Collision of The Heart

  She caught her breath. “What are you doing here?”

  “What a way to greet the love of your life.” He drew her from her seat and kissed her soundly, much to the delight or horror of the other passengers. “I have come to take you home.”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t get off the train?”

  “I didn’t want you to get off the train at the station.” Ayden released her long enough to bow to the gawping passengers. “My apologies, ladies and gentlemen, for this delay. Once this beautiful lady has come with me, you all will be on your way.”

  “But, Ayden—”

  “No delaying these good people.” Ayden caught hold of her hand and drew her down the aisle.

  The passengers they passed scowled or smiled, and a few offered advice.

  “That’s right, lad. Keep her on a tight rein,” an elderly gentleman with a silver-topped cane said.

  “Don’t let him push you around, young lady.” The man’s wife addressed Mia.

  “Let one who looks like that one drag you anywhere he likes,” another elderly lady said, then cackled like a hen with a newly laid egg.

  Mia and Ayden laughed. Her face was hot with mortification at this attention. Ayden held his head high with pride.

  At the door to the car, he leaped to the ground and held up his arms. “Jump. I’ll catch you.”

  “You had better.” She glanced down. If he dropped her, she would not land in soft snow this time.

  But she knew he would catch her. His long, strong fingers curved around her waist, and he swung her to the gravel beside the track with a little “Oomph” of effort.

  “This sojourn into the city didn’t make you as skinny as a wormy string bean.” He patted her hip. “I think you gained a pound or two.”

  “You aren’t supposed to say things like that to your wife.” Despite her admonition, Mia laughed and poked his ribs with her elbow. “Now what was that scene all about? I would have reached Hillsdale in a few more minutes, and if you want to be alone with me, we would be at our house faster.”

  “As much as I want to be alone with you, my beautiful bride, that will have to wait.” Ayden led the way to the old chestnut gelding grazing a few feet from the track. “Your palfrey, my lady.” He bowed, one hand to his chest, the other outstretched.

  Mia stared at him. “Have you taken up drinking?”

  “Only drunk at the sight of you, as always.”

  “Ayden, I can’t ride a horse with all this stuff.”

  “I will carry your stuff and walk.”

  “But—”

  “No arguments. Time is wasting.” He divested her of umbrella, satchel, and portfolio. “Up you go.”

  He had positioned the horse near a conveniently fallen log. When she stepped onto this makeshift mounting block, Mia realized the horse wore a sidesaddle. One hand on the pummel, she glanced back to Ayden. “What is this about?”

  He merely grinned at her, his dark-blue eyes glinting with amusement.

  Uneasiness coiling through her middle, she mounted the horse, glad styles demanded abundant petticoats so her lack of a long riding habit did not matter so much and her modesty was preserved. Reins in hand, she snapped them, and the aging gelding shambled toward town.

  “At this pace, we will reach town sometime after supper.” She glanced at the setting sun toward which they rode, observing a trailing puff of smoke from the train engine and the distant outline of the town that had become the most precious place on earth to her. She sighed with contentment.

  “How did I ever leave?”

  “You wanted a career as a journalist.” Ayden patted her knee. “And you probably would not have gotten the acclaim you have without having gone east.”

  “But I had to come back to truly see that acclaim occur.” She gazed down at the man striding beside her, her heart so full she was certain she would burst with all she wanted to tell him when they were alone in their lovely home off Howell Street.

  A year and a half earlier, her article about the train wreck that had sent her back into Ayden’s proximity and consequently his arms, had been published in a lady’s periodical, but other publications had gained permission to print her work. Donations poured in for victims of the train wreck and for the generous town that had housed them for over a week. Suddenly Mia found herself with more requests for articles than she could possibly manage, especially when planning a wedding, then becoming Ayden’s wife. Too often, she found herself traveling for research, and when Ayden, hired by the college to be a full professor, could not go with her, it was lonely, not exciting, disruptive of the time she wished to spend with her family—Ayden’s family, now hers—and friends.

  But that was all done now.

  Her lips curved into a secret smile.

  “What’s that look about?” Ayden poked her thigh through her layers of petticoats and gown.

  She smacked his hand away. “No one may be around, but we are still in public. Save that kind of behavior for our house.”

  “Alas, I must, as we will soon not be alone at all.”

  Mia lifted her eyebrows in query, but then she caught a whiff of meat being cooked over open fires. Her nostrils flared, inhaling the succulent aroma of pork and beef nearly ready to eat—a great deal of pork and beef ready to eat. It mingled with the mournful wail of the train whistle as the train made the last curve of track before the station. Music rolled through the evening—happy, lively music that made a body want to tap one’s toes.

