Adella's Enemy (7 page)

Another long silence passed, filled only with sound of their strides swishing through the grass.

“What made you become a spy?” His voice was quiet, lacking any merriment.

The answer filled her mind but didn’t touch her lips:
Declan.

Fearless and protective, her brother had insisted she accompany him on all his childhood campaigns. Then he’d abandoned her and signed up with Fergal to fight a war she’d never understood. Since that day, she hadn’t willingly spoken his name. How could she when her other half—her twin, her constant companion, her best friend for fifteen years—was gone? Taken from her, first by
his own familiar hand, then forever by the cold, pitiless hands of strangers?

She might not say
Declan’s name, but he was never far from invading her thoughts. He was the gaping hole in her soul, the wound that would not heal.

Sudden tears blurred her vision. She turned away from
Cormac and rubbed her brow, hiding behind her hand…her empty hand. A sensation ten times more horrible than being sick to her stomach engulfed her. She spun round and searched the path they’d just travelled.

“I’ve lost my valise!” She tried to sprint back down the path.

Cormac held her fast. “Adella, it’s all right. I have your bag.” He held it up for her to see.

Her spine sagged with relief. “How long have you had it?”

“Since I set you on the ground and you dropped it.”

“But…why carry it for me? When we fell in the mud, you cursed it and threw it away.”

“It’s important to you, so I couldn’t leave it behind.” He stared at the ground between them. “I only did so, because I didn’t want you running back for it and further delaying our trip.”

“I can take it now.” She held out her hand.

He put his body between her and her goal. “Why’s it so important to you?”

Best not to tell him about the photographs and newspaper clippings inside.
Or Declan’s letters. Cormac already knew too much.

She forced herself to drop her hand to her side. “I’ve owned the valise a long time. It’s merely a sentimental attachment.”

“Then you won’t mind me continuing to carry it for you.” He started walking again and she followed suit.

She didn’t really have a choice, she told herself. He was still holding her hand. She aimed for the lethargic stride of a woman resigned to defeat, which wasn’t hard. He’d won the battle. She couldn’t stop him from reaching town. Like the wheel coming off the cart, she could only control the speed of which the inevitable happened. She considered him out of the corner of her eye. Only, she told herself, to ensure he continued to carry her valise.

Whistling an Irish ditty under his breath, he walked beside her without a word or glance to chastise her slowness. They were both dirty up to the knee, but his entire back was caked in mud. He’d taken the brunt their fall and his protectiveness continued. When she stumbled over a rock, his hand tightened reassuringly around hers. When she paused to pluck a pebble from her boot, he halted and steadied her arm. He was a man dedicated to his work, but he seemed in no hurry to return to it.

She could’ve been one of the farm wives escorting her husband home from the field. It would be easy to get used to. But
Cormac was the one doing the escorting. And not home but back to her rented room.

A stronger spy wouldn’t balk at the chance to seduce him in that room and delay his return to the worksite even further. A stronger woman wouldn’t balk at the chance to explore this opportunity for lovemaking. It had been easy enough to lie on top of him in the mud.
More than easy.

When they reached town,
Cormac headed directly to her hotel and up to her room. Striding inside, he set her camera and valise on the floor by a chair. Her feet ached from their walk, but she refused to sit. Instead, she hovered by the door, racking her brain for a way to prevent his return to the worksite. He turned to leave.

She had to do something to keep him in this room. One thought rose above the chaos churning in her mind. He wouldn’t leave if she was undressed. She shut the door and unfastened the top button of her dress.

Cormac froze. “Adella—”

“I need clean clothing.” She leaned against the door and lowered her hand to the next button. Her hand trembled, questioning her impetuous decision. She pushed all thought aside save one. She must delay the railroad’s construction. She opened the button.

Cormac sucked in his breath. “I’m not letting you seduce me to get what you want.” Despite his words, he didn’t move to stop her.

Her fingers brushed the telegram hidden in her cleavage and she went as still as him.
Blast!
She’d forgotten about the telegram! She needed Cormac to stay in this room, but she couldn’t let him see the telegram.

