Chances

by Pamela Nowak

  * * * * *

  Daniel strode up Blake Street, Kate and Molly straggling behind him.

  “Papa, wait for us,” Molly called.

  Daniel sighed and slowed his step. He’d almost forgotten the girls. There was no sense taking this out on them. He paused, squinted at the sun, and waited for them to catch up. They shuffled through the snow and stood before him, downcast. He scooped Molly into his arms and offered a thin smile to Kate. “Let’s get you two home.”

  Molly buried her head against his shoulder while Kate grasped his arm in a brief squeeze but both remained silent.

  He almost wished they’d start chattering, anything to occupy his mind. He felt ill-used, drained from worry, downright weary. Or maybe it was just that he was so stunned that Sarah had put the girls in danger. Last night, she’d lain in his arms, offered him her body and her passion, and taught him the earth could shatter. The earth, and his heart.

  They neared the house and he set Molly down, then opened the door. The girls entered without a sound. Molly’s eyes were moist and full of regret. She crossed the front hall without shedding her coat and climbed up the stairs to her room, still silent. Kate followed, pausing halfway up the stairs, and turned back toward him.

  “Papa?” she said.

  “Hmmm?”

  “You didn’t even listen to her. Are you sure this is what you want?” She dropped the words and continued up the stairs.

  Daniel closed the door, not at all sure. He paced through the house, listless. Finally, he stepped into his shop and plopped into his desk chair.

  Damn it.

  Sure? Hell, no. He wasn’t sure about anything. He wasn’t sure about what had happened back there at the rally or about how he had reacted or about any of his jumbled up emotions. He wasn’t used to dealing with emotions at all. It had always been easier just to label them inappropriate and shut them off. Now, they wouldn’t stop and he couldn’t even begin to sort them out.

  He leaned forward, his head in his hands, and closed his eyes. Visions of Sarah exploded through his consciousness. Sarah, lecturing him about taking a stand on the things he believed in. Sarah, surprisingly afraid to step out onto the ice. Sarah, learning to laugh at herself at a German beer hall. Sarah, making things happen and teaching his daughters to express themselves. Sarah, full of passion, coaching him to experience life in ways he’d never dreamed of. Sarah, hiding herself behind brown work skirts so no one would reject her.

  Oh, God.

  He jerked up in the chair and his blood all but stopped moving.

  Last night, she’d come out from behind that facade, and today he’d turned his back on her, cutting off her explanation before she could even offer it.

  Guilt and remorse flooded through him followed immediately by realization. She didn’t mean for them to come.

  The thought thundered through his mind. How many times had she said she didn’t know how to talk to children? She spoke to them as if they were adults, but always with concern and protectiveness.

  She wouldn’t have endangered the girls, not for all the glory or equal rights in the world.

  Daniel shoved the chair out of the way and rushed out of the office.

  He couldn’t lose her, not now, not when he’d finally discovered he could love.

  * * * * *

  Sarah walked into the depot and shut the door. An eerie silence accosted her. For once, she welcomed it.

  Bowers’s words weighed on her, heavy and unyielding. It didn’t matter if she explained things to Daniel or whether he believed her. If what Bowers said was true, if Frank had set her up so well that there was an investigation, then things had changed. Bowers had made it clear that consequences reached much farther than she’d imagined.

  She entered the office and stopped suddenly. The station was completely empty. There was no delivery boy, no freight crew, and no Frank Bates. On the counter above the empty stool, the telegraph was rattling wildly.

  Sarah ran forward, deciphering the dots and dashes as she moved. She grabbed a pencil and scratched the letters on the first paper she could find.

  Where in heaven’s name was Frank?

  The message ended and she shuffled in the drawer for the proper day letter forms, amazed anew at the mess Frank always seemed to create out of her tidy organization. She laid the form on the counter and reached for a pen and the paper she’d scribbled the message on. She dipped into the ink well and began to copy the words then paused and set the pen down.

