Courting Calamity: 4 Historical Stories

Lady and the Tramps ©2020 by Jennifer Uhlarik

The Secondhand Bride of Polecat Creek ©2020 by Kathleen Y’Barbo

The Bride of Basswood Hill ©2020 by Gabrielle Meyer

Echoes of the Heart ©2020 by Amanda Barratt

Print ISBN 978-1-64352-412-2

eBook Editions:

Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-64352-413-9

Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-64352-414-6

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

All scripture quotations, unless otherwise noted, are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

Cover Photograph: Ildiko Neer / Trevillion Images

Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible.

Printed in Canada.

Table of Contents

Lady and the Tramps

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

The Secondhand Bride of Polecat Creek

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Epilogue

The Bride of Basswood Hill

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

Echoes of the Heart

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

LADY AND THE TRAMPS

by Jennifer Uhlarik

Dedication

To my husband—my hero on so many levels. A man who bravely served his community for twenty-six years in law enforcement, who selflessly adopted his eldest son and also raised mine like his own, and who healed my wounded heart with caring, gentleness, and understanding.

Chapter 1

Near Salinas, California September 1874

Jake Hicken tugged at his shirt collar. Almost every seat in the Southern Pacific Railroad’s passenger car was full, and the sun hit the windows just so, augmenting the heat to a near unbearable level. Usually on the train, the click-clack rhythm of the wheels would settle his mind and help him focus on his job.

Today was different.

Why in heaven’s name had Ben Figueroa summoned him to Salinas now? Such an incident had never happened. Jake had considered ignoring the summons, but—well, curiosity won out. That and the fortuitous fact that he’d learned Wells Fargo was looking for someone to act as one of the guards overseeing the transport of a money shipment going to Monterey, twenty miles west of Salinas. He’d tried not to overlook his train fare being paid by his employer, which would allow him to satisfy his curiosity. Would Figueroa finally give Jake some acknowledgment and respect—or would their eventual visit take a darker turn? These and other questions pounded his mind until his Stetson ratcheted tight around his skull like a vise.

Lord God, all this pondering and worrying isn’t doing me any good, is it? He removed the offending hat and wiped perspiration from its band. I s’pose I’m not trusting You if I’m fretting so much.

The silent admission did little to allay his concerns. But then, he shouldn’t be preoccupied with such things at the moment. Until the $25,000 Wells Fargo shipment was delivered, he must focus—make sure no one slipped past him to get into the next car where the safe held their valuable cargo. The two guards inside the safe car—Mel Engvall and Carden Smits—were well seasoned, but it was his job to be sure no one made it to them.

Jake tugged the Stetson in place and straightened. Unbuckling his saddlebags, he removed his leather-bound journal then rose and walked toward the back of the car.

Out on the platform, wind whipped around him. He secured the door and, enjoying the cool air, leaned a hip against the metal railing. The loud, rhythmic clatter of the rails finally calmed his spinning thoughts, allowing him to discreetly look through the windowed door and take stock of the rear-facing passengers.

He opened the journal’s cover. Modeled after Wells Fargo detective James Hume’s mug book, the pages contained pictures and descriptions of known thieves and outlaws. Taking a casual stance, Jake alternated between looking over a few pages then perusing the car. Of the passengers facing him, none matched the descriptions. Of course, that was only half the car’s occupants, since the rest faced forward. After several minutes of comparing the pictures to the train’s occupants, he secured the journal’s flap and reentered the car. Pacing toward the front, he’d just passed his seat halfway down the car when a quiet voice spoke.

You remind me so much of my dear Wilbur.

Startled, Jake stopped. The words had come from the white-haired woman he’d been sitting across from. Pardon?

My husband. He’s been gone for several years now, but with your light brown hair, dark eyes, and strong, bearded jawline, you could have been his twin.

Next to her, the young man—all of about twenty—flushed pink at her comment. Grandmother. He laid a hand on her arm. Leave the man alone.

Ignoring him, Jake sat and offered a smile. Is that so?

Surely is. Both of you, handsome as the day is long.

Grandson’s cheeks flamed red. Grandmother, please.

