Mrs. Palmer, Eugenia, and Lolly all turned to Mary.
She raised her head and looked at him with courage and confidence. “You can say whatever it is you have to say here, in front of my family.” She glanced from one to the other and repeated “my family.”
That was fine. They’ll probably discuss it between themselves anyway, so I’ll avoid being misunderstood by stating it in front of them all. Jesse leaned forward, his forearms on his knees. “As I said, I’m here representing Mr. Sherwood.”
A glimmer of anxiety shimmered in Mary’s eyes but vanished almost instantly. “He had no idea you had survived the traumatic events in Tennessee, and when he found that you were alive, he was thrilled. He sent me to bring you to him in California.”
Mary sank back into her chair. He wondered why she wasn’t as happy as her father had been when he heard she was alive. “He’s an honorable man and wants to see you.”
The silence lengthened as he watched Mary struggle to compose herself. Finally Mrs. Palmer spoke. “Perhaps we should give Mary time to think this over. It is shocking news to find that her father is alive after all these years.”
“I agree.” He started to get up. “Maybe later—”
“I won’t go.” Mary leveled an obstinate look at him. “I don’t want to see him, and I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.”
Caught off guard by her vehement refusal to see her father, Jesse stared at her. As their gazes met, his clung to hers, watching the play of emotions on her face until she turned her head. But not before he saw an unguarded instant of anguish in her eyes.
Eugenia, seated beside Mary, reached over and patted her hand. “Honey, don’t be rash; we’ll pray about it, hmm?” She glanced at Jesse. “You understand?”
“I understand.”
“No you don’t! I’m not going to see a man who abandoned me and left my mother to die. I’m not that child anymore, and I’ve gotten my life just the way I want it. I don’t need him.”
Jesse stood. Now was not the time to tell her the rest of the story. “I’ll come back tomorrow morning, if that’s all right.”
Mrs. Palmer walked him to the door. “I’m sorry it turned out this way.”
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Jesse said and walked away, wondering what he could have done to make his case without upsetting Mary. But one thing he knew: Mary Sherwood could be the woman he had been waiting for all his life, and she was going with him whether she liked it or not.
Chapter 2
March 17, 1874
So much has happened since yesterday! My father is alive! I don’t know what to think. I should be overjoyed, but I feel so… empty and angry. It’s hard to explain. He sent someone to take me to him, but I refused to go. I prayed for guidance and still wasn’t sure what to do. Later, Eugenia and I had a long talk, and although I still feel the same, I agreed to make the trip. She reminded me that when God said to “honor your father and mother,” He didn’t mean only if you want to. So I’m going simply because it’s the right thing to do. I will honor my father by meeting him. I’ll say hello, then leave to come home. And I’ll be back in time to prepare lessons for my new position.
Eugenia was so excited, telling me that I’ll be going out west where I’ll see all sorts of wonderful things to teach. I’m taking a world geography book along so I can study. I won’t have time for sightseeing. I’ll be on that trip for only one reason, and I won’t be sidetracked.
I am so tired—couldn’t sleep last night wondering lots of things. Where has he been? Why didn’t he come back before the soldiers came? Why doesn’t he come himself? Oh, God, why now?
I must quit for now. I’m leaving soon…
Union Pacific Station, New York City
Mary sat on the wooden bench, her nose in her geography textbook, the same one she’d used to keep Mr. Jesse Harcourt from talking to her all morning.
He sat beside her. “You were so adamantly against going with me yesterday; I was surprised that you had your bags packed when I arrived.”
“Yes.” She turned a page in her book. She’d said her good-byes to Mrs. Palmer, Lolly, and Eugenia, then simply pulled her gloves on and said, “I’m ready.” He put her bags in the carriage, and even when they turned off her lane onto the road, she didn’t look back.
“I didn’t want to take you to California against your will, but I can’t imagine what you’re thinking. I’d like this to be a comfortable and pleasant trip for you, Miss Sherwood.”
She ignored him, focusing her attention on her book as if it held the secrets of life itself.
