A Bride For Brynmor (Songbird Junction Book 1)

by Jacqui Nelson

  He nodded. “If they slow just enough, we can jump on.”

  “And if Ulysses appears, we sidestep him and keep moving until we’re in a passenger car again.”

  “I thought you said that safety in numbers was an illusion.”

  “I’m reconsidering. Perhaps it all depends on who’s making up the numbers.”

  They halted together beside the track. The train rounded the bend, slowing its approach. Mr. Court stood on the platform between the wood tender and the first passenger car, the same spot where he’d said he’d seen Ulysses yesterday. The conductor waved, then shouted something that was muffled by the churning wheels and pistons.

  Brynmor’s sigh rumbled with foreboding. “Looks like he can’t wait to talk to us.”

  Mr. Court yelled again, and this time his words rose above the racket. “Sorry! I didn’t see him until it was too late.”

  “Can’t be helped,” Brynmor yelled back. “We’ll board at your position.” He turned to the engineer who’d poked his head out the cab’s window. “No need to stop. Keep her slow, and we’ll climb aboard.”

  When he stepped behind her, she swung to face him. “What are you doing?”

  “Letting you jump on first.”

  “But—”

  “You’re better at this than me.” He nudged her shoulder until she faced the train again. “Show me how, and I promise I’ll be right behind you.”

  Mr. Court stepped back to clear a space for them. “After we left Noelle, I found—”

  “Me.” A thin but spry man with carrot-colored hair filled the space beside the conductor.

  “Grandpa Gus,” Lark gasped. “Why are you here?”

  “I came to see what yer doing.”

  “Step back, Mr. Peregrine,” the younger man ordered. “As soon as they board, we’re leaving.”

  “Leavin’? But I just got here.” Gus shook his head so briskly he sent his flat cap askew. “And who you callin’ mister? I told you to call me grandpa.”

  “And I’ve already told you why we can’t stay here. Now step back.”

  Gus’ jaw took a mulish tilt. “Never. I gotta see what’s goin’ on.”

  Their boarding spot, along with the bickering duo, edged past them.

  Brynmor nudged her shoulder again. “Use the next platform.”

  As it arrived, she tightened her grip on Bailey, sucked in a breath, and leapt.

  “Why ain’t this train stoppin’?” Gus roared. “Do you expect me to jump off?”

  Her feet hit the bottom step. She hastened up the others to give Brynmor room to follow her. When his weight jarred the iron behind her, her breath left her in a relieved whoosh.

  They’d made it. They were safe, and the train was again picking up speed.

  “Grandpa Gus,” Mr. Court shouted as if horrified. “Don’t you dare.”

  “I’m gettin’ off now!” Gus’ final word soared like a bird in flight.

  Lark swung around. Gus shot from his perch like a cannonball and hit the earth like a rolling stone.

  “Stop the train!” she yelled in unison with Brynmor and Mr. Court.

  Brynmor jumped down. She did as well. They both raced to Gus’ side.

  “Grandpa?” Brynmor’s whisper mirrored the dread in her heart. “How badly are you hurt?”

  The old-timer scrambled nimbly to his feet. “Why would I be hurt? The last time I got off a train, I landed the same way ’n I was just fine.” He cocked his head as he studied the train that was grinding to a stop. “But that day the train was kind enough to have halted first.”

  “We need to hurry and get back on.” Brynmor gestured for Gus to follow them.

  Gus did everything but that. He straightened his flat cap, smoothed his beard, then swept the snow from his clothing. “Why is everyone in such an all-fired hurry today? Yesterday, Caleb was in absolutely no rush when he informed us that you two had stayed here. A lot of words were said.” He shrugged. “Most of them I can’t remember, so I had to see fer myself.”

  A disquieting thought rose in Lark’s mind. “Does anyone know you left Noelle?”

  “I’ll tell ’em when I get back. Is that the new freight office?” Gus headed toward the cabin. “Its logs look older than me.”

  Lark snared his sleeve. “Grandpa, we can’t stay.”

  Gus’ gaze went from her fingers gripping his coat to her arm cradling her lamb. “Are you starting a sheep farm?”

