by Megan Besing
Trevor shoved a small square of bread into his mouth, his cheeks puffed like a chipmunk’s. “Good.”
Eli smiled at his brother. “They found some bread. And sugar for the tea.”
“Good.”
Trevor studied her a long minute. “How’s Momma?”
Mary drew a calming breath. “Not so well. Where are you traveling?”
Eli set his spoon down. “Momma’s brother is the foreman on a large ranch near Bakersfield. We’re going to live with him until Momma gets back on her feet. Then we’ll live in town, and Momma said we can go to school and play with other kids.”
“That’s nice. What’s your uncle’s name?”
“Uncle Marty.” He turned to look back at the other car. “Where’s Momma?”
“Well, it’s like this—”
Trevor’s face paled. “Did Momma die?”
Mary dropped her gaze. “Yes, she did.”
Cassie swallowed her bread. “Momma dead?”
Eli patted his sister’s hand. “She’s in heaven now, with Poppa. But we’re going to be all right. We’ll live with Uncle Marty. And when I get all grown up, I’ll get me a job in town. And a house with a bedroom for each of us.”
A smile lit Trevor’s face. “No more sharing?”
“No more sharing.”
The three huddled together, inventing and reinventing their future, while Mary checked her other patients.
The children would be fine. They’d live in Bakersfield, and she’d live in Heartbreak. She’d probably never see them again, but they would be well loved and well taken care of.
They’d have more than she ever had.
In fact, with their faith in God, they already did.
Chapter 7
The sun had been down for hours, and John, blindly following Peter, looked up, squinting through eyes almost frozen shut.
Was that light on the horizon?
No, the moon was playing tricks on him.
He checked the night sky.
Except there was no moon tonight. Or if there was, it didn’t penetrate the clouds. He paused and held his breath a moment. Tinny music drifted on the night air toward him. “Peter, the town!”
Gathering his final reserves of strength, he broke into a trot, Peter close behind. The music came from a saloon, and he staggered up the three steps from street level, across the wooden boardwalk, and pushed in through the swinging doors. Pausing to allow his eyes to adjust to the bright lighting, he surveyed the room.
Drowsy drunks leaned on the bar, soiled doves wove among the tables or sat on the laps of the male patrons, and in the far corner, a piano player belted out the latest tunes. Behind the bar, a couple of black-vested men filled glasses and collected payment.
John stepped up to the bar and signaled to get someone’s attention.
A barkeep nodded in his direction. “What can I get you, stranger?”
He licked frozen lips that didn’t want to form words. “Help.”
The man surveyed him. “Looks like you’ve come a long ways.”
Peter burst through the door, crossed the room, and pounded on the bar. “We need help.”
The man stopped his bustling at Peter’s shout. “What’s that?”
John tried again. “The train is stuck on the tracks. Folks are sick. Where’s the doc?”
Within minutes, several groups of townspeople prepared sleighs and filled them with medical supplies under the direction of the town doctor. A couple of women organized a clothing drive, and the owner of the mercantile opened to provide food, blankets, and clothing. As people bustled back and forth, John leaned against the railing of the saloon and, as seemed to happen more and more in recent days, his thoughts went to Miss Mary.
Not the woman he would marry in less than a month.
He’d thought little of Miss Johannson over the past few days, other than to rue the day he agreed to wed her. Not wholeheartedly, of course. Hoping to dissuade her with his covenant marriage requirements. He wanted a mother for his daughters. He wanted company around the ranch, someone to talk to on long winter evenings.
That could be Miss Johannson.
But he also wanted someone to fill his soul, make him laugh, make him look forward to coming home at the end of a long day, someone to wake up next to each morning. Someone he could love passionately.
That was Miss Mary.
If only he’d met her before responding to this other woman.
The doors opened and the elderly doctor stood in the opening. “Mr. Stewart?”
“That’s me.”
“We’re ready to leave.”
“Me, too.”
“Wanted to be certain to take the right medicine. Somebody said whooping cough?”
“Right. Fever, sweats, chills, sleeping all the time, long whoopy cough like a hound dog with its tail caught in a door.”
The medical man smiled. “Sounds like whooping cough. I’ll bring syrup of garlic.”
In less than an hour, with sleighs loaded, they headed toward the train. Horses snorted and blew out great clouds of vapor, and the men chatted congenially as they covered the snowy ground. Wagons creaked and shuddered over the frozen ground while John marveled at the good natures of these strangers.
The sun was fully over the horizon by the time they reached their destination. John urged his mount into a lope. The beast responded despite its weariness, and within a couple of minutes, John reined the creature in just behind the fire car.
He jumped off and handed the reins to the fireman who stood there, leaning on his shovel. The man nodded at him, his eyes fixed on the men and sleighs following close behind. “Wasn’t sure you’d make it.”
“Me neither.” John jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “We’ve got enough food and supplies for a small army. The good people of Holbrook came through.”
The man leaned his shovel against the side of the train. “I’ll see if they need help.”
