Forever in My Heart Read online

  "What the hell do you think you're doing wearing that?" he demanded roughly.

  Maggie was startled by the harsh question. The waiters were not even out of earshot. Frowning, she looked down at herself, then at her faint reflection in the windows of the car. She liked the cut of the rounded neckline, the fullness of the short velvet sleeves. The peplum bodice made her waist look fashionably small without wearing a corset and by contrast, her hips looked more curved. The skirt's train was stiffened with a lining of muslin so the gown held its elegant line, and there were velvet bands and satin pleating at the front. The claret highlighted the same rich hues in her hair and gave her cheeks color without any artifice.

  Whatever small confidence she had gained by putting on the gown was effectively shattered. She blinked several times, holding tears at bay, then she raised her chin, her mouth set stubbornly, and sat down at the table. "I didn't dress to please you," she said quietly, not meeting his eyes. "I dressed to please me."

  Jesus, Connor thought, running his hand through his dark hair. She didn't understand. What the hell did she see when she looked in a mirror? he wondered. Not half of what he saw, obviously. He dropped his hand to the back of the chair and yanked it away from the table. It scraped against the Oriental rug, causing a ripple. He kicked at the rug and sat down on Maggie's left.

  Connor lifted one of the silver serving domes and passed the platter of sliced roast lamb to Maggie. She took a small piece and added mint jelly to her plate. Out of the corner of his eye Connor watched her reach for the covered breadbasket. He waited to see if she would fall out of her bodice. When she didn't, he didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

  "Saloon girls cover more of their breasts than you," he said tightly.

  Maggie did not think anyone had ever said the word breast in front of her before, not if they weren't referring to game hen or turkey. Mortified, her fingers tightened around her fork to keep from dropping it. She swallowed hard and replied with credible calm, "I don't know about saloon girls. This is the latest fashion in New York." She hadn't wanted to take the gown at all, she almost said. She'd known she wasn't going to have many opportunities to wear it, perhaps none at all. Skye had insisted and Maggie had given in. "And don't tell me we're not in New York any longer," she added. "Because I already know that. I won't have occasion to wear it again and my... my—"

  "Breasts."

  "My bosom will be adequately covered in the future." As far as she was concerned the subject was closed.

  Not so with Connor. He grasped her chin and forced her to look at him. The hardness of his features was tautly defined. "Make certain that it is, Maggie, or accept the fact that we'll be sharing a bed before our divorce." His eyes burned her with their coldness. "And if you get pregnant again, I'll make damn certain there's a baby this time."

  Chapter 8

  Maggie jerked away from Connor's grip and stood. Her hand swung back in a wide arc and came rushing forward.

  A hair's-breadth away from making contact with his face, Connor seized her by the wrist. His grip pressed bruisingly against her pulse until her fingers uncurled. The fork clattered on her plate.

  The sound of it caught Maggie's attention. She stared at it lying on the fragile bone china, a fork again, not a weapon that could have scarred Connor permanently or blinded him. She was trembling with fear.

  He was shaking with anger.

  "I'm sorry," she said, her voice small and choked. She didn't meet his eyes. "I've never—" She stopped because he wasn't standing beside her any longer. He slammed the rear door to the private car so hard that Maggie felt the shudder roll through her.

  She sat down slowly. The aroma of their dinner seeped out from under the silver covers. What had been appetizing was now only nauseating and Maggie, careless of convention or the elegant line of her gown, huddled in her chair, her knees drawn up to her chest, trying to smother all feelings of sickness. She sat that way for a long time, her mind very nearly a blank as she stared straight ahead, her withdrawal from everything around her complete.

  When she finally moved, Maggie was stiff from her contorted posture. She limped and stretched on her way back to the sleeping car. She let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding when she found the car vacant. She didn't give another thought to where Connor might have gone to vent his terrible anger; she was simply grateful to be alone.

