A Bride for McCain, page 2
Dizzy with fear, she ran to the last one, shoved it open and sat on the windowsill. A narrow laneway separated Moore’s office from the neighboring building. There was a five-foot drop from the ledge to the ground.
“Thanks a lot, Father,” she mumbled.
Jessica swung her legs over the sill and jumped down. She stumbled and fell hard against the wall of the other building. Her shoulder ached from the blow, but she ran down the alleyway to the gate facing the street. She paused and straightened her hat, then opened the gate and walked to her carriage, as if exiting by way of the alley were the most natural thing in the world. She climbed inside. “Take me to Union Pacific Station.”
“Anything you say, miss,” the driver answered.
The carriage lurched forward, and she sat back against the cushions. Her heart thundered in her chest and several times she glanced out the window to make sure she wasn’t being followed.
Finally, the cab arrived at the train station. She didn’t wait for the driver, but climbed out of the carriage. She paid him, and without a word hurried inside.
Dozens of people swarmed around the train standing at the station platform. Mothers held crying babies; a man with a wooden leg sold bruised apples; several men dressed in business suits read papers.
With all the poise Miss Madeline had drilled into her, Jessica slowed her pace. She ignored everyone as she pushed her way forward and marched to the ticket master’s office.
Behind the ticket window, a short, barrel-chested man peered over wire-rimmed glasses, watching her approach. The man’s hair was slicked back from his face, accentuating bulging eyes and a thick mustache.
Jessica looked through the bars of the window into his small office. “When is the train scheduled to leave?”
“Nine o’clock this morning.”
She looked at the clock behind him. “That was three hours ago.”
“You asked me when it was scheduled to leave, not when it was gonna leave.”
Every nerve in Jessica’s body tingled with fatigue and irritation. Thirty minutes had passed since she’d left Mr. Moore’s office. Had William Perry awakened and sounded the alarm? Her nerves raw, she resisted the urge to grab the ticket master by the lapels and shake him. “When do you think it’s going to leave?”
“Hard to say. It all depends.”
“On what?”
“A passenger. We’re holding the train for a passenger.”
“You’re holding a whole train for one person?”
“Yep.”
“When’s the next train leaving?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
Her heart sank. “I must leave today!”
“Nothing I can do.”
Jessica forced a smile, willing herself to remain calm. Never whine. Don’t criticize. Always compliment. Miss Madeline’s words washed over her. “I can imagine your job is very difficult. There must be so many angry passengers here today.”
“Lady, you don’t know the half of it.”
“Tell me, who is the person holding up this train? Is he very important?”
The ticket master shook his head. “Ain’t a he, it’s a she—a lamebrained schoolteacher named Emma Grimes.”
“A schoolteacher! That’s insane.”
“Don’t I know it. But when Ross McCain says hold the train, I hold it.”
“Who’s Ross McCain?”
“A man you don’t want to challenge.”
If only she were Emma Grimes, Jessica thought. If only…
At first, she dismissed the notion. She couldn’t possibly take another woman’s place. It was outlandish. Absurd!
She couldn’t stay in Sacramento until tomorrow, either. She thought about William. Likely he was awake now and pounding on Moore’s office door, demanding to be released, since she had taken the key. Time was running out for Jessica, her options dissolving.
The idea of impersonating a schoolteacher no longer seemed so outlandish. She could become Emma Grimes for a day—just long enough to get out of California. Then she’d travel to Chicago or Saint Louis and disappear.
The ticket master adjusted his glasses. “So you wanna buy a ticket or not?”
“I’ll be back in the morning to buy one.”
“Suit yourself.”
Jessica walked toward the street, but instead of leaving, waited until two businessmen approached the ticket master’s window and distracted him.
Clutching her reticule, she hurried through the crowd. She passed the great iron engine with its cow guard and solitary reflecting lamp, then a baggage car, two freight cars loaded with peaches and grapes, a smoking car and four passenger cars. Finally she saw McCain’s car.
