by Lena Hart
“That or faro.” He pulled out a worn deck of cards from his pocket. “Card games help pass the time, especially in the quieter parts of the country. For a city girl, I can only imagine life on the frontier isn’t going to get any more exciting than this.”
“Okay, show me.”
Gracie watched in awe as he completed a series of impressive shuffles before laying the cards on the empty seat beside her. He tried to explain the rules of the game, but she was having a difficult time picking up on the many steps and rules. She wanted to think that her lack of concentration was due to the complicated instructions—and not because the heat of his body leaning over her was so distracting.
“It takes a bit of practice,” Logan said, pulling the deck together after an hour long lesson. “But you’ll eventually get the hang of it.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t think I have the nerve for such a game. Certainly not the focus.”
The corner of his lips lifted. “If you can learn to shoot a gun and recite Bible verses, you have more than enough nerve and focus.”
“True,” she said with a laugh. “Though my study of the Bible could use some polishing.”
“And your aim?”
Gracie smiled at that. “Now that, Mr. Finley, is spot on.”
“Logan.”
Her face heated from the intensity in his tone, but she was drawn into the heat of his eyes. For a moment, time seem to suspend as his gaze held hers captive. Slowly, his eyes fell to her lips and something warm and daring fluttered inside her. She wanted him to kiss her.
At the startling thought, Gracie blinked and tore her gaze from his. She willed the outrageous thought away as she focused her attention on the moving landscape outside the train window.
He cleared his throat. “Maybe when you get to Montana, you can have your fiancé secure you a gun. You don’t want to be out of practice in that part of the country.”
The sudden reminder of her betrothed helped dissolve the indescribable attraction that seemed to be tethered between them. She should have been grateful for that, but it only left her strangely bereft.
“Do you believe the west is as wild as they claim?” she asked, shoving her feelings behind a mask of composed indifference before turning back to face him. It was difficult, but whether she wanted the reminder or not, she was soon to be married to another. She couldn’t forget that.
“I suppose it’s just as dangerous and violent as New York or Chicago. Only more feral.”
“You have a point. I guess it would be in my best interest to strengthen my marksmanship. One never knows when it will be necessary to shoot for one’s dinner.”
“There is that. Though, I imagine it’s the wild men you’ll need to be concerned with. Not the wild boar.”
“As you pointed earlier, the territories can’t be any more dangerous than our most dangerous cities, and if I can survive the relentless violence in New York, I’m certain I can survive Montana.”
Logan shrugged and pocketed his cards. “I don’t doubt it. But you’ll have nothing to worry about. As a miner’s wife, I’m sure you’ll be well cared for.”
Her spine straightened at his presumption. She wanted to tell him that she didn’t need any man to provide for her. But then again, those words would make her a liar. Wasn’t being cared for exactly why she was marrying Whitaker?
“Whether he can care for me or not,” Gracie said tightly, “doesn’t change the fact that I will always be able to take care of myself.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being looked after, Gracie. And a fine woman like you doesn’t seem cut out for life on the frontier.”
“Maybe,” she conceded, trying not to take offense of his assumption of her. “But I was born on a plantation, so I’m not afraid of long stretches of land or hard work.”
He frowned. “You were a slave?”
“I was born a slave, but we fled when I was four years old. I don’t remember much about it, but I do remember the open land and being out in the field with my mother at times, and how we would always smell of tobacco by the time we got to our cabin.”
“A tobacco farm?”
She shrugged. “I believe so. Most of the plantations in Maryland were tobacco farms so I imagine that’s what it was. I just know that the smell always brings me back to our small cabin.”
At the time, Gracie hadn’t understood how little power and control they had over their lives. And it wasn’t until after her father had been whipped, and they had fled that night, that she realized their small cabin had been more their prison than their home.
“The night we escaped was the longest night of my life. I don’t remember ever being so scared. Not even on the night we feared the draft riots would leave the city and come to us.”
His dark brows were pulled together as he regarded her curiously. “If you were born a slave, you would have been given your owners last name. I’m familiar with many of the families there and I don’t remember any Shaws in Maryland with a tobacco farm.”
“That’s because there weren’t. I was born on the Flynn plantation, but my father changed our surnames when we reached Pennsylvania. He took the name of the first supporter who had offered us shelter our first night.” Gracie remembered the night more vividly than she should have after fourteen years, remembered the beacon of light that had glowed in the distance and had been their salvation after a long, weary night.
Logan fell silent, his body suddenly rigid. He stared out the train window and for a moment, she wondered if he was uncomfortable with the discussion. She didn’t usually speak so candidly of her past with whites, much less a white stranger, but she was proud of what her parents had accomplished as two former illiterate slaves. They had come from nothing and yet had managed to rear two educated children.
Suddenly he balled his injured hand into a fist and clutched at it. Though he tried to hide it, his jaw was clenched and his cheeks were pinched with pain.
“Are you all right?”
