The Color of Ivy

by Peggy Ann Craig

  Without hesitation, she did as was bid. The small latch hardly constituted any strength to undo. With a heave she opened the window and allowed air into the compartment. Cold late September air.

  She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply the crisp but fresh breeze. It caused the tendrils of hair along her temples to flap like a pair of wings. If only she could slip out of the cramped cubicle and take flight.

  “Good heavens, that feels much better,” Allison Radford declared, relaxing her head against the upholstered headrest of her seat, while her husband mumbled something in concurrence. It was amazing how the Radford’s continually fell under hot spells. And in unison. Even in the dead of winter.

  Taking her seat between Allison Radford and the window, she ignored the fact she wore less clothing than the madam. Truth was, she didn’t particularly like the small confines of the train compartment either. The cool air on her face felt refreshing.

  And free.

  “These next few days will be undeniably troublesome. We must speak to the porter about improving the conditions of this compartment.” Her madam was saying. “My allergies are reacting horribly to this filthy dust.”

  She ran a finger over the armrest of her seat, then turned it upside right as if expecting to come away with a layer of dirt. As it was, it came away clear. Brushing her hands together nevertheless, she shrugged in disgust before leaning back into her seat.

  “Perhaps if you had adhered to my suggestion to have taken a boat for the first half of our journey to Calgary, we wouldn’t have had to endure such conditions,” Harold commented, bringing up not for the first time since they embarked on this excursion, the same argument over mode of transportation.

  “Don’t speak of such lunacy. You know right well my legs are not meant for the sea,” Allison reminded him.

  “I hardly believe the Great Lakes constitute as the sea.”

  “And I hardly see the difference. One enormous body of water is the same as the next.”

  Harold sighed. “At any rate, we will make better time via the train. We should be arriving in Calgary in six days’ time. The express has a wonderful reputation of being punctual.”

  “Well, I certainly hope the food makes up for the poor quality of air,” Allison said before releasing a violent shiver. “Moira, for pity’s sakes, do shut that blasted window. The wind is blowing the dust everywhere.”

  As instructed, she stood and shut out the small token of fresh air. Her cheeks had gone slightly numb from the chilly breeze gushing through the small opening, yet she couldn’t stop the feeling of despair as she latched it shut.

  Sitting back down, she turned and stared out of the glass and watched as the bustling city rushed past until gradually it dropped off from the horizon. All that remained were endless amounts of trees and the odd farmer’s field.

  Taking a deep breath, she inhaled the stale compartment air. At the least she was grateful for the over-sized window. The small pigeonhole she was confined to for the several days, was already beginning to feel tight. The walls flanking her felt as if they were closing in. A familiar nausea stirred her stomach. However, she had learned if she concentrated and worked real hard, she could still the feeling of panic rising up her chest.

  * * *

  Sam moved through the corridors between compartments toward the dining car. It had been nearly four hours since the train left Union Station. He hadn’t seen the copper-haired woman again since boarding. Not for breakfast and not anywhere else on the train. Several times he had strolled past her compartment, but the only occupants were a stiff looking gentleman and a woman donning the most ridiculous hat.

  The dark-cloaked woman was nowhere to be seen. It was as if she had vanished completely.

  Not that Sam was worried. After all, there was nowhere for her to go apart from jumping from a moving locomotive.

  “Excuse me, sir.” A rather robust porter had opened the one side of the vestibule and proceeded to pass Sam.

  Sam moved aside, but paused to ask, “Can you tell me when our next stop is?”

  “That would be the Sudbury Junction, sir.”

  “How long until then?”

  The porter removed a pocket watch from his vest. “Not for another four hours, unfortunately. Once there, however, we will be stopping for a fifteen minute break if you care to stretch your legs.”

  “Do you happen to know if there is a law enforcement office in town?”

  “I’m afraid not. Sudbury Junction is located approximately six miles northeast of the city in the outskirts. However, the depot can wire a message to the Sudbury police station if required.”

