With Chane away at the trestle work site, Jennifer had a crisis to deal with almost every day. Men injured themselves. When the wound was bad, she’d get them to Dr. Campbell, but if he was already busy, she nursed them herself.
One of the horses fell on a wrangler and almost killed him. Then an ox stepped on a grader’s foot and broke most of the bones in it. Jennifer discovered Chane had made no provisions for a hospital car, so she directed the Chinese carpenters to convert one of the flatcars into a rolling hospital by building walls with wide windows that opened easily.
She asked endless questions of Dr. Campbell, until she learned enough about the injured men’s needs at least to keep them comfortable. It wasn’t easy getting that information out of Campbell. Even though he was a doctor, he seemed to have no idea how to make another human being comfortable.
By the end of each day, her underarms were sore from swinging around on her crutches. Her injured foot was swollen and aching. And the next day was a repeat of the others. And the next. The men constantly seemed to find new ways to injure themselves.
It was just as well she had things to keep her busy. Chane stayed busy from dawn to dark. Most nights he stayed at the trestle site.
The train crew was being shadowed by a herd of sheep that Chane suspected were shepherded by one of Laurey’s operatives. The man seemed to keep his herd within sight of them at all times.
Against Chane’s implied orders, Jennifer rode out with Tom to meet the shepherd. He was an elderly Basque, obviously a real sheepherder, and spoke no English. He had merry, smiling eyes, though, and Jennifer could see he liked her.
“He’s no threat,” she told Chane.
Chane looked at Tom, who nodded his agreement.
“Glad to hear that.”
It irritated Jennifer that he didn’t even trust her judgment on a simple thing like that. She started to turn away, saw that his thumb was black and swollen, and stopped.
“What happened to your thumb?”
“I hit it with a hammer.”
“Did you do anything for it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, mimicking Tinkersley’s Texas accent. “As soon as I noticed, I stopped hitting it with the hammer.”
“I mean besides that.”
“That was all it needed. Soon as I stopped hitting it, it felt a lot better.”
“Let me look at it.”
“You’ve got enough men to worry about,” he said, standing up and stalking out of the Pullman coach.
Sometimes sheep strayed into camp, and the old man came after them and stayed a few minutes to chat with Chane’s Basque workmen. Chane had hired a dozen men from the Pyrenees. They lived lustily, worked hard, and all seemed to have the merry, smiling eyes of the old sheepherder Jennie liked. She decided the old man stayed nearby because he was lonely.
To keep limber, Jennifer practiced ballet stretches an hour a day. Her foot ached so much she couldn’t manage more than that. Occasionally, accompanied by Tom Tinkersley, she rode one of Chane’s blooded mares around the campsite and up the Santa Fe Trail.
At first Tinkersley was polite, reserved, and watchful—the perfect employee.
“Where is your family?” Jennifer asked.
“Texas.”
“What part? Or is Texas just one small town?”
He grinned, and sunlight flashed off a gold filling in his canine tooth. “You could ride for a week and still be in Texas,” he said proudly. “My folks live in a little town called Tinkersley. My father owns the place.”
“Sounds like the perfect arrangement. Why’d you leave?”
“Because my father owns the place,” he said, grinning ruefully. His skin was tanned to a smooth teak color. His eyes sparkled with humor, and she felt a small stirring when he smiled. She hoped it was because he reminded her so much of Peter.
“Do you have any brothers and sisters?” Jennifer continued, curious.
“Two of each.”
“And what are they doing?”
“My father wants to be governor someday. My sisters and brothers are raising the next generation of voters right this minute.”
Jennifer laughed. “And you are the laggard.”
“Got that right. My father hates it, but at least he hasn’t sent any Texas Rangers after me yet.”
They rode together every day, and Tinkersley remained thoughtful and respectful, no matter how much they talked or how intimately. He was a man of depth and spirit. She knew why he’d had to leave his home and make his own mark. He could never be satisfied trudging along in his father’s footsteps.
Jennifer quickly fell in love with Colorado. She adjusted to the altitude—and the cold nights, and she had not expected such beautiful days. The railroad followed the Purgatoire River, called the Picketwire by locals. The land they traveled was as flat as a tabletop for the most part, but because they followed the river, they had to span a number of creeks that emptied into it.
The second week, a man poured blasting powder into a hole, set the fuse, and waited two minutes for it to go off. When it didn’t, he used a spoon to try to get it out of the hole and blew off three fingers and part of his hand. Jennifer helped Dr. Campbell cut away the unsavable parts of the hand.
Later, she overheard a man telling another man that Chane had told Beaver Targle that from now on Chane himself would handle the explosives. The men laughed. “Hell, I had a beautiful wife like that, you wouldn’t catch me within a mile of a stick of dynamite. Kincaid must be crazy.”
The other man nodded. “Works like it, don’t he?”
