Silver Dreams (15 page)

Drat the rotten luck!  Max dropped his forehead to the cool marble of the floor and considered the disastrous consequences of Betsy being on the train. She must be determined to take this trip since she was settling for the accommodations of common folks. Winston Sheridan could probably buy and sell the Penn Central Railroad, and his only daughter was reduced to sleeping in a berth for the next five nights.

Even if Betsy managed to avoid the riff raff of ordinary travelers while she journeyed west, Max knew he would have a hard time steering clear of her all the way to Colorado. But that's exactly what he had to do. For five days he'd have to avoid bumping into her or Dooley Blue. That meant cautious trips to the lavatories and hardships procuring meals. He surely couldn't frequent the dining car.

He heard the snap of the latch on Betsy's reticule and the next second her hands grasped the handles of her valises. With a stride equal to her single-mindedness to get to Colorado, she breezed by his bench in a swish of green fabric and gold braid. He slid out from under the bench just in time to watch her exit the depot, her ticket clamped between her teeth. He grabbed his own scarred leather satchel and followed her out.

Max witnessed the reunion of brother and sister from the walkway connecting two passenger cars. Ross obviously had no idea Betsy was coming. Once he recovered from the shock of seeing her, his enthusiasm for having a loyal supporter grew. He bestowed enough charm on his sister to transform her initial anger into forgiveness. And apparently convinced her that everything about the adventure was on the up and up.

Max suspected that Betsy didn’t know how the expedition was being financed, or she wouldn't participate so eagerly. And judging from past experience, it would take a visit from Galbotto himself with a fistful of greenbacks held out to Ross for her to believe her brother had taken money from him to back their venture. If Max knew anything about Betsy, it was that she was a stubborn and opinionated woman. And her opinion of her brother was not based on reality.

Watching Betsy become the willing third member of fortune hunters was not easy for Max. He chewed the end of a pencil until it snapped off between his teeth. He couldn’t ignore just how much he disliked Betsy's brother. The sorry snake didn't deserve the blind adoration and unconditional support his sister seemed determined to shower upon him.

It rankled even more to realize that Betsy didn't extend any kindly sentiments to Max. She openly resented his efforts to protect her from her slithering sibling. And her disgust would only multiply if she were to see him on the train and discover his reason for being there. This assignment was turning into the most difficult one of Max's career, and he had to admit that perhaps he’d allowed his emotions to become involved. Regret, second guessing, worry. Emotions a reporter could not sustain. Along with perhaps another one, hard to define and even more devastating.

The day passed without incident, however, as Max was able to keep an eye on his subjects without being detected. From the rear of the passenger coach, he recorded snippets of their conversation overheard from behind the cover of an open newspaper. At dinnertime, while he ate a sandwich behind a post on a crowded loading dock in Harrisburg, he watched the Sheridan party eat in the luxury of the dining car.

Sleeping accommodations for the principal players had been assigned in different cars, and Max lost track of them when it was time to retire for the night. It was quite late when he located his own lower berth near the lavatory at the end of one car. He gratefully crawled onto the narrow mattress, drew the privacy curtain, and prepared for bed. Removing his pants, vest and shirt, and wearing only his long johns, Max propped himself against his pillow, turned up the gas in the single globed jet by his head, and reviewed his notes from the day.

He hadn't covered the first page when he noticed a pleasant fragrance in the passageway. He leaned toward the slit in his curtain and sniffed. Oh, no, the fates couldn't be this cruel, he thought as the light floral scent registered in his brain as not only alluring, but familiar.

The aroma lingered outside his curtain when a soft padding of footsteps stopped. Then the heavy canvas fabric covering his berth swayed slightly as his "berth mate" brushed it while climbing the outside ladder to the upper bed. She left the tantalizing fragrance in her wake to tease Max's senses in a most disturbing way.

He'd definitely noticed that Betsy Sheridan preferred that same scent. His rational side argued with the part of him that tensed with mounting anxiety. There had to be thousands of ladies in Manhattan who chose that cologne. What are the chances that the female perched above him was the one he was most intent upon avoiding? 

A soft illumination spilled down into the narrow crack between her bunk and the train wall, and Max realized that the woman had lighted her own gas jet. A night owl, too, he mused with an indifferent shrug. Satisfied that he would not imagine trouble where none likely existed, Max settled back once again and turned his attention to his notes.

This time his work was interrupted by an innocent statement spoken in a light, conversational tone. "I hope my light doesn’t bother you.”

His eyebrows shot up and his gaze snapped to the upper berth as if he could somehow see through the panel of metal and mattress and confirm his worst suspicion. But he didn't have to see her to know. The Cassidy luck was running true to form. Yes, indeed. Betsy Sheridan was going to be sleeping not three feet above him for the next five agonizing nights.

He sensed her rolling and twisting. “These beds take some getting used to.”

A response seemed necessary so he uttered a monosyllabic answer. “Yup.”

