Pa waved his thick finger at her. “If I thought anything wrong had already happened I’d knock Renfroe’s jaw back so far he could scratch the back of his neck with his front teeth.” He planted his hands on his hips. “I ain’t gonna let a roughneck cowboy come sniffin’ around here after you. As long as I’m your pa, Renfroe ain’t got no more chance of wooin’ you than a stump-tailed bull at fly time.”
Her face flamed, and she had to pull her gaze away from Pa, lest he read her thoughts. She had to admit Wade’s roguish grin charmed her, but his reckless manners and wild ways did frighten her a little. Perhaps that was part of the thrill. Wasn’t love supposed to be thrilling?
“But, Pa, Philadelphia? I haven’t seen Aunt Florence and Uncle Quentin since I was six years old. I have nothin’ in common with my cousins. Every year, all they talk about in their Christmas letter is their fancy ball gowns and attendin’ debutante cotillions and how some society matron is hostin’ a tea party. What do I know or care about ball gowns and tea parties? I’ve grown up on this ranch. I can ride and shoot and do ranch chores alongside my brothers, but I’d have no more idea how to act at a parlor social than a steer knows how to—”
Pa’s dark glare halted her words. “Now you see? That’s just what I mean. I won’t abide watchin’ my daughter grow up without a lick o’ ladylike polish. Your ma, God rest her soul, woulda known what to do with you. The good Lord knows I don’t. But your aunt Florence will. And your cousins—what’s their names?—will help you learn all those things ladies are supposed to know.”
Rosemary suppressed a shudder. “Gloria and Penelope. In the letter we received from them last year, Penelope went on and on about her ‘comin’ out,’ whatever that is, and about the plays and concerts they attended, and Philadelphia’s social register.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Pa, I’d sooner track mavericks through a briar patch on foot than sit at a fancy table with my snooty cousins tryin’ to figure out which fork to use.”
“You’ll learn.” Pa rubbed his hand over his stubbled chin.
“And what about those balls? I can keep up with the best square dance caller in Wyoming, and I can reel and two-step, but I’d be a laughingstock at one of those high-falutin’ cotillions where the women get all gussied up in silks and satin.” She hated the way her voice took on a high-pitched whine of desperation, but the sinking feeling in her gut told her she was losing this argument.
One look at Pa’s hard-set jaw confirmed her fear. “I’m ridin’ into town tomorrow to wire your uncle and purchase your train ticket. You’d best start packin’.” Pa snatched his hat from the cattle horns mounted on the wall and jammed it on his head. He stopped in the doorway and stood like an impassable mountain. “And if I catch you anywhere near Wade Renfroe between now and when you leave, I’ll hogtie you like a calf at brandin’ time and you won’t see the outside o’ your room till it’s time to take you to the train station.” He harrumphed and stomped out the door.
Rosemary sank down on the nearest chair and buried her face in her hands. For the first time in years, she wished she knew how to pray.
Chicago, Illinois
May 1875
Jeremy Reide Forbes leaned back in the leather chair and sipped his coffee. He’d hoped to have at least a few weeks of relaxation upon receipt of his diploma from Yale University, but Father apparently had other plans.
His father, John Murray Forbes, ran his hand over the gilded edge of the framed diploma waiting to be hung on the wall. “A degree in humanities and sciences is a fine thing, son, but it’s hands-on experience that will hone you into the man who will one day step into my shoes. The Burlington and Missouri River Railroad is my legacy to you, and I want you to be well prepared for the challenge.”
Jeremy set his cup on its saucer and leaned forward. “What do you have in mind, sir?”
Father beckoned Jeremy to the desk, where he pushed a piece of paper toward his son. “Look over this schedule. Between now and next spring, you will work in various positions—virtually every job on the railroad. Everything from porter to conductor to ticket agent, flagman, switchman, brakeman, and fireman. I want you to learn how freight is managed and how the trains are dispatched. Knowing the details of each of these jobs will enable you to guide the Burlington and Missouri into the next decade. When I’m ready to retire, that is. Which I’m not… yet.” A tiny smirk twitched Father’s thick mustache as he took a sip of coffee.