  Her hastily written words were at the bottom of an official letter from the main office of the Kansas-Pacific advising Frank Bates that the investigation of Sarah Donovan was underway. She picked up the letter and scanned it, finding verification of everything Bowers had told her earlier along with instructions to Frank to mail the supporting documents as soon as possible.

  Sarah’s heart sank. She wasn’t sure what Frank intended to send for proof, but she suspected it wasn’t good. She glanced at the clock. Almost noon. He was likely at the post office with it right now.

  A nagging, unwelcome thought wormed its way into her mind. It appeared Frank had set her up very well. The main office might indeed find her guilty of every allegation, and Denver would turn its back on her.

  She slammed the paper on the desk and fought the urge to fire off a complaint to the main office. She glanced toward the door, knowing there was a narrow chance she could catch Frank before he mailed his package. She could fight this and win, proving herself both innocent and worthy. But at what cost?

  She’d already unwittingly endangered the girls. If she fought this, here in Denver, how much disgrace would she unwittingly bring on Daniel? Depending on what Frank was alleging, the scandal could destroy everything Daniel held valuable. Her defense would very likely destroy the man she loved.

  And that, she wouldn’t be a party to.

  She glanced around the office, her chest tight, and spotted a small wooden box. She emptied it of its contents and began to fill it with her own belongings while searing pain ripped at her until there was nothing left but a vacant hole.

  Tears welled in her eyes and she shook her head to clear them away. She wouldn’t cry, she wouldn’t.

  She stared at the wall, feeling the emptiness begin.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Packing didn’t take long. Sarah dropped the last of her personal belongings into the box and sighed. An old knitted hat, her chipped bone-china coffee cup, and a few assorted knick-knacks that the Little Women cast had given her as gifts didn’t seem like much of a life. Another unwanted tear formed in the corner of her eye and she brushed at it with her palm.

  Lord, it was quiet today. January was slow, anyway, and with most of Denver up at the rally waiting to see if any riots erupted, the station was deserted. Perhaps that was where the crew, along with the company horse, had disappeared to.

  She ran her hand over the logbook and fingered the telegraph key.

  At least she had her primary operator’s status. Strange how it didn’t seem to mean much anymore; not beyond being a professional advantage. The achievement just didn’t hold the fulfillment she’d expected. What had mattered most was holding Kate and Molly when they needed her. Safe or not, they had needed her. That and being wrapped in Daniel’s arms, sated by love.

  Her heart squeezed and she closed her eyes, savoring the fullness of her memories, and dreading the emptiness to come.

  Fighting her battle alone against Frank’s allegations was a bleak prospect, and proving him wrong would be no more fulfilling than the fight. She sank onto the stool and wiped away a tear.

  All these years, she’d hidden behind her struggles to be the best, to make a difference, to win admiration, when all she had to do was quit hiding. Daniel and the girls hadn’t needed her to achieve anything. They’d loved her sitting on the ice, mis-stepping on the dance floor, and making hot cocoa. Seeking women’s suffrage and knowing how to send a telegraph were just part of her, not her whole substance.

&n
bsp; She sniffled and shook her head. Lord, how she wished she hadn’t mucked things up so badly, that there was a way to bask in all they’d given her without ruining their lives. She hadn’t even given a thought to how her grandstanding might embarrass Daniel or lead the girls into situations they didn’t understand. And now it was too late to fix things without making the mess worse. She swiped both palms across her cheeks and sighed, forcing away the tears that still lurked behind her eyes.

  The click of the telegraph arm broke the silence and she leaned forward to decipher the message. Where was Frank, anyway? This was his shift, not hers.

  The brief wire was a reminder about the twelve o’clock Special. She’d almost forgotten about the extra noon train from Cheyenne and its load of suffragists, Susan B. Anthony and the other dignitaries Lavinia Morgan had invited to the rally. She jotted down the message, recorded it in the logbook, then glanced at the switch log to verify the dispatcher’s orders.

  Frank’s scratchy handwriting had recorded the order. The northbound Express, with its load of freight, would be nearing Denver at the same time the Cheyenne Special was due. As the secondary train, the Cheyenne Special was to be routed to the siding. The column next to the order was empty. No one had logged in the corresponding action.

