The Confidential Life of Eugenia Cooper Part 2

"You'll find it now, miss, or else I'll have the reason why," a gruff voice said so near her ear that she jumped. "Where's your ticket?"

Gennie turned to see a pale-faced man in some sort of official-looking uniform that had been patched in several places and needed further attention in others. His narrowed eyes, squinting beneath a cap that proclaimed his position with the rail line, seemed to hold little empathy for her situation.

Nor did he seem to recognize her station, as he once again gave her a push. "Move along, miss," he said. "I'm the conductor, and if you're without a ticket, I suggest you march right out the other exit. I'll have no stowaways on my train."

"Stowaway? Well, of all the nerve." Gennie almost told him her father could have purchased this awful train had he the interest to do so, almost told him she'd rather be hung upside-down from her toes than find a seat in this railway car, almost told him she'd not subject an alley cat to such an awful journey, let alone a human.

But she didn't.

Surely the Lord would chastise her for such imperious thoughts. Mama certainly would.

Rather, she did as she'd been taught and offered her best receiving-line smile, then murmured the appropriate words of apology while she fumbled in her stained reticule for her ticket. The object found, she presented it to the conductor.

"So terribly sorry to inconvenience you," she said, eyes downcast. "Perhaps you might do me the honor of escorting me to my seat." Gennie lifted her gaze to find him blushing a most peculiar shade of pink. "I'm most unfamiliar with your railway car."

"Well, now," he managed as he beheld the ticket and then, by degrees, her. His expression softened, and he ushered her with great fanfare to her place near the back of the car.

Two fellows of dubious lineage stared sullenly out a window that could barely be called transparent. Their companion, a sleepy woman of middle age, sat with her chin resting on her ample bosom, lifting her head only when the conductor ordered her to remove her chicken from Gennie's seat.

Chicken? Gennie tore her gaze from the woman and looked at the opposite bench and the cage that indeed held a prize example of poultry. From the way it flapped and squawked, disgruntled poultry.

Removing a tobacco-stained bandana from his pocket, the conductor made a show of dusting off the seat. "There," he said as he swiped at his forehead, then stuffed the fabric back into his pants. "Fit for a lady, it is."

"Indeed," she said, managing a few words of thanks. Still, she did not move. Could not move.

"Miss?"

Gennie glanced at the conductor as the urge to flee rose. Surely this Mr. Beck would manage without her. But would she manage as a wife to Chandler Dodd without this one last adventure?

"Miss?"

Gennie straightened her shoulders and slipped past the sullen woman to settle carefully across from her companions, her reticule carefully placed with the stained side away from her traveling skirt.

"Good afternoon," she said to her traveling companions. "Lovely day for an adventure, isn't it?"

Those on either end looked away, but the bland expression of the man in the middle shifted to a smirk. "Lovely," he said in a voice that so closely approximated her own that Gennie wondered whether he was responding or mocking.

She clutched her bag tighter as a ruckus arose at the opposite end of the railway car.

"I must get past," a familiar voice shouted above the din. "Do move so I might warn the lady."

Gennie rose. "Fiona?"

The crowd in the aisle parted, and Gennie's maid raced forward. "Miss," she called. "Oh, a terrible thing's happened. It's Mr. Dodd."

Gennie climbed over the caged chicken and her seatmates' feet to meet the terrified maid in the aisle. "Chandler?" she asked, grasping Fiona's shaking hands. "What's happened?"

Bent over and breathless, the woman pulled one hand away to gesture toward the window. "Out there," she gasped. "With the porter." Another gasp, and Fiona straightened. "Your trunk. He spied it."

"Slow down," Gennie said. "You're making no sense. Mr. Dodd can't be with the porter. I watched him leave."

"Well, he returned," Fiona said, again pointing to the windows, "and he's bent on seeing the porter arrested for stealing. Said that's the only way your trunk could possibly be on this train."

Understanding dawned by degrees, as did the sinking feeling in Gennie's stomach. Not even out of the station yet and the call to adventure was about to be silenced.

Gennie moved toward the window, heedless of the many obstacles in her path. Through the sooty haze, she made out the broad back of her soon-to-be fiance as he leaned toward the piteous porter. Joining the fray were two of New York's finest, both seemingly eager to believe whatever Chandler told them.

"Oh no," she whispered.

At that moment, Chandler whirled around and seemed to looked directly at her. Gennie ducked, landing between the squawking chicken and the smirking man.