The next time Chane came to visit, Jennifer confronted him. “I heard you’re going to handle all the explosives from now on.”
“That’s right.”
He didn’t look like he wanted to discuss it, but Jennifer persisted. “Isn’t that an odd thing to do? The most valuable man in the crew doing the most dangerous work?”
“All men are equal when it comes to dying.”
“Well, they aren’t all equally expendable when it comes to getting this railroad built. If something happens to you, they’ll all be out of work, your grandfather will lose a great deal of money, and I’ll…” Unable to finish that thought, her voice trailed off.
“Dynamite isn’t magic, Jennie. It works a certain way, and if you respect the rules, it’s no more dangerous than a bar of soap.”
Chane couldn’t be swayed. Early next morning he left for the trestle site. About noon the sound of a man cursing loudly and creatively brought her out onto the observation deck. A short, fat man in a black bowler hat drove up in what looked like a converted hearse. He whipped his team of splay-backed mules and yelled at them, but the mules held their ground. Finally, the man set the brake and climbed down. He walked around to the back and banged on the window.
“Might as well get down, girls. I think we’re here.”
The curtain on the back parted and three girls with brightly made-up faces peered out. One opened the glass door and stood on the step. “This ain’t no place.” She was plump and redheaded, and her low-necked blouse strained against her ample bosom.
“Well, it might not be New York City, but it is someplace,” he corrected her.
“What the Sam Hill are we supposed to do here?”
“Earn your keep. What do you usually do?”
It was clear they had not noticed Jennifer on the observation deck.
“Among these railroaders?”
“They got money, don’t they? They ain’t exactly fighting off the women, are they?”
“I can smell ’em from here.”
He sniffed the air. “Let Hessie Mae go first. She’s got that sinus infection that keeps her from smelling anything.”
“Y’all talkin’ ’bout me?” A slim, blond, blue-eyed girl stepped out of the hearse and looked around.
Jennifer felt an instant kinship with the girl, whose eyes sparkled with determination and mischief.
“He was saying you should try your luck first, ’cause you’ve got that sinus infection.”
Hessie Mae shook her head in chagrin. “I may not be able to smell much, but I got better sense than to take on a bunch of men who ain’t had a bath since La Junta.”
“Aw, they probably bathed a couple of times since then.”
“You felt that water when we crossed the last creek. You couldn’t get me into that water, and these men don’t look determined enough to take a bath for no reason. Let ’em find out we’re here first.”
“Excuse me,” Jennifer said.
Four sets of startled eyes turned her way.
The man took off his hat. His merry little eyes were half hidden by fat cheeks. “How do, ma’am.”
“Are you looking for someone?”
Two of the girls giggled.
“Just thought we’d stop and offer our services,” he said.
“I can easily see what services the young women could offer,” Jennifer said, “but what can you do?”
The man flushed red as a persimmon. “Why, ma’am, I’m surprised you’d say such a thing to me. Why, I’ve taken care of these girls until they think of me as their father. I’ve protected them and nursed them and—”
“I see. How long do you intend to stay?”
One of the girls snickered. “As long as the money holds out, I reckon.”
“Are you in charge here, ma’am?”
“I’m Mrs. Kincaid. My husband owns the company building the railroad.”
The man bowed low, sweeping his top hat almost to the ground. “Bunker Hilton at your service, ma’am.”
Jennifer hesitated. She wished Chane were here. She didn’t feel at all sure of herself, but she had the strong conviction that she had to protect the men in Chane’s employ. Anything less would be a betrayal of the women and children who had seen these men off. “I don’t suppose we can keep you away, but I can insist that your women be checked by our doctor before they get anywhere near our men.”
Bunker Hilton blinked. A look of outrage mottled his features. “Why, madame, I certainly cannot see subjecting these fine young ladies to the indignity of an examination by a stranger.”
“Fine. Then I’ll have my husband bring his shotgun and escort you on your way.”
The girls looked at one another.
Bunker Hilton sputtered. Never in his life had he had such a blunt conversation with a woman who looked like a lady. Ladies did not acknowledge sporting women, much less ask them to submit to a medical examination. His usual penchant for easy conversation failed him completely.
A man carrying a sack of potatoes walked by on his way to the cook’s car. “Ezra,” Jennifer called out to him.
“Harumph,” Hilton interrupted quickly. “That won’t be necessary, madame. Where do we see this…doctor?”
Jennifer sent Ezra to fetch the doctor. Campbell trotted from the infirmary car, a surprised look on his face. She explained as delicately as she could what she wanted him to do. Campbell stifled the grin that threatened to break his composure and led the girls back to the infirmary. Bunker Hilton followed with the mules.
Jennifer didn’t know if she’d done the right thing, but she knew that if she ran the girls off, they’d camp a half mile away and do whatever they wanted. It seemed best to control them, so every man in the company wouldn’t disappear over there every night. They might freeze to death on their way back to the sleeping quarters.
