Stop it. You’ve got no business thinking about anyone like this.
Nash swallowed his thoughts down with his consommé. The porter exchanged their empty bowls for fragrant plates of roast beef. Around them, honeymooners twittered, except for the Howells. Clifford and Stella’s gazes fixed everywhere but on one another.
Speaking about the Howells was far safer than mulling his emotions, so Nash took advantage of the freedom sitting like this offered him and Ellen to speak quietly. He leaned forward. “You learn anything this afternoon?”
Ellen peeked at Stella. “I didn’t say a word about you catching her, but she wasn’t interested in chatting with me.”
He gulped a leathery cube of beef. He’d expected dinner to be more palatable, considering the tracks were smoother here. Maybe the chefs couldn’t cook, no matter the speed or terrain. “Clifford asked more questions than he answered. Nothing new with Prewett, either. He played possum in the lounge.”
“He should have spent that time with Gabe, but I enjoyed him.” Ellen’s brow quirked. “I taught him Morse code: His name. Train. Mama.”
Smart. “Did he react? Talk about his ma?”
“He teared up but wouldn’t speak of her.” Her lips pressed into a line.
The moment the porter cleared plates, the conductor appeared. “Would you folks care for another game before dessert?”
Ellen chuckled. “Perhaps we’ll truly get last place this time.”
They probably would. But he found himself looking forward to it all the same. Ellen was fun to be with—not that he’d dwell on it. No, sir.
“I want to win,” Primrose encouraged Lincoln.
“C’mon, Papa!” Gabe was on his knees.
Stella and Clifford muttered and frowned.
Without explanation, the porter placed a pasteboard box on each table. Within, wood rattled on wood. “It’s a puzzle.”
Her eyes sparked. “Wonderful.”
The conductor looked as excited as Ellen. “Dump the contents onto the table. Use the pieces to form a solid square, one foot by one foot. It’s not as easy as it sounds. First couple to finish wins.”
She set to work at once. “I have a tangram puzzle like this at home.”
“Tangram?” He didn’t know what he was doing, but he could sort out the wood pieces, which were all different-sized triangles and rectangles and such.
“It’s Chinese. Geometric shapes fit together to form images. Rabbits, flowers.” She shrugged. “A square won’t be difficult.”
Since she was experienced, he expected her to take over, but instead she pointed at the square in his hand. “Should we try putting it on an angle, like this?”
Once it was turned like a diamond, it made sense, and together they made progress. It proved somewhat challenging, however, requiring some trial and error.
A bump from the tracks jiggled the train, and others lost pieces to the floor. Primrose huffed. Gabe crawled past, picking up pieces. Stella looked out the window while Clifford fiddled with a block. Meanwhile, Ellen adjusted a shape. “What about this one, here?”
“Then this triangle won’t work.”
“How astute, Nash.”
Her praise warmed him. They passed pieces back and forth. After a minute she pulled a frustrated face, and with exaggerated motions, pretended to shove an unwilling piece into place.
They laughed. And in another minute they’d created a square. Their hands shot in the air.
“Already?” The conductor bustled over and grinned. “This game took cooperation and communication, two components of every good marriage. The prize is same as the last game, supper at the Palace Hotel. Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Nash!”
Ellen’s hand lifted, as if to correct the conductor. Then it fell, and she blushed.
Primrose stood by their table, eyes narrow. “Are you certain you two met yesterday?”
“Yup.” Nash brushed back his hair.
Ellen handed the prize letter to Nash. “You take it.”
“No, you.” He pushed it back.
“I’m getting off the train at Sacramento.”
“So am I.” Hope rose in his chest. Maybe they could—
What? Unless he took an official interest in Ellen, he had no business thinking like this. “Guess we’ll give it away, then.”
Then he pictured her in the dining room of a fancy hotel, pretty and dining on exquisite fare, not this hide-tough stuff. For the first time in a long time, he wished things were different.
Like his heart.