"I always read at night,” she said softly. “But if my light bothers you, just say so and I'll turn it off."

"Hmm."

"Did you board in Manhattan?"

"Uh huh."

"I'm going all the way to Colorado. Are you going that far?"

He croaked, sputtered, avoiding a direct answer. He knew he must sound like an imbecile or at best someone who had been raised by wolves, but what was he to do? Why the hell did Betsy pick midnight on a speeding westbound train to illustrate her talkative side? Hadn’t anyone ever told her not to strike up conversations with perfect strangers? But then, remembering her general euphoria during this whole day, Max wasn't surprised that her cheerfulness encompassed even her "berth partner."

"By the way," she continued in her ebullient good humor, "should you need my attention, my name is Miss Sheridan."

No kidding. "Oh."

"And you're Mr...?"

A name...she wants a name. For a man who dealt in names every day of his life, spelling them correctly, double checking their authenticity, often even chuckling over their absurdity, Max couldn’t come up with a single one. He frantically searched the cramped area around him looking for something he could use as a name. His gaze locked on the brass plaque tacked to the wall above his toes.
Dream-Away Mobile Beds, Elkhart, Indiana.
"Mr. Drea..."  No, that was ridiculous.

"Mr. Dree?"

His face tightened into a self-punishing grimace.

"How unusual. What is it?"

How the blazes did he know? Could he possibly say, "It's Hoosier," and get away with it? Not likely. Finally, out of desperation, he barked in the same low voice he had used to answer her other questions, "Short."

She chuckled. “But what I meant was...well, never mind. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Dree. Goodnight."

"'Night."  Max quickly extinguished his light, and in a gesture reminiscent of his childhood, covered his head with his pillow. For all he knew, Miss Sheridan might just pop open his curtain and offer her new friend sleeping advice!

The next three days passed in a nerve-wracking game of hide and seek for Max. While he had to continually hide from the group he'd come to call the Fair Day Three, at the same time he had to seek them out and record their activities. He employed every tool he'd ever learned to make himself inconspicuous in a severely confined environment.

The nights, when Max should have looked forward to peaceful anonymity, were the worst because for some reason, Betsy tried her best to get to know the fellow who bunked below her. To respond to her curious questions, Max perfected his voice to what he thought was the mellow timbre of an elderly gentleman, someone who, he believed, shouldn't be of interest to a young woman. Unfortunately, his chosen persona only seemed to make Betsy more determined to befriend him.

At the end of each day, when they were settled behind their privacy curtains, Betsy continued to initiate conversations through the narrow opening separating their compartments from the train wall. She inquired as to his health, and whether or not his hours had passed pleasantly.

Once she even asked him if he had anything she could read. He almost laughed out loud when he considered the materials lying beside him on the bed...his notes concerning the Fair Day party, and the latest copy of the
True Detective Gazette
which he’d picked up at the last station. Both of these choices would have destroyed his cover. Luckily he remembered the edition of the
Kansas City Sun
he'd purchased that day as well, and he stuck his hand through her curtain and slapped it on her bed.

Max always answered her queries politely, but with a strict aloofness that should have discouraged her from expanding their relationship. He didn't know how he would handle it if she suddenly decided they should meet for tea or a meal in the dining car. To avoid such an invitation, Max had to remain the well-mannered but distant, old Mr. Dree.

When they both turned out their lights, Max lay awake listening to Betsy's subtle movements above him as she made herself comfortable. He knew when she’d fallen asleep and regretted that he was not so fortunate. The image of her lying within an arm's length of his reach wouldn’t fade from his mind.

His mind played tricks on him well into the night. He wondered what she looked like in slumber. Was her hair spread across her pillow in rippling auburn waves, or was it neatly plaited and lying over her shoulder? He assumed that since she was traveling in crowded conditions, her night attire was modest. But did the collar of her gown close snugly around her neck, or was it open, revealing the slender pale throat and chest which he'd seen in the carriage that night at the Dorchester?

In his imaginings, Betsy’s skin reminded him of smooth, pale ivory, and thinking of it made him wonder if the buttons of her gown extended all the way down the bodice. And if so, how many were there, and could they easily be loosened?

These were not proper questions for Max to be asking himself as he tossed and turned in his narrow bed a mere three feet away from the object of his fantasies, especially considering that he was as different from Elizabeth Sheridan as almost anyone could be. But on the last night of their journey, Max thanked the fates that the train would arrive in Denver the next day. Though he still had to pursue his story, he could finally put some breathing distance between him and Betsy. The thought should have pleased him and brought the sleep he sorely needed, but instead he punched his pillow in frustration, while he pictured Betsy hugging hers close to her chest.

In the middle of that last night, Max was awakened from his doze by voices in the passageway outside his berth. His foggy brain didn't immediately respond to the person speaking. He turned up the flame in his jet to see the pocket watch he'd left swinging from a hook by his head.