Neil lost count of how many times he’d relocated Cordelia’s tent as the westward trek of the rails moved ever onward.
Something had changed within him since their meadow lunch. He felt as if he grasped at the shadow of his dreams. As the dream of golden waves of wheat—sustaining him through the hardship and terror of war—slipped inexorably from him.
Neil and Cordelia spent a lot of time talking about their past, the present, and their dreams for the future while January snowstorms blanketed Wyoming. A cold wave swept the plains. Gravy and butter froze on the plate.
In February, the worst storm in living memory shut down ninety miles of line. The graders worked in layered overcoats. At times, the UP crew was reduced to making the grade by blasting the frozen ground with black powder.
Later, Neil regretted sharing so much of himself with Cordelia. He’d resolved to keep his thoughts and his words contained and as controlled as his horse, Mulligan. Yet inevitably Cordelia had a way of drawing Neil out of himself.
As the weather slowly cleared, they resumed their forays to the end of the track. The surveyors had completed their job and disbanded.
He chafed with inaction on the days she remained behind the line to interview the end-of-rail residents. As often as not, he suspected she invented reasons to visit the grade so he could be within sight of his men.
The latest obstacle had stopped forward momentum in its tracks. Literally, as the men were confronted with blasting through a mountain. The crew was frustrated.
Cordelia wrote out loud, “The UP’s hitherto rapid progress has been more about the open flatness of the plains and less about its much-touted superiority over the CP.”
She rested her notepad against the saddle horn.
“You’re going to write that?” On horseback, Neil glanced over at what she’d written. “About the UP?”
“It’s the truth. Crews are still tunneling through Number Three. Only building the runaround tracks from Echo to Weber Canyon allowed you to get a start on Tunnel Number Four. You’ve simply rolled the hoop—or the tunnel as it were—down the track to tackle at a later date.”
“What about the Thousand Mile Tree?” He jutted his chin in the direction of the ninety-foot giant on the ridge. “One thousand miles of track from Omaha to that tree.”
“The Central Pacific has surmounted much harder terrain over the mighty Sierra Nevada. A triumph of modern engineering.”
He scowled. “The point of the race was about which railroad tracks the most miles.”
“And here I believed the point was to connect both sides of the continent.” She fluttered her lashes at him. “Silly me.”
“Truer words, Cordelia Cochrane…” He gripped his horse’s reins. “O’Malley! Get yourself over here.”
O’Malley straightened from working the grade. “Meself?” He pointed to his chest.
“Today would be grand if you can manage it,” Neil growled.
Ambling over in no great hurry, O’Malley tipped the peak of his cap to her. “A top of the mornin’ to you, Miss Cochrane. How be you?”
“I’m doing well. How about you, Mr. O’Malley?”
“He’s fine,” Neil answered before O’Malley could. “Doing a decent hard day’s labor, which is what I should be doing instead of lollygagging with a know-it-all—”
O’Malley had the nerve to laugh.
Neil jabbed his finger at the man. “You and me are going to do a prisoner exchange, Pat.”
Cordelia leaned forward. “Prisoners?”
“A swap. Exchange his freedom for my incarceration for a few hours.”
She bristled. “Are you suggesting I’ve been holding you captive, Mr. MacBride?”
Neil swung his horse toward the direction of the tunnel. “Let’s call it time off for good behavior, shall we?”
He gritted his teeth. “I have a burning need to smash rocks.” He nudged Mulligan into a trot. He didn’t bother to turn around.
Cordelia rammed her notepad and pencil inside the saddlebag. “Of all the mule-headed…”
O’Malley sighed, not unlike a long-suffering saint before the lions.
“If you’ve got something to say, Patrick O’Malley, then I suggest you say it.”
“You’ve managed to get under the boss’s skin, Miss Cochrane. I’ve not seen him as rattled under an enemy barrage. What did you do now?”