  Sam gave a curt nod. “Thanks.”

  Sam relaxed then, knowing he had plenty of time to find his suspect, obtain a proper identification, and then haul her tiny little ass off to the closest law enforcement. He would have his prisoner apprehended long before this train ever crossed over into the Canadian Shield.

  He made his way into one of the first sleeping cars that housed six private compartments and came across the one where he had last seen his suspect enter. Not surprisingly, it was empty. Hopefully, that meant she had joined the rest of the passengers in the dining car for lunch.

  He wasn’t pleased about confronting her in the crowded dining car. His questioning could spark suspicion. Both from her or the other passengers. He didn’t want to cause an uproar. From past experiences, he found spectators proved more nuisance than not.

  He headed toward the back of the train where the dining car was located. It was full as predicted, but his eyes immediately caught sight of a bright head of hair near the middle of the room.

  Finally.

  It was about time.

  She was sitting staring out the large plate-glass window next to her, still dressed in the same outfit he initially saw her wearing in Union Station, minus the dark gray cloak. Though she was without the thick woolen covering, the blouse she wore was just as loose and baggy and somewhat in the same dull shade.

  Without diverting his attention from her, he made his way slowly toward the table. Seated with her was the couple he noticed in her travelling compartment. The gentleman appeared uncomfortable and rather bored with the chatty woman across from him in the flamboyant hat.

  None of them saw him approach.

  “Excuse me, it appears all the tables are full and I see you have an empty seat. Would you mind kindly if I joined you?”

  The copper-haired woman turned almost reluctantly from the window, dragging her gaze away to look up at him. Sam was struck immediately by the unusual color of her eyes. He assumed she bore the usual green most redheads did. As his mother had. Instead, these were such a light blue they appeared eerily translucent. Capped by a pair of equally nearly transparent set of brows, they appeared cold and lifeless.

  He watched as those frosty eyes rounded at the sight of him, before her head gave a little jerk and she drew her attention back to the window.

  Interesting, Sam thought. She feared him.

  “Certainly,” the man said, acknowledging Sam first with a polite nod, though admittedly looked less than enthused.

  Sam slipped around him and took the chair opposite the copper-haired woman. However, she did not bother to look his way again. Her eyes appeared transfixed permanently on the window.

  Turning to the man next to him, he stuck out a friendly hand. “Sam Michalski is the name. Yourself?”

  As if reluctant to accept the offered hand, the man nevertheless took it, careful not to allow his fingers to close around Sam’s before quickly snatching it back. “Harold Radford and my wife Allison Radford.”

  Sam plastered a huge grin on his face as he reached over the table and shoved his hand under the woman’s nose. “Howdy, ma’am.”

  She looked disgruntled, but took his hand all the same. Sam’s scrutiny slid back to the woman sitting next to her, waiting for the introduction. But none came forthwith. Either from the woman or from her companions.

  Sam settled back i
n his seat and eyed her, knowing if he waited long enough he could draw her out. Hell, he had four hours to kill. Still, it vaguely surprised him when her gaze did not so much as falter, so apparently riveted to the scene outside her window.

  “Are you ready to order, sir?” A waiter had materialized and forced Sam to draw his attention from the copper-headed woman.

  The rest of the occupants at the table had seemingly ordered as the waiter was looking directly at him. Sam cleared his throat and pulled out the menu in front of him, scanning it quickly but not really reading it. Instead, he handed it back to the waiter and said, “The special will be fine.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  With the waiter gone, he turned his focus back to the woman. Still nothing. Eyes the color of blue frost stared out the window. They had a glassy look about them, reminding him of a dog Roy had years ago. The animal had been part dog, part wolf, and bore a set of unusual periwinkle eyes.

  The train lurched slightly as it crossed over some uneven stretch of track causing the tea cups to rattle softly in their saucers. Sam leaned back in his chair and openly watched her from across the table, staring her down while waiting.

  “What brings you on board the train?” Harold Radford asked.