Three days passed before she saw Chane again. He rode up to the Pullman coach and got down stiffly. She wondered if someone had told him about her handling of Bunker, but she couldn’t tell by looking at him. She decided to wait until he’d eaten dinner and relaxed for a few minutes.
“I made dinner,” she said, suddenly unsure of herself.
“I didn’t know you could cook.”
“Well, maybe I can’t. Will you take a chance and eat with me?”
“I have a few things to do first.”
“It’s almost ready.”
Chane came back alone. Jennifer had set the table. While he looked at a newspaper someone had brought from La Junta, she put the food into serving dishes.
“It’s ready.”
Chane moved to the table. “Looks…fine,” he said.
He cut into the meat she had cooked. Blood ran into his plate. Without blinking, he cut off a bite of the meat, put it into his mouth, and started to chew. And kept chewing.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing,” he said around the wad of meat in his jaw. He chewed for a while and finally swallowed.
“It’s not done, is it?”
“It’s fine,” he lied.
Jennifer felt miserable. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get anything cooked the right amount of time.
“I cooked it until it had blisters,” she said.
“Blisters?”
“See?” She turned the meat over and showed him the underside.
“About how long?”
“At least twenty-five or thirty minutes.”
“Well, Jennie. I think this is a roast. I don’t know anything about cooking, but I remember my mother used to cook a roast for a few hours.”
“Hours? I didn’t start dinner until five-thirty.”
Forlorn, Jennifer pushed the near-raw roast aside. In silence they ate over-boiled potatoes and soggy vegetables. Finally, she could stand it no longer. “I had a problem while you were gone.”
“Oh?”
“I’m not sure I handled it right.”
“Oh?”
“Well, a man and three young…women came into camp the other day.”
Chane put down his fork and waited.
“I think they’re…working women. So I asked Dr. Campbell to check them to be sure they don’t have any unfortunate illnesses they could pass on to your men.”
“Working women,” he repeated, a smile creeping into his eyes and tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“You know. Sporting women.”
“And did Dr. Campbell check them?”
“I believe he did.”
“And did he give you a report?”
“He said they appeared to be in fine health.”
Chane picked up his fork, stabbed a piece of boiled potato, and brought it to his lips. “Thank you, Jennie. You did well.”
A sigh of relief escaped her. “You don’t know how worried I was. I was afraid you’d say…”
He suppressed a smile. “What?”
She hesitated to tell the truth for fear he would agree with her. “That I didn’t have any morals.”
“I’d say protecting my men’s health is a pretty moral thing to do.”
“I was afraid maybe I should have run them off.”
“They’d go about a quarter of a mile out of sight and set up camp. We wouldn’t see them, but we’d probably lose about half our men. I prefer to keep a snake in sight, so I can see what he’s doing.”
Her thinking exactly! Chane had approved of her decision. She was so grateful she felt giddy. It felt like a red letter day.
January thirtieth was the Chinese New Year. All the Chinese workers celebrated with loud Chinese music, firecrackers, red paper flags, and special dishes they invited everyone to share.
The Chinese camped on one side of the tracks, the rest of the men on the other. Out of boredom, the other men, immigrants and Americans, walked to the Chinese encampment to watch the festivities. Chane and Jennie were honored guests of Kim Wong, who had prepared a special dinner for them. He explained this year was called Sin-Se, the Year of the Snake.
The weather was nicer than usual. Warm enough to sit in the sun with coats on instead of going into the sleeping and dining cars. Most of the Chinese preferred being outdoors unless the weather was brutal.
“Why don’t your men eat beef?” Jennifer asked. She’d noticed they ate fish and chicken, but they refused the rations of beef Chane provided to the crews.
Kim Wong bowed low. “The men respect cattle and oxen as fellow workers. It would be most rude of them to eat their compatriots, would it not?”
“What happened to your pidgin English?”
Kim Wong looked perplexed. “So solly, Missy. What you say?”
“For a moment you didn’t speak pidgin. You forgot, didn’t you?”
Trapped, Kim Wong admitted that he had forgotten. On the way home, Chane mentioned it.
“That was pretty observant of you, noticing he’d slipped out of pidgin.” A sharp light momentarily brightened his eyes. Pride?
“Was it?” she asked, surprised.
But he didn’t follow it up.
Chane left without saying anything else to her. A few days later Jennifer rode past the Chinese encampment and saw them yelling, spitting, and shaking their fists at one another, apparently upset about something. The non-Chinese workers looking on seemed tickled. They cheered the Chinese on.
Seeing her, men stopped yelling and cheering and went back to work. Later she noticed that three rough-looking men had set up a makeshift blacksmith shop near the company smithy, who had been provided a workplace on a flatcar following the coal bin. The three beat and pounded metal into what looked like swords with long handles.
