The Northern Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  She smiled at him, relieved to be near someone whose motives she understood, unlike her husband. “Good morning, Braden.”

  “Welcome aboard, Mrs. Grainger, Lieutenant Grainger. If I may be so bold as to offer you both my most sincere congratulations?” He bowed politely, his face shifting into a smile of equal formality.

  “Thank you, Braden,” Lucas returned briskly and Rachel echoed him.

  Braden stepped aside, letting them precede him into the Empress. “Mrs. Grainger’s wardrobe arrived a short time ago.”

  Rachel spun around, holding onto the railing. “My wardrobe?”

  Lucas bowed slightly to her, looking a bit uncertain. “I asked Mitchell to buy the best available from the city’s dressmakers.”

  “Numerous items have arrived, Mrs. Grainger. I’d estimate them to fill at least one trunk,” Braden offered.

  She leaned over and kissed her husband on the cheek. “Thank you, Lucas. You are very, very kind.”

  He stiffened, clearly startled, before relaxing. “My pleasure, Rachel.”

  Rachel smiled, relieved by his indulgence and yet still just a little uncomfortable.

  Only a few hundred feet away, towered the great iron and stone railroad bridge linking Iowa and Nebraska, across which the passenger trains would travel to leave for Nevada and California. Beneath it, ice covered the mighty Missouri River, cracking and groaning as it fought to reach the ocean—and sounding as unsettled and unpredictable as her marriage.

  Chapter Seven

  The great train sped west over the prairie like an arrow, the railroad track bed so smooth and the Empress so well balanced that not a drop of coffee in Lucas’s cup spilled. Its whistle wailed, long and loud, and another one answered it. With a whoosh and a roar, the two trains passed each other, smokestacks blasting clouds of smoke into the sky and their locomotives’ great wheels pounding relentlessly onward.

  The elegant railroad car had joined the daily east-west train’s main section, holding the first-class passengers, while the emigrant train was six hours behind it. Collins and the freight train were still almost five hours ahead.

  Displaying all the graciousness of his Virginia upbringing—and common sense—Mitchell had somehow managed to obtain another private Pullman from the Union Pacific’s yards in Omaha. It was a business car, designed principally for men’s use, and traveled directly ahead of the Empress, carrying him and the other Donovan & Sons’ men who’d be guarding Rachel. There were only a handful of them now, since Donovan & Sons was always shorthanded in the winter when the seasonal workers were gone. Lucas hoped yet again that his friends could join them in Cheyenne.

  The Empress followed the floor plan of most private Pullmans. The drawing room was in the rear, filling the entire car’s width. Next to it stood the telegrapher’s small private office, with a desk and bunk. The master stateroom came next, as large as many houses’ bedrooms with its immense bed, not surprising since both of Lucas’s parents had used the Empress for assignations. There were also two smaller staterooms, both equipped with bunks. Rachel’s luggage was currently stowed in one of them, allowing her privacy. The connecting corridor ran along the railroad car’s left side, providing the maximum amount of quiet for the car’s occupants.

  The beautiful dining room boasted of its intricately carved woods, multiplied over and over again by mirrors, especially the great mirrored pass-through to the kitchen. There Lawson, a culinary genius—born in Charleston and trained in Paris—created masterpieces in an ingeniously designed, but very cramped space. Last was the larger than average crew quarters.

  To Lucas’s total lack of surprise, Mitchell and the other men had already persuaded Lawson that the Union Pacific cook assigned to their private Pullman was a sorry lout, incapable of even soaking hardtack. They ate aboard the Empress now, albeit at different times from him and Rachel.

  Rachel Davis—no, Rachel Davis Grainger—had propped her chin on both hands, while she considered the chessboard laid out on the drawing room table. Her golden eyes had darkened to amber under the straight line of her eyebrows and her chestnut hair was arranged in a complicated set of braids, which allowed her to clearly see the game’s pattern and him to admire the elegant line of her neck. She’d changed into a simple green cashmere dress, which buttoned down the front and neatly outlined her graceful figure. Mitchell’s nighttime raid on Omaha’s dressmakers had produced some exemplary results, albeit not in great quantity.

