Strangers on a Train

by Ruth Wind

  "I don't think so. Mrs. Gordon is a little nervous about being alone in the station."

  He squinted over his shoulder. "Is that so?" He moved away from Heather. "I'll be right back."

  Before she could say anything, he'd crossed the room on his long, long legs to take the seat next to Mrs. Gordon. The elderly woman smiled and waved her hand in a gesture of dismissal. Heather rolled her eyes and picked up the coffee. Ben had already started back toward her. Taking the cups from her hand, he led the way back to Mrs. Gordon.

  "Thank you, Mr. Shaw," Mrs. Gordon said with a flirtatious inclination of her head. "Heather, honey, you go on. I'll just read my book."

  Heather met Ben's laughing eyes with a sigh. A smile quirked the corners of her own mouth. "You win."

  "I always win." He took her arm lightly and propelled her out the front door, carrying her coffee.

  The night was crisp and cold, with a hint of snow in the air. Heather breathed deeply.

  "Pretty night," Ben remarked, handing her the coffee. He led them to a wall and released her arm to survey the scene around them. Across the street, a huge hotel rose in glass and yellow light. Once, when Heather had made the layover in the morning, she had gone there for breakfast.

  "Do you know the city?" she asked Ben.

  "Not really. I was part of a seminar here one time, and I pass through a lot on the train, but I've never explored it. You?"

  "No. What kind of seminar?"

  "You mean you've never heard of me?" A teasing light touched his eyes, and Heather couldn't be sure if he was serious or not. His name did sound a little familiar, but she couldn't place just why.

  "Should I have?"

  "Probably not." He drew a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and lit it. Heather noted that his hands no longer trembled. "You don't seem the type to read Western novels."

  "You're a writer?"

  He nodded, then wiggled his nose and drew on the cigarette thoughtfully. "I'm told they're some of the most violent in the business."

  "Well, then I probably wouldn't like them." She sipped the hot coffee. "It's interesting that you write, though. How did you get into that?"

  He shrugged. "When I got out of the army, I needed something to do. I can't do some of the things I used to and my folks' ranch didn't need me. One day I was out on the range and I just started thinking about this story." He grinned. "It must've turned out okay, since I've been doing it ever since."

  "I thought all writers had to struggle."

  "Some do, some don't—just like anything else. I got lucky."

  Heather looked at him. In the low light, his face was shadowed by the brushed hat. "So you were teaching writing at a seminar?"

  "Yep. It was a lot of fun." He grinned at her. "Everybody thinks you're terrific."

  "Are you?" The words sounded more flirtatious than she'd intended, but once uttered, she didn't know how to draw them back.

  His smile crinkled the corners of his dark eyes and he leaned closer. His voice, as rich and deep as those eyes, held a playful note. "Depends on what you mean. I'm okay as a writer. I'm a good cook, too." He lifted a shoulder. "I'm not so terrific at heavy-equipment operation, though."

  Her gaze flickered of its own accord to the plump lower lip beneath his mustache, and for one brief second, she allowed herself to wonder what it would be like to kiss him. In the next second, she straightened and asked, "Can you drive a car?"

  "No."

  Heather nodded. "I don't like driving. It always feels like there's too much going on. The train is nice and easy."

  "How come you don't take a plane like everybody else?"

  "The same reason I don't like cars. Besides, planes leave me breathless. You?"

  "You leave me breathless."

  Heather tsked. "Stop teasing," she said briskly. "Why don't you take planes?"

  He tossed away his cigarette and leaned one elbow on the chest-high wall. "Bad memories." His tone was short. "Nothing to worry about."

  "Do you have an echo chamber, too?"

  "An echo chamber?" he repeated, musing. "Yeah. That's a good word for it." His arm touched hers as he leaned a little closer. "Did your husband have problems with flashbacks?"

  She'd opened the conversation, Heather reminded herself. Although she ordinarily tried not to speak of James, here in the crisp dark of a strange city with a strange man, it seemed easier. "Yes. Sometimes very difficult problems."