  Sighing inwardly, Sam dragged his gaze away from his suspect and offered the gentleman an obligatory glance before returning it to the woman. “Business.”

  One thick eyebrow arched. “You do say. What kind of business are you in, Mr. Michalski?”

  “The acquisitions kind.”

  Harold Radford’s bushy brows came together. “What is it you acquire?”

  Sam’s brows slanted downward as he looked at the woman across from him who still refused to return his gaze. “Let’s just say in exchange for a very handsome price, I track down something greatly sought after.”

  “You’re a fortune hunter?” Harold’s face lit up with excitement.

  His wife suddenly perked up. “Are you one of those, oh-what-do-they-call-them? Archaeologists? You know, the ones who are discovering all those tombs over in Egypt? Oh dear, what do they call that place—?”

  “Valley of the Kings,” her husband supplied, but then pointed out, “Obviously, if he were he would be over there in Egypt rather than on this train.”

  She pursed her lips, but ignored him to wait expectantly for Sam’s answer.

  “‘Fraid not, ma’am.” Sam grinned with falsehood and said, “Nothin’ nearly as valuable.” At this last remark he shot a glance at the woman across from him, ignoring the fact Harold Radford sat waiting for him to continue.

  “Interesting,” Harold finally said, clearing his throat and apparently unaware of Sam’s obvious interest in his copper-haired companion.

  Sam took advantage of the lull in the conversation to finally ask her, “I’m sorry, ma’am, you look awfully familiar. Have we met before?”

  Her jaw twitched, showing his words alarmed her, but the eyes she momentarily darted in his direction, were lifeless. As cold as ice.

  That was it, he thought. That was what they resembled. They were as cold as blue ice.

  “No.”

  One word. Hardly enough to detect an Irish accent. Which wasn’t necessary as it turned out he received all the confirmation he required from Allison Radford.

  “I hardly think so, Mr. Michalski. Moira James has been in Canada only a short time. She emigrated from Ireland recently.”

  Moira James? Well that didn’t surprise him. He hardly expected the notorious killer to walk around using her own alias. He feigned surprise which he could have saved for the woman, Moira, didn’t bother looking his way.

  “How do you like this side of the pond?”

  He was just a little surprised when she chose to ignore him. Not the friendliest creature. Or, apparently, big on decorum.

  Sliding his attention to Allison Radford, he wondered what she thought of the woman’s lack of manners. However, she suddenly appeared more interested in the cleanliness of her silverware than the lack of civility of her companion.

  “Where is it you originate, Mr. Michalski?” Harold asked.

  “Sam, please.” He smiled at the man. “I’m a native of Oklahoma.”

  “That would explain the hat,” he commented, eyeing the garment still perched on Sam’s head with disdain. “Out here in the East we generally remove our hats at the dinner table.”

  Sam paused, then with a sarcastic twitch of his lip, reached up and removed the offending garment. “My apologies. Not use to such chivalry where I come from.”

  “Perfectly understandable.”

  Sam didn’t allow the underhanded insult to ruffle him. “So, where you folks from?”

  “Toronto.”

  “Fine town.”

  “A city, Mr. Michalski,” Harold corrected.

  “Right.” Sam nodded, then glanced back at the woman across from him. Her attention still glued to the window. “Where you folks headin’?”

  “Calgary.”

  Sam’s brow rose. “What’s out there?”

  “I’ve accepted a solicitor post in a very prestigious law firm.”

  “Ah, you’re a lawyer.” How convenient. “What kind?”

  “I specialize in real estate.” He reached into his vest pocket and retrieved a card. “If you’re in the market for property, I’ll be happy to represent you.”

  He took the card; giving a grateful nod heedless of the fact no time soon would he be planting roots. Of any kind.

  As if drawn by his own thoughts, he turned his head and followed the woman’s icy blue gaze. A wall of trees greeted him. Amongst a forest of golden leaves, a mix of pine and spruce dotted the rich timber landscape. Not a sign of life to be found.