Jake’s own cheeks warmed. Thank you kindly, ma’am.

And unless I miss my mark, she continued, you’re thinking of someone special. I can all but see your thoughts churning. You’ve the look of a man pining for his woman.

Oh, his thoughts were churning, all right, but not over a special woman. Do I?

Her grandson’s mortified expression stirred mirth in Jake’s chest. Poor fella. The young man clamped a hand about his grandmother’s wrist and whispered in her ear.

Not to hear my grandson speak, she whispered. Eddie says you’ve the look of an outlaw. She flicked a gaze toward the Colt Peacemaker tied against Jake’s leg. To me, you look far too refined to be of such ilk.

He chuckled and shot Eddie a reassuring glance. On the contrary, I’ve worked since I was eighteen upholding the law.

See? Grandmother patted grandson’s hand, the young man looking like he might sooner crawl under the train than continue the conversation.

Are you heading to see her now? The grandmother seemed unaffected by poor Eddie’s discomfort.

See her? Oh… Right. His supposed woman. He cleared his throat. No, ma’am. I’m attending to some business. He’d not taken the time to find a woman with whom to settle down, and he doubted he would.

Her brows arched. Oooh, you’re on the job, she whispered. In pursuit of someone?

Grandmother, leave this poor gentleman alone. Eddie shot him an apologetic, if embarrassed, look.

It’s fine. Truth was, the good-natured woman reminded him greatly of the nuns who’d helped raise him. No, ma’am. Something much more mundane. Best if no one knew of the valuable contents in the iron safe one car back.

A wistfulness flashed in her expression but was quickly replaced by a twinkle in her eye. A word of advice, sonny—something I learned from nigh on forty years of marriage. Let your business keep you from her side only long enough she’ll miss you. Not so long she’ll worry. She patted his knee with a weathered hand. It makes the reunions that much sweeter.

The crimson flush of Eddie’s face as well as her pointed words made Jake chuckle. Thank you, ma’am. I aim to return home as quickly as I can.

Good, good. That’ll please her.

Yes, ma’am. He grinned broadly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, please, I’ve been sitting too long. I think I’ll walk the aisle a little more.

Oh, of course. She nodded. I didn’t mean to interrupt.

It was a pleasure talking to you. Jake touched his hat brim and rose, continuing his circuit.

As he neared the front, his gaze strayed to the first grouping of seats across from the privy. On a previous trip up the train car’s aisle, the seats had been occupied by two men, each sitting sideways, legs stretched across the benches. Their clothes were dusty and trail-worn. Their dark, bushy beards were all he could see of their faces because they’d kept their hats pulled low as they slept, one using his fancy tooled leather saddlebags as a pillow. In an otherwise full car, they’d stuck out for so rudely taking up valuable space, though Jake wasn’t aware that anyone had challenged the men.

Those seats were now empty.

Had they stepped out onto the front platform? Or maybe one was in the privy and the other—where? One thing was for certain. They hadn’t slipped past him and out the back door.

As he reached the front, he pulled at the door to the forward platform. It didn’t budge. An odd tingle clawed his spine. Looking out the window, he noted a rope extending from the area of the doorknob to the platform’s railing.

The two space-hoarding men were gone, and the door was secured after them. Not good.

Mattie Welling eased her position between several small bodies scattered across the hard boxcar floor. Oh, how she envied the youngest ones, slumbering nearby. She’d not slept a wink. The jarring clatter of the wheels had long ago grown tiresome, every jolt and bump rattling her teeth. Riding in the boxcar was a far different experience than being on the orphan train where, hardly the height of luxury, at least they’d had real seats. Before they’d stowed away in this car, she’d watched the passenger car two cars ahead fill, wishing she could provide that for her children again. But that wasn’t to be.

Despite their humble accommodations, it wouldn’t be long before they reached Salinas—and soon after, their final destination in the mountains west of the town.

