Maitland spun, brushing at his sleeve, and roared, “Clumsy cow, how dare you ruin my new suit!”
She jerked her head briefly, not directly answering the unjust accusation, and began to rapidly reassemble the tea tray, gathering up the cutlery and china from where they’d slid perilously close to the table’s edge. Albert Collins clucked his tongue at the damage to their extraordinarily expensive suits and handed his son a napkin.
Maitland started to jerkily mop himself up, every gesture telling of leashed rage. “Once we reach Omaha, we’ll find a preacher and…”
Rachel stiffened, startled and frightened. Was he about to simply announce that they would marry? Without even a courtship—or asking her to accept him?
She played her last delaying card, hoping it would work. “When we arrive in Omaha, I must send a letter to Mrs. Biddle.”
“Mrs. Horace Biddle?” Albert Collins questioned, coming alert.
Thank God, she’d caught the senior, more powerful man’s attention. Her ploy just might save her. This time.
She adopted her most docile, studious expression, which would certainly have made her mother extremely suspicious. “Yes, sir, she gave me a most impressive study guide for the Gospels. I have been sending her my answers weekly, even from the island.”
She prayed they couldn’t see how her pulse was hammering. Her statement wasn’t quite a lie; she hadn’t told them exactly what day of the week she usually wrote to Mrs. Biddle.
“What the devil do we care about a Mrs. Biddle?” Maitland demanded.
“Her husband is the Reverend Horace Biddle, of the Cambridge Clarion Call and one of the Davis trustees,” Collins snapped, quelling his son with a peremptory flick of his fingers.
Maitland subsided, muttering under his breath. Rachel managed not to sigh in relief; she’d never seen him openly disobey his father.
“Mrs. Davis, we would not dream of interfering with your religious studies,” Albert Collins intoned graciously. “We will be happy to send your letter as soon as it’s ready.”
She smiled and nodded at him, hoping she managed to seem appropriately grateful rather than frantic to escape. Dear heavens, she’d dodged Maitland once again, but for how many more times? “Thank you. I’ll write it in my compartment and give it to you.”
Maitland growled something unprintable and slapped the brass railing overhead. She nodded to his father, waved her hand in Maitland’s direction without directly looking at him, and departed rapidly for her compartment’s sanctuary.
She had a small carpetbag and a few other necessities packed and well hidden deep in her trunk. Would she ever have a chance to use them and escape this prison?
Albert Collins automatically braced his feet a little wider and took another sip of his whisky-laced tea, staring after Rachel Davis. He’d be damn glad when he could celebrate her capture with a bottle of champagne, even in this weather.
A knock sounded at the door. “Enter.”
The Negro steward entered, precise and self-effacing in his uniform. “Telegram for you, sir.”
Collins’s skin prickled, the infallible instinct that had always warned him of a change in the weather. He snatched the neatly folded paper and began to read it, his free hand impatiently waving away the servant. “Damn.”
Maitland watched, bracing himself on an overhead rack. “Who’s it from?”
“Our spy in Donovan’s camp. I paid his telegrapher to tell us everything the Irishman does.”
“And?”
“Donovan just left Seattle. We’re advised to make all haste to the Bluebird Mine, if we want to arrive first.” He began to impatiently refold the cable, without bothering to match any of the original creases. “Damn, I’d hoped the bastard would stay in Seattle or Victoria through February before he returned to San Francisco.”
“I thought there weren’t any railroads into Seattle yet.”
“There aren’t. Donovan and his wife will be traveling by steamship to San Francisco, then by train to the Bluebird.”
Maitland frowned. “But that will take days at this time of year.”
Collins fought the temptation to snarl, reminding himself that the boy simply lacked contact with the harsher side of Mother Nature. “So will travel by rail for us, since we’re crossing in midwinter. Why, last year, it took one train more than thirty days to cross Wyoming in the winter.”
His son clenched his fists. “Hell, he could reach the Bluebird weeks before us.”
