Always in My Dreams

by Jo Goodman

  Walker joined her on the platform with her baggage while Hank returned to wait at the carriage. In the distance Skye heard the approach of the train. She continued to stare at the river, but Walker turned to look down the tracks. His eyes lingered on Skye's stoic profile instead.

  "I didn't want to argue with you," he said.

  "I know."

  Sunlight glinted in her red hair. The wind ruffled the fringe of fur on her hat and the fringe of hair on her forehead. She wouldn't look at him. He wondered if she couldn't.

  They both stepped back as the train pulled up to the platform. Smoke and cinders clouded the air. A few minutes later Skye's bag and trunk were taken by a porter. It was only then that she turned to Walker. Not knowing what else to do, she held out her hand.

  Walker stared at it, then slowly shook his head. His eyes signaled his intent and he gave her time to pull away. She merely raised her face and offered up her mouth. He kissed her long and hard and deep, and when he released her, they were both shaken by the strength of it.

  "Goodbye, Mary Schyler," he said softly.

  She didn't speak, turning instead toward the porter who was waiting at the door to her car.

  Walker watched her board and saw her take her seat next to a window on the far side of the car. She wouldn't look in his direction, and then someone took a seat on the bench nearest him and blocked Skye from his view.

  He hesitated a moment longer, then headed for the carriage to get his things. Riding in the mail car didn't promise to be a very comfortable trip. Knowing he would see Skye at the other end, even if she wouldn't see him, was the only thing that made the prospect bearable.

  Chapter 10

  She wasn't there.

  Walker had disembarked as soon the train had arrived in Central Station. The platforms were crowded, as they always were, but Walker situated himself on a bench where he could see all the activity. Anonymous faces didn't escape his attention now. He noticed the young mothers with their children in tow, the harried businessmen adjusting their identical derbies with identical gestures. He watched a woman being pulled along the platform's edge by a pair of small dogs. A flower vendor tried to entice all of them to buy her wares. No one got off Northeast Rail's No. 49 engine or its cars that he did not see.

  And Skye was not there.

  Walker couldn't believe it. Had he given his intention away in some manner so that she could deliberately thwart him, or had he made some greenhorn mistake that allowed her to go by unnoticed?

  He was traveling light and was thankful he'd had the foresight to do that much right. He tossed his valise to a porter and asked for it to be checked at the ticket counter. He'd worry about getting it back later.

  Boarding the first car, Walker worked his way through the train, checking the aisles and under the seats. The train was virtually empty. There were only a few stops south of the city before the train would return to the station and go north again. Each of the four passenger cars had less than a half-dozen people in it. None of the faces belonged to Skye Dennehy.

  The conductor caught up with Walker as he finished surveying the last car. "Here now, what do you think you're doing?" he asked. He had gray hair, and thick, wiry sideburns filled out his sunken cheeks. His black cap was perched on his head and he had drawn himself up to his full height of five foot seven to confront Walker. "If you're riding with this line, you'll have to purchase a ticket."

  "I'm getting off here," Walker said. "And I'm looking for someone. She had a ticket for this car. She got on at Baileyboro."

  The conductor nodded. "I know just who you mean," he said. "Lovely young lady with red hair."

  Walker let his hopes rise. "Did you see her get off?"

  "Of course I did." He rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. "Wouldn't count myself much service to Jay Mac Worth if I didn't notice things like that. She left the train at West Point."

  Walker swore softly. "But West Point was only a few stops south of Baileyboro."

  "As far as I know, it still is," the conductor said. "And that's where she got off."

  "Her baggage?"

  "Went with her, I imagine. That's the usual way."

  Walker didn't acknowledge the conductor's amusement. He couldn't believe he had been so short sighted as not to have anticipated this outcome. He should have observed the disembarking of all the passengers at every stop. "West Point," he muttered. "Damn." He thrust his hand in his pocket and pulled out some bills. "That's where I want to go."

  The conductor pointed to the exit and beyond that to the station ticket counter. "You'll have to go there first."

  Walker looked at the line of people waiting for tickets. "How long do I have?"