Out of the corner of her eye she could tell he was looking closely at her. At the shout of the stationmaster calling their destination, she slapped her book shut. Standing, she picked up her smaller suitcases, and he picked up the other. He followed her to the track, where she stood, dazedly looking up and down the length of the train.
As people surged past, a page from a newspaper near her on the ground fluttered in the turbulence of their rushing feet. Mr. Harcourt set his bag down and pulled the tickets from his pocket.
She kept a firm grip on her intent to make it through the next few days in one emotional piece, and with God’s help she’d succeed.
Gazing at the huge iron train before her she felt a tremor. Like a beast pawing the ground, it roared and hissed. A sooty smell assailed her nostrils, wrinkling her nose.
A gentle tap on the shoulder jarred Mary from her thoughts and back to the present. Jesse Harcourt stood before her, his expression gentle and contemplative. “Miss Sherwood?” He held up two tickets and nodded toward the train. “It’s time to board.”
The crowd had thinned, and a man in the blue Union Pacific uniform stood watching them. She felt as if she were about to step off a precipice.
Regaining a firm grip on her emotions, she started forward. “Let’s go, then,” she said more brightly than she intended.
He handed their tickets to the uniformed man who then smiled and pointed. “Car Number Six.”
Mr. Harcourt handed her up into the railcar, and she paused, looking down the aisle for a vacant seat. The ceiling looked higher than she’d imagined, and the car roomier than she’d expected. The wide, wooden bench seats each had a cushion and a pillar holding up large storage spaces above. A child was in one of them, and Mary realized they could also be used as sleeping areas.
The conductor approached, crisp and businesslike in his uniform and round, white cap.
Mr. Harcourt held out their tickets. “There must be some mistake,” he said. “We reserved space in a parlor car.”
The conductor looked at their tickets. “I see.” He smiled apologetically. “This sometimes happens. Those spaces were given to last-minute travelers who had high priority.”
“No. We paid for that service, and it’s important for the lady’s comfort. I intend to see that we get it.”
“I’m sorry, sir. You will be refunded the extra fare. If you’d like to step off the train, you can speak to the stationmaster and try for a parlor car on the next train.”
He stared at the conductor for a moment, then Mary said, “We can make do here.”
The conductor gave her a thankful smile. “As you wish.” He punched their tickets and gave them back. “There is a seat halfway back on your left,” he said.
They moved forward in the wide aisle, past families, businessmen, children, and two elderly ladies traveling together. They found the empty seat behind a balding scarecrow of a man sitting beside a blond boy about nine years old.
Mary pulled out her new trip journal, a gift from Mrs. Palmer, and a small, blue velvet bag from her valise before Jesse stowed it in the space over their heads. He offered her the seat beside the window, and she slid in. A feeling of adventure crept in for a moment, making her feel like the heroine of The Girl in White, a book she’d read last winter. She shook off the idea; that heroine had been kidnapped. She was on this train of her own free will.
Jesse leane
d forward and looked out the window. “I wonder where that train will be going.”
Beside them a row of tracks separated their train from a series of railcars with no windows. He sat back. “Someone once called the completed Pacific Railroads ‘the grand highway of all nations.’”
“I read about it,” said Mary. “The newspapers said because of the railroad, the treasures of the Orient that come into San Francisco are now available to Boston and New York.” A loud noise, the crashing of metal, ripped through the air accompanied by shrill screeching. The cars on the freight train shuddered forward.
“Have you ever ridden on a train?” he asked.
“No.”
“It’s a wonderful time we’re living in, Miss Sherwood. You’re going on a grand adventure.”
Mary glanced up at him and found it impossible not to return his disarming smile. She was reminded of his surprise appearance at her front door. It was that same smile.
She opened the travel journal, took the bottle of ink from its velvet bag, and wrote a description of their accommodations. Outside the conductor shouted, “All aboard! Last call.”