Collins nodded, his stomach roiling as it never had on a ship’s deck. “Exactly. We need the Davis fortune now.”
“Damn, I wish we could pay to have him killed as soon as he sets foot in San Francisco.”
“A very poor option: it would be extremely expensive to have a leading citizen assassinated in his hometown.”
Maitland cursed under his breath but fell silent. He swayed back and forth on the ornate brass plaque, his feet remaining in the same place, his expression thoughtful. The wind howled mockingly outside, while Collins reviewed options ranging from knifings to poison to…
“The Union Pacific’s yards in Omaha are along the river bottom, aren’t they?” he asked at last.
Collins raised an eyebrow at the non sequitur. “I’d think so. That would be the cheapest place to find enough flat land.”
“In this weather, it should have the worst conditions—the most exposed to wind and snow.”
“Probably. What are you thinking of?”
“Since it’s also where the lower orders work, it should be surrounded by their diversions—saloons, brothels, and similar dives where someone could become lost forever.”
“And?”
His son’s eyes met his, flat and deadly. “When we reach Omaha, have our private car parked there, far away from anyone or anything else, and dismiss all the servants. After you depart for the evening, I’ll have a chat with Mrs. Davis, who’ll be alone with me. I guarantee you that, by the time you return, she’ll have promised to become my wife.”
A frisson ran down Collins’s spine and he searched his son’s expression. “You wouldn’t harm her, would you?”
Maitland made an impatient movement. “How can I do that? She has to be able tell the other trustees that she’s willing to marry me and to have at least one child, doesn’t she? So don’t worry about her.”
Collins hesitated. The words were comforting but the tone and the glint in his son’s eyes weren’t. Still, he didn’t have a better plan to offer and surely Maitland’s courtship would win over Mrs. Davis this time. “Very well.”
They arrived in Omaha shortly after nightfall, the snow falling in the delicate swirls that marked a major storm’s passing. Rachel’s New England-bred eyes reckoned it as having left a foot of new snow. Her gut warned her that the coming night would be bitterly cold.
Albert and Maitland Collins departed almost immediately thereafter, well dressed and calling loudly for cabs.
Rachel peeped out from behind her compartment’s drapes to watch them go. They obviously intended to spend the evening here exploring the town: Collins on some sort of business venture, as had been his practice on this journey, and Maitland deeply engaged in the more unsavory pursuits. At least they’d left her behind in the private Pullman, beyond their sentries’ constant stares.
After that, the Pullman was uncoupled from the passenger train and taken to a siding deep within the railroad yard, its exact location hidden by darkness plus all the equipment, steam, and coal smoke of the yard itself.
By the time Rachel left her compartment for the dining salon, she could hear all the sounds of a working railroad—steam whistles shrilling, trains rumbling past, heavy freight cars banging into each other as they were coupled and uncoupled to form new trains for new destinations. Farther off, machinery was repaired or tracks were laid to a new destination. Throughout all of it, men shouted and cursed in a startling variety of languages.
And all of the noises were alternately vividly exposed or muffled by the b
lowing wind, while the sound of a great river ran underneath everything, ice cracking and grinding against itself.
But the Pullman itself was silent, except for the faint creaking of its wooden walls and the faint rattle of glassware. It wasn’t the usual pattern, which told of supplies coming aboard, of fresh linens handed in and soiled ones going out, chefs urging caution while heavy blocks of ice thudded into the lockers under the central kitchen, Collins’s valet demanding better brands of brandy. Rachel’s maid—hired in Philadelphia and rightly terrified of the Collinses—had disappeared as usual, immediately after dressing Rachel.
Rachel glanced out the window, hunting for signs of her guards. Maybe, if they weren’t here, she could grab her hidden carpetbag and run for the railroad depot. If she could just get far enough away, fast enough…
Fog, built up from steam plus wood and coal smoke, obscured the view outside, its eddies occasionally swirling to offer glimpses of the Union Pacific’s workmen. A high steep bluff, dotted with lights, loomed in the distance—Omaha. And, as always, Collins’s thugs watched every exit, this time apparently strolling around about the Pullman rather than leaning against a convenient wall to chat with each other.
