Riding the Rails

by Amelia C. Adams

  “Yes, sir, I recall that,” Heston replied.

  “We left our luggage at the station with a young man called Barney—perhaps you can tell me if that was wise. Does your stationmaster keep a close eye on things left there in storage?”

  “He does, sir, yes. Our shed is very secure.”

  Mr. Ashton gave a satisfied nod, and once Mrs. Olson had taken her seat, the meal began.

  Mercy ate as though she hadn’t touched a bite in days. The food was so delicious that she couldn’t get enough of it. But then she reminded herself that she was likely to get sick if she kept eating so fast, and after all, she knew there would be breakfast in the morning. It was all right to eat slowly and maybe even leave a little on her plate. Perhaps someday she’d stop feeling so insecure when it came to her next meal. How long would that take? How much money would she have to be making before she’d feel confident in her ability to provide for herself?

  Mrs. Olson and Mrs. Ashton chattered merrily about the newest fashions coming out of New York, and Mr. Ashton asked Heston an occasional question about the railroad business. Mercy felt a little excluded, but that was all right—in truth, she’d rather be forgotten than be the center of attention. She’d never felt comfortable when all the eyes were on her.

  At the conclusion of the meal, feeling edgy and anxious, she volunteered to clean the kitchen, and Patty looked at her with astonishment.

  “You actually want to clean the kitchen? Do you have a fever or some other illness that would make you delirious?”

  “No, I’m fine. I’d just like something useful to do.”

  Patty shook her head in disbelief. “Well, I’m not about to say no. It’s been a mighty long time since someone offered to do my job for me.”

  “Go put your feet up for a bit,” Mercy urged. “You deserve it.”

  She smiled as she watched Patty leave the room. It felt good to do something nice for one of the women who had taken her in.

  “I’ll dry if you wash,” Heston said at her elbow. “I’m not much use in a kitchen, but I know how to use a towel.”

  “It’s a deal,” she told him.

  They worked together to clear the dishes, and he wiped down the table while she scraped the plates. Then she began washing the silverware, her very least favorite part of the whole dishwashing chore.

  “My mother always did the silverware last,” Heston said, watching her. “I’m curious why you do it first.”

  “Two reasons,” Mercy replied. “I was always taught that since the forks and spoons go in your mouth, you should wash them first so they get the cleanest water.”

  “That makes sense. And what’s the second reason?”

  “I hate washing silverware, so I do it first to get it out of the way.”

  Heston laughed. “That makes sense too.”

  They fell into a comfortable rhythm working alongside each other, and within minutes, all the silverware was washed, dried, and put away. Now they could concentrate on the other, less annoying dishes.

  “Tell me more about yourself,” she said as they worked on the plates. “I feel as though I’ve done all the talking up until now.”

  “You probably have,” Heston agreed. “That’s because everyone keeps grilling you.”

  “I suppose they’re just doing their jobs—you especially. You have a train station to protect.” She handed him a plate, then picked up another. “Thank you for not turning me in.”

  “You’re welcome. Thank you for not being a dangerous criminal.”

  “I do try to keep my dangerousness at a minimum. I’m glad you noticed.”

  “Your efforts are definitely appreciated.”

  She was delighted that he understood her sense of humor and could respond in kind. That seemed such a rare gift. “So, now that you know so many of my secrets, you must tell me some of yours,” she said.

  “Such as?”

  “Such as . . . are you sweet on any of the girls here in town?”

  She hadn’t expected it from him, but the tips of his ears turned a little red. It was endearing. Just like so many other things about him.

  “No,” he replied after a moment. “What with this being a mining town, there are more men than women, so the women get snatched up pretty quickly.”

  “And you’ve never snatched?”

  “None of them have ever caught my eye.”

  That was rather mysterious. “What sort of girl is most likely to catch your eye?” She was genuinely curious. What would it take to get the attention of a man like Heston Granger?

  He set the plate he had just dried on the shelf, then accepted the one she was handing him. “Well, for starters, she wouldn’t be a giggler.”

  “No giggling?”

  “That’s right. I like a girl who laughs outright when she thinks something’s funny. I’d rather have a guffaw or even a snort over a giggle.”

  “You’d rather have a snort? But snorting is so . . . unfeminine.”

  “It might be considered unfeminine by some, but at least it’s genuine. Giggling always sounds to me like someone’s trying awfully hard to be adorable on purpose.”

  Mercy nodded. She could see that. “What if she accidentally giggles? What if she meant to let out a huge belly laugh, but she got interrupted or something?”

  He considered it. “I could accept an accidental giggle as long as that wasn’t always the case,” he replied.

  “What percentage would you find acceptable? What if she accidentally giggled . . . say . . . ten percent of the time? Is that too much?”

  “I could probably be agreeable to ten percent as long as the remaining ninety percent was a good old knee-slapping belly buster.”

  “This is good to know.” Mercy handed him the last plate and moved on to the cups. “Technically, we should have washed the cups after the silverware because they also go directly in the mouth.”

  “Why didn’t we?”

  “Well, that’s your fault, actually.”

  “Mine? How so?”

