The Railroad Baroness

by The Railroad Baroness (lit)

  Quirking a half-smile up at Lillian, he said, “I think I’ll walk for a bit.”

  She didn’t know why that, of all things, had the power to make her blush. With the heat of it warming her cheeks, she said solemnly, “That might be for the best.”

  Chapter 11

  “An army may march on its stomach, but drinking water musters a close second.”

  — Charles Lowell Adams, Dispatches from The Iron Road, Great Western Rail Company

  “Well, hello there, Wyatt.” The woman followed the sultry voice out of the shadows to step into the low light cast by the lantern. The man standing guard—well, standing was generous—straightened nervously. Startled from his doze, he began to bring his repeater to bear. In their paddock, the sleepy horses shuffled uneasily at his sudden motion. The man checked when he realized what had awakened him was a woman, not some vicious wildcat come to terrorize the horses.

  Relaxing, he let the rifle drop to cradle in the crook of his arm.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The brunette stepped closer. His eyes fell to the tempting sway of her hips, then veered up to the extremely low-cut bodice that exposed an impressive degree of pale white flesh, given the chill of the night air. Dark curls tumbled from a loose coiffure at the back of her head to swirl enticingly over and around those fleshy mounds. “Your friend sent me. Something about a debt? I’m Cara.”

  “A debt? Can’t say as I recall…” He trailed off, as if realizing once he admitted no one owed him anything, the prostitute would leave. She was close enough he could smell the whisky, cigarette smoke and musky woman scent that clung to her. She put her hand on his arm, the one not holding the gun, and squeezed it.

  She smiled. “Oh my. Aren’t you a big one?”

  Her fingers trailed from his arm to his chest, then down. She stroked him with an experienced hand that made him stiffen to attention like a soldier facing inspection. He gulped. He hadn’t had a chance to visit the girls yet. If this one was representative of the others, he needed to make the time.

  “Why don’t we walk over here, find some privacy. Then I can make good on your friend’s debt.” Without moving her hand, she tightened her grip and tugged like she held the end of a leash. Instinctively, he stumbled forward, almost dropping the gun in his haste to follow her.

  Remembering the reaming they’d all gotten after Jones and Miller abandoned their posts in front of the supply tent the night before, he wavered. A glance back at the corral showed the dark, unmoving bulks of the horses. They wouldn’t be so quiet if they sensed danger. Surely he could just duck between these tents right here for a few moments.

  Qualms dispensed with, he hurried after Cara. As soon as she faced him, he noted she’d loosened her bodice, freeing her uncorseted breasts. They gleamed palely in the moonlight. Releasing his cock, she brought her hands up to pinch her own nipples, cupping her breasts until they spilled over her hands in offering to him. Wyatt grabbed her waist and hauled her close, burying his face between her breasts, not caring that the rasp of his beard likely stung against her bare skin.

  Cara giggled and murmured encouragingly, her fingers quickly working at the fastenings of his trousers. As soon as they were open, she plunged her hand down the front of his pants to grab his cock. Wyatt grunted as she fisted him in her hand, jerking strongly against him. He fumbled with her skirts. Obligingly, she helped him raise them. They’d barely lifted high enough to reveal her garters and stockings when, looking around wildly, he spotted the crates stacked against the side of one of the tents. Shoving her to them, he forced her around and down, bending her over at the waist. She didn’t utter a word of protest, just braced herself against the crates. He took himself in hand. Eager as a stripling with his first whore, he set his cock against her cunny and pushed inside.

  He was still pumping frantically when the piercing whistle rent the air, followed quickly by the thunder of hooves and the panicked scream of horses.

  Dazed, Wyatt gave a few more distracted thrusts before looking around to see what the commotion was—just in time to grab the girl and throw them both out of the way of the stampeding animals. Crouched on the ground beside the dubious shelter of the crates, Wyatt laced his fingers behind his head to shield it. Large bodies raced by them in the darkness, hooves kicking up an unseen cloud of dust that set both him and Cara coughing. In seconds, the horses had passed them. Wyatt scrambled to his feet and raced to the corral. It was empty. The gate swung crazily on its hinges. Inside the fence, the dying flames of the smashed lantern, inexplicably moved from the hook on the railing, sputtered out. Even as he stared, the sound of startled shouts and cries from men and equine alike rose in the night.