Why on earth had Collins left the private Pullman here? He’d have to cross the railroad yard and probably some nasty parts of town, as well, to reach it. She shuddered, imagining the sights, somehow quite sure that Dickens had not told everything horrific he knew about gambling dens and filthy slums.
The private Pullman creaked again, a cold draft fluttering the draperies’ velvet fringe like a ghostly hand.
Rachel gasped and jumped back, dropping the curtains. For an instant, she wished she had a genuine weapon for protection against the lurking threat.
Then she laughed at herself, ignoring the sound’s hollowness. She didn’t need anything deadly, such as a gun or a knife, when she’d be the only passenger tonight. The only aid which might come in handy she already had—her brown promenade dress, far more demure than any evening gown, which would turn male eyes from lascivious thoughts. Around the Collins men, the dress’ merino wool, soft and fine as any cashmere, also soothed and comforted her, its bustle enabled her skirts to swish in a most authoritarian manner, and its full, bell-like sleeves allowed her to hide how her fingers often curved into claws.
She tilted her chin at the importunate draft and proceeded down the corridor, determined to let nothing else stand between her and a good dinner. Heaven knows she’d had very few quiet meals since the Collins men had begun trying to steal the Davis fortune.
Rachel paused at the dining salon’s door and found a properly set table for two—but no uniformed waiter, with a napkin over his arm.
Only the chef glanced out of the kitchen, looking extremely uncomfortable—and untying his apron. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
She frowned slightly.
Maitland came forward, suave in his formal black frock coat and an edged smile gleaming in his eyes.
Ice jolted up Rachel’s spine and her knees started to weaken. Dear God in heaven, what was Maitland doing here? Where was his father?
She locked her knees, keeping her face calm. “Mr. Collins.”
“Please sit down, Mrs. Davis. Charles here will serve us—and depart, leaving us alone together on the train. I’m sure you don’t want to keep him from visiting his family in the city.”
Alone—with Maitland? Oh, dear Lord, what was he planning to do now?
Lucas leaned over the desk at the Cozzens Hotel, a golden half eagle barely visible between his fingers. He’d received William’s cable during the trip from Chicago, saying that he was leaving Seattle for the Bluebird Mine. Given those dates and this year’s hard weather, Collins needed to travel straight through to Nevada without any delays.
So why had he unhitched his private car from the passenger train tonight and had it taken across the Missouri River to Nebraska? That decision made no sense whatsoever, since the other cars would be crossing the river in the morning to gain daylight’s advantage for crossing the plains.
The most obvious advantage for Collins was that he’d spend the night isolated from anyone who knew him and his son. Of course, he might intend to rest here from the journey’s hardships, since he hadn’t taken the typical few days’ rest in Chicago. Omaha was hardly known as a scenic retreat, though.
At least the Grainger family’s connections had garnered Lucas a very rare private train from Chicago to Omaha, after his father had delayed him in Chicago. He was now only an hour behind Collins.
“Are they staying here?” Lucas asked the clerk quietly.
“No, sir. But Mr. Collins is having dinner with three other gentlemen in the main dining salon.” The clerk’s eyes barely flickered toward the coin. “If you’d like, I can have one of the porters show you the way.”
Every nerve in Lucas’s body came on full alert. Rachel Davis wasn’t here? Instinctively, he shifted subtly, checking his guns’ locations. “No, thank you, that won’t be necessary. I’ll speak to him later, after he’s finished eating. As a surprise.”
He slid the gold across the desk, where it quickly vanished from sight under the clerk’s hand.
“Whatever you wish, sir,” the fellow agreed smugly. It was probably the largest tip he’d received that day or maybe that month, certainly enough to keep him from speaking to Collins about this inquiry.
Lucas touched his hat and headed back out into the snow, jostling his way past the hotel’s patrons. Why the hell had Collins let Rachel Davis, his golden goose, out of sight? And if she was alone with the young brute, Maitland—well, he’d give better odds on a lamb strolling out of a lion’s den.
