On Wednesday, O’Brien discovered the new meat Lillian ordered had been liberally laced with vinegar and dead rats stuffed in the sacks of potatoes stacked outside the cook tent.
On Thursday night, shortly after the dinner hour, a stack of railway ties was set ablaze. While men swarmed to put out the fire, a worker spotted an ominous orange-yellow glow behind the tree line. They raced into the forest. Flames wreathed a number of tall, old pines, the resin-sapped trees going up like Christmas candles. With the scent of lamp oil heavy in the air, it was simple to deduce what drove the speed of the fire. Devereaux set the men to clearing a zone around the burning pines. They felled trees as fast as they could, some wielding axes and saws, others hauling the timber away to starve the fire of the fuel it needed to spread into a forest-consuming monster.
A forest fire would force them all to flee the area. It would be nothing short of a disaster for the company’s schedule, let alone the cost in lives.
Mrs. Northrup’s ladies, so recently victims of the arsonist, rallied to help, standing ready with water and bandages as needed to succor the men battling the flames and sparks.
Devereaux’s quick, cool-headed response averted disaster. Still, the firefighting efforts exhausted men who should have been surveying, staking and laying track.
On Friday, more men arrived at the camp, reporting directly to Devereaux. He immediately assigned them to guard duty, patrolling the camp twenty-four hours a day in teams of two.
The unceasing attacks took their toll. Tempers flared at the least provocation. Friendly fistfights became brawls without warning. Men grumbled about moving on and finding work elsewhere. Progress on the line slowed.
Lillian winced when the knock came early Saturday morning. With the camp in an uproar, she hadn’t had time to pursue her affair with Conn and Charles beyond that single, glorious interlude with Charles on this very settee. The camp was in a shambles, yet she felt sorry for herself because she couldn’t indulge in a passionate affair with two sinfully attractive men. If only that were the extent of her problems.
“Missus, the boss sent me to fetch you,” called the crackling adolescent voice of the boy Devereaux used to run messages. When neither she nor Aileen answered immediately, Billy knocked again. “Missus?”
Lillian closed her eyes and stifled a groan. She hoped it wasn’t another fire. She thought she’d never get the scent of charred wood out of her hair and clothes. “I’m afraid to open the door,” she said, only partly joking.
Aileen grimaced in commiseration, but got to her feet. “I’ll get it. Just a moment,” she called out when the boy renewed his pounding. “I’m coming!”
Seated in a chair beside her, Yorke said, “Mrs. Cabot, perhaps it’s time to consider returning to Boston. It is not safe for you to stay here any longer.”
Lillian rolled her eyes as her patience frayed. “Oh, Mr. Yorke, would you please stop? For the last time, I’m not going anywhere. And,” she hastily added when he opened his mouth, “if you say one more word about it, you can forget about ever stepping foot in this car again while I’m here.”
Yorke snapped his mouth shut and glared. “I am only trying—”
She held up her finger in a silencing gesture and said, slowly enunciating each syllable, “Not one more word.”
Aileen opened the door to let in an agitated youngster. Billy’s wiry body almost vibrated with energy. Fear, excitement, urgency, anxiety, all combined in his expression.
“Miss,” he said, the words tumbling out in his haste to deliver his message. “Doc says the missus needs to come right away. There’s been an accident, down the tracks.”
Lillian got to her feet as Aileen asked, “What kind of accident?”
“Don’t rightly know, miss. But it’s bad. Some kind of explosion or something. Some of the men, they been hurt.”
Lillian felt her breath stop in her throat. “My God,” she said. Then, forcing herself to move, she grabbed her cloak and hurried to the door. “Of course we’ll come.” Aileen was already snatching up her own cloak. Lillian left Yorke to follow or not. She didn’t really care which. The man had proven he was no use in a crisis.
Billy took the stairs two at a time, his impatience palpable as he waited for the ladies to descend more cautiously in their skirts and heels. As soon as their feet touched the ground, Billy set off for the tent Doctor Ritchards used as his surgery. Icy raindrops stung her cheeks. The weather had turned cold, the rain and grey clouds adding to the misery. Lillian absently pulled her hood over her head to keep her hair dry. She thought somewhat grimly that they could use the damp. It would make it harder for the villain stalking the camp to set the fires he had such a penchant for.
