“It’s not always easy to read smoke, but this doesn’t seem to be spreading fast. Yet.” A home or barn may be aflame, but fire could spread quickly. His muscles tensed.
With a banshee’s shriek, the train braked. Folks swayed forward. Primrose glared at Nash. “You said it wasn’t a prairie fire.”
“Scheduled stop.” Nash forced a smile. “Right, Ellen?”
“Oh—yes.” She thumbed through the itinerary. “North Platte.”
“I bet we’ll be stuck,” Lincoln grumbled.
Unlike other stations they passed, this one boasted no waving bystanders. Was everyone else fighting the fire? The conductor hurried down the aisle.
“Switchin’ engines, folks. I’m sure the fire’s not near us a’tall.” The instant the train paused, however, he leapt from the car.
Ellen’s fingers tapped against the sofa. Dash dot. A J for Jesus?
“Fire will set us back hours.” Primrose rubbed her temple.
Lincoln patted her hand. Stella and Clifford murmured quietly. Gabe clambered back onto the sofa beside Ellen, stumbled, and knocked her in the temple with his elbow. Her head snapped back, then smacked against the train wall with a crack.
Nash caught her to his chest. “Ellen?”
“Yes.” She blinked, as if dazed.
He smoothed back the hair from her brow, then glanced at Stella. “Water, please?”
Ellen grunted. “Not that wretched yellow stuff.”
“Mercy, woman, I didn’t take you for a picky sort.”
To his immense relief, she rolled her eyes. Then groaned. “That hurts.”
Gabe started crying. Again. “Sorry!”
“It’s not your fault, dear.” Ellen patted his sleeve.
The conductor bounded aboard the train. “Looks like a barn caught fire. It’s close enough to the tracks that it could cause a problem for us, so we’re stuck for now. A few of our men’ll go help to make things quicker.”
Primrose groaned. So did a few other passengers, as if the speed record was more important than some family’s livelihood. Nash settled Ellen on the seat as Stella brought a cup of the nasty water from the saloon. “Take care of her.”
“Of course.” A half-smile split Stella’s usually stern countenance.
For a dazed woman, Ellen’s grip on his arm felt firm. “Where are you going?”
She already knew, so he smiled. “The more hands, the faster it’ll go.”
“I’ll go, too.” Clifford removed his jacket.
Still, Ellen didn’t let go of his shirtsleeve. “Nash—”
She didn’t finish. Instead, her eyes watered. So he bent down and kissed a spot just east of her mouth. “I’ll be back.”
He and Clifford jumped from the train and followed a crowd of men toward the source of the smoke.
It was an hour, maybe more. Nash beat flames away from the farmhouse while others pumped buckets of water. When the barn was a smoldering heap, he and Clifford gathered the animals in the yard and fenced them behind the house with rope. It wouldn’thold well, but with the paddock fence burnt, it was better than nothing.
The rail crew headed back, so he and Clifford followed. Nash was stretching his aching shoulders when Clifford started to laugh.
“Something funny?” The moment Nash spoke, he knew what it was—the same thing he saw—a man covered head to toe in soot, his tooth-white smile the only clean thing about him. He joined Clifford’s laughter.
“Here.” Clifford yanked a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, handed it to Nash, and pointed at his own cheek. “Right there. Just shy of your mouth.”
“Just there?” He’d need a horse trough to get clean.
“You’ll want the spot fresh so Ellen can kiss you back.”
Nash lost his footing for half a step. Expelled a long breath. Then thrust the handkerchief back, unused. “It wasn’t like that.”
“So were you kissing her to make it better, or counting on her being so addlepated from the goose egg on her head she won’t remember what you did?” Clifford wiped his face with the handkerchief, smearing more soot than he removed. “You don’t know women.”
He knew better than to kiss one. “I wanted to set her at ease.” And she looked so sweet. So concerned.
“Everyone can see you’re sweet on each other.”
Nash took a long draw of air. “It’s complicated.”