“I merely observed the Central Pacific appeared to be winning the race in terms of actual accomplishment, notwithstanding the UP’s greater mileage.”
O’Malley’s goatee quivered. “That woulda done it. Our Neil’s a mite sensitive about his railroad.”
She squared her shoulders. “Heaven help the woman stupid enough to ever try and come between that man and a locomotive.”
O’Malley laughed outright. “I reckon that’s exactly what you did. And put the poor lad in full retreat.”
Without Neil’s company, the sunshine lost its glory.
“I’d just as soon head to town, Mr. O’Malley, if it’s all the same to you.”
She was in her tent when the first rumble shook the ground. The lantern hanging from the pitched roofline swayed. She’d been working at her desk on an article.
O’Malley had not drifted far. He warmed his hands over the fire in the barrel outside her tent. Where he could also keep an eye out for her.
At the second thunderous blast, she rushed outside. “What’s happening?”
“It reminds me of cannon fire, but—” O’Malley scanned the Wasatch Range where the crew worked the tunnel. “The men were thinking on using that newfangled nitro stuff.”
She pressed her fist into her mouth. Why had she goaded Neil? What if he was hurt?
“Who else is with Neil?”
“Tierney.” O’Malley gulped hard. “Our young lad Doolittle, too.”
She caught hold of O’Malley’s coat. “What should we do?”
He disengaged from her stranglehold. “I and the rest of the men will be taking the engine as far as we dare to see what we can find. Someone here should help the doc prepare the medical tent for casualties.”
“I can do that.”
He patted her hand. “And if ye’ve a mind, girl, I’d pray for yer man and the rest of them.”
Tears stung her eyes. “I will.”
Despite the rapid beating of her heart as she waited with the railroad doctor for survivors, she realized Neil was far from being her man.
When the engine returned bearing the wounded, she and the doctor were joined in the rail yard by the sporting women.
And Mary-Margaret Gallagher. Who wrung her hands in the folds of her apron at the sight of the men on the flatcar—some bloody, some burned. “John!” she shouted and rushed forward.
The almost unrecognizable man batted away her hands with a fierce scowl. His bushy beard was peppered with small bits of rock. “I couldna get to Neil or the lad. I have to go back…”
Cordelia scrutinized the men being helped off the railcar. Where was Neil? God, please let him be alive.
Neil and the men were so skilled it was easy to lose sight of the danger. Until today.
Those still mobile crawled off the flatcar. Their clothes tattered and covered in grime, it was difficult to identify them. She followed the doctor’s lead and moved from man to man.
She spotted a tall, lean man staggering across the track, his hair coated brown with dirt. “Neil!”
His head snapped up at the sound of her voice. His eyes blazed, the green more pronounced than usual against his blackened face. From a jagged gash in his bicep, blood saturated his ripped shirtsleeve.
In his arms, he carried a slight figure. She picked up her skirts and ran toward him. Billy Doolittle’s head lolled.
Neil thrust the boy at her. “Promise me you’ll care for him. Stay with him.”
She sagged under Billy’s weight. “I’ll take care of him, I promise. But you—”
“I couldna save his da.” Neil tottered. “But I have to—I must save him.” His eyes shut.
O’Malley took the boy. In time for Cordelia to grab hold of Neil as he slumped, unconscious.
Hours later, she’d set a camp stool between their two cots. Neither had regained consciousness. Perhaps best with the doctor stitching the wound on Neil’s arm. And Billy…? Cordelia felt an unaccustomed protectiveness over the boy.
Not far away, as fierce as a Tennessee wildcat, Mary-Margaret guarded Tierney’s bedside. Despite cuts and abrasions, he appeared largely unharmed.
“The nitro worked fine, but a portion of the excavated ceiling collapsed.”
“Hush yourself, John Tierney.” Mary-Margaret pushed him onto the pillow, and Tierney did as she bid him. Mild as porridge in her hands.
“What did Neil mean about not saving Billy’s da, Patrick?”