Her heart pounding, she searched for Fiona, then grabbed her wrist and dragged her down as well. "Careful, else he'll see you."

"Oh, he knows I'm on the train," Fiona said. "He sent me, actually."

"Sent you?" Gennie shook her head. "So he knows I'm aboard." A sigh slipped out as she buried her face in her hands. "And it was going to be such a grand adventure."

"Oh, no, miss," Fiona said. "He asked me to see if I might find any more of your things aboard the train. He seems to think that poor fellow had a partner in crime." The maid winked. "I'll not mention I found you you instead." instead."

Gennie leaned back against the seat and tried to ignore the chicken, the awful man, and whatever caused her traveling dress to stick to the floor. "But there's still the matter of my trunk."

Fiona shrugged. "Perhaps I could offer to fetch it to you."

"Fetch it to me?" Gennie tapped her finger against her temple and tried to reason out the idea. "You know, it just might work."

"Except that I can't possibly travel to Denver with the trunk. Simmons expects me back at the mansion in a few days' time."

"True. Let me think," Gennie said.

"Beggin' your pardon, miss," Fiona said, "but there's not much time for thinking."

An idea dawned, and Gennie scrambled to her feet, careful to keep her back to the window. "I've got it. You'll make the offer to Chandler to see to the proper care of the trunk."

Fiona looked doubtful, even as she said, "All right."

"But rather than fetch it to me in Denver, you will hold the trunk for me until I return." Gennie paused. "Do you have someone who might come for the trunk and keep it safe for me?"

Fiona thought a moment. "I'm sure my sister's beau would see to it," she finally said. "But how will you manage without your things?"

"Whatever I need, I can purchase in Denver," Gennie said with as much dignity as she could manage, straightening her skirts.

The maid looked worried but merely nodded as she too rose. Gennie settled back in her a.s.signed seat and glanced out the window, her reticule over her face, carefully covering all but her eyes.

Chandler stood alone with the officers, the porter gone. Gennie turned to Fiona and grasped her hands. They were cold, and her fingers shook.

"It will be fine," Gennie said, pushing her own doubts aside. "I'll not ask you to lie, of course, but unless it becomes absolutely necessary, I would repeat my request that you not speak to anyone of my whereabouts."

"No, miss," Fiona said. "I'll not say a word. And my future brother-in-law, he's as good as his word too." She smiled. "In fact, I'm sure he'll be glad to repay the favor of allowing him his bride."

"Perfect." Gennie managed a smile. "Please tell him he will be handsomely rewarded with a lovely wedding gift upon my return."

"I will." Fiona's grin was a bit smaller than Gennie's. "Are you absolutely certain this is what you should be doing? I'd be lying if I didn't tell you I've got my concerns."

As would I, Gennie thought. Close this door if You do not intend me to walk through it, Lord. Close this door if You do not intend me to walk through it, Lord.

"I ask your prayers and your cooperation, Fiona." This time her smile was genuine. "It'll be a glorious adventure," she continued, "but I'll likely return quite ready to settle down."

"Oh, miss, you've had my prayers since I first heard about this adventure of yours."

"Good, then." From the corner of her eye, Gennie watched the conductor make his way toward them. "It appears you are about to be shooed from the railway car." She squeezed Fiona's fingers, then released her. "I owe you a debt of grat.i.tude, and I shall be quite generous with my repayment."

"Are you certain? Truly certain, I mean?" Fiona stepped into the aisle. "You've not had to manage without help, and now you'll be alone without so much as a change of clothing."

"I'll be fine."

Fiona looked as doubtful as Gennie felt. "Are you certain?"

"No," she said honestly, "but I'm going to give it a go." She pointed to the conductor, who had spied Fiona. "Now, off with you before that fellow causes as much of a stir inside the train as it appears Mr. Dodd has caused out there."

Fiona hesitated only long enough to reach once again for Gennie's hand and give it a squeeze. "I'll not give away your secret."

"Thank you, Fiona. Truly."

She paused to grin. "Just like Mae Winslow, you are. If I were as brave as you, I'd be going along."

Gennie laughed.

"May the Lord protect you and bring you home safely, miss."

With that, Fiona slipped away through the crowded aisle. A moment later, she emerged to join a red-faced and pacing Chandler on the platform. A moment's conversation, and the banker was barking orders at some hapless porter.