“Sounds like quite a challenge, certainly different from my activities of the past four years.” Jeremy studied the schedule. “I like the idea of working with the people who perform those duties that keep the railroad running. But how will I handle the obvious name recognition? As soon as they learn my name is Jeremy Reide Forbes, they’ll all know I’m your son. Won’t that make things a bit awkward?”
Father lowered himself to the finely upholstered armchair beside the blazing fireplace. “I’ve already thought of that. It won’t be awkward because you aren’t going to tell them your name is Forbes.”
A frown pulled at Jeremy’s brow. “Oh?”
Father extracted a cigar from his inside coat pocket. “You’ll go by your middle name: Jeremy Reide. You must be anonymous in order to make this plan successful. Otherwise, every employee you encounter will walk on eggshells and you won’t get a realistic picture of the operation. The whole point of this work schedule is to give you a taste of every job on the Burlington and Missouri. Do you think you can handle it?”
Jeremy drained his coffee cup. “I find the idea intriguing. Not only will the experience prove personally valuable, I’ll be able to empathize with the challenges faced by every employee.” But Father’s suggestion that he be duplicitous with those people with whom he’d be working lay unsettled in his chest.
Broaching his misgivings with Father required tact. “Eventually, these people with whom I’m working shoulder to shoulder are going to learn my real name. How will they feel when they find out I was deceptive? A Christian is commanded in scripture to be honest.”
Father snorted. “Now, don’t let your Bible-pounding get in the way of your common sense. You can be as religious as you want as long as it doesn’t interfere with railroad business.”
“But Father.” Jeremy held out his open palms. “Being a Christian isn’t something I put on and take off like a coat. It’s part of who I am.”
Father pointed at Jeremy with the end of his cigar. “I’ll tell you who you are. You are Jeremy Reide Forbes, my son and heir to the Burlington and Missouri River Railroad. And for the next several months, you will go by Jeremy Reide.”
Sweetwater, Nebraska
Jeremy paid strict attention to Otto Gustafson, the ticket agent and depot manager. The man’s belly hung over his belt, and his thick black eyebrows merged in the middle. Looking over his shoulder while he explained the different eastbound and westbound schedules was an odoriferous experience. Judging by the smell and sweat stains on Otto’s shirt, the ticket agent wasn’t well acquainted with the benefits of soap and water.
“This here’s the list o’ fares between here and each stop.” The grime under Otto’s fingernails created ragged black bows crowning each dirty finger as he pointed out the different columns for first class, second class, and third class passengers, livestock, and freight. “We don’t take no checks nor bank drafts. Cash on the barrel. Iffen there’s a connection”—Otto peered at Jeremy over his bent spectacles—“that means they gotta get offa the train and wait for another one on a different line.” He pointed to the space on the ticket reserved for such information. “You write it here, and stamp beside it.”
Jeremy turned his head momentarily and grabbed a breath of fresh air while Otto ran down the list of livestock regulations.
Otto frowned from his seat on the wobbly stool. “Ain’t you got no questions? You gotta learn this job by the end of the week on account o’ I’m goin’ fishin’ with my brother-in-law and you’ll be here by yourself. You gettin’ all this?”
Otto grunted. “What for you need a broom?”
“Thought I’d clean up the place a bit.”
Otto shrugged. “Old Man Forbes gripes about the depot needin’ to be cleaner ever’ time he comes through Sweetwater.” He picked up his pocketknife and the stick he’d been carving on when Jeremy arrived. The blade sliced off another thin peeling of wood that dropped to the floor.
“What is that you’re whittling, Otto?”
“Ain’t nothin’. Jus’ relaxin’ to put knife to wood.” Another sliver hit the floor. “’Druther set an’ whittle than sweep the floor. ’Sides, it’s jes’ gonna get dirty again. What’s the point?”