  Maggie lit one of the oil lamps and pulled down the blinds in all the windows. Her eye caught the "Just Married" banner, and she tore it down, balled it up, and pitched it under the desk. She was in the middle of undressing when she heard the waiters returning. From their laughter and sniggering in the other car, she knew the scenario they had assumed from the untouched meal. Maggie's troubled eyes fell on her empty bed. They couldn't have been more wrong.

  After she finished undressing and put on her nightgown and wrapper, she made up the bed and found extra linens for Connor. She took them to the dining car and laid them on one of the sofas. After a brief hesitation, Maggie arranged the sheets and blankets on it and found some throw pillows for her husband to use. She tested the comfort of the sofa, stretching out and turning on both sides to measure its length and width. It only took her a few minutes to realize that Connor would be hopelessly uncomfortable with the arrangement.

  She thought of the bed and of the things Connor had said to her earlier. There was no question of sharing it. It was a matter of giving it up. The decision was taken out of her hands as she fell asleep thinking about it.

  * * *

  When Connor returned to the station, it was minutes before midnight and only seconds before No. 454 was scheduled to leave. He had no sooner boarded than the train started to pull away. He stood on the balcony a moment, wondering if he should retire to the sofa or enter the sleeping car and risk another argument with Maggie. The muted light slipping out from under the drawn blinds warned him that Maggie was waiting up for him. He wondered if she had been worried that he was going to miss the train—or praying for it.

  Connor stared at the door to the sleeping car for several long moments. He thought about having to sleep in his clothes, about not being able to wash, about not being able to stretch all night long if he chose the sofa, or not being able to relax all night long if he chose the floor. Then he thought of Maggie's eyes, the hurt and haunted look, the pain of betrayal. He turned to his left on the balcony platform and entered the dining car.

  The car was dark and he didn't bother lighting a lamp. The aroma of their uneaten meal still clung to the air, but a quick sweep of the dining table told him that everything had been taken away. His stomach rumbled and his mouth watered, but there was no satisfying either. He sat down on one of the sofas and began taking off his shoes. His grin was self-mocking. He was getting used to his needs going unsatisfied.

  His shoes hit the floor with a mild thump. He removed his socks, then stood up to shrug out of his jacket and waistcoat. Both those items were tossed in the direction of a wing chair. One hit, the other missed.

  Connor tugged at the tails of his shirt and pulled them free of his trousers. He unfastened a few buttons and rolled up the cuffs. A haphazard search for some pillows turned up nothing. He didn't find any blankets or sheets but then he hadn't really expected Maggie to think about his comfort.

  He stretched out on the sofa, wondered if the other one was in any way more suitable, and fell asleep thinking he should have given it a try.

  * * *

  Sunlight filtered in under the drawn blinds. Maggie could feel it pressing at her eyelids, trying to slip under her lashes. She shifted her position and placed a forearm over her eyes. The rolling motion of the train was comforting, the steady clacking of the wheels over the track, reassuring. Maggie yawned, stretched. She raised her forearm and started to get up.

  Connor turned on his side. His shoulder was braced uncomfortably against the curved arm of the sofa, his neck supported at an unnatural angle. One of his calves dangled over the side of the
cushions, the other foot over the far end. He stretched, rolled again, and this time landed facedown on the Oriental rug.

  Maggie bolted upright while Connor groaned. She slid off her sofa and knelt on the floor beside him, placing a hand on his back. "Are you all right?" she asked, alarmed when he didn't move. "Is there something I can do?"

  He didn't raise himself to look at her but merely shook his head slowly.

  Maggie touched the back of his neck with her fingertips. His hair looked nearly black against her pale skin. Afraid of a rebuff, her touch was tentative as she sifted through his hair searching for abrasions on his scalp.

  Connor held himself very still as her fingers threaded through his hair. Her touch was a whisper against his skin, yet he felt it all the way to his toes. He stood it as long as he could, then he turned on his back and stared up at her. Her hand hovered just above his cheek, suspended momentarily before she began to withdraw it. Connor took her by the wrist and drew it back.

