The Railroad Baroness Read online

  “Pardon me,” Lillian said. “Are you in charge of these ladies?”

  “I am.” Her tone and the tilt of her chin dared Lillian to comment further.

  “It appears some of your charges may be in need of medical care and perhaps other necessities, if the fire has claimed as much as it appears. Please allow me and my companions to assist you, Miss...”

  “Mrs. Northrup,” the woman said. It was plain Lillian’s offer surprised her. “That is most…kind of you, Mrs. Cabot.”

  Lillian wondered how the woman knew her name, but realized it wasn’t that unfathomable. She called Aileen and Charles over to join them. “Aileen, can you try to locate Mr. O’Brien in this melee? And Mr. Yorke as well. We’ll need to get these ladies some alternate accommodations until their own quarters can be replaced.” Aileen nodded and began to wend her way through the men battling the fire. “Charles?”

  He gave her a half-smile, as if amused by the way she took charge of the situation. “At your service, Mrs. Cabot.”

  “Please gather Doctor Ritchards and his helpers, if they aren’t already about. He should examine these women, and I’ve no doubt some of the men will need his skills before the night is through.”

  He bowed crisply, a soldier to an officer, and marched off to carry out her orders.

  “Now, Mrs. Northrup,” Lillian said. “If you could dispatch some of your more level-headed ladies to scour the camp. We’ll need spare clothing, of course, but also blankets and sheets for bandages. And definitely more water for drinking and to soothe burns.”

  “As you say, Mrs. Cabot. Violet. Sophia.” The two women who answered the madam’s call were as scantily garbed as the others, but they were dry-eyed and calm. They listened as their employer relayed Lillian’s instructions, then left to carry them out.

  In short order, Lillian and Mrs. Northrup marshaled the women to move to a quieter location, farther from the heat of the dying fire. While burning with less intensity, it was clear it would take the men some time to fully extinguish it. Lillian convinced the proprietor of one of the newly arrived enterprises to make room for the ladies. She set to work, helping him shift boxes of tobacco, candies, jugs of syrup and canned peaches against the walls of his tent. With almost a dozen women crowded inside, quarters were cramped.

  When Violet and Sophia returned, they led in a couple of men pressed into service to carry the fruits of their scavenging. Almost on their heels, Charles ducked inside with two more men in tow. One, short of stature, but with a solid compactness and an air of self-confidence, carried a large black satchel. He was young enough to have just left school, Lillian thought. Still, Charles’s introduction confirmed her surmise that this was the doctor, Evan Ritchards.

  “Mrs. Cabot,” he said, bowing slightly over her hand as he shook it. The rich, rolling accents of the South flavored his words. “If you’ll forgive me, I only have a short time to spare for these ladies. I’ll take a quick look, but unless I find something requiring my specific attention, my assistant,” he gestured to the other man, “Collins can see to them. Some of the men fighting the fire have been burned quite badly, and their injuries must take precedence.”

  “Of course. I understand. Some of the ladies have been burned, but not severely. I think the shock of their ordeal is their greatest injury.”

  “Not unexpected,” he agreed. With a parting nod, he left Lillian and Charles to make his way through the tent, Collins close behind him. Lillian watched to assure herself that, though Ritchards didn’t linger, he paused beside each woman. After speaking briefly to his assistant, then Lillian and Charles, he took his leave. The tent flap still stirred from his passage when a large hand shoved it open to allow Aileen to enter, followed by the hulking figure of the camp’s cook.

  “Lillian,” Aileen said. “Mr. O’Brien believes he and his helpers will be able to assemble some quarters for the women to use for the immediate future from supplies he has on hand.”

  “Aye, ’twould be fairly simple,” he agreed. It was hard to discern where his heavy black beard ended and the soot on his face began, evidence of his own efforts in fighting the blaze. If anything, he looked even more imposing without the food-stained apron tied around the barrel of his body. The muscles of his chest were clear under the damp fabric of his shirt, cuffs rolled up almost to his elbows.

