The scent of mud and—something sharp, bitter—filled Dara’s nostrils. Her heart hammered as strong hands pulled her up, set her on her knees, and wiped away the mud covering one side of her face. She blinked.
“Papa?” She latched on to his coat with a talon-like grip.
He mouthed something, though all she heard was the ringing in her ears. He pried her fingers loose then turned to Becca.
Dara gaped. People ran in all directions. Chunks of wood and debris lay strewn around them. People—bodies—littered the ground. With legs as wobbly as a newborn foal’s, she turned toward the nearest one. A man. Bloodied. Facedown on the ground. Dara’s stomach dropped. Not just any man.
The Georgia boy.
“No.” She stumbled toward him. “Please, no.”
As she neared the man, Papa dragged Becca into her path and drew them into a crushing hug. A hiccuping sob boiled from deep in Dara’s belly. She clung to Papa, though she peered past his shoulder to the man. The ringing faded, allowing distant shouts to filter into her consciousness. At the sound, she burrowed deeper into her father’s embrace.
He finally drew back and spoke, his words far off, as if her ears were full of cotton.
“What?” She rubbed one ear to clear it.
“Are you injured?”
Understanding dawned, and Dara took mental stock then shook her head. “No, Papa, but the man who saved us is.”
He turned to her cousin. “Are you?”
At Becca’s stunned head shake, Papa clasped Dara’s arm. “Where is William?”
She closed her eyes to order her thoughts. “I don’t know. He and Matilde were gathering our luggage.”
Glassy eyed, Becca looked toward the Southerner and clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Papa, the man—”
“I must find William.” He craned his neck, looking everywhere but at the body.
“The man, Papa. Please …” She tried to break free, but he held her arm.
After a moment, he called out to a man who ran by. “Vickers! Take my daughter and my niece to Morty’s tent.”
Vickers stopped short, gulped.
Surely he wouldn’t leave her again. Heart in her throat, Dara slid up next to him. “Papa, we’ll go with you.”
“No.” He drilled her with a glare then turned to the man. “Did you hear me?”
“You sure you want me to take ’em to Morty’s?”
“Was I not clear enough?”
“Papa, please.” Dara pulled at his sleeve. “Let us stay with you.”
The man nodded. “Plenty clear, sir.”
“Take them straight there, and don’t leave their side. I’ll be along as soon as I can.” He disappeared into the fray.
He’d actually left. Just like seven years ago. Only this time, Mama wasn’t here to pick up the pieces. What would Mama do at a time like this? Dara scanned the carnage around her.
“Didn’t know Forsythe had any kin,” Vickers mumbled.
The words pierced her like a well-aimed arrow. Just as she’d suspected—Papa had given no thought to Dara or her mother across these last seven years.
Vickers hooked her elbow. “This way.”
Once more, her gaze fell on the injured man, and wrenching her arm free, she scurried to his side. She knew exactly what her mother would do. She would help.
“We’ll see to this man before I go anywhere.”
Floating somewhere between slumber and wakefulness, Gage slowly became aware as pain webbed through his back and skull. Minutes ticked by before he roused fully, prying one eye open. He lay on his belly in a bed softer than any he’d ever experienced. Limbs uncooperative, he struggled to roll onto his back, pain lancing him with every movement. Finally successful, he lay still until he’d caught his breath.
Ornately detailed wood tones enveloped the room. A richly upholstered chair sat beside the bed, and a costly looking crystal lamp shone softly from a small bedside table. Winter sunlight tried to penetrate heavy drapes lining the room’s left wall. A single door with a shiny brass knob stood ajar, revealing a narrow hallway with more drape-covered windows.
Where was he?
He’d never set foot in such a fancy place, much less slept in one. Give him his unadorned soddy or the simplicity of the Cheyenne camp instead of all this finery. Gage fumbled to push off the heavy quilt but stalled. His clothes were missing, replaced by bandages that covered much of his torso. He tugged the quilt to his chest. Where were his pants?
Outside the room, a woman spoke, though too soft to make out her words. Laughter followed. Heart pounding, he strained to hear. Beth? Lord, please let it be her…. A moment later, a woman came into view, small tray in hand, giggling as she looked over her shoulder. His heart leapt with hope but fell when she faced him. She sobered quickly.
Not his Beth. He dragged the quilt higher.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
A black woman peeked in the door. “Oh, thank You, Jesus,” she whispered.
The woman with the tray turned to her. “Would you please get Uncle William?”
The black woman disappeared, a door closing somewhere down the hall.
“I’m glad you’ve finally returned to us,” the first woman spoke.
“Finally?” What did that mean, and where had he seen her before?
She set the tray on the table. “You’ve been in and out of consciousness for three days. It’s good to see some lucidity back in your eyes. That is, unless you plan to escape again.”
“Escape?” What in heaven’s name … “Am I a prisoner?”
“Goodness, no.” She smiled, but it faded quickly. “You have no recollection, do you?”