These children, the unfortunate souls left unclaimed at the end of a long orphan train, had waited only days to arrive in Salinas. Mattie, on the other hand, had waited almost a decade since her brother turned eighteen and aged out of the Children’s Aid Society orphanage. On the last of his birthdays they’d spent together, he’d promised to head west, set up a place, then send for her. Owlie, dreamer that he was, vowed it would be open and spacious, where they would raise livestock or crops, where each could raise a family. With those promises on his lips, he’d taken up the small chest holding his scant belongings—the one on which the other orphans had carved their names as a remembrance—and departed. It was the last she’d seen of him.

A part of that dream was nearly a reality. She and the orphans would soon take up residence on the sizable property her brother had secured. But Owlie wouldn’t be sharing it with them. Heart aching, she opened the carpetbag and removed the now-tattered letter. Despite having the message memorized, she reread the brief words for the thousandth time.

Dear Miss Matilda Welling,

I have the regrettable duty of writing to inform you of Owlie’s passing. Your brother died on February 2, 1874, of an extended illness. Before his demise, he expressed his heartfelt regret at letting you down and asked me to convey that he loved you dearly. Among his last effects was a deed to some land in this area (though I’m not sure where), a deck of cards, and two pennies. I am certain he would want you to have the enclosed items.

With sincere condolences,

Dr. Richard Preston

Salinas, California

The tearful shock of the letter’s contents had long ago waned, but the haunting loneliness of Owlie’s passing still remained. Her beloved older brother—the only family she’d had since she was eleven—was gone. Thank God for Dr. Preston’s honesty, or the deed could easily have disappeared without her being any the wiser.

She flipped the page to stare at the deed.

Again, Miss Mattie? Fifteen-year-old Derry Beglin glowered at her. You’re reading that blasted letter again?

She glared back at the cantankerous young man. Why does that bother you?

Her eldest charge’s dark eyes flashed. For one, it says the same thing as it did the day you got it. And for another, that stupid deed would stay a whole lot safer if you weren’t pullin’ it out every two minutes to gawk at it.

Watch your tongue, young man. I’ll not abide your disrespect. Mattie shook the paper. "This stupid deed is the key to our futures. Yours, mine, all of ours. She motioned to the seven children around them. And I’m unsure how to make you understand the compulsion I feel to re-read this letter. I suppose I’m hoping to find some clue into Owlie’s life since he left. He wasn’t the best about writing, and the few letters I did get were brief, more describing the land and house than about himself and his life. Or maybe I’m trying to remember all the wonderful things he told me about where we’re going. Her throat knotted. She folded the worn letter and deed, tucked them into the special interior pocket she’d sewn into her carpetbag to hold them, and cleared her throat roughly. The truth is, I miss my brother, and that letter makes me feel some little connection to him."

A loud thump sounded on the far end of the car’s roof, followed by another. An instant later, angry voices argued for a moment before something slammed against the narrow door at the end of the car. The door burst open, and the two youngest MacGinty children awakened with frightened wails. The other children stirred at the sound.

Mattie and Derry both shot to their feet, the carpetbag tumbling from her lap as a tall, muscular man swung into the car. She gaped at the masked figure when he stepped to the side and, seemingly startled himself, drew his pistol.

Oh Lord! Protect these children!

She inched forward, discreetly motioning her charges behind her. Derry moved to her shoulder, though she shot him a glare. Stay with the littles, she hissed. Please.

A second form swung from the roof into the boxcar. Just as his companion had, he drew his pistol.

Mattie’s heart pounded. Please don’t hurt us.

The first man spoke to his companion. "Cierra la puerta. ¡Rápidamente!"

At the foreign words, twelve-year-old Augustina Garza rose as the second man shoved the door shut. The girl took a couple of steps toward them, expression perplexed.

Augustina, stay, Mattie hissed and darted a look to nearby Sam Beglin. The second-oldest caught the Mexican girl’s arm and herded her and those children nearest him into the corner.

What do you want with us? Mattie demanded.

The first man stepped toward her. Nothing, except I could make use of that bag. He nodded to the carpetbag.

There’s nothing of value in it. Only clothing. And the deed.

Then it will suit our purposes quite nicely. He leveled the gun at her head. Give it to me.

The second man turned, stepping farther into the car. Es hora, mi gemelo.

The bag. Now! The first beckoned for it then cocked the gun.

