Strangers on a Train

by Ruth Wind

  It was over far too quickly for Heather, and she pulled back a shade reluctantly when he released her, sliding his hand down her arm to take her hand, where he pressed another kiss to her palm. He sighed very quietly.

  "You make me feel good, Heather, in ways I can't even tell you." He touched the pad of her thumb with his own. "I'd like to take you in there and do a lot more than kiss you, but I've got a hunch a one-night stand isn't your style."

  At this reminder of the transient nature of their meeting, Heather felt a wisp of regret. "You're right," she confirmed. "I've probably let too much happen already."

  He smiled. "No morals committee is going to call you up on charges of a few games of backgammon and a good-night kiss." He kissed her forehead—his lips moist against her skin—and released her. "See you later, Heather. Sleep well."

  "Good night, Ben."

  She entered her cubicle to find the morning sun weakly pushing at the heavy clouds. The light was eerie, with the falling snow casting a pink light, and the obscured sun was a pale yellowish globe, huge on the Eastern horizon. At its edges, the clouds shimmered in the palest shade of lavender.

  Heather sank to her knees, transfixed by the incredible scene, then picked up her guitar in inspiration to play the music that suddenly burst into being in her mind. The notes carried foreign overtones, inspired by the unusual dawn, and she found her fingers picking out a double melody in a minor key that made her think of dancers from the Dark Ages, swirling in pagan and sultry invitation. In a fever of creativity, she rustled through her purse to find something to write on, hurriedly sketching out bars in the margins of a church program, capturing enough of the tune that she could play it again later.

  When the sun rose a little higher, the heavy clouds dimmed the pastel lighting to a monochromatic gray. Heather put aside her guitar with a sigh of artistic satisfaction, and without even removing her shoes, pulled the blanket over her head and slept. Her last conscious thought was a half-realized wish that Ben had lingered long enough to view that alien beauty with her. Something told her he would have understood her rush to capture the song of the eerie dawn.

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  « ^ »

  When Heather awoke, the familiar thrum and rattle of the train told her the wreck had been cleaned up. Outside, a watery sun filtered through a light haze of clouds. She sat up groggily, stiff from not moving for several hours, and blinked at the snow-covered prairie over which the train traveled.

  Her hand fell on the church program she'd used to record the dawn-inspired composition. She yawned broadly as she glanced over it, a sense of pleasure spreading through her chest as she remembered the lilting, exotic tone of the notes. Good, she thought; a new composition. There hadn't been a new one in almost a year—not unless she counted the ongoing work on the steel-mill piece, which had been in progress for some time.

  She stood up and stretched, suddenly conscious of deep hunger. It was hard to remember the last thing she'd had to eat—oh, yes, the hamburger with Mrs. Gordon.

  As she changed her clothes and made preparations for a trek to the bathroom downstairs, she let her mind touch briefly upon Ben. Had he already eaten? They'd made plans for breakfast before the accident—perhaps they no longer stood. The thought gave her a vague sense of disappointment.

  The bathroom mirror showed her hair to be thoroughly disheveled, and Heather was momentarily embarrassed that she'd ventured out of her room in such a condition. Her usual habit was to braid it at night in order to save the tedious combing-out in the morning. Last night Ben had brushed it for her, then she'd left it down as an insulator against the cold. When she'd returned to her compartment, the sunrise had so stirred her creative juices that she'd never given her hair another thought.

  She sat down on the toilet seat in the tiny bathroom and began to gingerly pull the tangles free, starting at the bottom and working her way up in an automatic gesture born of years and years of fighting the rat's nest of fine hair. As her fingers found and worked through some of the larger knots, she gradually became aware of a new sensation, one of tingly awareness and energy—even anticipation. What would the day bring? She hummed a part of the Mozart guitar piece she'd played for Ben the night before.

  Suddenly the notes died in her throat as she pinpointed the emotion: infatuation. How ridiculous. She'd met a stranger on a train who teased her and made her feel attractive—and the next day she was singing. Boy, she thought in disgust, so much for the grieving widow.

