The Rails to Love Romance Collection

by Brandmeyer, Diana Lesire; Cabot, Amanda; Carter, Lisa

  Lincoln bent and flicked the string of beads around Nash’s throat. “You dress like a native. I bet your favorite supper is acorn stew. With chunks of squirrel. Am I right?”

  Ellen’s face heated. How many times had others spoken to her like that, pretending to joke, but with cutting words? Her hands clenched on her lap as remembered voices filled her ears.

  No dance lessons at that fancy college, eh?

  We’d invite you, but everybody knows you’re not one for social evenings.

  I’ve never seen someone have such a hard time with a simple stitch. Good thing you’re unwed and don’t need to smock baby clothes.

  Men who asked everyone else to dance. Conversations carried on around her. Labels of loner and spinster cloaking her like a shawl. Until Ambrose. And then—

  Nash’s voice drew her gaze. Something about his beads being a gift. His smile hadn’t faltered at all. “But no, the Miwoks don’t dress like this, and as for acorns?” He smacked his lips in an exaggerated display. “More mush than stew. Tasty, too.”

  He ended it with a wink for Ellen.

  How did he do that—make light of others’ rude comments? In some ways, he embodied on the outside what she felt on the inside. His appearance made him stand out; her awkwardness kept her isolated. But Nash didn’t seem to mind Lincoln’s derision. He smiled as if Lincoln’s attitude didn’t bother him a lick.

  How did he have that sort of confidence?

  Lincoln snorted and returned to Primrose.

  Nash turned to Ellen. “Seriously, now.” His face was not the least bit serious, with that smile. “My favorite food is peach pie. What’s yours?”

  If he could ignore Lincoln, maybe she could try to squelch the voices in her head, too.

  “Squirrel.” The tease blurted out.

  He burst into laughter. “I said you liked cake.”

  “It’s mashed potatoes. No point for us.” She leaned closer, so Lincoln wouldn’t overhear. “Do Californians really eat squirrel?”

  “People eat squirrel everywhere. We eat gold-dusted lizards.”

  A giggle escaped her throat. And multiplied until she laughed so loud she covered her mouth with her hand. Really, this game wasn’t that funny. Neither was joking about lizards and squirrel, or the baffled looks they received from Lincoln and Primrose. But she couldn’t help it, and apparently neither could Nash, because he laughed, too.

  It was hard not to stare at Nash when he laughed. He was handsome, but there was so much more to him. He was kind. Didn’t dismiss her when she told him about Gabe. He didn’t rise to the bait of those who found humor at others’ expense, like Lincoln.

  Thanks for sending me a good partner for the trip, Lord. Her fingers tapped code against her lap.

  “Are you two finished?” Stella leaned around Clifford, grinning.

  Had Ellen and Nash held up the game by giggling? “Sorry.”

  Nash snickered, which made her snigger again.

  Five minutes later, the Howells won a dinner at the San Francisco Palace Hotel. Ellen’s jaw dropped at the announcement she and Nash had not come in last place, however. They’d scored somewhere in the middle. He gazed at her with his lips parted, surprise in his eyes.

  “We didn’t lose.” His arm went around her shoulders for a brief, brotherly hug.

  The nerves along her arm caught fire. Say something humorous—

  “Huzzah!” Oh, she could kick herself.

  “My word.” Primrose’s brows were high. “I’ve never before seen anyone so happy to lose a game.”

  “Um-hmm.” Lincoln waggled his brows.

  “That was fun.” Nash rose. “Think I’ll visit the lounge. Stretch my legs.”

  She nodded, disappointment and relief warring for supremacy in her stomach. It was probably for the best he left so she could chide herself for responding to his platonic gesture like a lovesick girl. And huzzah? She shuddered.

  She mustn’t forget, she had work to do. For today, it was investigating the Prewetts. A few days from now, work entailed starting life anew at Rawlings Mining and Transport. And Nash, a man who slept outdoors and ate acorn mush and squirrel, would never fit into that sort of structured life. Even if she’d liked his arm around her.

  “Before you go, here’s yesterday’s paper.” She withdrew it from her valise and tapped her finger over the article about the heiress and her stolen boy, Gabriel. With a grim set to his lips, Nash glanced at the Prewetts.