  "Not many people do, you know."

  "I know." She smiled at him with a wistful glance. "But if you tell me you don't, I'll call you a liar."

  "And you'd be right to. But it's not something I spend a whole lot of time worrying about." He touched his nose with one finger, like Santa Claus. "I figure life's too short to worry. You only get a certain number of days, and it's crazy to waste even one if you can help it."

  Heather cocked her head, looking at him with puzzlement.

  As if he felt her gaze, he turned. His dark eyes glittered with humor. "And that's why I'm out here with the prettiest woman I've seen in a long time. You can hide your hair, but you can't hide those eyes."

  A little portion of her shrunken soul relaxed under the caress of his warm voice, eased by the blunted syllables of his words. It was such an unfamiliar sensation that an accompanying fear bloomed, as well. She was suddenly deeply aware of his arm against hers, and shifted away from him.

  He grinned, as if he knew why she'd moved. When he spoke, his voice wafted toward her as gentle and soft as a plume of smoke. "A man could drown in your eyes, Heather."

  She knew she ought to, but she couldn't look away. For a long moment, she kept her eyes lingering on his, noting their weathered frame of sun lines and the long sweep of lashes that made their expression seem so gentle.

  He straightened first, and Heather felt a small twinge of disappointment. "I think it's probably time to get back inside," he said. "Our train will be here soon."

  "Ours?" she asked. "Where are you headed, anyway?"

  He smiled. "I'm a native of Pueblo. Didn't I tell you?"

  Heather shrugged and shook her head, then followed him inside, trying to pretend it didn't matter that he lived close to her.

  Ben didn't wander away as she'd expected, but stayed to chat with Mrs. Gordon and herself. When the train was announced, he walked with them to the platform. He took Mrs. Gordon's ticket from her hand and helped her find the right compartment. "Thank you, Mr. Shaw," she said coquettishly, and Heather smiled to herself. As they were about to walk away, the old woman grabbed Heather's arm. "Follow this one up, honey. I know a good man when I see one."

  "I just met him on the train," Heather whispered.

  "Meetings aren't as important as what comes after," she replied, and winked broadly. "I'll be your chaperon tomorrow if it makes you feel better."

  Heather frowned and nodded distractedly. No doubt about it, this trip was becoming a little strange. She often shared the journey with a passenger who also had a long way to travel, but never had she felt, as she did with Mrs. Gordon and Ben, to be a part of a group, having something more in common than a train ride.

  Ben waited at the end of the car. "Can I see you home?" he asked, holding out his arm.

  "I'm sure I can find my way."

  "I wasn't doubting your competence—just trying to be a gentleman." Again his eyes seemed to glitter with suppressed mirth, and Heather felt chastened. When had she learned to behave like a stuffy matron?

  "Thank you, Mr. Shaw," she said with exaggerated good manners, and took his arm. "I should be very glad of your company."

  It was, of course, impossible to maintain contact in the narrow hallways of the railway cars, and they often had to shimmy against the carpeted walls as a traveler passed with burdens of suitcases and shoulder bags. But each time a little space opened, Ben took her hand and again placed it over his elbow. His jacket was made of soft wool and Heather could feel the tendons of his arm move rhythmically below the fabric. He walked a little ahead of he
r and air currents carried the leathery scent of him to her nose. He was the kind of man, Heather thought, that would be good to hug. His embrace might carry hints of hunger, but he would also know how to hold a woman with ease and comfort.

  He stopped at one of the larger rooms meant for families. "This one's mine," he said. "Just in case you want to find me tomorrow."

  "Thank you," she responded dryly. "That's comforting."

  "I knew you'd feel that way." He grinned and took her arm again, leading the way down the hall, past a staircase that led to more compartments and the rest rooms, into a very narrow hallway. He stopped about halfway down. "This is yours."

  "Thank you." She slipped her guitar inside the door and faced him. "I think I can handle it from here."

