Papa?” Dara called from across the Pullman car’s parlor.
“Hmm?” He inclined his ear, though his gaze never left the paper he was reading.
Her cousin shot her a grim expression at his distraction.
“Becca and I were wondering—”
A sharp knock interrupted her, and Papa immediately laid the paper aside and rose to answer the door. Upon seeing his superiors, Mr. Marston and Mr. Adgate, he slipped out onto the rear platform and shut the door partway.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Papa greeted.
“Morning, Forsythe. Any luck in finding that translator yet?” one of the men asked.
Through the window, Dara saw Papa shake his head. “As I told you last time we talked, it’s my highest priority.”
“I hope so. You’ve said you’ll be moving the camp to Cheyenne in a few days, and we need to get these supplies delivered before that happens.”
Dara sighed. Since her arrival, Papa hadn’t taken a single hour to have a thorough conversation with her, but he routinely dropped everything to discuss business with the two bearded men. Was this what life would be like? If so, they should have stayed in Boston. She could’ve lived quite happily under Uncle William’s roof.
A door down the hallway opened.
“Take it slowly.” Uncle William’s warm voice split the silence.
Eyes twinkling, Becca grasped Dara’s hand and dragged her toward the far side of the room. Mr. Wells shuffled toward them, left hand braced against the wall for balance. Dara’s heart beat a little faster at the sight of him out of bed and dressed in his new brown plaid shirt. The slight pallor to his skin and his seeming unsteadiness were the only immediate clues he’d been bed-bound for more than a week.
“Good morning, Mr. Wells,” she and Becca called.
His rich brown eyes rose to meet hers, though he scanned the parlor before he smiled. “Morning, ladies.”
Uncle William directed him to a nearby chair, and both Dara and Becca sat across from him.
“We’ll be having breakfast shortly.” Dara grinned. “Would you join us?”
“Oh. No, ma’am.” Mr. Wells rubbed his stubbly jaw and glanced toward the door, looking like a caged animal. “Don’t want to impose any longer, but thank you. For everything.”
Uncle William took the remaining chair. “I hope you’ll reconsider. I fear you’re not strong enough yet to care for yourself.”
“Thanks for the concern, Doctor. I have … friends … I can call on should I need anything.”
Uncle William looked displeased. “Connor and I would like to thank you for saving our daughters.”
“You saved my life as well, sir. You don’t owe me anything. Besides, I got to get home….”
Dara’s heart sank. With Uncle William and Becca tending the other injured, and Papa busy with his work for the railroad, she’d been Mr. Wells’s main caregiver. The quiet gentleman had intrigued her, and she would miss the diversion of their frequent talks.
Papa reentered and paused at the door. “It’s good to see you up and about, Mr. Wells.”
His jaw clenched ever so slightly. “Thank you, sir.”
“Connor,” Uncle William called. “He says he needs to go home. Could you arrange a ride for him?”
Surprise registered in Papa’s blue eyes. “Let’s talk over breakfast, Mr. Wells. If you’re still of the mind to go then, I’ll arrange for a wagon.” When Mr. Wells tried to protest, Papa cleared his throat. “I insist.”
Few were bold enough to deny Papa.
Guilt settled over her at Mr. Wells’s obvious annoyance. “Please, sir. It’s only one meal. We’d like to get to know the heroic Southern gentleman that saved us from harm.”
“There’s nothing heroic about me, ma’am.”
She lifted her chin. “The fact that Becca and I sit before you unscathed is proof to the contrary.”
His cheeks flushed. “All right. I’ll stay, but only for a meal.”
They shifted to the dining table, Dara sitting across from Mr. Wells. As he settled in, his brown eyes widened at the collection of silverware adorning the table. She could have predicted the reaction. He was a man of simple pleasures, unrefined in etiquette, but charming in his own modest ways.
She cleared her throat softly. When he glanced her way, she fingered her napkin then retrieved it from under the forks, unfolded it deliberately, and placed it in her lap. After an uncomfortable second, he followed suit.
