by Honey
"I missed that newspaper," Specs said, folding his arms over his chest. "You're right. It's embarrassing."
Deacon shrugged. "So what do you propose we do, Cub?"
"First off, we have to all be in agreement," Cub said. "Show of hands, gentlemen."
Hands lifted. Alex merely tipped his Stetson at a lower angle over his brow. He glanced through a window in the car door. He saw Captain, doing just what he'd been doing when Alex left him—looking out the window with a worried expression. Cap had been excited to come on the trip and had done nothing but talk about it for days, but as soon as the train rolled out, he'd done nothing but ask Alex when they were going back to Harmony. Alex hadn't anticipated Captain's reaction. He wished he had; he could have made other arrangements.
The car was filled with few passengers at this time of the evening; the hour was just shy of nine. A pair of lovebirds, newlyweds from the way they cuddled and cooed at each other, had gotten on at the last stop. Now they slept, the wife's head resting on her husband's shoulder.
Camille sat in one of the middle seats. Couldn't miss her. That hat. Bluebirds and sprays of floral stuff. She looked out the Venetian blinds into the darkness, then back at something in her lap.
Alex absently faced forward.
Cub narrowed his eyes at him. "Cordova, are you in with us or not?"
"I've never hit a lady."
Cub spouted off. "We aren't going to hit her! Just get her fired."
"Same thing in my book." Alex watched Charlie light another smoke from the burning end of the one he'd just finished. Grinding the butt with the instep of his shoe, Charlie inhaled and let a stream of gray smoke pass between his lips.
Cub pursued Alex. "Why did you tell us to 'get over it' back in the clubhouse a week ago? Do you know something about Miss Kennison that we don't? Do you have a plan of your own to get rid of her?"
"Actually, I thought she'd get rid of herself I didn't think she'd last."
"Well, she has lasted. So are you with us?"
Alex sucked up some of the thick smoke into his lungs, taking from the air what he could of Charlie's Old Judge cigarette. "I don't really care what you do about her."
"Then will you keep this information to yourself?" Specs asked.
"Yeah, why not."
"Here's the deal, then," Cub began with a conspiratorial smile. "We make her look bad every chance we get. On the train, off the train, in restaurants and hotels, in the ballpark. Kennison is going to have to fire her when he sees how shabby things are looking."
Yank felt the stubble on his jaw. "So what do we do first?"
"Well, Doc's in the john." Cub gave a slight chuckle. "Duke's waiting outside and'll take his place as soon as Doc flushes the crapper and the train stops."
Alex listened without enthusiasm. Pranks. He didn't go in for them. Many players pulled this stuff, even when they did like the manager. Alex knew all about the pneumatic brake system on the car and how it tapped into the air-water apparatus when flushing the john. If a person flushed at the right moment, the brakes locked. A big sign hung above the sink that said not to pull the chain on a curve.
Cub, who sidled up to the door, gazed through the window and nodded to Duke, who in turn rapped three times on the water closet door.
Holy hell. Alex moved past Cub and let himself out of the vestibule to take his seat beside Cap, who'd finally nodded off. His face was contorted in some dream, but it didn't look as if it were a nightmare— merely the stress of keeping himself awake for so many hours at a time.
Alex glanced at Camille. She sat four rows ahead of him. She'd barely slept all night. Alex had stayed up most of it with her, not one to sleep deeply on a train. He guessed Camille was worried about the team. She should be. They were going to make her life unpleasant. Alex almost felt sorry for her. But he pushed that thought back. There was no place in baseball for foolish sentiments. If men—or women—couldn't handle the pressure, then they'd better get the hell out.
A screech of metal brake against iron rail scratched through the car. Alex clenched his jaw while Cap sat up, hair in his eyes.
"Are we going back to Harmony now, Alex?"
"Naw, Cap. Go back to sleep."
Cap frowned, his eyelids drooping. "I just got comfortable. These seats are bad."