She stopped beside the man she recognized as Rooster Burnside. She knew him because Rooster couldn’t sign his name to receive his weekly pay, so the bookkeeper asked Jennie to witness Rooster’s X. A giant of a man, his broad face was shiny with sweat sheen, and his thick arms were bare.
“What are you making, Rooster?” she asked, stopping beside him.
Nicknamed for the unruly brush of red hair that stood up like a rooster’s comb, Rooster scowled and looked at his partners. Bobo Boschke, a sturdy Polish immigrant, just looked blank, and Irish Jim Delany, small and wiry, remained his usual silent self.
Rooster was on his own. He tried a bluff. “Why, we ain’t doin’ nothin’, ma’am.”
“I can see you’re making something. I’d like to know what it is.”
“Uhhhmm.” He looked trapped and angry, but he still got no help or encouragement from his comrades. “A spear, ma’am,” he said, sighing heavily.
“Why are you making a spear?”
“To sell.”
“To whom?”
“Who to?” he echoed, scowling ferociously. His words were still respectful, but his eyes sparkled with antagonism. He looked quickly around at Bobo and Jim, who watched him with a mixture of delight at his discomfort and fear that they’d be in for it next.
“To…them chinks.”
“But why?”
“It’s not my place to say, ma’am.”
Jennifer could get no more out of him. Behind the shed she saw that they had a stockpile of close to a hundred spears, and from their work she guessed the pile was growing daily. They were odd weapons, but they looked deadly.
She went to Kim Wong and told him what had transpired. “What’s going on, Mr. Wong?”
“Not good you ask.”
“But I did ask. And you have no need of your pidgin English with me.”
Kim Wong smiled. The expression on his face changed, softened. “Hard times in China now. A bad faction is running the government—the Manchurians. My people, the Red Turbans, are seen as rebels opposing the Manchu government and the Dowager Empress. They fight with the Cantons and the Hong Kongs.”
“What are these Cantons and Hong Kongs?”
“Associations formed for protection and to make money. We call them tongs. The Red Turbans are determined to overthrow the government.”
“But what has that to do with us?”
“Same here.”
“You mean among these men there are Red Turbans, Cantons, and Hong Kongs?”
“Yes, Mrs. Kincaid. Same here.”
“Well, can’t you stop them?”
“No, the Red Turbans have been insulted. They demand an opportunity to save face.”
“How were they insulted?”
“One of the loyalists—” He paused. “—not something a gentleman can discuss with a lady.”
Jennifer could get nothing else out of Kim Wong. But she watched the activity with foreboding. After the workday ended, Rooster and his friends were busy all evening hammering out weapons. Jennifer knew if she ordered him to cease and desist, he’d probably quit, set up shop again out of her sight a few hundred feet away, and make five times as many weapons.
In frustration, she walked back to the Pullman coach she shared less and less with Chane.
One afternoon a week later, Marianne came running up the steps, panting and out of breath.
“What is it, Marianne?”
“I heard men talking…I think there’s going to be a big fight tonight…after work,” she gasped.
“The Chinese?”
“Yes, mum. The men were all laughing about it. They think it’s going to be more fun than a cockfight.”
Jennifer realized Chane couldn’t make it back in time. She found Tom Tinkersley in the kitchen nursing a cup of coffee. “Tom, get some of your men and follow me,” she said determinedly.
“What’s going on?” he asked, grabbing his hat.
“I’ve got a job to do.”
“Is this a job Mr. Kincaid would approve of?”
“We won’t know until he comes back. By then it could be too late. Are you coming or not?”
At the blacksmith shop she directed Tom to have his men pick up all the weapons. By now the three men had a stack of spears two feet high and six feet wide.
Rooster Burnside, a scowl on his broad, shiny face, came running from where he’d been lifting rails and stepped between Tom and the pile of long-handled swords. “These are our spears,” he bellowed. “We made ’em in our spare time.”
Men stopped working on the railroad and walked back to see what was going on.
“I’ve decided to buy your weapons. Every one of them,” Jennifer said flatly. “And in the future all weapons made within ten miles of this camp or with scrap metal owned by this railroad will be mine. That’s a rule.”
Rooster pushed up his sleeves as if he were about to wade into a fight. All semblance of politeness was gone from the big man’s face. Now his eyes shot arrows of anger and resentment. A rumble of discontent started among men watching.
“Can she do that?” a man asked.
Tom Tinkersley stepped forward. “You heard her.”
Rooster eyed Jennifer warily. “How much you willing to pay for these here spears?”
“The going price.”
Rooster’s eyes narrowed. “I could sell these for five dollars apiece.”
“Sold.” Jennifer said.