  Maggie winced when his fingers closed over the delicate underside of her wrist. He released her immediately and let her cradle her hand protectively in front of her.

  "Did I hurt you?" he asked. His touch hadn't been rough, merely firm. He sat up. "Let me see."

  She shook her head. "No, it's all right."

  Connor's eyes narrowed. Where they had been sleepy a moment before they were alert and biting now. "You really can't stand for me to touch you, can you?"

  Surprised by the terse accusation, Maggie's mouth parted slightly. Defenses rushed to her mind but all were left unspoken. She put out her wrist instead and let him look. He didn't deserve protection from the consequences of his actions.

  Connor's eyes dropped from Maggie's pale face to her extended arm. Her skin was mottled with a bracelet of ugly blue bruises. He could make out the placement of his fingers by the dark shadows that colored her skin. He knew he hadn't done the damage a moment ago, but hours ago, when she had raised her hand against him.

  Maggie removed her arm from his line of vision and stood. There were not going to be any apologies because they would have been meaningless. They would hurt each other again, not physically perhaps, but in more deeply profound ways they would draw blood.

  "Did you sleep here all night?" he asked, running a hand through his hair.

  She nodded. "I left the bed for you." She didn't add that it had been unintentional.

  Connor leaned against the sofa. He rubbed the back of his stiff neck, shutting his eyes briefly. "That won't be necessary from now on."

  She didn't argue. "Very well." Her voice was stiff, almost priggish. She couldn't seem to help herself.

  "I was thinking that I might wait for another train at Pittsburgh."

  "That isn't necessary."

  "We'd probably arrive in Denver only a few days apart. You could wait with your sister until I get there."

  Maggie tightened the belt on her robe. "I would have to wait in a hotel," she said without inflection. "I can't go to Michael's without you."

  He was silent a moment. "So no one in your family's going to know about the divorce until after the fact."

  "That's right."

  "Are you certain you want it that way?"

  Coldness seeped back into her voice. "Very certain."

  "Then I'll stay," he said after a moment.

  Maggie didn't acknowledge his decision. She simply turned to go. She was on the point of leaving when she heard him say, "But there have to be rules."

  Connor got up off the floor and released some of the blinds. They flew upward, rattling in their shuttle. Sunlight was burning off the fog as No. 454 made the last slow descent from the Allegheny Mountains in central Pennsylvania. He looked over his shoulder and saw Maggie was still at the door, her hand curled around the knob. She was waiting for him to expound on his idea about rules. He offered her fruit from their bon voyage basket instead.

  "I wish I had been able to find this last night," he said, extending an orange toward her. When she remained where she was he shrugged and began peeling it himself. He nudged a chair away from the dining table with one bare foot and sat down. "I was starved."

  Maggie's hand dropped away from the doorknob but she didn't move into the room. She fiddled with the end of her braided hair. "There's a covered picnic basket on the wing chair over here." It was partially hidden under his discarded jacket. She was surprised he hadn't found it last night. "I think it was meant for our lunch yesterday."

  "I'll look later. This is fine for now." He split open the orange. Droplets of sweet juice splashed his knuckles and he sucked it off.

  Watching him, something twisted inside Maggie. Her mouth, which should have watered at the sight of the orange, went dry instead. "What sort of rules?" she asked hoarsely.

  "That we spend as little time together as possible," he said. "That you don't wear fancy ball dresses. That you don't stand there playing with your hair, looking sleepy-eyed and desirable and beautiful. That you don't touch me or let me—" He stopped because Maggie had fled the room. She hadn't heard everything he had to say, but he thought she had gotten the message. He stared at his hands. They were shaking.