The black coach, with polished brass around the windows and doors, was longer than the rest. It seemed to stand alone, connected, yet apart.
Jessica’s heart raced as she approached a short man standing by the car. His cap was pushed back on his head and he seemed tired. “Excuse me, is this Ross McCain’s car?” she asked.
The conductor looked at her. Hope glimmered in his eyes. “May I help you, miss?”
She smoothed her hands over her skirt. “I understand you’re holding the train for me.” Please believe me. Please believe me. Her mouth went dry. “I’m Emma Grimes.”
The conductor’s mouth split into a wide grin. “Miss Grimes! I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you. I’d nearly given up hope that you were coming. We’ve just finished firing up the engine and were fixing to leave.” He turned and called over his shoulder to another conductor, “Hey, Charlie, did you hear that? Emma Grimes is here! Let’s get this train moving.”
One passenger shouted to the conductor, “Is she the one we’ve been waiting for?”
“Yep,” the uniformed man replied.
“It’s about time you got here, lady. Remind me to buy you a watch,” the stranger said, retreating back into his car.
Jessica realized several people had poked their heads out of passenger-car windows to stare at her. She turned away on the chance someone would recognize her.
“I’m sorry I was delayed,” Jessica said to the conductor. “My bag was stolen. I’ve lost everything I own.”
“Not to worry. My name is Ralph Thomas. I work for Mr. McCain, and it’s my job to see that you get to Cheyenne.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Cheyenne, Wyoming?”
The conductor helped her climb the three steps to the small platform at the rear of McCain’s coach. He opened the door. “That’s right,” he said.
“How long does it take to get to Cheyenne?”
“Nine days if our luck holds.”
The thought of traveling to such wild, untamed country made her cringe. “Oh.”
“I’m just glad you’re here now. I didn’t want to tell Mr. McCain we didn’t have you. He’s not the sorta man you want to cross.”
Jessica paused. “Is Mr. McCain here?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. He’s meeting you in Cheyenne. From there, he’ll escort you to Prosperity, Colorado.”
Her courage faltered, and then the image of William Perry flashed in her mind. She swept through the doorway into the car.
The morning sun filtered through the soot-covered windows, revealing a plush blue carpet and matching gold-trimmed curtains. A sturdy table, covered in white linen and flanked by two heavy upholstered chairs, butted against the center window. In the far corner, a woodstove burned brightly near a curtained sleeping berth. The stale smell of cigar smoke clung to the thick velvet draperies and immediately conjured images of Moore’s office and William.
“Get yourself settled, miss,” the conductor said. “I gotta get this train moving. I’ll be back before you know it with your lunch. Mr. McCain told me to take extra good care of you. He’s determined to get you to Cheyenne.”
Without waiting for her response, he left, slamming the door behind him.
Jessica looked at the plush surroundings. She thought about the nine-day trek ahead of her and the man in Wyoming she didn’t want to face. What would he do when he found out she wasn’t Emma Grimes?
Suddenly, the train jerked forward, the wheels screeched and began to roll. She stumbled over to the window and pushed back the brocade curtain. She collapsed into one of the chairs by the table as the train slowly lumbered past the platform and away from the station.
The reality of her situation struck home, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe.
Dear God, what had she done?
Chapter Two
The Union Pacific thundered into the small frontier town nine days later at precisely ten o’clock in the morning.
Black smoke billowed from the stack as the train came to a halt, brakes squealing. Jessica braced her legs to steady herself as she stood on the platform at the rear of McCain’s car, staring at endless miles of desert and gray sagebrush dotted with a few weathered frame houses and shanties. A party of Indians wearing paint and armed with rifles watched the train as five rough-looking cattlemen drove their long-horned steers past a covered wagon pulled by six oxen. There wasn’t a green bush or a flower garden in sight.