  God had given her Nash to help her on the trip—a trip to a job and a new life. She was beyond blessed for that mercy. She shouldn’t yearn for more than that.

  A few hours later, Nash peered out at the passing scenery, but his attention remained fixed on Gabe. When Nash came upon him a minute ago, the boy was standing on the sofa, his upper half hanging out the open window, waving at the folks gathered along the tracks. At once, Nash came up behind him and wrapped an arm around the boy’s midsection to keep him from falling out onto the tracks.

  Nash couldn’t blame Gabe. Boys got antsy cooped up like this. But an accident could’ve happened, so Nash stayed put, waiting until Mr. Prewett—or Pierce, if Ellen was right—returned to his son.

  “You’re good to wave at those folks.” Nash patted Gabe’s white-blond head.

  “There must be thousands of ’em watchin’ us go by,” Gabe said with gravity, as if it was his job to provide the viewers, a few hundred, not thousands, acknowledgement.

  Was this as many as the number who mobbed the tracks when the Jarrett-Palmer Express made this trip in June? Word was schools let out, businesses closed, and funerals paused so folks could get a gander at the first express train.

  It seemed the Honeymoon Express was cause for celebration, too. Here on the outskirts of Chicago, people waved and shouted, just as they had all along the way today.

  Nash craned his head. Ellen sat with her arms crossed, tapping dots and dashes on her lap. That, more than the set of her jaw, told him she fretted. The train had stopped four times today to switch engines, take on coal and water, and switch personnel. Who’d have guessed an engine could be changed in just thirty seconds? There’d been no time for anyone to peek at the depot, much less to send a telegram.

  Ellen wanted to send that query to her father’s friend about the possibility of Gabe Prewett being Gabe Pierce. Needed to send it. Her fingers probably itched to send the telegram herself.

  The conductor traversed the aisle. “May I have your attention, please? It’s four aught one p.m., and we are coming up on Chicago five minutes ahead of schedule.”

  The passengers cheered.

  “We’ll stop for ten minutes to pick up a new engineer.” The conductor held up his pocket watch. “You may detrain, but you must reboard when the whistle sounds. We’d like to cross the Mississippi River during daylight.”

  The train slowed beneath Nash’s feet. As he swayed forward with the momentum, he locked gazes with Ellen. This might be her best opportunity.

  She hopped up. “Are you coming?”

  He couldn’t, not when Mr. Prewett hadn’t come to collect Gabe. “I’d best stay here.”

  She gave a curt nod. The moment the train lurched to a stop she was out the door.

  Most of the passengers followed in her wake. Mr. Prewett collected Gabe, leaving Nash in the hotel car with the Howells.

  “After you.” Clifford gestured to Nash.

  It would feel good to stand on solid ground. Nash nodded and bounded down the steps.

  The number of enthusiasts gathered at the depot brought Nash to a halt. Scores, to Nash’s quick count. Some lifted painted signs offering felicitations while others waved their arms, but all were held back from the train by more than a dozen policemen. Not that the use of force was necessary. Faces in the crowd grinned, attesting to their enjoyment of the spectacle of the Express. Wasn’t much to see, though, except porters tossing bundles of the New York Daily off the train while others loaded crates aboard.

  Was there sufficient time f
or Ellen to send the telegram? He appreciated her determination to find proof before she accused Jerome Prewett of taking his child from his mother. Nash had exchanged few words with Prewett today; the man was private, something Nash could relate to, but it was clear Prewett wasn’t a particularly attentive parent. Nevertheless, he appeared to care for his son, and Gabe was not afraid of him.

  The whistle hadn’t blown, but Nash mounted the steps to the hotel car. Lord, help Ellen send that telegram fast—

  A movement at the opposite end of the coach drew his eye. Stella in someone else’s seat, her hands deep in another’s bag.

  Stealing? Snooping? While Nash didn’t like to judge, something wasn’t right. The whistle blew, making her jump. Then she looked up at Nash.

  They stared at each other a half second before stomping sounded behind him. Clifford pushed past Nash to take his wife’s shoulder.