  And for what? For a man she would never see again? A man who had the same kind of history as her dead husband, and a past she obviously didn't have the tools to handle?

  Having smoothed out the tangles in her hair, she stood up to wash her face. The cold water brought some color into her pale skin. Examining that face in the ugly fluorescent light, she thought it might be time for a makeup overhaul. Perhaps a trip to a cosmetics consultant at one of the department stores could help her choose shades that would emphasize her eyes and hide the lack of definition and color in the rest of her face.

  Again she heard her thoughts with a touch of disbelief. As a teenager, she had, like most girls, experimented with dozens of shades of eye shadow and eyeliner and lipstick and foundation. Most of it looked ghastly on her, and Heather settled for a simple routine that hid the worst of her faults—a tendency to dark circles under her eyes, and the extreme paleness of her ivory skin.

  But who would she be trying all this new makeup for? Her fish? The parakeets, maybe? The thought made her laugh, and she left the bathroom in search of food.

  In the sparsely populated dining car, Heather ordered a big breakfast of French toast, orange juice and tea. When the waiter brought her tea, she asked, "Where are we?"

  "Kansas. We'll get to the next station in about an hour."

  "Do you know when we'll get to La Junta?"

  "We're running almost exactly four hours behind, ma'am."

  Heather stifled a smile over the "ma'am" and nodded. "Thank you."

  She wondered where Ben was as she ate her elegant breakfast, served with as much of an aura of a posh hotel as the train company could muster. Surely he wasn't still sleeping at noon—but perhaps he was, she argued. Maybe he wasn't a morning person. Maybe he was working—his was the sort of profession, like music, that could be pursued on a train, after all. Or maybe he'd found more interesting companionship.

  It irritated her that so many of her thoughts centered around the enigmatic writer; yet she couldn't deny the pulsing energy that enlivened her this morning.

  After she'd eaten, she wandered back through the train to her room, feeling a little lonely. She'd stopped by Mrs. Gordon's cubicle to find the old woman already gone, and there was nothing left to do except return to her own little space. Once there, determined not to read more into the previous evening's activities than there had actually been, she straightened the tiny room and made the bed into seats again, then sat down with her guitar and the church program.

  She was soon deeply engrossed in her music, as her restless energy found relief in the unusual composition. She wandered through what she remembered a few times, then set about refining and magnifying the piece. After digging out a notebook from her canvas carry-all, she carefully penciled in regular rows of musical bars where she recorded what she discovered. She played a few notes, hummed them back to herself with variations, played the variations, and recorded in musical notation what she heard.

  When a knock interrupted her, Heather's heart slammed into her rib cage. She paused for a moment, embarrassed by her physical reaction. Ben's voice floated through the door: "Heather?"

  Of course. He'd heard her playing. Now he must be wondering why she wasn't answering. An acute sensation of panicky anticipation clutched her stomach for a moment—and then she laughed at herself. How old are you, anyway? she asked herself wryly before opening the door.

  He wore the same cream-colored corduroy shirt as he had the day before. His eyes glinted m
errily, and the smallest hint of a smile clung to his mouth. Before Heather could move, that mouth swept down and brushed her own in greeting. "Mornin'," he said.

  "It's not really morning, you know," she corrected. Beneath the prim words, her heartbeat skidded into a more normal pattern, but Ben's body seemed to fill the doorway and his scent surrounded her with a pervasive, powerful masculinity. Her gaze fell to his chest.

  "It's morning for me. Have you eaten?"

  Heather nodded. An almost unnaturally glistening curl of hair had snaked under his collar. She barely resisted lifting her fingers to reposition it with its brothers.

  "You want to come with me while I get something? I'd sure enjoy the company."

  "I'd like that." She raised her eyes to meet his.

