Two men leapt between the cars. Metal clanged and scraped.
“Pay attention. You’ll all take a turn eventually. When they’re done, jump aboard the train. It’s time to earn your pay.”
“But we’ve been travelin’ since dawn,” one of the new recruits grumbled.
“And you’ll work every day from dawn till dusk,” the big Irishman replied. “Welcome to the life of railroader, boyo. You’ll get used to it soon enough.”
“It’s not me that needs convincing, it’s me arse.”
All of the workmen broke out in guffaws. Their leader didn’t join them. Then a deafening squeal came from the front of the train. The laughter died as they spun as one to face the sound.
The platform was barely long enough to provide access to the two passenger cars. Between those cars and the engine stood a stockcar piled high with the iron rails used to form the track. A man, wearing loose fitting railroad bibs and a wide-brimmed hat drawn low over his face, crouched on top of the rails. The workmen—both clean and muddy—surged to the edge of the platform, blocking her view.
“It’s one of the Joy Men.” The declaration came from the big Irishman hidden somewhere beyond the wall of bodies between her and the train.
A spy for the rival railroad? If James Joy had sent a rabble rouser from his line, she’d best learn as much about him as possible. Starting with what he looked like.
She pushed through the workmen. Each man spun with a scowl, ready to berate whoever poked him in the ribs or stepped on his toes. When they saw her, they stumbled back, jaws dropping. She reached the platform’s edge just in time to see the man on the stockcar leap to the engine, run across its back and slid down the cattle guard to the ground.
“After him, lads!” The big Irishman roared from somewhere close.
She turned but didn’t see him. The men she did see stood frozen, their gazes locked on her.
Their leader shoved through them with a growl. “Why aren’t you—?” He slammed to a halt in front of her. He hadn’t touched her, but the sight of him looming over her with a combination of anger and disbelief twisting his mud-streaked face, pushed her back. She teetered on the edge of the platform, the weight of her valise throwing her further off balance. Many hands reached for her, including the giant’s.
She refused to let go of her valise and accept them.
She fell with a shriek. Her rear end hit the mud with a bruising wallop. She gritted her teeth to stop any additional embarrassing outbursts then, valise still in hand, staggered to her feet. And promptly sank ankle deep in the muck.
Galloping hoof beats splashed the sodden earth behind her. She could only assume the man had found a horse and was making his retreat. Instinctively, she tried to give chase. The mud held her feet prisoner. Blast it to Hell. All she could do was stare over her shoulder and watch the man ride pell-mell out of town, his floppy-brimmed hat waving goodbye.
A colossal groan rent the air. She jerked round to face the train, as did the men on the platform above her. The terrible sound came again, making the stockcar shudder with its force. A crack like gunfire echoed. Chains burst. Iron screeched against iron. And the mountain of rails toppled toward her. Trapped as she was in the muck below, she’d soon be crushed in a muddy grave. Fear devoured all further thought.
A broad hand clamped round her arm and yanked. Her feet popped from the mud, and she sailed through the air before landing on the platform. The hand released her. Shock rendered her legs useless, crumpling her like a rag doll on the boards beside her valise.
With the force of Thor’s hammer, the first rail struck the earth. A shower of mud pelted the platform on either side of her. The clanging that followed left her ears ringing.
“Did I hurt you?” the now familiar brogue whispered, so close it raised goose flesh.
Lifting her head, she stared into eyes as silver as newly minted dollars, the only difference in a face as muddy as the rest. The man’s massive frame crouched protectively over her. She was bombarded with memories of her mother’s stories, tales passed down for generations of legendary Celtic warriors. She had never dreamed of encountering one of those mythical men in human form.
He reached out to touch her.
“She all right, Mac?”
The question halted his hand. He stood, taking his warmth with him.
“Are you daft?” His tone had gone from hushed moorland stream to storm-tossed sea. “Why were you standing so close to the platform edge? What kind of harebrained lass loiters around a rail platform rather than heading straight into town?”