The dash through camp left the women gasping by the time they reached the surgery. Each breath instantly became a small puff of white ice crystals. Lillian shivered, tugging her now-damp cloak tighter around her.
Billy held aside a flap, and she and Aileen ducked inside. Not unlike the aftermath of the fire that destroyed Mrs. Northrup’s canvas brothel, patients filled the tiny surgery. It was reminiscent of another scene, too—the hospital where Lillian volunteered during the war, helping the broken men there piece together their bodies and lives. Shaking off the memory, Lillian brought her mind to the present crisis. About a dozen injured men, most of them Chinese, occupied the cots and stood or lay in various states of distress. Some waited quietly, obviously cut and bruised, but not badly enough to need immediate attention. Others sprawled on makeshift pallets, ashen faces and bloodied limbs testament to the more serious nature of their wounds. One or two lay still, unconscious. Or so Lillian hoped.
Ritchards and his assistant moved among the men with the efficiency of battlefield physicians, assisted by a pair of Mrs. Northrup’s girls and a slight, elderly Chinese man.
Lillian was about to offer her assistance when a commotion at the entrance drew her notice. Two men carried a third on a stretcher. Conn was one of the men bearing the stretcher. Lillian felt a leap of fear as their eyes met. Had he been in danger from whatever happened to these other men? Was he hurt? Her eyes did a quick inventory of his body, but she didn’t see any blood or bruising, just what she recognized as Conn’s habitual stoic and slightly disheveled appearance.
As soon as he settled his burden, he came to her.
“Conn,” she said, touching his arm, but wanting to throw her arms around him. “What happened?”
“Bastard found another use for the explosives he stole,” Conn said. “Set them where the men were working to clear the tunnel. Their own charges triggered the hidden ones.”
“Good Lord have mercy,” Aileen murmured. Her hand slipped into the crook of Lillian’s elbow. Lillian put her hand over her friend’s, grateful to accept and share comfort.
“And the men?” Lillian asked.
Conn shoved a hand through his dark hair, and for the first time, Lillian noticed the fine dust that dulled the shiny locks. His coat and clothes, too, were dirtier than the usual wear and tear caused by a man engaged in physical labor who wasn’t too concerned if he got dirty while doing it. “They were clear of the tunnel for the blast, but not far enough away to miss the shrapnel when the other charges blew.” Conn looked around the tent at the injured men, then back at Lillian. “Think most of them’ll be all right, but we’re damn lucky it wasn’t worse.”
Lillian ignored the profanity. “And you?” At his puzzled glance, she nodded at his hair and clothes. “You look like you were pretty close to the blast when it happened.”
He shrugged. “I’m fine. I was set up to take photographs of the blasting, so I was already out of the way of the worst of it.”
Squeezing Lillian’s elbow to get her attention, Aileen said, “I’m going to see what I can do to help the doctor.” Nodding, Lillian watched her go. And she noticed, when Conn did the same, the tiny trickle of blood almost hidden under the hair flopped over his forehead. She must have made a sound, because he immediately faced her.
&
nbsp; “Conn,” she said, her hand reaching up to brush his hair aside. “You are hurt.”
A shallow gash started just below his hairline and disappeared above the slight widow’s peak at the top of his forehead. From the smudges on his skin, she could tell he’d wiped away the blood with his sleeve until it mostly stopped bleeding. Now, just a bit of red welled sluggishly from the edge where the wound was deepest. She imagined some chip of stone or splinter of wood caused it.
He shrugged. “I told you, I’m fine.” But he didn’t move away from her touch, either. He also let her take his arm and lead him to a nearby table of supplies, where she quickly splashed some water from a pitcher into a basin. Taking off her cloak to give herself room to work, she hastily bundled it in a roll and set it under the table. Then she took a clean rag, wet it, and began to dab at the cut.