“Isn’t it always? I love Stella, for better or worse. Doesn’t mean things are perfect. There’s no such thing. But even in the rough times, I’m glad we have each other.” He rubbed his filthy chin as they rounded the corner to the depot. The whole train had emptied while they waited to move on, not that Nash could blame them. Folks stood in groups talking or nibbling fruit or candy from the nearby general store. Ellen was nowhere in sight, not even chasing Gabe, who ran in circles, pausing to dip his hands into the horse troughs and splash water in the air.
“Speaking of Stella—what you saw? It’s not what you think.”
“What is it then?”
Clifford shrugged. “Nothing. Just—oh, look. There’s Stella now.”
Nash covered his disappointment with a nod. For a minute, he’d thought Clifford would be honest.
Stella hurried forward, bearing bundles. “There’s a pump out back. Here’s a shawl to dry with, soap, and one of Clifford’s shirts for you, Nash. Didn’t want to dig into your bags.”
Well, that was ironic. “Thanks, ma’am.” Nash took a bundle and searched for the pump. He washed his face, hair, and arms before Clifford joined him. Clifford’s spare shirt strained at the seams, but it was better than his filthy one. “Thanks for the loan. I’ll get it back to you as soon as I don my own on the train.”
Clifford, still scrubbing soot from his hair, nodded. Nash hurried back, anxious to find Ellen. Maybe she’d hurt her head worse than he thought and rested on the train.
She wasn’t. She stood on the depot, waving at him and holding a paper-wrapped package. “My hero.”
He snorted. “The fire was pretty much out when we got there.”
“So humble.”
Mercy if he didn’t want to kiss her again.
The whistle sounded. While they boarded, Ellen passed him the package. “Trade. I’ll rinse out your shirt while you enjoy this.”
“What is it?”
“They were out of squirrel at the restaurant, so you’ll have to make due with buttered bread and turkey.”
He definitely wanted to kiss her now.
This was getting worse, not better. He’d have to think. And pray. But he was starting to wonder if his desire to kiss her would fade when they got off this train.
If it didn’t, he’d be in a world of hurt.
Mrs. Ridley screamed.
“What’s wrong?” Nash dropped his snack on the sofa.
Mrs. Ridley gripped her husband’s arm. “Your mother’s necklace, Irving, it’s gone!”
“You dropped it?”
“Of course not. It’s been in its case until this minute, so I could show Mrs. Fisher.”
“Can we help?” Nash peered under the sofas, but his gut told him the necklace was already in someone else’s possession.
Ridley grunted. “I bet a porter took it.”
“Impossible, sir.” The conductor stepped aside with Mr. Ridley. “I supervised the porters as they loaded supplies.”
Nash ambled back to his seat. With all the commotion in the other end of the car, this might be the best time to apologize for taking liberties. “Ellen?”
“I know what you want to say—the necklace. But Stella left with me. Everyone did. No one wanted to stay on board when we could walk on terra firma.” Her voice was low as she unwrapped his luncheon.
“Stella could have taken it before now, you know.”
Her shoulders slumped. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I didn’t want to talk about the necklace. I’m sorry I took liberties.”
Her lips parted. Then she smiled, bu
t her gaze fixed on his shoulder. “What are you talking about? Now, I’ll rinse out this filthy shirt, and you eat that bread while it’s warm. Extra butter. Like heaven after this morning’s biscuit.” She hopped to her feet and dashed toward the saloon in a blur of green plaid.
Nash prayed for his food. He was almost finished before he realized she hadn’t accepted his apology. She’d dismissed the kiss, like it hadn’t happened.
He wadded up the wrapping paper and rubbed his now-throbbing forehead. Pretending the kiss didn’t happen was probably best. He’d been stupid to do it. Ellen wasn’t the sort of gal you kissed without meaning. Not that he was that sort of fellow.
Which was worse: That he’d gone and kissed her once, or that he wanted to do it again?
Chapter Six
Ellen stood at the window staring at the Laramie Mountains. The altering landscape seemed a good reminder that change, like God’s love, was one of life’s only constants. She’d expected a change, moving west, but meeting Nash had shifted things around inside her. Her fingers fluttered to her lips.
Stella tapped her elbow. “Didn’t you hear the supper call?”
She shook her head. “Woolgathering, I fear. Shall we go?”
