Chapter Four

Graham couldn’t go in the private car with Milton Sheppard. Not if he wanted to keep his identity hidden from Miss Kentworth and the rest of the workers on this part of the line. Milton, although a generation older than him, had always treated Graham like a peer. If he’d had time to prepare Milton and explain, it might work, but Graham couldn’t predict who was accompanying him in the car. Better to stay hidden, which also gave him the opportunity to poke around in places he’d never been welcome before.

After returning the cart to Mr. Cecil, Graham caught the train just as the wheels began to turn. Unaccustomed to having to present a ticket, he was taken aback when a porter stopped him at the steps. Thankfully, the porter corrected himself upon seeing Graham’s uniform.

“Sorry, kid. I didn’t expect a Harvey House employee this time of night. As usual, your passage is free.”

A fortuitous benefit and exactly the sort of advantage he’d hoped for when he’d undertaken this enterprise. With the train picking up speed into the darkness, Graham loitered to visit with the porter. He hadn’t been recognized yet, so he might as well take advantage.

“I’m new to Emporia. How often does a midnight train stop here?” he asked.

“Twice a week. It’s rare that we pick up anything, though. Usually there’s some freight unloaded, and then we’re back underway.”

“How about passengers? Anybody board the train at this hour?”

“Naw. The depot isn’t open late. Only fellas like yourself when we’re hauling a tycoon that’s got a hankering for midnight vittles.”

Looking around the warehouse hadn’t been fruitful. No thugs loitering, nothing that looked out of place. Whatever the faults of the warehouse foreman, he ran a tight ship. But this night had unexpectedly given Graham another place in which to snoop.

As Graham Buchanan, he could examine the freight cars anytime he wanted, but he’d hear and see what they wanted the boss’s son to hear and see. He hoped his disguise would give him a chance to talk to the men who worked for him instead of just inspecting their work.

He found them inside a luggage car. A lantern swayed from an overhead beam, keeping the poker table illuminated. It was enough light for him to determine that he didn’t recognize any of the players. Between his uniform and the lighting, he hoped none of them recognized him.

“Ho there, chap. Didn’t see you coming.” A man grinned around a glowing cigar—a violation for the working men, but who was Graham to complain?

“I hope I didn’t startle you. Just looking to stretch my legs,” Graham said.

“And lighten your pockets?” This from an Irishman who had coins equaling his week’s wages stacked in front of him.

“Nothing like that. Just wandering around, trying to stay awake before I’m needed in Sheppard’s dining room.”

“Lucky bloke. Out of Emporia? Which Harvey Girl did they send this time? Was it the tall sergeant? She’s one who could whip me into shape.”

Graham paused. Men of his set talked about women—of course they did—but they didn’t talk about ladies with men of this class. It wasn’t proper. But he wasn’t supposed to do what was proper, he was supposed to do what Buck Graham, busboy, would do. He took a deep breath.

“I’m with the pretty blonde. She looks sweet, but you’d better not step out of line with her. She’ll claw your eyes out.”

The Irishman chuckled. The cigar-sucker wagged his eyebrows. “Sounds like you have firsthand experience.”

Graham grinned, thinking about what it would take to fire up Miss Kentworth. “My only offense has been related to how I wash dishes. Whatever experience I have isn’t nearly as interesting as you’re hoping.”

Had that kid just stolen a dollar when the others weren’t looking? The rotund boy slipped his hand into his pocket, then said, “If you don’t want to join the game . . .”

“No, you go ahead. I’m still getting my feet wet here. Just started this week.” Play had resumed, but they were listening. “I hear they’ve had trouble in Emporia. Sounds like it’s been dangerous.”

“I’ve heard that too,” said the Irishman. “We talk to the guys at the warehouse when we’re unloading, and they say you don’t want to be out after dark. There are secret shipments coming in, and it’s better not to notice.”

“Secret shipments? What’s that about?” Graham raised an arm to lean against a stack of crates, trying to look nonchalant.

“How are we supposed to know? Everything we deal in is logged on the register. If it’s a secret, it’s not coming through our boxcars.”

The kid grinned, his chin doubling, then doubling again. “I know why everybody is leaving. It ain’t no secret.”