The hard seats, with barely any leather to them, did leave little to be desired. Being as tall as they were, both he and Captain were pressed for comfortable space; the knees on their long legs touched the back of the seat in front of them. Alex stood, shrugged out of his traveling duster, and wadded it in a ball. "Use this to rest your head on, Cap, and go back to sleep."
Almost instantly, Cap did.
Camille had risen to her feet, bending forward to look out the window. Alex appreciated the way her breasts molded against her white shirtwaist. How her waist seemed slender and curvaceous at the same time. She looked over her shoulder at him. A tiny curl fell in front of her right ear, exactly where her cheek had pressed on the wood panel of the wall when she'd napped. That heavy-lidded gaze, and a low voice made throatier from exhaustion, was purely sensual. "Do you think we've hit an animal on the tracks?"
Alex couldn't contain a smile. "We're barely out of Chicago. The only animals out here are criminals."
She gave him a frown, her lips looking soft and lush. He would have liked to knock her hat off, pull the pins from her hair, and sink his fingers into the blond curls—then kiss her for a long, long while.
The brakeman, a big ox of a man, stomped through the car from the front vestibule, his eyes zeroing in on the water closet. The shiny patent-leather bill of his navy hat acted as a mirror, reflecting the displeasure in his face and giving it a bluish tinge of anger.
Alex casually turned in his seat as Ox Man rapped on the lavatory door with a big fist. "You in there— can't you read the sign?"
"Oh, I can read," came Doc's muffled voice. "My mistake."
Snickers sounded from the players. They'd gathered in the back of the car, trying to smother their guffaws.
"Who's in charge here?" the brakeman called, looking at the players.
"I am."
Camille walked toward them, her steps a little unsteady from having been sitting for so long. Alex was almost tempted to take her by the elbow, but he refrained. He didn't want any part of this.
"I'm certain the use of the closet on a curve was a genuine mistake."
"Who are you?"
"Camille Kennison, manager of the Harmony Keystones." She made a quick adjustment of her frilly collar.
"Manager of baseball?"
At that, her tone grew slightly defensive. "Yes."
The brakeman began to lumber back through the aisle, muttering, "It'd better have been mistake, lady. Now we have to reset the air pressure."
"It won't happen again," she called after him, then looked at the men who hung around the closet door. "Will it?"
Nobody answered.
But it did happen again. Four more times. Each time the brakeman had come in, her demeanor had changed. She'd gone from being demurely polite to being incensed over the joke. The fifth time the train was stopped by a flush, she came apart. She was already standing as Ox Man marched into the car.
"I understand you're upset," she said before the brakeman could get out a single word. Her eyes flashed with outrage. "I feel the same way. And believe you me, there's going to be aces to pay."
She tread heavily—gone was that efficient walk— over to the water closet door, glaring at the players who milled around, then rapping with glove-covered fingers on the door. "Mox! You get your keister out of there right this instant!"
Turned in his seat, Alex watched the sparks that seemed to crackle off her like a charged wire. Jesus. He'd never seen a lady mean business the way Camille Kennison meant business. She looked dangerous. Desirable. If this is how she got when she didn't hold her temper back—holy Christ—what would she be like if she didn't hold her passion back?
Sheepishly,
Mox stuck his head through a crack in the door. She all but grabbed the handle and swung it open on him.
She berated him. "This is intolerable."
"You've got that right," the brakeman agreed in a growl. "The next time this crapper is flushed and the brakes lock because of it, each and every one of you will be off this train. I don't give a damn where we happen to be. Even if it's twenty miles from the next station!"
His voice bellowed through the car as he stomped out.
Camille rested her hands on her slender hips, looked at the hoodlums, and made a threat of her own. "If we are thrown off this train, it will cost each and every one of you the price of your ticket, plus an additional fifty dollars by way of a fine from the Keystones management."
Then she went back to her seat, where she took slow, deep breaths to calm herself. She remained gazing out the window as the train began to roll again.
Cub had passed the word that the high jinks had been a success. It was probably a good thing it was over: all that opening and closing the john door had loosened the screws on the door's handle, so the next man in who had to use it for real had better be careful not to lock himself inside.