Derry’s crowding presence disappeared, and an instant later the carpetbag sailed into view, landing in front of the men. Take it. Just don’t shoot her.

Mattie shook as the first man grabbed it then holstered his gun and rushed toward her.

Get down. Now!

What? Why— Before the word could fully form, the men dropped to their bellies. In the same moment, a deafening explosion roared. The concussion stole her breath and pitched her backward, tumbling into little bodies. The door the men came through slammed open, and the terrifying grind of metal against metal filled the air. Their boxcar teetered on its wheels. All around her, children screamed.

As suddenly as she was blown backward, all momentum shifted toward the front. An unseen force hoisted Mattie like a marionette in unskilled hands and threw her toward the other end of the car. Pain jolted her as she tumbled. The metallic scream grew louder, more ear-piercing as the train braked. She skidded across the wooden floorboards, past the two men, as two tiny children slid past her toward the door.

Instinctively, Mattie reached for the kids, latching onto one’s arm and grabbing the other by her dress. She barely had time to pull them to her before her right side slammed the front wall and her head cracked hard against the doorframe, sinking her into blackness.

Chapter 2

His gut churning, Jake kept to a respectful pace as he headed toward the back of the passenger car again. No sense alarming anyone by hurrying. If he could just find the men, he’d stop whatev

Beneath him, the floor bucked as cacophonous thunder tore through the car. A force like a mule kick sent Jake reeling. His shoulder blade smashed into something solid, and he hit the floor with a grunt. Chaos ensued.

Passengers tumbled from their seats. People screamed. Bodies streamed into the aisle, shoving and crowding to escape the deafening noise at the back of the car. Feet pounded the floor around him, some stepping on him in their haste. Pain coursing through him, Jake pulled himself from the aisle to escape the crush.

An instant later, an ear-shattering screech overcame his senses as the engineer reversed the wheels to slow the train. The car pitched hard toward the front again. He pulled himself into a tight ball, covering his head with his arms to block even a bit of the metallic shriek. The car groaned and shook. Panicked screams grew louder.

Once the train evened out and the immediate pitch toward the front tapered off, Jake pushed to his feet, pain coursing the length of his body. He gulped several breaths and fought to clear his thoughts. Finding a bit of his mental equilibrium again, he took a good look around.

Scenery blurred past the windows more slowly as the train’s speed tapered off. Passengers littered the car, few still in their seats. At the back of the car, one bloodied man stood at the door to the platform, struggling to open it.

If the engine had hit something, surely the impact and sounds would’ve come from the front. But everything had come from the direction of the safe car.

Oh God.

That mule-kick was likely an explosion rigged to blow open the safe. He had to check on Engvall and Smits!

The train coasting now, he scrambled over seats and around passengers, reaching the back door and the man attempting to open it.

Hey, fella. He tapped the man on the shoulder. Why don’t you try to help the injured folks up ahead.

I gotta get out of here. The big fella’s eyes were huge with panic. I’ll die if I stay. They’re shooting the cannons again.

Understanding came. You’re not gonna die. The war ended about ten years ago now. Remember? It’s over.

The fella panted. Over? His shifty glances toward the door lent no assurance that he was getting the picture.

Listen, I need your help. He couldn’t afford anyone trampling evidence in what he expected was the scene of a robbery. I need for you to go that way and help anyone you can. He flashed the badge pinned to the inside of his vest. His job as a Wells Fargo Special Agent afforded him no special powers or privileges with the train, but perhaps the sight of a badge would make the man listen.

You gotta get all these people off the train. Ain’t safe. He attempted to reach around Jake for the doorknob.

I know. Hang it all! The longer he stood jawing, the more likely the disappeared men were making off with the Wells Fargo shipment. Go that way. Understand me?

After a slight hesitation, the fella obeyed.

Jake turned toward the door. The window was spider-webbed with cracks, obscuring his view. He turned the doorknob and pulled, but it didn’t budge. Drawing his gun, he broke out the cracked glass.

A rope from doorknob to the platform railing held the door fast. He’d just used that exit moments before, so he had to have barely missed the culprits.

