When I Meet You

by Olivia Newport

  “You’re going all lawyer on me.”

  “I am a lawyer.” Nolan removed the London broil from the refrigerator. “Go sit with Lynnelle’s trunk, if you like. Remember her. She deserves that. But you could probably fill your whiteboard with theories of why she left her trunk at Union Station, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  Nolan met her eyes. “Actually, I think I do.”

  Jillian broke the locked gaze and shuffled to her office, where she kicked off one shoe and more carefully removed the other from her injured foot. Opening a folder on her desk, she studied the marriage record and property record she’d printed out.

  The abandoned trunk.

  A whole family disappearing from a census.

  The missing financial records.

  The name change, which she couldn’t document. Yet.

  The male initials hiding even a first name.

  The ranch.

  Legally actionable or not, no genealogist would like the way any of this smelled.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Denver, Colorado

  April 13, 1909

  Dear Miss Bendeure,

  Per your instructions, we have conducted a number of illuminating discreet interviews, and within the scope of your retainer assigned an operative to the movements of the man your father engaged as his representative for his Colorado business investments. A number of irregularities have emerged, which I would consider to be worthy of legal action as soon as we have the required evidence. In the enclosed document, I have laid these out in chronology I believe to be accurate and the principal persons whom I hold in greatest suspicion. In the meantime, to mitigate further risk, I advise that your father conjure a passable reason to suspend all authorizations issued to this date for financial transactions and investments until such time as we have complete clarity in this matter. Alternatively, at any time, I would be happy to provide names of other representatives you and your father may wish to make inquiries about for future association. As always, I remain at your disposal and will issue further reports shortly.

  Yours sincerely,

  James McParland

  Manager, Western Division

  Pinkerton’s National Detective Agency

  Saturday, May 22, 1909

  Eastern Iowa

  The private compartment that seemed like the indulgence of her father’s guilt for having gotten Bendeure & Company into the situation necessitating this journey now provided welcome respite. The train stalled for hours, while the maintenance crew, dispatched from Cedar Rapids, did their best to ensure the piston would hold during the painful, crippling limp to Luzerne, where it could be signaled off a main track and assessed. By the time they were underway to Luzerne, porters were on their rounds converting seats in the sleeping cars into berths for the night. No one would be making a midnight connection in Omaha. Lynnelle was not tall, and her build was “medium” rather than “slim,” as indicated in the way her tickets were punched, but she considered herself reasonably fit and she suspected that in the right shoes she could have walked faster than the train was moving toward the nearest depot.

  Strictly speaking, this was not true. As she sat up in bed and turned to gaze out the window, she knew the train was making progress. Compared to the usual speeds of a locomotive on a schedule with limited stops, however, advancement was laboriously diminished. And what would be the prognosis once they reached the depot? The silhouette of an unimpressive, isolated rectangular structure crept into view as the tracks took the slightest of curves, its contour uncertain and unpromising in the late evening shadows. Lynnelle was simultaneously relieved and discouraged. Once they reached the depot, the true repairs or the arrival of a replacement engine could begin. No doubt the porters would hand over stacks of telegrams for the telegraph operator to begin tapping, hers and Mrs. Sweeney’s among them. But as near as she could discern under moon and starlight, the depot was nothing more than a platform and a small structure that could barely house a couple of desks to keep the small station functioning with occasional ticket sales and required signals as trains came through. Not all of the trains would even stop. This one wasn’t scheduled to pause at this location if it hadn’t become disabled. The prospects for swift resolution of an ejected piston, if that was truly the trouble, were not promising.

  The train clattered to a halt. A dim light hung over the small platform, but Lynnelle could see little else.

  And there was no point in trying.

  She could not repair the train, nor hasten the process with her anxiety. Instead, she closed the shade and pulled up the bedding. An attempt at sleep seemed the best strategy. At least now they had reached a telephone and telegraph office, and by morning some arrangements could be made.

  How Lynnelle wished her family Bible were with her in the compartment rather than packed away in the trunk in the baggage car. She would open it to seek words to soothe her anxiety at the delays the engine’s incapacitation would cause and her inability to communicate with the people who needed to know. Instead, she beseeched the ones her mother had urged her to hide in her heart as a child. “‘Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.’” She settled into her berth, repeating the words to herself.

  Eventually she slept, and woke when light broke through the shade and voices outside her window roused her. She peeked out and discovered workers passing by in a horse-drawn work wagon. The stallions that pulled it resembled her brother’s horse, but older. Their speed would be no threat to anyone’s safety. Why couldn’t her brother have appreciated a fine service animal without insisting on championship speed as well?