Graham took a step closer. “Why is that?”

“It’s because of that pretty blond waitress you’re with. If she’s as cruel as you say . . .”

Graham chuckled. “She’s not all vinegar. If you treat her right, she’s—”

“Excuse me?” At the voice of the lady in question, all jesting stopped.

Graham could feel her stare drilling into his back. His mouth went dry. How would these men react if they were caught spreading unsavory tales about a lady? Would they feel shame? He sure did, but his act had to continue. Convincing her was vital to his mission.

Despite his inclination, he faced her. “It’s about time you showed up,” he said. The snickering behind him was insufferable, but he held his course.

“Excuse me?” she repeated.

He had serious concerns that her jaw would hit the ground if it fell any lower. His arm moved to take hers, but he forced it back. Busboys didn’t escort waitresses to the kitchen.

“Until next time, fellas,” he said.

The smoker winked, and the Irishman whispered something to the boy that had them all rolling. Graham couldn’t get her out of there soon enough.

Miss Kentworth hopped neatly onto the next platform, then barged ahead through the car of sleeping people, her words flying over her shoulder. “What made you think you could leave me to do all the work on my own?”

“You said I shouldn’t be seen,” Graham replied softly, trying not to wake the passengers.

“You should be discreet, not absent. I worked myself frazzled, and then I had to wander the train looking for you. I shouldn’t have done that alone.”

True. Graham had failed in that regard, especially considering the dangers that were lurking. He moved through the cars, trying to keep pace with her, noticing that she hadn’t even asked about the conversation she’d overheard. She kept their interactions professional—about his job, not gossip. Just another thing he admired about her.

“I’m ready to work now. Whatever you tell me to do.” They’d reached Sheppard’s private car—Graham knew it well. “I’m determined to do better,” he said, but instead of walking down the aisle on the left-hand side, Graham turned and pushed open the door to the sitting area.

He heard Miss Kentworth gasp behind him. Sheppard was being helped into his smoking jacket by the valet. He looked up with outrage at being intruded upon, then confusion when he honed in on Graham.

Graham was about to be recognized. What could he say? But before Sheppard could stammer out his name, Miss Kentworth had grabbed him by the arm and dragged him backward.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Sheppard,” she said. “Forgive us. My colleague opened the wrong door.” She closed the door in Sheppard’s face and spun Graham around. He flattened himself against the paneled wall in the walkway so she could pass, but instead she stopped in front of him, her head tilted up, forehead wrinkled in exasperation. “Are you trying to get us both dismissed? What would possess you to walk in there without permission?”

Graham had never had a lady speak to him like this. There was no pretense. She was so honest, so earnest, so . . . furious. Her brows, just a touch darker than her golden hair, framed flashing eyes. Her anger was exciting. His hands itched to reach out to her, to take her by the waist, but that would ruin everything.

“That’s the door you walk in,” he said. “I didn’t know there was another.”

“Have you ever been on a train before?”

“Once or twice.”

“Then you should know that you aren’t invited into doors that are closed. This door here is for the help. That’s the one we use.”

He’d never spent much time noticing what the help did, but if they’d all looked like Miss Kentworth, he would have.

She fluffed the sleeves of her dress like she was making a buffer between herself and his foolishness, then moved on to a small service closet. Graham drew a long, steadying breath. What could he do to make amends? To start with, he could do his job.

“Let me get these washed.” He started unbuttoning the cuff of his sleeve.

“No,” she said. “We only need to load them back on the service tray. Then, at the next Harvey restaurant on the line, we’ll leave them dirty and bring back clean ones to replace them. Mr. Harvey is the master of efficiency.” She arranged the plates, larger ones on the bottom and the smaller dessert plates and saucers on top.

The service tray crowded the closet, meaning that they couldn’t get more than an arm’s length away from each other, a situation he could have enjoyed under different circumstances.

“So we’ll reach Topeka in another half an hour. Then I suppose we catch the seven o’clock train back in the morning?” He lifted the heavy stack for her and placed it on the tray.

“For someone who doesn’t travel on a train much, you know your timetables.”

His brother Marlowe often accused him of not communicating enough, but clearly Graham had said too much.