  "This train leaves in ten minutes, but you could wait until the return trip. Number 49's coming back this way in two hours, then we'll be going north."

  He nodded. He was hungry and angry, and one was feeding the other. "All right," he said. "I'll take the return ticket."

  The conductor watched him go. When he saw Walker was in line, he went to the door opposite the exit and opened it. Skye was standing on the tracks below, out of sight of the station's platform.

  "He came looking for you," he told her. "Just like you said he would."

  Her eyes were anxious. "What did you tell him, Mr. Pennybacker?"

  "That you got off at West Point."

  "Did he believe you?"

  "Must have. He's buying a ticket to go there now." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Are you in some kind of trouble, Miss Dennehy? The kind of trouble I should report to your father?"

  There were definitely drawbacks to traveling with Northeast Rail. While her acquaintance with Mr. Pennybacker permitted her to elude Walker, the conductor was not going to ignore his responsibilities to John MacKenzie Worth.

  "My father doesn't need to know anything about this," she said. "And he won't thank you for telling him. He'll probably kill the messenger."

  Mr. Pennybacker was skeptical. "I'll want to think about that," he said. "You'd better see to your baggage now. He asked about it. Might be that he'll even check to see if it got off the train with you."

  Skye's shoulders sagged. She hadn't considered that. "Will you help me?" she asked. While he was hesitating, Skye went on, "Find someone to deliver my things to the Worth Building without alerting Mr. Caide. You can do that, can't you, Mr. Pennybacker?"

  "I can do it," he said. "Can't say if it's a good thing to do." All the childhood pranks Skye and her sisters had perpetrated on the conductors and porters and engineers and brakemen of Northeast Rail were being contemplated now.

  Divining Mr. Pennybacker's thoughts, Skye said, "I'm not eleven any longer. Anyway, it was Rennie who put me up to climbing on the roof of the caboose." She didn't add the train had been moving at the time or that Rennie's dare had been for her to walk the length of the train from caboose to engine. Mr. Pennybacker obviously remembered the incident with enough clarity to question her common sense now. "Please?" she asked.

  He rubbed his chin again. "All right. I'll take care of it. Now, you'd best get moving." He pointed across the tracks to a door only used by station workmen and rail employees. "Take that exit. He won't see you if you stay on the rail side. And be careful not to fall on the tracks."

  Skye's smile was grateful as she hurried away. "You won't regret this, Mr. Pennybacker," she called over her shoulder.

  Watching Skye almost trip over the rail ties in her haste, Mr. Pennybacker shook his head and adjusted his cap. "I already do, Mary Schyler."

  * * *

  The Worth Building was on Broadway near Ann Street, not far from the white marble palace that was home to the New York Herald and the dark monolith that housed the Chronicle. The location of the Worth Building so close to Publishers' Square was no accident. John MacKenzieWorth knew the power publishers wielded in the city. It was better knowing what they were up to than pretending their editorials and pointed political drawings had no influence with the public. As one of
the robber barons, along with Vanderbilt and Gould and Rockefeller, Jay Mac found his railroad enterprise was the target of some new legislation or investigation with infuriating regularity. The Herald and the Chronicle invariably knew about it first. Jay Mac read the accounts while the ink was still wet and the paper still warm.

  He lowered the paper he was reading now and swiveled in his burgundy leather chair. He faced the door from across the wide expanse of a massive mahogany desk. Had Jay Mac glanced down, his own face would have been reflected in the polished surface. He would have seen he was scowling. The expression was there in part because of what he had been reading in the Chronicle. It had deepened when he'd heard the commotion outside his office.

  His normally unflappable, if rather supercilious, secretary seemed to be unable to handle the current situation. Jay Mac folded the paper neatly and dropped it on his desk. He was about to get up when he recognized the other voice arguing with his secretary.

  Jay Mac's deep tones carried easily to the anteroom. "I'll see her," he called. The door to his office opened almost immediately. It was his secretary's head that appeared in the crack. Jay Mac could sympathize with Wilson's decidedly frazzled look. "She's like the tide, Wilson. You can't hold her back. Show her in."

