Scarlet Lies (Author's Cut Edition): Historical Romance Read online

  "You're looking very pensive," Ryland announced as he entered their car. He placed a large tray of covered dishes on the cherry wood table at Brook's side. "I thought you might want something beyond cold sandwiches and fruit." Ryland dropped into one of the plush armchairs as the train lurched forward. "And it seems I returned just in time."

  "Fool," she said, not unkindly. "The engineer was probably holding back the train for you. His schedule will be off and you'll be to blame."

  "One of the liabilities of owning a considerable amount of stock in this rail line." He glanced around their car, taking in the dark paneling with its richly detailed inlaid wood, the thick carpet beneath his feet, and the sumptuous comfort of the unmade bed. "We can travel like royalty but we have to shoulder the responsibility for everything that goes awry."

  Brooklyn set aside her half-eaten orange and uncovered Ryland's feast. There were steaming fillets of mountain stream trout, boiled potatoes glazed with butter, carrots and peas, baking powdered biscuits, and thick wedges of dark chocolate cake. "Oh, Ryland! This is wonderful! Am I drooling?"

  "A little," he chuckled. Taking one of the plates, Ryland filled it with a generous portion of everything but the cake and slid it across the table toward Brooklyn. "Apparently you worked up quite an appetite."

  Brooklyn gave him an arch look. "I'm eating for two," she said primly. "What we did earlier has little to do with my hunger."

  Ryland heaped his own plate with unabashed enthusiasm. "Well, I'm not eating for anyone but me, and I don't mind admitting what made me this hungry."

  Wrinkling her nose at him, Brooklyn tucked into her late lunch.

  They ate in companionable silence for a while, exchanging silly smiles and glances until they had to laugh at themselves. "Tell me what you were thinking about when I came in," Ryland said. "Dare I hope you were missing me?"

  "Don't flatter yourself," she told him. "I was thinking that I should have insisted we travel by ship."

  "You're not serious."

  "I am. I had no idea how dangerous train travel is."

  Ryland frowned, helping himself to another piece of fish. "What are you talking about?"

  "I spoke with one of the brakemen, and he explained how our very lives hinge on his ability to set the brakes just so." She buttered a biscuit and raised it to her mouth. "You really should pay those men more, Ryland."

  But Ry wasn't interested in wages. "Did you leave this car?"

  "No," she said, swallowing. "You're jumping at shadows and it's absolutely unnerving. I spoke to him from the window. He came this way to deliver a message from the telegrapher." Brooklyn looked around, found it under one of the plates, and handed it to him. "Here. I forgot all about it." Ryland was still scowling. "Really, it was the most innocuous conversation, although I admit I was concerned when I first saw his gun."

  Ryland unfolded the telegram and stared uneasily at the blank page, not showing it to Brooklyn. "The brakeman was carrying a gun?" he asked, his eyes narrowing sharply.

  "Of course. Because of the Indian problem. They have to protect themselves, you know. They're very easy targets on top of those bucking freight cars."

  "Sweet Jesus!" He leaned forward and held up the blank wire for her to see. "There was no message. It was a ruse to gain access to our car."

  "That doesn't make sense, Ry. He didn't even try to come in here."

  "Because I wasn't here. Things have changed, Brooklyn. Someone wants us both dead."

  Brooklyn remembered the brakeman's irritation when she told him Ryland wasn't in the car. And the man hadn't wanted to give her the wire until she insisted that he do so. "He was so convincing," she said in her own defense.

  "Brakemen don't carry guns, Brooklyn. Do you really think they have much chance of hitting anything from the roof of the boxcars? It takes all their concentration to get from one brake wheel to the next. They can't afford to throw themselves off balance by going for a gun. Brakemen drop flat on the roof or climb down between the cars for protection. None of them, none of them carry guns."

  "Oh."

  Ryland rolled his eyes. "Oh, she says. Oh." He shook his head in disbelief. "What were you thinking?"

  "I had my gun," she said frostily, glaring at him.

  "Then you did suspect something was wrong."