  Wyatt stumbled around to face the noise, wincing as he noted the nearby supply tents now torn from their guy ropes, the kicked over crates and hoof-shattered barrels. As he watched, a rope popped free of a peg, and one of the canvas tents fluttered down like a deflated balloon—much like his cock at the moment.

  “Oh, shit,” he said.

  * * * *

  Travis Murchison swung up onto the bare back of the horse he commandeered before the last animal left the paddock. The guard, mouth and pants agape as he took in the destruction, didn’t notice as Murchison skirted the area, keeping to the shadows. By the time the stampeding horses reached the center of camp, Murchison had left the pandemonium behind and headed for his next destination of the evening.

  With the noise of the camp fading, and the bright moon and stars lighting his way, Murchison enjoyed the solitude while he could. Along the way, he briefly halted to retrieve what he needed. The horse shied a bit at the scent of blood, but Murchison subdued it with a tug on the rope halter he’d rigged and the prod of his heel in its ribs.

  The camp relied on a small, lazy river for its water supply. Not deep enough to allow the passage of anything but small boats and shallow-draft barges with light loads, the water was nevertheless sufficient to suit the needs of the camp, even with the added population brought by the hell on wheels. Every few days, dray teams hauled empty barrels to the water’s edge and full ones back to camp for drinking and cooking. Until the washerwomen arrived, the men had made their way there to clean their clothes and themselves—those who were so inclined, at least. During the day, the route to the river was significantly busier. Now, he had it to himself.

  Moonlight reflected off the surface of the slow-moving waterway in sparkles and bangles like a mute fireworks display. Here, the river bowed in a lazy curve, sheltered from the current on one side by the crescent of a jut of land. As a result, a pool of almost still water was protected from the main flow, but refreshed by it as well. Tall reeds grew along the bank, except for where they’d been trampled flat by hooves and wagon wheels. Murchison slid from the horse’s back and foot-tethered it. He dropped his burden by the water’s edge. Sliding a long, wicked hunting blade from the scabbard at his waist, he knelt and worked quickly. He used thongs to secure rocks to the smaller bodies. The splash as they struck the water reminded him of trout jumping after fireflies.

  Murchison wiped his blade on the ground and stood. Pushing through the reeds, he checked his other traps. What he found, he served up the same as the rest of his cargo, weighting the bodies down, tossing them in the water.

  The last trap yielded unexpected prey. A young deer. Ordinarily, its thrashing would have been enough to free it from a trap meant for much smaller animals. This time, it hadn’t. The animal watched him through wide, terror-glazed eyes, its body quivering with tension. Panting breaths heaved its sides and white foam flecked its mouth. One foreleg was raw and bloody where the rope held it. The other bent at an odd angle, testament to the fury of its struggles in its attempt to escape.

  Murchison looked at it for a moment. Then, almost crooning, he slowly reached for it. The deer tensed, tried feebly to evade his touch, but it was too weak. Murchison cupped its jaw in his hand. In one motion, he shoved the animal’s jaw up, exposing the white fur of its throat
. With his other hand, he plunged his knife in, deep. Hot fluid poured over his fingers as the animal trembled in his grip. Then, with nothing more than a sighing breath, it sagged in his hold.

  Murchison slid his knife free and released its jaw. The deer’s head made a hollow thump as it struck the ground. Murchison efficiently freed it from the snare and hauled it out of the reeds to the water’s edge. It would take much more than the rocks he could quickly find here to weigh down the animal’s body as he had the others. He scanned the area, eyes stopping on the skeletal shadow of a fallen tree, half in, half out of the water.

  Cursing at the necessity, he pulled off his boots and socks. Picking up one of the deer’s legs, he waded into the water with it, grimacing as the cold water drenched the lower half of his body. At least the deer floated. It took some effort to force it under the water, but he did until it was firmly lodged under the branches of the fallen tree.