John scanned the windows, hoping to see her leaning out, calling his name. When he saw no movement, he chided himself for his foolish thoughts. She was likely sleeping. Or tending patients. Or—
He turned to the fireman. “How have things been?”
The man hung his head and nudged at a clump of snow. “Fair to middlin’. We lost a few.”
John boarded the train and pushed through the door of the first car. “Miss Mary? Where is Miss Mary?”
Passengers looked up, their faces lighting with recognition. Several stood in the aisle to ask questions, but he didn’t have time for their queries.
There was only one person he wanted to see.
And she wasn’t in this car.
He pressed on toward the next car.
She had to be there.
But she wasn’t.
His heart raced like a runaway steer, thrumming and pounding so he couldn’t hear himself think. In the third car, the three children sat side by side in one seat, the oldest boy reading a story.
A younger woman leaned against the glass, her husband’s head in her lap, as she hummed softly. A couple of older men wrapped in blankets at a table played cards, almost as they’d been when he left.
“Where is Mary?”
One of the pair raised a hand in greeting. “Good to see you back safe and sound, John.”
“Thanks.” He scanned the few passengers in this third car. “Where is she?”
The other fellow shrugged. “Haven’t seen her this morning. But she wasn’t looking none too good yesterday.”
No.
John’s heart screamed even as his mouth refused to work. He scanned every seat then looked to the final car. “What’s back there?”
The woman followed his gaze. “The ones what ain’t going to make it.”
He continued on, needing to know but not wanting to see what his heart feared would be his next new reality. Having had a glimpse at second love, would he leave this train alone?
He steeled his resolve. What a cruel trick this supposedl
y loving God had played on him. To show him that another love was possible, only to snatch her from him.
But he wouldn’t stop until he found her. “Mary, where are you?”
He checked every seat, scanned every face.
And on the last seat, he saw her. There was no mistaking the untidy bun of hair that always seemed askew, or the faded traveling dress even more rumpled and dusty than he’d thought possible.
She lay facedown across another woman whose eyes were open and fixed.
“No!”
He dropped to his knees beside Mary and gathered her into his arms. Her cheeks were pale and a bead of sweat decorated her brow. Had he waited too long to tell her of his love? No, as long as he had breath in him, he would tell her.
He pressed his lips to her ear and inhaled the scent of her hair, her skin. “Mary, I love you. Do you hear me? I loved you since I first saw you reading that silly romance magazine. I loved you when you took the children under your care. I loved you when you ate dinner with me. And if you’ll give me another chance, I’ll love you with every fiber of my being for as long as I live.”
He touched his lips to her cheek, heat rising in his face at the brazenness of his actions. Imagine, John Stewart holding a woman in public, whispering sweet endearments into her ear, kissing her.
And if possible, he’d kiss her back to life. He drew her close and tucked her head beneath his chin. “God, if you’ll give me another chance, I won’t let her slip away. I promise.”
Pressure built in his chest, pushing between them. Startled, he opened his eyes.
To see her staring back at him. “You’re smothering me.”
“Mary!”
She smiled, weakly to be sure, but the corners of her mouth turned up. “I was dreaming God brought you back to me.”
He cuddled her—more gently this time. “And He did. He certainly did.”
Answered prayer was one thing, but a direction for her future was sorely lacking.
Mary sighed. The children would live with their uncle. John would return to his wife and children.
Everybody on this train had a plan.
Except her.
High winds came through overnight, blowing the tracks clear, and already the sun melted what little remained. The dead were loaded into the baggage car, to be offloaded at Flagstaff and returned to their families or buried locally. The rescue party headed back to Holbrook amid the shouts and cheers of the passengers.
And John sat across from her as though nothing had changed.
In fact, if she didn’t know better, her recovery had confounded his plans. Once he was certain she was all right, he’d not said one word to her.
What of the words of love he’d whispered in her ear? Or had she dreamed that? She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He appeared to be asleep. Well, he had every right to rest. He’d been awake almost as long as she had, in much harsher circumstances. Except his refusal to talk to her in the few minutes after he helped her to her feet was frustrating. His words still warmed her heart—and her cheeks—and she was certain she’d blushed.
And so she should. She was practically a married woman. Engaged, to be sure. To a man she didn’t love.
She loved Her John.
What to do? She could send a telegram to Mr. Stewart. Tell him she wasn’t coming. Could she nullify an engagement in that manner, or could the insufferable man hold her to their contract?
In the meantime, she had a couple of patients recovering in the third car, along with the children to care for. The ill fared well under the doctor’s care. She was glad he was here, relieving her of some of her duties, and giving her more time—and energy—to think.
Not that she really needed the time. She’d already decided. She would send a telegram breaking her engagement and asking Mr. Stewart to send his reply to Barstow. That should give him enough time to answer.
If he chose not to release her, that would be her answer. And she would continue her train ride to Heartbreak.
Because marrying Mr. Stewart would certainly break her heart.
