Dot dot dot dot dot. Long dash. Dot. Ellen tapped a prayer of petition against the open doorjamb, waiting where the porter bid her stay. In the predawn light, she couldn’t make out much on the Omaha platform beyond the loading of crates. But where was her telegram? It was supposed to be waiting here for her, no matter the time. She’d seen to it.
Someone moved to stand beside her. Nash, smiling his greeting.
She smiled back, at once regretting her hastily pinned hair and rumpled appearance.
“Nothing yet?” His voice was low, out of respect for the passengers snug in their berths—but there hadn’t been a single snore or murmur of sleep-talk since they’d stopped earlier in Council Bluffs to fill the water tanks. Everyone was probably as wide awake as Ellen and Nash, just playing possum. Except Gabe. That child slept no matter how hot, loud, or bouncy the ride.
She shook her head. “The telegraph wasn’t awaiting us, so the porter—oh, here he comes.”
A uniformed employee bounded aboard, extending a paper. She pressed coins into his palm just as the whistle blew. “Thank you, sir.”
She forgot to whisper. Her palm covered her mouth.
“Let’s find some light.” Nash tilted his head toward the dining area.
Instead, they paused under a sconce outside the saloons, an unoccupied space that proved well enough lit to read by. As the train rumbled to life, Ellen held out the telegram so Nash could read, too:
DESCRIPTIONS ACCURATE Stop PREWETT A FAMILY NAME OF JEROME PRICE Stop AUTHORITIES WILL INTERCEPT IN SACRAMENTO TO VERIFY Stop WELL DONE Stop WITH AFFECTION, HARRY
Ellen peered up at Nash. “It sounds like our Gabe is likely Gabriel Price.”
“Poor lad.” Stubble covered Nash’s chin and cheeks, shining ginger in the lamplight. “Who’s Harry?”
“Father’s friend. He’s like my uncle.” She lowered the telegram. “I thought I’d feel vindicated having my suspicions validated, but all I feel is sad. The Price family…” Her throat thickened with emotion. What made one parent take a child from the other? Desperation, violence, fear, anger… with Gabe caught in the center.
“Because of you, Mrs. Price has hope she’ll see her boy again.”
True. But if Ellen talked about it further, she might cry. “I’m sorry this woke you.”
“I wanted to be here. Besides, the lounge isn’t the most comfortable place. I imagine the berths aren’t, either.”
They weren’t, despite the luxury of the palace car. Her back hurt, her neck had a crick and—
Ooph. Something barreled into her backside, shoving her into Nash. He caught her fall, drawing her to his chest.
“You’re up with the chickens, too!” Gabe’s arms wrapped around her legs.
“Ah, to be excited to wake up early.” Nash’s voice rumbled under Ellen’s cheek before he helped her stand. “You hurt?”
She shook her head, reaching down to pat the white-blond hairs on Gabe’s crown. “Good morning, sir.”
“Cock-a-doodle-do!” Gabe crowed.
“That’s enough, Son.” Jerome led Gabe into the men’s saloon.
Nash’s hand reached for hers, sending her heart to thumping. But oh, he pressed her fingers to fold the telegram, not to link hands. “Put this somewhere safe.”
“I’ll do that now.”
But once she’d stuffed the telegram in her valise, she curled atop her berth, her breath hitching as if in silent sobs. Yet no tears flowed. What was wrong with her? Grief for Gabe and his feuding parents? Yes, but more. Fatigue? Loneliness? Fear of starting a new life?
All those things were true. She was tired, alone, and moving far from home. Who wouldn’t feel peculiar?
But it was Nash’s face at the forefront of her brain.
Before meeting him, she’d known she had value in God’s eyes, but in her head, not her heart. She’d listened to everyone who called her awkward or who overlooked her. Nash was the first man she’d met who truly seemed to value God’s opinions more than others’. That obedience gave him freedom to be the man God made him to be. She admired his liberty, and she’d take that lesson off the train with her.
It was harder to deny now, though, that she also wanted to take her relationship with Nash off the train, too. Even though his life was foreign, and she didn’t know his first name or if he had a job, it didn’t matter. When she was with him, she felt wonderful.
She felt like Ellen. Like one of those tangram puzzles, composed of pieces that, on their own, accomplished nothing. But set the right way, made a lovely design.
Nash. You scarcely know him. Oh, maybe she was exhausted after all.
Her fingers tapped a prayer against the blanket.
When daylight streamed through the window, she dug Mother’s cameo out of her valise, pinned it at her throat, and stumbled to the saloon. The tracks across the plains might be pin-straight, but that only meant the engineer could push the train faster. Primrose perched before the looking glass, fastening an enormous brooch at her throat when the train swerved.