The conductor invited everyone to stay in the dining area until bedtime, and by unspoken agreement everyone except the Prewetts stayed in their seats, sipping coffee in the light of the kerosene lamps. Nash and Ellen could have used the opportunity to compare notes on the Prewetts and Howells, but instead they talked about her father, his twin sons he met but once, and a dozen mindless things. While talking about her college days, Ellen waved her hands and accidentally knocked Clifford as he passed in the aisle.
“Pardon me—”
“My fault.” Clifford gave her a hesitant half smile, as if he were embarrassed. Worry creased Stella’s brow, too. They stood there, stiff and awkward, like they wanted to do something but didn’t know how, or what.
They didn’t act like confident bank robbers, but as much as Nash wanted to believe the couple innocent, he couldn’t shake the feeling something was wrong with these two.
“We’re off to bed,” Stella said. “Near midnight, and all.”
Ellen sat up straight. “I’d no idea it was so late.”
Nash had. But he hadn’t minded. “We should probably go, too.” He offered her his arm, even though the track was smooth. They walked slowly.
Seeing they were alone in the saloon corridor, she paused. “We’ll reach Omaha early. The conductor knows I’m expecting a telegram and asked to have it brought to the train.”
“Good.” He’d be awake to make sure, too. Hopefully it would be good news, and Gabe Prewett wasn’t Gabe Pierce after all.
Ellen leaned to look up through the open window. “You’re right. I’d wondered—” Even in the dim light, he could see her face mottle red.
“Wondered what?”
“You sleep under the stars. I wasn’t sure how well you could see them from the train, but there they are. Like they’re following us west.”
“And they’ll greet us there, too. Always with us.”
The faintest trace of almond wafted from her hair. “What’s your first name?”
A smile tugged at his lips. “I go by Nash.”
“You can be most exasperating.” Her light tone belied any frustration. “Goodnight, Nash.”
“Goodnight.” He almost tacked on sweetheart. Which would have been a disaster. Wouldn’t it?
God, what’s happening to me?
Chapter Five
Dot dot dot dot dot. Long dash. Dot. Ellen tapped a prayer of petition against the open doorjamb, waiting where the porter bid her stay. In the predawn light, she couldn’t make out much on the Omaha platform beyond the loading of crates. But where was her telegram? It was supposed to be waiting here for her, no matter the time. She’d seen to it.
Someone moved to stand beside her. Nash, smiling his greeting.
She smiled back, at once regretting her hastily pinned hair and rumpled appearance.
“Nothing yet?” His voice was low, out of respect for the passengers snug in their berths—but there hadn’t been a single snore or murmur of sleep-talk since they’d stopped earlier in Council Bluffs to fill the water tanks. Everyone was probably as wide awake as Ellen and Nash, just playing possum. Except Gabe. That child slept no matter how hot, loud, or bouncy the ride.
She shook her head. “The telegraph wasn’t awaiting us, so the porter—oh, here he comes.”
A uniformed employee bounded aboard, extending a paper. She pressed coins into his palm just as the whistle blew. “Thank you, sir.”
She forgot to whisper. Her palm cove
red her mouth.
“Let’s find some light.” Nash tilted his head toward the dining area.
Instead, they paused under a sconce outside the saloons, an unoccupied space that proved well enough lit to read by. As the train rumbled to life, Ellen held out the telegram so Nash could read, too:
DESCRIPTIONS ACCURATE Stop PREWETT A FAMILY NAME OF JEROME PRICE Stop AUTHORITIES WILL INTERCEPT IN SACRAMENTO TO VERIFY Stop WELL DONE Stop WITH AFFECTION, HARRY
Ellen peered up at Nash. “It sounds like our Gabe is likely Gabriel Price.”
“Poor lad.” Stubble covered Nash’s chin and cheeks, shining ginger in the lamplight. “Who’s Harry?”
“Father’s friend. He’s like my uncle.” She lowered the telegram. “I thought I’d feel vindicated having my suspicions validated, but all I feel is sad. The Price family…” Her throat thickened with emotion. What made one parent take a child from the other? Desperation, violence, fear, anger… with Gabe caught in the center.
“Because of you, Mrs. Price has hope she’ll see her boy again.”
True. But if Ellen talked about it further, she might cry. “I’m sorry this woke you.”