  Barely looking at the chess game before him, Lucas moved his king’s knight as he’d planned a half-dozen moves ago. He didn’t want to beat Rachel too quickly or too easily.

  The Empress’s legends arose from the refinement of its fittings, the superb quality of the crew, and the depth of its stores. Lucas prayed that the last two factors wouldn’t be tested on this run. A typical kitchen carried food for a dozen days, for the typical cross-country journey of less than a week. But during a hard winter, many trains took longer to travel the thousand miles west to Ogden. Last year’s bitter weather had slowed one train’s passage to thirty-six days and forced its passengers onto starvation rations.

  Lucas had ordered Braden to fill the other unused staterooms with food. It wasn’t fancy stuff, but it would keep them alive, especially if Rachel was carrying a child.

  He pictured the stateroom-turned-storeroom one more time in his mind’s eye. Was there anywhere else they could stow some more food? Braden had filled both of the bunks and stowed crates underneath, as well as half of the room itself. Perhaps another box in that corner by the far wall? Or the entire room? No, probably not. They could live comfortably now for forty-five days.

  Outside, the endless plains whizzed past, covered in a sea of white and marked by an occasional tree. Three feet of snow, lifted by yesterday’s howling winds into drifts of six feet or more, had turned the flat prairie into a deadly cold sea. Every ten miles, he could glimpse the stations where a few dozen soldiers guarded the railroad against Indians, each station as distant in a blizzard as Chicago or New York.

  He took a drink of his rich coffee and set it down, savoring his warm surroundings and his companion.

  He eyed her dress’s buttons, calculating how long it would take to undo them…No, he’d promised her they’d play chess until dinner. Unless she changed her mind, of course, and he was hopeful enough of that outcome that he’d just shaved. He calculated he’d best do so three times a day, if he wished frequently to enjoy—and protect—her delicate skin from whisker burn.

  Perhaps he should have her portrait painted like this, rather than in a more conventional pose. An intimate private portrait for his office; he’d need to establish a permanent base soon, now that there’d be a child to rear.

  Rachel’s hand shot out, her ruffled sleeve falling back to reveal her slender wrist, and brought her white queen lunging down the board. “Checkmate,” she announced and sat back, as erect as any monarch.

  What? Lucas stared down at his all-too-few ebony chessmen scattered across the black-and-white squares. Only a few seconds’ study convinced him of the accuracy of her summation. Dammit, she’d rolled him up as neatly as Grant had taken Vicksburg and faster than many top players in private clubs.

  He began to laugh at his own overconfidence, thankful the Donovan & Sons’ men were playing poker in their business car and hadn’t witnessed his defeat.

  “Congratulations, Rachel.” He held out his hand.

  “Thank you.” She shook it, smiling. “But you’re a very fine player; you almost had me boxed in several times, especially at the beginning.”

  He winced slightly and began to reset the pieces. That would teach him to think about quartermasters’ stores when he played chess with her.

  She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee and gazed out the window, a blissful smile toying with her mouth. “Isn’t this the most beautiful place in the world?”

  Lucas froze, his hands full of chessmen, and stared out the window. No, it was still the same endlessly flat expanse o
f snow.

  His gaze shot to Rachel’s face suspiciously. Was she teasing him? No—she seemed damn near as rapturous as she had last night in the bedroom. He’d learned early how to judge when whores were counterfeiting similar expressions and he frankly didn’t believe she had the experience to do so. So she had to be telling the truth: She thought Nebraska was truly lovely—in the dead of winter.

  “When I stand on a station’s platform, I can see for miles in every direction,” she went on dreamily. “And I know that I can travel anywhere I want—north or south, east or west—and as free as a dove. All I have to do is board a train or stage, and go.”

