The Northern Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  Little shook his head slowly. “It’s already in so many pieces that it would take two days to put back together.”

  “And Collins would be long gone by then.”

  Someone murmured a profanity. Rachel didn’t reprove him.

  “Maybe a flanger will travel with us,” Mitchell said, not sounding very hopeful.

  Lucas impatiently shrugged the suggestion off. “All they do is scrape snow and ice from between the rails and dump it on the side. They can’t cope with six inches or more of snow and any wind would just pile the snow back up again. Men would still have to hand shovel switches, sidings, and so on.”

  “With four hundred and fifty-nine miles between Laramie and Ogden, and talk of heavy snow at the Rockies’ summit,” Lowell commented.

  “So we pray,” Rachel said firmly.

  Lucas glanced at her, startled, and began to smile, not entirely nicely. “Exactly so, my dear. Let us ask Divine Providence’s assistance, that our enemies may be confounded and the Lord’s blessing smooth our path.”

  Rachel edged along the rough trail, trying to avoid the masses of snow being hurled overhead from shovels. She had bundled herself up in men’s clothing until she appeared to be a penguin, but she had no desire to be hit in the face with a mouthful of icy crystals. Given the number of men working to keep the train moving, anyone walking near the locomotives needed to be very cautious. Three dozen of them had come two days ago from nearby settlements, lured by Lucas’s promise of high wages.

  The rough trail had been packed down by men’s feet until it was hard as marble. It would probably turn slick enough to break a man’s leg after sundown. The snow beyond reached almost to her waist, deceptively fluffy and friendly, and offering no protection from the omnipresent cold. It did, however, allow her to see the one man whose movements were still as graceful and disciplined as a panther, even after two days of walking and shoveling their way across Wyoming.

  Lucas was a beautiful sight, even under the heavy clothing, always shoveling at the same strong, steady beat which made other men’s efforts look frenzied and wasteful.

  A slow, rich warmth lit deep in her chest, sending flickers through her bones. Oh yes, she could happily watch him do even the most inane tasks for the rest of her life. Which was why she was out here, even in this dreadful weather, when every other woman had taken shelter inside by a stove. Even though a ghost walked through their marriage.

  Because she’d rather look at him, under three—or four?—layers of clothing, than stay safe and warm.

  She flinched once again at the realization of her vulnerability, but pulled herself back into action and worked her way forward to him. Thank God for buffalo coats, which protected her from the consequences of her own folly. She reluctantly lowered the woolen scarf from her face. “Care for some tea, Lucas?” she shouted.

  He swung around with a rapidity which would have impressed a tiger. “Rachel? What are you doing out here? I told you to stay indoors, where it is warm.”

  She shrugged and began to work through her layers of men’s clothing to find the flask of tea inside her coat. “Everyone else is either working, exhausted, or sick.”

  Lucas cast a fulminating glare at her, but bit back a scathing retort, probably because of their audience.

  She did her best to look innocent and businesslike. Her excuse was entirely true: The weather had turned foul once they left Laramie, becoming an appalling mixture of high winds and cold.

  It had been cold almost every day, and not the heavy, wet cold that she’d grown up with, thanks to living along the coast, which had smacked her in the face like an immense door shoving her into an ice block. No, this was a raw, bitter cold and wind that shredded her skin and clutched at her throat. When it turned that cold—as it had for a few hours last night—the train simply stopped, since no man could work in it.

  The wind made it worse, driving its sharp claws down her throat to capture her breath. It had blown almost continuously, tossing the snow up until it obscured all of the men’s efforts. It blasted the tiny grains of snow into blocks, as solid and icy as any glacier.

  Without a snowplow, they’d been forced to clear the railroad tracks by hand. Shovel by weary shovelful, the grueling, brutal labor of cutting into, ripping a block of frozen snow—now ice—out of the drift, and hurling it away, had left men literally dropping in their tracks…

  The train had taken two days to travel a distance that would normally require only six hours. She hated to think how long it would take to reach help.