Billy moaned. The cot creaked as he stirred, yet without waking.
O’Malley exchanged glances with Tierney. “The boy’s da fought alongside us.”
The older man looked older than his years. “When the General was wounded, Neil managed to get him and the rest of us out of that fix while Doolittle’s father held off the gray backs at Pea Ridge.”
“And died giving us time to get away.” Tierney’s eyes burned with unshed tears. “Saving our lives.” Mary-Margaret squeezed his hand.
“Billy’s da—not me—is the real hero.”
Neil tried sitting up and flinched. She eased him down. “Not so fast.”
“Billy? Is he alive?”
“The doctor says we have to wait for Billy to awake from the blow to his head he sustained in the tunnel.”
She pressed a dipper of water to Neil’s mouth.
He drank as if he’d never get enough, but eventually leaned back. “I didn’t take you for the nursing kind.”
“I told you I’d stay with Billy.” She lifted her chin. “I’m a woman of my word.”
A tired smile played across his mouth. “You and yer words.”
He closed his eyes and drifted away, but into a more peaceful sleep this time. She found herself straightening the sheet, touching his hand, unable to resist brushing the shock of sandy hair fallen across his brow.
What in the world, God, do You want me to do about this Irishman? She sighed. I’m supposed to go to Paris.
O’Malley held Neil’s battered Stetson in his work-roughened hands. “I found his hat when I pulled him from the rubble. He’s not going to be pleased to see it so dirty.”
A hat seemed the least of Neil’s worries.
O’Malley sighed. “Neil will want this hat when he gets out of that bed.”
Bending over Billy’s cot, she sponged his face with a cloth.
O’Malley caught her gaze. “When Neil enlisted, he exchanged the derby his da gave him for an army cap. Now, he likes wearing this western hat you gave him. He likes it was you who gave it to him.”
She sank onto the stool again. “I’m sensing you’re referring to something more than headgear.”
“Aye,” O’Malley nodded. “This venture has caused us to look at ourselves differently. To look at the world differently.”
“You’re referring to a man’s identity.”
O’Malley smiled. “A smart lass, you are. Smart as my friend Neil. Billy’s the only one among us actually American-born. He found us after the war ended. He had nowhere else to go.”
“And you? Didn’t you have somewhere else to go?”
The smile he gave her this time was sad. “Lost my family in the influenza that swept the tenement while I marched through Georgia. I reckon these boys are my job to finish raising. To make sure they’re settled, happy, and prosperous. Until then—” He shrugged.
But she knew what he meant. After following the end of the rail, she saw herself differently. Visualized her place in the world differently. Paris differently?
O’Malley shoved Neil’s rucksack over to her. “Figure you might find something there of interest, Miss Cochrane. Seeing as how you’re such a truth searcher.”
Rubbing his callused hand over his bristly goatee, O’Malley shuffled to his feet. “Reckon I’ll get me some shut-eye since both my lads are well attended. After I give a good brushing to Neil’s hat. Send for me if anything changes.”
She rummaged through Neil’s pack, and her hand fell upon the sketch pad. Laying it on her lap, she paused. Should she look at Neil’s private thoughts? But O’Malley obviously believed she should.
Her breath hitched as she raised the cover to find an intricate rendering of herself. Beneath Neil’s talented hand, her face had come to life. He’d somehow managed to capture not only the curve of her jaw and the lift of her cheeks, but that indefinable something in her eyes, too.
In every line and stroke, Neil revealed more than perhaps he intended. Her stomach fluttered. Could a man such as he draw a woman and not have feelings for her?
“You weren’t meant to see that.”
At Neil’s gruff voice, she flipped the sketch pad closed. “I think you made me more than I am. I’m only a reporter.”
“I draw what I see. Whatever is beautiful. True and lovely. You’re beautiful.”
She blushed. “I wish I could draw like you. To be able to show you what I see. You’re more than what you give yourself credit for being.”
