A Broken Wing (Kansas Crossroads)

by Amelia C. Adams

  A Broken Wing

  A Kansas Crossroads Novella

  by Amelia C. Adams

  I’d like to thank my beta readers for this project—Bobbie Sue, Catherine, Erin,

  Jeene, Jennifer, Mary, Meisje, Nancy, Renee, and Tracy. Excellent feedback as always!

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Kansas, 1875

  Trinity Scott jerked forward as the train began to move again, the smooth texture of her gray traveling suit nearly making her slide onto the floor. The stop hadn’t been nearly long enough, but she’d been told Kansas City wasn’t too far off, and there were promises of a nice hotel in Topeka where she could get a hot meal and walk around for a bit. She had every intention of doing that very thing.

  In fact, she was strongly considering taking a room for the night and resuming her journey the following day. She just didn’t think she could handle much more of the motion and vibration and dust without some sort of respite, and a night spent on a train hadn’t provided her any real rest at all.

  The more she thought about it, the more tempting it became to stay the night in Kansas City rather than waiting for Topeka. It was still morning and she’d have to come up with a way to entertain herself, but that’s just what she needed—a few hours of exploration entirely on her own, without someone telling her where to go or how to behave. She’d had quite enough of that already.

  Across the aisle sat a handsome young man with his left arm in a sling. He’d come on board at the last stop, and he was certainly a nice change in the landscape. She’d all but memorized the other passengers’ faces since she began her journey. Only a few of the originals were still on the train—the rest had gotten off to be replaced by equally tired-looking people who slid down in their seats and didn’t seem inclined to be social.

  The man’s eyes were fixed steadfastly on the novel he held in his right hand, so she felt comfortable studying him. His hair was dark, and a bit wavy along the neck. She imagined it curled all over when it was freshly washed, then became straighter as it dried. He had a small mustache on his upper lip—not one of those overgrown things that looked like an animal had climbed up on his face to die, but instead, it was tidy, and lent him distinction.

  He wore a suit of medium brown, and his hat, which was black, rested on the seat beside him. He didn’t seem to be traveling with anyone, and she wondered what had brought him on this journey. A fiancée awaiting him in Topeka? Perhaps a new job in western Colorado? Or was he going to head south and adventure on in Wichita?

  “With the liberties you’re currently taking, madam, I believe it best if we introduce ourselves.”

  She jolted at the sound of his voice. He had lowered his novel and now looked at her with curious brown eyes.

  “I . . . I beg your pardon? What liberties, sir?”

  “You’ve been staring at me for ten minutes at least. At first, I was flattered, but now I’m becoming uncomfortable. Is there a spot on my tie? A wrinkle in my shirt? Tell me, madam, so I can fix whatever it is at once.”

  Trinity’s face had never felt so hot. If she could disappear, just vanish from this train and never been seen or heard from again, she’d do it. “I beg your pardon, sir. It wasn’t my intention at all to be so rude. I’ve just been traveling since eastern Missouri, and I’ve read all my books and I finished my needlework, and you provided some welcome distraction. I apologize, and I won’t bother you again.”

  “You finished all your books since Missouri? You’re either a very fast reader, or they weren’t very long books.” He sounded disappointed with her either way.

  For some reason, she felt the need to defend herself. “They were rather short, I’m afraid, and I only brought three.”

  He gave a chuckle. “I suppose I could lend you one of mine, but on one condition only.”

  “Oh? And what is that?” She didn’t care for his tone of voice—he seemed to believe he was doing her some great favor even by speaking to her.

  “You must tell me just how it was that I was distracting you.”

  “I . . . well . . .” What an entirely awkward question. She was tempted to face the window and ignore him the rest of the journey, but she did want to borrow a book, and she supposed that she owed him some sort of explanation. After all, she had been staring at him. “When I travel or I have a long wait, I play a little game with myself. An imagination game.”

  “An imagination game?” His eyebrow quirked. “Please, go on.”

  She looked down at her hands, now twisting on her lap. She’d never told anyone this before. “Well, I look at the people around me and I imagine what they might be like. Where they live, what they do for a living, what they had for lunch—that sort of thing. I might give them names or imagine they have children, and this keeps me occupied while I wait.”

  “That’s rather unusual. Just how did you come up with this game?”

  Gracious. She hadn’t realized she was opening herself up to such questioning. “I used to work for a lady in town in the afternoons, tending her children while she made hats for the local shop. I walked there and back, and I’d while away the time by looking at the houses as I passed and wondering what they looked like inside.”

  “You’d never been invited in?”

  “Not into most of these homes. They were . . . a little nicer than the home where I grew up.” She hadn’t expected this revelation to bother her, and yet a little pang zipped through her heart. She’d loved her home and enjoyed her childhood, but she’d always known they were different from the other families, somehow less.

  She cleared her throat and smiled. This melancholy mood couldn’t last long. “As I got older, I found my little game worked rather well in almost any situation. And now you know the whole story.”

  “I see. And do you ever discover the truth about these people and see how close you came with your wild guesses?”