  He lifted her hand to his lips. His eyes lingered on her face with a hint of humor mixed with something else—admiration or appreciation—a very gentle something, anyway. His mouth brushed the bony back of her hand, his mustache prickling her skin deliciously. "It's been a pleasure to share your company, Heather," he said, not yet releasing her hand. "Will you let me buy you breakfast?"

  She hesitated. What point was there, really? she wondered. Why spend so much time with someone she would probably never see again?

  With a touch as light as a warm rain, he lifted his hand and trailed one finger down her cheek. It lingered at the corner of her mouth and landed on her chin. "Please? I'll invite Mrs. Gordon, too."

  Heather laughed. She couldn't help it. "Okay."

  "Then I'll say good-night."

  "Good-night," she replied firmly and dipped into her tiny cubicle. From the hallway, she heard his slightly uneven departure and wondered why she'd agreed to breakfast with him. Then she laughed at herself.

  It wasn't terribly difficult to figure out either the attraction or the desire to spend more time with him. It was safe. Since chances were good—even if he did live in Pueblo—that she would never see him again, there was little possibility of their being anything but friends. She could even bask a little in the delicious warmth of a man's attention and allow herself the almost forgotten luxury of being attracted to him in return.

  When she returned home, he would be a pleasant memory she could fall back on in the rough weeks facing her as the anniversary of her husband's death approached and passed. Experience had taught her that they would be rough weeks indeed.

  * * *

  In his room, Ben shucked his coat and boots and sat down with the lights off to watch the scenery of the night pass by. A lingering impression of Heather stuck with him. How, he thought in exasperation, had he gotten so lucky and unlucky all at once?

  It was the story of his life—like the mine that had left him alive and gotten him out of Vietnam six months early, yet had left him with a crooked brain, a limp and nightmares for the rest of his life.

  He wasn't prone to fantasies—at least not the romantic type, he thought with a twist of his mouth. His fantasies tended to be ugly visions of what could be balanced against what was. It was that dark thread that permeated his books, books he wrote to keep the nightmares at bay. It worked and made him money. It was enough.

  Enough for him, anyway. He wondered if it would be enough for Heather. If she read one of his books, would she run? For violence and Vietnam were things she didn't want to think about. He wondered what had gone wrong with that husband of hers. He had a hunch it wouldn't be easy to get around that ghost.

  He lit a cigarette. His mind told him there was no way it would work between them and that he had no business sticking his nose into her pain or her life.

  But his heart had been seized the moment she stepped onto the platform in St. Louis, canceling out the usual horrors his brain supplied at such moments with a delicate vision of medieval beauty and grace. That had never happened in the almost twenty years since his injuries had occurred. To Ben, Heather was nearly an omen, and one he wouldn't let slip away.

  No matter what, he had to live each moment. As irrational as it was, he intended to make Heather a part of as many of his moments as he could.

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  « ^ »

  In the middle of Kansas in the middle of the night, the train ground to a halt. Heather didn't wake immediately, but not long after it had stopped she missed the rocking motion of the coach and the rumbling of the engines. She sat up and looked out the window. Huge, thick flakes of snow dropped from a pinkish sky. Against the horizon, a barn stood in silhouette against the pale night, but there was nothing else but empty stretches of land. Had the snow stopped them? she wondered.

  She got up and slipped into a pair of jeans and socks. The long-sleeved T-shirt she'd worn to bed was warm enough and she propped herself against the wall to watch the snow. In the hallway, she heard murmurs of concern and excitement, and even a snatch of conversation as passengers questioned the source of the delay.

  After a little while, Heather turned on the lamp and pulled out her guitar. She had thought she might play earlier, but she'd been too tired. Now she felt wide-awake and music whispered along her nerves, urging expression. She tuned the instrument automatically, adjusting the nylon strings that set it apart from a regular guitar.

  Slowly she began to play a quiet melody that had been born in one of her dreams one night. The tripping notes reminded her of water, of a cold mountain stream, of skipping stones in a huge lake, of rain on the mighty Mississippi—that river of her childhood. The music soothed Heather. She didn't even wonder what created the delay. Lost in her playing, she drifted into worlds unrelated to the moment.

