The women kept singing, only stopping when Helga said, “There’s the camp.”
Directly ahead, stood a tent with empty tables and benches at one end and steaming pots tended by a handful of men at the other. None of the men came close to rivaling Cormac’s giant form. Adella’s gaze kept moving, searching.
Not far beyond the chow tent, Stevens’ railcar slumbered silently on freshly laid track. Farther ahead, the rest of the train vibrated under half steam with a flurry of men milling around its front. Several workers stood on its freight car, carefully sliding down a ramp one of the hefty rails that had nearly crushed her yesterday. On the ground, a row of men lifted the rail using oversized tongs and lugged it the short distance ahead of the engine. Releasing their burden, they retraced their steps to the stockcar, leaving room for a third group who swung their hammers and nailed the rail into its final resting place. Meanwhile the rail’s partner had already coasted down the ramp and was being carried forward.
The men labored without their leader. That didn’t surprise her. They were so well organized they didn’t need Cormac. The rare combination of an assembly line designed for speed while still striving to make the labor as easy as possible for each worker suggested Cormac’s handiwork. She’d only known him a day, but she was already attuned to his concerned pragmatism. A trait that pleased then irked her. She had no desire to like anything about him. And she was only hunting for him so he would not sneak up on her unnoticed again.
The only other men in sight were those who groomed a band of earth that became increasingly disheveled until it disappeared over a rise. That presumably was where the cut crew would be. The McGrady Gang and possibly Cormac as well. All working. Swiftly. Productively. Without delay.
How could men function so well after consuming so much alcohol the night before?
Despite all her scheming, she felt slow-witted to imagine she could’ve laid them low with that old trick. Blasted Irish.
The wagon had drawn even with the chow tent. The scent of the noon meal, boiling potatoes and pork roasting on spits, curled around her. Pausing their preparations, the cooks returned the women’s stares.
“What do we do now?” one of the farm widows whispered.
“We assemble on the track and stop construction.”
A smile tugged at Adella’s lips. Helga had things well in hand.
“Then we get our picture taken and go home,” Helga added.
Adella’s contentment vanished along with her smile. She needed them to delay construction as long as possible. If a picture would make them leave, then she couldn’t take it. She needed to disappear without the women noticing. For that she needed a distraction.
“Why not educate these lost souls using the gift God gave you—your voices raised together in song?” she asked.
Once more the women launched into a hymn. The chow gang dropped their ladles and cleavers and followed the wagon. Up ahead, the clanging and scraping stopped, replaced by the thump of approaching footsteps. Soon the wagon was swarmed by a ring of gawking men. With a firm hand on the reins, Helga forged a path through them while the other women stared stoically forward and continued singing.
Adella scanned the rise again. It remained blessedly empty. It wouldn’t for long. Resigned to the fact that she must temporarily abandon her camera, she tightened her grip on her valise and slipped off the wagon into the crowd. The women didn’t notice, but the men did. Luckily, they didn’t comment and only gaped at her as she pushed by them. Their attention soon returned to the noisy wagon.
“The chief ain’t gonna have nothin’ good to say about this.” This observation came from her left. Weaving her way through the crowd in that direction, she spied two youths slouching against Stevens’ private railcar while they observed the passing parade.
She ducked behind the rear of the car and held her breath.
“But he won’t be sayin’ it till he returns with the surveyors. Plenty of time fer a closer look.”
“The chief said we couldn’t leave our post.”
“You worry too much about what ol’ prissy pants Stevens says. He ain’t gonna know we left.”
“But he said—”
“Fine. You stay behind.”
Peeking around the railcar, Adella watched the pair—one leading, the other following—jog after the wagon. She climbed the steps at the rear of Stevens’ railcar. What a shame he wouldn’t be in to receive her.
The door opened easily under her hand. She crept down a narrow oak-paneled hall past a door fitted into the inner wall. It most likely led to Stevens’ bedchamber. The velvet curtain at the end of the hall intrigued her more. Slipping through it, she found his office.