  Jay Mac's offices were on the third floor and Skye had vaulted the stairs two at a time. She was only just regaining her breath when Wilson ushered her inside. Skye wrinkled her nose. "Could that man be any more officious?" she asked her father, after the door was closed behind her.

  "He's doing what I pay him to do."

  Skye's hat was slightly askew. She removed it and her coat and dropped them both in one of the chairs that was situated in front of Jay Mac's desk. "And what exactly is that?" she asked.

  "He protects me."

  "From your own daughters?"

  "No one else's daughters give me any trouble."

  Skye laughed. "Shall I fix you something to drink?" She pointed to the small sideboard in Jay Mac's office that held a selection of liquor.

  "Will I need it?" He leaned back in his chair. Even after years of not smoking, the leather still held the faint aroma of cigars. He breathed deeply but did not consider reaching for the teakwood box on the corner of his desk. The Havanas inside were for special guests. In this case he didn't count his daughter among them.

  In response to her father's question, Skye shrugged. She poured a small sherry for herself. "You can't imagine how cold it is outside," she said. "I couldn't get a hansom at the station. Every one of them was occupied. I had to walk almost the entire way."

  Jay Mac considered his daughter's trek from the station at twilight with no companion. He didn't like to think he was old-fashioned, but there were certain conventions he still thought should be observed. It was a miracle in his mind that Skye hadn't been taken for a prostitute and been accosted. "I think I'll have that drink, after all," he said. He could justify that it was the end of his workday... at least, his office workday. The leather satchel under his desk was filled with documents, requests, and proposals he had not had an opportunity to scan. He had actually been looking forward to sitting in his study this evening, reviewing the papers while Moira read or did needlework. His wife's presence alone would lighten the load.

  Looking at Skye, Jay Mac adjusted his spectacles. "Make it a double."

  She smiled and added an extra splash of Scotch to her father's glass, then put the drink on his desk and bent to kiss his cheek. She looked at his face. "Better," she said approvingly.

  "Better?"

  "You were scowling. It wasn't a very warm welcome."

  Jay Mac's complexion reddened with embarrassment. He pointed to the folded paper. "Residual scowl," he said. "It wasn't meant for you."

  That eased her mind. She sipped her sherry while she flipped over the paper. "Hmm. The Chronicle. And Logan Marshall's a friend."

  Jay Mac grunted. "He's your sister's friend. I wanted Mary Michael to work for the Herald, remember?"

  "Still, he's always been fair with you."

  That was true. Jay Mac could generally count on the Chronicle to be even-handed in its reporting. He removed his spectacles, rubbed the bridge of his nose, then replaced them. "Look at the editorial page."

  Skye set down her glass and opened the paper. Logan Marshall's editorial was a scathing piece on the mayor's latest political blunder. She scanned the columns, looking for some mention of her father.

  Watching her, Jay Mac pointed to the lower corner of the page. "There," he said. "The drawing."

  The cartoon had nothing to do with Marshall's piece on the mayor. This was a separate issue. The artist's sketch included caricatures of Jay Mac, Andrew Carnegie, and J. P. Morgan. They were standing over an anonymous everyman who was tied to the tracks. The man's hat was labeled LABOR. In the background, an engine with Northeast Rail's markings was running full-tilt toward the hapless man.

  "It's not very flattering, is it?" Skye said. Then, just to tweak her father, she added, "I don't think the artist should have emphasized your nose that way. It's not your most outstanding feature." She refolded the paper, dropped it on the desk, and smiled innocently.

  "I should have known better than to expect sympathy from you," he said. "You probably agree with the artist's estimation of my character."

  "More than his caricature."

  Jay Mac snorted.

  Skye was sympathetic now. Her father had been painted with the same brush as Carnegie and Morgan, and it wasn't setting well with him. John MacKenzie Worth liked to think he was very much his own person and dealt fairly with the workers in his employ. "Have there been noises about a strike?" she asked.

  "There are always noises," he told her. "Rennie and Jarret have had to deal with the threat of one in California."