Rooster frowned, but he was too confused to know how to proceed. Tom motioned his men forward to pick up the spears. Onlookers grumbled about the fun they were going to miss, but they weren’t inclined to take on an armed man of Tinkersley’s reputation leading more armed men.
“Count the spears,” Jennie ordered.
Burnside nodded and started in. The men dispersed, but Jennifer had the feeling this wasn’t the last of it.
An hour later the three men came to Jennifer’s Pullman coach and knocked on her door. She picked up her crutches, hobbled to the door, and opened it.
“There were one hundred and twenty-two spears,” Rooster growled.
“I’ll be right back.” She hobbled to her desk, did the multiplication on a tablet, and took out the money Chane had given her in town. She counted out $610 and walked back to give it to Rooster.
He fingered the money for a second. “We can make lots more of them, at this price.”
“Those spears were made out of materials you found here, so in truth they belong to my husband. If you decide to make anything else, please check with me first to be sure it’s something I want to buy.”
The men were so confused by her remarks they couldn’t decide whether to give in or put up a fuss. Tom Tinkersley walked over. “Everything all right here, Mrs. Kincaid?”
She looked at the men. They looked down at their feet and shuffled off the observation deck. Tom walked up the steps and stood beside her, watching them walk away.
“They’re likely to be soreheaded about this, you know.”
“I won’t have any warmongering among the men. Please lock my spears in one of the sheds, Tom.”
Tom grinned broadly. “Yes, ma’am.”
Two days later, after quitting time, Jennifer rode her horse up to the forward point, where the Chinese were clearing brush out of the right-of-way.
As she approached she heard yelling. Around a bend in the path, hundreds of Chinese had squared off to fight. Spears and swords gleamed dully in the sunlight.
Kim Wong was nowhere in sight. Since she hadn’t planned to leave camp, she’d told Tom not to come with her.
The combatants hadn’t seen her yet. Chinese men yelled and shook their fists and spit at one another across a space of less than twenty feet. The white men were cheering them on.
Men who had spears shook those and yelled at the top of their lungs in guttural grunts and honks.
One man shook his spear and ran forward as if he were going to stick it into someone. Jennifer kicked her horse into a run and rode in between the two factions.
At the sight of her, the men stepped back and fell silent.
“What’s going on here?” she demanded.
Shamefaced, Kim Wong ran from behind one of the temporary construction shacks and came forward.
“Mr. Wong, what is going on here?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Kincaid. These men fight.”
“I know that. Why? And where did they get those spears?”
“Some men already bought spears before you stopped men from selling them. They fight because of him,” he said, pointing at a small Chinese man cowering beside the locomotive. “Cooky is a loyalist. These men are anti-Manchu. They want to toss him out.”
“But why?”
“For saying something about a Red Turban’s honorable father. They will not rest till he leave, but he won’t go. So they have decided to fight until they kill him.”
“Does he speak English?”
“Yes, he was cook to an Englishman in Hong Kong. He ran away to America to get rich.”
Jennifer rode her horse over to the young man. “Why won’t you leave?”
“Needed work when I came, missy.”
“These men are going to kill you.”
“Yes, missy.”
“Come with me,” she ordered.
The young man followed. When they were away from the clearing, she stopped her horse. “Were you really a cook?”
“Yes, missy.”
“Would you come be my cook?”
He thought about that for a moment. Finally, he smiled. “Yes, missy.”
“What’s your name?”
He grinned. “No can pronounce, you. Call me Cooky.”
“Okay, Cooky.”
Jennifer expected his leaving to solve the problem between the warring factions, but it didn’t. From Cooky she learned that the loyalists supported the Ch’ing Dynasty founded by the Manchus. The Red Turbans were determined to overthrow the Ch’ing Dynasty because it favored foreign interests at the expense of the Chinese, even allowing importation of opium, the bane of China. Cooky was a loyalist because his father had been one. He didn’t approve of the policy regarding opium, but he would not change now. He missed his father too much.
Chane came back that night. Jennifer told him about the war and what she’d done to combat any further atrocities.
“You should have sent for me,” he said, scowling.
“If I did that every time I have a little problem here, you wouldn’t get anything done.”
“A war between two outraged gangs of Chinese laborers is not a ‘little problem.’ They may look small, but Chinese men have no problem at all laying down their lives for their politics. I’ll have a talk with them in the morning.”
The next morning as the men shuffled from the dining cars, Chane climbed up on a flatcar. Kim Wong herded the Chinese around it. Jennifer watched from fifty feet away.
“I heard talk of your fighting among yourselves. I’m here to tell every one of you that if there’s any more fighting, I’ll deal with it harshly.”
He paused to let Kim Wong translate. Wong talked a lot longer than Chane had. Finally, he paused and bowed to Chane.
“I don’t want any bickering. You either get along with one another, or you’ll all be on the next boat back to China. Any man who injures another man will be fired and sent home in disgrace. Any man who kills another man will be hanged.”