The same oak from the hall circled the room, not only muffling the sound of travel but the voices outside. Interspersed with the thick brocade shades, conveniently pulled down to conceal her, the snug room felt like a hushed forest. It made the click of her boots overly loud as she took the two steps required to stand beside a desk grand enough for a king.
She set her valise on the floor and got to work. Out of habit, she kept her search tidy, returning items to their place so no one would know she’d been there. She counseled herself against expecting to find anything. Stevens wasn’t a fool. He wouldn’t leave anything he deemed incriminating lying about. Nevertheless, she scanned the mundane with the same vigor as she’d give a signed confession of guilt.
The telegram paper was parchment thin, the writing on it just as sparse. But the information it contained was weighty and made her heart race.
Men grumbling.
Wage increased to 3 dollars and 50 cents.
Laid more track than any day last week.
Arrival moved up.
She retrieved the account book she’d discovered earlier in a drawer. Flipping to the last page with writing, she traced her index finger down the rows. The thrill of discovery shot through her, halting her hand.
Laborers’ wages…$3.00 a day.
The telegram wasn’t a report on the Katy’s progress but the Joy Line’s. Stevens had his spies as well. She’d have to keep a careful lookout for them…and Joy’s man who dumped the load yesterday and nearly crushed her. Dangers abounded, but after the war she’d grown used to most of them. What frightened her most was failing Declan. Again.
She forced herself to exhale a deep, calming breath. Right now the important thing was the difference of half a dollar. In her hands rested the beginnings of a wage war. She folded the paper twice and tucked it in her cleavage.
Across the office, footfalls scraped the steps behind the second door, accompanied by a muffled voice growing louder. She thrust the account book back in its drawer and ducked through the thick fall of drapery into the hall.
Her adrenaline deserted her in a whoosh, making her sag against the wall. She pressed her palms over her stomach to steady herself—then raised her hands before her eyes in horror. They were both empty! Spinning round, she glimpsed through the crack in the curtain her valise on the floor beside Stevens’ desk. Behind it, the door banged open to reveal Stevens himself.
She jerked back.
“Inside,” Stevens barked. “I refuse to have this conversation out where everyone can hear.” Swift footsteps stomped across the room, making Adella’s pulse roar in her ears like a freight train was approaching. The chair behind Stevens’ desk squeaked, and the pounding in her head vanished.
“I want those goddamn women off my track.”
The only response to Stevens’ demand was the door clicking softly shut.
Edging forward, she peeked through the curtain. Stevens sat with his back to her, facing a man standing on the other side of his desk. She wasn’t surprised to see it was Cormac. His quietness had given him away.
Her valise wasn’t in Stevens’ line of sight, but it was within Cormac’s. He just needed to turn his head a little to the left. Fortunately, his gaze was locked on Stevens. Unfortunately, her escape hung on his attention staying there.
/> Perspiration trickled down between her breasts, jerking her attention back to the need to escape with the telegram. Retrieving her valise was more important. Its contents were her only link to the past, to all those who’d struggled and suffered—including Declan. Abandoning his letters would be like abandoning him.
“Give those widows a reason and they’ll go willingly,” Cormac said. “Give them back their farms.”
She felt her jaw drop. Why was she surprised? Cormac had championed his men and her. Why not others? But how did he think he could build a railroad for men like Parsons and Stevens, and still treat people fairly?
Stevens flicked his hand. “Not an option.”
“Is that why you didn’t tell me about them earlier?” The challenging note, the one Cormac used with Stevens yesterday at the station, had returned. “Everything along this railroad is yours to give. Or take.”
“Careful, McGrady.” Stevens’ voice was as chilled as frozen ditchwater. “If you don’t order the men to remove those women, I can take your job.”
“I won’t hurt innocent women.”
