The Rails to Love Romance Collection

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

  Jeremy dipped his head. “Please forgive me.”

  She tugged his hands. “Jeremy, your name doesn’t change who you are. You’re still a gentle, compassionate, hardworkin’ Christian man.…”

  Jeremy lifted his shoulders and finished her sentence. “Whose father just happens to be the president of the Burlington and Missouri River Railroad.”

  Heat climbed into her face. “I’ve already told Pa.”

  Jeremy jerked his head up. “Told him what?”

  The burning in her cheeks intensified, and her heart drummed. “That I’ve fallen in love with a man who works on the railroad.”

  A smile stretched across his face. His gaze slid to her lips, and he leaned toward her, pausing barely an inch away. “I think I fell in love with you the day you missed your train.”

  His lips brushed hers ever so gently, and she murmured, “Promise me somethin’?”

  He arched one eyebrow. “What’s that?”

  She pulled back just far enough to lose herself in the depth of his eyes. “Promise you’ll never wear a blue bandana again.”

  Connie Stevens lives with her husband of forty-plus years in north Georgia, within sight of her beloved mountains. She and her husband are both active in a variety of ministries at their church. A lifelong reader, Connie began creating stories by the time she was ten. Her office manager and writing muse is a cat, but she’s never more than a phone call or email away from her critique partners. She enjoys gardening and quilting, but one of her favorite pastimes is browsing antique shops where story ideas often take root in her imagination. Connie has been a member of American Christian Fiction Writers since 2000.

  World’s Greatest Love

  by Liz Tolsma

  Chapter One

  Monday, May 18, 1896

  Peoria, Illinois

  From her vantage point in the doorway of the wardrobe tent as she mended the bareback rider’s torn skirt, Ellen Meyer glanced at the sky blackening in the west. None of the flimsy tents scattered about the circus grounds offered any true protection from a fierce summer storm. And right now, hundreds and maybe thousands of men, women, and children packed the main show tent, thrilled by snarling lions and dazzled by trapeze artists.

  Geraldine Warner tapped her slippered foot on the dusty ground. “Can’t you hurry up? I’m in the next act. Harriet wouldn’t have let this happen. She made sure the wardrobe was always in tip-top shape.”

  No sense telling Geraldine that Harriet was the one who sewed this costume. The former wardrobe designer was well beloved and much missed. Ellen didn’t hold a candle to her. “Stand still. I’ll be finished in just a minute.” A rolling peal of thunder punctuated her words.

  The band under the big top played louder. Geraldine rubbed her arms. “Look at how green the sky’s gotten. Like an ugly bruise. I don’t care for the sight of it much.”

  “I’ve never seen anything to compare. Does this happen much in the Midwest?” Ellen finished another stitch.

  “All the time. Where are you from?”

  “Boston.”

  “And they don’t have storms like this?”

  Ellen shook her head.

  “Maybe I should move there. But then I’d miss all of this.” Geraldine gestured wide. The horse trainer clung to the leather lead of a pair of nervous white steeds. At the railroad siding, roustabouts loaded cages containing pacing tigers. One let out a mighty roar, and goosebumps pricked Ellen’s skin. Even Bertha, the fat lady, lumbered with haste over the trampled grass toward the train.

  If possible, the sky darkened more. The wind picked up, beating the flap of the wardrobe tent into a fury. The metal support poles rattled, the grommets clanging against them.

  “Ellen, can you help me?” Constance Hefner stood frowning in the tent’s doorway.

  “As soon as I finish Geraldine’s skirt.” She forced the needle through the gauzy material.

  “But the storm is coming. I want to pack the costumes so they don’t get ruined.” The wind whipped the golden ringlets escaping from Constance’s Gibson-girl hairstyle.

  Ellen resisted the urge to huff. “Get started. I’ll be right there.” She, too, wanted to move her work to keep the storm from damaging it. In her haste, her needle struck her thimble. She blew her bangs from her eyes and tried to concentrate.

  “Ellen, please.” Constance’s whine matched that of the wind.