Jake drew the knife at his belt and cut the rope then stepped onto the platform. As the train finally lurched from its last crawling movement to a final stop, a loud clatter from the right side of the safe car drew his attention. He crept to the platform’s steps to peer down the side.

God, no. A good portion of the wall was gone, blown away. Several jagged boards hung by threads, rattling against the remaining wall.

His gut knotted. There was no way Engvall and Smits could’ve survived such an explosion. If only he’d paid the passengers more mind, rather than worrying about Ben Figueroa.

Jake hurried to the left side of the platform and, stepping onto the stairs, peeked out. At the far end of the safe car, two masked horsemen waited, each with a spare horse. One called something in Spanish while looking toward the back platform of the safe car. The other, obviously spotting him, attempted a pistol shot. Jake ducked back as the ill-aimed bullet struck the corner of the safe car. Wood splinters showered the air. More shouting ensued.

They were still robbing the train!

Anger boiled from the pit of Jake’s belly, and he lunged to the far side of the platform. Ignoring the inner voice that screamed for caution, Jake scampered up the ladder attached to the platform’s railing and jumped onto the damaged roof. Crawling to the rough opening, he peered inside.

One masked man, holding a large bag open, shook it.

¡Rápido!

"I am hurrying!" The other pitched stacks of money into the bag.

Just as Jake drew down on them, the edge of the hole gave under his weight. He reeled through the air, body tumbling, and landed hard on his right hip. Lightning tore through him as he fought to bring the Peacemaker to bear.

The one with the bag grabbed for his gun, but the other stumbled up and shoved his partner toward the door. Jake managed a single shot as they barged through the back door, the bullet taking a piece from the top of the nearest man’s ear.

Breathless, he waited for returned fire, but all he heard was pounding hoofbeats. At the gradually disappearing sound, tension dissolved, and he sagged, head lolling to the side. He gulped a couple of breaths before he opened his eyes.

When he did, he jerked in surprise. There against the base of the blown-out wall, two bodies lay twisted and unrecognizable, but for the size of their frames. One tall and burly. The other compact and wiry.

Engvall and Smits.

Lord, they were good men. Please let them be with You in glory.

How easily it could’ve been him in this car, with one of the other men acting as the outside guard. But, used to working together, they’d encouraged him to take the passenger car position. The decision saved his life.

His gaze fell on the rack of rifles Wells Fargo kept in the corner. Holstering his Peacemaker, Jake limped toward the rack and grabbed one. He’d try to get a shot off at the men who murdered his friends. After checking to see it was loaded, he hobbled toward the door. Easing the rifle barrel through the door, Jake checked first to the right then the left. As he stepped onto the platform, a movement directly ahead drew his attention to a strange door at the end of the next boxcar.

An odd place for a boxcar to have a door. Normally, they had only a sliding door in one or both sides. He’d not seen such a thing before.

Framed in the opening, two very small children—both with white-blond hair—hovered over the body of a woman. The little boy, all of maybe three, squatted to pat the woman’s cheek. Get up. Please?

Jake lowered the gun and limped to the left side of the platform. Peeking out, he found four mounted riders—one sagging in his saddle—retreating at a gallop. Too far off for a shot. He glared after them as they followed the tracks a short way then arced west.

Gaze drifting back to the boxcar door, his nerves pinged. Who were these people, and why were they there? Jake hurried toward the next car’s side door and, hovering at its edge, risked a look inside. Several kids huddled at the back while the two towheaded children cried over the woman at the front. As he hoisted himself into the opening, he took a mental count. Eight plus the woman.

I’m here to help, he called, flashing his badge. Are any of you hurt? He nodded to the huddled kids at the back.

A dark-haired young man struggled to stand, a wide trail of blood dripping down the side of his face. We’re fine. Move along.

Jake crossed toward him. How bad are you hurt?

Ain’t nothin’. Like I said, move along. He jutted his chin in the direction of the door, but the motion made him sway on his feet.

Sit down, kid, before you fall. I’ll be back to check on you and the others in a minute.

As Jake turned, the young man caught his left arm. I told you to go—

Nerves firing, Jake shouldered the rifle and spun, the barrel thumping the unsteady young man in the chest. Don’t!