She pushed to her feet, ignoring his out-stretched hand when he bent to assist her. Instead, she clenched her valise with both hands. “I was unaware certain areas of New Chicago were off limits.”
His brows slanted at an unforgiving angle. “Maybe they should be. You could’ve been killed.”
She glanced at the dozen muddy men, hovering close behind him. He’d called them the McGrady Gang. They were nodding, their faces etched with concern. Chivalry from a band of dirt-poor and dirt-covered Irish laborers? Once again, the new recruits stood back. Watching and waiting.
Their leader continued frowning, this time in the direction the rider had disappeared. “Should’a stopped him. Now my men will have to work double, loading those rails and unloading them at the worksite.”
Ah. Now he revealed his true self. He wasn’t as worried about her as he was about his work and his men. This she could understand and use.
“Sorry to be such a bother.” She lowered her gaze and tried to appear contrite, which wasn’t difficult as she truly regretted seeing anyone involved in such back-breaking labor. But being a bother was her job. Now she must become even more bothersome. She must embrace every opportunity to delay this construction crew from reaching the border.
Her Irish rescuer exhaled a weary breath and said in a much gentler tone, “’Tisn’t your fault. Don’t worry about us.”
“Oh, but I do. And to apologize for seeing your men’s lives made more difficult, I promise to buy each and every one of them a drink tonight.”
A round of hoorays went up.
“Now, lass, you needn’t—”
“I must.”
“Miss, it’s not necessary—”
“It is.”
“Look, lady, I can’t let—”
“You can. And you can call me Miss Willows.”
“Stubborn English,” he muttered.
Annoyance made her squeeze her valise’s handle even tighter. “I’m not English. I’m American.”
“Isn’t Willows an English name?”
She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. She wondered if she might wrench the handle from her valise, so tight had her grip become.
His eyes narrowed even more. “If you’ve got something to say, Miss Willows, say it.”
“You’re overbearing and opinionated—an Irishman I heard all about in my youth.” Her mother’s tales of her home country hadn’t always been admiring.
Behind him, the McGrady Gang hooted in mirth. “She’s put ye in yer place, Mac.”
She felt no pleasure in the accomplishment. It served no purpose. Unfortunately, she was struggling to recall her purpose. Her befuddlement had arrived with the big Irishman, the one the men called Mac. Her reaction to him was dangerous. He was dangerous.
Refusing to look at him, she stared at the train. She was here to delay construction of the track, so Parsons lost the race and his ill-gotten gains. She was here for Declan. “Mr. Mac, I—”
“Cormac.”
She couldn’t stop her gaze from returning to him.
“That’s my name.” He glanced away as if he suddenly didn’t want to look at her either. “My friends call me Mac.”
A stab of regret robbed her of a reply. She forced herself to welcome the hurt. She wasn’t here to make friends, so she should be happy that he didn’t number her among his. In her line of work, friendships never helped. Too much guilt came with them.
>
Hurried footsteps rattled the stairs. Cormac installed himself between her and whoever approached.
“What the devil’s going on, McGrady?” Despite the voice being clipped and angry, she recognized its owner as the previously sugar-toned Henry Stevens. “I hired you to save time,” he barked, “not squander it.” Stevens’ footsteps grew louder, heading toward the platform edge.
Cormac’s hands fisted at his sides. He shifted sideways with Stevens. Without a word, the McGrady Gang moved as well. Cormac McGrady and the men named after him formed a tight circle around her, keeping her hidden.
Did they worry what Stevens might say if he saw her among them?
“Everything’s under control.” Cormac’s voice was firm, resuming the tone he’d used when he’d first rallied his workers. “Someone broke the chains and dumped the load.”
“One of the Joy Men?” Stevens asked.
“Who else? You got problems with other folks you haven’t told me about?” A note of challenge had crept into Cormac’s tone. But when he didn’t receive an answer, he merely shrugged. “All I know for certain is the man left us with more work.” His gaze shifted to the new recruits. “Into the mud, lads, and put those rails back where they belong.”
