Montana Man. Jillian Hart
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or shouted threats from the bounty hunter and his men. When the sound shrilled again, she realized it was only the train whistle. Goodness, she felt foolish.
The conductor reached down to help a frail old woman onto the bottom step. She moved carefully, and while Miranda didn’t want the woman to fall, she wished the line would move a little faster. The back of her neck started to prickle—she could feel those dangerous men gaining ground. She couldn’t let them find her, she couldn’t—
“Well, now, Josie.” The man’s voice, deep and tender as twilight, again cut through Miranda’s thoughts and the noise surrounding them. She turned just enough so she could see him lean closer to speak with the small child in his arms, forehead to forehead. “I got a confession to make. I’m afraid to walk all that way.”
“You ain’t afraid of nothin’, Uncle Trey, not even the train.”
Miranda couldn’t help herself. Unable to tear her gaze away, she peered past the brim of her bonnet at the man’s profile and the charming grin that turned his chiseled face from handsome to breathtaking. She felt drawn toward his tenderness, something she’d seen so little of in her own life or in her years volunteering at Children’s Hospital.
And she was amazed that this man, so big and strong, didn’t seem diminished, less masculine, for his gentleness. It tugged at her heart like a thousand midnight dreams. The anxiety cold in her veins felt small when compared to the warmth of this man’s treatment of the child he held—a niece, not a daughter of his own.
“Suppose we do decide to walk through the mountains all the way to my house. Now, there’s all sorts of dangers to a man on foot,” Josie’s Uncle Trey confided. “A wild buffalo herd could trample me. A bear could decide I’d make a fine supper. I could develop a bad case of bunions from walking in these new boots. You wouldn’t want that, now, would you, Red?”
“Yes.” Josie looked up at the train, tears pooling in her big green eyes. Fear lived there—true as a spring morning, fresh as rain.
“Now, how am I going to do my job with bunions?” He tried to keep his voice light, but he glanced up at the diminishing passenger line and the sound of the engines ready to go. Miranda saw his panic and more, much more. “If I get a whole lot of bunions, I won’t be able to do more than limp. How would I make house calls? When Mrs. Watts gets another rash, I’ll have to say ‘Sorry ma’am, I won’t be able to limp over and ease your misery.’ C’mon, do your old uncle a favor and get on the train.”
“But the tr-train m-might c-crash again.” The little girl laid her cheek against his wide chest and sobbed. “That’s how Ma and Pa died.”
“I promise it won’t happen again.” Deep lines of anguish matched the choked sound of his voice. “Honey, there’s no other way to get to my house. Not this time of year. There’s a storm coming up, and the mountain passes are closed—”
“I don’t wanna new home.” Although the little girl’s voice was quiet, hardly more of a sound than the wind, the suffering in her voice rang as loud as the biggest bell—sharp, pure, true. “I want my ma.”
“All aboard!” the conductor’s call pierced like a knife, and Miranda realized everyone had boarded the train except for her and this man and child.
“I don’t want to force her.” The doctor’s voice drew her gaze and she realized he’d noticed her watching them—it was hard to miss. She was standing with her back to the train, her hands to her mouth, tears pooling in her eyes when she should be safely hidden on the train. Standing in plain sight like this—
Her toes slid forward, bringing both feet and all of her closer. What was she doing? Every instinct screamed at her to turn around, that this wasn’t any of her concern, that she had her own life-and-death problems.
And yet deep in her heart, the little girl’s words resonated over and over. That’s how Ma and Pa died. All her life, she’d never been able to walk away from a child who needed help. Not one.
“I could use a hand.” His gaze flickered with relief, and she could see the anguish in those eyes as dark as a moonless night, deep like shadows. “This train is about to roll down those tracks, and I’ve got to find a way to get her aboard. I hate to force her after the accident.”
Miranda saw the brace wrapped around the child’s stick-thin leg, the steel still shiny and new. She remembered the train wreck of a month ago—twenty-seven days, to be exact.
She’d disembarked from that fated train here on that same day. She’d been asking the ticket clerk directions to a respectable boardinghouse when she’d heard the crash in the distance. Minutes later, a ball of fire rose on the western horizon.
Thirty-six people died and many more were injured. This little girl had been one of them. Agony twisted through her, her goal to escape unimportant. She turned her back on the street.
“Don’t be afraid.” Miranda took a step nearer, unsure if there was anything she could do for this frightened, hurting child. She had to try. “Your uncle is right. Trains don’t always crash.”
The little girl didn’t look up. She clung to the strong doctor, her light red curls shaking with each tortured sob.
“Josie is a very brave little girl.” Grief darkened the uncle’s eyes, revealing a steady substance that drew Miranda closer, and she lowered her defenses just a little.
“I can see that. But the train is starting to move.” Her heart gave a little jolt when she saw the wheels turn once, and then again. The creak of steel upon steel and the groan of the loaded cars on the tracks filled the air.
“Looks like I’ll have to carry her on—” Regret laced his voice as he straightened, holding the girl captive in his arms.
“No-o-o-o, Uncle Trey, don’t m-make me.” The sobs came, genuine and sharp with fear. “I don’t wanna get hurt again.”
“Hurry.” Miranda’s hand tightened around her satchel’s grip, not sure how best to help the frightened child. She saw a black bag alone on the platform and grabbed that up, too. “We still can make it.”
“We have to. I’m sorry, Josie.” Anguish drew deeper lines across his face as he began jogging with the child, who struggled in his arms.
Miranda saw his remorse in the pinched lines around his expressive eyes and the fine cut of his mouth, drawn tight with worry for the child. He ran along the edge of the platform toward an open door.
As the long line of cars continued to slide away, one by one, Miranda saw in her memory the train wreck, surging back like the leading edge of a Montana blizzard—harsh and swift and without mercy. She smelled the acrid scent of smoke, imagined the stillness after the world-altering screech of steel impacting steel, heard the passengers crying out in grief and fear and pain.
She’d hurried to help those she could then, and she ran to the uncle and niece now, her hand brushing the hard, lean curve of the doctor’s upper arm. She felt a flash of heat through his wool coat and her kid gloves where they briefly touched. But her gaze was only on the child, a little girl so fragile it looked as if the wind could blow her away as easily as it drove delicate snowflakes to the ground.
“I know what you need.” Miranda heard an explosion of gunfire behind her, pivoted, and saw the band of men riding hard down the nearby street.
The train continued snaking away, car after car lumbering by as Josie’s Uncle Trey stopped running and turned to study her with eyes dark with hope. “What you need is a good-luck charm.”
“Ain’t no such thing.” The child’s eyes shone with unshed tears.
“Sure there is. I have one hanging around my neck right now.”
“It’s just a locket.”
“Just a locket?” Her hands trembled as she heard the approaching thunder of horses growing louder and closer. She lifted the chain over the knot of hair pinned at the