  Ellen whipped the last stitch into place and tied off the thread. “There, Geraldine. Good as new.”

  The performer examined Ellen’s work. “I guess that will do for now. I only hope it holds.”

  Ellen shared that sentiment. She rose from her stool. “Now, Constance, let’s put away what we can.” Another bolt of lightning streaked across the sky. Thunder rumbled under her feet.

  She grabbed her repair kit and hurried into the tent. Earlier in the morning, as she’d set up, Ellen organized the costumes she had responsibility for. Each of them hung on a hanger on a metal pole. To keep from having to press them, she refrained from jamming them together.

  In Constance’s area, costumes that required many hours of work to create lay scattered across the benches where the performers dressed. One of the purple velvet gowns used in the spectacular hung into the dirt.

  Ellen scooped it up. “You have to be more careful with the clothes. The dust is bad enough, but when it rains, this will get wet.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Constance cackled. “Don’t you think I know how to do my job after five years? You’re nothing but an upstart.”

  Ellen brushed off the skirt and folded the gown, each move calculated to keep the finery from wrinkling. “It’s common sense, that’s all.” A gust of wind shook the tent, the canvas sides heaving inward under the strain.

  Constance grabbed the dress from her hands. “I’ll do it. I’m capable.”

  Ellen shrugged and moved to store her costumes before the full wrath of the storm unleashed. The roll of thunder didn’t stop. The tent poles leaned under the force of the gale. Her heart beat a little faster. Her hands shook. “Lucy, come help me.” She motioned for one of the seamstresses.

  Speaking was impossible over the cry of the wind. Together, she and Lucy loaded the trunks and shut the lids. Constance lagged. Ellen crossed the tent to help her.

  The roar of the gale filled her ears.

  Pressure built in her chest. She couldn’t draw a deep breath. What was going on?

  Shrieks rose from the big top. She pressed her lips together to stifle her own scream.

  The wardrobe tent’s canvas tore away.

  One pole sailed through the air. Her knees trembled.

  She tried to run, tried to get away. Her skirts tripped her.

  She fell.

  Blinding pain seared her head.

  Her world went black.

  “Get that wagon loaded.” Will Jorgensen yelled for the roustabouts to hear him above the storm. The men rushed to secure the tiger cage on the flat car. The wind drowned out their communication with each other. He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants. This was when accidents happened.

  And despite the storm, Mr. Ringling would expect them in the next town tomorrow morning, ready for the day’s shows.

  Will was responsible for making it happen.

  One of the men guiding the carved, gilded wagon slipped.

  “Watch out.” Will rushed forward. As first-year trainmaster, the well-being of all the workers fell to his care.

  The man popped up.

  “Are you hurt?” Will examined him up and down.

  He shook his head. “Naw, ain’t nothing. Been hurt worse than this just getting out of bed in the morning.”

  Will relaxed. Until he scanned the skies. Black clouds rolled across the heavens, their underbellies dark green. Lightning burst across the scene every few seconds. After living his entire life traveling with the circus, he’d seen plenty of summer squalls come and go. But none like this.

  “Looks like a nasty storm’s brewing.”
Art Pavlovic, the wagon master, slapped Will’s shoulder, his hand as big as a bear’s.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen such a bad one. Let’s get those wagons on as soon as possible. I’ll light a fire under the tent crews. We need to get as much tied down as we can before it hits.”

  “Go on. I’ll keep an eye out here.”

  “Thanks.” Will yanked down his cap to keep it from flying away and scurried across the hard-packed dirt toward the menagerie tent. Once the rain fell, this place would be a quagmire.

  The storm raced in their direction, the clouds each vying for first place. He picked up his pace. Damage to the equipment or injuries to the staff or patrons would be devastating. They had another show tomorrow in Geneseo. Mr. Ringling wouldn’t be pleased if they had to cancel. Not at all.

  And it would be Will he would fire.

  The roustabouts struggled to pull the pegs from the menagerie tent. They needed to hurry. The scent of rain filled the air. Not long until the deluge hit. “Need some help?”