Nash had remained in the lounge with the men the rest of the afternoon. Ellen had helped the womenfolk dig through cushions and inspect the spittoons for Mrs. Ridley’s necklace until Gabe awoke from a nap, when she taught him more Morse code. Her mind, however, had fixed on Nash. Would they dine alone again tonight?
Oh, she hoped not. He’d apologized, so he regretted kissing her. Even if she didn’t. Her chin and cheek still felt enflamed, as if he’d branded her. He’d surely read it on her face, and then he’d feel bad. She should skip supper—
Stella guided her through the threshold, directly into Nash’s line of vision. “There they are.”
No turning back now. At least they were sitting at tables of four tonight. Act normal, silly. If she simpered or refused to look at him, he’d know how much the kiss meant to her.
She met every gaze. “I’m famished.”
“More cold ham.” Clifford poked at his plate.
“And lima beans. That’s new. At least they’re soft.” Nash took a hearty forkful and grinned—at Ellen.
If he grinned like that, then he couldn’t be totally put off by her. She returned his smile and shoveled a scoop of lima beans. And almost spat them out.
“They’re soft. But saltier than Lot’s wife.”
The Howells chuckled, but Nash leaned back in his chair. “Reminds me of when I first came west. My cooking was so bad, I was about to give up. Until I found this.”
As he reached into the pouch at his belt, Ellen clutched her napkin. What was he doing, showing off his quartz? Not just showing—passing it around.
Clifford and Stella. The Fishers. Then Gabe, who smeared butter on it before his father took it. Did Nash want it stolen? She kicked him under the table.
Not hard. But enough that he glanced at her and mouthed ow.
“You oughtta liquidate that. Make a few cents,” Ridley insisted. “What’re interest rates now, Mr. Dewey?”
Lincoln started. “Oh, you know.”
“Three percent? Four?”
“Yessir.” Lincoln passed the quartz to Primrose.
When every eye had seen the gold and the dinner plates cleared, Nash stood. “I’m putting this back in my satchel, Ellen, but would you share some coffee with me when I return?”
She nodded, waiting while the Howells and almost everyone else left the dining area to prepare for bed. Darkness had long fallen, and though she strained, she saw nothing but her blurred reflection in the window.
Nash slipped back into his chair. “No game tonight.”
“Oh, yes, there is. The who-will-steal-your-quartz game.”
“I’ll get it back. Don’t fret.”
“You keep telling me that.” She pushed back her cold mug. “A hunk of gold is tempting bait, but it’s risky. It’s possible to pass off Mrs. Ridley’s missing necklace as her being neglectful, but if something else goes missing, everyone will know there’s a thief on the train.”
“But we could catch them in the act.” Nash sipped his coffee. “It’s worth it to me.”
“But it’s your special quartz.”
He shrugged. “What it represents is still with me, and that’s more valuable than the gold inside it.”
“You’ve lost a lot.” She sighed. “I’d hate for you to lose more.”
Nash leaned forward. “You lost plenty to make this trip.”
Maybe it was the hush in the dining car—everyone else was gone. Maybe it was the way their images reflected off the windows, blurry against the darkness outside, like this was a dream. Maybe it was his kiss, and the knowledge they’d soon part ways. But Ellen wanted to tell him.
“I had a fiancé.” She fiddled with her cup. “Ambrose, my father’s protégé whilst I went to college. Once my father died, he broke it off. Telegraphy was not as interesting to him as politics, and he’d require a spouse more comfortable with society than I. He chose a girl I tutored in multiplication nine years ago when she was a third grader.”
“So you’re going to California because of Ambrose?”
“I almost stayed home because of Ambrose. He substituted at the telegraph office while I handled Father’s funeral arrangements. He took the telegram offering me this job and said he placed it on my desk, but I found it in the dustbin a few days ago.”
His jaw gaped. “What did you do?”
“Confronted him. He said he’d no idea what happened. Laziness or contempt, I don’t know. But I put my foot down. It might have landed on his toes.” It was hard not to giggle. Funny how the thought of Ambrose didn’t hurt much tonight. “I’m glad now. He wasn’t the man for me.”
“No, he wasn’t.” Nash’s strong fingers played with his cup.