The brooch fell from her fingers. “A drawback to the speed.”
Ellen retrieved the piece, filigree surrounding a pink garnet. “It’s stunning.”
“So’s yours.” With a dainty finger, Primrose tapped Ellen’s cameo before taking the brooch from Ellen. “Those pearls?”
Small ones, but it wasn’t the value that made the cameo sentimental. She nodded and turned to wash up. “My father gave it to my mother when they married.”
She opened the tap. Out dripped brownish-yellow liquid.
Primrose laughed. “We took on muddy river water at Council Bluffs. With or without it, you still look fresh as a flower.”
A lie if Ellen had ever heard one. She was caked in sweat and smelled like soot. “You’re kind.”
“It’s the truth. No wonder Mr. Nash can’t stop staring at you.”
“What?” Ellen swayed, but not from the train’s motion.
With a chuckle, Primrose left the saloon. Ellen spun back to the tap and scrubbed with a leaf of soap and the suspect water. Primrose, like many females Ellen had known, might have been laughing at Ellen’s expense. Or perhaps she’d simply misinterpreted Ellen’s friendship with Nash.
She really should assume the latter. It was far better to assume the best of people, not the worst, which she had a habit of doing. Expelling a large puff of breath, she tottered to the dining area.
Nash and the Howells sat at the same table they’d occupied yesterday. Nash rose to seat her. Neither Nash nor Clifford had taken a razor to their cheeks, but a glance assured her none of the men had—probably too dangerous at such high speed.
Stella offered a small smile. “What a pretty cameo.”
“Thank you.” An awkward silence fell.
Clifford’s jaw set. My, how uncomfortable this was, sitting together after Nash caught Stella snooping and thought it possible the Howells could be criminals. They seemed tense for honeymooners, true, but they did seem to care for one another.
Ellen snapped open her napkin and set it on her lap. Nash had to be mistaken in this. Those bank robbers probably hopped another train out of New York.
She’d take Stella’s cue and speak of something neutral. “Ah, coffee. A warm cup will be just the thing.”
They all sipped. Nash smiled. “It was a nice thought.”
Equally cold were chunks of leftover roast and the toughest biscuits Ellen had ever put a tooth to. Gabe tossed his onto the floor.
“Son,” his father chided.
“Don’t like it!” Gabe crawled under his chair.
Mrs. Ridley huffed. “A child on this train for married couples—”
“Shh, everyone can hear you.” Mr. Ridley’s whisper was plenty loud, too.
“You should talk. Sawin’ logs all night, keeping everyone awake.”
“Anyone want my biscuit?” Nash’s grin made Ellen smile. She couldn’t help but appreciate how he lightened things.
Meanwhile Gabe burst into tears.
“He’s been cooped up too long. Poor boy.” Stella’s eyes moistened. Clifford handed her his pocket handkerchief. Something sad passed between them.
Perhaps Stella had lost a younger brother. Or she knew, even at this early stage in her marriage, she couldn’t bear children. One never knew what another person suffered. A strange affection for Stella rose in Ellen’s chest. Criminal or snoop, Stella was not without her own private griefs… or hopes of redemption.
“Come on.” Nash helped Ellen rise. “Let’s visit with Gabe.”
Mr. Prewett—or Price—was all too happy for them to take Gabe, who quieted when Nash carried him to the hotel car. Out the windows, the plains stretched vast and golden under a bright blue sky, so different from anything Ellen had ever seen. Peaceful, too, the way the grasses waved in the wind. If she stared out the window all day, she couldn’t imagine being bored.
Bright sunflowers clustered along the tracks, some taller than a man. But not as tall as something else lining the tracks.
“It does my heart good to see the telegraph poles.” It was a half joke.
Nash returned her grin. “Looks like the woodpeckers like ’em, too.”
Sure enough, red-crested black birds with telltale curved beaks clung to several poles. “Shoo, birds!” She waved her hands as if they could see and hear her from the train.
“Shoo!” Gabe echoed.
Behind them, a few men read or talked, while the ladies swapped lists of their wedding presents. Mrs. Ridley received an impressive-sounding necklace from her mother-in-law.
“Willow Island,” the conductor announced as he made his way up the aisle. “Halfway across the continent now, folks.”
“Huzzah.” Nash winked at her.
“Cheeky fellow.”
Further along, they took turns pointing out things to Gabe. Soddy homes. Farmers. The strange towered dome of Chimney Rock. They scanned the horizon for buffalo but only spotted antelope. Then a few dappled horses with buckskin-clad figures on their backs.