In a moment the train lurched forward, jerking her back against her seat. The steam engine hissed, and as each railcar was pulled taut, it sounded another crash. The passengers sat tight and held on. She looked over at her traveling companion.
Mr. Harcourt leaned forward and smiled. “The trains always jolt forward when they start moving. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the ride when we’re out in the countryside.”
The freight train looked as if it were moving, but as the wheels clacked over the tracks and they emerged from the station into the afternoon sunlight, Mary realized it was only they who were moving. In the seat in front of them the boy’s head bobbed up and down as he bounced on his seat. The man beside the boy sat ramrod straight, his head forward. Smoke wafted through the car from an open window. Somewhere behind them a baby wailed.
Through the smoke flying past, Mary saw more tracks, commercial buildings, then small homes with thin, yellow lawns in front. A girl, with long red braids flying behind her, ran beside the train for a short while, waving at them.
They picked up speed and, finally leaving the New York suburbs, passed through the countryside. She sat back with her new journal on her lap, relaxing her grip on it as the ride smoothed out.
“It’s eight hundred miles to Chicago,” said Mr. Harcourt. “Our longest distance between major stops.”
“Interesting.” Mary avoided looking at him. Every time she did, she liked him because he seemed so friendly. She concentrated on pressing her hand to an already flat page in the journal.
He touched her hand. “Relax, Miss Sherwood. I’m here to help you. Your father—”
“I don’t want to talk about my father.” Mary yanked her hand back.
“He’s a good man! He just—”
“Am I not speaking plainly, Mr. Harcourt?”
“Call me Jesse. You are indeed speaking plainly. We’ll talk of other things.” He clasped his hands on his knees. “For now.”
Mary gave him a look which she hoped was firm, but his serene gaze cooled her anger, and that confused her. It had been a long time since she felt flustered. She’d overcome that long ago as a schoolgirl dealing with giggling, tightly knit groups of girls whose mysterious requirements for entrance eluded her. She lifted her chin and turned her head toward the view outside.
“We can talk of other things,” said Jesse.
She was tempted to turn to see if he had a smirk on his face but resolutely kept looking at the farms and pastures passing by. She didn’t want anything from Jesse Harcourt, especially his eager friendliness.
“See those white cows? They are called Charolais.” His deep-timbred voice sounded too good.
She didn’t answer, realizing she was being testy but feeling perversely justified. After all, she was being bighearted by consenting to make this trip. She touched her forehead to the window and once again, in her heart, complained to God. You’re asking too much of me! I don’t want to do this.
“They come from France,” Jesse added.
It wasn’t his fault she felt out of sorts. He’d been kind to her from the first, and she hadn’t been agreeable to him. She should apologize, but she wouldn’t. “We have many of them on the farms near Kimberly,” she said flatly.
“Oh. Of course.” In the window, Jesse’s reflection winked at the boy in the seat ahead who’d turned to face them.
The train clacked along the tracks, rounding a curve, and Mary saw the engine, with black smoke billowing up and flattening out over the cars behind.
A child screeched, and a boy about five years old ran past them, followed by a woman’s voice calling, “Nate! Stop! Grandma wants to talk to you.”
The child yanked at the door handle at the end of the car but was unable to open it. He ran back, then dived under the seat in front of Mary and looked up at her with mischief dancing in his eyes.
“May I borrow this?” Jesse pointed to the bag in Mary’s lap. She handed it to him.
The boy’s grandmother bent down in the aisle beside Jesse, peering under the seat. “Nate, darling boy, come out.” She reached for his feet, and as soon as she had hold of one, he kicked wildly. The man in the seat turned and said, “Madam, take care of your hooligan, or I’ll call the conductor.”
She smiled coyly at him. “He’s a sweet boy. Really.”
The boy gazed at Jesse, who had Mary’s small velvet bag and was tying the cord in intricate knots. Jesse leaned forward with his forearms on his knees and arms outstretched. The boy in front of Mary also had his focus locked on Jesse’s nimble fingers until the man beside him ordered him to turn around.
