The Color of Ivy

by Peggy Ann Craig

  She knitted her brows together in a deep frown, trying to recall exactly what it was he had said. When he continued to sit there openly staring at her as if he were visually dissecting her, she blurted the only thing she could think of. “Well, I’m not from Chicago.”

  “Yes, I know.” He smiled suddenly. “You’re from Ireland.”

  The smile held so much insincerity and coldness it could have turned the water in her glass into ice. Yet for some odd reason, she felt the tiniest flutter of warmth in the vicinity of her stomach.

  Distressed, she turned and stared back out the window. Row after row of telegraph lines whirled past making her feel dizzy. The familiar sense of nausea had returned. If she sat very quiet and still, it would surely pass as it always did. Her gaze lifted to the window and she caught his likeness in the glass.

  This time, however, he was staring directly back at her in the reflection.

  Her insides lurched. Her hand flew to her midriff, fearful she wasn’t able to keep it down this time. Slightly unsteady, she turned to Mrs. Radford and said, “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling grand. If you’ll please excuse me.”

  The woman simply raised her hand and gave a wave of dismissal. Grateful, she probably moved faster than she should have. Feeling light-headed, she struggled to maintain upright on the rocking contraption causing her to lose her balance and accidentally striking her ankle against her chair leg. It took all her willpower to bite back the cry of pain the contact made on the old injury she gained as a child.

  However, long ago, she had learned to control those shows of weaknesses. Otherwise, it gave her enemies far too much power.

  * * *

  “Moira has been suffering terribly from motion sickness for the entire trip,” Allison Radford leaned forward to whisper to Sam as if the copper-haired woman had a case of leprosy.

  Sam watched her leave the dining car, her pace definitely slower, but still no sign of a limp. “Does she also suffer from a bad leg?”

  “Hmm?” Harold scarcely looked interested as he answered. “No, no bad leg.”

  “She doesn’t limp?”

  “Of course not.” He turned in time to watch Moira James disappear from the car, but not before shooting Sam a curious frown. “Why do you ask?”

  He produced a false grin and shook his head. “No reason. Just thought she reminded me of someone.”

  The answer seemed to appease Harold Radford for he turned his attention back to his lunch. Sam grabbed his hat, then pushed to his feet. “If you’ll pardon me for a moment.”

  They barely acknowledged him as he slid away from the table and followed the woman out of the dining car. Because of her slow gait, she hadn’t gotten very far. Walking into the passenger carriage, he came to an abrupt halt when he noticed the slightest trace of a limp in her gait. At the sound of the car door opening, she glanced over her shoulder, spotted him then paled.

  Sam moved forward at a slow canter. “Can I be of any assistance to you?”

  “I don’t be needing yer help,” she snapped, anger momentarily darkening those pale eyes. Then she pulled herself together and straightened her back. “I’m grand, thank ye.”

  “Forgive me, I thought your leg was giving you trouble.”

  Those icy blue eyes were full of suspicion when she shot him a quick glance. “Tis fine.”

  “Were you not limping just now?”

  Her gaze narrowed, but she said, “I accidentally hit it on me chair when I left the table.”

  “So you did injure it,” he stated with false concern. “Then I insist you allow me to assist you.”

  “No, sir. I thank ye, but tis not necessary.”

  “Actually, I was hoping to have a private word with you anyway.”

  An almost transparent set of brows drew together. “Whatever for?”

  Before saying anything further, he gestured ahead and said, “Shall we?”

  She did not budge. “I think not. Whatever it is ye be wanting, Mr. Michalski, ye can say here.”

  He looked down at her, noticing a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. They made her appear almost childlike. But it was a different story in her eyes. Their unusual color left a haunting feel. As if no life stared back from within their depths.

  “I wondered if perhaps I had been correct. Our paths had crossed once before,” he lied.

  “I already told ye. I don’t know ya. Believe me, I would have remembered.”

  “How’s that?”

