Home by Morning (12 page)

He might not be able to keep
Eho'nehevehohtse
with him, but he could still protect her from Marsh. He looked around, his mind searching, planning. When he saw the choir woman move through the door into the station, he hurried toward her, dragging
Katse'e
by the arm. “Bessie Prescott!”

The woman stopped halfway across the waiting area, saw Thomas, and smiled as he and Lillian crossed toward her. “Why, Mr. Redstone. Mr. Marsh decide he want me to keep Lillie after all?”

Unsure what that meant, Thomas brushed the question aside. “You live close to this place?”

“Just through those trees yonder.” She pointed out the front window and past the field where Thomas and Lillian had shared a chicken dinner the night they had first arrived. “I do loves the sound of a moving train, I surely do.”

He thrust the crying girl at her. “You will watch Lillian until I return.”

One dark brow rose. “I will?”

He glanced back, saw the train pulling away. “Please!”

“Hurry!” Lillian pushed at him, her words garbled with panic.

“You must do this, Miss Prescott. It is important.”

Chewing her bottom lip, the black woman looked down at the sobbing girl, then up at Thomas. “Well, I suppose . . .”

“Nia'ish—
thank you. I will return,
Katse'e
,” he called back as he dashed out the front doors and across the street in front of the depot.

He ran into the field. Past the stump where Lillian had perched with her box of chicken—past the men taking down the big white tipi—cutting north toward the curve in the tracks
at the edge of town. He crashed through brush and trees along the tracks until the sound of the locomotive roared in his ears and he saw the last car ahead.

Lungs burning, he lengthened his stride. Breath rasped in his throat. His heart kicked against his ribs. A few more feet. He stretched out, his hand clutching at air. Then, using the last of his strength, he lunged.

His palm slapped against the handrail by the steps. Struggling to keep a handhold on the cold metal, he let himself be towed along until he could swing his foot up onto the steps. Gasping, he pulled himself up onto the rear deck, then slumped against the wall, chest heaving, his legs shaking beneath him.

As soon as he caught his breath, he crossed the rocking platform to peer through the glass in the top of the rear door.

The car was nearly full. All of the seats faced away from him and most of those along the aisle were taken. On the right inside wall, near where he stood, was a narrow door. From his earlier train trips, he knew it led into a storage space. A good place to hide. Several feet deeper into the car, behind the last seats, stood a small coal stove.

Thomas reached for the latch, then whipped away from the window when a black man in the white coat of a railroad steward stepped out from the other side of the stove and walked toward the rear of the car.

*   *   *

Pru couldn't stop shaking. Couldn't keep the tears at bay. She knew Brother Sampson, on the bench facing her, was looking at her in concern, but with Marsh sitting on her right, she dare not speak.

What could she say, anyway? The reverend knew why she was doing this. He knew what Marsh was capable of, and if he hadn't tried to stop him before, why would he now? With every clack of the wheels over the joints in the track, her spirits sank lower. The only thing that consoled her was that at least now Thomas and Lillie were safe.

I'll go back. As soon as I present my proposal I'll board the first train to Colorado. If Marsh lets me.
She might have made a pact with the devil, but she'd had no choice. Surely Thomas would understand that. Wouldn't he?

Unless Marsh killed her first.

Brother Sampson leaned forward. “Are you all right, Miss Lincoln?”

Pru forced a nod. “A chill, that's all.”

“Hot tea might help,” the demon beside her said in a jovial tone. “Sampson, go see if the steward has some.”

Like the puppet he was, Brother left.

Marsh saw her disgust and chuckled. “Don't give me that look. The good reverend is simply a tool, just like you.”

“I wonder that he puts up with it.”

“He puts up with it for the same reason you do, Miss Lincoln. I help you achieve your goals, and you help me reach mine.”

“Without a care to those you harm in the process?”

But was she any better? How many times had she put her goals first, making promises to Thomas she didn't keep? The idea that she might not be so different from Marsh sickened her.

“Ah. You're talking about Redstone now, aren't you? Upset that he got roughed up while abetting a wanted felon?” Marsh met her surprised look with an oily smile. “Blame yourself for that, my dear. I warned you what would happen if you persisted in that Underground Railroad foolishness.”

How had she ever allowed this evil man into her life?

“Oh, don't take on so,” Marsh said in a bored tone. “He's just an Indian.”

Pru stared down at her clenched hands. “I hope you have the poor luck to meet that Indian in a dark alley someday.”

“He may not live that long.”

Her head flew up. “What do you mean?”

“The road to Colorado can be quite perilous, I hear. He and the pickaninny could have an accident along the way. One never knows.”