“Nash?” A trickle of fear skittered her spine. She’d never seen a native before.
“They’re just curious.”
“You sure?” Lincoln leaned between them.
“No reason to think otherwise.”
“You should know, eh?” Mr. Ridley jutted in. “You’re practically one yourself, the way you dress. Your missus going to sew you real trousers?”
Ellen gasped, but Nash just smiled. “Buckskin’s mighty comfortable, Ridley. Wanna borrow a pair?”
“It wouldn’t fit,” Gabe observed. “He’s bigger ‘n you. He’d prob’ly rip your pants down the backside.”
Mr. Ridley stomped off. Lincoln retreated to his seat. Ellen hid her smile behind her hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not laughing at what he said. That was mean.”
“Nothing compared to how the tribes have been treated.” Nash’s jaw set.
“Tell me what you—Nash?”
His gaze was fixed forward. On a plume of black smoke.
Her fingers started tapping. Even a young’un like Gabe could figure what the thickening gray cloud meant.
Primrose bolted to her feet and pointed out the window. “Prairie fire!”
Nash held up his hand. “Not prairie.” Best stop the panic before it took hold.
Ellen nodded, but Lincoln shook his head. “How do you know?”
“It’s not always easy to read smoke, but this doesn’t seem to be spreading fast. Yet.” A home or barn may be aflame, but fire could spread quickly. His muscles tensed.
With a banshee’s shriek, the train braked. Folks swayed forward. Primrose glared at Nash. “You said it wasn’t a prairie fire.”
“Scheduled stop.” Nash forced a smile. “Right, Ellen?”
“Oh—yes.” She thumbed through the itinerary. “North Platte.”
“I bet we’ll be stuck,” Lincoln grumbled.
Unlike other stations they passed, this one boasted no waving bystanders. Was everyone else fighting the fire? The conductor hurried down the aisle.
“Switchin’ engines, folks. I’m sure the fire’s not near us a’tall.” The instant the train paused, however, he leapt from the car.
Ellen’s fingers tapped against the sofa. Dash dot. A J for Jesus?
“Fire will set us back hours.” Primrose rubbed her temple.
Lincoln patted her hand. Stella and Clifford murmured quietly. Gabe clambered back onto the sofa beside Ellen, stumbled, and knocked her in the temple with his elbow. Her head snapped back, then smacked against the train wall with a crack.
Nash caught her to his chest. “Ellen?”
“Yes.” She blinked, as if dazed.
He smoothed back the hair from her brow, then glanced at Stella. “Water, please?”
Ellen grunted. “Not that wretched yellow stuff.”
“Mercy, woman, I didn’t take you for a picky sort.”
To his immense relief, she rolled her eyes. Then groaned. “That hurts.”
Gabe started crying. Again. “Sorry!”
“It’s not your fault, dear.” Ellen patted his sleeve.
The conductor bounded aboard the train. “Looks like a barn caught fire. It’s close enough to the tracks that it could cause a problem for us, so we’re stuck for now. A few of our men’ll go help to make things quicker.”
Primrose groaned. So did a few other passengers, as if the speed record was more important than some family’s livelihood. Nash settled Ellen on the seat as Stella brought a cup of the nasty water from the saloon. “Take care of her.”
“Of course.” A half-smile split Stella’s usually stern countenance.
For a dazed woman, Ellen’s grip on his arm felt firm. “Where are you going?”
She already knew, so he smiled. “The more hands, the faster it’ll go.”
“I’ll go, too.” Clifford removed his jacket.
Still, Ellen didn’t let go of his shirtsleeve. “Nash—”
She didn’t finish. Instead, her eyes watered. So he bent down and kissed a spot just east of her mouth. “I’ll be back.”
He and Clifford jumped from the train and followed a crowd of men toward the source of the smoke.
It was an hour, maybe more. Nash beat flames away from the farmhouse while others pumped buckets of water. When the barn was a smoldering heap, he and Clifford gathered the animals in the yard and fenced them behind the house with rope. It wouldn’thold well, but with the paddock fence burnt, it was better than nothing.
The rail crew headed back, so he and Clifford followed. Nash was stretching his aching shoulders when Clifford started to laugh.
“Something funny?” The moment Nash spoke, he knew what it was—the same thing he saw—a man covered head to toe in soot, his tooth-white smile the only clean thing about him. He joined Clifford’s laughter.
“Here.” Clifford yanked a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, handed it to Nash, and pointed at his own cheek. “Right there. Just shy of your mouth.”