“I wanted to be here. Besides, the lounge isn’t the most comfortable place. I imagine the berths aren’t, either.”
They weren’t, despite the luxury of the palace car. Her back hurt, her neck had a crick and—
Ooph. Something barreled into her backside, shoving her into Nash. He caught her fall, drawing her to his chest.
“You’re up with the chickens, too!” Gabe’s arms wrapped around her legs.
“Ah, to be excited to wake up early.” Nash’s voice rumbled under Ellen’s cheek before he helped her stand. “You hurt?”
She shook her head, reaching down to pat the white-blond hairs on Gabe’s crown. “Good morning, sir.”
“Cock-a-doodle-do!” Gabe crowed.
“That’s enough, Son.” Jerome led Gabe into the men’s saloon.
Nash’s hand reached for hers, sending her heart to thumping. But oh, he pressed her fingers to fold the telegram, not to link hands. “Put this somewhere safe.”
“I’ll do that now.”
But once she’d stuffed the telegram in her valise, she curled atop her berth, her breath hitching as if in silent sobs. Yet no tears flowed. What was wrong with her? Grief for Gabe and his feuding parents? Yes, but more. Fatigue? Loneliness? Fear of starting a new life?
All those things were true. She was tired, alone, and moving far from home. Who wouldn’t feel peculiar?
But it was Nash’s face at the forefront of her brain.
Before meeting him, she’d known she had value in God’s eyes, but in her head, not her heart. She’d listened to everyone who called her awkward or who overlooked her. Nash was the first man she’d met who truly seemed to value God’s opinions more than others’. That obedience gave him freedom to be the man God made him to be. She admired his liberty, and she’d take that lesson off the train with her.
It was harder to deny now, though, that she also wanted to take her relationship with Nash off the train, too. Even though his life was foreign, and she didn’t know his first name or if he had a job, it didn’t matter. When she was with him, she felt wonderful.
She felt like Ellen. Like one of those tangram puzzles, composed of pieces that, on their own, accomplished nothing. But set the right way, made a lovely design.
Nash. You scarcely know him. Oh, maybe she was exhausted after all.
Her fingers tapped a prayer against the blanket.
When daylight streamed through the window, she dug Mother’s cameo out of her valise, pinned it at her throat, and stumbled to the saloon. The tracks across the plains might be pin-straight, but that only meant the engineer could push the train faster. Primrose perched before the looking glass, fastening an enormous brooch at her throat when the train swerved.
The brooch fell from her fingers. “A drawback to the speed.”
Ellen retrieved the piece, filigree surrounding a pink garnet. “It’s stunning.”
“So’s yours.” With a dainty finger, Primrose tapped Ellen’s cameo before taking the brooch from Ellen. “Those pearls?”
Small ones, but it wasn’t the value that made the cameo sentimental. She nodded and turned to wash up. “My father gave it to my mother when they married.”
She opened the tap. Out dripped brownish-yellow liquid.
Primrose laughed. “We took on muddy river water at Council Bluffs. With or without it, you still look fresh as a flower.”
A lie if Ellen had ever heard one. She was caked in sweat and smelled like soot. “You’re kind.”
“It’s the truth. No wonder Mr. Nash can’t stop staring at you.”
“What?” Ellen swayed, but not from the train’s motion.
With a chuckle, Primrose left the saloon. Ellen spun back to the tap and scrubbed with a leaf of soap and the suspect water. Primrose, like many females Ellen had known, might have been laughing at Ellen’s expense. Or perhaps she’d simply misinterpreted Ellen’s friendship with Nash.
She really should assume the latter. It was far better to assume the best of people, not the worst, which she had a habit of doing. Expelling a large puff of breath, she tottered to the dining area.
Nash and the Howells sat at the same table they’d occupied yesterday. Nash rose to seat her. Neither Nash nor Clifford had taken a razor to their cheeks, but a glance assured her none of the men had—probably too dangerous at such high speed.
Stella offered a small smile. “What a pretty cameo.”
“Thank you.” An awkward silence fell.
Clifford’s jaw set. My, how uncomfortable this was, sitting together after Nash caught Stella snooping and thought it possible the Howells could be criminals. They seemed tense for honeymooners, true, but they did seem to care for one another.