Startled gasps and a few frightened cries sounded from around the boxcar.

The fella’s eyes rounded and he lifted his hands.

Sit down. Understand me?

Derry! a voice from the corner shouted. Do what he says.

Jake flicked a glance to a slightly younger boy in the corner, hands splayed in front of him. Please don’t hurt my brother, mister.

He looked back at Derry. You gonna sit, or—

He’ll sit, the younger boy called. Won’t ya?

Derry nodded. I will. He took two steps backward before he turned. The young man barely made it to the wall before he collapsed.

Kid. Jake settled the rifle in the crook of his elbow and turned to the other boy. What’s your name?

Sam Beglin.

All right, Sam. I’m Jake Hicken. Starting with your brother Derry, check on all these kids and make sure no one’s hurt bad. Understand?

Yes, sir.

Jake scanned the other faces. They were all a fair bit younger than the two boys. He paced toward the front.

There, the towheaded boy and girl still crouched over the woman, but as he neared, they both drew back, fear etching their tearstained faces. Jake smiled. I’m Mr. Hicken. Do you mind if I try to help your ma?

That’s Miss Mattie. The boy whimpered.

She’s sleepin’, the girl said. She do not want to wake up.

Jake’s smile deepened. Maybe I can wake her.

The girl—the older of the two—pulled the boy a couple of steps toward the center of the car. Come with me, Paddy.

Jake took a knee beside the still woman.

Lord, please don’t let her be dead. He’d already have to bury two friends. The thought of adding this woman to that list turned his stomach.

Thankfully, it took only an instant to find a steady pulse, setting his heart at ease.

A mop of light brown curls webbed across her face. He gently pushed the hair away to reveal a pretty oval face, high cheekbones, and small lips that naturally rested in a smile.

Ma’am? He touched her cheek, the smoothness of her skin startling him. Can you hear me? Miss Mattie?

She stirred.

Miss Mattie, please open your eyes.

After an instant, she stirred again, her hand straying to the right side of her head. Her eyelids pressed tight.

Ma’am, you got a passel of kids here who need you to wake up. And he’d feel a whole heap better once the pretty gal opened her eyes. You hear me?

She brushed his hand away with a sloppy gesture. I hear you fine. Now who are you?

Oh Father, don’t let those men have returned, please.

Mattie forced her eyes open, but it wasn’t the masked men who hovered. Instead, it was a handsome bearded man with kind brown eyes.

Wells Fargo Special Agent Jake Hicken, ma’am.

Pardon? His words resisted absorption into her addled brain.

Patrick squatted near her. You waked up.

The children! Mattie lurched into a seated position, pain cascading through her midsection. Overcome, she braced a hand against the floor.

Easy now. The man steadied her with a firm hand. You all right?

Mattie attempted to inhale, but she groaned instead.

Where are you hurt? The man’s soothing baritone calmed her.

She leaned back against the wall, her legs jutting toward the back of the car. Mattie extracted her brother’s hand-monogrammed handkerchief—one of a new set she’d never had opportunity to send before his death—and dabbed at her forehead. Meeting his concerned gaze, she touched her right side. My ribs, she whispered. And my head.

He gave her a once-over glance. You don’t appear to be bleeding, but you could’ve broken some ribs. He nodded toward the side of her head. May I?

Mattie smiled awkwardly. Yes.

With a delicate touch, the man sank his fingers into her hair. When he prodded a tender spot, Mattie sucked in a sharp breath.

The gentleman cringed and withdrew his hands from her hair, but cupping her chin, held her gaze, unmoving. Pretty… He released her then, almost like he’d been stung. …big…bump. His face flushed. I’d, uh, caution you to take things slowly.

Had he just called her pretty?

She brought the handkerchief to her mouth to hide her flustered smile. Of course. Mattie looked around at the children. Patrick, Moira. She looked at the youngest of her charges. Are you hurt?

The children showed her scraped elbows, a bruised knee, a torn stocking. Thank goodness, nothing of real concern.

Ma’am, the man said. Who are you? Why are you and these children in this boxcar?