Jeremy gestured toward the waiting area where two rickety chairs leaned against the wall. “There doesn’t seem to be much in the way of comfortable seating for paying customers, either.”
Something akin to a cackle left Otto’s lips. “Ain’t my job to make folks comfortable. It’s my job to sell ’em a ticket.”
Months of grime coated the windows. Jeremy scratched his fingernail across the glass, leaving a tiny carved canyon. “When was the last time the windows were cleaned?”
A yawn garbled Otto’s reply. “The last time Old Man Forbes came through.”
His first day on the job of his first assignment and Jeremy was sorely tempted to tell Otto that “Old Man Forbes” was his father. He explored and discovered a narrow door behind the office cubicle. The swelled wood screeched a protest as Jeremy forced the door open. Inside he discovered a small storage closet. He batted away cobwebs and shoved a few things around until he found a broom, and then he set to work on the littered floor. A half hour later, the place wasn’t what Jeremy would call clean, but it was an improvement. More wood peelings encircled Otto’s tipped-back chair while the ticket agent snored, the butchered stick he’d been whittling reduced to barely a toothpick resting on the man’s filthy shirt.
Chapter Two
Laramie, Wyoming
May, 1875
Late spring rain dripped from the edge of Rosemary’s bonnet, as if the sky were shedding the tears she wanted to release. The platform of the train depot in Laramie bustled with passengers and freight handlers while she stood under the cover of an overhang, her feet nailed in place by her great reluctance. She clutched her valise and reticule while Pa directed the porter to care for her trunks. All her arguments, pleading, and cajoling had fallen on deaf ears. Pa had cut off her every angle of debate, and here she was, moments from being carried hundreds of miles from the only home she’d ever known.
Pa returned to where she stood out of the rain and held out an envelope along with her ticket. “Here’s enough cash for any travelin’ expenses. I’ll wire money to your uncle to put into a trust for you. Do you have everything? Did you pack enough sandwiches? You never know how long it will be between stops and whether or not there will be a decent place to eat close by the train station.”
His apparent concern over making sure she had something to eat did nothing to ease her resentment. She stared at the raindrop-dotted ticket. It was now or never. “I won’t go, Pa. I refuse to get on the train. You can’t force me.” She braced for his reaction to her blatant defiance. But instead of wrath, moisture filled his eyes.
Pa dipped his head for the space of several heartbeats. His chest swelled and then released a huge sigh. “Rosemary, I’ve failed your mother. It grieves me to admit it, but I broke my promise to her. Right before she died, she begged me to make sure you were raised to be a lady.” When he raised his gaze to meet hers, tears welled in his eyes. Rosemary couldn’t ever remember seeing Pa cry. Her heart hiccupped.
Pa cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and looked past her, as if staring at the gray, rain-bloated clouds eased his words. “You weren’t but three years old. Seein’ you turn out like a lady seemed so far away at the time, so I gave your mother my promise.” He returned his gaze to her face, and his jaw muscle twitched beneath his salt-and-pepper beard. “I don’t know where the years have gone. But here you are, all grown up, with cowboys comin’ ‘round like flies to buttermilk, and it’s about time I keep my promise the only way I know how.”
His Adam’s apple jiggled again. “I know you don’t want to go. But a father’s gotta do what he thinks is best for his little girl.” He blinked and narrowed his eyes. “So you’re gettin’ on that train if I have to pick you up and carry you.”
She’d heard that tone before—right before he promised her a trip to the woodshed when she was eight. Pa wasn’t in the habit of saying things he didn’t mean. Besides, how was she supposed to stand up to him now? He’d never told her that story before, about his making that promise to her mother. Resignation drooped her shoulders.
“All aboard!” The conductor’s bellow prompted the few people exchanging lingering good-byes to cut them short.
Rosemary took the envelope and tucked it into her reticule along with her ticket. Unwilling to even look at Pa, she kept her eyes downcast and tightened her grip on her valise. Pa cupped her elbow as she made her way to the mounting step. Once she ascended to the train car entrance, she paused. “Good-bye, Pa.” She stiffened her spine and stepped into the railcar without looking back.