It probably stung, but Conn didn’t so much as twitch. Instead, his deep blue eyes watched with single-minded intensity as she fussed over him.
Finally satisfied that he had been cared for, she concentrated on rinsing out the rag. “I’d better see what I can do to help Doctor Ritchards. And then,” she sighed, “I’ll need to talk to Mr. Devereaux again, and visit the site …”
Conn’s warm hand cupped her elbow. The electricity of his touch silenced her words more effectively than anything else could have at that moment. “Delilah, hush. Take a breath. One thing at a time.”
Briefly distracted, she said, “Delilah?”
Smiling crookedly, he leaned closer. In a rolling whisper that teased her earlobe, he said, “Lillian is a prim, proper, very correct lady. Delilah is all fiery, delightful, delicious woman. It suits you better, I’m thinking.”
“Really?” The sign of whimsy from such a self-contained man pleased her beyond words. Then one of the injured men cried out, and the weight of responsibility pressed down on her. She put the rag down and met Conn’s gaze. “I wish I could slow down, but I can’t. There is too much to do. So many people depend on me.”
“And that is different from any other day how?”
“Well.” She couldn’t think of anything to say. “Well.”
He gave her a significant look, as if she’d proven his point. “Devereaux went hot-foot to the worksite as soon as news of the explosion reached him. I passed him on the way here. Help Ritchards. I’ll get back, talk to Devereaux, and he’ll find you as soon as he returns. Does that suit you?”
With his offer, she felt a little of her burden lighten. Both he and Charles seemed to have a knack for that, helping without taking control of everything. “I’d really appreciate that, Conn. Thank you.”
He nodded and took his leave.
“Oh, wait,” she said, touching his chest without thought. “If you could also find my father’s secretary and tell him to come to me, I’d appreciate it.”
Conn nodded again, then was gone through the flap.
Lillian walked to Ritchards’ side and got to work.
* * * *
Seething, Yorke waited until Conn was out of sight before stepping around the side of the tent.
Lillian, hand boldly on the Irishman’s chest, didn’t even notice Yorke’s arrival.
At first, he didn’t notice her, either. He stared at the injured men sprawled around the tent, bloodied and moaning. It left a sour taste in his mouth. Sharing company information was one thing, resorting to thuggery was something else. Unfortunately, sometimes there were no other alternatives. That’s where Murchison came in. And, after all, they were only Chinamen.
Then he noticed the intimate tableau, with Maguire standing far too close to Lillian, and her not uttering word of protest. Protest? No, she boldly fondled him in public.
He ducked out before they could see him, then circled the tent until he came alongside them, separated only by the canvas wall. He heard them clearly, the way she called him by his Christian name and Maguire, the bastard, referred to her by the kind of salacious pet name that would better fit one of that bawd Northrup’s whores.
It was obvious there was something between them. Bile and bitterness rose in his throat. She had not so much as a glance for him, but that Irishman easily commanded her attention.
And then she told Maguire to fetch Yorke as if he were a lapdog or lowly servant just awaiting her summons.
He felt the last twinge of guilt die in his heart.
Chapter 14
“The innovation of photography has allowed many of us a glimpse into exciting doings we may otherwise never experience. A true photographer is an artisan of his craft. And, dare I humbly say, a complement to those of us in writerly professions, rather than a replacement.”
— Charles Lowell Adams, Dispatches from The Iron Road, Great Western Rail Company
Lillian was shocked to find that instead of enervated by her day, she felt invigorated.
Devereaux, following the personal recommendations of his most trusted men, pressed more workers into guard duty as he prepared to implement a detailed plan to catch the villain plaguing the camp and work crews. If nothing else, Lillian hoped the sheer number of eyes on the lookout would unmask the culprit.
With Yorke’s help, she penned an account of the latest happenings for her father—carefully worded so he wouldn’t order her home out of fear for her safety—while assuring him that all would be resolved by the time the excursion party arrived in a few days. Naturally, he wouldn’t receive her letter until after the fact, but she did her duty in informing him, as promised.
