Ellen Blanchard cringed. She had no business standing in the ticket queue at the Pennsylvania Railroad Station. At least, no business standing under a banner which read BON VOYAGE, HONEYMOON Express.
She—a woman most definitely lacking a husband—did not belong on a transcontinental train occupied by celebrating newlyweds. The awkwardness of it all set her body afire, dampening her with perspiration. Heat suffused her face. And when she blushed, she splotched like a half-ripe tomato.
With fumbling fingers, she tugged her fan from her reticule and flicked it open with a snap, flapping blessedly cooler air over her hot cheeks. Thankfully, an observer might attribute her flush to the summer evening heat trapped inside the stuffy depot and the crush of bodies—canoodling couples, reporters, photographers, and a brass band performing a polka—pressed into the platform.
No one would likely suspect the true reason for her presence. Which was going on a wedding trip. By herself.
Enough foolish embarrassment. Ellen may not belong on this train, but it was open to the public if not enough newlyweds purchased tickets, so she had every right to ride it. She squared her shoulders and fixed her gaze smack between the buckskin-clad shoulder blades of the man in queue ahead of her, right where his too-long hair fell in gold-streaked brown curls.
This was not a wedding trip. It was an adventure. The start of a new life.
As long as she could procure a ticket. She peeked at the station clock—a quarter to seven. The train might leave without her.
Dash dot dash dot. Dot. Dot dot dot.
Jesus, please. Her fingers tapped out a prayer in Morse code against her thigh while she waited an interminable time, unmoving in the queue.
The haircut-shy man ahead of her was broad-shouldered enough that she had to bend at the waist to peek around him at the ticket agent. What took so long? The bespectacled agent adjusted his glasses and then took bills from the gray-haired, smartly dressed gentleman at the front of the line. A towheaded boy clung to the gentleman’s coat. “Welcome to the Express,” the agent hollered over the brass band’s oom-pahs, his expression not the least bit welcoming.
His grimace didn’t dampen Ellen’s burgeoning excitement. If a father and son—no more newlyweds than she—could purchase a berth on the Express, then tickets were still available. She bounced on her toes.
Moving forward in the queue, her fingers tapped against her thigh, repeating her prayer. Dash dot dash dot. Dot. On the second S in Jesus, the buckskin-clad man ahead of her took his ticket and stepped aside, leaving her first in the queue. My, that was faster this time.
Stuffing her fan into her reticule, she leaned over the counter, the better to not be overheard. “One for the Express, please.”
He cupped his ear. “Speak up, ma’am. Can’t hear nothin’ over them flugelhorns.”
So much for trying to be discreet. “The Honeymoon train. I was told if any berths went unsold, they would be available for purchase by, er, nonhoneymooners. I’d like one ticket.”
“No single tickets, this being a promotion for newly-hitched couples. Tickets-for-two are all we sell.”
Double the expense, but she had no choice. “Then I’d like a ticket-for-two.”
“If’n there was any more left, but I just sold the last one. You got somewhere to go, ma’am, I can get you a spot on another train tomorrow morning.”
Ellen’s head shook so hard her hat slipped toward her ear. No other train would do. Only the Express, this only-once-before attempted coast-to-coast mastery of engineering and cooperation, would get her to California in time to claim employment.
She shoved her hat aright. “I must reach Sacramento by September first. Any other train will take days longer than that.”
He sighed. “Sorry, ma’am.”
“If the berths are sold, I’ll take a seat in the passenger car.” Although she’d miss the privacy of one at nighttime.
“No seats were ever for sale. Just berths in the Pullman. The final coach on the train ain’t a passenger car, either. It’s repurposed with a galley, dining area, and gentleman’s lounge.” From his weary tone, it sounded as if he’d had this conversation already and resented repeating himself. “These advertising stunts cause nothin’ but headaches. Sorry, but if you don’t want a ticket for a different train, move aside.”
“Forgive me.” She stepped to the side, uncertain what to do next.
She couldn’t go home—she didn’t have one anymore. Once Father died, she’d been granted a few weeks to vacate their rooms above the telegraph office. She’d applied for Father’s job, of course, but the company preferred a man. As had every other place she applied.
Rawlings Mining and Transport Company in the pleasant-sounding town of Poppy, California, hadn’t minded her being a woman, however, so long as she started work September 1. Five days from now—something that wouldn’t have been a problem had Ambrose not misplaced the telegram offering her the job.
Misplaced, her eye.
At least she’d discovered what he’d done. She’d telegraphed Rawlings, accepting the job, tidied Father’s grave a final time, and packed her necessities in the valise and two trunks now waiting for her on the platform. There was no going back.
Squaring her shoulders, Ellen returned to the end of the ticket queue. She’d telegraph Rawlings Company regarding her tardiness and pray they’d take her nevertheless.
Her fingers tapped against her leg. God, help me.
“Ma’am?”
“I’m sorry, sir, were you here first?” The words were hardly out before she recognizedthe man who’d stood ahead of her in line. Not that she’d seen his face, just his broad back, but who else stood out in a crowd like this? The fellow’s gold-streaked hair curled to the shoulders of his buckskin jacket. His trousers and shoes appeared sewn of similar-looking leather, as did the thong threading a necklace of white beads around his neck. Beneath the jacket, however, he wore an orthodox blue-striped shirt that matched the hue of his eyes.
His unconventional dress could mean but one thing. He was a man of the West, some sort of outdoorsman or mountain man. Ellen’s hand pressed her chest. She’d read about fellows like him in novels, but those were grizzled fellows with beards to their ribcages who reeked like skunks. This one, however, was shaven, clean, and indisputably handsome.