  “Stella.” His voice was low, but Nash could detect frustration. So the fellow knew his wife had a tendency to snoop, or steal, or whatever she did. Hopefully she wouldn’t do it again.

  Unless—

  Nash mulled the thought, stepping back so the reboarding honeymooners could find their seats. He’d share his suspicions with Ellen when she returned. His gaze fixed on the door. Gabe burst through, chomping a fragrant peppermint stick, but Ellen didn’t reappear. The conductor sidestepped down the aisle. “Tickets!”

  Alarm clogged his throat. “Ellen isn’t back yet.”

  “Sir, we are on the tightest of schedules.”

  “She’ll be right here.” He prayed so. He should’ve gone with her. If she’d come to harm by some brigands in the depot…

  His stomach clenched. So did his fists.

  “This is not a sightseeing trip.” The conductor’s mouth pinched. “We are attempting to set a speed record, sir. Perhaps you should detrain with your wife.”

  It wasn’t worth correcting him. But there was no question what he should do. “Fine.”

  The conductor stood aside. “We’ll drop your luggage in Fulton, sir.”

  Clifford stood, holding Nash back. “Surely the train can wait another minute.”

  “Aw, get off the train, Mr. Nash. You and the missus are ruining the schedule.” Ridley pulled out his pocket watch.

  Primrose and Lincoln argued amongst themselves. Which of them wanted to leave Ellen behind?

  “What will your sponsor, the New York Daily, say about leaving a lady behind?” Nash’s arms crossed.

  Mouth softening, the conductor nodded. “I’ll speak to the engineer. Five minutes.”

  Nash exhaled in relief even as he pushed his way to the door to watch for Ellen. Maybe he should hop off and find her—

  The train lurched forward.

  “Wait.” Nash’s yell was lost under the train’s rumble, fruitless though it was to even ask. The train couldn’t be stopped now, so he had no choice but to hop off so Ellenwouldn’t be stuck alone in Chicago. He leaned out the door, ready to jump.

  “Nash!” Ellen ran, skirts hiked, one hand pressing her bonnet to her head.

  They weren’t going fast yet. He gripped the door rail with one hand and held out the other. “Take my hand.”

  She reached. Then looked down and stumbled.

  Another move like that and she wouldn’t make it. “Look at me.”

  “Nash.” Her fear came out in his name. But she kept running. And she looked him in the eye.

  “I’ve got you.”

  But it was only the tips of her fingers that met his when the train bowled forward in a burst of speed.

  Chapter Four

  Ellen’s wrist still ached from Nash’s grip a full ten minutes after he yanked her onto the train. He’d had to stretch to haul her aboard, and she’d barreled into his arms. His limbs must hurt worse than her wrist, but perhaps not as much as her pride. Shame swamped her innards.

  After Nash hauled her aboard the train, a few ladies swooned at his heroics, but others began sniping about her tardiness. She’d apologized to the conductor—twice—as well as the group, but Mr. Ridley still grumbled to whomever sat near him about how if they didn’t get across the Mississippi River before sunset, they’d be stuck all night.

  “That’s not true, by the way.” Nash’s voice was soft as breath on her cheek. “It’s slow going over the river, night or day. It’s just easier to see before dusk. We’ll make it.”

  “I know, but—” She peeked up. “Mrs. Ridley is glaring at me.”

  “Mrs. Ridley doesn’t know you’re trying to return a boy to his ma. Besides, who cares what she thinks?”

  Ellen shouldn’t care, but she did. She’d have preferred to send the telegram and return before the whistle, so the train could make its speed record and no one would be vexed with her. Those voices in her head started up again. Her fingers tapped against her thigh. Nash saw and frowned.

  Her fingers stilled.

  He nudged her shoulder with his, another fraternal gesture that sent her heart out of beat. “Did you send that telegram?”

  “At last.” Her tone revealed her irritation.

  His mouth quirked. “Slow telegrapher?”

  “Like molasses.” Professional pride trumped her embarrassment, and her spine stiffened.

  “I’m sure you could have sent the telegram faster yourself.”