  Behind Lark, the end of the now-reversing train gently chugged to a stop, completely at odds with the discord marking the train’s first appearance—until a booming voice demanded, “This is the place you said would interest me?”

  A stern-faced man sporting a tailored frock coat and overgrown mutton-chop sideburns stood on the rear step of the last railcar. The red caboose hadn’t been part of the train when it departed Denver.

  “This,” the gentleman repeated with even more disdain, “rustic shamble is what I moved my impeccable private car for?”

  Lark bristled in defense of her junction. She shook her head. The junction. It wasn’t hers. She may feel a kinship to this place, but she had no ownership over anything. That didn’t matter. The junction may be rustic, but it wasn’t a shamble.

  And who was this blowhard to cast judgment anyway? She’d heard of railroad investors converting cabooses to living quarters in order to travel in style, but while this man’s car may be private, it most certainly was not impeccable. The hasty paint job couldn’t conceal the weathered wood.

  She stiffened even more when a second windbag joined the first and launched into a familiar showman’s speech. “’Tis not the place but the performer.” Ulysses gestured to her. “And there she is. My lead songbird. Ready to entertain you and your associates.”

  “She,” Brynmor shot back, “doesn’t have to sing for you or anyone.”

  “But she will.” Ulysses opened his enormous, and most likely illegally gained, fur coat to reveal his usual dandified clothing and planted his palms on his hips.

  His purposefully distracting posturing filled her with unease. What hidden card was he waiting to play?

  Mutton-chop man stared down his nose as he evaluated her in reverse order, from bottom to top. “A fine figure despite her rumpled dress, unbound hair, and”—his eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in interest when he reached her face—“a wild heritage to augment the setting.”

  “We’re leaving.” Brynmor’s tone was brisk, but his hand was gentle as he nudged Gus toward the train.

  She followed them eagerly.

  “If you go, you’ll never read…” Ulysses paused to pull a piece of paper, with exactly the right degree of restraint to pique even her curiosity, from the inside pocket of his waistcoat “…this letter from your sister.”

  Her hopes burst from her throat with a gasp, then came crashing down like a bird blasted from the sky. Indecision froze her in place. The letter couldn’t be real. If it were, wouldn’t he have mentioned it yesterday in Denver?

  “You shameless charlatan,” she hissed as he strutted down from the caboose.

  Mr. Court ran toward them. “Stay on the train. We don’t have time for this.”

  “Then you should leave, but she will do as I bid when she sees this.” He unfolded the paper and held it open for her to read.

  The text was in the Cree script and written in Oriole’s precise to the point of fastidious hand. She leapt toward it. The first line read: Have gone to look for Wren in—

  He jerked the letter out of her reach and returned it to his waistcoat pocket.

  How many hours or days had passed since Oriole had departed on her quest? What if it hadn’t gone well? She squelched her panic and demanded, “When and where did you find that letter?”

  “Long before you got to Denver’s music shop.”

  His answer was vague enough that she couldn’t guess if he was lying.

  Brynmor handed Barnum to Gus then faced her troupe manager with a grim expression. Ulysses’ hands twi
tched. Ready to either strike with his whip or his hidden derringer. She stepped between them. When Brynmor tried to push her behind him, she dug in her heels.

  “Predictable.” Ulysses’ voice oozed contempt. “You leap to shield him, but I know you will soar even higher for your sisters. Sing and I’ll let you read all of your sister’s heathen code.”

  “You can’t trust him,” Brynmor warned.

  “I never have.”

  Ulysses laughed. “You should trust the world even less. There are worse things than me out there wherever your sisters are.” The wide sweep of his arm emphasized his words. “And I, at least, want you in adequate condition to perform.” As he lowered his hand to his side, his fingers went out of their way to brush his neck.

  Her throat convulsed, recalling him choking her while he said, Do you want me to crush your windpipe? Sing for me, or you’ll sing for no one.

  Bailey added bleating to her squirming, seeking comfort or freedom. Neither of which Lark could give at the moment. She needed her hands and mind free to fight. She transferred the lamb into Gus’ care as well.