Kim Wong translated again, this time with much arm waving. He ended with a curt nod and a deep bow from the waist toward Chane. The men muttered and scowled, but no one spoke up. Finally, Wong led his chastised, silent workers to the forward work site, where they began clearing the right-of-way.
Chane stalked to where the non-Chinese workers were picking up their shovels and hammers. He delivered a slightly different message to them.
“Any man caught instigating fights among the Chinese will be fired. If the fight results in serious injury or death, the man will be hanged. Are there any questions?”
Men muttered and shook their heads, but no one challenged the edict.
Chane headed back toward the office. Jennifer hobbled over to intercept him. “Can you do that? Hang a man without a trial?”
“I’ll give ’em a trial. On a railroad construction gang, miles from civilization, there’s no law but the boss’s. If I don’t provide direction and limits, they’ll be doing what they want in no time. No one will be safe, especially you. Next time, don’t wait so long to send for me.”
“Yes, sir!” she said. She mimed clicking her heels.
Chane expelled a frustrated breath. “Sorry, Jennie. I realize you’re doing the best you can. I know I shouldn’t be leaving you alone so much, but there’s just so much to do and so little time to do it.”
Jennifer drew herself up the way she’d seen Peter do when training for the cavalry in France. “Forgiven, sir!”
Chane grinned. The rest of the day, no matter what she was doing, whenever she remembered how he’d looked grinning at her impertinence, she smiled.
They ate a delicious lunch together prepared by Cooky. She waited for Chane to notice how much better the food was, but he rode back to the trestle site without saying a word.
In frustration, she sought out Tom Tinkersley and asked him to take her for a ride. Tom’s eyes narrowed at her, and she could see him calculating just how upset she was before he nodded. “I’ll get the horses,” he said, turning back to the men he’d been talking to. “You know what to do,” he told them and walked toward the temporary remuda where the horses grazed.
They rode for several minutes in silence. Jennifer could feel his concern, and she was grateful that he didn’t ask any questions. She didn’t want to break down in front of him. “Could we ride faster?” she asked.
“You set the pace. I think I can keep up.”
Jennifer kicked her horse into a run. The ground was level and fairly clear. She knew she was risking a fall, but it didn’t matter. She leaned low on the horse’s neck and slowly settled into the rhythm. It felt good to have the wind in her face and to feel free. She ran the horse until it was lathered, and then pulled it in. “That was glorious,” she said, acknowledging Tom at last.
“Need to stop a minute,” he said.
They reined their horses. They dismounted and Tom checked his horse’s hooves. A rock had wedged itself into a crack in one of the front hooves. Tom took a knife and pried it out. “Doesn’t that hurt?” she asked, leaning close to watch.
“The horse? Nah. It would hurt to leave it in, though.” A pained expression clouded his features.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. You have the face of an angel.” His voice had dropped into huskiness. She knew he was falling in love with her. Part of her exulted in that knowledge, but another part of her was filled with guilt. She knew it was hopeless.
“That’s very sweet of you to say.”
“I’d give anything in the world…”
Something stirred in Jennifer. For just a moment she felt young and carefree and hopeful. A small voice told her that she didn’t have much of a marriage. Her husband hated her, resented her, and wanted to be rid of her.
Tom’s skin was moist from the ride, and it seemed to glow. His lips were smooth and slightly parted. Jennifer’s fingers itched to reach out and touch them. Just once. Everything in her strained toward the comfort he could offer, but she was not ready to give up yet. She still had hope that Chane would relent. And as long as there was any hope at all…
She turned away before Tom could say anything more. “Time to get back,” she said, realizing as she did that her voice was lower and more ragged than she would have liked. A testament, if any were needed, that she was desperate for husbandly attention.
When they reached the camp, she was almost frantic in her desire not to be alone. She searched out Cooky and asked him to teach her everything he knew. Puzzled but willing, Cooky took her out onto the desert to show her how to find herbs and wild vegetables for dinner. She was amazed at how many of the weeds she’d taken for granted were lovingly gathered and carefully placed in Cooky’s sack.
As they returned and walked past the office car, she heard sounds of things being thrown around inside and stopped. “Wait here,” she said to Cooky.
She climbed the steps and looked into Chane’s and Steve’s office. The bookkeeper, George Rutherford, a thin, graying man with bulging eyes and a pencil-thin mustache, was tossing clothes at a valise propped open on the floor. Rutherford and Steve shared the back half of the car’s sleeping quarters.
“Mr. Rutherford! What are you doing?”
“Packing, ma’am.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes, ma’am.” His voice quivered; he didn’t look up.
“How come?”
“I didn’t sign on for this trip to get killed by a bunch of Oriental savages.”
“The war’s over, Mr. Rutherford.”