Pru itched to slap him. Dig her nails into his eyes. Kick that smile off his face. “If you hurt Thomas or Lillie—”

“Hurt them?” Marsh spread his hands in a show of innocence. “How could I do that while I'm sitting here on the train with you?” When she didn't respond, he let his hands drop back to his lap and shrugged. “But then, accidents do happen.”

Pru looked blindly out the window, almost breathless with terror. He was toying with her just for fun. She should have let Thomas kill him. Or jumped off the train and run back to
them. She thought she was keeping them safe, but instead, she might be sending them into worse danger.

*   *   *

Thomas stepped again to the window in the rear door and looked inside.

The steward had his back to him, loading coal into the stove. The aisle between the bench seats was empty.

Knowing this was his best chance to get into the car unnoticed, Thomas slipped silently through the door, then froze when he saw Reverend Brother Sampson rise from his seat in the middle of the car and step into the aisle. As the reverend turned and started toward the steward, Thomas quickly opened the narrow door by his shoulder, saw coats swinging on hooks, and ducked inside.

Leaning against the outside wall, almost deafened by the clacking of the wheels beneath his feet, he pulled the knife from the sheath at his back and waited.

*   *   *

When Brother Sampson returned to his seat, Pru noticed he was frowning. With an air of distraction, he reported that the steward had no tea, but they could get some at the next stop.

“Thank you,” she said through stiff lips.

He didn't respond, his face thoughtful as he gazed out his window.

Pru wasn't sure which made her more nauseated: the clove-scented pomade of the man beside her, her emotional state, or the rocking of the railcar. She comforted herself with the notion that if she did vomit, she would aim it at Marsh.

They sat in silence for a time, swaying to the motion of the railcar and trying to ignore the tension building between them.

Finally, with a sigh, Marsh rose. “Think I'll brave the cold and take a turn out back.” Smiling, he pulled a cheroot from the inside pocket of his overcoat and strolled toward the rear observation deck.

T
homas huddled in the cloak closet, impatience gnawing at his gut. He wondered if Reverend Brother Sampson had seen him.

After he had ducked inside, he had heard the black men talking about tea. After a minute or so, the reverend had left. Thomas was glad. He did not want to hurt him. He wished the steward would leave, as well, but could still hear him rustling around outside the closet door, whistling to himself.

Then the whistling stopped and a new man spoke. It was hard for Thomas to hear his words over the noise of the wheels, but he recognized the voice.

Marsh.

Excitement made his heart race. Holding the knife ready, he pressed his ear to the door and listened as the voices came closer.

“Yessuh, the observation deck open,” the steward was saying. “But it right cold out there with the train moving. Best button that coat, lest you take a chill.”

“How long until the next stop?”

“'Bout an hour or so. It's only a water stop, so we'll be on our way again pretty quick.”

Thomas tightened his grip on the knife hilt as footsteps sounded in the hallway only inches away.

The outside door opened. Cold air rushed through the gap
between the closet door and the floor. For a moment, the clacking of the wheels sounded louder, then abruptly faded when the outside door clicked closed.

Thomas waited to see if the steward would leave. When he realized he wouldn't, he quietly opened the closet door and stepped out, staying flat against the wall so he would be harder to see from the observation deck.

“Jesus Lawd,” the steward choked out when he saw Thomas standing there.

Thomas showed him the knife. “Do not speak.”

The steward blinked at it, his mouth hanging open. “Yessuh.” Then hearing that he had spoken aloud, he clapped a hand over his mouth.

Thomas opened the closet door and pointed with the knife. “Inside.”

Without hesitation, the shaking man stepped into the closet. “Please don't hurt me,” he whispered into the coats hanging in his face.

“I do not want to.” Thomas leaned closer to whisper into his ear, “But if you ever tell anyone I was here, I will come in the night and put my knife in your throat.”

“Oh, Lawd . . .”

“Sleep,” Thomas said, and brought the hilt of his knife down on the back of the steward's head. Catching the unconscious man before he hit the floor, Thomas laid him against the wall, checked that he still breathed, then stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

The aisle was empty. Through the glass window of the rear door, he saw his enemy standing at the back rail, feet braced for balance, hands clasped behind his back. A wisp of smoke curled around his head before the wind sucked it away.

Thomas drew in a deep breath and let it go. His hand was steady. His heart beat fast and strong, and vengeance sang through his veins.

He opened the door.

*   *   *

“What do you mean Thomas is on the train?”

Brother Sampson winced, then motioned for Pru to lower her voice.