  At least they had leaders onboard, who’d kept trouble from breaking out. Lucas, first and foremost…

  Her husband jammed his shovel down and leaned on it. “Did you bring tea for anyone else?”

  “Of course.” She handed him the flask.

  He tipped his head back to drink, the strong muscles rippling in his throat.

  Her mouth promptly dried, aching with the need to taste him. She made a small involuntary sound and turned her attention to the inanimate scenery. This was not the time or place to indulge herself in lust.

  Stopped by a great snowdrift, the train fretted just before the top of the Continental Divide, in a long, gently sloping channel cut by the now frozen Green River. Still pulling only the main section, its three locomotive engines were sending impatient puffs of smoke into the gloomy late afternoon sky. Behind them—to the east—the railroad tracks swept over a bridge then disappeared behind bluffs. All around were mountain ranges, like monuments to forgotten gods: The rugged Seminole Mountains in the north; the battered Sweet-water Range in the west; the Wind River Mountains still further west; and the gentler Uintah Mountains in the far south.

  Great dark clouds loomed over the mountains to the northwest, sweeping down to fill the valleys and cover the peaks. They were so thick and low that the setting sun barely tinted a few fringes—sure sign of clouds heavy-laden with snow.

  Lucas handed the flask back to Rachel. “Thank you.”

  She tilted her head toward the coming storm. “How long until you think it will arrive?”

  He glanced at it and shrugged. “Little says less than two hours, once the wind changes. After that, it will be a true blizzard with high winds and a foot or more of fresh snow.”

  A gale, howling outside the Empress and dumping snow everywhere? They could barely move forward now if there was more than a few inches of snow over the tracks. “We’ll be stranded.”

  His vivid eyes were intent and reassuring. “We’ll be safe. We have plenty of supplies and the railroad train will come for us.”

  She shuddered, remembering a hundred appalling stories about people lost and alone on the Great Plains during a blizzard. But she, at least, had Lucas to keep her safe. The biggest danger would probably be the delay in reaching Ogden. “I’m sure you’re right. But what about Mr. Donovan? Can we still warn him?”

  Lucas’s mouth tightened and he began to jerk his muffler up his throat, his previous confidence changed to angry determination. “There’s been no answer from San Francisco to my cables. Donovan probably hasn’t landed yet.”

  “Oh dear.” She buttoned up her coat, making sure the flask was safe inside, and turned to the next man.

  The rails ran back toward the east, black against the silver snow, rippling toward the darkened sky, their purity undisturbed by any train—especially one with much poorer passengers. “How far back do you think the immigrant train is?”

  His fingers drummed on the shovel’s handle. “I don’t know. We heard its whistle, but that could be a trick of the ear. I hope they’re close.”

  “Why?”

  “So we can share food, if they’re stranded.”

  She spun back to stare at him.

  He was watching her, his eyes hooded, veiling his thoughts. “We have plenty of provisions but they don’t, since their passengers must buy cheap food at every stop while we began with enough for twelve days. Their chances of survival go up—if they find us before the storm comes i
n.”

  “They could go hungry!”

  He nodded, his expression as unyielding as the mountains around them.

  “And if they don’t reach us?”

  His voice was very harsh. “They’ll be racing to find us so we’ll hang lanterns on our caboose. And pray they don’t ram and derail us.”

  She’d heard enough stories to know what that meant. “Both trains could be lost if that happens,” she whispered.

  He gave a single curt nod of agreement and tapped his cap farther down on his head, refusing to let his expression tell her anything else.

  She bit her lip, the cold carving her bones as hard as the wind ripped her skin. They were all at risk here, one way or another—and nobody else would help them.

  A cat’s paw of wind from the northwest touched her face. She froze. Another sliced into her, its bitter claws raking her. She gulped, the harsh mouthful of cold freezing her throat and lungs.

  Every man was standing still, staring at the onrushing storm. Lucas’s expression was deadly angry, as though he wanted to do battle.