He nodded, still rubbing his gloved hand. She had witnessed her father go through the same ordeal with his missing arm, clutching at the area as if he was in great pain. She wondered if Logan was experiencing the same phantom pains her father did. She had caught a glimpse of his mutilated digits at the hospital, but since then he had been careful to keep them covered.
“Is your hand paining you?” she eventually asked when the ordeal seemed to have passed and the set of his jaw was relaxed.
He nodded briskly and returned his attention out the window. “But don’t concern yourself. It’s nothing.”
She fell silent for a moment then said, “My father lost his right arm in the war. There were times he would grab at his missing arm and his face would be twisted in pain. It was always ‘nothing’ with him too, and eventually my mother and I stopped asking him.” Her mother would just begin to massage her father’s shoulder or place a hot compress over the amputated area. That had always seemed to help. “Do you wear the gloves to help with the pain?”
“No.”
When he didn’t elaborate, Gracie asked, “May I ask why do you keep your hands covered, then?” Since they left Chicago, he hadn’t removed the gloves. She could understand why he kept them on in public, but it was only the two of them in the small compartment.
Logan turned to her. “Because I don’t want to repulse you.”
Gracie’s eyes widened in surprise by that admission, then she shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered, taking his hand.
“What are you doing?”
There was a tightness in his tone, but he didn’t pull away from her grip. She continued to peel the thick glove from his wounded hand. The scar tissue had caused the skin to become thick, with angry marks that had healed over into jagged white streaks. She gently massaged his hand, rubbing and kneading his palm until she felt the tendons relax.
“Better?”
He nodded but said nothing. Gracie continued her gentle kneading.
“What ha
ppened?” she eventually asked.
He hesitated for a moment. “It happened during the war.”
She glanced up at him in disbelief, though it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. From the short time she’d spent with him, she figured he was someone who fought for what he believed in. She should have known he had sustained such an injury as a soldier. But what battle had he fought that led to such mutilation?
“My father was also a Union soldier. He always said he fought alongside some very brave men.”
Tension once again invaded him. “I fought for the Confederacy.”
Her movements stilled. This time, she couldn’t mask her astonishment. He didn’t behave like a man who believed in such a brutal foundation such as slavery. How could someone who fought for such a degrading institution be so…kind? And how many Negro soldiers had he slaughtered with this hand?
The hand she was now providing comfort for.
Gracie thought of her father and his injury. A man very much like Logan had been the cause of that. Her father had endured unimaginable pain to end slavery, and this man sitting across her had fought to keep it?
A pang shot through her, but she was glad she managed to conceal her outrage. Gracie slowly released his hand, her movements stiff. Why should she ease the pain of a man who had fought to keep her people enslaved?
“A quick massage and hot towel always seemed to help my father,” she muttered, keeping her eyes averted. She concentrated on the unnecessary task of arranging her skirts, wanting to fill the awkward silence that had suddenly settled between them.
“Thank you,” he said, clenching and unclenching his hand.
She nodded and noticed he kept the glove off this time.
“You’re not going to ask me how it happened?”
Gracie stiffened, not sure she wanted to know. But she heard the slight teasing in his voice and forced herself to relax. He was clearly making light of her overly curious nature. He wasn’t here to hurt her.
The war was over.
Slavery has ended.
You don’t have to be afraid anymore.
“How?” she asked, her curiosity eventually winning out.
He stared down at his hand and his eyes took on a faraway look as if he was being pulled back into that time.
“Another soldier and I were tasked with transporting a group of Union soldiers to a nearby prison camp where we held all enemy captives. I was surprised when the other soldier chose to release them into the wilderness. I didn’t try to stop him. I figured whether they took their chances in the wild or came back with us, they were dead men anyway. They had no weapons and the conditions of the camps…not many survived.”
Gracie clamped her hands together tightly on her lap and unconsciously glanced down at his hands. She kept her voice light when she asked, “Did those prisoners attack you?”
He glanced up at her again. There was a hollowness in his brown eyes that frightened her and also made her ache for him, despite his choices.
“No, I got my hand shot at because I tried to keep the other soldier from committing murder in front of me. It wasn’t smart on my part to grab the firing end of a gun, but the son of a bitch took me by surprise.” He shook his head and absently rubbed his injured hand. “I had joined the war to fight for my home that had been pillaged and destroyed. As well as to honor my father who had been slaughtered in Sharpsburg, along with ten thousand others. But I had not signed up to gun down defenseless men as they fled from us.”
Gracie slowly released her breath, but didn’t speak. She couldn’t. She didn’t have to ask if these fleeing prisoners were black because she knew they were.
Reports of black soldiers being massacred upon captivity by the Confederate army had been written about in the papers and that was a harsh fact they both were aware of. She had read about the brutal attacks on Negro soldiers across the country, had heard about the massacre at Fort Pillow, yet hearing Logan recount such brutality was no less jarring.