She looked nervously around, but the passengers seated nearby continued to chat with their seatmates, stare out the windows, or doze, their heads bobbing to the motion of the train. “You saw him?”

He nodded. “When I went to ask the steward for the tea, he slipped into the cloak closet by the rear door.”

Pru blinked in confusion. She had seen Thomas and Lillie on the platform when they'd pulled away from the station. How had he gotten onto the train? “Was Lillie with him?”

“I didn't see her. I think he was alone.” When Pru started to bolt from her seat, Brother quickly motioned her back down. “I suggest you stay put, Miss Lincoln. When he's ready to contact you, he'll make himself known. No use drawing unwarranted attention.”

Reluctantly, Pru sat.

“Why is he here?” Brother asked

“I'm not certain.” It definitely wasn't part of their plan. “But I suspect he's come to save me. He's like that. Very protective. The Cheyenne in him, I suppose.” A new fear sent her leaning forward. “Please . . . you won't tell anyone he's here, will you?”

“Not unless it's necessary. Protect you from what? Marsh?”

Pru nodded. But she was more concerned about Thomas. “Maybe we should do something.”

“What do you suggest?”

A new thought struck terror. If Marsh found out that Thomas was on the train, he would—
No!
She couldn't finish the thought. “Marsh made me get on the train. He threatened to send Lillie back to the school and have Thomas arrested if I didn't. I don't know how Thomas figured it out, but—what if something happens to him?”

“Miss Lincoln.”

She didn't realize she was gnawing her thumbnail until the reverend pulled her hand away.

“Do you believe in the wisdom and mercy of our Savior?”

She stared at him, taken aback and a little put out that he would start preaching at her when Thomas might be in danger. “Yes. Of course I do.”

“Then have faith.” Releasing her hand, he sat back. “He will provide.”

“Perhaps. But maybe we should do something anyway. In case God or Thomas needs help.”

*   *   *

When the door behind him clicked closed, Marsh turned and saw Thomas standing there. The cheroot dropped from his mouth, releasing a spray of hot sparks as it bounced down the front of his coat. “Redstone!”

Thomas stepped forward.

“What are you doing here?”

Another step.

Marsh leaned back against the railing, his gaze pinned to the knife in Thomas's hand. “Put that away before I have you thrown off the train, you goddamn Indian!”

Thomas took another step.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“I have come to kill you.”

Marsh sidled away, coming up against the chain at the top of the steps. He looked down at the brush rolling past, saw they were starting over a high trestle, and his breathing changed. “I-I'm not armed.”

“I am.” Another step.

“If you hurt me, they'll know it was you.”

“How? I was at the station when the train left. Many saw me, including the two lawmen who watched us.”

“The steward—”

“Sleeps.” Thomas took one more step, then stopped. Only three feet separated them. A knife slice away.

Marsh pressed against the chain, shaking like an aspen leaf. “For God's sake, man, don't do this!”

“You threatened Prudence Lincoln. My
wife.
You sent men to kill me. You took my daughter away.” Thomas tossed the knife from his right hand to his left, watching the fear build as Marsh's eyes followed the movement. “I am Cheyenne. Did you think I would do nothing?”

“I'll pay you!”

“I have not come for money.”

“Then what? Anything you want! It's yours. Just ask!”

Thomas smiled. “I want to see you fly.”

As understanding dawned in the pale fox eyes, Thomas
kicked out, driving the heel of his boot into the center of Marsh's chest.

With a choking sound, the man flipped over the chain, thudded once against the steps, then disappeared from view.

Holding a roof brace, Thomas leaned over to watch his enemy fall toward the canyon far below. When the man's head bounced off one of the braces and the screaming stopped, Thomas straightened.

A sense of triumph filled him, and a relief so strong, he shook with it. He wanted to give a war cry and raise his fist in the sky. Instead, he slid the knife into the sheath at his back and took a deep breath. When he let it go, some of the fury that pulsed within him went with it.

It was over. He had not failed her.
Eho'nehevehohtse
was safe.

Feeling weary and drained, he stepped through the door to check on the steward, then stiffened when he saw Brother Sampson standing in the narrow walkway, looking at him.

The black man did not seem surprised—or happy—to see him. “Where's Marsh?”

“He left.”

“Left? The train?”

Thomas did not answer.

Brother Sampson thought for a moment, then nodded. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

Thomas did not know how to respond to that, so he remained silent.

“Are you leaving, too?” the black man asked.

“I have done what I came to do.”

“And Miss Lincoln—I mean, Mrs. Redstone? Will you take her with you?”