  Then he made his way back to the horse. Pressing as much water out of his clothing as he could, he put his socks and boots back on. Gathering up the evidence of the snares to dispose of on his way back to camp, he looked around. The river’s surface was once again a dance of light. It would be impossible to discern his prints from any of the others along the water’s edge. There was nothing to say he’d even been here.

  Freeing his horse, he mounted it and turned its nose back toward camp. Maybe he’d be able to gather one or two of the escaped horses along the way. Regardless, if anyone questioned him, he had this animal as proof that he was one of the men sent to retrieve the horses. Satisfied with his night’s work, Murchison prodded his mount into motion. With luck, his clothes would only be damp by the time he reached camp. If he took his time.

  Chapter 12

  “The comforts of Mr. Pullman's sleeping cars are unparalleled. With sumptuous appointments and every convenience of the best parlors, it is no wonder they are called palatial. Truly, one has not experienced the rails at their utmost until one has enjoyed the experience of a private rail car.”

  — Charles Lowell Adams, Dispatches from The Iron Road, Great Western Rail Company

  Two days after the incident at the paddock freed the horses, Lillian was informed of the contamination of the water supply.

  One of the washerwomen, skirts hiked as she waded into the bend in the river to soak some particularly nasty items, saw a dead rabbit floating in the water. Using a stick to haul it out, intending to dispose of the body, she noticed a leather thong wrapped around its middle and the gaping slash at its throat. Then she stepped on something cold, furred and waterlogged. When she cried out in disgust, the draymen filling barrels at the water’s edge came to investigate. They found over a dozen dead, rotting animals on the muddy bottom, weighted down by rocks. The deer they found by accident, when one of the men noticed a crow perched on a branch of the fallen tree, pecking at something not quite submerged.

  They were fortunate to discover the sabotage so quickly. If the corpses rotted in the water for any length of time, Doctor Ritchards told Lillian, men would start getting sick. As it was, they would need to send crews into the forest to retrieve water from the smaller streams, a far more labor-intensive task than relying on the river.

  “Give it a few days for the taint to clear from the water,” Ritchards said to her now. “I’ve advised Devereaux to drain the remaining barrels in camp, in case they were drawn after the corpses were tossed in the river.”

  They stood several paces from the water’s edge. Ropes tied to the branches of the fallen tree led to the traces of a heavy workhorse. At a shouted signal, the driver at the horse’s head urged it to pull, while the men in the water rocked the stubborn tree loose from the sucking riverbed. The bloated deer corpse bobbed to the surface like a cork on a stream, legs sticking straight and stiff from the barrel of its body.

  Lillian swallowed and looked away. Unfortunately, her gaze fell on the smoldering funeral pyre of dead rabbits, raccoons, opossum and fox. The toast she’d enjoyed for breakfast tumbled in her belly. She felt a soft touch on her elbow. Charles, face concerned, said, “You don’t need to supervise this. Let the men do their work.”

  Gratefully, she let him lead her back to their horses. A few of the animals were still missing—long gone, she suspected—but somehow the phlegmatic animal she used wasn’t one of them. Charles helped her up, then mounted his own horse. Ritchards swung aboard his saddle with the ease of a man well-acquainted with riding.

  In accord, the three guided their horses toward camp.

  “We have to find out who’s responsible for these attacks,” Lillian said. “The expedition will be here in just a few days. Aside from the safety aspects, the company can’t afford to have a disruption of this sort of…malevolence on display for our investors.”

  “Devereaux is doing what he can,” Charles said. “He’s a good man, used to command. He was a sergeant in the militia.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Cabot,” Ritchards agreed. “If anyone can get to the bottom of this, Devereaux is your man. From what I know of him, he probably takes this as a personal insult, not just his duty to see to the smooth running of the project.”

  Lillian was reluctant to dispute their assessment of the site boss, but she had her father to answer to. “Even so, at the very least he needs help, either from a professional investigator or more men devoted to security. As for the water, Doctor Ritchards, please let me know as soon as you deem the river safe for the camp’s use.”

  “Of course,” he said. “If you’ll both excuse me, I should continue my rounds of the worksites. Much easier to head that way now than later from camp.”