  A brief pause followed, filled with a swift look of female appreciation. Then it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

  Sam felt a startling response to her unguarded look. He stiffened immediately. The blood in his veins turned cold.

  “If you’ll excuse me, sir. I’d like to return to me seat.”

  “When did you injure your leg?”

  Her cold eyes spun back around to meet his, the freckles above her nose crinkled in obvious confusion. But more interestingly enough, fear danced in those eerily colored eyes. “I said I gone and hit it on me chair already.”

  “No one else seemed to notice you injuring it,” he pointed out. “Come now, Ms. James, I hardly think you hit it hard enough to cause much trouble.”

  Her expression grew stiff. “The Radford’s are not in the habit of noticing anything to do with me. The chair leg was made of iron and proved quite painful. If ye are so certain I am lying, Mr. Michalski, I suggest ye try hitting your own ankle upon it.”

  He ignored that. “Is it possible the chair hit an old wound?”

  She froze then. Her entire persona mirrored the coldness of her eyes. “Good day, Mr. Michalski.”

  Just as she turned her back on him, he said, “You were right.”

  Pausing, but not looking back, she waited for him to continue.

  “I am searching for a woman.”

  This time she did shoot him a glance over her shoulder. Her cold stone eyes held no sign of her internal thoughts. “And ye believe I’m her? Is that right?”

  “Haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  Her chin lifted slightly as she told him, “I can assure ye, that I am not.”

  He tilted his head to one side and arched a brow. “Assure me? Now tell me, how is that possible? Since apparently you have no idea who I’m looking for, how can you be so certain it isn’t you?”

  The smallest twitch in her forehead indicated his comment troubled her. She shifted her foot backwards as if to retreat. He held his stance, not making any attempt to follow, yet not wavering or breaking eye contact, and in the process silently letting her know she could no longer run.

  “I can’t be of any assistance to ye, Mr. Michalski. I wish ye well in yer search.” Taking another shuffling step away from him, she said, “I am returning to me seat now. So, please, just leave me be.”

  He allowed her to move three spaces before he said, “Ivy McGregor.”

  She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. A person would have thought the name hadn’t even registered, hadn’t struck a chord, however Sam wasn’t just anyone. Years of tracking down some of the country’s greatest outlaws had taught him a thing about reading and interpreting facial and body language.

  This woman possessed a talent of her own. Being able to conceal her inner emotions was like watching a work of art for Sam. He’d brought in many criminals over the years, but not one had the ability to mask their emotions the way this one did. He reckoned she would have made one hell of a poker opponent.

  However, she had underestimated Sam’s own abilities.

  The tiniest flicker of her shoulder indicated the name had indeed hit a nerve. And he had found his woman.

  “That’s the name of the woman I’m looking for,” he continued, but she did not respond. Instead, her pace only increased, her gait more awkward, causing the thin hips below her slim waist to shift with much pronunciation in her rush to escape. It also forced the curve of her little behind to protrude sweetly, and by doing so, revealed the notable limp she fo
ught to hide.

  Sam leaned casually against the wall of the car and watched her disappear into the vestibule. He waited a few minutes after she’d gone before he pushed himself upright and went to take a seat in one of the many booths flanking the passenger car. His lunch forgotten. He was more tired than hungry. He had been on the road since early morning to arrive before the train’s hour of departure from Union Station.

  Finding a seat, he dropped his tall frame down into it and crossed his legs at the ankles, then gave his Stetson a tug and pulled it low over his eyes. A couple more hours were left before they stopped at the Sudbury Junction. There was no need to apprehend her now. It would only cause commotion and fear in the rest of the passengers.

  Most criminals were fairly harmless if their identity remained concealed. It was only after they had blown their cover that the threat of being arrested made them a risk.