  “I knew the townspeople well enough as a child, but now I prefer to imagine about strangers, and I try not to meet them whenever possible. I’d hate to imagine someone as being perfectly splendid and discover they weren’t.”

  He rested his book on his knee. “So you don’t allow these characters of yours to have any natural faults or failings? Are they all, as you say, ‘perfectly splendid’ people?”

  She didn’t like hearing her words parroted back at her—he made her sound ridiculous. “They’re not all splendid. And you’re making fun of me now.” She turned to the window. The prairie was certainly nice and . . . brown and . . . grassy. She could keep herself entertained for hours looking out at it. She didn’t need his book or his condescension.

  The next thing she knew, though, he’d crossed the aisle and taken the seat facing hers. Now she couldn’t ignore him without seeming rude. He might not care what impression he was giving her, but she had some dignity left even after his prying.

  “Tell me about some of these not splendid people,” he said.

  “You’ll just laugh again.”

  He held up both hands in protest. “I haven’t laughed even once.”

  “You wanted to.”

  “I might have wanted to, and yet, I did not. I think that shows a great deal of character on my part, don’t you think, madam?”

  She gave him an arch look. “If you insist on sitting across from me and interrogating me, I agree that we should exchange names. You made that request some time ago, if I
remember correctly.”

  “Quite right. I’m Raymond Foster.”

  “Trinity Scott.” She inclined her head.

  “I’m delighted, Miss Scott.”

  “And I’m charmed, Mr. Foster.”

  The train gave a whistle and began to slow down. The conductor moved along the length of the car, calling out, “Kansas City. Kansas City. Fifteen minutes in Kansas City.”

  Only fifteen minutes? That wasn’t even long enough to walk around properly. Trinity knew she had to decide quickly—would she get off here and find a hotel for the night, or wait until Topeka? A short time ago, this choice would have been simple, but that was before she’d met Mr. Foster.

  “Are you getting off the train or continuing on?” she asked him.

  “I’m continuing on.”

  Well, that certainly hadn’t given her any clues as to his ultimate destination. She’d have to invent something for him, then. “So am I. I hope you still plan to lend me a book.”

  “I do.” But he made no move to hand it to her.

  Maybe she’d be better off leaving the train rather than traveling with this infuriating man, but her curiosity wouldn’t let her.

  A few people got off and a few new people got on. Trinity watched to see if any of the passengers returned, but none of them did, and after the promised fifteen minutes, the conductor walked through the car.

  “This is the end of my shift, folks. It’s been a pleasure traveling with you today, and your new conductor will see to your needs. All aboard!”

  This time, Trinity braced her feet on the floor as the train lurched forward, and she managed not to slide. Perhaps by the time she reached her destination, she’d have figured the whole thing out.

  Neither she nor Mr. Foster spoke until the train was well underway again and had settled into a consistent rhythm. Then he leaned forward.

  “You were about to answer a question for me.”

  “I was?”

  “Yes. Right before the train pulled in at the station.”

  She thought for a moment. “I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten. Which question was that?”

  “You were going to tell me about the not-so-splendid people. When you imagine, of course. What sorts of faults do they have, and how do you decide who is faulty and who isn’t?”

  “Oh, that’s right.” She’d hoped that he’d forget about her game and stop asking questions about it, but no such luck. “Well . . .” She glanced around. “Do you see the three men there at the end of the car? No—don’t turn around.”

  “How am I supposed to see people sitting behind me if I don’t turn around?”

  “Just don’t turn around suddenly. Drop your book or something.”

  He gave an amused smile. “All right.” He made a show of knocking his book onto the floor, then turning as he bent to retrieve it. “I saw them. Now, what of it?”

  “They got on the train just now at Kansas City, and I don’t trust them. They have shifty eyes.” She lowered her voice—not because she believed the men in question could hear her, but she worried that the other passengers could. The rattle of the wheels on the track drowned out most of the conversation, but if someone really wanted to eavesdrop, they could.

  “Shifty eyes? They’re reading newspapers, Miss Scott. Don’t a person’s eyes usually shift while they’re reading? And what of me as I read my novel? Are my eyes also shifty?”

  “You’re misunderstanding me on purpose, Mr. Foster. There’s a difference between reading and looking suspicious. And no, your eyes do not look shifty.”

  “And just what do you make of my eyes, Miss Scott? You haven’t said a thing about what you were imagining about me. I’m quite curious to hear it.” He settled back and crossed one leg over the other, looking ready to be entertained.

  She’d been dreading this moment since the start of their conversation. “I hadn’t gotten very far yet. You interrupted me.”

  “Oh, I do apologize. What if I now sit here very, very quietly and give you time? Would that be helpful?”

  “You are exasperating.”

  “And you are entertaining.” Mr. Foster uncrossed his legs and crossed them again the other way. “In fact, I can’t remember the last train ride I had that was so enjoyable. Don’t you find this enjoyable?”

  “Yes. Certainly. The most enjoyable train journey ever.” She looked out the window again. The prairie was still brown. Excellent. It was being consistent.