  “I didn’t want to say anything, but since you’ve brought it up, I might as well tell you that you distracted me.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I did? How?”

  “Just as we finished the silverware, I realized that I wanted to know more about you. You took my focus off my task, so it’s clearly your fault that we’re doing the cups now instead of earlier.”

  He gave a mock bow. “I’m very sorry, Miss Davis. I will try harder not to be so utterly fascinating.”

  “Yes, please do. It would be better for all of us.” She paused. “Except you’re not done answering my question. Tell me more about this ideal girl of yours.”

  “But if I do that, I might say something fascinating, and that would be breaking my promise. I have a lot of faults, but breaking promises is something I try very hard not to do.”

  “And see? That’s fascinating.” She tossed her dishrag into the water and turned to face him, her hands on her hips. “There’s just nothing I can do with you, is there? You’ll just keep distracting me, and the next thing I know, all the dishes will be done in entirely the wrong order, and Patty will think I’m useless.”

  “I’m sure Patty would never think you’re useless.” He took a step closer and whispered, “She probably won’t even know that you did the dishes in the wrong order.”

  “Yes, but I’ll know, and the guilt will eat me alive.” She glanced over her shoulder, then back at him. “I’ll probably have to get out of bed, tiptoe down here, and do them over again before I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

  “But what if they turn out plenty clean the first time? Look—I’m polishing them as I dry them. See how nice and sparkly they are?” He held up a glass. “Not a single fingerprint.”

  “Hmm.” She pretended to inspect his work. “All right, I suppose I don’t have to feel guilty. But I do want to know about you and this mysterious woman of yours.”

  “You’re not going to let me off the hook, are you?”

>   “Not for a moment.”

  “Fine.” He placed the cup on the shelf and moved on to the next. “I’d like to find a wife who enjoys traveling.”

  “Not one who prefers to stay at home behind the stove?”

  “Well, I do like eating good meals, but I want to see more of the country. I came to Creede because I wanted to see the west, and I might decide to go north or south at some point. Not necessarily to live there, but to see what it’s all about. I’d like a wife who would come with me.”

  Mercy was impressed by that. She thought men only wanted women who would cook and clean and take care of the laundry—it sounded like Heston thought those things were nice, but he wasn’t making them the sum total of his requirements in a wife.

  “And you haven’t found her here in Creede?”

  “No, but to be honest, I haven’t looked much. I’ve been pretty content in my little house, working every day, sometimes getting together with friends. I live quietly, and until the wanderlust comes back, I like it that way.”

  Mercy glanced around. “I believe that’s the last of the dishes. Patty must have washed the pans as she went—she’s so much more efficient than I am.”

  “I imagine she’s come up with some tricks along the way to make things easier for herself. If you’ll grab the door, I’ll toss this outside.”

  Heston lifted the washtub, and as soon as Mercy had opened the door far enough, he stepped through, pouring the water onto the ground. Then he rinsed out the tub at the pump, surprising her that he’d think to do that.

  “Thank you,” she told him. “If you ever get tired of working at the train station, you could always hire on as a dishwasher. You’re quite good at it.”

  “It’s not an aspiration I’ve ever had, but I appreciate the praise.”

  Heston set the washtub on its edge so it could continue to drain, then leaned on the railing leading up to the kitchen door steps. “I’d best be going, considering that we’re leaving early,” he said.

  “Oh.” He was right, of course, but she was still disappointed. She’d never enjoyed an evening quite so much, and she hated to see it come to an end.

  “I’ll be by first thing. Try to get some sleep—ticketed passenger seating is better than stowing away, but I can’t guarantee how comfortable the seats will be.”

  She smirked. “Yes, sir. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  “Goodnight, Mercy. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turned and walked across the yard to the street. She didn’t know why she’d expected him to leave through the house—his way made more sense—but it did make his departure seem more abrupt. She watched him go, then turned and climbed the stairs to the back door. Everything seemed so quiet, so bland now.

  She followed the sound of voices to the parlor and found the Ashtons visiting with Mrs. Olson. Mr. Ashton had lit his pipe, and she stayed just long enough to be sociable. Then she excused herself and went upstairs. She had very little packing to do, but after the pleasant hour she’d just spent with Heston, anything else was dull, and sadly, the Ashtons were duller than most.

  She changed for bed and climbed under the covers, then smiled into the darkness as she thought about Heston. Had she ever known anyone who could make her laugh so easily? When she’d first met him, of course it was under stressful circumstances, and she hadn’t seen that side of him. Tonight, though . . . She thought back on their conversation and couldn’t help but smile. If she could bottle up those moments and take them with her to Denver, she’d do it. What a precious souvenir that would make.

  Heston was coming with her to Denver, but she knew he wouldn’t stay. His life was here in Creede, and he’d already said he didn’t like Denver. Maybe if they were more than friends . . . but they weren’t. They were barely more than strangers, and she couldn’t expect him to change his whole life just because she didn’t want to be lonely in a new town.

  With these thoughts roiling around in her head, she didn’t think she’d ever be able to sleep, but before she knew it, she was waking up at dawn on the first day of the rest of her life.

