The Enchantment (10 page)

He stared at the long, spiky lashes that fanned her pale cheeks and had a sudden, almost overwhelming urge to move his face the barest fraction forward, to touch his lips to hers. To take his first kiss.

It took all his willpower to remain stock-still. His heart skidded against his rib cage and thumped hard.

His skin itched with the need to touch hers. He'd never in his life known a moment so fraught with emotion: exhilaration, fear of discovery, desire. And laced through it all, this pervasive, compelling feeling of well-being.

They'd slept together for four nights, but somehow last night they had crossed a boundary. In their sleep, at least, they had found a common ground, a zone of comfort. He prayed they could find such a place in their waking moments, although he knew it wouldn't be easy. Emmaline was not an easy person to like, even for him. And she didn't like anyone.

He studied her porcelain-perfect face. So soft, so lovely, and yet so hard. During the past few days he'd seen things in her eyes that disturbed him. Every now and then he'd say something innocuous—something like do you have any family'} And quick as a flash he'd glimpse a pain so pure, so elemental, he'd feel its impact like a fist in the gut. It only took her a second to drop the impersonal curtain over her eyes, but pain was something Larence recognized.

She wasn't what she appeared; of that he was sure. She was running from something in her life, something painful and ugly and raw. Running fast.

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He felt a rush of compassion for her. He knew what it felt like to be afraid.

Without thinking, he pushed a cornsilk-soft lock of hair out of her face. She sighed. Her eyelashes fluttered.

Larence's hand froze in place. The last thing he wanted was to get caught staring at her; she'd probably slap his face. He slammed his eyes shut and pretended to be asleep.

Emmaline wakened slowly, reluctantly. For the first time in years, she felt at peace. Almost happy. No nightmares had terrorized her slumber. She'd slept long and well, and she felt like a million dollars.

She stretched. That's when she noticed it: the leg draped so casually atop hers. Heavy. Warm.

Masculine.

Her eyes popped open. Larence's nose was practically touching hers. His hand, entangled in her hair, was resting on the side of her face. She froze, afraid even to breathe for fear of waking him.

Good Lord, how had this happened? The last few nights together had been restless, pinned-against-the-wall kind of nights. Never, not once, had she so much as thought about easing toward his side of the bed, and now, here she was curled up against him like a lover. And on his side of the bed, too.

She groaned inwardly. Please don't let him wake up and find me like this. . . .

Moving slowly, deliberately, she plucked up his hand and eased it off her face. When his fingers were about a half inch above her skin, she allowed herself a small sigh of relief. So far, so good.

She eased her leg out from underneath his.

Footsteps thundered in the aisle.

Emma froze. Her heart thudded against her chest. Please don't let him—

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"Albuquerque, next stop!" The conductor's voice boomed through the car.

Larence's eyes opened. They stared at each other for a single heartbeat before the scramble began. She clutched her lacy, scoop-necked chemise to her throat and clambered backward. Her muslin underskirt bunched like a mushroom in the middle of her bare thighs. She stared in horror at her naked legs, then, with a gasp, she shoved the Hamburg lace hem back to her ankles and scuttled backward at full speed.

She hit the window hard. Behind her, the blind thumped once and bounced up the window. Harsh sunlight streamed into the cubicle.

Larence scooted backward. His back thudded into the solid mahogany wall; the compartment vibrated, the curtain shimmied.

They stared at each other, both breathing rapidly. The sound seemed thunderous in the confined, velvet-curtained space.

"Sleep well?" he asked nervously.

She cleared her throat and tried to look casual. "Fine, and you?"

"Fine. If you'll just hand me my trousers and shirt, I'll be out of your way in a second."

"Good."

"Good."

Emma grabbed his clothes from the foot of the bed and shoved them at him. He pulled them under the sheets and dressed quickly, then rolled out of the bed with a plop. She saw the shadow of his body move protectively across the space between the two curtains to ensure her privacy.

She reached for her wool traveling suit. Wrinkling her nose at the clothes she'd been wearing since she left

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New York, she burrowed through the pile for her corset. Drawing a deep breath, she squeezed into her Dr. Strong's celebrated corset, which, as advertised, gave her the perfect hourglass shape.