Instantly, her caution heightened. How had the handsome stranger introduced himself? He’d given a title along with his name, though both escaped her. If he was an employee of the train, he’d detain her and the children until they could pay train fare. A ridiculous thought. Once detained, she’d have no chance to earn money for anything. And if she’d been able to pay the fare, they’d have ridden in the passenger car.

Derry? She crawled to her feet, but as she straightened, her surroundings pitched violently and her handkerchief fluttered from her hand.

Whoa, there. I said to take it slow, didn’t I? The man scooped the fabric and was at her side in an instant, his solid form becoming the wall on which she leaned until her world righted itself again. He glanced at the kerchief. Miss…Owl?

Mattie braced a forearm against his chest and willed the dizziness away. Miss Owl? What was he talking—Oh! O.W.L. From the handkerchief.

Yes. Is that your name?

Her world still swimming, she leaned her forehead against the back of her hand, which was still firmly braced against his chest. My brother’s monogram. Oliver Lucas Welling. In my favorite style of monogramming, the last initial goes in between the first and middle ones. Her memories traveled over the years. The first time I ever monogrammed a handkerchief for him, we laughed at that. O.W.L. I teased him, started calling him Owlie instead of Ollie. The name stuck.

Regaining her bearings, she straightened and met his gaze, realizing how close they stood. Her breath caught, and she pulled away. I have to check on my kids. And what in heaven’s name had possessed her to tell him all about Owlie?

"So they are your children?"

They’re orphans, and I am their guardian. We’re trying to reach my brother’s property east of Salinas. Not Owlie’s anymore. Hers. Only…She scanned the boxcar again, finding no sign of the men, nor her carpetbag. Oh Lord, without the deed, is it really my property?

And you’re riding in a boxcar because—? His brows arched.

Lord, how much do I tell this comely stranger?

The truth was always best. Oh, how many times the Children’s Aid Society workers had encouraged the orphans with those words. But could she trust this man?

Mattie breathed as deep as her aching side would allow. My name is Matilda Welling, and I was a chaperone on an orphan train coming from New York. I came on this particular journey as a means to get to my brother’s home. However, upon reaching San Francisco, these eight hadn’t been placed in homes, so I took them. Unfortunately, money is tight, so… She ducked her head.

So you all stowed away.

I suppose you’ll arrest me for that. She waited for the inevitable.

No, ma’am.

You won’t?

He almost laughed. Arresting stowaways isn’t my job.

It wasn’t? Oh, thank God.

I do need to ask you whether you saw anything unusual before the chaos ensued.

Unusual? Perhaps it was the realization she was safe—at least from him—or maybe it was her painful ribs, but fatigue stole through her. Mattie steadied herself against him once more. "What do you mean?

He cupped her elbow, lending her strength. Are you all right?

She was tired. Sore. Overwhelmed. I think I should sit.

He nodded. Down there, or here?

I’d like to be with the children, please.

Of course. He looped his left arm behind her back and guided her toward her unusual family.

Patrick, Moira. Go sit with the others, please.

As the children fairly skipped past them, her handsome helper cleared his throat. Not to pressure you, Miss Welling, but did you see anything unusual before the train got rocked?

Oh did she. I found it quite unusual that two men near broke down that door behind us moments ago.

Two men? Can you describe—

Hey, Mr. Hicken. Sam trotted over then. Everybody’s bruised some. Owen’s wrist is swellin’ up pretty bad. Derry’s got that cut on his head. Annie and Fiona are crying, and neither me or Augustina can tell why.

Hand straying to the pretty…big…bump, Mattie rubbed at the pain. I’ll check on the girls.

She angled toward Ann Beglin, Fiona MacGinty, and Augustina Garza, but before she could reach them, voices sounded outside the car.

Footsteps clanged on the next car’s platform, and in an instant, Mr. Hicken was gone, limping badly toward the opposite end of the boxcar. Limping? She’d not noticed that before. Halfway there, the man loosed a shrill whistle.

Stop!

A man on the platform turned.

Don’t go in there, Mr. Hicken continued. "It’s a Wells Fargo car. No one enters it