  She reined in. “What is happening in town?”

  He shrugged and kept walking.

  “Ayden.” She nudged the gelding to resume and glared at her husband. “This is not Independence Day, so what gives?”

  “You’ll see.” He tossed her portfolio into the air and caught it, distracting her long enough for them to round the curve into town, where a banner stretched across the street reading, “Welcome Home, Euphemia Goswell.”

  Beyond the banner, at least half the town lined up to greet her. The band played. The people cheered. Ayden took the reins from her hand and led her mount forward.

  “It was not my idea,” he shouted back to her.

  Her friend Genevieve had organized the celebration, the welcome home for the town’s most famous citizen.

  “And the one who has done us the most good,” the mayor intoned in his welcome speech. “We wish to honor you for the work you have done to help this town and victims of the train wreck.” The speech threatened to keep going, but people began to move toward the acres of food provided by town ladies, like Ayden’s mother and sister. They pressed a heaping plate on her, but she couldn’t eat. She was too moved to realize that a woman like her—abandoned by her relatives, compelled to steal pencils and paper to be able to write—could be so honored by the town, so loved by its residents.

  Especially one.

  Ayden led her home as early as was polite. The door barely closed behind them before he drew her against him and kissed her breathless.

  “Do not go away for so long again. Please.” He tossed her hat onto a kitchen chair and her shawl over the back. “Promise.”

  “I promise.” She raised her hands to his neck cloth and began to untie the knot.

  He caught hold of her hands. “No arguments this time?”

  “No arguments.”

  “But your writing. Your research.”

  “Is done for a while. The research anyway.” She reached for her portfolio.

  Ayden groaned. “Must you. I would rather—”

  “Patience.” She released the buckle fasteners and drew out a sheaf of papers. “I have a contract to write a book.”

  “Do you now?” With a shout, Ayden grabbed the papers and began to read. When he finished, he gave her a look of confusion. “I thought you were going to write more about the wreck.”

  “I am, but a novel instead.”

  “Oh, Mia, mi amore.” He drew her to him again, crushing the papers. “My very own Charlotte Brontë.”

&nb
sp; Mia grimaced. “Not Charlotte. That is a little too close to Charmaine.”

  Ayden cupped her chin in his hands. “Still jealous of her?”

  Charmaine had finally convinced the man she loved that her father would no longer stand in the way of their marriage. Yet Mia could not forget that Ayden had come within minutes of proposing to the other woman.

  “Not jealous. Not now.” Mia tugged his neck cloth from his shirt collar. “I still prefer to use my own name. Or perhaps simply Mrs. Goswell.”

  “I like the sound of that.” Ayden’s fingertips caressed the sides of her neck. “Mostly because a novel means you will have to stay home for a while to write it.”

  “And longer.” She grasped his hands and lowered them to her waist. “By the time I finish with the book, I will be too fat to travel.”

  “Too fat?” His hands pressing on her loosely tied stays, Ayden gave her a blank look for a moment. Then his eyes widened, and his mouth opened as he gasped for air. “You . . . you’re telling me that you . . . that we . . .”

  “Yes.” She flung her arms around his neck and buried her face against his broad chest. “We’re going to have a baby in about five months.”

  And now her joy in knowing she was taking the right road for her life was complete.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many people helped in the concept and development of this story. Mostly, I wish to thank Patty Hall for telling me about the train wreck in my native state of Michigan. Thank you to Gina Welborn for the fencing match. And thank you to Kathy Davis and Melissa Endlich for initially seeing the merit in this story so that I actually wrote the whole novel. Most of all, thank you, my dear husband, for keeping my computer and my belief in love alive.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2015 Marti Corn Photography

  Laurie Alice Eakes lay in bed as a child telling herself stories and dreaming of becoming a published writer. She is now a bestselling, award-winning author with nearly two dozen books in print. Romantic Times writes: “Eakes has a charming way of making her novels come to life without being over the top.”

  Laurie Alice has a degree in English and French from Asbury University and a master’s degree in fiction writing from Seton Hill University. She lives in Texas with her husband and sundry pets. She loves watching old movies with her husband in the winter and going for long walks along Galveston beaches in the summer. When she isn’t writing, she’s doing housework, which she considers time to work out plot points, and visiting museums as a recreational activity. For more information about Laurie Alice and her books, visit www.lauriealiceeakes.com.