  Lillian and Charles said their farewells. Ritchards, touching his hat, set his animal at a trot angling away from their path, ubiquitous black satchel bouncing at the side of his saddle.

  Lillian sighed.

  “Don’t worry, Lilly,” Charles said. “This will all get sorted out.”

  She slanted him a glance. “How can you be so sure?”

  “Like Ritchards said, Devereaux is a good man. If he weren’t, your father never would have entrusted him to lead the project.”

  “True. He has spoken highly of him. In fact, if he didn’t feel so strongly about having a family presence here to greet the expedition, I think my father would have been content to leave it in Devereaux’s hands.”

  He smiled encouragingly. “There, see? Let your father’s confidence guide you in this. You don’t have to handle every little thing, Lilly, though I’ve no doubt you could.”

  She heard the honest appreciation under his flattery, and warmed. “You are a charmer, Charles Lowell Adams. Why hasn’t some lucky lady snapped you up?”

  “Alas,” he said in mock-sober tones, “what woman would have a rogue like me?”

  This time, she laughed. “Silly man. What woman wouldn’t have you? I’ve got eyes. I’ve got ears. I know all the ladies used to trip over their slippers to get you to notice them. That you’re not your family’s lapdog makes you even more appealing. A challenge to tame.”

  “Is that what you want? To tame me?”

  “Far from it! I like a little wildness in my men.”

  “Men? So you’ve given more thought to our proposal, then?”

  Lillian absently patted her horse’s neck as she thought. The saboteur worried her. The attacks were dangerous, potentially deadly. She should concentrate on catching whoever was responsible, then prepare to dazzle the expedition with the Great Western Rail Company’s potential. But if she chose not to become involved with Charles and Conn, to end her dalliance with that single wonderful interlude with Charles on the bluff, would they be any less of a distraction?

  No.

  She spoke decisively. “I’ve thought of it. And if you and Conn are sure this is what you want, that it won’t destroy your friendship, then yes. I will.”

  “You will…?”

  She knew what he wanted—her verbal agreement, so there could be no misunderstandings. Fine. That was the way she wanted it,
too.

  “I would like to embark on an affair with you, Charles. With both you and Conn. I would like that more than anything right now,” she added, unable to keep the husky note of desire from her voice.

  His eyes full of promises, he smiled. “Good.”

  As one, they kicked their animals into a faster pace.

  * * * *

  Lillian preceded Charles into her private car. Aileen, ensconced on a comfortable chair with a cup of tea and a book, looked up. While her quarters in another car were adequate, Lillian’s car was indisputably more comfortable, and Aileen knew she was welcome to it. When they entered, she quickly set her book on a small table and rose to meet them.

  “Won’t you be seated, Charles?” Lillian invited, handing her jacket to her companion. While Aileen tucked it away in a chest, Lillian tugged off her gloves, then removed her hat. Those were efficiently stowed as well, while Charles went to the seating area.

  “Aileen,” Lillian said, eyes never leaving Charles. He cut a fine figure in his dark brown suit. The color emphasized the paleness of his light brown hair and the warmth of his brown eyes. “Would you mind arranging for some tea, and perhaps sandwiches?”

  “Of course.” Aileen’s hesitation was barely noticeable, but Lillian marked it with a significant look. Aileen was the one who had urged her to follow her desire on this trip, to leave her mourning behind. As if reading her mind, Aileen gave a small nod, as if in approval, then said, “I’ll be right back.”

  Lillian felt gooseflesh raise on her arms when Aileen left and a wisp of cold air swept into the car. She hadn’t noticed the chill on the ride back from the river. The heat of the horse and her jacket must have kept it at bay. Then again, maybe her heated thoughts kept her warm.

  Charles politely rose to his feet as she approached. Instead of the other settee or a chair, Lillian chose the settee he’d claimed. She settled her skirts and folded her hands demurely in her lap. Charles, still standing, glanced toward the door. “Would someone who boldly stroked me to pleasure just a few short days ago in front of an entire crew of men really stand on propriety now?” she asked.