Peering from behind her reticule, Gennie watched her trunk be offloaded and deposited at Fiona's feet. To her credit, the maid neither looked back toward the train nor seemed particularly distraught. Rather, she nodded several times, then placed her hand on the trunk while Chandler pulled the thick money clip from his pocket. A brief conversation ensued, with Chandler speaking and Fiona shaking her head. Finally, the banker put away his money and smiled.

"He your fella?"

Gennie started at the question, then glanced at her seatmate. It appeared the smirking fellow in the middle had taken an interest in the goings-on outside. The other two, thankfully, had slipped into slumber. Even the chicken had gone blessedly silent.

Perhaps if she ignored the man, he too would close his eyes. As if to offer inspiration, Gennie clutched her reticule to her chest and rested her head against the rough wood, angling her body so that anyone peering in from outside would only see her back. This had the dual advantage of hiding her from Chandler and keeping her line of vision away from the potential troublemaker.

"Maybe I oughta go and tell him his lady's runnin' off."

She gave the man a sideways look but continued to maintain her silence.

He sat straighter and made a show of leaning toward the window. "Fine fella like that surely would pay well for the return of his woman."

Gennie's heart had begun to pound. One word from this ruffian and she'd be found out. In all likelihood, she'd be summarily hauled from the train. Depending on whether Gennie could convince him otherwise, Chandler might also tell her father.

She sighed. Though she'd asked the Lord to close this door if it was not one He wanted her to walk through, Gennie had never considered He might actually do so.

The vile man leaned toward the window, then glanced over at her and smiled. The twin emotions of fear and loathing battled as she tapped on his arm.

"Look here, sir," she said. Then the whistle blew and the train jerked forward, knocking the ruffian back in his seat. "A pity." Gennie settled back for the ride. "We'll never know what might have happened, will we?"

Somewhere between Buck Springs and Deadwood, Mae caught up to the horse thief who'd taken her prize mare. Negotiations broke down when the distressed damsel attempted to take back what was rightfully hers. She lost a day and a night languishing in the jail-house-they both did-until finally some man figured out you couldn't steal what was yours.

She could've complained, maybe even found fault enough to call the governor-an old friend who'd surely listen-but a woman of the West had no time for such trifling matters. Though, in a backward manner, she had done her job and seen the thief captured.

And so Mae, reunited with her steed, rode off into the sunset. It was only when she reached the horizon that she realized she'd ridden into a trap.

Denver, Colorado.

Today was shaping up to be the best day he'd had in ages. Daniel Beck pushed back from his desk and walked to the window. Today the white-capped Rockies appeared deep purple against the brilliant blue of the July sky, putting him in mind of Scafell Pike near the Beck ancestral home in Britain.

Recollections of feeble childhood attempts at scaling the mountain, along with later successful endeavors, were among the rare good memories of time spent with his younger brother, Edwin. Three years and thousands of miles separated them now, as did one lovely, green-eyed female.

Two, actually.

Daniel stepped away from the window. He wouldn't let ancient history wreak havoc on a perfect, if unseasonably cool, day.

Shifting his thoughts, Daniel reached for the telegram from his man in Chicago. It contained good news-a solution was on the way to a problem more troubling than any of his business ventures could produce. It was a very good day.

Though his office was of considerable size, today it would not hold him. He longed to be outdoors. He scooped up his hat and strode out the door.

His a.s.sistant found him on the stairs, just a few steps from freedom.

"You've a note, sir, just delivered, and these letters too, all marked urgent," Hiram called.

Daniel briefly considered the possibility that news of the aftereffects of the Leadville miners's strike might be contained in any or all of the correspondence. While Beck Mines had come through the disruption without suffering permanent harm, many others had not. Too often the mail delivery contained more unofficial pleas for help than anything else.

He could deal with that tomorrow.

"Leave them in my office, Hiram." Daniel took the stairs two at a time, bypa.s.sing the formality of speaking to the cl.u.s.ter of banker types crowding the building's palatial lobby. Several called his name, but Daniel kept walking.

"But, sir," echoed above the other voices as Daniel weaved through the crowd and out into the midmorning sunshine.

Denver smelled like mud and horse manure, a beautiful scent to a man whose greatest displeasure had always been being cooped up indoors.

His driver met him at the door, but Daniel waved him away. "Go on home, Isak. I'm of a mind to ride today."

Daniel turned toward the livery, intending to saddle the spirited bay mare he kept in town for days like today. Yanking at the starched collar that threatened to strangle him, he waited for a streetcar to pa.s.s, then set out across the busy thoroughfare.

"Sir, begging your pardon," came the persistent voice of Hiram Nettles.