Hesitant footsteps scraped the platform. Voices grumbled. The platform shook. Mud splashed. More of the same followed, intensifying the grumbling. But Cormac and the McGrady Gang remained rooted around her like silent oaks. Only when Stevens’ swift stride stomped off, did they turn and begin jumping into the mud as well.
Cormac paused on the platform’s edge with his back to her. When the last of his men were on the ground and out of earshot, he said, “Don’t come to the saloon tonight. ’Tis a place unfit for a lady. I’ll make sure my men get what you promised. I’ll make up for their pains. I’m responsible for them, not you.”
Before she could argue, he jumped down and helped his men move the rails. The thick muscles along his shoulders and arms bulged with the effort. He would make a powerful adversary.
She’d never backed away from a challenge. Contrary to Cormac’s order, she’d buy her promised round in person, because she wanted to buy several more afterward. She’d set up her first act of disruption. Men who over-indulged in drink during the night suffered the following morning and worked much slower.
She wasn’t so sure about Celtic warriors. A shiver danced across her skin, as she watched Cormac labor with the strength of three men. The only thing to do was use his brawn to aid her mission. The image of his large hands clenching into fists as Stevens tried to march around him, leapt to mind. If she could incite a brawl tonight, then tomorrow’s progress would be even slower.
All she had to do was find the right words while coaxing the right number of drinks into the workmen and their leader.
Chapter 3
Careful to keep his clean clothing—and his even cleaner self—out of the muck, Cormac followed the wooden footpath that led from the bathhouse to Eden’s. Ahead, the hushed darkness surrounding the saloon amplified the noise within: coarse language, loud laughter and dreadful music played on an out-of-tune piano by a tone-deaf musician. How he longed for a traditional céilí in Ireland. But if a man wanted a drink in New Chicago, he went to Eden’s.
That’s where the McGrady Gang would be. Since leaving his sister, Meghan, with her new family two months ago, his gang was the closest thing he had to kin. He’d promised to buy them a round of drinks. He’d promised a very pretty lass with eyes like amber gems. A promise he suddenly wished he hadn’t made. Her safety was top priority, but he longed to lose himself in those amazing eyes again.
Under some misguided notion of helping, Miss Willows had offered to compensate his men with drink. He had no idea why Americans did half the things they did, so he’d given her a way out. He wouldn’t see her tonight. Despite knowing this, he paused in the saloon doorway and scanned the room. The disappointment weighing his shoulders deepened, heavier than the longest workday. No auburn-haired spitfire swathed in purple silk. No lass above him in dress, manners, and prospects.
Now that Meghan no longer needed him, his sole purpose was to see the Katy built to the border with no one killed in the process. Too many in Galway had died because of him. He wouldn’t let that happen here.
But if he didn’t catch the bloody saboteur who’d been harassing the railroad for weeks with rapidly mounting violence— His heart still seized at the memory of Miss Willows nearly crushed under a ton of cascading steel. Resignation joined the load on his shoulder. It snuffed out the lonely ember of yearning that had arrived with today’s train. He’d been right to insist Miss Willows stay away.
His gaze sought out the McGrady Gang. He might refer to all of the Katy’s workers as his men, but only one group was his gang. Formed during his five years working on the transcontinental railroad, the McGrady Gang hadn’t given him any choice in the matter, not even in their name. Tonight his gang wasn’t carousing with the women, or distracting the new recruits with questions about life back in Ireland, or tiring out the other gangs with arm-twisting challenges. They clustered silently around a table in the back.
What were they up to?
Behind the bar, Eden beckoned him with an elegant tilt of her chin, making the glossy dark curls piled atop her head shimmer. While he took a stool opposite her, she poured him a glass from one of the better bottles of rotgut found in the West. Then she raised her coffee mug to him in salute.
He couldn’t contain the grimace that followed his first swallow. The memory of good Irish whiskey lingered on his tongue, reminding him of his failures. He couldn’t pay back the dead. His trip home to Galway had shown that he couldn’t even pay back the living.