  “Excellent, Mr. O’Brien,” Lillian said. “I hoped you would be able to help.”

  “Just give me a few more hours, missus, while me and the lads help with the fire. Then we’ll see about getting the doves in a cote.”

  His words puzzled her. Aileen’s discomfited expression was more eloquent, and Lillian belatedly realized that by “doves” he referred to the prostitutes.

  “Whenever you can will be fine, Mr. O’Brien. Until then, I would be grateful if you could spare a lad to perhaps prepare some food and drink for the ladies, to help take their minds off their ordeal.”

  “Aye, that I can do. Just let me collar one of my boys, and he’ll set you up right.”

  Lillian watched him leave, and noticed she wasn’t the only one. Aileen met her eyes and flushed, then busied herself with a flustered straightening of her skirts. Lillian opened her mouth to speak. Charles forestalled her.

  “Now that the ladies are taken care of, perhaps you should consider returning to your quarters,” he said, holding his hand up when she would have protested. “You have arranged for food, drink, shelter and clothing to see them through the night. I am certain Mrs. Northrup can take it from here. In fact, I think it would be better if you left everything else in her hands.” He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “I believe you make her nervous.”

  The warmth of his breath brushed against her skin, and she shivered. He smelled of soot and sweat and fading cologne, but under that his scent called to her, man to woman, virile male to acquiescent female. She couldn’t help thinking of what he and Conn had proposed, that she should indulge herself with both of them. Just the thought made her nipples furl in greedy anticipation.

  Embarrassed that she could feel desire when there were far more serious matters to contend with, she sought out Mrs. Northrup with her eyes. The madam didn’t look nervous to Lillian. Instead, she appeared to be fully involved in a low-voiced conversation with Doctor Ritchards’ assistant as the man efficiently smoothed salve on a woman’s palm. Violet and Sophia, too, were busy. One moved about the cramped space with a bucket of drinking water, while the other handed out blankets and scavenged coats. Even John Smithers, the proprietor, had a task, unbending enough to open cans of his precious peaches to offer to the women. As Charles said, everything seemed well in hand.

  “Since I’m not needed here, I should see if I can help Doctor Ritchards with the injured men.”

  When she would have walked away, Charles stayed her with nothing more than the touch of his fingers, brushing aside a lock of auburn hair that had fallen against her cheek. She must look as disheveled as the women around her.

  “Lilly,” he said, his voice low, intimate. Inexplicably, the diminutive sent a frisson of pleasure through her body. “Go back to your car. I know you want to help, but the urgency is over. This can be a rough and tumble place with rough and tumble men. Surely you realize that after you saw Conn and Rueben’s friendly tussle.”

  That was too much. “Friendly tussle? I hardly think so.”

  “Believe me, it could have been much worse. But we’re getting away from my point, which is that you’ll be safer in your private car. Let me and Conn be your eyes and ears here. I swear, we will keep you informed of everything that happens.”

  She wavered. Where Yorke’s concern irritated, Charles’s touched a place deep inside her. It was true. Mrs. Northrup would likely prefer to carry on without her. It couldn’t be comfortable for her to deal with a woman of Lillian’s class, no matter her aplomb. And Doctor Ritchards impressed her as a capable sort.

  Aileen’s evident exhaustion finally convinced her. Her companion would never leave th
e camp without Lillian. “All right,” she said to Charles. “But only if you promise to tell me the instant I’m needed.”

  The corner of his slim, mobile lips quirked in a smile she couldn’t mistake for anything other than sensual. “Oh, I will. Rely upon it.”

  Chapter 9

  “In the hierarchy of the train camps, the site boss is king. He rules the work crews and the camps, enforcing deadlines, driving quality and making sure things in general go the way they should. He has the power of life and death over the men, sometimes literally. Woe betide the man who crosses the site boss.”

  — Charles Lowell Adams, Dispatches from The Iron Road, Great Western Rail Company

  Lillian stared at Yorke and Thomas Devereaux, the site boss. As the man in charge of making sure everything ran smoothly, from crew assignments to ensuring construction met project deadlines, Devereaux carried a heavy load. Lillian knew her father liked and respected him. She even shared his feelings. Usually. When she wasn’t faced with horrible news.