“For today, maybe, but I know the Chinese. When they’ve got a mind to fight with one another, they’ll fight. Not a stubboner bunch of men anywhere on this earth.”
Nothing Jennifer could say would deter him. Finally, she tried another tack. “If you leave, we’ll be left without a bookkeeper.”
“I expect so,” he said, stuffing another shirt into his bag.
“I could take over your job, if you’d train me.” It took twenty minutes to convince him, but he finally agreed.
Cooky took over all cooking and cleaning in the Pullman coach. Jennifer spent every available minute with Rutherford, making copious notes, until she felt she understood how the bookkeeping system worked. He wrote out detailed instructions and quizzed her on them. He watched her pay bills and post the transactions to the general ledger and the subsidiary ledgers. He taught her how to keep track of inventory and how to order supplies.
She’d had no idea how much work a bookkeeper did. At the end of each day, Jennifer’s head spun with all she’d learned, but she felt more useful than ever before in her life. At night she went to bed weary but pleased with herself. She woke each morning with the feeling that life was wonderful and she was part of it.
As soon as he’d shown her everything he could think of about what might come up, he finished packing and said good-bye.
“I wish you’d change your mind, Mr. Rutherford. Have you noticed how quiet it’s been?”
“I’m too old for this, Mrs. Kincaid. I started missing my house and my cat the minute we pulled out of New York, and I haven’t stopped. This was just the last straw.”
Jennifer asked Tom to escort Rutherford to La Junta.
Chane was due back any day now. She could hardly wait to see what he’d say about her taking over as his bookkeeper.
The crews were laying two miles of track a day. Every morning Jennifer saw new scenery and new weather. She’d never seen such a beautiful sky. But it could change within minutes. It might be clear in the morning, snowing by noon, and clear again before sunset.
All week, Chane had been at the trestle site, miles ahead. Jennifer decided to ride up to the site. She told Tom, and was surprised when he showed up with two extra men, but he didn’t look to be in the mood for questions. Birds sang in snowcapped trees along the river, frogs croaked, and a mule brayed in the distance as if it were in pain. The sky was blue and clear. Crusted snow crunched under their horses’ hooves.
She first visited the old Basque man and took him a loaf of bread Cooky had baked for him. Then she turned her horse toward the trestle site. They rode through beautiful, wild country. After a time, Tom got restless and rode up close to talk to her.
“Time to turn back,” he said.
“Why did you bring two extra men?” she asked, ignoring his suggestion.
“Safety.”
“What’s changed?”
“Nothing.”
“You don’t lie well.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, let’s try that again. Why the extra men?”
“My scouts say we’re being followed by a band of Indians.”
“Good, Tom.”
Embarrassed, he shrugged.
Smiling, she kneed her horse forward; they rode in silence for a mile.
“Might be a good idea to stay close to camp,” he said.
“I want to ride to the trestle site.”
“That’s quite a ways.”
“I’m not a cripple. I’m a strong, healthy woman.”
“I can see that.” His eyes flashed a warning at her. She was coming dangerously close to flirting with him.
“What I meant is, I feel strong enough to ride as far as I want to ride.”
“I know what you meant. Indians like strong women, too.”
She rode until she could see the trestle. Tom came alongside and motioned her to stop. “Men working in water don’t wear many clothes.”
She’d asked Chane about that. “We use a diving bell,” he’d said. “It works on the principle that a cupful of air will displace a cupful of water. When we’re working on the stream bed, we put men inside the diving bell, which is like a cup, and we lower it into the water. The air trapped inside is generally enough for them to breathe while they prepare the creek bed for bridge supports.”
“Generally?” she’d asked. “Who goes down in this diving bell?”
Chane had turned away. “Whoever needs to.”
“You. Right?”
Chane had shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“Sometimes? Or every time?”
“What is this? An inquisition?”
Jennifer had glared back at him. His gaze wavered first. “Jennie, I’m here to do a job,” he’d said. “I have to do it my way.”
Now, Jennifer kneed her horse forward. Tom could either follow or not. She rode down the hill, across a gulley, and up onto the crest of the overlooking hill. Several hundred feet below, the new yellow wood of the trestle glowed softly in the sunlight.
Men swarmed all over it, some raising new wooden beams into place, others working at tasks she couldn’t identify.
At the water’s edge a group of men stood around one man who looked like he was fishing with a thick rubber hose while another man worked a pump handle up and down.
As Jennifer watched, nothing appeared to be happening to the tube, but they kept watching it as if something would, so she did, too.
A touch on her arm made her look back at Tom. He had drawn his gun. Alarmed, Jennifer looked around for the cause.
“What’s happening?”
“Indians,” Tom said grimly.
“I don’t see any Indians.”
“You will.”
Tom spoke to one of his men. “Don’t let her out of your sight. Get her down and keep her down.”