Matilde scurried out with several plates and served them all, then took a seat next to Dara. Astonishment crossed Mr. Wells’s features, though he said nothing, only looked again at the silverware before him. Dara waited until he glanced her way and, yet again, touched the proper fork. When he reached for the corresponding utensil, she speared a dainty bite of her eggs.
“So, Mr. Wells. You’re from Georgia?” Papa was the first to break the silence.
“Yes, sir.” He forked a mound of scrambled eggs into his mouth and glanced around the table.
“What brings you to the Dakota Territory?”
Dara’s muscles tensed. Her gentle probing of his background had always ended when he diverted the conversation elsewhere.
“The war.” He spoke around the food he chewed.
“Did you serve?”
Mr. Wells rolled the food in his mouth and swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.” His voice dripped distrust. “Did you?”
Papa nodded. “I did—for the Union.”
He turned to Uncle William, who also nodded. “I was a Union doctor.”
“Then we were on opposing sides.”
“How could anyone fight a war to preserve slavery?” Becca asked.
Dara scowled at her cousin too late. Mr. Wells looked as if he’d been slapped.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but if you think every Southerner owned slaves and fought to keep ’em, you’re sorely mistaken. My family lived on the same plot of land for three generations, and not once did we own a slave. Had no need, nor the desire—even if we’d had the money.”
Dara mentally scrambled for a way to soothe the tension, though Mr. Wells pressed on.
“Might we discuss another topic? This one turns my stomach.”
“I’m certain my daughter meant no disrespect, Mr. Wells,” Uncle William spoke softly.
Becca nodded, mortification staining her expression. “I didn’t. Forgive me, please.”
Dara’s throat knotted. How might it feel to share a meal with a family who had, until only recently, been a sworn enemy? Surely that was the reason for his hesitance to share his past.
“I’m sorry,” Papa whispered. “What do you do now, Mr. Wells?”
“I’m a man of simple means, sir. I grow a few crops. When I can, I plan to buy cattle.”
Papa nodded slowly. “As I mentioned before, I could offer you a position with the Union Pacific Railroad. Consider it a means to earn money for your livestock.”
Hope flickered in Dara’s chest, but he shook his head. “I’m content doing what I do, sir. Not looking for a new job, thank you.”
Whether or not Mr. Wells recognized Papa’s irritation, Dara was quite aware of it. Fortunately, Papa didn’t press him. The conversation moved to other topics, and finally Papa turned to their guest again.
“I’ll find a wagon and team to drive you home, Mr. Wells.”
Excitement fluttered in Dara’s chest. “I’d like to ride with you both, Papa.”
“I want to go as well.” Becca looked to Uncle William. “May I, please?”
Becca’s father grinned. “I don’t mind, though I have patients to attend to. You’ll have to go without me.”
Papa scowled. “I didn’t intend this to be a family affair.”
The stern look added another deep nick to her already tender heart. “Please, Papa. Becca and I are both restless, and it would give us more time with our heroic guest.”
After a pause, Papa turned to Mr. Wells. “Would you mind the company?”
The handsome stranger smiled at her. “No, sir. I’d welcome it.”
“Then it’s settled.” At Papa’s nod, she and Becca excused themselves to gather their coats.
Gage tugged the quilt draped around his shoulders a bit tighter and glanced at their surroundings. “Mr. Forsythe,” he called from the wagon box. “You’ll see a small path off to the right. Follow that about a mile, and you’ll run straight into my yard.”
Becca Chenoweth glanced back from the wagon seat toward him. “You walked all this way to the rail camp?”
He adjusted his new hat. If only his old one hadn’t been lost in the confusion after the explosion. “No, ma’am. I rode my horse, but I left him ground tied on the far side of the train tracks.” In fact, he’d left the mustang hidden some distance from the camp so no one would recognize the paint’s distinctive markings. “He surely got spooked by the blast. If I know him, he ran home or went to my friends’ place.” He’d prayed so, anyway. His rifle was stowed in the scabbard, and while he’d hate to lose a good horse, the Whitworth rifle with the Davidson scope was irreplaceable.
