Silver Dreams (16 page)

"Three o'clock in the morning," he muttered, disturbed at being wakened in the middle of the night. He rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.

And then he heard Betsy speaking in a no-nonsense whisper. "Leave me alone!"

"Aw, come on, sweet thing," came a slurred reply. "You're up, and I'm up. What's wrong with you and me takin' a little stroll through the train? We can work our way back to the baggage car and see what develops."

"Absolutely nothing will develop, I assure you," Betsy snapped back. "Besides, the state you're in, you'd probably fall off the train getting there!"

"Oh, you're wrong, pretty lady. I'd walk the straight and narrow to get to know you better. And if I was to fall off, I'd sure as hell take you with me."

The curtain by Max's head swayed, and he pictured Betsy shoving the man away from her berth. "I'll scream and wake everyone on this train," she threatened. "You're drunk!"

Oh, dandy, Max thought. Betsy has gotten herself into a real pickle. He sat up and contemplated his next move. He knew he should help her, but if he did, she'd just turn her wrath from that obnoxious sot to him. He actually wished Betsy would alert the entire train, but he knew she'd only do that as a last resort. Well, maybe the scallywag would heed Betsy's warning and wander off.

Lip smacking sounds filled the air around Max's berth, and he knew the guy wasn't leaving. "Come on, baby, just one little kiss.”

That's it. Max reached for the break in his curtain. He had just grasped the material when Betsy's voice stopped him. "I warned you," she said. "I'm getting my husband!"

"What are you talking about?" came the startled reply. "I saw you come back here earlier. You haven't got a husband. You're all alone in that berth up there."

"That's what you think," Betsy said haughtily. "My husband is sleeping in the berth under mine, and I'm going to wake him up right now so he can deal with you."

Max jumped back just in time to avoid Betsy's hand as it protruded through his curtain. "Husband? Wake up.” She groped the air until her fingers grasped his leg. "Someone out here is bothering me. Wake up, darling. Tell this rude man to go away."

Max's berth was now occupied by him, Betsy's hand and arm and, if she wasn’t careful, soon her entire self. There was obviously no escape, so he croaked out in his elderly gentleman voice, "Go away, sir. Unhand my wife."

"See, I told you," Betsy proclaimed. She opened Max’s curtain and sat on the edge of his mattress.

Max gulped.

She waved her hand at the drunk. "Now, shoo!"

The man grunted and headed down the passageway. Betsy released a long, deep sigh.

She draped the curtain around her night dress. "I'm so sorry to disturb you, Mr. Dree. I had just taken an innocent trip to the lavatory when this brute descended upon me.I didn't know what else to do. A man of your obvious breeding can appreciate that I didn't want to bring my embarrassing problem to the attention of the whole train."

Obvious breeding
? Get out of here, Betsy! Flattened against the train wall, Max tugged viciously at the bed linens, trying to pull the covers over his head in a desperate maneuver to hide his face. Unfortunately Betsy’s derriere had landed on his bunched blanket.

She scanned the entire passageway. "He's gone and thanks to you, Mr. Dree, not likely to come back. Mr. Dree?"

He watched her turn toward him as if in slow motion, but not slow enough to allow his hand to find its way to the small shade over his window – the one he left open to let in the moonlight. He was fumbling along the wall by his head when her gaze slammed into his.

She gasped. "Max!"

Chapter Eight

"What have you done with Mr. Dree?"  It was a stupid question. Betsy knew the moment she asked it, but a person can't plan words said in panic. Elizabeth felt a hot flush of embarrassment creep up her neck. "Don't answer that," she said. "What are you doing here? And wipe that smirk off your face!"

He rubbed his leg. “It’s not a smirk, Betsy. It’s an expression of pain. You’re sitting on my foot.”

Once again she was the one caught off guard, while as usual, Max seemed cool as an autumn breeze. “Nevertheless,” he said, “what a surprise, eh?”

Elizabeth didn't remember or care that she was only one of dozens of passengers in a crowded sleeping car, and all the rest of them were attempting to do what the car was designed for. "What are you doing on this train?" she demanded again. "Are you spying on me?" 

A series of
shushes
from down the passageway answered her, and she clamped her mouth shut, having to settle for a firm glare.

"I’m afraid you've made us the center of attention," Max said in an irritatingly smooth voice.

"I'd like to see you in the center of a
gallows
, Max Cassidy, with my hand on the lever!"

"Now calm down, Betsy."