Three hours after the first flush, Captain awoke and was now chewing on a sandwich a waiter doled out for a few cents.
"When are we going back to Harmony?" he asked again. "I've got to be at work."
"I thought you wanted to come with me," Alex replied.
"I thought so, too. But I don't want to lose my job at Plunkett's. I like it. I like having Hildegarde back."
Alex rotated his ankles in an attempt to stimulate the circulation blood, the lack of which had numbed his feet. "Mr. Plunkett said you could take some days off. We'll be going back home soon."
"When?"
"In about two weeks."
"How many days is that?"
"Fourteen."
"Spell that."
He did, and Cap recited the letters a few times.
Alex continued to monitor Camille's every move, every gesture. A lift of her hand to her lips, her fingers brushing them in thought. Slow sweeps of her lashes. An adjustment of her collar, then an absent graze of the button at her throat. With each little motion she made, he felt his body stir, until he had to stand and look at some different scenery.
Alex walked down the aisle and tapped Charlie on the shoulder. "Have an extra smoke?"
"Yeah, sure."
Hiding the cigarette and match in his hand, Alex glanced at Cap. Cap would give him hell for smoking again; he hated cigarettes. So Alex headed for the vestibule to light up in private. Once at the door, he glimpsed the lovebirds sharing a newlywed kiss. Damn.
He wasn't about to go another minute without smoking this cigarette, so he went inside the comfort station and gently closed the door so as not to pop the screw on the lock. It was a cramped closet barely three feet square with a slash of a window that had been left open. A washbasin with nickel fixtures and zinc floor were about the only things that spruced it up. Above the sink words had been emblazoned in a big sign:
Warning!
A water closet flushed at the wrong moment could upset the pneumatic balance of the Westinghouse system. Do not operate it while train is on curve.
Alex had no intentions of flushing the john, curve or not.
Striking the match against the frame of the door, he brought the flame to the end of his cigarette. Then drew in a cloud of heaven into his lungs. He casually lounged against the edge of the sink. He meant to enjoy every last puff.
Christ, it had been much too long.
* * * * *
Camille paid the waiter several coins for a raspberry jelly sandwich wrapped in wax paper. She'd save the meal for later; she wasn't hungry now. All that horseplay with the water closet. Whatever had gotten into the players sorely disappointed her. She'd thought better of them. She'd actually thought they had begun to accept her position. Their apparent about-face nicked her feelings.
Well, if she were being truly honest, she had to admit they'd never really warmed up to her, not in the way she'd hoped. Although there had been those moments when she thought they'd shared a smile or two. Maybe they'd been laughing at her. If that were the case...
She shook off the thought. No sense in making herself crazy about it. They had just under a day left of travel. They'd check into a hotel and get ready for their game against the Philadelphia Athletics. There was no time to doubt her abilities.
She scanned the seats in front of her, where several of the players were occupied with a game of cards. Then she looked a little to her left, and lastly over her shoulder. Captain sat alone. Camille frowned. She looked at the players once more and began to count them off. One, two, three... six, seven... twelve. One was missing.
Since she hadn't seen Alex leave through the front car, he had to have gone out through the back—if he'd left at all. That meant only one other place he could be. She chilled at the thought.
Quickly, she rose and went to Specs, who sat in the last row of the car with Cupid Burns. She'd thought Specs had been an advocate of hers, but clearly she'd been mistaken. She had to make sure the prank didn't happen again. If it did, they were going to get thrown off the train. And how would she explain that to her father? Being cast adrift meant inconvenience, and even more than that, not getting to Philadelphia on time. They'd miss the game. She'd be in big trouble.
"Mr. Ryan," she said to Specs, "where is Mr. Cordova?"
Specs lifted his brows as if he really wasn't sure. "I don't know."
She moved her gaze to Cupid. "Have you seen him?"
