Adella's Enemy

by Jacqui Nelson

  “This game is delightful.” Adella’s voice drifted through the knot of men with the unhurried drawl of a southerner. “As is your company.”

  “Yer just saying that ’cause yer winning now,” one of his men replied.

  “Serves you right for being such excellent teachers.” Her voice flowed like water, softening the sharp tongue she’d used so effectively on him just hours earlier. “My compliments to whoever taught you.”

  “Mac did. Played every night before...”

  He strained to hear more. But the only sound, other than the continuous jabber of the saloon patrons outside the circle of his gang, was the faint click of chess pieces.

  “Before?” Adella finally prompted.

  “Before leaving us.”

  “And saying he wouldn’t be back. Ever.”

  More silence followed his gang’s gruff replies.

  “So,” Adella said, drawing out the word until his skin tingled and his clothes felt too tight. “He doesn’t play chess with you anymore. And, as can be inferred by his absence, he doesn’t socialize with you either. What does he do?”

  To have her discuss him so casually, even in an admonishing tone, filled him with unexpected pleasure. It was that damned voice of hers. It made everything she said sound good. Even after five years laying track over a half-a-dozen states, he hadn’t heard its match.

  “Mac will get here soon as he’s put the railroad to bed.”

  “Never asks a man to work longer than him.”

  “Or harder. Ye saw him. He wore as much mud as us.”

  Each time one of his men spoke, their tone grew increasingly earnest, as if trying to make up for their previous surliness.

  “Is your work always so laborious?” she asked. “And so…dirty?”

  His men laughed, their gravity gone. She’d known just how to take it away.

  “This mornin’ we introduced a stick of dynamite to the banks of a wee gully, levelin’ it out. Not the best way to lay track, but the fastest. They hired us to be quick.”

  “The cloud of earth thrown into the air rained down on us somethin’ fierce. We got the worst of it.”

  “The McGrady Gang always does, ’cause we’re always at the front.”

  This time Cormac laughed with his gang. They spun and fell back as if they’d never heard his laugh. Maybe they hadn’t. He couldn’t remember the last time.

  Adella sat with her hand hovering over her queen. Ready, with the support of her bishop, to take her opponent’s king. Her dress, this one a vibrant green, drew a man’s attention to the pale swell of her bosom. His gaze continued upward, over the slender curve of her neck, her delicately parted lips and higher. He searched for greater treasure.

  In the flickering lantern light, the amber of her eyes glowed like gold at the end of a rainbow, promising untold riches. And many secrets. And one revelation. It wasn’t merely the color of her eyes that mesmerized him. It was the way she looked at him, as if he was the only man in the room.

  Eden’s advice rang in his head. Go Easy. Not even growing up in a house full of sisters offered a clue to his next move with Adella. His gaze drifted to her hand still hovering over the chessboard. That game he knew. Each move told volumes. As did the moves not taken.

  He gestured toward the piece she’d yet to move. “That’s checkmate. I think you play chess better than you let on.”

  She jerked back her hand, abandoning her victory, retreating. No. He wouldn’t let her. He shook his head, remembering all of Eden’s counsel. Allow your men to embrace life even if you can’t. Suddenly, he wanted to embrace life with nothing held back. Not only did he want the Katy to win the race in order to keep his men employed, he wanted Adella. The realization made him as eager as the greenest recruit in town. It also scared the hell out of him, because he realized something else.

  Adella had plans of her own, plans that didn’t include him, plans she was hiding. She hadn’t stood on the edge of the platform because she was daft. She hadn’t ventured into a rowdy saloon to buy drinks under a misguided notion of helping. And she certainly wasn’t playing chess with his men for the fun of it.

  Why was she in New Chicago? Most people came for the railroad. A railroad he needed to protect. His conscience demanded he honor that commitment, but his entire being vibrated with an even greater urge to keep Adella safe.

  What could a woman like Adella want with the railroad? There was only one way to find out.

  “At this point, Miss Willows, retreat isn’t an option,” he said. “For either of us.”