  Pocketing the card, he turned away and thought even if he were to stake a claim, it certainly would not be in this god-forsaken country with its endless countryside of bush.

  Chapter 2

  She ignored him. He made her feel far too edgy. He wanted something. She knew the signs.

  Up close, she noticed his steely eyes were actually the color of rusty gold. Much like the bullets lining inside his holster. Her gaze slid instinctively toward the edge of the table where she could see it peering just beneath the surface.

  She wished Mr. Radford had requested he remove the holster rather than the hat. At least then she wouldn’t have been able to see his eyes so clearly. Or feel them fastened on her, daring her to look his way. But her unyielding indifference would not give in so easily. It had been the only thing which kept her sanity intact all these years.

  And her life.

  The dinner hour seemed to drag. Eating was torture. Every bite felt as if she were swallowing rocks. His continual scrutiny made her feel highly charged. Uncomfortable. Alert.

  She ate in silence. Distant. Not participating in the conversation around the table. Her glass of water trembled beneath the rolling train, rattling the ice cubes inside. Reaching out, she took a large gulp of water and was reminded of the open window back at her compartment. How she wanted desperately to slip back there and crank it open. That wasn’t actually true. What she rightly wanted was to get off this suffocating contraption on wheels. Even the huge windows couldn’t lessen the feeling of being slowly smothered. And to think she had six more days of it.

  But more than that, what she greatly desired was to part company with the man across from her. She had barely glanced his way, but she had registered the scruffy look of his attire. Noted the long but thin shaggy locks of hair drawn into a ponytail at the base of his neck. Noticed the five days growth of hair that shadowed his square jaw line.

  It was no wonder the Radford’s hadn’t wanted him to sit with them. He didn’t resemble anyone they associated with.

  She eyed his reflection in the window. He was still sitting openly studying her. She didn’t like being stared at, it made her nervous. Cautious. She considered asking him to stop.

  “So what brought you to Canada?”

  The question
was obviously directed at her. His voice, though tilted slightly at the end, sounded flat. Bland. Nevertheless, she flinched inwardly just the same. She did not wish to speak with him. Particularly regarding that subject.

  Not caring how rude she appeared, she ignored him again, hoping he would finally leave her be. She knew her behavior would not unsettle the Radford’s. They spent most of the time ignoring her as it was. They had never asked of her past. The only thing that mattered was whether she could attend well or not. And she sincerely doubted they appreciated the topic around the table centered on their servant either.

  When her silence stretched on, he continued to sit watching her, while she watched his reflection. Even if it wasn’t the clearest image, she could tell his eyes were sparkling. Curiously, as if animated. Excited. It put a certain sparkle in their depths and, ruthlessly, she admitted he wasn’t a terribly homely man. Regardless of his appearance. Actually, she was certain many American women would fancy him attractive.

  “I’m certain I’ve seen you before,” he said. “Perhaps in Chicago?”

  She flinched. She couldn’t help it. Reluctantly, she turned her gaze from the window and looked across the table at him, noting the satisfaction spread across his face.

  Who was this man?

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Michalski,” Allison Radford said. “Moira has not left my employment since arriving in Canada. And certainly not to the United States.”

  “My mistake,” he said, but didn’t sound convinced. He placed his elbows on the table and leaned toward her. “But still. . .”

  He allowed the implication to hover, but added nothing more. Instinctively, she recoiled from his person, needless of the fact a table sat between them. His eyes narrowed. The urge to bolt had her gripping the edge of her chair to keep herself seated. Those rusty golden eyes of his continued to survey her closely. Irritation finally, thankfully, began to stir at his continual scrutiny.

  “Perhaps, sir, I suggest you be traveling in the wrong direction, if the woman ye be looking for is in Chicago,” she said, hoping her words would finally have him leave her be.

  On the contrary, Sam Michalski’s hazel eyes only narrowed even more. “I don’t recall stating I was searching for a woman. I merely mentioned you reminded me of one from Chicago.”