it from headquarters.” The spokesman turned back to the burned-out car.
“And where is that?” Mia asked.
“Jackson.” The men returned their attention to the mangled wreckage.
Mia kicked a clump of frozen snow. “Even if we send a telegram, the answer could take days to get back to us.”
One of the railroad workers sneered at her. “Yeah, ’cause the mail ain’t gettin’ through.”
“Precisely. Which is why I am asking you gentlemen for aid.” Her smile did not falter.
The men glared.
Ayden laid his hand on her arm and scanned his gaze along the line of twisted, tilted, and surprisingly undamaged cars. “Do you want to risk looking in your car?”
“You’d do that with me?” She glanced up at him with her eyes gleaming and the first warm smile she’d granted him.
He’d do about anything for her at that moment.
They thanked the railroad men, who ignored them, then drove along the train.
Mia half turned on the sleigh seat to gaze at the wreckage. Some cars had burned when the boilers in the engine exploded. Some lay on their sides. Others tilted like weary men leaning against an invisible wall. Most, however, stood upright, as though all they needed were engines to haul them on down the line to their destination. But those mangled and burned cars toward the front sent the hairs on Ayden’s arms prickling.
A shudder ran through Mia powerful enough to shake the sleigh seat. “And I was annoyed I could only get a seat in a rear car. If I’d been closer to the front—” She hugged her arms across her middle.
Ayden slipped his arm around her. He intended it for comfort. The impact of feeling her narrow shoulders in the circle of his arm was like he’d just slammed face-first into that invisible wall. His arm shook with his wanting to draw her closer for comfort and for a way to erase the past hurt between them.
But Mia shrugged her shoulders and slipped from beneath his hold. “I believe,” she said without looking at him, “you gave up the right to touch me in August of fifty-four.” Then she leaped from the sleigh, sliding a bit on the frozen top crust of the snow, and sped toward the train. “Sir, sir, wait.”
Ayden hadn’t noticed the man in a railway uniform until Mia called to him. He paused in the doorway of one of the tilted cars. Unlike the other workers, who were armed with relatively harmless rakes and picks, this man carried a gun on his hip.
Chapter Seven
A t sight of the man’s gun, Mia slid to a stop, clutching her portfolio to her chest like a shield. If she hadn’t been holding the notebook, she would have raised her hands in a gesture of surrender.
The railroad man dropped his hand—to the butt of his gun. “What do you folks want?”
Mia summoned her best smile. “We came to look for something in the car in which I was—”
The man cut her off with a brusque shake of his head. “No, ma’am. No one goes in the cars until they’ve all been searched. We won’t have looting on my watch.”
“We aren’t looters,” Mia and Ayden protested together.
Snow crunched behind Mia, and the man drew his gun from its holster. “Stay where you are, sir.”
“I’m Ayden Goswell, history professor at the college.” Ayden’s voice was tight and too far behind Mia for her comfort.
She slid one foot back. “And I’m Euphemia Roper, a reporter for—”
“The professor I might believe, but a lady reporter?” The man threw back his head and laughed. The gun wavered. “You’ll have to come up with something better than that one, missy, if you want me to let you in any of the cars. Now get going back the way you came.”
“This has to do with a lost child,” Mia tried again. “We’re trying to find . . . his . . . people. I found him wandering—”
The gun ceased wavering. The muzzle, surely as wide as a blunderbuss barrel, was pointed directly at her chest. “Get out of here, or I will—”
Snow crunched like a hundred eggshells underfoot,
“And where is that?” Mia asked.
“Jackson.” The men returned their attention to the mangled wreckage.
Mia kicked a clump of frozen snow. “Even if we send a telegram, the answer could take days to get back to us.”
One of the railroad workers sneered at her. “Yeah, ’cause the mail ain’t gettin’ through.”
“Precisely. Which is why I am asking you gentlemen for aid.” Her smile did not falter.
The men glared.
Ayden laid his hand on her arm and scanned his gaze along the line of twisted, tilted, and surprisingly undamaged cars. “Do you want to risk looking in your car?”
“You’d do that with me?” She glanced up at him with her eyes gleaming and the first warm smile she’d granted him.
He’d do about anything for her at that moment.
They thanked the railroad men, who ignored them, then drove along the train.
Mia half turned on the sleigh seat to gaze at the wreckage. Some cars had burned when the boilers in the engine exploded. Some lay on their sides. Others tilted like weary men leaning against an invisible wall. Most, however, stood upright, as though all they needed were engines to haul them on down the line to their destination. But those mangled and burned cars toward the front sent the hairs on Ayden’s arms prickling.
A shudder ran through Mia powerful enough to shake the sleigh seat. “And I was annoyed I could only get a seat in a rear car. If I’d been closer to the front—” She hugged her arms across her middle.
Ayden slipped his arm around her. He intended it for comfort. The impact of feeling her narrow shoulders in the circle of his arm was like he’d just slammed face-first into that invisible wall. His arm shook with his wanting to draw her closer for comfort and for a way to erase the past hurt between them.
But Mia shrugged her shoulders and slipped from beneath his hold. “I believe,” she said without looking at him, “you gave up the right to touch me in August of fifty-four.” Then she leaped from the sleigh, sliding a bit on the frozen top crust of the snow, and sped toward the train. “Sir, sir, wait.”
Ayden hadn’t noticed the man in a railway uniform until Mia called to him. He paused in the doorway of one of the tilted cars. Unlike the other workers, who were armed with relatively harmless rakes and picks, this man carried a gun on his hip.
Chapter Seven
A t sight of the man’s gun, Mia slid to a stop, clutching her portfolio to her chest like a shield. If she hadn’t been holding the notebook, she would have raised her hands in a gesture of surrender.
The railroad man dropped his hand—to the butt of his gun. “What do you folks want?”
Mia summoned her best smile. “We came to look for something in the car in which I was—”
The man cut her off with a brusque shake of his head. “No, ma’am. No one goes in the cars until they’ve all been searched. We won’t have looting on my watch.”
“We aren’t looters,” Mia and Ayden protested together.
Snow crunched behind Mia, and the man drew his gun from its holster. “Stay where you are, sir.”
“I’m Ayden Goswell, history professor at the college.” Ayden’s voice was tight and too far behind Mia for her comfort.
She slid one foot back. “And I’m Euphemia Roper, a reporter for—”
“The professor I might believe, but a lady reporter?” The man threw back his head and laughed. The gun wavered. “You’ll have to come up with something better than that one, missy, if you want me to let you in any of the cars. Now get going back the way you came.”
“This has to do with a lost child,” Mia tried again. “We’re trying to find . . . his . . . people. I found him wandering—”
The gun ceased wavering. The muzzle, surely as wide as a blunderbuss barrel, was pointed directly at her chest. “Get out of here, or I will—”
Snow crunched like a hundred eggshells underfoot,
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