Don’t let this be Cheyenne, Wyoming. Jessica gripped the railing.
The conductor leaned out the side door and shouted, “Cheyenne, Wyoming!”
She groaned. For nine days she’d worried about where she was going and the man waiting for her. Each time the train stopped to take on water and passengers, she’d considered getting off, but each time she’d been so overwhelmed by the desolate terrain, she’d lost her nerve.
So she’d paced the car endlessly, started but never finished a half-dozen books, and played solitaire until she couldn’t look at a deck of cards any longer.
When the train had crossed through the icy Sierras, she’d pinned her hopes on Cheyenne. Certain the town had something to offer, she’d decided to leave the train before McCain arrived. In Cheyenne she’d find a job, a place to stay and she’d live quietly until she decided where to go next.
At least that had been the plan.
“I pray you are a reasonable man, Mr. McCain,” Jessica whispered.
Two large tumbleweeds blew past the train, as two drunken cowboys stumbled down the main street toward the tracks. When they were twenty paces from the train, they looked up at her. For a moment they stared in stunned silence.
Finally, the cowboy with a bushy black beard straightened his shoulders and walked up to the train. He took off his hat and smiled, revealing broken, yellowed teeth. “Good morning to you, ma’am.”
A crowd began to gather around him as he stared up at her. Jessica wanted to retreat to the safety of the car but didn’t want to appear rude. “Sir.”
“You’re just about the prettiest little thing I ever did see,” Bushy Face said.
The other cowboy, slim as a fence post, stumbled through the onlookers up to his companion’s side. “Why, she looks like an angel from heaven. I wonder if she’s real.”
He started to climb onto the train until Bushy Face grabbed him by the belt buckle and pulled him to the ground. “If anybody’s gonna be touching the angel, it’s gonna be me. I saw her first.”
His friend raised his fists. “I’m willing to fight you for her.”
Jessica panicked and scanned the area for help. Her gaze locked onto a solitary man standing near the tracks. The man was powerfully built and quite tall. He wore black work pants, a wide-brimmed hat shadowing his eyes, and a gray range coat that reached to his ankles. Shoulder-length black hair tied back at the nape of his neck emphasized the dark stubble blanketing his jaw.
As if sensing her appraisal, he tilted his head and returned her gaze. Without taking his eyes off her, he strode toward her, his long legs quickly eating up the distance.
Jessica drew back a step. This time the urge to retreat into the safety of the car nearly overwhelmed her. The crowd parted for the man.
He stopped in front of the platform. As the slender cowboy drew back his fist, the stranger shoved him to the ground. “Get away from the car.”
Bushy Face stepped back instantly. “We meant no harm. We was just fooling around.”
“Do it somewhere else,” the stranger said.
“Anything you say,” Slim said as he scrambled to his feet.
The stranger watched as the cowboys hurried down the street, and then he turned toward Jessica.
She tensed. “Thank you.”
“Who the devil are you?”
She raised her chin to compensate for the butterflies in her stomach. “Emma Grimes,” she said quickly.
He tilted his head back, revealing eyes the color of finely cut emeralds—eyes that seemed to look right inside her. Gooseflesh puckered the skin on her arms as he studied every inch of her. His expression darkened and grew angry, but he said nothing. The lingering silence seemed to rake her nerves.
“May I help you?” she managed to murmur.
He stared at her a moment longer. “You shouldn’t be outside. It’s too dangerous.”
“I can take care of myself.” The words sounded foolish, ridiculously inadequate.
“Go back inside the train car.”
“What gives you the right to tell me what to do?”
“I’m your employer. Ross McCain.” Those dangerous, glittering eyes once again assessed her.
Jessica’s knees grew weak. She summoned the courage to hold out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He ignored it. “I wish I could say the same.”
His words sparked her anger, but she decided to obey him. She opened the car door and stepped inside, relieved to be free of his dark scrutiny. Her hands trembled as she paced back and forth.