She laced it up. Her breathing shattered into a series of sharp, pained pants as she wiggled into her now wrinkled shirtwaist, wool skirt, and hip-length coat. She sat stiffly erect and perfectly still, taking short, shallow breaths. When the familiar dizziness passed, she adroitly twisted her hair into a Roman knot and pinned her hat in place.

Dressed, she felt better. More in control. What in the world had come over her? she wondered with some irritation. She hadn't had a moment's modesty in years—and yet in Dr. Dimwits' arms, she'd blushed like a schoolgirl.

It defied all logic. She shook her head. There was something about him that crept past her guard.

Confused and irritated her.

Whatever it was, she'd simply have to be more careful in the future. She'd worked hard to become cold and detached. The last thing she needed was some muddle-headed idealist with a bright smile turning her carefully ordered world upside down.

Fortunately they were in New Mexico now and they wouldn't be sleeping together anymore. It would be easy to keep him at arm's length. Preferably farther.

Larence bounced nervously on the balls of his feet. His hands clenched, stretched, clenched. Craning his neck, he tried for the thousandth time to see the station.

No luck. All he could see was a smoke-clogged blur of yellowish brown beneath a layer of bright blue sky. The iron couplings beneath his feet bucked and clanged. The cars on either side of him rattled. Wind pelted his face, stung his eyes. Tears streamed across his temples and burrowed into his rustling hair. His hold on the cold brass handrail tightened.

Any minute now, he thought. Any minute . . .

Executing a wobbly half turn toward the sleeper car's narrow, shaking door, he looked through the cloudy, rectangular window and saw Emmaline standing in the line of passengers. She offered him a stiff, cheerless wave, and an even stiffer smile.

The pure, unadulterated joy of having someone with whom to share this spectacular moment welled up in Larence. Grinning, he crooked his index finger in a motion of invitation.

She shook her head violently, pointing to the ridiculous little scrap of a hat perched on her head.

A long, high-pitched whistle rent the air. Larence 89

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spun back around. The couplings banged together; the puckered metal floor clattered and shook. He clutched the handrail harder, remaining erect by sheer force of will.

Black smoke billowed past the opening in a noxious cloud. The train's huge metal wheels locked with a clang. Wheels screeching, the train eased up to the station's long, wooden platform.

He was in Albuquerque.

Emotion clogged in his throat. After all the years of waiting and praying and believing, he was here.

Nothing could stop him from finding Cibola now.

He took a deep breath. The hot, arid air seared his lungs, reminding him with painful clarity that he was here, in Albuquerque, where his dream began.

Emma tasted grit before the train door even opened. Trapped in the center of a centipede of humanity, she inched her way forward. The floor beneath her feet rattled and hummed with the vibrations of the train; the velvet drapes of the sleeping compartments shimmied. Smells assailed her—the sharp tang of bodies who'd traveled too long on a packed train, the gunpowdery scent of old dust, the pervasive aroma of perfume and cigar smoke. The odors closed in on her, coiling around her throat like a noose.

She squeezed through the narrow doorway and emerged onto the rattling metal platform between cars, her parasol and bag tucked tightly beneath her arm.

"Over here, Emmaline!"

She slanted a gloved hand over her eyes and squinted into the bright noontime sun. Larence was standing on the empty platform, waving like a windmill. He was

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wearing his trademark "the world's a great place"

smile.

"Here! Over here!" More waving.

Did he really think she could miss him? She took a deep breath—and immediately felt as if she'd just inhaled a bolt of lightning. Her ability to breathe sputtered and died. She coughed, gasped.

Air. God, she needed air.

She bolted down the swaying steps and staggered onto the platform with a thud. Hot air smacked her in the face again, stung her eyes. She gasped, doubled over, trying desperately to draw a normal breath. All she could manage were short, painful pants.

She started to straighten, and a wave of dizziness hit her. It was so strong, she didn't know whether to vomit or faint. Her knees buckled.