  Though he had let Ivy McGregor know he was aware of her identity, he didn’t feel she would be a threat to anyone on board the train. She was a tall frail looking woman, and hardly the image one associated with such a crime she was suspected of committing. And though Sam knew better than to judge actions based on appearances, he had no concerns about her fleeing. She wasn’t going anywhere until they reached the Junction. He might as well wait it out and catch some much needed rest.

  He grinned suddenly, pulling the brim of his hat low over his brow. Hell, the woman could barely out walk him, let alone run. This would be one of his easiest captures.

  * * *

  She had to get off the train. Breathing was becoming difficult. Almost next to impossible. She paused in the vestibule and flattened herself against the door. Drawing in a ragged breath, she stared out the window. Nothing but trees whizzed by.

  Leaning forward, she peered through the glass and down at the earth rushing past. She would surely break a leg if she jumped now. Biting her bottom lip, she glanced back through the vestibule and into the car where she left Sam Michalski. He had settled into a seat and made himself comfortable.

  Anger, swift and heated, filled her chest. She knew from the moment she laid eyes on him, he was not to be trusted.

  He knew who she was.

  She had to stop him. She hadn’t come this far only to have some high-handed cowboy ruin it all. The Radford’s had given her a chance to clean the slate and start over. If they discovered she had deceived them, she would be back where she started. On the run.

  Though life with the Radford’s wasn’t grand, at least it resembled an ounce of normalcy. And all Ivy wanted was to get on with her life. Leave the past, and Chicago, behind.

  She pressed her back against the steel door and felt the train’s vibrations. It was moving quickly, delivering her to a new destiny, a new life. A new beginning.

  Opening her eyes, she stared at the black Stetson tilted low over Sam Michalski’s head. He represented her old life. If she had stayed, they would have surely crushed her. If they caught her, they were certain to kill her.

  Determination flooded her veins. Survival instincts kicked in. She would not allow Sam Michalski to cheat her of a future.

  A kerosene lamp swung on a hook inside the vestibule. She reached for it, then slid the car door open. The train rattled causing her to lose her balance momentarily. She managed to right herself and pull the heavy door shut behind her. Then very quietly, so as not to disturb him, she approached his slumbering form.

  She really hadn’t suspected he was sleeping, but still felt a startled jolt when he said beneath the Stetson, “Wised up and decided to turn yourself in, Ms. McGregor?”

  Ivy did not respond. Instead, she began to tremble. Terribly. Which only increased tenfold when he sat up and pushed the rim of his hat away from his face.

  “Mighty smart move—“

  Before she could allow him to finish the sentence, she swung the lamp with all the force she could muster and made contact with his temple. With a soft thump, he collapsed back against his seat. A tiny trickle of blood oozed out from beneath his hairline. She waited a heart-stopping moment to ensure he was out cold.

  Or dead.

  Swiftly, before anyone should happen to enter the empty car, she pulled his Stetson down low, concealing the evidence of blood. Then glancing over her shoulder and making certain she had no eyewitnesses, she slipped hurriedly out of the car.

  Chapter 3

  Sam pried his heavy lids open. Damn, the side of his head throbbed. What the devil happened? Reaching up, he rubbed his temple and glanced about the car. It was still empty. He froze. Recollection came swift.

  Ivy McGregor.

  He swore and sat bolt upright, but the pain in his head had him grimacing and swaying backward. Sliding his fingers beneath his Stetson, they came back stark red. Blood red.

  He cursed savagely and gave the blood a vicious scrub on his denim clad leg before slamming his hat back on his head. On the verge of springing to his feet, the sight outside his window had him stopping cold in his tracks.

  The sun no longer sat in the eastern sky shining brightly overhead. It was now making a slow and leisurely descent toward the opposite side of the earth. But more importantly than that, the train was no longer moving.

  He leaped to his feet, ignoring the lingering pain in his temple. Where the hell were they? Grabbing his duster, he hurried down the car’s corridor and threw open the vestibule’s sliding door. Inside, a porter was returning a boarding stool from the terminal’s platform.