  ***

  Astonishment stole the air from Adella’s lungs. The deep brogue was familiar. The man standing before her was not. How could Cormac McGrady look so different but still confound her so completely?

  “You’ve won,” he said, “but I’m still buying the round. You’ll find I’m stubborn about keeping promises.”

  “Your hair,” she blurted. Apparently she had enough air to speak, just not sensibly.

  “What about it?” He ran his fingers through the thick waves, doing what her fingers ached to do. Hair, so dark that it rivaled the night, had been hidden under all that dull brown mud. It made his silver eyes all the more intense. He stared at her, unblinking, demanding her answer.

  It would serve no purpose to have him catch her staring in return.

  She lowered her gaze. “It’s…different.”

  Amazingly, he laughed again. The sound was so resonant it vibrated in her bones and sent her thoughts swooping like swallows over a barn. Ah yes, this was the giant who so easily made her forgot she had plans beyond him. She lifted her chin and studied him. She was, she told herself, only examining him to better learn how to overcome him.

  The square line of his jaw was smooth, freshly shaven. The ample, sun-burnished muscles of his neck led down to a linen shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing more tanned, heavily corded flesh. A waistcoat covered his broad chest and flat stomach, then snug trousers over narrow hips. The brown fabric fit him perfectly as if custom-made. No, not brown but intermingled threads of gold and russet. Homespun tweed from a distant island. Her fingers ached again. This time to learn what lay beneath such foreign fabric.

  “Different,” he said, nodding, “is an appropriate word for today. How do you feel?”

  She blinked. “Feel?”

  “You struck the earth fairly hard when you fell.”

  Heat scorched her cheeks. “Oh yes. That. I am quite recovered.”

  “Out here, a man can usually count on a bit of rain to wash away his work. That way he doesn’t come to town looking grim enough to startle ladies off train platforms. I’d say it’s been a different, and difficult, day for both of us.”

  “You work too hard.” She bit the inside of her cheek, regretting the sentiment behind her words more than the words themselves. She should only want to reduce his workload in order to delay the Katy from reaching the border, not to offer him comfort.

  He shrugged. “There’s no shame in an honest day’s work.”

  “For dishonest overlords?”

  A slight tightening of his brow informed her she’d struck a chord.

  “Someone’s told you a story or two about Ireland,” he replied. “Does your informer have a name?”

  “They cheat to get even richer, you know.”

  He allowed a heavy silence to stretch between them as if he meant to challenge her avoidance of his question. But instead he said, “They?”

  “The railroad owners.”

  “There’s good and bad in every person.”

  “Even in the English?”

  He laughed again. The same rumbling sound that kept turning her body and mind to mush.

  “I’ve recently been reminded to keep an open mind, even about the English.” A sudden commotion on the other side of the saloon, two men exchanging blows over some unknown grievance, removed his smile.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he said gruffly. “It’s not safe.”

  “
It’s as good a place as any.” In her line of work, dangers were everywhere. Here they included a saboteur who’d almost killed her. The man had been so reckless he hadn’t seemed to care if his actions hurt others. Adella would rather die than cause someone’s death. The anguish she’d experienced when she’d first learned Declan had died, the relentless grief every day that followed— She couldn’t put other families through what she’d felt, what she was still feeling. She couldn’t live knowing she’d caused that amount of pain. Not even to get revenge on someone she despised as much as Parsons.

  “Besides,” she continued, pushing aside her morbid thoughts, “if I hadn’t ventured inside this saloon, I wouldn’t have been reminded of an interest in long-forgotten games.”

  “Why venture at all? Why come to New Chicago?” Cormac’s gaze pierced her.

  His sudden interest in her motives made her throat constrict. She forced herself not to swallow. He was waiting for a reaction—and an answer. Of course! She hadn’t told him her cover story. “My newspaper sent me to photograph the railroad.”

  Silent and as impenetrable as a stone, he continued staring at her.

  “You don’t believe a woman can do the job?” She sharpened her tone, aiming to sound offended.