“How do you know what I want?” she whispered, stalling for time.

“I don’t. But this is what I want.” In two strides, he devoured the gap between them. Then his mouth claimed hers in a hot, heady possession.

Pressed against the door, all she could do was kiss him back. She did so with abandon. Her skin tingled, and her blood raced as if her body had woken from years of sleepwalking. She didn’t want the feeling to stop. She wrapped her arms around
Cormac’s neck and pulled him closer.

He suddenly lifted his head. “I want more than one kiss,” he murmured against her lips. “And I don’t mean merely claiming everything that’s under this dress.” His hand slid up her ribcage to cup her breast.

The telegram! With a gasp, she covered her cleavage with both hands. The corner of the telegram brushed her palm.
Thank Dixie.
It was still there. But had he seen it? She pressed back against the door.

Cormac
retreated as well, lifting his hand to rake it through hair that was already disheveled. Had she done that? He reached for the doorknob and she jumped aside.

“Stay away from the worksite,
Adella.” He opened the door without his customary restraint. It banged against the wall. “And, for God’s sake, stay out of trouble. Don’t provoke a man beyond his patience.”

Chapter 6

Glancing repeatedly at the ribbon of orange growing on the eastern horizon,
Cormac slogged through the mud, making a beeline for the tent city. When he found the missing men, he’d blister them with a few choice words. Rather than delay the entire crew, he’d been forced to order the train to go to the worksite without him. His belly rumbled, already missing breakfast.

Rounding the corner of the mercantile, the field that held his and his men’s homes came into view. In front of a broad swath of tents—crowded together so closely they resembled one gigantic sheet of canvas—rested a pair of wagons filled with men jostling each other for a better position. On the ground before them, someone in a skirt bent under a dark cloth draped over a camera. Parts of his body he had difficulty controlling of late instantly recognized the slim waist and curved bottom.

“Ready?” asked a muffled, but familiar voice from under the cloth.

Very ready.

The men assumed stilted poses. Adella pulled her head from the under the cloth. Her auburn hair, tousled and untamed, filled his thoughts with memories of her pressed against the length of him—both in the mud and in her hotel room. If only he didn’t have work to do. If only he could forget she was a spy. A spy whose next move he couldn’t predict any better than the first saboteur he still needed to catch.

A flash of light and puff of smoke yanked him from his musings.

Dragging his gaze from Adella, he focused on the scene before of him. Adella was a photographer after all. She had an artist’s eye for picture taking. She’d positioned the men in front of the tents, the dawn light breaking over their heads, their wagons lined up to leave town. The scene hinted at a provocative story. He needed to learn the caption before he read it, along with everyone else, in the newspapers.

Damnation! If these men had failed to meet the morning train to the Katy worksite, but they were now assembled to leave town, then they might be defecting to the Joy Line. The rival railroad ran parallel to the Katy. The workmen could be there tomorrow. He needed to stop them.

His gaze locked with one of the men on the wagons. The man turned away, whispering to his friends and destroying his chance to catch them unaware and eavesdropping on any conversation. Soon all the men’s heads were turned in his direction.

Adella
glanced over her shoulder and went from relaxed to stiff as a rail.

Pinning his gaze on his men, his traitorous feet never-the-less brought him to a halt beside her, close enough to feel the warmth of her body and something else vibrating inside her. Was she remembering their kiss? He was.

“Nice morning for a photograph,” he drawled. “Make a fine keepsake or gift to send the folks back home.” People expected a man his size to also be thick in the head, to solve problems with his fists rather than his brains. On occasions like this, better to play dumb and say little of importance. He folded his arms and waited for his men or Adella to make the next move.

Her only response was a brisk rustling as she packed her camera.

“You can’t stop us from leaving, McGrady,” one of the men hollered.

“Stop you?” He raised his eyebrows as if the notion hadn’t even entered his head.
“Didn’t realize you were going somewhere.”

“The Joy Line’s paying fifty cents more than the Katy.” The man drew a piece of paper from his pocket and waved it over his head. “This here telegram says so.”