  Her thoughts raced through the ways Ulysses could hurt her or hoodwink her. His whip, his gun, his hands, his words. He could’ve learned a smattering of Cree and forged the letter. Even if it was real, he might not show it to her after she did what he wanted. He might keep demanding more.

  None of that mattered. She had to seize every opportunity, even the bad ones, to find her sisters.

  When she released a sigh of acceptance, Brynmor did as well. He’d come to know her well.

  Ulysses, on the other hand, knew best how to bully. “If you don’t sing, trust this. Things will get ugly. People, too.” His gaze locked on Brynmor. “Even uglier than they currently are.”

  Brynmor’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s board the train and get this over with.”

  Ulysses went still. Too still. “Why the hurry?”

  “Because,” Gus replied as he rocked Barnum and Bailey who didn’t wiggle, not even one little bit, in his arms. “The train has a schedule to keep. Or so I’ve been told. Over ’n over.”

  “Schedules must be maintained,” Mr. Court said firmly.

  Ulysses’ gaze remained on Brynmor. “Are you sure there isn’t something more?”

  Brynmor stood as still as Ulysses. He didn’t say a word. Lark’s stomach rolled with dread. What plans had he made for his return to Denver? Or for when he was on this train again with Ulysses?

  “I’m sure,” Mutton-chop grumbled, “I’ll find more whiskey at better prices in Denver.”

  Ulysses shrugged. “But it won’t be Mr. Malone’s celebrated brew.”

  “No, it won’t.” The elaborately-whiskered railroad chief threw his hands in the air. “I can’t believe you acquired every last bottle that man had in stock only moments before I reached his saloon.”

  Lark had no problems believing it. Ulysses regularly eavesdropped on conversations in order to pounce on opportunities.

  “Board the train,” Mr. Court urged, “and continue your conversation on your way to Denver.”

  “My new friends won’t be content with what awaits him in that city. Neither will I. Of that I am now certain.” Ulysses beckoned to two men peering from behind the caboose’s window. “Bring out the whiskey. Why wait to drink and be entertained? It can all be done here.”

  “No, it can’t!” She didn’t want Ulysses fouling up this special place. “You can’t stay.” Her shoulders slumped.

  I can’t either. If she gained possession of the letter, she’d have a direction. She couldn’t linger here waiting for tomorrow’s train.

  “You shoulda added a bunkhouse before you started yer sheep farm.” Gus’ gaze went from the lambs to the cabin. “Where do yer visitors sleep?”

  “Public accommodations are for the rabble.” Mutton-chop puffed out his chest. “My private car has been fitted with the finest furnishings, including a bed fit for a king. This junction holds nothing grand enough to tempt me.”

  “Temptation,” Ulysses murmured as if the word held the key to everything. “If you heard the right song, you would tell the conductor to roll your railcar onto the sidetrack, pull the pin, and leave us. All so you could enjoy an evening with my songbird and my whiskey.”

  Mutton-chop snorted in disbelief. “I don’t believe she has the power to impress me that much.”

  “She can and she will.”

  The weight of his words made it hard to breathe. The railroad man holding Ulysses’ whiskey adjusted his grip on the heavy-looking crate. The cheery clink of the bottles irked her. Ulysses had probably used his last dollar to acquire them. He needed to sell them at a mark-up and quick. His profits always soared when his audience lived in remote locations—like the junction.

  Ulysses rubbed his chest, reminding her of the letter in his waistcoat pocket. He wanted her to read it. He needed her to tell him what it said. His odds of that happening increased if she also remained in a remote location—like the junction.

  He’d planned this. All of this. He wasn’t leaving the junction.

  “You’re safer on the train.” Brynmor’s quiet words sent the warning bells in her head clanging.

  He’d said you not we.

  Ulysses studied Brynmor closely. “In Denver, you wished to discuss a debt with me.” He drawled his next words in the most casual of tones, so the railroad men wouldn’t question them. Or guess that, as always, he was manipulating everyone. “Were you hoping to do the same on today’s train?”

  The cries of the dead rose from their graves. Yesterday’s chill dug deep into her bones. Ulysses threw men under trains.