Tom’s man started toward Jennifer. Then she saw the Indians—a hundred or more—ride over the top of the hill and toward the men working on the banks of the river below.
“Where’s Chane?” Jennifer asked, suddenly afraid for him.
“Don’t know.” Tom fired a warning shot to alert the men below. The man fishing looked up, saw the Indians, threw down his line, and ran. Another man picked up the line and jerked on it. The man working the pump looked worried, but he just kept working the pump handle up and down. Jennifer recognized Steve as the man on the pump. Where Steve was, Chane could not be far away, but she didn’t see him. Men ran for their guns. Others fired.
The Indians swarmed down the side of the hill toward the men scampering for their guns. Shots rang out. An Indian fell. Two Indians dismounted, picked their fallen comrade out of the deep snow, hefted him across the back of a pony, and fled back the way they’d come.
The rest of the Indians converged near the trestle’s southernmost end, where Steve was still jerking on the line and pumping the pump handle.
“We picked a hell of a time to come here,” Tom growled.
He grabbed at Jennifer’s reins, but she saw what he was going to do and evaded him, backing the horse away.
“Do you want to get killed? Are you as crazy as your husband?”
Anger flashed in Jennifer. “I’m fine. Why don’t you do something useful instead of trying to take care of a woman not in danger. Hand me a gun.”
“My first responsibility is to keep you safe…”
Before she could reply, the sounds of men shouting drew Tom’s attention back to the men at the trestle.
The Indians had stopped in mid-charge and were pointing at the water, horrified.
The center of the wide, rapidly flowing river had begun to roil. Tubes seemed to be rising out of the water. One of the men ran over and started pulling on the tubes, hand over hand. At last a shiny metal ball attached to the tubes appeared to float to the surface and head toward the riverbank.
The Indians had halted their ponies in the deep snow and stared wide-eyed as the crown of the ball broke the surface of the water and slowly began to rise out of it. Jennifer saw that the ball with tubes was attached to what must be a diving suit. The man in the diving suit strode to the water’s edge and started up the embankment.
Indians watched for another moment, then turned their horses and fled, yipping in terror.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Tom muttered.
Jennifer urged her horse forward and rode down to see this marvel at close range. As she reached the river, Steve unfastened the bolts on the headpiece and lifted it off. Just as she had expected, Chane, grinning broadly, burst into laughter.
“I knew this suit would be worth something someday.”
Steve laughed. “You should have seen their faces!”
The men howled. But when Chane saw her, his smile faded. Scowling at Tom, he growled, “You let her ride into a pack of Indians?”
Tom looked down at his scuffed boots. “Yes, sir.”
Chane snapped his mouth shut. He’d been on the verge of taking the hide off Tom Tinkersley, but he knew Jennie too well. She always did what she damned well pleased. Tom had probably just hung on for dear life—as Chane was learning to do.
Jennie rode closer to him and waited until the men’s merriment subsided.
“What is that thing?” Jennifer asked.
“It used to be a gutta-percha diving suit,” Chane said. “But now it’s a good luck charm against Indian attacks.” The men roared with laughter and relief.
“I need to talk to you,” Jennifer told Chane. He lifted her off her horse and carried her to a sunny, wind-sheltered place, out of sight of the trestle.
“What now?” he asked warily.
He looked so good to her. She wanted to touch him so badly she ached. Being out in the sun and wind had colored his skin bronze. His black hair was badly rumpled, but his eyes were clear and frank as they looked into hers.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken over the bookkeeping.”
“What happened to Rutherford?”
Jennifer told him everything that had happened since he left the last time.
“I don’t want you stuck with the book work. That’s a hard job and a bloody nuisance. You’ll get sick of it in no time.”
“I don’t mind at all. I like doing it.”
“It’ll get old soon enough,” he said, chagrined that her eyes were shining with joy and accomplishment while he was in torment, still so plagued by the very sight of her that he had banished himself to the trestle site. And even there, all he thought about was her.
And she didn’t help in the least. Another woman, left alone with so many problems, might have withered and died of loneliness by now. But Jennie was as beautiful as ever, perhaps even more beautiful. And stronger than he’d ever guessed. He had never expected her to step in and give orders in his absence. He’d certainly not expected her to start filling in for men who left.
Over Jennie’s shoulder Chane saw Tom Tinkersley gazing in their direction. “Tom’s waiting for you. You better get going before the Indians get up their courage and come back.”
“You aren’t angry with Tom, are you? It wasn’t his fault. I—”
“No,” he said grudgingly. “I know who’s in charge.”
Jennie flushed and turned away. Chane let her go.
Tom strode forward, glanced quickly at Chane, then picked Jennie up and carried her to her horse with an easy familiarity. Both blond and slim, they made a handsome couple. An ugly feeling welled up in Chane from some unknown place. He knew his bluff had been called. From now on he’d either have to stay closer to home or farther away.