“I’m not in line.” He was polite, too. “I purchased the last berth on the Express, but I couldn’t help overhearing your exchange with the ticket agent. I can tell it’s mighty important for you to be in California. I have a proposition for you.”
“You’ll sell me your berth?” This mountain man was a gem of a gentleman. Even if he raised the price to make a little money for his trouble. “How much?”
“Oh, no.” He smiled. “I thought we could share the ticket-for-two.”
Ellen blinked. Then it all made sense. She might be a fool about many things, but she was not stupid.
“Mister…?” She’d behave like the lady she was, rather than screech at him. For now.
“Nash.”
“Mr. Nash—”
“Just Nash.”
“Step away before I summon assistance.”
His eyes went wide. Then one of his fringe-laden sleeves reached for her.
She lifted her knee. Not enough so anyone would notice it beneath the bustled bell of her amethyst silk skirt. But it was ready should she need to kick him to make her point understood.
“Not like that.” Nash yanked back his hand. What was he thinking, almost touching a strange woman, much less phrasing his offer as if he had foul intentions? Try to remember how to be around females, at least until you get home. Then you can go back to being normal.
Which was what, lonely? Nash shoved away the thought. Alone didn’t necessarily mean lonely. Things were fine as they were.
Meanwhile the blond in the dress the color of grape jelly glared up at him with rich brown eyes. She was a pretty thing, despite the glower.
His hands raised in a gesture of peace. “I thought we could split the ticket, all businesslike. That’s it. I want to go home, you need to get west, no more than that.”
Her scowl didn’t soften. “There is but one berth per ticket.”
“True.” At least that was how Pullman cars worked, as far as he knew. Beds formed out of two seats or folded down from the ceiling. Despite a curtain, there was scant privacy for anyone on this ridiculous honeymoon trip, but it didn’t concern Nash. “I won’t be using the berth, whether you come or not.”
She crossed her arms. The fingers of one hand tapped against the purple fabric of heropposite sleeve. A sign of her anxiety? “How can I be assured of this?”
When was the last time he’d had to defend his honor? Then again, when was the last time he’d made such an idiot of himself? He couldn’t fight the smile that tugged his lips. “Truth is, I don’t like being closed up. Most nights I sleep outdoors so I can watch the stars—in warm weather, anyway. So I’ll sleep in the train lounge where I’ll have a good view of the sky. If you don’t take the berth, it’ll go empty.”
She chewed her lip. Debating—it wasn’t hard to figure that out. Then she sighed. “At least I shall be well chaperoned with so many others on the train.”
So would the newlyweds. He grinned and passed her the ticket.
“Thank you, Mr. Nash. I insist on paying you.”
“Just Nash. Miss—?”
She hesitated half a second. “Blanchard.”
She directed a porter to her trunks just as the band’s song ended on a flourish.
“Honeymooners!”
The yell made her jump. Set Nash’s nerves on edge, too. Give him the quiet of his mountain home any day.
A thickset fellow waved from atop a bunting-draped platform several feet off the ground. His hand rested in a protective gesture on a camera. “Time for a commemorative photograph,” he hollered. “Stand in front of the engine, please.”
Couples murmured and hurried over to find places before the black steam engine, but Miss Blanchard shook her head. “We’re not honeymooners.”
“Nope.” Nash pulled his satchel strap over his shoulder. Truth was, he didn’t cotton to spending four days on a honeymoon train. Not that he wasn’t happy for the lovebirds clustering together, twittering while the photographer issued instructions. These folks had their whole lives ahead of them. At least, he prayed so.
But happy honeymoons didn’t always lead to happily ever afters.
Miss Blanchard stepped back, colliding with the little boy who’d preceded Nash in the ticket queue. She wobbled, and Nash caught her arm. She smelled nice. Like almonds.
Her cheeks blotched pink. “Thank you.”
Nash released her arm as if it were quilled like a porcupine’s hide, then stepped back to a more proper distance. Nodded, because saying you’re welcome seemed idiotic when he should apologize for—what, liking how she smelled? Holding on a second too long?
“Gabe.” The boy’s father gripped the boy’s shoulder. “Apologize to these folks. Almost knocked them over.”
Miss Blanchard’s smile was as pretty as she was. “Not at all. He’s excited, and who can blame him, riding such a fine train?”
Gabe grinned. As ever when Nash encountered little boys, it was impossible not to think of his own. Would they have loved trains—the noise and smoke and excitement?
The photographer clambered down from his perch to herd the gathered folks with his arms, and Gabe’s gaze riveted to him. “Sorry, ma’am. Come on, Papa, the photograph’s waiting.”
“Not for us.” He drew Gabe to his side. “Honeymooners only.”
The photographer beckoned them. “Every Express passenger, please, honeymooner or child and parent.”
“No, thank you,” the man said. His boy’s face crumpled.
“Sir. In the buckskins.” The photographer pointed. “Stand here.”
Nash hadn’t posed for a camera since he wore the uniform of the Army of the Potomac. Didn’t want to start now, but the photographer took his arm and pulled. “Step closer to the group with your wife so we can finish and you can begin your bridal tour.”
His wife. Nash should’ve expected folks to make that assumption, this being a honeymoon trip and all. But he hadn’t thought it through. Just tried to help somebody in need.
The photographer had Miss Blanchard by the arm, too, ushering them to the right flank of the group and pushing them together so her shoulder touched his bicep. “What a fine-looking couple you make, if I do say so myself.”