  “Come now, Miss Scott. I don’t mean to offend you. Please, share. I’m genuinely interested.”

  Trinity shifted on the bench. “Very well. I was just beginning to ponder all the reasons why your arm is in a sling.”

  He chuckled. “I thought you’d start with something more obvious—like my charm or good looks.”

  “I tend to start with the most noticeable feature first.”

  “And my sling is even more noticeable than my charm?” He had tried to speak jovially, but she sensed he was uncomfortable talking about it.

  “It’s unusual. That tends to make it noticeable. It’s not that it leaped out at me in any particular way.”

  “That’s good to know. I’m not eager to draw any extra attention to it, you understand.”

  “Of course. Now, moving on—”

  “You weren’t finished analyzing my sling.”

  “I thought you’d rather I didn’t analyze your sling.”

  “Well, if we’re going to do this properly, you’d better do it. Otherwise, it’s an incomplete picture, don’t you think?”

  Trinity looked up toward the ceiling and shook her head. “What I think is that you’re going to spend every moment between here and Topeka exasperating the life out of me. That’s how you like to while away your time, isn’t it? I make up stories, and you exasperate people.”

  “Is Topeka your destination, then?”

  “We’re not talking about me—we’re talking about you. Remember, Mr. Foster?”

  “Oh, yes. Quite right.” He settled back, looking more relaxed. “Carry on. My sling.”

  “Your sling. Well, you might have injured it saving a young girl from a runaway horse, but your shoes are too new.”

  “My shoes are too new to have saved a little girl? I don’t follow your line of reasoning.”

  “A man who’s used to spending time with horses and whatnot would have scuffed-up shoes, wouldn’t he?” She wasn’t used to having her ideas questioned. It made the game quite a bit less fun.

  “Would I have to be used to horses to save a little girl? It seems to me, I’d have to be used to little girls.” There was that smirk again.

  Trinity folded her hands in her lap. “All right, Mr. Foster, I’m quite finished. What is your real story?”

  “You want my real story?”

  “Obviously, or I wouldn’t have asked for it.”

  “If I tell you my real story, will you tell me yours?”

  “Of course. It’s only fair, and I have nothing to hide.”

  “Very well.” He plucked at the fabric of his trouser leg. “I’m on my way to Denver, where I hope to have surgery to repair my wrist. I don’t believe it will be completely effective, but it may at least restore some mobility to my fingers, which is better than nothing.”

  “That seems a rather negative viewpoint,” Trinity replied. “Why aren’t you more optimistic? Isn’t there any hope for recovery, or are you one of those dour fellows who can’t manage to see the bright side of anything?”

  “It might seem that way, but I myself am a surgeon, and I know what we’re up against.”

  “Oh.” There didn’t seem to be appropriate words. “I’m sorry. But there is some hope, isn’t there?”

  “That’s why I’m making this journey. And you? Where are you headed? Or are you on your way home?”

  “No, sir, it’s not my turn yet. You’ve skipped over part of your story. How did you manage to hurt yourself?”

  Again, that uncomfortable look. “I don’t believe that’
s important.”

  She cocked her head. “You’ve needled me about almost everything I’ve said since you got on this train. I don’t think you’re allowed to pass on this one, sir.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” He looked down at his arm and then back up again. “A patient awoke from anesthesia as I was doing a complicated surgery. He was a large man, a wrestler by profession, and he was disoriented and frightened. He took hold of my arm and twisted it, breaking it. We were able to get him back on the table, sedate him again, and finish his procedure with another doctor in my stead. The patient was truly sorry when he awoke and was in his right mind again. However, the damage was done, and I am as you see me.”

  “You’re unable to perform surgery, then?” Trinity realized it was a rather obvious question, but she wanted to make sure she understood his situation correctly.

  “That’s right. My fingers can twitch, but that’s the extent of it.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

  He regarded her. “Are you sorry as in, you pity me? Or are you sorry that this happened?”

  She blinked. “I’m not sure I understand the difference.”

  “Oh, there’s a difference. Rather a great deal of it.” He chuckled, but without humor. “Pity means that you see me as being less of a person, incapable of doing the things I once could do easily. Being sorry that it happened means that you recognize the cruel hand of fate. No pun intended, of course.”

  Trinity tilted her head to the side again. “Splitting hairs, in my opinion, but I suppose I really can’t say much about that. Someone has obviously caused you a great deal of offense, and you’re eager not to repeat the experience.”

  He seemed taken aback. “And what makes you say that?”

  “Why else would you have taken the time to define those two terms so clearly? I am sorry this happened to you, and I don’t believe you’re incapable. What I feel most sorry about, though, is the need you feel to defend yourself from others’ curiosity and maybe even their compassion.”

  “What do you mean, defend myself from their compassion?”

  Trinity knew she shouldn’t have said anything. This man was a stranger, a fellow passenger on a train, and all she was trying to do was keep herself occupied. She hadn’t meant this conversation to become so serious. “I’ve said too much. I apologize.”