“They aren’t innocent.” Stevens’ fist slammed the desktop. “They’re on my track illegally. And if track isn’t laid, you don’t get paid.”
Cormac folded his arms over his chest. “Better that than manhandling a woman.”
“You realize the men won’t be paid either.” Stevens’ voice had gone deceptively calm. She knew the tone. She’d heard it during the war whenever an ambitious captain believed he’d found the key to squeezing one more cavalry charge out of his men.
The muscles across Cormac’s shoulders tensed. He spun away from Stevens, as if he couldn’t stand the sight of him. He ended up staring straight at her valise.
Her stomach did a slow, sickly roll.
Cormac remained stiff and silent for a long time. Then he snarled something in Gaelic.
Stevens huffed out a breath. “What the hell does that mean? Speak English, man.”
“I’ve been blind to too many things.”
“I don’t care if you’re blind, deaf and dumb, as long as you do your job.”
Cormac headed toward the door. “You should try talking to the widows one more time while I fetch the photographer.”
Stevens leapt to his feet. “For Chrissake! A picture of this debacle is the last thing we need.”
“The farmers’ leader, the blonde woman, said they weren’t leaving until they had their photograph taken.” Cormac halted by the door. “What’s more important continuing construction or one photograph that might never see the light of day?”
Stevens lowered his chin. He glared at the papers on his desk for a long moment. “You guarantee the picture will disappear?”
“I do.”
“No need for an audience, the widows, or the men. Destroy the picture while escorting Miss Willows and her camera back to town. Make sure she gets there. I’ve had enough of women pestering me.”
Cormac nodded slowly. “Miss Willows will do what’s best for the safety of all those concerned.”
“What happens if these widows return tomorrow and pull the same stunt?” Stevens grumbled, retracing his steps to the door.
Cormac opened it for him. The faint strains of a hymn drifted in. “Give them back their homes or pay them fairly. Can’t see any other choices.” He dipped his head in a mock bow, waiting for Stevens to precede him outside. “But I’m just the foreman. You’re the chief.”
As soon as the door clicked shut, Adella leapt through the curtain and grabbed her valise. Then she darted back to her hiding place. She didn’t go any further though. And she wasn’t surprised when, after the count of twenty, the door opened and closed softly again.
“Now that you’ve retrieved your case,” Cormac said, “we can fetch your camera.”
She stepped out from behind the curtain, scouring her mind for another delay. Her wits failed her under his piercing silver gaze, until she blurted, “We’ll have to go to town. I left my camera in my hotel room.”
“Your camera’s in the widows’ wagon. Luckily Stevens hasn’t seen it. Yet.” He squeezed shut his eyes and pressed his fingertips to his eyelids. “Do you even know how to operate the device or is that a sham as well?”
“Of course I know how,” Adella said, forcing outrage into her voice. “I’m a photographer sent by the Atlanta Intelligencer.”
Cormac snorted. “If that were true, you’d be with the widows instead of in here. There’s only one reason for being in Stevens’ railcar—you’re a spy for the Joy Line.” He grasped her elbow, making her skin tingle as he pushed her in front of him toward the door. He tucked her behind him, though, when he stuck his head outside.
Pressed against the warm strength of his back, she tried to block out the anger vibrating in him. But the singing reminded her that her next move would probably make him even angrier.
He pulled her down the stairs toward the women. “I wondered why you’d come to New Chicago. I could never have guessed this.”
“Then be prepared for even greater disappointments.” She dug her heels into the soft dirt. “What if I refuse to act out this useless charade of taking a picture that will—how did you put it?—never see the light of day?”
Swinging round, he bent over her. “Adella, if you don’t cooperate, I can’t protect those women or you.”
A peculiar ache invaded her heart. What would it feel like to share her burdens with someone like Cormac instead of shouldering them alone? She wouldn’t be sharing; she’d be giving up. Declan deserved more than that. She yearned to wrap her arms around Cormac and pull him even closer. So she drew back instead. “By all means save the widows. But I don’t need help.”