  * * *

  For the remainder of the journey Maggie rarely left her car. It had become hers by virtue of the fact that she had taken one of Connor's absences to move all his belongings to the forward car. With the exception of the monogrammed sheets, she had managed to erase all other traces of him. They ate meals together when the train stopped along the route, but Connor never made another attempt to have their dinner served to them privately. They shared meals in hotels in Columbus, Indianapolis, St. Louis, and Kansas City. The porters brought breakfast and luncheon baskets to them, but as soon as they were gone, Maggie retired to her car with her portion and Connor remained alone in the dining car.

  As No. 454 rode the rails inexorably toward Denver, Maggie struggled with loneliness. In her family she had often been the one off by herself, often alone, but never lonely. She had always had somewhere to turn, someone waiting who was eager, even happy, to include her in their adventure or hers. Connor had made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with her, that as far as he was concerned she was a pariah. For the first time in her life, cut off from her family, Maggie found herself physically sick with the pain of separation.

  She never let on that it made her ache to be so isolated. The only person she could have told was the same person who wasn't interested in hearing it. Maggie knew that Connor often went to the forward cars. He played poker with a changing succession of travelers in second class, found conversational companions in first class, and even played with some of the poor children confined with their immigrant parents in the crowded third-class cars. She knew this because sometimes he mentioned it in passing, and although she wanted to hear more, she never asked.

  She found herself crying at odd times, for no readily apparent reason. She blamed Connor at first, but it seemed unfair, so in the end she took the burden on herself, accepting it as more of the ripple effect from her painfully made decision.

  Maggie paid attention to what she was wearing when Connor was around. She chose simple, modestly cut day dresses even if she was meeting him in the evening. The colors were gray and brown, sometimes with a small print and cuffs and collars in contrasting fabrics. She didn't mind his edict about her wardrobe because she was wearing precisely the clothes she was most comfortable in, the ones she had thought were suitable for her work with Dancer Tubbs. She arranged her thick hair in a single braid, sometimes coiling it at the back of her head, most often letting it swing loosely at her back. There were days when she knew she wasn't going to see Connor that she didn't bother dressing at all, days, in fact, in which she did not rise from her bed.

  Self-pity was something new to Mary Margaret. Sometimes it frightened her that she might live her life that way. Sometimes she didn't care.

  * * *

  They were less than twenty-four hours outside of Denver when Connor made an unannounced v
isit to Maggie's car. She was curled in the large leather chair behind her father's desk, reading a book. It was late in the afternoon, too early for dinner, but her eyes automatically strayed to Connor's hands to see if he was bringing her something. She couldn't imagine any other reason for his visit.

  He watched her eyes dart to his hands and knew what she had expected. "Does it matter?" he asked. "You wouldn't eat it anyway."

  He sounded almost angry, Maggie thought. "If you've come to pick a fight then you may as well leave," she said. She was pleased with her tone, pleased that she could manage the right amount of indifference. She opened her book again and began to read. Maggie didn't comprehend a single word but she took comfort in the fact that he didn't know that.

  Connor sat on the arm of one of the wing chairs. "We're going to be in Denver tomorrow," he said. "I've asked the conductor to wire your sister at our next stop so she'll know when to expect us. The question is, what are we going to do about you?"

  In spite of her desire to ignore him, that drew Maggie's attention. She closed the book and dropped it on the desk. There was enough force behind her action to make it slide halfway across the polished surface. "What about me?"

  Connor began to wonder which of them was really spoiling for a fight. He kept his voice carefully neutral but said bluntly, "Frankly, Maggie, you look like hell."

  Knowing it was true didn't make it any more palatable. She wished she could have said the same of him, but the reality was that the farther they traveled from New York, the more Connor Holiday seemed to thrive. He no longer wore black waistcoats and tailored jackets. His shirts weren't starched and his studs weren't gold. He had abandoned brushed flannel trousers in favor of the ubiquitous pants of the west: jeans. Silk shirts were replaced by cotton and chambray and his short vest was scarred brown leather. The most jarring difference in his appearance was that somewhere between St. Louis and Kansas City, Connor had begun to carry a gun.