  “The wind’s changed,” Rachel whispered.

  “Yes.” He almost hissed the single syllable. “Pass out the rest of your tea as quickly as you can, and go back inside. The storm may come sooner than we think.”

  “Certainly.”

  She swallowed hard and turned toward Little. Dear Lord, please let the immigrants make it through…

  She’d only taken a few steps when a joyous hooting arose from downriver. Her heart leaped into her throat and she lifted her head.

  In the far distance, a train was chugging slowly from behind the bluff and onto the bridge, coming through the avenue they’d carved out so painfully.

  The immigrant train had finally arrived.

  Lucas threw his cap into the air and shouted, “Hurrah!”

  Their train blew its whistle, sending up a deep, echoing blast, and began to ring its bell in long cascades of joy, which echoed around the mountain valley. All around Rachel, other men whooped.

  And the wicked winds sent a blinding sheet of snow swirling across the bluff in front of their train.

  Collins leaped back up onto his railroad car and into his drawing room, his gaze automatically seeking out his son. Was his fever still much reduced? Had he left his bed?

  Maitland looked up at him from the sideboard where he was pouring wine. “Is our trap well set for those pigs, Father?”

  Collins briefly closed his eyes in purest relief. Maitland was not only standing; he was just as acid-tongued as ever. Thank God he was finally healing from that bitch’s attack.

  Outside, their train stirred and rattled harshly. A work train lacked any elegance, especially when it left train stations. But there’d been time to pick up his telegrams at this tiny watering stop high in the Utah mountains.

  “Yes, all’s going very well. Humphreys has cabled that he’s more than willing to do anything in his power to assist me, the true legal authority for the Bluebird.”

  Maitland snickered happily and handed his father a glass of wine. “Oh, very well said!”

  “Yes, isn’t it?” Collins agreed. “We might want to award him a bonus for turning such an elegant phrase.”

  His son’s good brow lifted, making his skin twitch and pull against his bandages. Damn the bitch, the scar underneath the dressings would always look even worse than that nearly inhuman ripple. “Might want, I believe, actually means won’t want in this case.”

  Collins chuckled happily, committing his son’s countenance to memory as something else they were owed revenge for. “But might want has such a charming ring to it!”

  They laughed together for a moment, ignoring the winds shaking their Pullman and the drafts slithering over the carpet. Beyond the draperies, the world beyond was a seething white blizzard, muffling their train’s whistle as it slowly began to head west again.

  “Also, Donovan should land tomorrow in San Francisco. Jenkins, his new telegrapher—and our good friend—reports that he has no idea yet of Mr. Grainger’s difficulties. Donovan still intends to arrive at the Bluebird on the scheduled date.”

  “Oh, very well done, sir! The goat is prancing toward the pit. Thanks to the telegraphers, we also know that Grainger and the bitch are snowed in, unable to help Donovan and waiting to be destroyed. Soon we shall return to Boston and resume our accustomed leadership.”

  Collins bowed extravagantly to his son’s applause. With all of his enemies ready to be disposed of, life was definitely improving.

  The vestibule door creaked and groaned. It reluctantly opened, producing a great blast of cold air followed by Lucas. He was wrapped up in his buffalo coat, with his cap jammed down over his ears—and so covered in ice and snow as to be nearly solidly white.

  He was alive, not frozen to death, nor lost in the blizzard. Thank God.

  For a moment, Rachel could scarcely move, her heart so high in her throat it choked her.

  Gulping back a few foolish tears of relief, she rose from the settee, her velvet dressing gown rippling around her feet, and went to help him. The storm hammered at the Empress as if jealous of having lost its chance at him, shaking the valiant railroad car.