Cupid's eyes darted to the water closet, then his Adam's apple wobbled up and down the front of his neck when he spoke. "I saw him going into the—"
She didn't wait to hear the rest. She turned on a fast heel. She never should have bought that sandwich and grown distracted. While she'd been paying for her meal, Alex had snuck into the water closet. She couldn't let him do anything to get them bounced from the train.
At the door in an instant, she frantically knocked on the wood panel. Her gloves muffled her rapping. "Mr. Cordova, I want you to exit the facility immediately."
No answer.
She knocked again. Urgently.
The train swayed and rocked, careening toward a curve on the rails. She could feel it beneath her feet. She jarred a little to the right and had to put her arm out against the wall. Her pulse danced. Her mind spun with the consequences. Panic swept through her.
"Mr. Cordova, what are you doing in there?"
She knocked harder.
When he finally answered, his voice was dry and deliberate. "Come in and see for yourself."
She was left with no choice but to grip the knob and swing the door open. The moment she did, the train rounded a bend and the door swung closed on her behind, shoving her headlong into the tiny, smoke-filled cubicle. The next thing she knew, she was pressed up against Alex, breasts to chest. No room to move an inch.
The oil-burning globe lamp didn't give off a lot of light from its position over the washbasin. She looked into Alex's face, her hands on his chest—the only thing to brace her fall. She was a tall woman, but he was much taller. Without his Stetson, his ink black hair fell in a tumble over his forehead as he gazed down at her.
"You miss me?" His voice sounded deeper, richer in the small space.
"That's not it at all. I'm checking on you."
"Nobody's checked on me in the john since I was two and learned to pee standing up. So what did you really want?"
Camille felt her cheeks heat hotter than a cast-iron skillet. "I thought you might be fl—" She stopped midsentence. "I just thought you might be up to no good."
He smiled suggestively. "I am up to no good."
That he'd admit it struck a chord in her. "Thank you, Mr. Cordova, for nothing. I thought you were above this kind of foolery."
"Don't get a twist in your petticoats, honey. I was only smoking."
"Smoking?"
; "Captain doesn't like it and I didn't want to get him excited."
"Really?" Curls of tobacco smoke did fill the space. She had noticed it before but had put the thought out of her mind. Just the same, she questioned, "You're quite certain that's all you planned to do in here?"
A slow, disarming smile curved his lips. "Not unless the urge hit me to do something else."
Unbidden, a blush stained her cheeks.
Now that the matter of what he was doing in here had been cleared up, she was conscious of every place on her body where Alex touched her, especially the hard cords of muscle in his thighs that were separated from her own thighs by only the pleats of her skirt. Filling out a worn-soft cotton shirt, his wide shoulders seemed even wider in the small space. She noted his shirt didn't have a collar—just a simple band in pale blue to match the pale blue of the shirt itself. She had the strangest urge to touch the base of his throat, where the pearl buttons fastened the top of his shirts. Alex seemed so warm. So...
"Uh, Miss Kennison..." Specs said through the door.
She almost forgot that there were over a dozen people outside the door. All of whom knew that she and Alex were in the comfort station. Alone.
"We have to ask for help," she whispered, unable to trust her voice. A tingling worked its way into the pit of her stomach and was creeping over her skin and making her feel lightheaded. "Don't you see how compromising this looks?"
"All I can see is the faint light in your eyes, part of your lips"—his face had come very close to hers as he spoke—"and the handle on that door missing."
With that, she all but stammered, "What?" She turned as best as she could to see that the handle was indeed missing. There was a small hole where the locking mechanism was supposed to go, but there was no handle.
"The screws got knocked out when you slammed the door."
"I didn't slam the door. It slammed me."
"However you want to look at it." He slipped his arm around her waist and drew her tightly next to him. His breath was warm against the side of her neck. "I don't care how you got in here. And now that you are..."
She pushed at his shoulders, knowing exactly what he was going to do. But the push had about as much strength to it as a shadow when his mouth covered hers. Her heart pounded, and as much as she wanted to tell him no, she couldn't. The light brush of his mouth brought a current of pleasure through her. Just as intense, if not more so, than the time he'd kissed her in the buggy.