That task done, she dismissed Yorke for the night. Aileen, pleading fatigue, retired to her own cabin shortly after the evening meal.
Now, Lillian forced herself to concentrate on Conn. Or, rather, on his work. The idea was to put on an art spectacle of sorts for their guests, then provide each with a unique photograph as a souvenir of the excursion.
Lillian looked at the contrast of her hand, pale and slender, alongside Conn’s on the desk. His was wide and tanned, with blunt, masculine nails tipping lean fingers that appeared as limber as a pianist’s. Conn slid the photograph they were examining aside so she could see another image. This one was of a group of Chinamen working at the mouth of the newly begun tunnel, little more than a dimple in the face of the cliff. Even caught frozen in time, the vitality and commotion of the scene was evident. Dirty and dust-grimed, some carried empty baskets to the cliff wall, while others hurried away with baskets brimming with rocks and debris balanced on their heads. Sweat glistened on their faces, expressions focused and weary all at once. One man, clay pots of tea dangling from a yoke over his shoulders, had stopped beside another to tip some of the steaming hot beverage into a waiting cup.
“Captivating,” Lillian said, glancing up to meet his eyes.
“Yes,” he said. “You are.”
He gave her plenty of time to avoid him. She didn’t even try. She leaned forward to hurry the moment when their lips finally met. At the first touch of his mouth, she gasped. His kiss wasn’t hesitant in the least. No tentative brush of his lips over hers, no inquiring glide of his tongue, questing for entrance. The moment his mouth came down on hers, his palm cupped the back of her head to tilt her face to the precise angle he wanted. Lillian closed her eyes and let him drag her against him as their tongues tangled in fierce passion. Conn rumbled a sound in his chest that she instinctively knew was approval.
Nimble fingers raced over the fastenings of her gown. Without a word of protest, she helped him slip the sleeves from her shoulders and push the heavy fabric down her sides and over her hips to pool on the floor. He freed her from corset and petticoats just as nimbly. Effortlessly, he lifted her free of the puddled fabric and moved them both a few steps away before setting her down. Briefly, he leaned away to watch his hands mold and shape her full breasts through the fabric of her chemise, the cloth so sheer it revealed the dusky coins of her nipples and the mahogany triangle at the apex of her thighs.
Lillian reached for his clothes to undress him. He allowed it just long enough for her to unfa
sten his waistcoat and tug his shirt from his trousers before he loosened the ribbon of her chemise and that, too, joined the rest of her clothing on the floor. She stood before him in nothing but stockings, garters and the pretty, low-heeled slippers she wore inside her private car. Eyes smoldering, he raked her with his gaze. Dipping his head, he took her mouth in a second ravenous kiss. Eagerly, she submitted to his blatant domination. Again he picked her up. Her arms looped naturally around his neck as he walked her a few more paces back. She flinched in surprise as her spine abruptly met the cool wood paneling of the wall.
Conn’s hands left her, but only for the breath it took to unfasten his trousers and release the hard shaft of his cock. The blunt tip nudged between her thighs, just touching the wet, slippery nub of her clitoris. Lillian whimpered as the soft touch sent electricity sparking through her core. Without thought, she lifted one leg and twined her heel behind his knee, opening herself wider to his possession. She rubbed herself demandingly against him. Her juices quickly coated his shaft as her wet slit glided along his hard length. The slippery friction teased the bead of erect flesh in her cunny, adding to the jolts of pleasure that encouraged her to move faster, harder. They both groaned. He hooked his arm under her thigh and hoisted her leg higher, around his hip, then took his cock in hand and placed it exactly where she needed it most. Then, poised at her entrance, he guided her other leg up and around, supporting her with hands splayed under her bottom. She flexed her hips, trying to entice him in, but he mastered her easily, holding her still in his grip.
He dragged his mouth from hers, kissing along her jaw until his breath rasped harsh and exciting in her ear. “Delilah, my sultry temptress,” he said, the Irish in his voice thick and thrilling. “I must have you. I can’t wait.”
The Railroad Baroness Page 12