Chapter 8
Feeling as though he were roping an oversized calf to the ground with his bare hands, John grappled with his dilemma most of that day. Surely he was making the right decision to ignore Miss Mary. After all, he was the same as married to another. And calling off his engagement to Miss Johannson would be awkward and embarrassing. Everybody in town knew he was planning to wed the woman from out east, and to turn up in Heartbreak with a different woman on his arm would look—and feel—dishonest.
How would he feel if he received a telegram from Miss Johannson telling him she’d fallen in love with another man?
To be honest, happy.
He sighed. Truth was, he wasn’t certain how Miss Mary felt about him. Once he realized what he’d done—and said—he kept his distance. In fact, rather than face her across a table in the dining car, he spent the last hours digesting his sandwich.
John looked up as Thomas entered the car bearing a tray of cups and a coffeepot. The old man made a good recovery under the doctor’s care. Even his breathing seemed better now.
Thomas paused beside him. “Morning, Mr. John. Coffee?”
“Thank you, Thomas. Feeling better?”
The old man smiled, his teeth a white slash against his dark skin. “Oh yes, Mr. John. Sure do. Thank you for askin’.” He glanced two seats back and across the way to where Miss Mary sat with the three children. “If’n you don’t mind me askin’, did you and Miss Mary have a fallin’ out?”
John struggled to keep his voice and his expression neutral. “Nothing like that. She just needs to focus on the children.”
“Uh-huh.” The conductor’s tone told John he didn’t believe him. “And what about you?”
“Me?”
“Don’t turn those gray eyes on me, all innocent lookin’ like that. You know what I mean.”
John sipped his coffee, glancing over his cup at the subject of their conversation. The old man was too astute by half.
Thomas grunted something under his breath and moved down the aisle, pausing at each passenger in turn, until he reached Miss Mary. He spoke, and she looked over toward John, then back at Thomas.
The old man better not be matchmaking.
Miss Mary accepted a coffee, and Thomas continued through the car. When he reached the end, he entered the final car where the doctor and the recovering patients resided. After a few minutes, he returned to gather up empty cups.
Thomas slowed but continued on when John wouldn’t meet his gaze. John suspected the older man would take every opportunity to poke and prod, ask questions, and grunt under his breath.
He was correct in his reluctance to call off his engagement.
So why didn’t he feel better about his choice?
Mary set aside the romance magazine. She was no longer naive enough to think true love was anything like these stories.
Eli, tired of reading the same book to his siblings, napped, his head lolling against her arm. Trevor and Cassie played cat’s cradle with a length of yarn.
Thomas strolled the aisle, calling out the next station. “Flagstaff up next. Flagstaff, Arizona Territory, coming up. Twenty minutes. Flagstaff.”
His singsong refrain churned the butterflies in her stomach. Maybe she should reconsider. She could marry Mr. Stewart and live unhappily ever after. Well, perhaps she was putting too grim a face on it. She was certain she would grow to love his children.
Or she could break off her engagement, hope Her John felt the same way about her, and—she gasped. What had she been thinking? It didn’t matter what he felt. He had a wife and children. He wasn’t going to ride off into the sunset with her. No matter how many cheesy romance magazines she read, her story wouldn’t have a happy ending.
Where once she was content to marry without love, now that she’d tasted the emotion, she couldn’t settle for anything less.
She knew what she had to do.
She woul
d send the telegram.
She closed her eyes to ask for help to compose the words that were certain to hurt Mr. Stewart in the short run but surely would set him free to find true love.
She prayed silently, pouring out her heart.
God, if You’re there, please help me. I’ve made a promise that I must now break. Not only because I’ve experienced what I thought would never be mine, but because I realize I’m not being fair to Mr. Stewart. Please help me write words that release both of us from our arrangement. She paused, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her. She swallowed hard. God, I’ve tried to run my life. And I’ve made a mess of it. Please, God, take control, and let me just rest in You. Amen.
She opened her eyes and a tear slid down her cheek.
Two difficult decisions made.
John stepped out of the Flagstaff depot, shielding his eyes against the midday sun. Farther down the platform, Miss Mary and the children strolled, hand in hand. The little girl broke away, toddled over to a clump of pansies in a pot, and reached in to pluck one.
Her older brother hurried over and snatched her hand away. “No, Cassie. If you pick it, it will die.”
His words echoed John’s feelings.
Which should have assuaged his conscience over what he’d just done.
Even now, his telegram was click-clacking its way across wires and through telegraph key machines to a small town in Pennsylvania, telling a certain Miss Mary Johannson not to make the trip to California.
PLANS HAVE CHANGED. Stop. DO NOT COME. Stop. APOLOGIES. Stop. CONFIRM RECEIPT TO BARSTOW. Stop. JOHN STEWART.
Plans have changed, indeed. Miss Johannson’s plans hadn’t.
His decision had to do with his impossible comparison of every woman to Sophia. And none had passed muster—except one.
But Miss Mary hadn’t spoken to him in days. Most likely, the embarrassing episode of kissing and sweet endearments had chilled any feelings she might have held for him. What had gotten into him?
He followed her with his eyes, begging her wordlessly to speak to him. To notice him. To ask him what he’d meant by the words spoken in her ear during her semiconscious state.