  “Am I understanding this correctly? The dynamite is missing?”

  “Not all of it,” Devereaux said. His bluff face showed his anger clearly, despite his effort to sound controlled. “A few cases.”

  “I see,” Lillian said. “Exactly how many cases?”

  “Five.”

  “And the men guarding the munitions tent?”

  “Left their posts to help fight the fire. The theft wasn’t noticed until this morning, when one of the foreman arrived to make arrangements for some to be shipped up the line for his crew. They’re to begin preliminary blasting of the tunnel tomorrow, and he wanted to make sure all was in order.”

  “We’re fortunate he was so conscientious,” Lillian said. “Rather convenient that the fire was able to draw them away just after the dynamite shipment arrived.”

  “Isn’t it?” Charles said, sotto voce. She looked at him. He and Conn were still at the breakfast table when Yorke and Devereaux arrived.

  She turned back to Yorke and the site boss. “Mr. Devereaux, organize a search of the camp, a discreet one. Also, if you haven’t already done so, question the guards. Perhaps they made note of any unusual attention, anything out of the ordinary in the hours leading up to the fire.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Cabot.” With a brusque nod, he left to set the search in motion.

  Almost to herself, Lillian said, “I’ll have to write to my father and inform him of this.”

  “Allow me, Mrs. Cabot.”

  “Oh.” She waved a hand, dismissing Yorke’s offer. “Thank you, Mr. Yorke, but it’s best that I include this in my report. There are some other matters I need to address as well, and it may as well all go in the same missive. I would appreciate it, though, if you could track down whoever Mr. Devereaux has put in charge of aiding Mrs. Northrup and her ladies and make certain that they are well-settled.”

  Brittle silence, and then, “You wish me to see that the prostitutes are settled? I beg your pardon, but I refuse to be associated in any way with such females, as should you, madam. A lady in your position must know better. If your father—”

  “Yorke.” Conn’s voice, low as it was, held unmistakable warning.

  “Lillian is simply showing compassion,” Charles said. His tone, while milder than Conn’s, was just as steely. “I am certain her father would do the same.”

  “Yes,” Lillian said. “As am I. If you really feel uncomfortable doing this for me, Mr. Yorke, I’ll see to it myself. Those women wouldn’t be here if not for the railroad. Getting them back on their feet is the least we can do.”

  Yorke nodded stiffly. “I’ll speak to O’Brien. If there is nothing else?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll be riding out with Charles shortly to visit the site of the new tunnel, so I likely won’t see you until the evening meal.”

  “As you wish.” Yorke stalked from the car, every step full of affront.

  Satisfied he was beyond hearing, Lillian narrowed eyes on Conn and Charles. Gently tapping one fingernail against the side of her teacup, she said, “Gentlemen. While I appreciate your support, in future, please allow me to handle Mr. Yorke. It wouldn’t do for him or anyone else to think I am not up to the task of managing my father’s business, even if only temporarily.”

  Charles nodded his head in a faint bow of apology. “You’re right, Lillian, my apologies. But it’s hard to resist when Yorke is…”

  “An ass,” she finished. “I know. But my father trusts him as his secretary, and he really is much easier to manage with firm respect.”

  Conn chuckled and lifted his coffee to his lips. “Respect. Aye, I noticed how well he appreciated your respect when you ordered him to see to the lightskirts.”

  Exasperated, Lillian huffed out a breath. “Will you just let me handle him?”

  The Irishman held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. Yorke’s all yours.”

  “Thank you.”

  Conn pushed away from the table and got to his feet. “You two have your plans set for the day. I’d better be about mine.”

  His eyes touched on her mouth, and for a moment, Lillian thought he might lean down and kiss her. Instead, he gave a single, satisfied nod—one she interpreted as a promise to do just that, later—and strode from the car, leaving her alone with Charles. He, she noticed, watched her face as well, lips tilted up at the corners in a satyr-like smile.