  "At first I thought it was odd that he would be wearing a shoulder holster beneath his coat, so I confronted him about it, keeping my gun hidden from his sight. He explained everything to my satisfaction. How was I supposed to know brakemen don't carry guns? He was a brakeman—certainly he knew about his job unless those were lies also—and he had a gun."

  "Tell me everything that happened," Ryland insisted. "Everything."

  Brooklyn pushed away her plate, appetite gone, and explained the situation in detail to Ryland. When she finished, he got up from the table and took his gun belt from where it hung by the bed. Grimly intent, he strapped it on.

  "Where are you going?" she asked anxiously.

  Ryland's response was terse. "Forward."

  Brooklyn came to her feet instantly. "You can't do that. Ryland, you put this car at the end of the train for our protection. You'd have to climb over the boxcars to get to other passenger cabins. It's insane. You can confront this man when we stop in Kansas City."

  Ryland stood in front of Brooklyn and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Listen to me, Brooklyn. That man has to know we've seen the blank telegram by now, and he also knows he missed his best opportunity to kill us. But he hasn't missed his last opportunity."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He's posing as a brakeman, for God's sake. He can go anywhere, do anything, without rousing suspicion. Everything he told you about the brake system is true. He's more than a little familiar with the work. If he tampers with the brakes up ahead, we haven't a chance back here. Have you looked out the window, Brooklyn? Do you see where we are?" He pushed her to the window and drew back the fringed curtains.

  Brooklyn sucked in her breath. The train hugged the mountain on one side, but where she was looking the ground simply seemed to have fallen away. Pressing her face to the glass she spared another glance downward and saw the full depth of the ravine they were skirting. "Oh, God."

  Ryland pulled her away from the window and held her tightly before he stepped back and cupped her chin, raising her eyes to his. "There is something you can do, but it will take a great deal of courage."

  "I can do it," she told him. "Whatever it is."

  "I know," he said softly. "Come with me." Ryland opened the door to their car and stepped out onto the small boarding lip. Directly ahead the dark green boxcar seemed to bounce alarmingly, but he knew it was a normal movement and he reassured Brook. Raising his voice so he could be heard above the train's incessant metallic clicking, he pointed to the black spoked wheel supported at waist height by a single iron rod. "This is the hand brake. Left is loose, right is tight. Understand?"

  She nodded, understanding the words but not Ryland's intention.

  Ryland took her hand and pointed over the rail to where their car was connected to the boxcar. "That's a simple link-and-pin coupling. When I move to the freight car and climb the ladder to the roof I want you to break the coupling with the fire ax." He released the ax from its straps on the outside wall of their car. "You'll have to hook the pin when there's some play in the coupling and pull it up. That will release this car from the rest of the train. As soon as you've done that start tightening the brake. Slowly. You don't want to skid on this mountain. Can you do that?"

  "Yes... no... I don't know!" She accepted the ax that was thrust into her hands and stared at him wretchedly. "Please don't leave me, Ryland."

  "I have to. Everyone on this train is in danger. But if you do what I say you'll be safe. You can release this car and stop it independent of the others. I promise I'll come back for you after I alert the engineer to the problem and have him stop the rest of the train. Just stay in the car."

  "I don't think I'm this
brave."

  Ryland had to read her lips. Her words were carried away on the wind. He cupped her cheeks and kissed her hard on the mouth, and before he thought better of it, climbed over the rail, grasped the ladder on the freight car and began his ascent to the roof.

  Brooklyn stood on the balcony for several moments, frozen with indecision and terror. Tears streaked her face and blurred her vision. She stared helplessly at the point where Ryland had disappeared on the roof of the swaying boxcar. It seemed to her the train was picking up speed, but she told herself she was imagining it. On her left she saw the snow-covered face of the mountain; on her right there was only sky to fill the void between herself and the next mountain peak.

