pierce and not a Prewett—was the right thing to do. “I’ll make sure you get on and off somewhere. In the meantime I’ll keep my ears open. Thanks for trusting me, Miss Blanchard.”

  “Thank you. And… if I’m to call you Nash, I suppose you may call me Ellen.”

  A name as pretty as her eyes—

  Something thumped his shoulder. “Ho, lovebirds.”

  Nash and Ellen flung apart. Ridley stood above them, waggling his bushy eyebrows. “Honeymoon back on, eh? No sleeping in the lounge tonight.”

  Ellen’s cheeks enflamed, red as blisters. “Excuse me.” She hopped from the table and fled from the car.

  “Or maybe you will.” Ridley guffawed and walked off.

  Nash ran a hand through his hair. That Ridley—but maybe Nash should be grateful. He could be friends with Ellen, sure. But thinking her pretty?

  He washed the thought down with a gulp of tepid coffee.

  Chapter Three

  Ellen couldn’t hide in the saloon forever, so she splashed water on her face for the third time, patted dry her flush-hot cheeks, and held her head high when she made her way back to the hotel car.

  Ridley and his teasing. To think, the entire train thought her “husband” Nash slept in the lounge because they quarreled. They must think her a shrew.

  It doesn’t matter. A few more days and she’d never see any of them again. Not even Nash. Although the thought that she might come across him someday in California brightened her spirits.

  Bracing herself with a hand against the compartment wall, she made her way to the hotel car. The berths had been transformed back into sofas. Only one other person occupied the car, Stella Howell. The long-nosed woman crouched at the front of the car, rifling through a brocade valise that had accompanied a strawberry-haired bride aboard the train.

  “Ma’am?” Ellen blurted. “Is that Mrs. Fisher’s bag?”

  Stella unbent. “My, you gave me a fright. She said I could borrow a spool of green thread for my sampler, but I can’t find it anywhere. I’ll just wait until she finishes breakfast.”

  Ah. “I couldn’t sew a straight stitch, as fast as we’re going.” The train wobbled on the rails, as if to illustrate her point. “Truth be told, I can’t sew a straight stitch, anyway.”

  Stella’s laugh sounded forced. Well, Ellen wasn’t known for her humor.

  Primrose flounced past to her seat. “What an odd honeymoon. I thought it would be exciting, but I fear boredom looms ahead.”

  “Hmm.” Ellen’s murmur expressed agreement about the oddness of this honeymoon, not the boring part. Not if Gabe had indeed been taken from his mother. She was blessed to have Nash to help her. What a gallant man. Like a knight in stories of old, except he wore buckskin and moccasins. Perhaps they’d share luncheon together, or supper. No, she’d not be bored—

  “Time for some fun.” The conductor strode up the aisle. Behind him, the others followed from the dining area, including Nash. “Settle down, folks, and take your seats.”

  “What’s happening?” Ellen sat up.

  “Something to break the boredom.” Primrose clapped.

  Nash sat by Ellen, his brows lifted in a question.

  “Time to play a game.” The conductor beckoned porters, who passed out paper and pencils. “Which newlywed couple knows each other the best? Winners get supper at the Palace Hotel in San Francisco.”

  Stella patted Clifford’s knee and gave him a resolute nod.

  “Can we win, Papa?” Gabe climbed to his knees.

  Nash bent toward Ellen. “Here’s to paying for our own suppers.”

  She giggled like she hadn’t done since Ambrose—well, enough of Ambrose. Forever. “I shall do my best, anyway.”

  “I reckon that’s your motto ’bout everything.”

  How kind that he thought so. Then she gasped. “Quick. What’s your middle name?”

  “Jethro. Yours?”

  “Marcheline.”

  “Marsha-what?”

  “Leen.” They were both grinning.

  Before she could ask his favorite color, the conductor called for silence. Then she realized she should have asked for Nash’s first name, not his middle name. He was Something Jethro Nash. But what? Why didn’t he use it?

  “One of every pair, switch seats so you can’t cheat.”

  Nash saluted goodbye and ambled to the opposite end of the car. Then she caught Gabe’s tearing gaze. “Come here.”

  “I can’t write yet.” He scrambled beside her.

  “Then tell me what you want me to write, and I’ll jot it down.”

  “Exactly?”

  “I’m a telegrapher. Part of my job is sending messages precisely as given to me.”

  Across the aisle, Primrose flexed her pencil-holding hand, sending the many bracelets at her wrist jangling. “Ready.”

  The conductor looked at each of them in turn. “I’ll ask a question. Answer first for yourself, then your spouse—or, er, traveling partner, since we’ve got a father and son with us.”

  “That’s me.” Gabe stood on the seat.

  “And me.” But the conductor didn’t hear and it didn’t matter for the game, so she pulled Gabe back down to the seat.

  “Number one.” The conductor grinned, as if this was the most fun he’d had all week. “What is your partner’s favorite color?”

  “I like red. Papa, you like red, too?” Gabe shouted. “Put red.”

  She dutifully wrote red twice, and then her favorite but—Nash’s? She might as well toss the pencil into the spittoon. Everything he wore was brown, except for his shirt. Yesterday’s was blue, but today’s shirt was white, and in desperate need of ironing.

  Except—what did she know of Nash? He slept under the stars. He wore clothing that was neither white nor native, from her albeit limited knowledge, but some sort of combination of the two. She scrawled a guess.

  She chewed her lip as the game progressed, using her gut to guide her answers for Nash once she finished with Gabe’s answers. A few minutes later, everyone returned to their original seats and the porter
collected pencils.

  Nash chuckled. “I’m sure we’ll come in last, but it passed some time, didn’t it?”

  “And it was fun.”

  “It was.” Nash looked like he meant it.

  “Number one.” The porter raised his voice over the train’s rumbling. “Your partner’s favorite color. Share your answers and raise your hands if you both get it right.”

  “I guessed green for you,” Ellen blurted.

  “You’re right.” Nash smiled. “How’d you figure?”

  “I pictured you in a meadow. It just seemed right.” She was babbling, a telltale indicator of excitement or nervousness. Either way, she was embarrassed now. She swiveled to look out the window at the passing blur of scenery. “Look at that farm.”

  “I guessed purple. For your favorite.” Nash’s voice pulled her back around.

  “Why?”

  “Your dress yesterday.” His finger drew lazy circles on his paper. Was he embarrassed, too?

  “It’s my favorite. Dress. And color.” She turned her paper to show him.

  In tandem, they smiled and raised their hands for the conductor’s scorekeeping.

  Primrose howled at Lincoln when it became evident she did not know what he did when he was worried, but Ellen’s guess that Nash took long walks and prayed was right.

  “You tap Morse code with your fingers,” he said.

  No one had ever noticed that before. Not Father. Not Ambrose.

  They raised their hands again for another point.

  Ellen and Nash did not know one another’s first pet’s name, favorite nursery rhyme, or best Christmas memory. But they’d guessed correctly about one another’s prized possessions: his quartz and her mother’s cameo. And they laughed over their failed guesses.

  “Hangtown Fry?” Nash’s bemused expression started her giggling when they swapped answers for favorite foods. “I’m shocked you know what that is.”

  The legend of the Gold Rush prospector ordering the most expensive meal in town—eggs fried with bacon and oysters—made its way east over the decades. “I made it my business to learn what foods are popular in my new state.”