“I wish you’d let us know sooner,” Forsythe called over his shoulder. “I could have sent someone to search for him.”
At the wagon’s jarring movements, pain crackled through Gage’s back. He stifled a grunt, though not before pretty Miss Forsythe slid nearer.
“How are you faring?” Her blue eyes reflected sincere concern.
He gritted his teeth. “Managing, thank you.” His eyes strayed to the wagon seat. There was room enough for a third person between her father and cousin, yet she’d insisted on riding with him.
She moved her father’s rifle from atop a folded quilt and drew the blanket nearer. “Lean forward.” When he obeyed, she positioned the thicknesses of fabric between him and the wagon’s side, protecting his still-tender back. “I wish you would consider staying a few more days.”
He leaned back, thoughts warring. Dara Forsythe had been nothing but kind. In fact, her soft smile, gentle touch, and pleasant demeanor were a great comfort while he’d recuperated. She’d asked pointed questions but hadn’t pressed for information he was unwilling to give, even steering their conversations to safer territory when he threatened to shut her out. He respected her ability to read and navigate the situation.
Blast it all. If she weren’t Connor Forsythe’s daughter, he’d consider her his friend. And goodness knew, he had few enough of those out here.
However, she was Forsythe’s daughter, and that meant he never should’ve spoken to her, much less developed a fondness for her.
“I appreciate the kindness, ma’am, but I’ll rest just as well in my own place as yours.” Better. He’d be able to distance himself from Forsythe, and that way, the man—or his comely daughter—wouldn’t discover Gage’s intention to stop the railroad. Of course, to do that, he needed a plan, and now that he was known to Forsythe, it would become inordinately harder to concoct one.
“I understand. It’s difficult to rest in unfamiliar surroundings.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I dare say you and I both have had a difficult ten days.”
Gage’s cheeks burned. “I, uh … I apologize again, ma’am. Surely didn’t mean to take over your be— I mean—”
“I wasn’t referring to my room, Mr. Wells.” Her cheeks pinked. “I’m referring to this place in general. I’m not familiar with any of my surroundings. Becca and I arrived only moments before the explosion.”
That would explain why he’d never noticed the beautiful young woman when he’d spied on the hell-on-wheels camp in the previous weeks.
“Boston is my true home….” The whispered admission dripped with longing and pain.
“Sounds like you miss it.”
“Very much.”
Dare he ask what brought her west? Probably better not to broach the subject, particularly if he wasn’t willing to answer such questions himself.
“I’m real sorry to hear that. Truly.”
“Thank you.” She shivered.
At the full-body tremor, he extracted the quilt from his shoulders and turned to her. “Sit up a minute.”
She shook her head. “You need that more than I do.”
“Hogwash. I was getting too warm.”
She did as he asked, and Gage draped the blanket around her shoulders.
She leaned back, smiling. “Thank you.”
His heart pounded as memories washed over him … of draping a blanket around his and Beth’s shoulders as they’d sat on their farmhouse porch on a cool fall evening. They used to cuddle under their blanket and talk as the sun set. On just such a night, she’d laid his hand on her belly and whispered that she was with child.
Gage shook away the memories. Dara Forsythe was not his Beth, and he’d be a fool to let himself imagine she was.
Yet when he realized her eyes brimmed with tears, his belly flip-flopped. He rubbed her arm with the back of his hand, hoping the small gesture might comfort her. Instead, a silent sob racked her small frame. Caving to his instincts, he circled her shoulders and tucked her close to his side. She leaned into him, head resting against his chest. Gage scrambled for some topic that might keep her from crumbling completely.
“Would you believe that before the war, I’d never been in a big city?”