  Leaning over the rail Brook nudged the pin with the blade of the ax. She couldn't move it. Cursing, she dropped the ax on the balcony and fell to her knees. She squeezed her head and shoulders through the support rails and reached for the pin with her hands, trying to wrestle it free. She couldn't budge it. In different circumstances she would have been happy knowing the coupling was so secure; now she swore at it.

  Brooklyn forced herself to think. If she could grease the pin in some way, perhaps she could pry it loose. But with what?

  As Ryland ran across the top of the first freight car he found himself thinking that brakemen did indeed deserve higher wages. That he was thinking of something of that nature now warned him how frayed his nerves were. He pushed the thought aside and concentrated on making the leap to the next car. It was more difficult than he imagined moving on something that was already in motion. He felt totally disoriented. Ahead of him he saw two brakemen climbing onto the boxcars. They moved with much more agility and sureness than he did, setting the brakes to slow the train's descent down the mountain. Ryland pressed on and cautiously drew his gun, very much aware that one of the brakemen might be his quarry.

  The first brakeman Ryland encountered almost lost his balance because of his surprise. He grabbed the brake wheel for support. "What do you think you're doing here?" he yelled, his face mottled with anger.

  Ryland glanced at the man's gaping mouth and saw a hole where one of his front teeth should have been. "I'm looking for a brakeman with crooked teeth," he shouted back. "Do you know such a man?"

  The brakeman simply stared at Ryland in astonishment.

  "Do you know him?" Ry repeated urgently. He held the hand brake with one hand and showed the man his gun. "It's important, damn it! There's going to be a wreck if I don't find him!"

  "How do you kn—"

  "I know! I just know!"

  "You're looking for Ben Giddings," he said. "New man. Just hired him on in Sacramento. One of the best brakemen I've ever worked with. You're wrong about him."

  Ryland ignored the comment. "Is that Giddings up ahead?"

  "No. He's working the passenger cars this shift."

  "You'd better come forward if you want to make it off this mountain alive!" he yelled. Without another word or a backward glance, Ryland jumped to the next car and ran across, body bent at the waist to let the wind slide over his back. He kept his eyes straight ahead, looking neither left nor right.

  Ryland passed the other, equally astonished brakeman without any exchange at all and kept going, finding himself more surefooted and confident with every step until he reached the first of the four passenger cars. While he hesitated, trying to decide if he should go forward and warn the engineer, or if he should simply take care of Giddings himself, Ryland glanced down as the car he stood on shuddered violently and found his decision had been made for him. The pin between the boxcar and passenger car had already been removed. The only thing keeping the cars joined was the weight, pressure, and speed of the freight cars on the descent. At the next curve or if the boxcar brakes were applied too heavily, the coupling would be disengaged and everything behind him would jump the tracks and plunge off the mountainside. There was every possibility that the boxcars would jar the passenger cabins from the track.

  Ryland looked over his shoulder and saw that the brakemen had taken his advice and were hurrying to catch up with him. He hoped they were fast enough. He would not let himself think about Brooklyn, because fear for her safety would have paralyzed him. Checking the gun in his holster, Ryland grasped the ladder and climbed down from the roof. He felt the boxcar shimmy again just as he grasped the rail of the passenger car. The coupling began to loosen beneath him. He hauled himself onto the rear lip of the passenger car and forced open the door to the cabin.

  A part of him realized he must have looked wild-eyed and manic. Several women screamed as he stumbled into the car and drew his gun. One mother pushed her child beneath the seats. Ryland would have liked to reassure them but there was no time. He recognized the conductor in the next car and ran forward to warn him what was going to happen.

  "Mr. North!" The conductor held up his hands in alarm when he saw Ryland's gun.

  "Giddings," he said. "I'm looking for a brakeman named Giddings!" His voice lowered so that it was gravel-rough, slightly breathless, and no one but the craggy-faced conductor could hear him. "He's uncoupled two of the cars. You're about to lose all your freight. Possibly the passengers as well."

  "But your private car is—"

  Ryland's eyes were bleak. "I know. Now where's Giddings?"

  "You just missed him. He's gone ahead to the mail car."