She sat and laid a hand against his forehead. The gentleness of her touch soothed him in unexpected ways. Gage closed his eyes, and his muscles uncoiled.
“You saved my cousin and me from injury when a boxcar exploded.”
The train. His eyes fluttered open again. He’d come to the hell-on-wheels camp to find some way to stop the railroad’s progress and save his friends among the Cheyenne from further harm. And there this woman and her friend had stood in all their impractical mounds of expensive fabrics, looking quite lost.
She folded her hands. “Your back was laid open by flying debris. We took you to a tent for care, but after Uncle William treated you, you disappeared. We found you passed out in the mud.”
Hazy images took shape. The explosion. Connor Forsythe approaching. His panic at being seen.
“Uncle William thought you’d rest better in a proper bed, so we moved you here.” Glass in hand, she sat primly on the bed and cupped a gentle hand behind his head to help him drink. “Do you remember those things?”
“A little.” Gage drank greedily then sank back. “Where am I, anyhow?”
She set the glass down, stood, and with a flounce of her costly blue skirt, seated herself on the edge of the chair. “For the moment, you’re in my bed.” Despite the sass in her tone, her cheeks flamed red.
So did his, from the feel of them. “I, uh … I’m real sorry, ma’am.” He attempted to roll onto his elbow. “Just get me my clothes, and—”
“No.” She pressed her hand to his shoulder. “You’ll stay where you are until Uncle William says you may move. That won’t be for a few days yet.” She folded her hands. “So please rest, Mr.—”
“Gage Wells.” He didn’t have the gumption to argue. Not when the imprint of her palm nearly crackled with fire against his skin. He sank back, ignoring the awkward feeling, and looked around. “Where’ve you taken me?”
Her brow furrowed, but after an instant, she walked to the left side of the room and tugged the drapes aside. “We haven’t taken you anywhere. You’re in my father’s Pullman Palace car.”
Through the window, the sea of tents composing the moving railroad town was visible. A warning flashed in his thoughts. “Your father?”
“How rude of me. I haven’t introduced myself. I am Dara Forsythe, Connor Forsythe’s daughter.”
His stomach clenched. He needed to go. Now. “Your pa’s an important man around here. I surely don’t want to impose, ma’am. Just bring me my clothes, and I’ll be on my way.”
“They’re not here. Papa sent your pants to be cleaned, and your shirt and coat were beyond repair. He’s having new ones made for you.”
He swallowed the curse that rose on his tongue.
“And … your being here is no imposition, Mr. Wells. My family feels quite a debt, given your heroic actions to save Becca and me. We want to see you taken care of properly. However, even in your unconscious ramblings, you’ve been single-minded about leaving. Can you tell me why?”
“I talked in my sleep?” Hang it all. What had he said?
“You called out for Beth several times.” Her gaze was almost probing. “I wondered if she might be waiting for you back home.”
The comment struck like a punch to the gut. She’d waited all through the war. Only by the time it was over …
“Papa can send someone to tell her you’re—”
“No.” He winced, as much from the pain in his back as the pain in his heart. “Don’t concern yourself about Beth.” He scrubbed his face.
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want her to worry.”
He looked away. “She’s well beyond worrying about anything, ma’am.”
Miss Forsythe’s small hand curled into his. Startled, Gage looked her way.
“I’m very sorry.” Her eyelids lowered. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat. “You were trying to be helpful, ma’am. Thank you.”
She nodded as a door opened and closed in the outer room. “You should rest.”
Her grip loosened, but before she could pull away, he latched on to her.
“Wait. Please.”
Her blue eyes widened. “Yes, Mr. Wells?”
“What happened … to the train? Why’d they blow it up?”
She cocked her head. “I’m not entirely sure. Papa—”
“My superiors are investigating the matter,” a man’s voice broke into the conversation.
Connor Forsythe entered, followed by a dark-haired man. Dread skittered down Gage’s spine. Not good …
“Papa. Uncle William.” Miss Forsythe smiled at the newcomers. “I’d like you to meet Gage Wells. Mr. Wells, my father, Connor Forsythe, and my uncle, Doctor William Chenoweth.”
“I can’t thank you enough for saving my daughter and niece.” Forsythe smiled. “I’d like to repay you the kindness, Mr. Wells. Once you’ve recuperated, we should talk. I’d like to offer you a position with the Union Pacific.”
Gage stifled a derisive snort. Such an offer went against his intended purpose—to stop the railroad. “Thank you, sir, but I got plenty to keep me busy.”
“Keep it in mind,” Forsythe insisted.
He blinked heavily. “I’m real tired all of a sudden.” Not a lie. The conversation with Miss Forsythe had sapped his strength.
The doctor stepped forward. “Dara, Connor, if you’ll excuse us, I should change Mr. Wells’s dressings so he can rest.”
Miss Forsythe squeezed his hand as she stood. “Should you need anything, Mr. Wells, I won’t be far away.”
What he needed was to get out of Connor Forsythe’s domain, though it was already too late. The man had seen him, knew his name. That would make it markedly harder to stop the railroad.