  “Where are we?” he asked, slipping his arms into his coat.

  “Sudbury Junction, sir.”

  “How long?” He held his breath, waiting for the answer.

  “We are just about to leave. Everyone has reboarded.”

  “Did a redheaded woman disembark?”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  Sam spun around and headed straight for the car Ivy McGregor shared with the Radford’s. Half walking, half running, he pushed past passengers not very pleased to make room for him. As he neared their compartment, he saw Mrs. Radford’s outrageous hat first, then her husband sitting across from her.

  But no Ivy McGregor.

  Not that he expected to see her, but still he cussed silently before shoving his head inside the compartment and demanding, “Where is she?”

  Harold Radford looked taken back. “Who?”

  “Ivy McGregor.”

  “Who the devil is Ivy McGregor?”

  “Your maid. Where is she?”

  “We have no maid by the name of Ivy McGregor, sir.” Harold Radford looked at Sam as if he were a raving lunatic. “What on earth are you going on about?”

  “Moira James,” he ground out. “Where is she?”

  “What in heavens do you need with her?” Allison Radford declared.

  Sam ignored her question and demanded with more force, “Where the blazing inferno is she?”

  “Good Lord!” Clutching a hand over her chest, she pulled back as if expecting Sam to strike her.

  “Where is Moira James?”

  Harold Radford scooted over to his wife’s side and draped a protective arm across her shoulders. “I imagine in the lavatory where she’s spent most of her time on this trip thus far.”

  Sam turned and bolted for the front of the car where the ladies washroom was located. Lifting a fist, he pounded on the door. “Open up!”

  “Good God, sir!” Harold Radford followed him into the aisle and watched Sam with a look of horror. His wife peered behind him, eyes huge as she stared up at Sam as if he were the criminal. “What in the world do you think you are doing?”

  “Return to your seats. Please.” He spat out just as the train’s very loud and very clear whistle filled the compartment. Damnation.

  Seizing the handle, he pushed open the door to reveal an empty stall as he suspected. Cussing under his breath, he pivoted quickly sliding the door to the vestibule open with more force than was necessary. He moved swiftly to the next car and the next lavatory. It was no surprise to him to find
it empty as well.

  At the opposite end, a door opened and yet another bloody porter appeared. This one was old and bony with shallow cheeks and a thinning hairline hardly noticeable beneath his cap.

  Christ, Sam had never seen so many porter’s on one train before. The eight fleet of cars likely had something to do with that. But they sure as hell always seemed to be in his path and his way.

  Intent on pushing past him, Sam came to an abrupt halt when he noticed just over the old man’s left shoulder, the top of a copper-colored head. Releasing a long drawn out sigh of relief, he advanced toward the porter.

  But just as he neared, the woman he firmly now believed was Ivy McGregor, peered around the frail looking man and spotted Sam. Her ghost like eyes rounded and the blood drained from her face, but she did not turn and run. Instead, she lifted a shaky hand and pointed a finger at Sam.

  “That’s him,” she said in a rather firm voice considering the unguarded fear in her expression. “That’s the man who’s been stalking me.”

  This brought Sam, literally, to a screeching halt. The porter frowned before turning to block the copper-haired woman. “Excuse me, sir. Have you been harassing this woman?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding?” he muttered more to himself than those around him. Fine, if this was the game she wanted to play, so be it.

  “We don’t tolerate such behavior on our railroad line.”

  The skin around the corner of Sam’s eyes creased as he narrowed his gaze on the woman. “Is that the story she’s using?”

  “We have a very long and tiring ride ahead of us, and we expect our passengers to behave in a cordial and moral manner. If you cannot adhere to these rules, then I’ll have to ask you to remove yourself from this train.”

  “Oh, I plan on doing that,” he said. “But not without her.”

  “Ye’re a raving lunatic!” she declared in a false cry of innocence.

  “Still the same, you’re coming with me. Willingly or not.”