  She would not let that happen to Brynmor.

  Her plans to keep away from Ulysses wouldn’t work. She needed to fall in with his plans, then twist them to her advantage. The first step, same as when she’d let him drag her out of the alley and onto the street in Denver, was to make him believe she was defeated.

  She opened her mouth and sang like she’d lost the will to fight, like she’d lost her sisters and Brynmor forever. The fear of that happening hit her harder than Ulysses ever could. Tears burned her eyes. Through them she saw only the junction. Hope strengthened her voice. If she stayed here, she’d obtain a clue to Oriole and Wren’s whereabouts. She’d also have a few more hours with Brynmor.

  She sang believing she still had a chance to see everyone she loved. At least one last time.

  And Mutton-chop did exactly what Ulysses said he’d do. He told Mr. Court to leave him at the junction. He and his railcar would be staying until the next train for Denver came by.

  She made sure no one could change his mind. She kept singing as she led him like the Pied Piper might lead a rat or a child toward her and Brynmor’s cabin—the one place where she could find the strength to finish her battle song.

  Chapter 6

  Lark’s voice lifted Brynmor like an angel’s wings and brought him back to their cabin. A place he thought he’d never have the good fortune to share with her again. He held on to Grandpa Gus’ arm, so the stubborn old-timer wouldn’t veer off track. He made sure his other hand remained free, so he could punch the daylights out of Ulysses if he came too close to Lark.

  Gus had taken charge of Barnum and Bailey without any protest, but he’d flat-out refused to reboard the train. He kept saying he hadn’t seen everything he’d come to see. And now also hear. The hearing part made Brynmor’s guidance unnecessary. At least, so far.

  Gus followed Lark as eagerly as the rest of her enraptured audience. Even Caleb looked torn between pausing to listen and leaving to keep his train on schedule. When he handed Brynmor the milk he’d brought for their lambs and trudged off to deal with the bigwig’s caboose, he did so slowly and silently.

  Only Ulysses acted unaffected. Lark’s troupe manager must be tone deaf. Or so jaded he’d lost the ability to appreciate anything good, let alone extraordinary. He gave all of this attention to ensuring the caboose stayed on the sidetrack
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  When he finally joined them in the cabin, his gaze took in the tiny interior in one condescending swoop.

  Once again, he failed to recognize the extraordinary something that had transformed the room into a highly organized, multi-functional business and home. A rare feat in Brynmor’s world.

  One only made possible by a true collaboration. As soon as he’d stopped rushing to complete his work and started sharing it with Lark, he’d found his focus.

  Lively conversations and experiments about how to use crates to create shelving for freight awaiting pickup but also everyday living items had kept them occupied late into the night. A bolt of morning inspiration—or desperation on his part to delay leaving her to go outside to chop wood—had them turning the back of the piano away from the wall to create a divider for a sleeping space in one corner.

  A gift to whomever might stay here next.

  Not them. Gus needed to go home to Noelle. Lark would be safer there as well. He had to make sure he got them on the Denver to Noelle train when it came through the junction later today. If Ulysses followed them, he’d confront him alone on the train as previously planned.

  For now, he must focus on what was happening here—with Lark in their cabin.

  Her voice rose as she halted by the stove. She stood where they’d spent the night, side-by-side, together. When her song ended, the silence was shattering.

  Until the trio of railroad men broke into applause. “Bravo! Give us another song.”

  “Give ’er a chance to catch ’er breath,” Gus hollered, then muttered, “Jumpin’ Geehosofat, they’re demanding.” He scanned the room. “Where’s my seat for the show?”

  Lark joined Brynmor as he escorted the old rascal to the safest seat in the room, a stool behind a waist-high row of boxes.

  Gus eyed their creation curiously. “The height ’n shape reminds me of the freight counter at Peregrines’ Post.”

  “That was our inspiration, but we couldn’t find a proper countertop.” A hoarse undertone ghosted Lark’s words. Nothing anywhere near as deep as the rasp that had gripped her voice in Noelle many days ago, but still worrying. Was it because she hadn’t sung for a while? Or was she getting ill? Catching a cold or worse?