  "Did Morgan offer to finance you if the workers walk?"

  Jay Mac nodded. "He'd own Northeast Rail if it came to that."

  Skye could imagine Carnegie's advice. His response to striking steelworkers was to hire Pinkerton thugs. "You've been talking to both men?" she asked.

  "Yes. Apparently someone at the Chronicle found out. The artist leaped to his own conclusions." He sighed. "There's no point in talking to Marshall about it. In general, there's no public support for striking workers. This sort of thing has to die its own death. Denial only makes me look guilty." He raised his drink and considered his daughter over the rim of his tumbler. "And what about you, Mary Schyler? Are you in trouble?"

  Skye dropped into the chair across from his desk and grinned with disarming frankness. "Denial only makes me look guilty."

  Jay Mac was hard pressed not to laugh. He swallowed some of his Scotch instead. "What's happened?"

  "I was dismissed." She leaned forward, concerned, as her father choked on his drink. "Are you all right?"

  He held up a hand and indicated she shouldn't get up. "I will be," he managed to get out, before coughing again. The spasm lasted a few seconds. When he was quite certain he was in control, he sipped his drink and eased the rawness in his throat. "I confess this is the one outcome I didn't anticipate, Skye. I thought you'd make a better show of it. It hasn't been a week." He shook his head, more in disappointment than disapproval. "Does your mother know?"

  "I came directly here. I thought I should explain it to you first." She hesitated. "You do want to know, don't you?"

  Jay Mac didn't necessarily agree with his daughters, but he had learned to hear them out. He realized he had been dangerously close to drawing his own conclusions about Skye's dismissal. "I want to know," he said.

  Skye watched her father closely, gauging his reaction. "Jonathan Parnell made advances, and I demurred."

  It would have been enough of an explanation for most fathers, but they weren't Skye's father. "Define 'demurred,'" he said.

  "I held an open flame over some engine fuel and threatened to burn him alive."

  Jay Mac nodded solemnly. "That's the definition that came to my mind."

  "Mr. Parnell didn't thin
k we would suit after that," she said gravely. "Frankly, neither did I." She could not divine the look in her father's eyes. "So I came home. Are you very put out with me?"

  "Only that you didn't allow me the privilege of defending your honor myself."

  "Then you didn't have it in your mind for me perhaps to become infatuated with Mr. Parnell?" Skye did not think her father was a good enough actor to feign such realistic surprise. "You didn't hope there'd be a proposal of some kind?" she asked.

  Jay Mac cleared his throat gruffly. "It sounds as if there was a proposal," he said. "And not the sort that's to my liking."

  "You know what I meant," she said. "A marriage proposal."

  "What makes you think I'd entertain that notion?"

  Skye ticked off her reasons on three fingers. "Mary Michael. Mary Renee. Mary Margaret. You'd have schemed for Mary Francis, but the Lord got her first." Her smile took the sting from her words.

  He blustered a little but in the end conceded her point. "But I wasn't thinking about Jonathan Parnell and you."

  Skye realized she believed him. "I'm glad. He and I would never have suited. I wasn't certain if you'd have realized it." She shook her head, clearing it of distasteful thoughts regarding her former employer. "We can leave for home as soon as my luggage arrives," she said.

  "You had it delivered here?" he asked. "Skye? Are you certain you're quite all right?" In spite of her overt efforts to indicate otherwise there was something faintly anxious about Skye's demeanor. Jay Mac couldn't pinpoint the thing that made him wary. Her eyes were clear and calm. The set of her shoulders was relaxed. Her smile was disingenuous. Perhaps it was only that in the circumstances she shouldn't have appeared to have so few concerns, or perhaps it was only that her actions were peculiar. "Why would you have your things brought here?"

  "Because the thing I wanted you to see is in my trunk," she said. It was the truth as far as it went. She hadn't decided what she wanted to tell her father about Walker Caide. She didn't know what she thought about his behavior herself. "No, it's not the engine," she added quickly. "I don't know what made you believe I could actually steal it."