  The short muscular man leading the crew nodded. “Get that one out there. Wind’s making it mighty hard to get the job done.”

  Will pulled a pair of leather gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. He tugged on the stake. This area of the country must have been pretty dry this spring. The peg didn’t want to budge.

  Another lightning bolt flashed almost at the same time as the thunder cracked. Will’s heart leapt like a bareback rider onto her horse. The wind intensified, swirling clouds of dust. An elephant trumpeted.

  He wiggled the stake, and only after he worked himself into a sweat did it release. “Let’s fold it and load it, boys. There’s no time to waste. Going to be some blow down.”

  Like the tremors from a locomotive, the ground under Will’s feet rumbled. The wind buffeted him, snatching his cap from his head. He chased his hat as it skittered across the staging grounds. Before he reached it, the gale picked up his cap and carried it away. No sense in following it. The storm bore down. He had to get back to the train and oversee the loading. They needed to finish as soon as possible.

  Crack. Bang. More lightning.

  His ears popped. His stomach froze, even as sweat dripped down his face.

  Horses whinnied.

  Women’s screams erupted from the big top.

  The band hit a sour note.

  The canvas ripped from the wardrobe tent.

  He watched, unable to move, as a pole flew through the air, striking the new wardrobe mistress.

  No, no. He had to get to her.

  The rain came then, in sheets. Before he took three steps in her direction, the dirt transformed into mud. He slipped and slid. His muscles strained forward in his desperation to get to the injured woman.

  Soaking wet and slimy with mud, he reached her at last. He dropped to his knees in the muck.

  Blood gushed from her head.

  No, Lord. Not her, too.

  Chapter Two

  Will touched the wardrobe mistress’s bloodied head, his mouth as dry as if he’d swallowed a handful of sawdust. Broken bits of memories exploded in his mind. He was little, so little. His own mother lay in a pool of blood. The other trapeze artists clustered around her, as if they could restore her life.

  Screams slashed through his thoughts and brought him back to the moment. The assistant, Constance, stood beside him, yelling.

  “Stop it. That’s not going to help.” He watched the wardrobe mistress take a breath. Thank You, Lord. “Help me get her out of the water.” Rain gushed into the middle of where the tent once stood.

  Constance didn’t budge.

  Without help, Will picked up the wardrobe manager with as much gentleness as he could muster. By now, the rain soaked him to the skin. He shivered.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Ellen Meyer.” Constance spit out the words.

  Miss Meyer stirred in his arms, her dark eyelashes fluttering. She moaned.

  “Don’t move too much. I’ll get you somewhere dry.” The thick mud sucked his shoes, threatening to tear them right from his feet.

  She opened her eyes. The green of them shocked him. He’d never seen eyes the color of prairie grass.

  “What happened?”

  When she spoke, he wilted. “You got a mighty nasty bump on the head.” This time had a different ending. He’d seen so much worse.

  She struggled against him. “The costumes. We have to get them loaded before the rain hits.”

  “It’s already pouring.”

  “Then we have to hurry. Put me down. I’m fine.”

  “You’re not.”

  “I insist.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Thousands of dollars’ worth of dresses and shoes and hats will be ruined if I don’t get them on the train.”

  Still supporting her around her waist, he set her on the ground.

  She wobbled for a moment. “Oh my.”

  “You need to see a doctor.”

  “Nonsense. As soon as the world stops spinning, I’ll be fine.” She bit her lip for a moment before smiling, even as rivulets of water trickled down her face. “See, right as rain.”

  He couldn’t control the laughter that burst out of him. “I suppose you are. Let me help you.” He whistled for one of the roustabouts from the flat car. “We need the wardrobe trunks on next.”

  “Oh no. No, this can’t be happening.” Still in his embrace, Miss Meyer trembled.

  He followed her gaze. The depression where the wardrobe tent used to stand had filled with water. Turned into a pond. He couldn’t guess as to how many inches now covered it. But it was enough for the trunks to float.