  Lucas stared at her, his blood chilling. Had she no idea of what she might be getting into? The truly unpredictable weather, which could be summer in the morning and the depths of winter by nightfall? If anything happened to her or their child…

  He managed to clear his suddenly very tight throat. “And somehow manage to find decent meals on a regular basis…” he suggested, trying to make a joke out of the notoriously bad cooking on stage routes.

  She giggled and glanced back at him. “True. We can’t stop in any event, since we have to proceed to Nevada immediately,” she agreed. “Even so, everything here is so much more spacious than the tight confines of Collins’s Ledge. That’s why whenever we come to a depot, I want to disembark and throw my arms wide and embrace all of it. As I’ve done every stop since we left Omaha.”

  She smiled beatifically upon him, took another sip of her drink, and went back to gazing out the window, humming softly.

  Lucas gulped down the rest of his coffee, wishing he dared refill to it with whisky. Dammit, was she truly planning to stand outside at every stop, no matter what the weather? Since the locomotive needed to frequently refill its cistern, it stopped every thirty-five miles or so. Would he have to watch her dancing with the elements every hour or so? In temperatures that would freeze her beautiful hand to the Empress, should she happen to brush against it without gloves? Not if he could help it!

  What should he do?

  He could persuade her not to go outside.

  Win an argument against her nimble mind in a direct confrontation? His mouth twisted wryly. He suspected he’d be glad if her tact allowed him to usually win their public arguments.

  He went back to resetting the chessmen, frowning. He couldn’t prevent her from going outside, since that would mean locking her up onboard the Empress. Imprisonment would be an act of foulness, befitting that brute Collins—or desperation.

  Maybe he could distract her instead…

  Or if he kept her in their stateroom as much as possible? She was a very uninhibited, passionate lady, thank God. She wasn’t showing any shyness or stiffness after last night’s frolics, so he could take her back to bed and try several more times to conceive a child. If she still wanted to go outside after that, some long bouts of pleasuring her with his mouth and hands should leave her exhausted and inclined to fall asleep.

  He purred, imagining her sated, boneless body sprawled over his chest with her slender fingers twined around his, and quickly set the last pawns into place.

  “Mrs. Grainger?” he invited, wiping his face of everything except polite inquiry. “I believe the first move is yours.”

  She shook herself slightly and turned back to face him, still smiling softly. His heart thudded against in his chest. Damn, she was beautiful—a modern goddess of home and hearth.

  “Lucas, that’s the first time you’ve called me ‘Mrs. Grainger.’”

  He lifted his cup to her, deliberately ignoring the sudden rush of heat into his chest. “And here’s to many more such salutations, Mrs. Grainger.”

  She blushed slightly and brought her pawn forward.

  He answered her move quickly, determined to end the game as soon as possible. This shouldn’t take too long, especially now that he was determined to concentrate.

  Half an hour later, he was calculating the tenth in a series of moves that should check Rachel’s king—but probably wouldn’t bring checkmate—when the train’s whistle blew, a brusque note which announced a brief watering stop.

  Rachel promptly thrust her chair back.

  His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Was this his chance to lure her back to their stateroom? “What about the game?”

  She gaped at him. “I, ah—”

  “You promised to play straight through until dinner. No mention was made of interruptions, such as disembarking for a watering stop. Are you forfeiting the game?”

  She hesitated and threw a helpless glance at the window. The sun was setting rapidly now, shooting sparks of light off the snow and forming rainbows from the ice crystals hanging from tree branches.

  At another time, Lucas might have admitted the scene was handsome, but not now. “Are you forfeiting the game?” he repeated, more softly.

  She looked back at the board, then up at him and nodded. “Yes. You’d have won in a dozen moves anyway.”

  A dozen? He tried to pretend he’d known the solution all along.

  The locomotive blew out steam and the brakes screeched. The train began to slow.

  She held out her hand and he lifted it to his lips. “Dear wife.” He lingered over the kiss, nuzzling her fingers and her knuckles.

  She trembled, her eyes growing huge in her previously serene face.