Larence was beside her in an instant. "Are you okay?"

"I . . . can't . . . breathe."

"Relax. Take little breaths. Here, like this: ha, ha,

ha."

She had an almost overwhelming urge to coldcock him. "H-How come . . . you can . . . breathe? The . . .

air's so dry . . . and dusty and ..." And what? What made the air so unbreathable?

Larence's hand moved soothingly up and down her back. She thought about wrenching away, but didn't have the energy, and strangely enough, the contact was comforting. After a few moments, breathing came easier.

"It's the altitude. Remember, I told you Albuquerque was almost fifty-four hundred feet above sea level?"

Her bleary sideways glance told him she'd forgotten to memorize that scintillating bit of information.

"I told you not to wear your corset."

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An I told you so from Larence? She groaned. "I . . . thought ... it was . . . fashion advice."

His arm curled around her waist and steadied her. She swallowed, tasting the acrid memory of nausea on her tongue.

With a herculean effort, she straightened. Slowly. "Are you—"

"Fine," she wheezed. "Where's . . . Stanton?" "We're meeting him at San Felipe de Neri." Larence eased his arm away from her waist and checked his pocket watch. "He'll be there in thirty minutes."

"Let's go." She took a small, mincing step forward. Her stomach roiled at the motion; her breathing quickened, became painful.

Larence appeared beside her. "May I just hold on to you for a moment? My . . . my ankle hurts and I'm a bit dizzy."

She breathed a silent—painful—sigh of relief. She didn't want his charity, but she wouldn't mind—just this once—accepting his help. She wouldn't have asked for it, but by God, she needed it.

"Sure." She held out her arm for him. His answering smile was awfully bright for a man in pain, but that was one thing Emma had learned about Larence. He suffered his pains in silence. Not like her. His forearm slid underneath hers, palm up. Warm, surprisingly strong fingers slipped between hers and curled tight. She leaned against the steadying perch of his forearm, and allowed herself a rare smile of relief.

"Ready?" he asked.

She nodded, feeling better already. "Ready." Plucking up her heavy woolen skirt in her other hand, she allowed him to lead her through the station. They crossed the dark, relatively cool room and reached the THE ENCHANTMENT

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double doors on the other side. Larence limped ahead and yanked the door open.

Harsh, bright sunlight streamed through the opening. By the time she could finally focus, she and Larence were standing on a landing, several steps above the street.

Emma glanced at the buildings with contempt, noticing the false storefronts that created the impression of two-story structures. They'd actually painted windows on the fronts to make poor passersby think they were in a city instead of a shabby little cow town.

Larence squeezed her hand again. "Isn't it beautiful?".

Her mouth dropped open. Were they looking at the same town?

A horse-drawn wagon rumbled past them. The big wheels crunched forward, sending a plume of gray-brown dust hurdling into the air. More grit insinuated itself into Emma's mouth and eyes. Infinitesimal granules stung her eyes. Tears ran in zigzagging brownish streaks down her face.

Soon, she told herself. Soon she'd have her money back and be on her way east.

She had no doubt about the outcome of her meeting with Stanton: She'd get her money back. There was no way Stanton or Larence could justify spending ten thousand dollars on this backwater expedition. A few well-chosen observations about where the budget could be pared down, a steely-eyed order coupled with a fullblown feminine smile, and voila, she'd have her money back. And then she'd be gone.

Good-bye, dirty downtown Albuquerque; hello, Wall Street.

She didn't want all of her money back. All she needed was a couple of thousand dollars. A few measly thou-94

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sand. Larence would still have plenty of money to find his precious city—and she'd have enough cash to start over.

Start over. The words were a balm that soothed her, gave her a goal to fight for. She already had some good, solid ideas. Those zipper fasteners W. L. Hudson had recently patented looked interesting enough to finance. And Villard and Morgan's new endeavor, General Electric Company, showed some real promise. . . .

She couldn't help smiling. It felt good to think about money and how to make it again.

Her plan was perfect. Flawless. There was a train leaving for New York tomorrow morning—the only one until next week—and she intended to be on it. With her money.