Yet, black or white, no one deserved to die like that. How those men must have felt, knowing they were moments away from death? Gracie glanced down at his hand again. How Logan must have felt putting himself in harm’s way for men he was supposed to view as his enemies?
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked quietly.
Logan glanced out the window again and fell silent for a moment. “I fought in the war to honor my father and defend my home, Gracie,” he said after a long pause. “Regardless of what caused it.”
You mean slavery.
She continued to study his still form. As bad as she wanted to know, she couldn’t quite bring herself to ask if he himself had owned slaves.
“Do you regret saving those men’s lives?”
He scoffed. “Getting shot for some Blue Coats was never my intention, but I was a soldier, not a murderer. I had joined the war for two reasons. My father and my home.” His gaze was transfixed on the rolling hills outside the window. “But after that day, I wasn’t sure what the hell I was fighting for anymore.”
Gracie turned to look out the window as well, the slow rocking of the train oddly easing some of her tension. He always seemed so sure of himself, so confident that she would have never imagined he too struggled to find a purpose and place to belong.
His journey west suddenly became clearer to her. Logan wasn’t only looking for a new start, he was looking for his position in this great country. Just as she was.
“So…” she began, still looking out at the captivating landscape. The hills that rolled by were high and green, and the vast mountains painted a dusky silhouette in the backdrop. “What happened to the other soldier after he shot you?”
The silence that followed was answer enough.
Chapter Seven
Logan couldn’t have asked for smoother travel.
For three days, they rode in the sleeper car without incident, enjoying each other’s company. At least Logan had. He was pleased to see that she had not completely spurned him for his former allegiance to the Confederacy. Though the little he had exposed about his past was nothing compared to the history he realized they shared. He should have come clean about everything, but he didn’t want her to hate him—or worse, become afraid of him.
There weren’t many women like Gracie Shaw—polite and delicate on one hand and fiery and passionate on the other. Especially when it came to social issues and politics. He enjoyed playing devil’s advocate with her just to see her riled, to see the passionate woman come alive from inside her proper Christian exterior.
Besides their lively debates, they found other ways to pass the time and ease their restlessness in the close quarters. He taught her how to play poker and even a few card tricks, while she occasionally read or sang short hymns. He enjoyed her singing. When he confessed as much, telling her that she had the voice of an angel, he had gotten the pleasure of watching her turn sweetly bashful.
“Why are you blushing?” he had asked, intrigued by the sudden shift in her demeanor. One minute, melodic verses flowed from her lips with ease and confidence. The next, she was staring demurely down at her lap.
“I didn’t realize I was singing aloud,” she murmured. “I try not to draw too much attention to myself when I can help it.”
Logan stared down at her bent head, not understanding how she could not see the impact her singing had on others. How much of an impact it had on him.
“Gracie, your singing is lovely. Why would you not want to showcase such a voice?”
She shrugged, still not meeting his eyes. “Others may crave the adulation, but I sing because it soothes my spirit. Sometimes I feel it’s the only way I can find peace from my hectic thoughts.” She sighed and finally brought her gaze up to his. “I know it sounds strange, but—”
“It’s not strange,” he cut in. “You have a divine voice and I feel the same peace whenever I listen to you.”
And whenever I’m near you.
She shifted in her seat and he recognized her grow
ing embarrassment. Surprising them both, Logan reached for her hands and clasped them in his.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just find your singing beautiful, and I’m glad you’ve shared it with me.”
She smiled sweetly at him. “Thank you, Logan.”
In that moment, he knew she was seeing him for the man he was now, and not the past he was trying to break free of. He was not the Confederate she had undoubtedly been taught to fear. He was simply a man offering his appreciation of her exceptional talent and the warm reception in her eyes held him captivated.
A new calm began to spread through him and he couldn’t seem to free himself from her allure. Everything about Gracie Shaw was lovely.
Being with her these past three days had been like a breath of fresh air, and she was that steady lightness he had been searching for. He wouldn’t have minded another three days on the rocking train if it meant spending more time in her company.
Yet on the third day of their journey, they reached Nebraska, and Logan knew more time wasn’t necessary. He had already fallen hard for her.
He assisted her off the train and onto the platform where they were greeted by hot air and dry terrain. A quick glance around said the town they had stopped over in was still developing, which meant he would have to be especially vigilant.
After searching through the luggage car for the missing bags, he made his way back to her.
“I have good news and bad news,” Logan said as he came up to where she waited on the train platform.
“Okay,” she said, inhaling deeply. “Bad news first.”
He smiled in amusement as he watched her visibly steel herself. “The missing luggage is not on the baggage car. We searched and…nothing.”
Her shoulders fell, but she didn’t look as distraught about it as she had in Chicago. He imagined she hadn’t been hopeful about them finding it hidden behind another piece of luggage somewhere.
“And the good news?”
His smile widened and he paused before replying, building her anticipation. “They found it in Chicago and it’s on the way here. It should be arriving on the next train.”
