Mrs. Tyler surreptitiously nudged Phoebe with her elbow. “I take it you don’t know him. The man watching you, I mean. Not my son.”
Phoebe shook her head. “I think I might have seen him at the station in Saint Louis, but I don’t know him.”
“Don’t know as you could have any question one way or the other, so it probably wasn’t him. His good looks stick in my mind the way hot porridge sticks to my ribs.”
“I suppose.”
Mrs. Tyler shrugged. “Maybe it’s different for you. Maybe you only have eyes for your husband, which is nice on the face of it. You’re young. Time yet to discover that there’s no harm in looking or being looked at.”
Phoebe risked another glance four rows up and on the left. The gentleman—and Phoebe was resolute in naming him as such—had reclined in his seat as much as space would allow. He had shifted his long legs into the aisle and rested one boot across the other. His arms were folded against his chest and his head was bowed. She imagined that beneath the brim that obscured his face, his eyes were closed. Phoebe felt completely at ease studying him until she noticed the bulge under the duster at his right hip.
“He’s carrying a gun,” she said.
Mrs. Tyler nodded and amusement crept into her features again. “I do believe you’re right, but I hardly imagine he is alone. Surely you’ve read some of the popular dime novels. Nat Church is a favorite of mine, and I don’t mind saying so.”
“Mine also, but I believe the tales of gunfights and entanglements at high noon are exaggerated for dramatic effect.”
“Perhaps.” One of Mrs. Tyler’s eyebrows arched in its own dramatic effect. “And perhaps not.”
Phoebe’s quiet laughter changed the shape of her mouth, lifting the corners, revealing a ridge of white teeth resting on her full lower lip. Her eyes darted to the beaded bag wedged between her hip and the side of the train car. She slipped a hand through the reticule’s strings and pulled it onto her lap.
“That’s a beautiful bag,” said Mrs. Tyler. “May I?”
Phoebe held it up for the woman to examine more closely but she did not release it. “Seed pearls and jet beads. It was a gift.”
Mrs. Tyler tentatively ran her fingertips across the beadwork. “It’s exquisite. Wherever did you find it?”
“Paris. But I didn’t find it. As I said, it was a gift.” Phoebe regarded the bag with more careful study than it deserved and said in a low voice, “He’s looking this way again, isn’t he?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Perhaps he’s admiring the bag,” she said.
“Lord, I hope not. It would be so disappointing.”
That made Phoebe laugh again. She lowered the reticule and Mrs. Tyler withdrew her hand. She was still smiling, carefully avoiding eye contact with the stranger, when she felt a subtle change in the train’s rhythm. “Did you—” Her question remained unfinished because the next variation in the clackety-clack cadence was not at all subtle. Engine No. 486, a powerful workhorse of Northeast Rail, regularly carrying passengers, mail, and cargo from New York to points west by way of Chicago, Saint Louis, and Denver, jerked, juddered, stuttered, and squealed, and began to slow at a rate that threw people forward or pushed them back into their seats.
Mrs. Tyler threw an arm sideways in aid of protecting Phoebe and Phoebe’s swollen belly. It was of marginal helpfulness, keeping Phoebe from becoming a projectile that would have landed her with considerable force against the empty bench seat across the way, but not keeping either ofthem in place. They both dropped to the space between the forward and rear seats, banging their knees and landing in an awkward brace of limbs. Mrs. Tyler’s arm was squeezed between the lip of the forward seat and Phoebe’s abdomen. There was time enough for her to give Phoebe a curious look before the train bucked and buckled and they were thrown sideways into the aisle. Mrs. Tyler took the brunt of the fall, supporting Phoebe’s slighter weight in the cushion of her plump bosom, arms, and thighs.
“Don’t try to move yet, dear,” Mrs. Jacob C. Tyler said. “I’m fine. You’re fine. No sense—” She stopped because men were shouting, a woman was weeping, and at least two children were caterwauling in a forward car. There was no point in talking when action was what was called for. She held Phoebe close, keeping her still until she realized that Phoebe was not moving. “We need some help here!” she shouted. “Help here!”
She was in no expectation that help was coming. She could not be sure that anyone had heard her above the din. The train was moving but still slowing; the floorboards vibrated against her spine and backside. “Mrs. Apple?” She raised her head as far as she was able in an attempt to reach Phoebe’s ear. “Mrs. Apple?”
Phoebe groaned. Her eyelids fluttered. “I’m here. I’m fine.”
“How’s that? Did you say something?”
This time Phoebe nodded. It was more effective than trying to speak. She managed to place her hands on either side of Mrs. Tyler’s shoulders and push herself high enough to create some space between her and her comfortable cushion. She slid a knee between Mrs. Tyler’s, found more leverage, and was finally able to sit up. She scooted backward, took Mrs. Tyler’s hands in hers, and pulled her to a sitting position as well.
They stared at each other for what felt to be several long moments but was probably no more than a couple of pounding heartbeats. Nodding simultaneously, they yanked at their skirts, untangling them from under their knees so they could rise unimpeded. Using the seats for purchase, they lifted themselves just far enough to collapse into their respective places.
The train stopped. The silence was eerie. It was not that people were no longer shouting or weeping or caterwauling, it was merely that the train had ceased to be the steady, comforting percussion that meant there was forward progress. There was none of that now.
Phoebe looked around to see where she could help. Behind her, passengers were getting to their knees or coming to their feet. One man held a handkerchief to his nose. Blood speckled the white cotton. He waved her on, indicating he was fine or that he would be. A mother was huddled in one corner of a bench seat, her young daughter in her lap. They were locked in a fierce hold that looked to be reassuring for both of them.
Phoebe moved her gaze forward, four rows up and to the left. Her lips parted on a small, sharp intake of air. He was not in his seat. “He’s hurt,” she said, no question in her mind that Mrs. Tyler would know to whom she was referring. Without communicating her intention, she sidled past Mrs. Tyler and stepped into the narrow aisle. She started forward, felt a tug on her skirt, and looked back and down to find Mrs. Tyler holding a fistful of mint green broadcloth. “It’s all right. I think he’s unconscious. Someone needs to attend to him.”
Mrs. Tyler unfolded her fingers. “Fine. But have a care. Handsome doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous. Sometimes they go hand in hand.”
