Bay City Belle. Shirley Kennedy
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to be all hard, lean muscle. She liked the way he stood, not the least unsure of himself. Just like her father, he carried an imposing air of self-confidence that clearly announced he could handle himself well, no matter what, and nothing could rattle him. She could detect no flirtatious gleam in his eyes, but at least they were filled with interest and a bit of humor. “Have you taken this train before, Mr. McLeish?”
“Never, nor will I ever take it again, other than to go back where I came from, and that’ll be soon.”
“So your visit to San Francisco will be short?”
“Just long enough to say goodbye to my mother. She’s dying.”
“Oh.” His answer hit her hard. Agonizing memories came flooding back. “I am so sorry, Mr. McLeish. It’s never easy. I lost my mother back in ’63, and I’m not over it yet.”
“During the war,” he said.
“Yes, during the war.” She never thought she’d be talking like this, but something about this man caused her to open up in a way she’d never done before. “She died of typhoid during the blockade.”
The moment the words left her mouth, she wished she hadn’t said them. Not like her at all. What was it about this man that made her cut through all her carefully constructed defenses and reveal her personal life? “I apologize, Mr. McLeish. That was uncalled for. I didn’t mean to burden you with my sorrows.”
“You didn’t. I also apologize. I shouldn’t have mentioned my mother. It’s a personal matter.”
“Well, it looks like we got off to a bad start, doesn’t it?”
He smiled. “It’s nothing we can’t fix.” He gazed around him and pointed toward the train. “I was talking to the conductor. Did you know that’s a three-hundred-horsepower engine?”
“Three-hundred-horsepower! My, my, fancy that.” She wasn’t the least interested in the power of a steam engine but gratefully welcomed the change of subject. They stood chatting of inconsequential things until a blast of the train whistle announced they would soon depart.
“It was nice talking to you,” she said.
“Likewise.” He sniffed the air. “I like your perfume.”
Pleased, she answered, “It’s called Fleur de Bulgarie. Queen Victoria wears it.”
“Does she now,” he said with a laugh. “I’m impressed.”
They parted and climbed back on the train. When she got back to her seat, Mrs. Hollister remarked, “I was watching you and the thin Mr. McLeish out the window.” She raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Do I see the start of a romance? You seem to be hitting it off pretty well, and I know he was taken with you. I noticed last night at dinner.”
What did she mean by “taken with you”? Belle would love to ask, but what would be the point? Robert Romano was waiting for her in San Francisco, and she mustn’t forget that. Besides, how annoying. Could she not even talk to a man without this busybody jumping to conclusions? But then… Calm down and don’t be blaming Mrs. Hollister. She herself was at fault. She hadn’t revealed she was about to be married. Mr. Yancy McLeish might be extremely pleasant to talk to, but he was a Yankee, and she, loyal Southerner to the end, should have nothing further to do with him.
* * * *
The day passed slowly. Belle and Mrs. Hollister ate breakfast and lunch in the dining car but saw no sign of Yancy and his brother. The rest of the time, she helped a beleaguered mother, Mrs. Duffy, whose little boy, Billy, had begun to run wild up and down the aisle; and whose little girl, Alice, was driving the passengers wild with her nonstop whining. Belle welcomed the distraction and found pleasure in diverting their attention with simple entertainments such as cat’s cradle. She yearned for all the books she’d bought for her nieces and nephew but had to make do with a tattered copy of The Water Babies, which little Alice insisted upon hearing over and over again. While with the children, Belle stayed away from her own seat. Mrs. Hollister would have thrown a fit if she’d brought squirming Billy to sit on her lap. Only in the late afternoon, while the children were taking a nap, did she return to sit next to her cranky seatmate.
“I don’t see how you do it,” Mrs. Hollister said. “If I hadn’t had a nanny for my three, I would have gone insane.”
Belle hid her surprise. Mrs. Hollister was a mother? Her children must be long since grown, but you’d think she would at least have mentioned them. That’s what mothers did—talk about their children. Not her seatmate, though. “You have three children?” she asked to be polite.
“I had three children. Two of them died.”
The poor woman. What could be worse than losing a child? “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was a long time ago. I still have my son, Malcolm, and his dear wife, Eugenia.”
Belle wondered if she was mistaken or was there a snappish edge to her seatmate’s voice when she mentioned her son and his wife. Either way, she would intrude no further. She was looking for a change of subject when Mrs. Hollister cocked her head. “Why is the train slowing down? It’s not supposed to slow down here.”
“Perhaps for water?”
“No. It doesn’t stop for water here.”
Belle leaned past her seatmate to peer out the window. Sure enough, the train was gliding to a halt on a straight stretch of track. They were still in the mountains, a thick growth of pine trees bordering each side. She couldn’t see much of the train, but nothing looked out of the ordinary. “That’s curious. Why would it stop? There’s nothing here.”
Mrs. Hollister got a stoic look on her face. “It’s probably bandits. Somehow they got on board, and now they’re going to rob us and kill us all.”
Belle started to laugh. “Oh, I hardly think—”
From out the window she saw a man leap from one of the cars ahead, or possibly the engine, she couldn’t be sure. He stumbled and started to run, a desperate urgency in his movement as he headed toward the pine trees. Shots rang out, so many Belle couldn’t count. The man staggered and collapsed on the ground. A group of masked men on horseback emerged from the trees and milled about the still body. They all carried guns. As she watched, one aimed a pistol and fired a shot into the man’s head.
“Oh, my God.” Belle fell back in her seat, hand pressed over her pounding heart. “You were right, Mrs. Hollister.”
At the sound of the gunshots, pandemonium erupted in the car. Women screamed, children cried, men leaped from their seats. Some rushed from the car but soon returned. They could easily have stepped off the train, but the masked men aimed their pistols at them and stopped them cold. Nobody knew what to do. The men simply milled about the aisle until the arrival of Mr. Parkhurst, who’d been in one of the cars ahead. Looking cool and unperturbed, he held up both palms. “Calm down, everyone. Return to your seats.” He waited until all passengers had cleared the aisles and a semblance of order had been restored. “Stay in your seats, ladies and gentlemen. Remain calm. Chances are you’re safe here.”
“What’s going on?” a man shouted.
Someone shouted, “We’ve got robbers aboard!”
More screams and gasps erupted. Mr. Parkhurst stood patiently waiting until he could continue. “Judging from the number of horses, there’s at least eight of ’em, maybe more. Looks like some of ’em sneaked aboard last time we stopped for water. They hid in the tender—that’s the coal car behind the engine—until we got here, the middle of nowhere. My guess is they broke into the engine, got the drop on the engineer and fireman, and ordered them to stop the train at this exact spot. The rest of the gang was already here, waiting with extra horses. It was all carefully planned, that’s for sure.”
“Who was that man running away, the one who got shot?” asked a woman whose voice bordered on hysteria.
“Can’t