Cursing under his breath, he started jogging toward the railroad depot, where he’d last seen Collins’s Pullman.
The exit door slammed shut beyond the kitchen, announcing the chef’s departure and completing their isolation.
Rachel looked around, telling herself once again everything was entirely normal and nothing—nothing!—would, or could, go wrong here.
The center table was set for two with a cold dinner composed of meats, cheeses, breads, cold soups, cold salads, and other side dishes. One sideboard displayed a few light desserts, such as custards and pastries, flanked by a great coffeepot and teapot, with their attendant china. Everything was all so reassuringly ordinary, just as it had been on the entire journey, down to the curving sugar tongs and the long, sharp lemon fork used to select the perfect flavorings.
The sideboard on the opposite side held a spectacular array of fine wines and brandies, their bottles, decanters, and glasses glittering in the lamplight.
The other tables hadn’t been set for dinner and were stowed away, leaving the room filled with heavily upholstered settees and chairs. Only a few end tables were scattered among them with lamps. In other words, instead of the typically crowded arrangement where one would tread on a stranger’s foot every other step, there was enough space for Rachel to twirl and not have her train strike a stranger’s knees. All the curtains were tightly drawn against the nighttime chill or a stranger’s casual glance.
Rachel straightened her shoulders. Hopefully, Maitland only meant to converse with her. But, given how he’d attacked Mercy, she wasn’t extremely optimistic.
If he wanted to discuss marriage, she would explain yet again that she wasn’t ready to consider a union with anyone. He didn’t have to know she meant a union with anyone present in the room; Elias was long dead and she’d promised him to spend the rest of her life in sunshine, not walking in his tomb’s shadows. So far that explanation had kept Maitland from laying a hand on her.
“Good evening, Maitland.” She held her head high and stepped forward, keeping the table between them and refusing to show any weakness despite the multitude of gnomes gnawing at her stomach. “Would you care for some coffee or tea before dinner?”
Maitland leaned back against the far sideboard and eyed her, glass in one hand and bottle in the other.
�
��Why waste time on that swill?” He poured himself a tumblerful of brandy.
Her brows knitted. Why was he drinking so much? For the first time, she seriously measured the distance to the exits. There were two doors from the dining salon itself: One close at hand and another far beyond all the tables and conversational nooks. No exit could be easily reached in the face of his displeasure.
“What do you want, Maitland?” she asked more cautiously, trying to maintain a rational atmosphere.
He blew out his breath. “Not you—but I’m going to have to take you,” he stated crudely.
“What?” Her breath stopped in her throat and she froze, her hand on the back of a chair. She didn’t sit down.
“You’re a scrawny brown rabbit—”
She stared at him, unable to believe her ears. Surely he could not be openly discussing her physical attractions. “Maitland, shouldn’t we be discussing the relative merits of cold turkey or ham? It’s suppertime, after all.”
“No, we’re going to be married and you’re going to birth my sons.” He took a very long swallow of brandy. “Somehow I have to mount your cold hide tonight because the other trustees won’t start paying over any real money until you’re pregnant.”
Rachel couldn’t have said how she stayed erect, given the spinning in her skull. Her fingers tightened on the carved wood, reassuring herself that there was still something predictable in the world. “Maitland, surely you’re joking. You haven’t proposed to me, for one thing.” Could she scream loudly enough to draw the railroad yard workers’ attention? Probably not.
“Not necessary. You’ll marry me even if you’re unconscious at the ceremony and the preacher’s drunk and well bribed. My family needs your money too much.” He guzzled more brandy, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down steadily—inexorably. “Damn, I wish you looked like more fun, though.”
Rachel tried to think of other saviors. Collins’s ruffians? Maybe if she screamed very loudly?
She’d have to play for time until someone came close enough to hear. Perhaps some carefully applied reasoning would be able to dissuade him.
The Northern Devil Page 5