He should’ve known. Another point of contention fueled by money, or the lack of. But he didn’t believe that Adella had become a spy for money. When he’d asked how much the Joy Line was paying her, she’d sidestepped the question and said:
I’m getting what I need.

What did she need? Why was Stevens her enemy? Did it have something to do with her brother? He still didn’t understand a thing about her. But he understood the men and agreed with them. They deserved fair compensation for their labor. They deserved whatever the competition was getting.

“Today, I’ll use my own pay to cover the wage difference,” he said. “You, and the men already at the worksite, will receive Joy Line wages.” Adella’s rustling stopped. He fought the urge to glance her way and gauge her reaction. “Whatever follows will be up to Stevens. If he won’t pay, you can always leave tomorrow. And you’ll have a pretty picture to impress all the ladies at your new workplace.”

Nerves stretched taut, he waited for
Adella’s response. Not even a whisper of sound came from her direction. The men clustered closer together. The hum of their voices grated on his nerves, foreshadowing a counteroffer.

“My offer’s only good for the next ten seconds. Don’t make me split your raise amongst the men already heading to the worksite.
Men who deal openly with me.” He uncrossed his arms, so the men could see his fists. “Men who come to me with their concerns, rather than making me come after them.”

The men sat down in the wagons, urging the horses to make haste. The first wagon paused when it pulled even with him. The man with the telegram thrust out his hand, offering the paper to
Cormac.

Another delay diverted, thank the good God. He reached for the telegram but stopped midway. Diverted for how long? He understood workmen not spies. But he’d only gained that knowledge after five years working on the transcontinental. He didn’t have years to learn to think like a spy. All he had was one spy discovered by accident. He had
Adella. Could he learn by shadowing her? And in the process keep her out of trouble as well?

He let his hand drop to his side.

“Give the telegram to Stevens when you tell him what we discussed. Tell the McGrady Gang as well.” He drew his watch from his waistcoat. “They’ll let me know if you don’t reach the worksite shortly.”

The wagons rattled off toward the worksite. Feet stomped on the wooden walkway, heading in the opposite direction. He followed the footsteps.

Adella carried her camera wrapped in cloth and hanging from her shoulder in the rope sling he’d fashioned for it yesterday. The thought that he’d done something to make her life easier pleased him.

She also carried the bag he’d never seen her without. The tightness along her shoulders spoke louder than any outburst.
Independent woman. Indomitable spy. Inexperienced seductress. None of her parts seemed big enough to define all of her. He wanted to know the woman beneath the façade.

Unfortunately, his first duty was to his work. He must learn what made a spy a spy. Soon he’d be forced to tighten the reins on
Adella’s activities. A sudden ache invaded his heart. He had no desire to dull her spirit. But the need to keep her and everyone else safe outweighed even his work obligations. He must learn as much as he could in the hope of corralling the railroad’s unknown number of foes.

Hoping to broach that subject in a roundabout way, he said, “I’d bet money you’re a first-rate photographer. Why not focus on those skills and stop provoking so much unrest?”

“Why not focus on being a foreman and stop following me?” Despite her brusque reply her pace slowed. “You’re the oddest man I ever met. Sending those workers back with the telegram won’t make your boss happy.”

“Stevens’ happiness isn’t high on my list of priorities.”

“Empowering your workmen might halt construction permanently. What kind of foreman wants that? Your gang said you were hired because you had a reputation for fast work.”

“One can be fast and fair.”

“One usually must decide between the two.”

He’d had this conversation before—with himself—and his answer hadn’t changed. “Then I choose fair.”

She snorted. “You’ll go broke giving your wages to others.”

“At least I’ll meet my maker with a clean conscience on that charge.”

Adella’s pace increased, until she was walking faster than when she’d first left the tent city. He cursed himself under his breath. If he’d learned anything from his brief time with Adella, it was that pushing too hard made her as approachable as a prickly hedgehog.