  He put out another call to his men. “Let’s go, on the double. No time to waste. We still may be able to save the contents.”

  Holding Miss Meyer’s hand, he sloshed toward the trunks. The petite blond assistant, Constance, occupied the same spot he’d left her. Instead of screaming, she now bawled like a black bear cub. Miss Meyer broke away, pulling a trunk onto dry ground.

  He turned his attention to Constance. “There’s nothing to be frightened of. We’re safe.”

  She blubbered. “But my costumes. Look at them.” What creations the gale hadn’t torn from the rack now hung sodden on the rod.

  He didn’t know much about clothes but doubted saving them was possible. “Ruined. Let’s concentrate on what we can rescue.”

  No sooner did he turn his back than her shrieking resumed. “No. That’s all my hard work. We have to save them.”

  Three of his crew members arrived with a wagon. “Help Miss Meyer. I’ll take care of this mess.”

  Figuring it would be faster to load up the few remaining dresses than arguing with the woman, Will got to work. He really needed to supervise the loading of the train, especially considering the weather. Everything must move with precision if he wanted to retain his new position. He only stayed to keep a watch on Miss Meyer. Once or twice, he caught a glimpse of a grimace on her face, but otherwise, she worked alongside them, showing no ill effects.

  She could be dead right now, just like…

  Shaking off the thought, he commandeered a water-logged trunk and stuffed the once-showy costumes inside before hoisting it onto the waiting wagon with the others. “Get them to their car, boys.”

  Miss Meyer, her wet hair hanging in curls down her back, watched the roustabouts take away the trunks. He stood beside her. “I hope you can salvage them.”

  She closed her eyes, then opened them. Were those tears or raindrops? “I don’t think so. The trunks aren’t waterproof. There must have been two feet of water in that depression.”

  He touched her damp cheek. “I’m sorry.”

  The assistant’s strident voice startled him. “At least she had hers packed. She helped herself before she gave me a hand, so hers would be saved and mine ruined.”

  “That’s not true.” Miss Meyer leaned forward. “You told me you could do it yourself.”

  �
��I told you I could fold the dress myself, not get everything put away in time. You’re selfish. Your underlings should be your first priority. I have never been treated like this before.” The assistant spun, almost slipping in the mud, and splashed away.

  Will’s skin prickled. “Watch out for that one.”

  Ellen’s head pounded in a most awful way, the beat of it matching the clacking train wheels. She sat on her lower berth, the one she shared with Lucy Hanson, and tried to focus on the tiny stitches in the ringmaster’s coat. All to no avail. The hem blurred before her eyes.

  Compounding the headache caused by her bump on the head was the knowledge that she and her seamstresses would be busy in the coming days repairing or, in most cases, remaking many of the costumes. Only a few of the floating trunks remained dry. Most were waterlogged.

  “You look worn out, Ellen.”

  She glanced at Lucy, who also sat stitching. “I am. And I hate to think of all the work left in front of us. Hopefully in Geneseo tomorrow, I’ll be able to get some of the material we need. I don’t know if they’ll have all of our specialty fabrics. I might have to telegram to procure some of the tulle and spangles.”

  “And the milliners in town. They might be able to help.”

  “That’s a good idea. I hadn’t thought of them.”

  Constance picked that moment to flounce down the aisle dressed in a lightweight yellow gown with the poofiest sleeves Ellen had ever seen. She dared to glance at Lucy, who clenched her lips together. Laughter simmered inside of Ellen. She bit her cheeks to keep it from spilling out. While the gown might be appropriate for a stroll in Central Park, it had no place on a train in the middle of a very muddy Illinois prairie.

  Lucy leaned over to whisper to Ellen. “Those sleeves take up almost as much room as Constance herself.”

  “Stop it. That’s so naughty.” But Ellen couldn’t keep the lilt from her voice.

  Constance spun around. She pointed at Ellen’s heart, her finger almost daggerlike. “It’s all your fault. If you had helped me pack, those costumes wouldn’t be ruined.”