Ellen snapped open her napkin and set it on her lap. Nash had to be mistaken in this. Those bank robbers probably hopped another train out of New York.
She’d take Stella’s cue and speak of something neutral. “Ah, coffee. A warm cup will be just the thing.”
They all sipped. Nash smiled. “It was a nice thought.”
Equally cold were chunks of leftover roast and the toughest biscuits Ellen had ever put a tooth to. Gabe tossed his onto the floor.
“Son,” his father chided.
“Don’t like it!” Gabe crawled under his chair.
Mrs. Ridley huffed. “A child on this train for married couples—”
“Shh, everyone can hear you.” Mr. Ridley’s whisper was plenty loud, too.
“You should talk. Sawin’ logs all night, keeping everyone awake.”
“Anyone want my biscuit?” Nash’s grin made Ellen smile. She couldn’t help but appreciate how he lightened things.
Meanwhile Gabe burst into tears.
“He’s been cooped up too long. Poor boy.” Stella’s eyes moistened. Clifford handed her his pocket handkerchief. Something sad passed between them.
Perhaps Stella had lost a younger brother. Or she knew, even at this early stage in her marriage, she couldn’t bear children. One never knew what another person suffered. A strange affection for Stella rose in Ellen’s chest. Criminal or snoop, Stella was not without her own private griefs… or hopes of redemption.
“Come on.” Nash helped Ellen rise. “Let’s visit with Gabe.”
Mr. Prewett—or Price—was all too happy for them to take Gabe, who quieted when Nash carried him to the hotel car. Out the windows, the plains stretched vast and golden under a bright blue sky, so different from anything Ellen had ever seen. Peaceful, too, the way the grasses waved in the wind. If she stared out the window all day, she couldn’t imagine being bored.
Bright sunflowers clustered along the tracks, some taller than a man. But not as tall as something else lining the tracks.
“It does my heart good to see the telegraph poles.” It was a half joke.
Nash returned her grin. “Loo
ks like the woodpeckers like ’em, too.”
Sure enough, red-crested black birds with telltale curved beaks clung to several poles. “Shoo, birds!” She waved her hands as if they could see and hear her from the train.
“Shoo!” Gabe echoed.
Behind them, a few men read or talked, while the ladies swapped lists of their wedding presents. Mrs. Ridley received an impressive-sounding necklace from her mother-in-law.
“Willow Island,” the conductor announced as he made his way up the aisle. “Halfway across the continent now, folks.”
“Huzzah.” Nash winked at her.
“Cheeky fellow.”
Further along, they took turns pointing out things to Gabe. Soddy homes. Farmers. The strange towered dome of Chimney Rock. They scanned the horizon for buffalo but only spotted antelope. Then a few dappled horses with buckskin-clad figures on their backs.
“Nash?” A trickle of fear skittered her spine. She’d never seen a native before.
“They’re just curious.”
“You sure?” Lincoln leaned between them.
“No reason to think otherwise.”
“You should know, eh?” Mr. Ridley jutted in. “You’re practically one yourself, the way you dress. Your missus going to sew you real trousers?”
Ellen gasped, but Nash just smiled. “Buckskin’s mighty comfortable, Ridley. Wanna borrow a pair?”
“It wouldn’t fit,” Gabe observed. “He’s bigger ‘n you. He’d prob’ly rip your pants down the backside.”
Mr. Ridley stomped off. Lincoln retreated to his seat. Ellen hid her smile behind her hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not laughing at what he said. That was mean.”
“Nothing compared to how the tribes have been treated.” Nash’s jaw set.
“Tell me what you—Nash?”
His gaze was fixed forward. On a plume of black smoke.
Her fingers started tapping. Even a young’un like Gabe could figure what the thickening gray cloud meant.
Primrose bolted to her feet and pointed out the window. “Prairie fire!”
Nash held up his hand. “Not prairie.” Best stop the panic before it took hold.
Ellen nodded, but Lincoln shook his head. “How do you know?”
The Rails to Love Romance Collection Page 37