  Thrice over, but it would be boastful to admit it. Instead she glanced at Gabe, whose mouth was shiny with candy residue. Her fingers twitched to take a hanky to it, but his father didn’t seem to notice. “I asked Father’s friend to send his reply to me in Omaha. According to our guidebook, we’ll pause to switch engines and take on supplies. All I need to do is lean out the window and reach out my hand for it, and perhaps we shall have an answer.”

  She hadn’t meant it as a joke, but Nash chortled. It was a funny image, so she smiled, too. “Did you get off the train?”

  His face sobered. “Let’s stretch our legs.”

  They’d stretched plenty when she sprinted like a jackrabbit to catch the train, but shefollowed anyway. He led her to the back of the car, shielding her from the other passengers with his broad shoulders.

  “Notice anything odd about Stella Howell?”

  Her head jerked back in surprise. Stella was perhaps the nicest woman on the train. “She’s tense, perhaps, but she’s a new bride and I imagine honeymooning like this would strain anyone. I like her.”

  “I caught her in somebody’s valise while everyone was off the train.”

  Ellen’s stomach clenched. “I found her searching Mrs. Fisher’s bag, but she said she received permission to borrow thread.”

  “I don’t think she had permission.”

  “She’s snooping?”

  “Remember yesterday’s newspaper? The headlines were about the Express, the boy, and that bank-robbing couple.” His voice was so low his breath warmed her ear.

  “A man and woman. The paper said they told their accomplice they’d flee town on a train yesterday.” Her mouth went dry. “Surely not the Howells.”

  “They stayed on the train when everyone else got off. He was upset with her when he saw what happened, but who’s to say he wasn’t more upset she was caught than by what she was doing. Maybe they were taking advantage of the empty train to take cash or jewels. And remember how she mentioned fleeing town when we first met? I can’t help thinking something isn’t right, and that might be it.”

  Her fingers fluttered over her lips. They felt cold despite the stifling heat in the car. “I would hate it if it were true.”

  His hand squeezed her arm. “Me, too. But it bears watching.”

  He’d watched the Prewetts—or Prices—for her. She’d do the same with the Howells.

  “I’m going to the lounge. See what I hear.”

  “I’ll do the same.” She nodded farewell.

  Still, it wasn’t easy to return Stella’s smile when she returned to her seat.

  At the announcement of supper, Nash hopped to his feet. The feeble parti
tion between the lounge and the dining area couldn’t hold back the savory smell of meat roasting in the galley all afternoon. His stomach rumbled. His steps were sure.

  Until he crossed the threshold of the dimly lit dining area.

  In his thirty-two years, he’d survived war, negotiations with Native tribes, and cold and drought while living off the land. But he wasn’t sure he could do—this.

  A romantic dinner with a pretty lady.

  Fool, Nash. You forgot what sort of train you’re on.

  Ellen sat at a table for two, her fingers tapping the white-clothed table squeezed between a dozen like it. The chair across from her remained empty. His chair. He couldn’t leave. Couldn’t humiliate her like that.

  But he never thought he’d sit alone at a table with a pretty lady again. Why would he, since he had no plans to remarry? His head understood the plan.

  Then why was his heart starting to forget?

  That’s why a romantic dinner with her scared him. Yes, scared. Because his traitorous heart enjoyed it too much.

  Ridley bumped past, jarring Nash to the present. Coward. He plastered on a smile and marched to the table.

  “This seat taken?”

  She shook her head and smiled.

  “How was your afternoon? Oh.” The porter placed soup bowls before them. Consommé, thin and brown. “I’d like to offer grace, if you don’t mind.”

  After he prayed, she dove into her soup with relish. “It’s warm. I wasn’t sure it would be, after our earlier meals.”

  “Train’s going slower so it’s easier for the staff to cook.” He tilted his jaw toward the window. “We’re about to cross the bridge. See?”

  The sun sank low, dappling the Mississippi River with gold. As pretty a scene as Nash had ever seen, and at this slow speed, he had time to appreciate the lapping waves and thin-streaked clouds overhead.

  Her eyes shone with appreciation for the view. And something else. “You said we’d make it by nightfall. You were right.”

  “Don’t hear that too often,” he joked. Her smile widened. She didn’t know how pretty she was, which made her all the more fetching—

  He immobilized, spoon aloft.