  A cold wet finger of fear crept up Sarah’s neck.

  She pushed the foreboding away and cleared her thoughts. Just because Frank hadn’t recorded the action didn’t mean the two trains were headed into Denver on the same track. It didn’t mean two massive locomotives were streaming toward one another nor that every life on board was in danger. It didn’t.

  Sarah rushed across the room and grabbed the master log. Fumbling through the pages, she found the current day and checked the last positions of the switches.

  Good God, no one had thrown the switches.

  Her breath caught and goose flesh rose on her arms. The main line was open at both ends. In moments, the Express would arrive, moving at full speed through the station while, a half-mile away, the Cheyenne Special would top the hill and descend into the yard along the same track. She ran her finger down the page again, willing it to say something else. It didn’t.

  She dropped her pencil and dashed out of the office, hoping she was wrong. She rushed across the lobby, ignoring her coat on the hook next to the door, and raced through the door facing the tracks. Outside, the rail yard was still empty. She turned northward, toward Cheyenne, and began running, slipping willy-nilly on the ice with each step. Her heart thumped.

  Where in God’s name was the yard crew?

  Passing the first switch, she assured herself it was in the open position, then ran on. Cold air filled her lungs, stinging them. The second switch, the one that would route the Special onto the siding until the Express passed, was further north, at the bottom of a small rise.

  Sarah stepped on her hem and her feet slid. She landed on the rail bed as the skirt tore, rocks stinging her palms. She righted herself and drew in a ragged breath. Images of others’ injuries flashed in her mind. How many bodies would there be if she didn’t stop those trains?

  Panting, she neared the switch. She’d move the tracks first, then run up the line to the far side of the hill and flip the signal lever at the edge of the track, the engineer’s cue to take the siding and stop. She grasped the cold iron handle, shivering, then stepped forward, pushing the lever. It grated in the cold, reluctant to budge.

  Sarah threw her weight against the handle, feeling the strain in her shoulders and upper back. The switch groaned and moved forward a foot and a half. With just half the weight and considerably less strength than most of the yard crew, it often took Sarah several attempts before the switch moved into place. She took a breath, threw her entire weight into it, and shoved.

  The swinging rail section refused to move further. She peered at the rails, looking for the source of the stall. A huge boulder sat on the siding, blocking the switch’s path.

  Sarah’s hear pounded. The yard crew was supposed to check for such obstructions on a regular basis. She wrinkled her eyebrows at the unexpected size of the boulder and a shiver ran down her spine. She stepped in between the rails to examine the rock. It was anchored in a bed of setting ice. Realizing she’d need to get a crow bar, she kicked at it in frustration. She didn’t have time for this.

  A few feet away, the lever jumped, then swung back with a resounding click, and the tracks shifted back to their original position with her misplaced foot wedged between the two sections of rail. The boulder settled into the slight hole left by the dislodged ice, firmly against the rail that held her foot.

  Damn.

  She grimaced in pain, realizing she’d forgotten to lock the lever into position before she’d left it. She stared down at her trapped foot and tried to pull it free. It moved slightly but the rail refused to budge. Throwing her weight against the boulder, she tried to shove it out of the way.

  It, too, was stuck.

  Sarah glanced up the track and forgot about the pain. Her skin crawled and a slow, cold sense of doom wormed its way through her body. She shivered.

  “Oh, God. The trains.”

  * * * * *

  His heart pumping from exertion, Daniel ran around the corner of Depot Street and approached the station, figuring it was the most likely place to find Sarah. He’d been irrational and hurtful, and he sure didn’t want to waste time running all over town when he needed to be apologizing to the woman he loved. He sidestepped to avoid a section of ice, and slowed as he neared the slick spots near the door. Stepping with care, he entered the depot.

  A dismal silence lingered in the room and a chilly blast of air assaulted him from the open door on the trackside of the building. He moved across the lobby and into Sarah’s office. Aside from the odor of stale coffee, it, too, was empty.