He placed all the silverware on a soiled napkin, wrapped it up, and set it on the tray while she emptied the glasses. It didn’t take long to clear the kitchen. Miss Kentworth had adopted Mr. Harvey’s efficiency remarkably well. She wiped down the countertop. When she lifted the window, the cool night air teased the blond strands of hair that had pulled loose in the night. Miss Kentworth lifted the basin of discarded drinks, but Graham stopped her.

“Allow me. If you throw that out the window, it’s going to blow back on you.”

“Thank you. I should know better. I’m just so tired.”

“I’m glad to be of some use.”

She pulled the door to the hallway open. He tried not to slosh anything on her when he passed. Their paths crossed and recrossed as she ducked beneath his arm to open the door of the car for him. Now the wind hit him full force. Graham had always enjoyed the exhilaration of standing outside of a speeding train. Being on top of the cars was even more exciting, but he wouldn’t share that with Miss Kentworth.

He held the basin over the side railing. The train swayed. Miss Kentworth’s balance faltered. To steady herself, she placed her hand against the small of his back. The gesture was unexpected. He tilted the basin. The wind caught it and ripped it from him. It smacked against the car behind them, then disappeared into the darkness.

“It’s gone,” he said. “I’ll pay for it when I get my first wages.”

“I’m not sure you’ll have a job long enough to afford it,” she answered.

The train rolled into the quiet station of Topeka, belching its white smoke against the dark sky. Willow had done an overnight trip like this before and had been grateful for the company of a familiar busboy to escort her back to Emporia, but nothing about Buck Graham was familiar. He was new, but he gave the sense that he was new in all the wrong ways. That he was new to this life, that he had no life before this one, or at least nothing he was willing to reveal. Willow wanted to know more. What was he hiding?

They disembarked with the dirty dishes in a basin and headed to the Topeka Harvey House. The restaurant had been wired that they were coming, and the manager had left a door unlocked. Willow turned the knob and let them inside the kitchen to deposit the dirty dishes. As soon as their load was delivered, Graham wandered into the darkened dining room.

“Three hours until the return train,” Willow said. “I usually wait in the storeroom. You can make a nice seat out of flour bags.”

“There are nicer chairs at this table.” Graham ran a finger along a salad fork’s handle. “Have you ever eaten at a Harvey House? You serve people all day. Have you ever had a meal?”

“I’ve eaten at the lunch counter when I’m traveling. And of course we get the finest food imaginable while working. A lot finer than anything I ever had at home.” Her heart quickened as he turned to her and slid his cap off his head. He pulled out a chair and motioned for her to sit.

She had never sat in the dining room. There’d never been an occasion. But what would it hurt? They could watch for the train from here. She held Mr. Graham’s gaze as she moved forward. Willow wasn’t accustomed to a man knowing the precise moment to slide her chair forward as she sat, but he did it with surprising grace.

He took the chair opposite her, sitting with perfect posture. “So kind of you to accompany me to dinner, Miss Kentworth.”

My, wasn’t he putting on airs? She had to admit, the way he used the full tones of each word did leave an impression.

Willow looked at the setting before her, intimately familiar with each piece. She followed the layout of the dinnerware until her eyes traveled back to her partner. “On the contrary, you’ve shown the kindness by bringing me to the most elegant restaurant in the world.”

His smile was kind. “Perhaps the most elegant restaurant in Kansas, but not the world.”

“But nicer than anywhere either of us is likely to eat,” she said as he took the napkin and spread it over his lap. “Do you mind if I call you Graham?” she asked.

He paused. “Why would you call me that?”

“Mr. Graham sounds too formal, and your first name is too familiar.”

“My first name . . . being Buck?”

“That is your first name, isn’t it?” It didn’t fit him. Too abrupt. Graham sounded better.

“But I have no desire to call you Kentworth,” he said. “There has to be a better alternative.”

“Willow. You may call me Willow.”

“It’s not too familiar?” He held up a hand. “Don’t answer that. I accept and thank you for the privilege.”

She looked down at the plate in front of her. “Don’t forget,” she said, “everything you touch has to be replaced. You’re making more work for someone.”