He reached for the sketch pad. “You draw with your words.” She handed it to him.
Neil tore the paper with a ripping sound from the pad. He handed her the page. “So you won’t forget who you are.”
“Will you forget me, Neil?”
As soon as she said the words, she longed to take them back. What on earth had possessed her bold tongue to say such a thing to him?
“No, Cordelia. I will not.”
She dropped her eyes and smoothed the page across her apron. “I will always cherish this gift from you. I will always—” She swallowed.
“Cordelia,” he whispered. “When the tunnel crashed around us, it was you who flashed through my mind. You with your eyes like prairie bluebells. I want you to know that—”
With a cry, Billy’s eyes flew open. “Da? Boss?”
Neil reached across Cordelia for the boy. “It’s me, Billy.” Flinching from the wound on his arm, Neil sat up and seized Billy’s hand. “Easy there, son. It’s Neil.”
Placing the portrait on the ground, she dropped to her knees beside the cot. “How are you feeling?”
Billy winced. “I’m okay. ’Cept my head hurts.”
Neil grunted. Moisture welled in his eyes. “Thanks be to God for that hardheaded Irish skull of yours.”
Her mouth pursed. “He’s not the only one.”
She’d nearly lost him. Lost them both. Thank You, God, for saving them. Thank You. No time for weepiness though, when Billy tried to sit up.
Cordelia put a hand on his chest. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Billy frowned. “Back to work. I ain’t no dosser. Railroad won’t build itself, right, Boss?”
Neil exhaled. “You’re no dosser, boyo. But my advice is to enjoy the lady’s tender ministrations while you can.”
Billy grimaced, but plopped onto the pillow. “You taking your own advice then?”
Neil leaned back onto his cot. “Why not? I was told once men need cherishing, too.”
The unspoken “loving” hung between them.
His gaze flickered. “Unless you wish to be rid of me so soon?”
The way he looked at her then… Her pulse accelerated. She didn’t wish to be rid of Neil MacBride at all. Not ever.
She rose and took the drawing from underneath the bed where she’d stashed it for safekeeping. “Both of you need to rest.”
Neil’s hand caught her arm, his fingers curled around her wrist. “You’re leaving?” He frowned.
Cordelia bit her lip. “I need to change out of this dress. But I’ll return in a few minutes. I promise.”
She wanted to weep. She wanted to shout for joy. She wanted to—she didn’t know what she wanted to do. Maybe dance.
But she needed a few moments to herself. To marshal her thoughts. To explore these overwhelming feelings inside herself. And preserve Neil’s gift to her between the pages of her Bible.
With a tired smile, he let her go. Billy’s eyes had closed. But his breathing was steady and easy.
She moved toward the tent opening and angled to find Neil’s gaze fixed upon her. With a small flutter of her fingers, she stepped outside and headed toward her tent.
What would Neil have said to her if Billy hadn’t awakened when he did?
Could Neil MacBride truly love someone like her? A woman with no practical skills? She feared she’d make a poor farmer’s wife.
Yet she, who’d always been so independent, found her happiness and subsequent well-being irrevocably hitched to his. It was both frightening and exhilarating. Because she loved him.
For his grin. For his strength of character. For his adventuresome spirit. For everything that made Neil MacBride the man he was.
Paris? London? Suddenly, neither the Thames nor the Seine held the same appeal they’d possessed a few months ago.
When she looked at him, she saw blue-sky days and prairie. Not an easy life, but a good one. A future rich with love.
To be cherished by such a man… Loved. It took Cordelia’s breath. Filled her with an indescribable yearning. And hope.
A hope for a life she’d never before allowed herself to dream. But dreams changed. It would prove no hardship to exchange one dream for a better one.
There’d be new skills to learn. New adventures. Although different adventures than what she’d imagined.
And she was pondering how to be a homesteader’s wife—how to kill a chicken, how to make candles and soap—when the telegram from Mr. Greeley arrived.