  He set aside his napkin and got to his feet. Holding out his hand to help her from her chair, he said, “Shall we?”

  A shiver tickled Lillian’s spine, but it had nothing to do with fear or trepidation and everything to do with desire and anticipation.

  What had she gotten herself into?

  She took his proffered hand and looked at him through her lashes. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  * * * *

  Plunging into the bustling camp, Yorke was so incensed he could barely see where he was going. The woman was beyond the pale. There was no other explanation for it. Her outrageous behavior had only gotten worse since they left Boston. Watching fistfights, breakfasting with that bastard Irishman, lowering herself to associate with whores. If only Boston’s elite could see their precious Mrs. Lillian Cabot now. Her father’s darling, her dead husband’s devoted wife, the toast of society—only he knew the truth. Behind her sweet smiles and cultured façade, she was a tease. In Boston, he noticed the way the friends of her father and husband flocked around her in her widowhood.

  Even here in the wilds, it hadn’t taken her long to find new intimates. It was obvious Lowell Adams was taken with her. As for Maguire… Yorke’s lip curled. Whatever could a lady in Lillian’s position see in such a ruffian? Flirting with the man was unthinkable for a woman of her class, and yet there she was, sipping tea and laughing with him at her table.

  Yorke roughly shoved a small figure out of the way when it didn’t move quick enough to avoid him, his ears deaf to the boy’s colorful curses as he stumbled and barely stopped from falling. However, the annoyance was a reminder that he likely shouldn’t be so obvious about his destination. Yorke glanced around. Convinced no one paid particular attention to him, he sidled between two tents. Swiftly, he navigated the canvas and wood maze until he reached the agreed-upon meeting place. Murchison was there ahead of him.

  Seated on an upright barrel, the man whittled a narrow rectangle of wood with a knife that seemed too large for the task. Curls of pale wood covered the ground around his scuffed boots, testament to his wait. The man didn’t look up as he approached. All Yorke could see was the top of a dusty brown hat covering brown-blond hair and an unshaven chin.

  “You started the fire?”

  Murchison shrugged, not taking his eyes from his whittling. “You said you wanted trouble. You didn’t specify.”

  “So I did. I only asked to be certain.”

  “Do you really need to know?”

  Yorke thought. His secret employers didn’t care how he accomplished their ends, only that the work on the tracks of the Great Western
Railroad was, if not stopped, at least slowed. There was government money to be made in land and mineral rights for the company that reached the goals set out by Congress. Of course, that money would only go to the first company to meet the government’s deadline for completion. It was a race to the finish, and Yorke intended to do what he could to ensure the Great Western Rail Company didn’t win it. He had had some second thoughts before leaving Boston, but Lillian Cabot’s increasingly hostile attitude and condescending dismissal changed that.

  “No,” he said finally. “I don’t.”

  Murchison unfolded from the barrel, revealing his height. He was so tall he seemed thin, though the width of his shoulders and chest belied that. He tucked the woodwork—Yorke thought it might be a whistle—into his back pocket. Idly, he thumbed the tip of his knife. The blade rasped against his work-roughened skin. His blue eyes were cold, impassive. Yorke suppressed a shiver of unease, telling himself it was distaste that he had to deal with such an individual.

  “Good, then,” Murchison said. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Mr. Yorke. I’ll take care of the details.”

  Yorke nodded stiffly. Satisfied, the man left with a negligent finger touch to the worn brim of his hat. Neither man spoke a farewell. Such courtesy didn’t play a part in their relationship. They had been hired to do a job. That was all. With Murchison’s skills, Yorke was confident it would be completed in short order. He thought of the other man’s dead stare. This time, he couldn’t suppress the instinctive shudder. Lillian Cabot really had no idea what she faced.

  Chapter 10

  “Many site bosses are pleased to count the Chinese among their crews. They work hard, and skillfully, without complaint. Some have said that any race that built the Great Wall of China can build a railroad—a difficult point to refute.”