  Ben didn't move, but a sudden flare of heat warned her he wouldn't be content to play patient forever. She met that gaze, too, thinking now with her soul—with that portion of herself from which her music sprang—and wondered what melody would come when she was wrapped in his lean, hard arms. He moved first, taking his arm from the doorway where he'd braced himself, and glanced down the hallway. "We can get the backgammon board on the way, and you can let me make up my losses," he said, giving her room to retreat.

  "Let you? Ha!"

  "We'll see." He stopped at his compartment for the board and they continued their walk. "What were you playing in there when I interrupted?"

  "Something new. I don't know what it is yet." She pressed against the wall to let someone pass. "Did you see the sunrise this morning?"

  "No, I didn't. Was it nice?"

  "Oh, Ben, it was beautiful." She touched his arm instinctively. "I can't tell you how beautiful."

  "Try." He took her hand. "But save it for a minute so I can hear you properly."

  They maneuvered the rest of the corridors to the dining car in silence. "Would you like a cup of coffee or something?"

  "A cup of tea would be nice, thank you."

  He ordered for both of them, then turned his attention fully to Heather and, lighting a cigarette, said, "Now tell me about this sunrise."

  Heather let the scene fill her mind for a minute before she spoke. "It was like something from another planet. The sun was huge and soft, and the sky turned violet all around the edges—" She broke off, suddenly aware that the words somehow didn't express what she had seen. "I'll have to play my new composition for you. It says what I can't."

  "I'd like that." He sipped his heavily sugared coffee with relish. "Mmm. That tastes good. I got some new ideas last night—or rather, this morning—too."

  "Can you share them? Or are you one of those writers who can't talk about what you're doing?"

  He wiggled his nose above the mustache. "Generally I can. These feel so different, I think I'm afraid to say them out loud. Maybe they'll disappear." He touched her hand. "I'll tell you that you inspired them, though."

  Her ears tingled, but thankfully the waiter arrived with Ben's breakfast—a warmed sweet roll drenched in melting butter, with bacon, eggs, grits and biscuits. Heather's eyes widened. When the waiter also placed a pitcher of a clear red liquid alongside, she shook her head. "Is that Kool-Aid?"

  Ben grinned broadly, his eyes dancing. "My terrible secret addiction."

  She laughed. "I can't believe anyone still eats like this. Don't you know all that cholesterol and fat will kill you?"

  "Something's going to do it eventually," he said, picking up his fork. "My grandpa ate like this all of his life and he lived until he was eighty-three."

  Ben ate with relish and Heather watched in fascination, conscious of the tingling awareness she'd noticed that morning spreading and growing through her body. He was lean and handsome and charming and kind. Why in the world should she resist him? How long had it been since she'd felt so alive? If it ended the moment the train pulled in, so be it. At least she would have had a few healing hours in the company of a man who made her feel like a woman.

  Mrs. Gordon stopped at their table, with a man close to her age in tow. "Hello, you two. I guess I'm the only one on the train to have slept through the accident, except my acquaintance Harry, here. We were the only ones moving when the kitchen opened this morning."

  The elderly gentleman, portly and with thinning silver hair, smiled in greeting. "Neither of us ever knew what had happened."

  "Would you like to join us?" Ben asked.

  "Oh, no, thank you, honey," Mrs. Gordon replied. "We're on our way to the observation car. I just wanted to stop and say hello." She reached out and squeezed Heather's arm, giving her a hidden wink.

  Heather grinned. After the older woman had departed, she said, "Mrs. Gordon thinks you're quite a catch."

  Ben raised one dark eyebrow and a lock of hair fell on his forehead. The combination gave him a rakish look. "I am," he replied.

  "No man is a good catch if a woman isn't fishing," Heather countered.

  He smiled in appreciation. "True." He stacked his dishes to one side, took a large sip of the jewel-colored Kool-Aid and dabbed at his lip with the heavy linen napkin. "Much better. Are you ready for that rematch?"

  "Are we allowed to play here?"

  "I don't see why not."

  "Okay." She shifted her tea to one side. "Prepare to lose, Mr. Shaw."

