by Jo Goodman
She was in no expectation that help was coming. She could not be sure that anyone had heard her above the din. The train was moving but still slowing; the floorboards vibrated against her spine and backside. “Mrs. Apple?” She raised her head as far as she was able in an attempt to reach Phoebe’s ear. “Mrs. Apple?”
Phoebe groaned. Her eyelids fluttered. “I’m here. I’m fine.”
“How’s that? Did you say something?”
This time Phoebe nodded. It was more effective than trying to speak. She managed to place her hands on either side of Mrs. Tyler’s shoulders and push herself high enough to create some space between her and her comfortable cushion. She slid a knee between Mrs. Tyler’s, found more leverage, and was finally able to sit up. She scooted backward, took Mrs. Tyler’s hands in hers, and pulled her to a sitting position as well.
They stared at each other for what felt to be several long moments but was probably no more than a couple of pounding heartbeats. Nodding simultaneously, they yanked at their skirts, untangling them from under their knees so they could rise unimpeded. Using the seats for purchase, they lifted themselves just far enough to collapse into their respective places.
The train stopped. The silence was eerie. It was not that people were no longer shouting or weeping or caterwauling, it was merely that the train had ceased to be the steady, comforting percussion that meant there was forward progress. There was none of that now.
Phoebe looked around to see where she could help. Behind her, passengers were getting to their knees or coming to their feet. One man held a handkerchief to his nose. Blood speckled the white cotton. He waved her on, indicating he was fine or that he would be. A mother was huddled in one corner of a bench seat, her young daughter in her lap. They were locked in a fierce hold that looked to be reassuring for both of them.
Phoebe moved her gaze forward, four rows up and to the left. Her lips parted on a small, sharp intake of air. He was not in his seat. “He’s hurt,” she said, no question in her mind that Mrs. Tyler would know to whom she was referring. Without communicating her intention, she sidled past Mrs. Tyler and stepped into the narrow aisle. She started forward, felt a tug on her skirt, and looked back and down to find Mrs. Tyler holding a fistful of mint green broadcloth. “It’s all right. I think he’s unconscious. Someone needs to attend to him.”
Mrs. Tyler unfolded her fingers. “Fine. But have a care. Handsome doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous. Sometimes they go hand in hand.”
Phoebe knelt at the stranger’s head and put one hand on his shoulder. She shook him gently. There was no response. Out of the corner of her eye, Phoebe saw his hat lying under a seat. She leaned sideways, pulled it out, and set it on the flat of his abdomen. His duster lay open, and what she had suspected was a gun was exactly that. Without knowing why she did it, she raised the right side of the duster and drew it across the weapon, then secured the coat by tucking part of it under his hat.
“Ma’am?”
Phoebe raised her head. The man who had addressed her was peering over the back of his seat. His bowler sat at an angle on his head that might have been jaunty once but was now merely askew. He regarded her out of widely spaced gray eyes that indicated he was experiencing some pain. He did not ask for help. There was a trickle of blood at one corner of his mouth and another just below his left ear. He alternately dabbed at the wounds with two fingertips and then patted the breast pocket of his jacket for a handkerchief. He merely shrugged when he came away empty-handed.
“He was trying to move toward your end of the car,” he said. “Perhaps to go to that mother and her child. I don’t know what he hit when he went down, but I heard a crack. Or at least I think I did. You might want to look for a bump. I’m going to go forward. Seems to be the heart of most of the commotion.”
Phoebe reached into her reticule, felt for her handkerchief, and passed it to him. “For your lip.”
He thanked her for it and smiled unevenly as he pressed it to his mouth. He got to his feet, wobbled a bit before he found his bearings, and then began to move to the forward car.
Phoebe watched his progress to make sure he didn’t stumble and fall. At the same time, she made a careful search of the stranger’s thick thatch of dark hair. She found no obvious lump and her fingertips were clean when she removed them from his scalp. She located the contusion at the side of his forehead, just above the gentle depression of his temple. There was no laceration and that made her suspect that he had not fallen against anything sharp. More likely he had banged his head on a wrought iron armrest.
She was on the point of trying to rouse him again by taking his shoulder in the cup of her palm when she heard the first shot. She remembered thinking that the sudden silence of the train had been eerie, but that silence was nothing compared the dead quiet that followed the gun blast. Phoebe quickly looked over her shoulder at Mrs. Tyler. That worthy was wide-eyed but still as stone. The man who had been nursing a bloody nose was sliding back into his seat. The mother and daughter continued to clutch each other. Phoebe could not see the child’s expression, but the mother was clearly terrified.
Another shot.
Phoebe jerked. While the sound echoed in her ears, the man under her hand never stirred. Oh, to be unconscious. She envied him his oblivion and could not call herself a coward for wishing that state had been visited upon her.
Two male passengers at the very front of the car had taken cover under the seats and were now belly-crawling toward the rear. As a strategy for escape, it was not a bad one. It lacked speed and dignity, one of those being infinitely more important than the other.
Phoebe gestured to Mrs. Tyler to flee the car, and when the older woman stood and turned, Phoebe believed she had been successful in encouraging her. It was not the case, however. Mrs. Tyler took only as many steps as necessary to reach the mother and daughter and slipped in beside them.
“You really should wake now,” Phoebe whispered to the stranger. “Whatever is happening is coming this way. I can feel it.” The words had barely left her lips when the forward door to the car was flung open.
The first man to enter was not dressed so differently from the unconscious man she was trying to rouse. Black hat. Black duster. Black boots. All of it was a little more battered, more weather-beaten, but essentially indistinguishable. She wondered if there was a uniform for men in the West or only men on trains in Colorado. Phoebe recognized the absurdity of the errant thought but that did not help her tamp down the nervous laughter that bubbled to her lips.
The man’s broad shoulders filled the doorway, but he had enough room to bring up his gun and point it at her. The way he did it was not a menacing gesture, merely a casual one. Phoebe instantly felt cold and the placement of her lips was frozen on her face. That was perhaps unfortunate, but at least she was no longer laughing.
Jo Goodman is the USA Today bestselling author of numerous romance novels, including A Touch of Frost, The Devil You Know, This Gun for Hire, In Want of a Wife, and True to the Law, and is also a fan of the happily ever after. When not writing, she is a licensed professional counselor working with children and families in West Virginia’s Northern Panhandle. Visit her online at jogoodman.com or facebook.com/jogoodmanromance.
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