  A soft tapping at her door brought her back to the middle of Kansas. "Who is it?" she called out.

  "Ben. Are you awake?"

  She pulled the curtains aside. He was leaning against the wall, lines of fatigue pulling down his mouth. The hat was gone, and he wore a thick corduroy shirt the color of sand, over jeans. The light color emphasized the rich darkness of his eyes and hair. Without his hat, his hair fell over his forehead in unruly waves. Heather was struck again by his undeniably masculine good looks—a face as rugged as Arizona mesas. She smiled and opened the door. "Hi. Come in."

  He eased himself onto the opposite end of the bed—the only place to sit since the bed took up the entire room. On his feet was a pair of well-worn moccasins in pale leather, with beads intricately applied to the tops in the pattern of a cross. He made a small sound of pain as he sat down.

  "Are you all right?" Heather asked.

  "Yeah." Ben grimaced. "This damn weather gets to me. If it gets wet, I get stiff as sure as dawn means morning."

  "An unmistakable sign of advancing age," she teased.

  "It's getting worse the older I get." He grinned wryly. "Now, weren't you playing that thing?"

  "Yes. Would you like to hear something?"

  "Yeah. Whatever you want to play."

  His weariness touched her. She began with Mozart, a complicated piece to play, but well worth the effort for its lightheartedness. Because of the warm-up she'd done before he'd come in, it wasn't difficult, and she felt her mouth curving into a smile as her fingers flew over the strings. At the end, she grinned at Ben. "Whew. It's been a while since I tried that one."

  He'd listened with his eyes closed, and his voice was gravelly when he spoke. "That was pretty."

  "Mozart." He didn't need conversation, she decided. Company, perhaps. Definitely music. She bent her head over the neck of the guitar. Several compositions came to mind, and she settled upon only those filled with hope—anything lilting, anything with joy. One was a rousing, intricate Spanish dance, complete with thumps on the body of her guitar. She finished with a flourish and laughed. "I love that one. It makes me think of a hundred things—all of them vigorous."

  Ben smiled. He looked better, Heather thought. The sparkle was back in his eyes, and a ripple of satisfaction touched her.

  "Did you know you didn't brush your hair?" he asked, teasing.

  Heather reached up to smooth the br
aids and felt the loose hair around her head. "Well, you can't expect polish at three o'clock in the morning." She laid the instrument down next to her and reached up to pull out the elastic bands in her hair. Her purse hung on a hook near the door and she fished a brush from it. "Do you know what happened out there?" she asked, loosening the braids with her fingers.

  Ben watched her with appreciation. Heather tried to remain natural, but without the armor of her guitar to shield her, she grew aware of her bralessness beneath the thin T-shirt. As if her breasts realized it themselves, their nipples tautened. She glanced at Ben to see if he'd noticed, pulling her hair over her shoulders as an extra layer of clothing. He smiled wryly and his eyes met hers gently.

  "There was an accident on the tracks. A truck turned over and spilled out some kind of junk all over the road. It's a mess."

  "Was anyone hurt?"

  "Don't think so. The truck just turned over. The driver was okay." He stretched out a hand. "Would you let me brush your hair?"

  "Are you kidding?" She handed over the brush and turned around. "I pay people to brush my hair for me."

  "Really?"

  She looked over her shoulder at him. "Have you ever heard of a joke?"

  He grinned. Heather turned around and Ben began to brush her hair with long, smooth strokes. "Did it take a long time to grow your hair?"

  "Most of my life. I've trimmed it often, but it's never been drastically cut."

  "Never?"

  "No. I wasn't allowed to when I was a little girl, and as I got older, I couldn't face it."

  "Isn't it hard to take care of?"

  "Not at all. People ask me that all the time, but I think it would be harder to have to curl your hair and style it and put mousse on it every day than weaving in a few braids."

  "Does it get in your way?"

  Heather smiled as the brushing relaxed her. "No. I'm used to it."