“Just there?” He’d need a horse trough to get clean.
“You’ll want the spot fresh so Ellen can kiss you back.”
Nash lost his footing for half a step. Expelled a long breath. Then thrust the handkerchief back, unused. “It wasn’t like that.”
“So were you kissing her to make it better, or counting on her being so addlepated from the goose egg on her head she won’t remember what you did?” Clifford wiped his face with the handkerchief, smearing more soot than he removed. “You don’t know women.”
He knew better than to kiss one. “I wanted to set her at ease.” And she looked so sweet. So concerned.
“Everyone can see you’re sweet on each other.”
Nash took a long draw of air. “It’s complicated.”
“Isn’t it always? I love Stella, for better or worse. Doesn’t mean things are perfect. There’s no such thing. But even in the rough times, I’m glad we have each other.” He rubbed his filthy chin as they rounded the corner to the depot. The whole train had emptied while they waited to move on, not that Nash could blame them. Folks stood in groups talking or nibbling fruit or candy from the nearby general store. Ellen was nowhere in sight, not even chasing Gabe, who ran in circles, pausing to dip his hands into the horse troughs and splash water in the air.
“Speaking of Stella—what you saw? It’s not what you think.”
“What is it then?”
Clifford shrugged. “Nothing. Just—oh, look. There’s Stella now.”
Nash covered his disappointment with a nod. For a minute, he’d thought Clifford would be honest.
Stella hurried forward, bearing bundles. “There’s a pump out back. Here’s a shawl to dry with, soap, and one of Clifford’s shirts for you, Nash. Didn’t want to dig into your bags.”
Well, that was ironic. “Thanks, ma’am.” Nash took a bundle and searched for the pump. He washed his face, hair, and arms before Clifford joined him. Clifford’s spare shirt strained at the seams, but it was better than his filthy one. “Thanks for the loan. I’ll get it back to you as soon as I don my own on the train.”
Clifford, still scrubbing soot from his hair, nodded. Nash hurried back, anxious to find Ellen. Maybe she’d hurt her head worse than he thought and rested on the train.
She wasn’t. She stood on the depot, waving at him and holding a paper-wrapped package. “My hero.”
He snorted. “The fire was pretty much out when we got there.”
“So humble.”
Mercy if he didn’t want to kiss her again.
The whistle sounded. While they boarded, Ellen passed him the package. “Trade. I’ll rinse out your shirt while you enjoy this.”
“What is it?”
“They were out of squirrel at the restaurant, so you’ll have to make due with buttered bread and turkey.”
He definitely wanted to kiss her now.
This was getting worse, not better. He’d have to think. And pray. But he was starting to wonder if his desire to kiss her would fade when they got off this train.
If it didn’t, he’d be in a world of hurt.
Mrs. Ridley screamed.
“What’s wrong?” Nash dropped his snack on the sofa.
Mrs. Ridley gripped her husband’s arm. “Your mother’s necklace, Irving, it’s gone!”
“You dropped it?”
“Of course not. It’s been in its case until this minute, so I could show Mrs. Fisher.”
“Can we help?” Nash peered under the sofas, but his gut told him the necklace was already in someone else’s possession.
Ridley grunted. “I bet a porter took it.”
“Impossible, sir.” The conductor stepped aside with Mr. Ridley. “I supervised the porters as they loaded supplies.”
Nash ambled back to his seat. With all the commotion in the other end of the car, this might be the best time to apologize for taking liberties. “Ellen?”
“I know what you want to say—the necklace. But Stella left with me. Everyone did. No one wanted to stay on board when we could walk on terra firma.” Her voice was low as she unwrapped his luncheon.
“Stella could have taken it before now, you know.”
Her shoulders slumped. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I didn’t want to talk about the necklace. I’m sorry I took liberties.”
Her lips parted. Then she smiled, but her gaze fixed on his shoulder. “What are you talking about? Now, I’ll rinse out this filthy shirt, and you eat that bread while it’s warm. Extra butter. Like heaven after this morning’s biscuit.” She hopped to her feet and dashed toward the saloon in a blur of green plaid.
Nash prayed for his food. He was almost finished before he realized she hadn’t accepted his apology. She’d dismissed the kiss, like it hadn’t happened.
He wadded up the wrapping paper and rubbed his now-throbbing forehead. Pretending the kiss didn’t happen was probably best. He’d been stupid to do it. Ellen wasn’t the sort of gal you kissed without meaning. Not that he was that sort of fellow.
Which was worse: That he’d gone and kissed her once, or that he wanted to do it again?