His arm snaked around her waist, halting her retreat. “Judging how you end up in places you shouldn’t, I don’t think you give a tinker’s damn about your own well-being.”
Keeping a firm grip on her valise, she wedged her other hand between them. Against her palm, his heart raced in time with her own.
“You’re taking those women’s picture so everyone can go safely home.”
“Soon they won’t have a home to go to,” she shot back.
“But they’ll be alive. I haven’t time to argue with you. Those women—”
“Have every right to—”
“They’re in danger the moment the men realize who’s responsible for them not getting paid.”
Unease prickled the nerves along her neck. “The men? Surely the McGrady Gang wouldn’t—”
“Not them. The others.”
The draft of a memory stole over her, transporting her back to last night. She shivered. “The three men outside Eden’s.”
He nodded. “Them and others like them.”
“You employ thugs?” she said, trying to sound shocked. But she was already well acquainted with men of the sort. Men who justified their actions, committed unthinkable atrocities, and destroyed their own souls in the process. She’d learned too much about them during Sherman’s sacking of the south.
“I hired anyone who came looking for work. The only ones I’ll vouch for are the McGrady Gang.” His hold on her waist tightened and his eyes narrowed, pinning her with a sudden intensity. “You keep that in mind wherever you are. If you’re in danger, come get me. If you can’t find me, go to the McGrady Gang. Never any of the others.”
“I don’t need—”
He gave her a tiny shake. “Never trust any of the others. You hear me?”
“I’m just a newspaper photographer. Little danger in that.” That argument sounded weak, even to her ears. So did her voice.
“Adella…stop playing games. Promise. Swear on whatever you hold dear. I don’t care about the rest. I won’t let anyone else die because of me.”
The utter pain etched on his face made her gasp. “Who—?”
He released her, his expression turning blank and distant. “Just do this one thing. Promise you’ll come to me if you’re in danger.”
She swal
lowed the urge to do as he requested, if only to ease whatever burdened him. “I can’t promise you anything,” she whispered. “You work for my enemy.”
***
Standing beside Cormac, Adella watched the women climb back onto Helga’s wagon. The farm widows chattered happily. Even the missionaries couldn’t suppress their smiles. Worry and guilt sat heavily on Adella’s shoulders. She shouldn’t have revealed that Cormac worked for her enemy, and she shouldn’t have promised the widows a photograph she now couldn’t deliver. She’d taken their picture posing in front of the train, but soon Cormac would destroy the photographic plate and there’d be no story for any newspaper.
She glanced at Cormac. With her camera under one arm, he stared at the women, his shoulders hunched as if the weight of the present and past bothered him as well. Who had died to cause him such pain and…remorse? She struggled to suppress her concern for him. He might not be pondering what he’d let slip. He might be calculating where on the trail to town to turn his attention to her camera and smash the plate.
He works for your enemy, she reminded herself, and he takes his work as seriously as you do.
She thrust her hand in the air. “Helga, wait! I want…”
Helga and the women fell silent, waiting with raised eyebrows for her to continue.
She stepped forward. “I want to ride back with—”
Cormac’s hand clamped down on her shoulder. “What Miss Willows wants to say is that she’d like to ride with you, but she’s promised to ride with me.”
Adella tried to twist free of his grasp. “I promised you nothing,” she hissed under her breath. “They need this photograph.”
He turned her away from the women. “If Miss Willows wishes, she can visit your farms tomorrow. More photographs can be taken then.” He nudged her toward the chow tent. As soon as they were out of earshot, he muttered, “Why must you be so stubborn? You know you can’t go with them. You heard me promise Stevens I’d escort you back to town.”
“I heard you argue with him too.” She squirmed under his hand. This time he let her go. “You told him to give the widows their due.” She studied Cormac from of the corner of her eye. “Why didn’t you tell Stevens I was in his railcar?”
Adella's Enemy Page 5