  One of his dark brows arched. “I haven’t seen you with a camera.”

  Her tension eased, letting her breathe normally again. The conversation was headed in a direction she could work with. “I’ve had little time to unpack, what with falling off platforms and wanting to make up for causing your men more work.”

  “Your day hasn’t been all hardships, has it? You mentioned enjoying chess. So, the least I can do is offer you another game.”

  “With you?” The prospect of spending more time with him sent a spark of anticipation up her spine.

  “Aye, and if I win, you give your word you won’t return to this saloon.”

  Disappointment doused her like a cloudburst. He only wanted to be rid of her. She opened her mouth to refuse, but his gang beat her to it with a chorus of no’s.

  “She’s in a saloon…” Cormac stared each of his men in the eye until they quieted, “…with a brothel above it.”

  Their gazes fell like dominoes.

  “Aw, Mac, she ain’t in any danger.”

  “We’ve been guardin’ her like hawks.”

  “You know she shouldn’t be here,” Cormac said. “Remember who we are and who we work with.”

  The rebuke that they didn’t know her—or what she was capable of—hovered on Adella’s lips. She swallowed the foolish words. They once again failed to serve her purpose. She couldn’t let anyone know her strengths, good or bad.

  “Del, is that you?”

  Her heart slammed against her ribcage. Only two men had called her by that name. One was dead. She scrambled upright and sent her chair toppling. It struck the floor with the crack of a bullwhip.

  Fergal Kilroy pushed his way through the McGrady Gang. The handsome lad from her youth—the one who’d teased her unmercifully while defending her as fiercely as her brother—had grown into a man of striking good looks. But a world-weariness that did not match his years clung to him, shadowing his once warm brown eyes and boyish face.

  The reason for his pain—and for the pain she wanted to inflict upon Parsons—burst through the walls she’d erected around her past. She took a step back, gasping to draw breath, struggling to control her grief, and failing. Miserably.

  Fergal reached for her. “Del, wait.”

  Cormac inserted himself once more between her and another man. “Why is she scared of you?” His voice was low, his words slow and precise. And all the more deadly for it.

  Here was the work-disrupting brawl she’d hoped to instigate. Unfortunately, she no longer wanted it. Not between these two men.

  “I’m not frightened,” she blurted out. “I’m—” Stunned. Undone. Destroyed. None of that could happen. She straightened her shoulders. “I’m just surprised.”

  Fergal peered around Cormac, his gaze riveted on her, pleading. “I tried to find you after— Dec made me promise that I would. Del, I—”

  “Those names are dead.”

  He flinched. “Adella, I never meant for Declan to—”

  She raised her hands. “I don’t want to talk about him. I blame myself more than you.”

  “You shouldn’t.” His gaze dipped, travelling over her dress, and his eyes widened. “My word, but you’ve grown into a fine lady.”

  “How do you know each other?” The question was casual, but Cormac’s back was rigid, his hands once again fisted by his sides.

  “We grew up together in Georgia.” Fergal’s gaze swept the men surrounding them. The beginnings of a familiar teasing grin twitched his lips. “She’s a mick like us. Her people—”

  “Fergal!” Adella winced. She hadn’t meant to say his name so sharply. But the Fergal she’d known, once he started talking, was difficult to stop. “No one’s interested in a poor southern horse trainer and his family.”

  “Not poor but miserly. Your father cared about horses at the cost of everything else. Stingy and stubborn, he was. A right sour ol’ codger. I’m not just saying that ’cause he was born in Coventry. The best part of you is Irish. Your mother…” He released a low whistle. “Now she was a corker.”

  Complications. They were part of her job. But why this job? And why Fergal? She pressed her lips tight to stifle a groan. Fergal was one of the reasons her mother had told so many tales of Ireland. She’d shared them to enlighten Adella about charming young Irishmen, even those born in America and living just over the fence—on the greener side with the rich plantation owner’s family.

  Fergal’s eyes took on a faraway look. It made him appear young again. Like the boy who’d disobeyed his father and ran wild through the fields and forests alongside her and Declan.