After an instant, Miss Forsythe peered up at him and sniffled. “You hadn’t?”
“It’s true. Lived my whole life in the country.”
She straightened, shrugging out of his grasp.
“Did you go to school, or …?”
He chuckled. “Yes, ma’am. I went whenever Pa didn’t need me on the farm, and Ma taught me at home when I couldn’t get there.”
“That’s fascinating. I spent most of my life in the city. All this isolation is so foreign to me. I feel at loose ends. Mama and I spent our days helping others, but here, there’s little to do but read books.”
“What kinds of things did you do to help others?”
“Most recently, Mama and I would either visit with soldiers and other patients in the hospitals, or we’ve tried to help the men return to their families. Before and during the war, we …”
He shot her a sidelong glance. “You what?”
She lifted her chin. “We worked with the abolition movement.”
Before Gage could react, Forsythe halted the wagon well outside the yard. Young Becca Chenoweth gasped.
“Someone grab my rifle.” Forsythe spoke over his shoulder just loud enough to be heard.
Concerned, Gage reached over Miss Forsythe to lay hold of the gun. However, before he could, a distant, yet familiar call cut the stillness. All uneasiness fled. He rolled onto his knees to see the yard, pain rippling through his back with the movement.
A Cheyenne brave, dark hair shining in the morning sun, stood only feet from Gage’s door. He tossed off the heavy buffalo hide wrapped around his lean frame and barged toward them. He spoke sharply and flailed his arms as if shooing birds from a field of freshly sown seed.
“Wells!” Forsythe hissed his name. “My rifle.”
“You don’t need the gun, sir. Spotted Hawk is a friend.” Gage stood slowly and climbed down from the wagon, calling a greeting in Cheyenne as he did.
The brave softened his stance, though his demeanor still bespoke caution. “I have been looking for you, my friend,” he called in his native tongue. “Your horse came to my tent many days ago without you. I was concerned.”
“Thank you.” Gage took several halting steps toward the brave. “There is much I have to tell you about these last days.”
Spotted Hawk’s eyes narrowed. “You are all right?”
“I was injured. These people took care of me.” He nodded toward the wagon.
“Dara … stay!” At Forsythe’s command, Gage turned to see Dara walking his way, though the railroad builder had latched on to her shoulder as she passed. “Wells, what’s going on here?”
Gage shifted toward Forsythe.
“I promise you, sir. Spotted Hawk won’t cause any trouble.”
Forsythe eyed him. “How is it that you’re friends with the Cheyenne?”
He shrugged. “Weeks after I came here, I found Spotted Hawk’s daughter, Walks In Shadows, on the plains with a badly broken leg. I set it, cared for her until I could move her, then took her back to her people. A friendship grew out of that.”
“And you speak their language …”
“I’ve learned some.” He’d become fluent during their two years of friendship, and Spotted Hawk’s broken English had improved as well, though Gage wouldn’t volunteer that fact.
“I have need of a man with your language skills, Mr. Wells. My superiors have brought supplies—things to help the Cheyenne. Call them goodwill gifts, compliments of the Union Pacific Railroad. We’ve been unable to deliver them because we couldn’t find a translator. If I’d known you were under my nose this whole time, it would have saved me a lot of searching. I’ll pay you handsomely if you’d be willing to translate for us so we can deliver the items.”
“Goodwill gifts.”
“That’s right….”
Fatigue stole through Gage, and he braced a hand against the wagon. “Begging your pardon, sir, but since when has the railroad concerned itself with the goodwill of the tribes that make these plains their home?”
Forsythe’s eyes widened, though he quickly schooled his expression. “Yes, the tensions have been high between us. We’re doing this in hopes of creating peace.”
How had he gone from trying to stop the railroad to being asked to translate for them? An odd twist. But his end goal was to help the Cheyenne, and since he’d lost the ability to use stealth to do it, perhaps this would provide another means to that end. Gage nodded toward his soddy. “Let’s talk.”