She chose a seat on the opposite side of the train so she wouldn’t have to see Pa standing on the platform. Steam belched from the locomotive four cars ahead, and the train lurched. The depot and the town of Laramie began slowly rolling past the grit-darkened window, slipping beyond her reach. For a panic-filled moment, she considered running to the door and flinging herself off the train, but her next heartbeat brought sense and reason. No, she couldn’t do such a foolhardy thing.
In the distance, a man sat aboard his horse on a hilltop, slicker hanging over the saddle and hat pulled low. Rosemary squinted through the raindrops. Was the man wearing a blue bandana? The blue bandana was how she always picked Wade out from the others, even at a distance. While the rest of the ranch hands used faded red bandanas, or even scraps of muslin, Wade’s blue neckerchief—the same color as his eyes—caused her breath to hitch.
The foggy mist hung in wraithlike wisps around the hillside, preventing a clear look at the lone cowboy and whether or not he sported a blue bandana. But Rosemary wanted to believe it was Wade. As the train picked up speed, the man and his horse disappeared from sight, along with everything else comfortable and familiar.
Mountains shrank as the train chugged southeast, farther into the prairie. Every bone-jarring joggle took her where she didn’t want to go. Her eyes burned with gathering tears, but she blinked them into obedience.
The conductor came through and checked her ticket. “Miss Denton? My name is Henry. Your pa said I was to keep an eye on you, make sure you don’t get yourself into no trouble. If there’s anything you need, you just ask.” He tugged on the brim of his cap and moved on to the next passenger.
Her pa said? How much had Pa paid the man to act as her overseer? She gritted her teeth. Did he think she was a child? And how unfair of Pa to resort to tears and a heart-tugging story about her mother—a story he’d never mentioned before in sixteen years—in order to get the upper hand. An arrow of guilt skewered through her. All right, maybe the story was true, but why wait until now to tell her? Anger smoldered within her breast, but she squashed it. She’d need a clear, level head to come up with a plan.
She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes to the landscape sliding past her window. Was this how a rabbit felt when it got caught in a snare?
“Can I get you a blanket, Miss Denton?”
Rosemary opened her eyes to find
Henry peering down at her. Her lips quivered with the retort she wanted to fire back, but she swallowed the words. “No, thank you.”
“Anything you need, miss, you just call on ol’ Henry.” He patted her shoulder.
Indeed. What she needed was for this train to turn around and take her home. Could he do that? Perhaps if she feigned sleep, her keeper would leave her alone.
She had to think.
Henry’s solicitous attention only confirmed what she already knew: Pa didn’t believe she was grown up enough to make her own decisions or take care of herself. She simply had to prove him wrong.
Rosemary opened her eyes and groaned when she tried to stretch. Travel-weary, the rocking motion of the train had lulled her to sleep, but her cramped position left her muscles stiff.
“Swwweeeetwater, Nebraska.” Henry’s singsong voice echoed through the car. “Thirty minute stop here, folks. The train will blow the whistle five minutes before we get underway again. There’s a café across the way, mercantile and emporium both just down the street. Post office around the corner. Sweetwater, Nebraska. Thirty minute stop.” He kept up his spiel from one car into the next.
After two days of occupying an uncomfortable train seat, Rosemary didn’t care for a café, mercantile, or post office. What she truly wanted was a place to freshen herself and don clean garments. She felt as grimy as the cinder-coated windows. She smoothed her dress and tidied her hair the best she could.
The forward motion of the train slowed, and the brakes began to squeal as the town of Sweetwater came into sight. She curbed her impatience to disembark until the train lurched to a full stop. Ducking her head to peek out the window afforded her a better view of the depot. Half the size of the Laramie station, the limestone building reflected the morning sun, giving it a nearly alabaster appearance. She squinted against the glare.
The Rails to Love Romance Collection Page 47