  A sharp twinge of disappointment struck him. He should never have left her in the first place.

  A wooden box, sitting next to the telegraph key, caught his attention. The figurine Kate and Molly had given Sarah as a director’s gift topped the contents. Daniel approached the box, uncomfortable with its implication. His gut tightened.

  On the counter, next to the box, Sarah’s penmanship graced the bottom of an official letter. Spying her name elsewhere, curiosity picked at him and his gaze drifted to the body of the letter. He skimmed its contents, looking for an answer he wasn’t sure he wanted. Addressed to Frank Bates, the missive confirmed an investigation into allegations against Sarah and requested documents to support that she was using the telegraph to prostitute herself. It also indicated questions about her relationship with Jim Wilson, the stationmaster.

  Daniel slammed his palm onto the counter and swore aloud.

  Christ, no wonder she was packing. He’d all but accused her of unscrupulous intent himself and now this.

  They’d fight it, together. It wouldn’t take much. Who would believe Frank Bates, anyhow?

  “Sarah?” His glance swept across the office and into the main lobby, settling on the open door to the tracks. Maybe she was outside. He strode across the room and exited. Once on the wooden platform, he scanned the yard until he saw her, hunched over the tracks not too far from the bottom of the hill.

  His pulse quickened and he moved forward, anxious to clear the air and offer his apology. He just hoped she’d let him get it out before she started scolding him.

  What a fool I’ve been.

  He trotted down the platform stairs and began to jog across the wide rail yard toward her, slowing for each patch of ice. A quarter mile ahead, Sarah struggled with something. “Sarah?”

  She turned toward him and her shoulders slumped. “Oh, Daniel, thank God you’re here.”

  The strange desperation in her voice caught him by surprise and he ran the last hundred feet to her. Once there, he saw her face was knotted in pain, tears welling in her big violet eyes. Following her glance, he found her foot stuck tightly between two rails, a large boulder wedged against one of them.

&nb
sp; Worry jabbed at him and he bent down, touching her foot with care. “Sarah, honey, hold still. I’ll get this thing moved.” He braced himself and tried to lift the rock, only to have his feet slide out of control on the ice.

  The whistle of a train shattered the air. Daniel’s heart jumped at the sound, pounding in his chest as the meaning became clear. He regained his footing, glared up the tracks for a split second then shoved at the boulder. Jesus. Where was the pick? Didn’t she bring a pick?

  “Daniel, listen to me. They’re going to collide.” She pointed northward, at the small rise and its drop into the train yard.

  His breath stalled. “Who?”

  “The Northbound and the Special.”

  “Good God.”

  “You need to signal the Special.”

  He shook his head. “Let’s get you out. We just need to pry this rock up and—”

  “No time. There are people on board. You need to stop that train before it tops the hill. It’s their only chance.”

  Daniel eyed Sarah’s position on the track and shook his head, her full implication finally hitting him. “But the Express—”

  “I can signal the Express myself. It’s flat ground, the engineer will have plenty of time to stop.”

  Over the hill, the Special sounded its second whistle blast and a cold chill grabbed at Daniel’s heart.

  “God, Sarah. That train’s too close.” He turned and saw the calm assurance in her eyes shift to panic, intense enough to confirm he might not make the run in time.

  “Run, Daniel,” she commanded. “Wave it down, before it tops the hill.”

  He glanced at her, his pulse pumping hard against the fear. She was wearing red. “I need your clothes,” he blurted, the words forming as fast as the thought registered.

  She stared at him, uncomprehending.

  He grasped her red plaid skirt, ripped it down the front, and tossed it into her arms, certain she would know what to do. Ignoring her confused squeal of protest, he reached for her red flannel petticoat, tore it away, and sprinted up the hill. Behind him, he heard the imperative warning blast of the Express’s whistle. The engineer had seen Sarah. He resisted turning, forcing himself to trust the makeshift flag and that there would be enough distance for the train to stop. The screech of grinding brakes filled the air.