His eyes caught hers with a sadness that was unexpected. “Do you count your time by the tasks to be accomplished or by the joy of the moment?”

“Setting a table does not bring joy,” she said.

“Then you need another job.” He pretended to ladle something into his bowl, then offered her the same. She refused with an upheld hand, so he picked up his soup spoon and pantomimed his first course.

“I’m proud of the work I do,” she said. “It pleases me when my table is perfect, but it doesn’t bring me joy. Not directly, anyway.”

He lifted his empty glass and held it aloft. “Then what joy of yours should we celebrate?”

Willow smoothed the tablecloth. Doing her job made her proud and getting paid was fulfilling, but that wasn’t her motivation. “The joy comes after I get paid. I go to the Western Union office with my paycheck, and I give them the address for the wire.” The clacking of the telegraph machines, the smell of tar on the new roof of the office, the smile of Mr. Mobley when he saw her enter . . . that was the moment she worked for. That made the late nights and the fight for perfection worth it. “That’s when I’m the happiest.”

He lowered the glass. “When you place that wire,” he said, “who are you thinking of?”

“My family. Mother is sick. Father is a foreman at the ore mine, but there’s never enough money for her doctor bills. My sister does the nursing. She’s sacrificed so much. More than I have. And then I’m thinking of home. How the bread box my grandpa made won’t be empty. How Father will have time for fishing. I think of the linen closet and the smell of the lavender sachet when I open it, and how there’ll be blankets enough to keep everyone warm in the winter. All of that. I think of all of that.”

Willow folded her hands in her lap. Why had she rambled on? Maybe because she’d never held someone’s attention as strongly as she held his at that moment. The moonlight accentuated the hollows of his face, particularly the cleft in his chin and his deep-set eyes.

“No wonder you are so good at your work,” he said. “There’s love behind it.”

His tone made her blush. “God has been good to me. He’s given me a lot of people to love.” Then, to break the tension, she asked, “How about you?”

Her question took him aback. His spoon rattled against the rim of his soup bowl. “Me? I have people to love, yes, but not someone in particular.”

“I wasn’t prying,” Willow said, now flustered. “I was talking about your job. Do you find joy in washing dishes, or is there a reason behind the labor?”

“Oh.” He lowered his spoon and stretched his fingers. “There’s family—my parents, my brother. People I work with that I don’t want to let down.”

“People you work with in Emporia? Do you know someone there?” She breathed easier now that they were on safer ground.

He scraped his knife against the plate, stabbed at the air with his fork, then put it in his mouth. “Delicious. You really should try your dinner. If it’s not to your liking, I can send it back to the chef.”

Watching him was tantalizing, but he hadn’t answered her question. “What is not to my liking is that I told you something personal. Now it’s your turn. I know nothing about you.”

“That woman I saw you speaking to at the depot, the one who kept you from returning to your table. How do you know her?”

Calista? Her cousin’s concerns came back as clear as the crystal goblet on the table before her. “Why? Do you know her?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“You’ve yet to answer any of mine. What brought you to work in Emporia? Where are you from? And the big question, what were you doing by the warehouse after curfew tonight?”

He studied her for a moment, then raised his napkin to his lips as if wiping off the remains of a delicious meal. “I’m disappointed.”

“In what? In me?”

“In myself. I underestimated you, and I underestimated how difficult this job would be. That’s not to say that I lack the ability to see it through, but it will take more effort than I expected.” His fine words and manners made it impossible to remember that his white busboy uniform wasn’t formal dinner dress.

“Washing dishes is harder than you imagined?” she asked.

His eyes crinkled with his smile. Maybe it was the late hour, but the warmth of his gaze made her feel giddy.

“Tenacity. It’s a trait I admire greatly,” he said.

“Exactly how I feel about honesty.” Forgetting that it was all make-believe, she raised an empty glass to her lips while peering at him over the rim.

His smile deepened, but he lowered his eyes. Laying the napkin next to his plate, he stood. “Come. We have a few hours before the train arrives. Let’s reset the table, then wait outside. We can watch the sunrise in a bit. It’s nearly dawn.”

Yes, it was, but Willow was still in the dark.