Struggling for a way to soften his unintentional reproach, he ended up following her in silence. She wore a pretty but simple gingham dress. Its plainness didn’t stop him from becoming mesmerized by the sway of her hips. After a while the footpath stopped branching and led to only one destination—the livery. She’d planned to ride somewhere. That was why she was dressed so practically today. She did everything for a reason.

“Where we heading?” he asked.

“
We
are headed nowhere. I’ve decided to take your advice and be a photographer today. Your railroad is safe from me. Return to it.”

“I don’t like you wandering around alone.
Too many rough men who could take advantage.”

“I’ve been wandering through worse places since I was fifteen. Besides, thanks to you, all the rough men are now at the worksite.”

He shrugged. “One can never be too sure.”

“True.” She glanced over her shoulder. “You’re
still in town.”

“I shall escort you wherever you like.” He wouldn’t mind escorting her back to her hotel room and continuing where they’d left off. But that would be another game for
Adella. When he took her to bed, he wanted her to be there for only one reason. Him.

“You don’t even know where I’m going.”

“You could tell me.”

She turned her gaze forward, dismissing him. “I could, but I don’t have to. More importantly I don’t want to. I can look after myself. Why are you still here?” Although her voice remained neutral, her body tensed with sudden interest. “Are there additional delays beyond a few missing workers? Has construction shut down?”

“That’s another good thing about the McGrady Gang. They can push forward without me for a few hours. I’m free to assist you.”

“I don’t like being followed. You make me feel—” She clamped her mouth shut and bowed her head as if she regretted her words.

What, Adella? What do I make you feel?

Spinning to face him head-on, she deposited her camera and bag on the walkway, creating a wall between them. “If I don’t move, you can’t follow me.” She folded her arms and her lips flattened into a determined line. “I can stand here all day.”

“I have a better idea.” He scooped up her belongings. Ignoring her startled gasp, he stepped down into the mud and walked around her. Then he regained the footpath and continued on toward the livery. “Why don’t you follow me for a change?”

***

After Cormac procured horses at the livery, Adella followed him east. When their mounts broke free of the mud and found firmer ground outside of town, she urged her mount into a trot.

Despite
Cormac’s comment about her following him, he rode only slightly ahead while carrying her camera and valise. He maneuvered his horse close to hers, matching her pace, leading her while still staying next to her—as he’d done yesterday when they’d walked together. She rode astride, her skirt hiked up to her knees, showing an unladylike amount stocking-clad leg.

His gaze sought her often, but each time he looked away just as quickly…until he caught her contemplating him in return.
“’Tis good you finally decided to photograph the farm widows for real.”

She’d seen too many women suffer during the war and had never held the power to help them. Her guilt for failing the widows had hounded her all night. As had her fascination for
Cormac. She couldn’t do anything about the later except try to camouflage her ardor with shrewish comments.

“It’s good that you’re familiar with horses,” she replied, “and won’t slow me down.” Her lack of sleep should’ve helped sharpen her tone. Instead, her voice sounded unaccountably pleased.

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I come from a family of tenant farmers.”

His humble description breached her defenses. She laughed. “You know more than the backside of a plow horse.”

A smile curved his mouth, making her feel like a family of grasshoppers danced around her belly. “Back home—when it rained and the landlord’s children stayed snug in their home—me and my sister borrowed their ponies and raced across the moors.” A frown twisted his brow and the joy vanished from his lips. “There were many rainy days in Galway.”

Cormac
must miss his family. Even though he’d visited Ireland only a few months ago, it’d be a long time before he could make a return trip. He might never see his family again. A shared sadness tightened her chest.

She tried to infuse her voice with lightness. “You and your sister were a pair of rapscallion children.” She knew the kind well, but only in memories. Luckily those particular memories were good ones.

“Molly was three years older than me and wise beyond measure.” Cormac’s tone was subdued. “I did everything she told me to do, until she was twelve.”

Unease, chill as a north wind, froze her.
“And after that?”

“We had no more time for games.”
Cormac nudged his horse into a canter.

Adella
did the same. His pace left no room for conversations but wasn’t so fast it put either her or her camera in danger. Had his sister taught him that?