  Chapter Five

  “And you’ve remembered your hairbrush?” Mrs. Maine asked, watching Heston as he walked back and forth, packing a few small items into his bag.

  “Yes, I’ve got it.”

  “Oh, good. There’s nothing more distressing than arriving somewhere and finding that you don’t have your hairbrush.” She paused. “Well, I’m sure there are more distressing things—this is a fallen world, after all—but we won’t sit and ponder on that too long. You have much more pressing matters on your mind.”

  “Yes, I do. I don’t suppose you happen to know where Mr. Yoder lives, do you?”

  “Mr. Yoder? Who is Mr. Yoder?” She blinked.

  “He’s supposed to be picking up a dozen cows from the station, but we can’t find him. Mr. Medina’s trying to track down the original owner, but he hasn’t heard back yet, and I hate leaving when he’s got a problem like this to solve.”

  “Well, it seems to me that he ought to be able to handle it on his own. He is the stationmaster, after all, and while I’ve no doubt that you’re a wonderful employee, no one person should be so indispensable that they can’t take a few days off without feeling guilty about it.”

  “You’re right, Mrs. Maine. You’re absolutely right. I’m going to enjoy my trip, and when I get back, I’ll find that everything was handled just as it should have been. Tess has mentioned the smell of manure a few times, though, and says it makes the station seem less clean than it ought to.”

  “I can’t disagree with her there, but you’re doing the best you can.”

  Heston fastened the buckle on his bag and then stood in front of Mrs. Maine as though presenting himself for inspection. “Off I go. Do you have any words of advice for me as far as Mercy goes?”

  Mrs. Maine looked thoughtful. “Hmm. I would tell you to be a gentleman, but you already are. I would tell you to protect her, but that’s already your intention. I meant what I said before, Mr. Granger—you’re an excellent guardian angel, and I can’t think of a single thing I’d advise you to do differently.”

  “So, what do you and your associates think of Mercy going to Denver? I know you want her to get there safely, but do you actually approve of her going? Or are you just . . . letting her have her way, for lack of a better phrase?”

  “It’s interesting that you should ask that.” Mrs. Maine perched on the edge of one of the kitchen chairs. “We’ve discussed this quite a number of times, and half of us believe one thing while the other half believes something quite different.”

  “And what are those two camps of thought?” Heston asked.

  “Half of us feel that since this is her dream, we should do everything we can to help her achieve it. The others feel that she won’t end up happy there, so we should keep her from going.”

  “That’s interesting. What do you think?”

  Mrs. Maine played with a button on her cuff. “Being such a new angel and all, I’m not sure my opinion matters.”

  “Of course it matters. You’re a person—er, a soul . . .” He trailed off because he wasn’t actually sure what she was. “Your voice is just as valuable as anyone else’s,” he finished lamely.

  She brightened considerably. “Thank you! That’s just the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  “And so? What’s your opinion?”

  “I think she should stay with you.”

  Heston blinked. “You . . . think she should stay with me?”

  “Well, of course! No one has ever treated her as well as you do—her mother tried, rest her soul, but she wasn’t capable of it. Why should Mercy go gallivanting off through the world when she could be happy beyond her wildest dreams right here?”

  Heston opened and closed his mouth a few times. Mrs. Maine posed a very good question. Why should Mercy leave?

  Because it was what she wanted.

  “And if you try to tell me that she wants to go to Denver,
let me ask you—does she know she has an alternative here?”

  Heston hadn’t realized angels could read minds. Or maybe they couldn’t and Mrs. Maine was just a really good guesser. “She probably doesn’t know that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I didn’t know it until you said it.”

  Mrs. Maine patted his shoulder. “That’s all right, dear. Sometimes men are a little slower on the uptake than they’d like to be. Your heart’s in the right place, and that’s the important thing.” She glanced at the clock. “And you’d best be on your way!”

  “Yes, I’d better get going. Thanks, Mrs. Maine. Are you coming with us?”

  “I don’t actually know yet. We’ll see how the two of you get along. If I decide I need to pop in, I will.”

  “Is there a way to reach you if we need you? Like . . . calling your name or something?”

  Mrs. Maine gave him a patient look. “Oh, no. That would just be silly, and has so much potential for embarrassment, don’t you think? Like I said, I’ll be keeping an eye on things, and I’ll know.”

  “All right. See you later.”

  Heston stepped out of his cabin and pulled the door tight behind him. It felt strange, locking his door when Mrs. Maine was still inside, but of course, she’d likely disappeared and gone back . . . wherever it was that she went . . . as soon as he turned away from her.

  As he guided his horse and wagon over to Mrs. Olson’s, he thought about what Mrs. Maine had said. Yes, he did believe Mercy could be happy in Creede, but as far as being happy there with him . . . He liked her quite a bit, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about a relationship. But he hadn’t let himself explore the possibility because he knew she was leaving, and why get involved with someone who had no desire to stay?

  But he wouldn’t know if she had a desire to stay unless he asked her.

  And if he was going to ask her, he needed to decide what he wanted.

  He shook his head at himself. His life was simple most of the time, but ever since Mercy Davis had rolled into Creede in a stock car, not one thing had been simple. Not one single thing.