  Again, as on the night before, the competition was rich with laughter and concentration. They played for a long time, keeping score on a scrap of paper the waiter produced. The train slipped from Kansas into Colorado, and the afternoon shadows lengthened. When Heather happened to glance up and see the bluish line of the Rocky Mountains on the horizon, a finger of regret touched her belly. Almost home. The thought should have given her relief, but the emotions she felt were quite the opposite. Her preoccupation caused her to overlook a trap Ben had set for her, and he laughed good-naturedly as he knocked one of her counters off the board. "Had enough?"

  Heather nodded wryly. "We're almost there, anyway."

  He nodded. "'Bout that time, I guess."

  "I think I'm going to go get my things together."

  "I'll walk you back."

  "That would be nice." She slipped the glass playing pieces back into their soft bags. There was a sudden uncomfortable awkwardness between them. What now? Heather wondered.

  His eyes met hers as she handed him the bags, and Heather knew there was laughter lurking deep in those unfathomable irises now. "What are you laughing about?"

  "Am I laughing?"

  "Not on the outside."

  "Do you read minds?"

  Heather rolled her eyes and smiled. "No. I read eyes. And if eyes ever danced, yours are dancing now."

  At this, he broke into a full-fledged grin, and Heather noticed again how naturally the lines of his face arranged themselves for smiling, as if it had been formed to break into easy laughter over and over and over. "I think," he said quietly, "that you may have gotten to like me a little, Titania."

  She blushed and looked away. How could she answer? She nodded imperceptibly.

  He walked her to her roomette and left her there with a gentle squeeze of her arm. "See you, Heather. Thanks for the backgammon."

  A thousand words crowded into her mouth and she uttered none of them. There was no point. If she had let herself become infatuated with a stranger on a train, she deserved to feel the hurt that was now creeping in. "Goodbye, Ben," she whispered as she let herself into her compartment.

  At the sight of the neat bars of her new composition resting on the small table, she sighed. She'd wanted to play it for him. Too bad she wouldn't have the chance.

  * * *

  By the time the train reached the La Junta station, darkness had fallen and a deep cold frosted the air. Heather grabbed up her belongings and bundled up, ready for the long drive to Pueblo. She didn't much like the trip in the dark, for the roads were narrow country highways with no streetlights and lots of open fields. There was no help for it. She was going to miss the rehearsal tonight, as well. But there was no help for that, either.
By now, everyone would be gathered at the theater. She would call Mike when she got home and apologize. It wasn't as if she didn't know her music; it was an original composition she'd written several years before that had fit the theme of the play.

  When the train stopped, she was waiting at the door to disembark, and within minutes she had her guitar nestled in the back seat of her car and her bag in the trunk.

  * * *

  Ben cursed himself when he found her cubicle empty. He'd been teasing Heather a little, letting her think they would now part company, hoping perhaps, in some way, to jolt her a little. Now it seemed like a childish trick, and he was ashamed of himself.

  The truth was, she unsettled him. All that delicacy of language and bearing was, for a man of his ranching and rodeo background, a little out of left field. It served him right if she got away before he'd had a chance to properly say goodbye.

  He hurried through the corridors and out into the dark cold of the La Junta station. He caught a flash of pale gold hair in the gleam of a streetlight and ran for the parking lot. "Heather!"

  She turned in confusion. When, over the black top of her car, she saw Ben hobbling toward her, there was relief and hope on her face. Good, he thought. He wasn't wrong—she did like him a little. Breathlessly he paused next to her.

  For a very long moment, neither of them said a word. Ben was winded and Heather simply didn't speak as she looked up at him with those huge eyes. A quiver of longing rippled in his loins, a sensation he quelled immediately. He reached out to touch her hair, which glimmered in the soft light, and slid his palm from the crown of her head to her shoulder. "I enjoyed this train ride more than anything I've done in years, Heather. Thank you." His hand moved below the curtain of hair to the tender flesh of her warm neck and circled it.