"Calm down? You want me to calm down?" She crawled into his compartment, sat cross-legged and reminded herself to keep her voice low.

Max’s eyes widened. "Look, I didn't expect you to see me. I mean, I didn't think it would happen like this. I can explain."

"I'll just bet you can! You've got an explanation for everything you do. Well, this time your fancy words won't work, because it's obvious why you're here."

"It is?"

"Of course. Despite your protestations and ridicule, you're headed to the Fair Day Mine. You probably want that silver all for yourself!" 

Elizabeth’s temperature began a slow boil and scorched its way to her scalp. She was surprised her hair didn’t combust. From the odd way Max was looking at her, maybe it had.”

"Now hold on just a minute,” he said. “I can't want something that I don't even believe exists."

"Hah! That's just part of your plan. You
do
believe it. You believed in Dooley all along, but you didn't want me to know you did."

He shook his head and gave her an incredulous stare. "You couldn't be more wrong, Bets. I still firmly believe your guest of honor on this trip is a few ounces short of a pound. If I thought there was any silver in his mine, I'd say go find it, and hand you a pick ax. But I don't." 

She narrowed her eyes at him and searched his face for trickery. "All right," she conceded. "Maybe you don't care about the silver. I can almost believe that, but then, why are you here and why have you been hiding and using a ridiculous alias?"

The answer came to her in a jarring bolt of illumination and she quivered with fury. "The story!” Max put his finger to his lips and she clamped her mouth shut and counted to ten. “You want the story, and you don't want to have to share it with me. I gave you this story. Max. You're a thief and a cheat!"

"Okay, you're partly right. I'm here to get a story. I don't even really want to be here, but it's my job, and for your information, the lead came from my editor, not from you."

Keeping his voice low, he leaned toward her. "I didn't steal your story, and I don't want your silver. And I've been disguising myself because I knew you'd jump to these very conclusions. If you even find that mine, I'll be surprised. And if there's any silver in it, I'll...I'll..." He paused and tilted his head, obviously trying to think of an ending to his sentence.

"Tell you what I'll do," he said at last. "You write your story and I'll write mine. If you show me a vein of silver in that so-called Fair Day Mine, I'll share my byline with you. Then you can publish whichever account you think is best under the name Elizabeth Sheridan."

For a moment she let his generous offer influence her. This could be her big chance. A story of her own, or one shared with the great Max Cassidy. Either way...

He smiled. “You’re thinking about it. You know it’s a good deal.”

Oh, no, Max, she thought. I’m onto your tricks. "You think I can't write a good story on my own?” she said. “You believe I’ll pick your story and be happy with half the credit!”

"Actually that’s not what I believe at all. I’m predicting that you won't want credit for the story I'll write because your brother is likely to come out looking like a sucker...or worse. And in your heart you know that."

He’d stopped her. Was that true? Deep inside did she question her faith in Dooley and Ross? "That would make you happy, wouldn’t it?” she said. "Mr. truth-is-the-truth Cassidy. That’s your motto no matter who gets hurt."

He shrugged. "That's what good reporting is all about, Betsy."

Max had presented Elizabeth with a challenge, and she loved a challenge. She smiled sweetly at him, pleased that the simple gesture seemed to unnerve him more than her outbursts moments before. "I've got a better idea, Max. We'll both write our stories...the truth as we each see it. And when it's all over, we'll see whose story comes closest to the facts."

His brow furrowed. "I won't hold back, Betsy. I'll tell it like it is."

"I wouldn't expect you to do anything less."

"But what if you discover things you'd rather not know?"

"You mean about Ross?”

He simply stared at her.

“I'm not made of glass, Max, and I won't break. I’ve been disappointed before...not that I expect that to happen this time, but if it does, I'll recover."

“Okay, then.” He stuck out his hand. “Deal.”

Elizabeth grasped his hand and shook it firmly. He smiled at her with those mysterious blue eyes and she felt his touch in a tingle that worked its way up her arm. A deal had been struck. Tempers had cooled. And Elizabeth became alarmingly aware of her surroundings, behind a curtain with a man she had once thought herself attracted to.

What was she doing holding Max’s hand longer than required to seal a deal? Why was she staring at his sleep-tousled hair, as soft on his forehead as a little boy's? And his chest...it was as bare as the day he was born, except for dark springy hairs that narrowed to the intriguing point of a triangle. Thank goodness the sheet was tucked around his waist, but what girl wouldn't wonder about what was left to the imagination? Her lips curled, not a smile exactly. Strange.