  "Damn it! Warn the engineer if you can." Ryland hurried through the next two passenger cars, eliciting the same terrified response from the travelers. He paid them no heed, moving purposefully toward the mail car.

  Ryland lost his balance as he entered the car because at the moment the train gave a terrible forward lurch. He knew then that it had lost its payload.

  Ben Giddings looked up, startled by the intrusion but not by the train's sudden jolt. He had been anticipating it ever since he removed the pin. The last person he expected to see coming toward him was Ryland North. A bead of sweat formed on Ben's upper lip even as he fumbled inside his buttoned coat and retrieved his gun. Baring his crooked teeth in a feral smile, he was forced to duck below the mail desk as Ryland fired off a shot that came perilously close to his head. Lord! North was like a cat, quick on his feet and with just as many lives.

  "Who sent you, Giddings?"

  Ben Giddings barely heard him. The freight cars made an incredible noise as they tumbled over the mountain. He imagined splintering wood and twisting metal as they bounced and crashed into the ravine, carrying North's private car with them. Too bad about North getting out. Ben wondered about the woman. She was a pretty thing, spirited too, but somehow he doubted her husband could have made it to the front of the train so quickly with her in tow. No, he would have had to leave her behind. Ben Giddings remembered that he had wished her a pleasant journey. It was a nice touch. He hoped she'd realized the irony before her car plunged over the mountain.

  Ben crouched low, trying to get a clear shot from under the desk. He knew the best he could hope for at this awkward angle was to wound North. He fired.

  The thunder of the colliding boxcars and the sharp blast of Ben's revolver made Ryland deaf to his own reason. The bullet that whistled past his kneecap decided him. He didn't care who had hired Giddings any longer. He could place responsibility later. Now he just wanted Giddings.

  Ryland emptied his gun into the flimsy wooden desk.

  Brooklyn walked along the tracks, trying not to stumble in the gravel-filled spaces between the ties. She told herself she had not promised to stay with the car. Ryland had told her to stay, but she hadn't promised.

  Her arms ached from fighting with the hand brake. She had expected that pulling the pin would be the hardest physical work she had ever done. It wasn't. Brook remembered watching the freight cars move away and thinking then that she was alone. Ryland was gone and she was alone and there was no one to stop the car if she couldn't do it.

  The hand brake wouldn't turn a quarter of an inch beneath her sweaty palms. She kicked it, swore at it, and shook it, and finall
y, when she saw the engine ahead of her begin to round a curve, and heard its warning whistle, terror of losing Ryland and the need to protect her unborn child gave her the strength she needed. She twisted the hand brake as easily as if it were a doorknob, applying steady, even pressure until the car slowed and came to a complete halt some twenty feet before the treacherous curve in the tracks.

  She had fallen to her knees then, closing her eyes and covering her ears as the horrible din of colliding, crashing cars reverberated between the mountains. Brooklyn had no idea of how long she remained like that, but it seemed awareness returned to her by degrees. She sensed the shallowness of her breathing and realized there was silence all around her. She felt the thudding of her heart and recognized the stillness.

  Brooklyn moved slowly, almost without thought. She dressed, braided her hair, slipped on a pair of sturdy low-heeled shoes, and began walking along the tracks. She walked because she felt she had to, as if she were compelled by something outside herself to learn the truth, no matter that it might be the most painful thing she would ever have to face.

  At the point where the boxcars had jumped the tracks she paused and, gathering the frayed fabric of her courage, forced herself to look over the mountainside. Nowhere below her did she see the yellow passenger cars or hear the tortured sounds of injured and dying travelers. It was then she allowed herself to hope.

  Ryland saw her first. He was climbing the steep grade some two miles from where No. 849 had finally stopped, and every muscle in his body was protesting the pace he set. He never thought of stopping until she came into his line of vision. Brooklyn was watching her feet, intent on not stumbling as she picked her way across the ties. Her movements were without grace, hurried and uneven, her dress was muddied, her face was smudged, yet Ryland stood mesmerized and knew that she had never been lovelier in his eyes.