A charged silence stretched between them. Then Nash stirred.
“I saw my sons once when I received a few weeks’ leave.” His Adam’s apple jerked. “That autumn, Leora packed them in the back of the wagon and went to town. Storm came up. The wagon overturned.”
How tragic, to lose his wife and babies at once. Her hand started to touch his, thenfell. “I’m sure that ache never goes away.”
“It doesn’t. But it changes. I’ve changed. I’m not the same fellow who kissed Leora goodbye and marched off to war in ’61.”
Ellen understood why he shared this. He wanted her to know she’d heal, too.
So she went ahead and touched his hand. It was brazen, foolish, and unwise, considering the way it tingled to her bones.
But he took hold. And smiled. And Ellen held back, fixed in the moment. She’d pull out the memory, like Nash with his quartz, on the cold, quiet nights ahead when she was alone, and she’d remember the sweetness of this moment.
The sun was bright the next morning when Nash rubbed his growling midsection. “I haven’t had trout for breakfast in a good while.”
“I haven’t had it for breakfast ever.” Ellen took a knife to the last bite of fish on her plate. A midnight stop at Green River, Wyoming, had provided fresh supplies, the trout, and the news of a storm to the west. Now the train rolled to a stop. Nash hadn’t recalled a scheduled stop at this hour.
“Washout in Utah,” the conductor announced. Primrose groaned.
“Can I help dig?” Nash sat up straighter.
The conductor shook his head. “Men working on it now. We’ll wait here in Evanston until we hear it’s clear. You can get off the train, folks, till you hear the whistle.”
Ellen patted her lips with her napkin. “Are you trying to ruin every shirt you packed?”
Nash laughed and took Ellen’s arm. It fit just right in his. “Walk? We won’t go far.”
“I imagine we’ll keep the train in view.”
“Yep.” They hopped down and walked a short distance. “The Howells are still on the train.”
“I k
now. I wish they weren’t.” She sighed.
Gabe barreled into them, his cheek bulging like a chipmunk’s. “Pa got me a jawbreaker at the general store.”
“So I see.” Nash puffed out his cheek.
“Can’t catch me, Miss Ellen.”
“No chasing with that in your mouth. You could choke.”
Gabe gripped her purple skirt. “Chase me.”
Nash wrapped an arm around the boy. “C’mon, let’s go sit on the bench until you’ve swallowed that thing—”
Gabe twisted away, swatting Ellen’s legs. Nash scooped Gabe in his arms. Enough was enough, and if the boy’s pa wasn’t going to do anything, Nash didn’t have a choice. “Gabe, you can’t go hitting folks.”
Ellen hastened alongside as he marched to a bench by the depot. “He’s tired, Nash, and misses his mother. This is taking a toll on him.”
“True enough, but that’s no excuse.”
“Mama!” Gabe sobbed. The jawbreaker slid from his mouth to the dirt, setting off a new round of cries. Nash waved his arm at Jerome Prewett, who reluctantly shuffled over.
Mrs. Ridley’s hand fisted on her hip. “A child shouldn’t have been allowed on thistrain. It’s ruining my honeymoon!”
“I would imagine the tough biscuits and bone-rattling speed might have accomplished the same,” Ellen said. “Leave the boy be.”
In all the commotion, Nash forgot to watch the train. The Howells strolled close, clearly off the train now. Was his quartz missing yet?
With Gabe ensconced on Ellen’s lap, Nash pulled Jerome Prewett aside. “Your boy needs you. This trip is hard on him.”
“He’s fine with Miss Blanchard.” Prewett made to step away.
“She’s not his parent.” Nash’s arms folded. “Wherever Gabe’s ma is, he misses her. He’s tired and uncertain, and he needs more than candy from you.”
“It’s none of your business.” Prewett stomped off, but at least he took Gabe from Ellen.
She ambled to Nash, shaking her head.
“You hurt?”
“No, just fearing for Gabe. Once he’s returned to his mother, will he ever see his father again? Should he?”
Nash didn’t have an answer. He squeezed Ellen’s elbow. “I’ll be right back.”
The Rails to Love Romance Collection Page 38