  While Hanscom, the Union Pacific conductor, was an excellent man, he’d already privately admitted that Lucas’s money and stockpiled food were what kept the two trains alive. They were even more hard-pressed by the laborers’ presence, the men who’d come to shovel snow and were now distributed among both—previously quite full—trains. After two days of being snowbound, tempers were running very short. But the half dozen Donovan & Sons’ men aboard also provided a well-disciplined group, more than able to assist the Union Pacific crew in settling any disturbances to the peace.

  But managing all of that could only be done by one man: Lucas. So he’d traveled through the trains and along their periphery far too often for Rachel’s taste, seeing to the people’s comfort and checking their condition—regardless of his own.

  He tossed his cap onto the table and began to peel off his muffler, every movement accompanied by loud cracks of shattered ice. He was breathing a little hard but that already seemed to be easing. His skin was stretched taut over his face’s bones, giving him the appearance of a medieval knight—refined to his purest essence by the burdens he carried.

  His blue-green eyes glinted under the single lamp’s light, those damnable eyes that always drew her close. Her northern devil. “You should be asleep.”

  Unwilling to openly admit the depths of her helpless attraction to him, she forced herself to shrug and picked up his gloves. Heavens, they were so cold as to be almost immobile. “I dismissed Braden and Lawson, so they could have a good night’s sleep.”

  She carefully set the gloves over a basin to thaw and gathered up his muffler for the same treatment. “Did you encounter any problems among the poker players?”

  “No, not this time, thank God.” Lucas brushed the snow out of his hair, shaking himself vigorously. Beads of icy water flew everywhere and crystalline droplets danced onto the carpet from his buffalo coat.

  Rachel eyed him anxiously. He’d returned by walking through the storm, not through the train, so he could have been frostbitten. Were there any white spots high on his cheekbones or the tip of his nose? What about his fingertips?

  “Was the weather very nasty out there?” she asked softly, stepping closer to him.

  Ah, no frostbite—just icy clothing and the faint scent of sandalwood coming from his damp hair.

  She shivered in recognition and hunger.

  He shrugged wryly and began to unbutton his coat. “What would you expect after three days of howling blizzards? A tropical beach to appear along the Green River?”

  She laughed, as she was expected to, and moved closer. His fingers were stiff and clumsy from the cold. “Let me help you.”

  His hands lifted away slightly. “Thank you.”

  From this angle, he looked more careworn than battered by the storm. Her fing
ers still yearned to touch him.

  She wasn’t much more nimble than he’d been with the buttons, since she was all too conscious of his chest rising and falling stirring his woolen coat, the steady beat of his heart under her fingers, his strong legs close enough to push aside her brown velvet dressing gown and slide between her legs…

  He was watching her, his eyes heavy-lidded and heated, watching her unbound hair curl around her neck. Maybe she should have braided it.

  She gulped and finished his last button but didn’t move away. “Would you like some coffee?” she offered. “Or…”

  “Something warm and sweet?” he suggested and slipped his arm around her waist.

  She automatically leaned against him, her head tilted against his shoulder. But why should she do exactly as she’d always done, especially when he looked so exhausted?

  Why not try something a little different? He could only say no.

  Perhaps she could entice him. Silly idea—he’d always been the one to make all the moves—but a delectable one.

  Hoping to seduce him felt a little like dancing with a tiger—both exciting and dangerous.

  She wrapped one arm around the back of his waist. Her other hand began to gently caress his thigh, daringly close to his hip.

  Lucas froze, one eyebrow rocketing up his forehead. He stiffened, stumbling a bit when his trousers tightened suddenly over his groin, across his hip—and under her fingers. “Rachel, what are you doing?”

  She smiled up at him, pleased with his reaction to her very small bit of seduction. “Perhaps something fast and smooth?” she offered, sliding her fingers closer to his fly.

  He was remarkably large and hot now, almost like an iron bar from the foundry. A small wet dot touched his trousers, at his shaft’s tip—echoed by a swelling pool of heat deep in her core.

  She stroked the back of two fingers up and down, up and down his shaft.

  He jerked and gasped something in a foreign language, not one of the classical languages. Indian perhaps, not that it mattered.