Thomas shook his head.

“You're letting her go on to Washington?”

“It is her purpose.”

That seemed to confuse the black man. “What about you?”

“My purpose is done.
Eho'nehevehohtse
is free now to follow her path.”

Which seemed to confuse Brother even more. “She knows you're on the train. I told her I saw you when I went to speak to the steward.”

“Tell her you were wrong.”

The reverend started to speak, then frowned and looked around. “Where is the steward? You didn't hurt him, did you?”

“He is resting.” Thomas nodded toward the cloak closet. “When he wakes, you will help him. You will also remind him he did not see me. Nor did you.”

Brother Sampson thought for a moment, then held out his hand. “I understand. And I wish you well, Mr. Redstone.”

Relieved that he wouldn't have to hurt this man, Thomas accepted the handshake. “And I wish the same for you, Reverend Brother Sampson.” He studied the twisted fingers in his grip, then lifted his gaze.

Seeing the question Thomas did not ask, the reverend explained. “I dared to touch a white woman. As punishment, my master had a wagon driven over my hands.”

Hiding his disgust, Thomas released the crippled fingers.

“And because I dared to love her,” the black man added with a bitter smile, “they took my manhood, as well.”

Thomas recoiled, understanding now why the man seemed so soft . . . so sad. “Did you kill the ones who did this to you?”

“For a long time I wanted to. But the man who found me bleeding in the ditch taught me a better way.”

The notion was strange to Thomas, so he said nothing.

“I'm telling you this,” the reverend went on, “so you'll know your wife is safe with me.”

“I think she would have been safe, even if you had not been cut.”

Brakes squealed. They both swayed for balance as the train slowed and couplers between the cars banged against one another. Thomas felt the floor shift beneath his feet and sensed they were going into a curve. At the front of the train, the steam whistle shrieked.

The reverend braced a hand against the wall as the car jerked and bounced. “We must be slowing for another bridge.”

“Good-bye, then,
nesene
—my friend. I will remember you.” Turning, Thomas opened the door onto the observation deck.

“Is there anything you want me to tell your wife?”

Wife.
Another promise broken. But Thomas had no more anger left. If
Eho'nehevehohtse
did not want to stay with him, he would not make her.

“Tell her I understand.” And letting the door swing closed behind him, he vaulted over the railing and dropped into the brush beside the tracks.

By the time the car carrying
Eho'nehevehohtse
rolled over the bridge, he was jogging back the way they had come, the voices of his spirit guides echoing in his mind.

*   *   *

Hearing footsteps behind her, Pru twisted on the bench seat to see Brother Sampson coming from the rear of the car. “Did you see him?” she whispered as he sank into the seat across from her.

“I did.” Pulling a wadded handkerchief from his pocket, he scrubbed at a stain on his hand. A red stain. Blood.

Panicked, she leaned forward. “Is he all right? Is he hurt?”

“Ssh. He's fine.”

When Brother started to slip the kerchief back into his pocket, Pru grabbed his arm. “Why is there blood on your hand?”

“It's not his,” Brother murmured. “It's the steward's.”

The steward's?
Sweet heaven.
What had Thomas done?

Seeing her look of alarm, Brother leaned close to add, “The man fell and nicked his head. That's all. He's fine.”

Speculation ran rampant. “Fell how?”

“He doesn't remember.” With a warning look, Brother added, “And he assures me he never will.”

Both relieved and confused, Pru sat back. “What about Marsh?”

“He's gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Thomas said he left. That's all I know.”

Left? The train? Did that mean . . .
“Is he . . .” She couldn't say the word, not because the notion of Thomas throwing Cyrus Marsh off a train horrified her, but because it didn't. What a ghoul she had become.

“Dead? I assume so.”

“How can you be sure? People fall from trains all the time and live to tell about it.” Tait Rylander had. He bore scars from his fall, but he lived.

“We were going over a trestle at the time. A very high trestle.”

It took a moment for the full meaning of his words to sink
in. When it did, relief almost caved in her chest. She began to tremble, buffeted by an onslaught of thoughts and images and emotions.

It's done. Over. Thomas and Lillie are safe. Marsh is gone.
We're free.

Dropping her head into her hands, she struggled to catch her breath. It took a long while for her nerves to settle, and by then, they had reached the next station.

The train rolled to a stop. Around her, people rose from their seats and stretched. Others moved toward the observation deck at the rear of the car.

A giddy sense of euphoria blossomed in Pru's chest. Pulling out the valise stored under her seat, she rose. “I have to go back.”

“You can't.”

“I need to tell him—”

“He's gone.”