According to Ralph Thomas, McCain had been a captain in the Confederate army, then, after the war, had moved west. He’d hit upon a silver strike and had parlayed his find into one of the largest mining operations in Colorado.
McCain was a self-made man, hard and uncompromising, with little patience for fools and liars, Mr. Thomas had said. “Ain’t no man better to be watching your back,” the conductor had told her. “And no man worse to cross.”
If she were smart, she’d tell McCain the truth the instant he stepped into the car. “I’m not Emma Grimes,” she said, testing the words out loud. “But I can explain.” She chuckled nervously. “It’s rather humorous if you think about how I got into this situation.”
The car door opened. Jessica started and turned. McCain slammed the door behind him. He removed his hat and coat and tossed both in a dusty heap on a nearby settee. Despite the patches on his jacket sleeves, his presence spoke of power.
He pulled off his worn leather gloves finger by finger. Tossing the gloves into his hat, he strode past her to the table in the center of the coach, reached for a small hand bell and rang it. Immediately, Mr. Thomas entered through the opposite door.
“Bring us a pot of coffee, an inkwell and a pen,” McCain said. “And signal the engineer to uncouple this car. As soon as we’re attached to the Denver Pacific, I want the train to leave.”
“Surely, Mr. McCain,” the man responded hastily.
McCain brushed a cinder from Jessica’s shoulder. “I hope you’ve got plainer dresses than this.”
Her mouth dry, she stared up at him. “Actually, I don’t. My bag was stolen before I boarded the train.”
He shook his head. “It’s probably for the best. You look like the type of woman who doesn’t own anything practical.”
She ignored the comment. “How long will it be before we leave?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“So soon?”
“We’re already two days behind schedule, and I’m anxious to get home.”
Before she could press McCain for details, Mr. Thomas returned carrying a tray loaded with coffee, cream and sugar, an inkwell and a pen. He set the tray on the table. “Will there be anything else, Mr. McCain?”
Out of habit, Jessica smiled at him and said, “No, thank you.”
The conductor hesitated. “I take my orders from Mr. McCain, Miss Grimes.”
Jessica realized her blunder. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment as McCain raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, Mr. McCain, I’ve spoken out of turn.”
A hint of a smile touched his lips. “That’ll do, Ralph, thanks.”
Jessica sat at the table, eager to hide behind the task of serving coffee. She picked up the porcelain pot and poured the first cup. “How do you take your coffee, Mr. McCain?”
“Black.”
She set the cup and saucer down on the table for him. Pouring herself a cup, she settled back in her chair. She forced herself to relax. “How long will it take for us to get to our destination?”
“Five hours.”
She shifted uncomfortably. “I must say, this has been a real adventure for me.” Tell him the truth! Tell him!
“That so?”
She took a sip of coffee. It tasted bitter. “This is a lovely car, Mr. McCain.”
McCain didn’t respond as he took the seat across from her. “It serves a purpose.”
“Do you travel in the car to Sacramento often?” she said, hoping to start a conversation.
“Several times a year.”
“I was surprised you sent a whole car for me. That seems rather extravagant.”
“Just protecting my investment.” Leaning back, he propped his fingers together. His eyes pierced her. “You don’t look like a schoolteacher.”
Her cup rattled in its saucer, forcing her to put both down on the table.
I can explain! The words stuck in her throat.
Mentally, she counted to ten. Not yet, she reasoned. Not until she was sure he wouldn’t send her back to Sacramento and William. She’d do anything to remain free.
She cleared her throat. “What does a teacher look like?”
The creases around his eyes deepened and a hint of a smile teased his lips, but the smile did nothing to soften the hard planes of his face. “Not like you.”
She interlocked her fingers around the cup. “Why’s that?”
He stared at her. “You look and sound like you belong in one of those fancy, big-city drawing rooms.”
“I probably do,” she murmured.
He frowned.