  Very pleased with the effects of a little flirtation, Lucas pressed a kiss into the palm of her hand and stood up, lifting her with him.

  She gripped the back of her chair, visibly trying to regain her composure. “Lucas, do you know what town this is?”

  Poor darling, when would she learn that two people didn’t always have to make conversation? He retrieved their coats from the other side of the drawing room. “Someplace close to Grand Island, I think.”

  He wrapped her simple mantle around her, for the first layer of protection. “But it’s only a dirtwater town, established solely to provide water for the locomotives,” he added.

  She knitted her brows at the explanation, accepting her heavy mittens. “They build towns for that purpose?”

  “Certainly they do.” He briskly fastened his coat and tossed a scarf around his neck. “In parts of Nevada and Utah, the Central Pacific Railroad has even built towns and hauled in water for them to give the trains.”

  She shook her head. “It truly is a Great American Desert.”

  He kissed her cheek and wrapped her thick, shaggy buffalo coat around her. At least this would keep her warm and stop any wind from touching her.

  But if the breeze touched any bits of exposed skin…He’d have to watch her closely for frostbite.

  The coat’s rich, dark brown framed Rachel’s face, its soft fur brushing against her smooth skin and making her look even more delectable.

  Lucas leaned down and nuzzled her cheek. “You can see the station from here,” he suggested softly.

  She hummed and tilted her head to one side, her hand coming up to caress him. “But then I couldn’t tell exactly how much space it has around it, could I?”

  Drat her logical mind. Lucas reluctantly muttered agreement and continued to kiss her, even as the train rumbled to a stop, its iron wheels screeching.

  He was disciplined enough to take her outside immediately, however reluctantly. A watering stop was so brief that there was little time to spare, if she was to see anything. But he went down first and handed her down the narrow, ice-covered steps very carefully.

  Outside, Mitchell and another Donovan & Sons’ man were pacing around the platform, warily regarding the scene beyond. Nearby a handful of chimneys spouting smoke rose above small frame houses. Lucas would be surprised if this town’s entire population amounted to two dozen.

  Wind brushed his face with its sharp, cold claws, eager to harm the unwary and reminding him of more storms to come—a younger brother of yesterday’s gale but still dangerous in its own right.

  He pulled his scarf up higher, leaving only a little skin around his eyes e
xposed underneath his fur cap, and glanced over at Rachel.

  She opened her arms, as if to embrace the entire scene, and turned around slowly, her expression ecstatic. The wind ruffled her fur cap, slowly sliding it back from her face. “Beautiful,” she sighed. “Simply beautiful.”

  His heart plummeted into his boots. Dear God in heaven, what would he do if she caught pneumonia?

  He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her in front of him. He rocked her against him, slowly spinning them both around, until the wind beat against his back. Body warmth, that was it—give her body warmth, the best medicine of all against cold.

  “Lovely,” he agreed, “lovely beyond compare.” He quickly smoothed her cap back into position over her braids, protecting her delicate ears and hiding her face from the deadly wind.

  “Lucas!” she protested, sounding as if she was blushing not infuriated.

  He paused, surprised, and went along with her assumption of a flirtation. “Shouldn’t I proclaim my wife’s beauty?”

  “You can hardly compare a woman to a landscape.”

  “Why not? Shakespeare said something about a summer day and his lover. But you’re far more golden and passionate than his dark lady.”

  “Lucas!”

  He’d wager if he could see her face, she truly would be blushing. He didn’t dare grin. “Can you feel any wind now, my dear?”

  “No, of course not. You’re blocking it—for which I thank you.”

  He lowered his voice. “It’s my pleasure—especially if it keeps you warm. I enjoy thinking of you hot, perhaps melting under your clothes.”

  There was a moment’s silence, broken only by the gurgling water as it tumbled into their locomotive’s cistern. Mitchell and the other man were on the opposite side of the station’s platform, their conversation obscured by the wind and distance.

  Lucas wished to high heavens that he could see Rachel’s face to gauge her thinking.