  “Like sunshine on a dreary day, your mother was,” he murmured. “She raised grand children.” A shadow from the past suddenly darkened his eyes. He closed them convulsively.

  The McGrady Gang were too busy grinning at her to notice.

  “Mac was certain Miss Willows was English to the bone,” one of them said.

  “He even told her so,” added another.

  Cormac’s attention remained on Fergal. “I made a fool of myself based on a name I recognized…in the wrong way.”

  Fergal opened his eyes, his expression unreadable. “And then?”

  “Miss Willows put me in my place. Then—” Cormac’s voice turned gruff, “—after the saboteur nearly killed her, Stevens arrived and put us all in our places.”

  Fergal inhaled sharply, his gaze snapping to Adella. “That was you at the train station this afternoon?” He lifted his gaze heavenward. “Sweet Mary and Joseph, I didn’t know. I should’ve met the new recruits like usual, instead of…”

  Cormac shook his head. “Wasn’t your choice. You said you had to talk with some farmers upset with the railroad. I’m surprised Stevens hasn’t told me about them yet.”

  A clammy unease stole up her spine. “How do you know each other?” she asked, like a parrot repeating Cormac’s earlier question.

  “I oversaw a cut crew on the transcontinental.” Fergal’s gaze skimmed the McGrady Gang standing around him. “That’s where I met this lot. We parted ways after that railroad held a fancy ceremony where the owners finally lifted a hammer and drove the last spike. I drifted south and eventually found the Katy and a promotion to supply master. I report to Stevens now.”

  Adella pressed her fingertips to her throbbing temples. If Fergal had been employed by a business in town—the hotel, a mercantile, even this saloon—she might’ve been able to confide in him, just a little. But he worked for the Katy. By targeting Parsons via his railroad, Adella threatened Fergal’s livelihood. She was Fergal’s enemy. The same held true for the McGrady Gang and Cormac.

  She clutched the table for support and her gaze fell to the chessboard. Every day presented a new game, and she must pla
y all of them alone.

  “You look pale.” Cormac stood beside her with her chair in his hand. “You’d best sit down.”

  She forced herself to push away from the table and Cormac. He reached for her arm, then stopped and stared at her in silence.

  “As a walking boss,” one of the McGrady Gang said, once more jumping in to fill an awkward silence, “Fergal was lousy at walking but first-rate at bossing. His leg helped him find his calling as the Katy’s supply wrangler.”

  She spun to face Fergal. Without Cormac standing between them, she now saw him fully.

  He drew himself up, forcing his weight off a cane he’d been leaning upon. The movement made him grimace. “The sawbones said I’d die. So he didn’t bother removing the bullet in the bone.” He went very still. “I should have died in Camp Douglas too.”

  Adella forced herself to remain still as well. Fergal wouldn’t welcome her pity. That didn’t stop her from silently grieving for the pain he’d suffered. Not just to his leg. Her brother and Fergal had been best friends. Fergal was the reason Declan had joined the army, the reason Declan was dead. Well, one of the reasons.

  If she hadn’t told Declan that at fifteen he was too young to join the fighting… If she hadn’t told him he was a fool for enlisting just because his best friend was of age and could… If she hadn’t told him he’d regret his decision one day, and she wouldn’t be there to help him… He might not have given up and stopped writing to her at the very end. He might have sent her a letter during those final months of the war. She might have saved him.

  Now, she’d make Parsons pay for the loss Fergal bore as heavily as she. But she couldn’t do it through men such as Fergal and the McGrady Gang. She understood that now. Retrieving her valise from under the table, she moved out of the men’s sheltering circle. They had a way of doing that, rallying around her, cocooning her.

  When she stood alone, she turned to address them. She was careful not to look at Fergal. Or Cormac. “The hour grows late. I must wish you goodnight.” With her head held high, she marched toward the door. Outside, a chill breeze gusted in her face. She plowed into it and the darkness, following the walkway toward her hotel.