  Lynnelle’s curiosity woke with her eyes. Yesterday they were rolling through freshly planted cornfields. Whatever today’s scenery was, the passengers might very well stare at it all day. Had any information about the repair circulated during the night? She wasn’t hungry enough for breakfast in the dining car yet—she might opt for one of the muffins in Cousin Marabel’s basket—but a window with a more robust view would be welcome. She freshened up, allowed herself a clean blouse, and stood in front of the mirror to take a comb to her hair and arrange the pins to hold both her pompadour and hat before dipping one finger in a small pot of rouge and brushing it across her cheeks. Her satchel lay on the bench beside her wicker case. Lynnelle set her hand on it, hesitating. It was a nuisance to carry, and she wasn’t planning to study the papers just now but rather simply to find the ladies’ room and then see what the word was on the delay. They might yet be a full day from departing this tiny station. Between the Meades and the Hollises and Mrs. Sweeney, every excursion from the compartment turned into a social affair with the satchel slung awkwardly from her shoulder or strapped across her chest.

  She reached under her waistband for the tiny keys and locked both the satchel and her case, pinned the keys back in place, and made sure she had the compartment key tucked deep in her skirt pocket. In a delay of any length, having her hands free would be a relief—and her mind would be free of the fear that she might accidentally leave the satchel somewhere about the train.

  Finding the Meades’ seats outside her compartment unoccupied surprised Lynnelle. She had expected people might still be in their sleeping berths—and most were—but some were stirring, no doubt for the same reason she was. At the moment, no porter was in the car. Unencumbered by her satchel and refreshed after a visit to the facilities, she strolled a bit farther forward to see what might be visible outside. From there at least she could see the side of the train where the breakdown had occurred. In the next car up, she found Mrs. Sweeney standing and looking out the windows on the open aisle. She stood next to her.

  “What do you see, my friend?” Lynnelle said.

  “Cows.”

  “Cows?”

  Mrs. Sweeney pointed.

  “I wouldn’t think they would be allowed so close to the tracks,” Lynnelle said.

  �
�I doubt they asked permission. Must be a broken fence somewhere.”

  “We don’t see too many cows in Cleveland. They’re adorable. The open fields in the background. Their tails swishing. That one sitting like she’s tired. It’s all very pastoral.”

  “It gives us something to look at while we’re stranded in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Mrs. Sweeney, we’re not stranded. We’re on a train with hundreds of people. We’re at a depot now, which means the railroad will soon be involved in untangling this dilemma. I’ve given our telegrams to the porter, who will make sure the telegraph operator in the depot gets them, so your daughter won’t be worried. We’ll be in Denver soon enough.”

  Mrs. Sweeney leaned on her cane and tilted her head to look up at Lynnelle. “What about you? Aren’t you going to be late for something?”

  “I will revise arrangements, that’s all. Let’s not borrow trouble.”

  Mr. McParland did say in one of his letters that he might have travel to attend to, but he had not been specific about dates. Surely a day or two delay in her arrival would not thwart their meeting altogether. Though she did not know how long she would be at this particular depot, her telegram included her train information. He could send a reply anywhere along the route and it would reach her. At least this is what she understood from the porter.

  Mrs. Sweeney nodded her head down the aisle. “There’s your Mr. Meade now.”

  My Mr. Meade?

  Lynnelle turned to see Carey. He had freshened his shirt and tie since the day before, and he looked quite smart.

  “Hello, ladies.” The dimple in his right cheek doubled the brightness of his countenance.

  “Good morning,” Lynnelle said. “Where’s Willie?”

  “We’ve been up for a while, and she was ready to sit already.”

  “I didn’t see her in your seats.”

  He tugged at his necktie. “The library car, perhaps. She talked about finding someplace quiet before we investigate the breakfast situation.”

  “She should come here,” Mrs. Sweeney said wryly. “The cows are the least disturbing thing to happen today.”

  Lynnelle laughed. “What about you, Carey? Haven’t had enough of the excitement brewing outside?”

  “Thought I might see about some coffee. Care to join me?”

  “Don’t you want to wait for Willie? Have coffee with your breakfast?”

  He waved off the idea. “I don’t think I can wait that long. She’ll understand. Join me.”

  “You two carry on,” Mrs. Sweeney said. “My berth should be a seat again by now.” With her cane rhythmically one step ahead, she made her way up the aisle.

  “You know, I’m not entirely sure she needs that thing,” Lynnelle said.

  “You’re kind to look after her.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t need as much looking after as we all assumed.”

  “She did survive a robbery,” Carey said.

  “And I’ll bet she had some jewelry sewn into the lining of her coat that the thieves didn’t get.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it. Let’s have that coffee.”

  Lynnelle hesitated. His hopeful eyes entreated so persuasively. “Maybe Willie has changed her mind by now.”

  “She sent me on my way quite firmly. But I would love to have your company.” He offered a hand.

  Lynnelle tucked her fingers into her skirt pockets. A married man. “I really only came out to see if there was news circulating about the delay situation.”

  “Oh, that. Yes.” Carey pointed outside. “I did hear that most likely they will decide to try to decouple the engine and bring in a replacement. But they have to locate one that can carry the load of this train and get it here. A small place like this is not going to have a locomotive hiding out back.”

  “So we don’t know how long that will take?”

  “I’m afraid not. Obviously we’ve all missed connecting to the Colorado Special once. Perhaps not again tonight, but one never knows. It’s hard to say.”

  “If you had to guess?” She smoothed a stray hair back under her hat, conscious that it would already need repinning.

  Carey scrunched his forehead. “We should wait for more complete information.”