“To bitter days and better nights,” Eden said, taking a sip of her coffee. “And to sweet dreams.”
He grimaced again. He hadn’t meant to share his dreams with Eden, but that’s what men did. In her mid-twenties, Eden was younger than half of the girls under her charge. But she ran her saloon, and the brothel above it, with a shrewdness that belied her age and hinted of a history heavy enough to double her years.
Whatever her past, Eden seemed to have mastered the present. Instead of taking men to her bed, she stayed downstairs and took their confessions. Eden kept their deepest secrets. Everything else the men told her, or she overheard, was fair game. She enjoyed giving advice but also enjoyed taking her own sweet time. When this happened, her pale-green eyes sparkled. Right now her eyes blazed with fireworks. She had pertinent information that concerned him.
He sent an inquiring glance toward his gang.
“Chess,” she replied. “They liberated your board from your tent an hour ago.”
“And to think I almost tossed it in the Atlantic coming back. Never expected they’d remember the game so fondly.”
Eden shrugged, then picked up a glass and polished it. The corners of her ruby lips curled ever so slightly.
“Eden…” He scrubbed his hand over his jaw. “Cut me some line. My day’s been harder than usual.”
“You suffered a mishap at the station,” said a voice as raspy as an old saw. Floyd, the railroad’s telegraph operator, sidled up next to him. Despite his occupation, or maybe because of it, the grizzled man had a propensity for spouting secrets like a leaky rain barrel.
Propping an elbow on the bar, Cormac turned to face him. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Floyd waggled his glass at him. Cormac gestured for Eden to fill it.
The old man downed the drink and smacked his lips. “Tonight the stakes of yonder game have grown. Still, whatever the outcome I’m happy.” Contrary to his proclamation he frowned at the once more empty glass in his hand.
Cormac waved impatiently for Eden to top him up.
“Very kind of you. And them,” Floyd added, gesturing to the McGrady Gang. “Whoever loses, buys drinks for everyone, including me.”
A jolt straightened Cormac’s spine. Could it be Miss Willows? No. He’d told her not
to— He spat out a curse. Growing up with five sisters hadn’t taught him a thing. “Who’s buying?”
“Not yer men. So far they’ve won three matches. Still, I think they’re pondering their opponent more than their playing. From their silence, their luck’s run out. They’ll be buying the next round. Which is good—” Floyd nudged his glass toward Eden, “—’cause I’m empty again.”
Cormac slammed his palm on the counter between them. “Tell me who you’re talking about.”
“Sorry, Mac. The lady’s new to me. Don’t know her name.” Floyd edged away until he disappeared into the crowd.
Shoving Cormac’s hand off the counter, Eden retrieved Floyd’s glass and deposited it in a washbasin. “Good God, these days you’re as grumpy as an old bear.”
Cormac hunched his shoulders. “She shouldn’t be here.”
Eden released a very unladylike snort. “And where should she be, Cormac McGrady? I don’t know much about the woman, having only exchanged names with her, but she’s welcome in my saloon anytime. Adella Willows is dandy for business.”
Anticipation and guilt struck a double blow dead center in his chest. He shouldn’t be happy she was here. If she got hurt—
A whisper-light touch brushed his arm. The tough-as-nails madam’s grasp was so gentle a child could’ve pulled away. But the unexpected flash of compassion that crossed Eden’s beautiful face was what held him in place. He hadn’t even realized he’d jumped to his feet.
“Go easy, Mac,” she murmured. “Allow your men to embrace life even if you can’t.” Then she released him and sauntered off to pour her next customer a drink.
Cormac forced himself to traverse the saloon slowly. How did one go easy when one’s heart was racing like a runaway train? He stopped behind his gang and raked his fingers through his damp hair, suddenly thankful he’d taken time after scrubbing out the mud to comb the thick tangles.
Adella's Enemy Page 2