Nate’s grandmother reached under the seat again, and the boy kicked her away, as a horse flicks his tail at a pesky fly.
“Na–a–ate!”
Her nasally voiced plea grated on Mary’s nerves. The man in front of them turned and glared.
Jesse spoke before the man had a chance to. “Nate, if you come out for your grandmother now, I’ll teach you how to tie this knot.”
He gave Jesse a narrow look. “When?”
Jesse looked at the woman, who was now standing. “When your grandmother says so.” The boy wriggled backward into his grandmother’s plump embrace. She held her hands firmly on his shoulders. She looked so relieved and grateful she almost pushed the boy at Jesse. “Now would be fine.” She lumbered back to her seat.
Jesse handed Mary her bag and stood. “Let’s go find us something to practice with.” He and the boy walked to the front of the car. Jesse opened the door, and they left.
Chapter 3
March 17, 1874
I’m on the train, somewhere in Pennsylvania. I feel awful. I’ve been unkind to Mr. Harcourt, but he has been nothing but nice to me. I have this urge to thrash around in my own annoyance. I don’t want to be sulky, but it bothers me to have everything in my life go off in a wild direction. I’m feeling off kilter. I’m embarrassed to admit it, even here, but Mr. H. makes me think unladylike thoughts.
We didn’t get the privacy my father paid for, so we’re in a crowded car. Mr. H. put our bags on the floor in front of the seat and has climbed up above to sleep. I write this beneath a blanket as I lean with my head holding a pillow against the cold window. In the silvery moonlight I can see a few outlines of trees, but it’s mostly pitch-black out there. I’ll write descriptions of the scenery in the journal Mrs. Palmer gave me, so there won’t be many here.
I promise to be more pleasant to Mr. H. tomorrow. But I still won’t talk about my father.
Last night we stopped for a tasty but quick dinner about eight o’clock and…
Mary awoke with a start, not sure where she was. A baby was crying, and she felt a gentle rocking motion. Then she remembered. The movement of the train had lulled her to sleep. Outside, rosy crests of the hills glowed in the dawn’s first light. The train’s k-nick k-nock, k-nick k-nock kept a steady rhy
thm as they moved through the countryside.
She turned away from the window and saw Jesse. He stood in the aisle, his hand on the back of the seat, looking down at her. With his hair still slightly damp from being combed and with a fresh shirt on, he was entirely too good-looking. She tried to look away but couldn’t. Instead, she stared at the buttons on his shirt so she couldn’t be distracted by his smile.
She quickly put her hand to her hair and sat up straighter, though she couldn’t put her feet on the floor.
He smiled, laying a small, black Bible on the seat. “Good morning. I hope I didn’t wake you.” He spoke softly, even though the man in the seat in front of them was stirring.
“Oh, no. I was admiring the scenery.” She pulled her blanket into a knot in her lap.
“Before we get to San Francisco, you’re going to see the most spectacular scenery on earth.” He quickly stowed their bags overhead and stepped aside for her to go freshen up.
She returned and, trying to be more agreeable, considered a congenial topic of conversation. How would she start? The Bible he held in his hand? Ask him if that’s his Bible? No, it obviously was. Ask him if he read it every day? Ask him what he’d read? Every question seemed nosey.
She decided to open with the obvious. “I see you have a—”
“We’ll be stopping for—”
They both spoke at once. Mary felt the long-forgotten heat of a blush creep up her neck.
“Pardon me, go ahead,” he said.
“No,” she stammered. “You.”
He gazed at her for a moment, then said, “I was just going to say that we’ll be stopping for breakfast soon.” His eyes, a deep shade of blue, were full of adventure. “Our next stop is a small eating house. Delicious food. But they only give us a few minutes.”
The pungent smell of fruit floated over to Mary. Across the aisle, a woman carefully peeled an orange. Her daughter sat on her father’s leg while he jostled her up and down, quietly singing, “All around the mulberry bush the monkey chased the weasel….”
Where the Heart Is Romance Collection Page 37