  Lynnelle’s booking at the Windsor Hotel in downtown Denver would be lost if she did not alert them as well as Mr. McParland.

  “I should send a second telegram about my arrangements. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go draft something for the porter.”

  He put a gentle hand on her wrist. “I’m sure there’s plenty of time for that. We’ve only been at the depot for a few minutes, and whatever solution they work out will take a long time. The telegraph office will be mobbed. Another telegram will just go to the bottom of the stack. You may as well relax for a few minutes. Come have coffee with me. Maybe they have some apple cake in the dining car.”

  Her hand tingled under his touch.

  A married man.

  “I’m sure Willie must be wondering what became of you.”

  “Willie likes some time on her own. She’s been known to tell me to get out of her hair.” Carey’s eyes drifted outside. “Is it my imagination or are there more cows now?”

  Lynnelle looked. The bovines numbered at least a dozen now, and they were closer to the depot. “Where are they coming from? Mrs. Sweeney said there must be a broken fence.”

  “She’s probably right. Exactly how big is a herd of cows?”

  Lynnelle grimaced. “I don’t believe it’s a fixed number, but it can be quite large, can’t it?”

  “I might want to research that question, in case Willie and I should rule out farming or ranching as we look for a place to settle.”

  That dimple again, cleaving through his cheek in a most adorable way.

  Lynnelle smiled. “It would seem advisable.”

  One of the depot employees had crossed the tracks and was trying to shoo the cows away, but the cows’ response was to stare at him, unimpressed with the effort, and swish their tails.

  “Enjoy your coffee and cake,” Lynnelle said. “Perhaps I’ll see you and Willie later.”

  “I hope so.” Carey glanced at his watch. “I’ll count the minutes. We both enjoy your company.”

  “And I yours.” She palmed the key in her skirt pocket and made her way back through the cars and unlocked her compartment.

  Willie was inside.

  The wicker case was open.

  The satchel was open.

  Willie sat on one of the benches with half the papers in her lap and the other half beside her on the bench, facedown. Her eyelids flitted up, her hands flying into motion to order the papers.

  Willie would have had to break into the compartment, the case, and the satchel to accomplish this chaos.

  None of this was accidental.

  And neither was Carey’s charming attempt at distraction. They must have been watching to see when she’d leave. Watching to see if she’d ever leave the satchel behind. If she’d ever set it down. And she had.

  They’d split up. Carey had been buying Willie time—but not quite enough.

  Lynnelle lurched forward and scooped up the papers. “Get out.”

  “Let me explain.” Willie jumped up.

  “Get out.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Nolan scratched the side of his nose.

  No coffee in the kitchen. Usually Jillian filled the canister with fresh water and hit the POWER button on the single serving brewer, and when he came downstairs on a Saturday morning, he could have his morning dose of caffeine in under a minute. Today the pot was idle, cold, and empty.

  So was Jillian’s office. Her favorite mug, still in the cupboard, showed no evidence of use.

  Nolan had focused most of his brain power during the last two days on planning recipes, executing recipes, evaluating results, revising recipes, and cleaning up the mess he made. She’d probably said something about where she was going on Saturday morning, and he hadn’t properly filed away the infor
mation for retrieval in this moment. Of course, he was capable of filling the canister and pushing a couple of buttons on his own, but there was also the question of breakfast. And he was tired of cooking. He would spend most of the day preparing food as it was.

  He snatched his keys out of the copper bowl, picked up his stack of menu notes, and headed out the back door to stroll into town. Clark Addison could serve him a breakfast burrito and keep the coffee coming. When Jillian turned up, her first question would be whether Nolan had come to his senses and simplified his dinner menu yet.

  Two hundred meals.

  She was not wrong.

  If he underwrote the food as his contribution to the evening, nearly all the ticket sales would go straight to the Heritage Society. Marilyn would clear more than five thousand dollars with just the dinner alone. The weekend was sure to yield the new windows the building needed.

  Elegant. Worthy of a Victorian inn. But simplify. It must be possible.

  Today Clark’s gold wire-rimmed reading glasses sat halfway down his nose. Even the eyes of people who had trouble letting go of the hippie era aged eventually. Clark, at a small table with a stack of papers and a pen in one hand, looked over the lenses at two baristas working the counter. Nolan sidled over to Clark, glad as always to see brisk weekend business at the Cage.

  “Did my daughter visit you for her morning libations?” Nolan asked.

  “No sir. Haven’t seen her.”

  “You’ve been here all morning?”

  “Where else would I be?”

  Nolan set his papers down. “Mind if I join you?”

  Clark gestured acquiescence.

  “I’ll get in line,” Nolan said, “and be back.”

  Saturday was always busy at the Cage. Nolan didn’t mind the line. It gave him time to think. Jillian was right about one thing. The London broil would bankrupt him. He could do the beef Wellington or throw out everything he’d tried so far and go with a braised sweet ham. A ham would feed a lot of people. At the counter, a new barista, a young woman, seemed relieved with his simple order of a black coffee and a breakfast burrito, which she would only have to heat up. Nolan carried everything with him back to the table.