Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties #2)(6)

“Is the train rocking? What just happened?”

“It’s over,” she said, trying her best to play dumb. “So, what’s your plan now, Mr. Magnusson? Do we hole up in here for the next, what, eighteen hours, until we make it to San Francisco? Or do we jump off at the next stop?”

“Christ. I don’t know.” He straightened the satchel strapped to his chest and cast one more bewildered look at the fallen luggage at his feet. “What’s your thought on the matter?”

Oh, now he was asking her opinion?

She considered their situation. “No decent-sized stations until Reno, so chances of finding an open ticket office at this time of night are slim to none.”

“Probably right about that. We’d have to sleep in the lobby and wait for the next train, maybe until this time tomorrow.” He blew out a long breath. “And I haven’t been home in nine months. Also haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in several weeks, so waiting’s not my preference. What’s in the next car? Can you peer through the window shade?”

She started for the inner door, but remembered what’d happened on the train’s platform and hurriedly slipped into her coat.

“Too late. I’ve already seen everything.” He turned sideways as he slipped past her. “Highlight of my entire trip home,” he murmured with a merry lilt.

An unwanted thrill chased away any modicum of shame she might’ve felt. For the love of God, what was the matter with her, falling for empty flattery? And why was it so warm in here? She discreetly fanned her face while he peeked into the next car.

“Kitchen car. Looks to be empty.” He motioned for her without looking. “If we get caught, leave the talking to me.”

They hurried through. Fresh-brewed coffee and toasted bread made her stomach groan. The next car was a cigarette-smoke-filled observation room—only one passenger here, and he didn’t even look up from his newspaper when they passed. The next car was a sleeper. A few private compartments lined the left side of a narrow passageway that spilled into the open public area.

“‘Manager’s Office,’” Mr. Magnusson read from gold-stenciled wood. They walked farther. “Ah, here are the compartments.” Occupied, occupied, occupied. The last compartment door slid open, and out stepped a gangly young man in a railway uniform. He couldn’t have been older than seventeen or eighteen.

“Pardon me, sir,” he said, dropping his eyes as he stepped back into the stateroom to allow them room to pass.

“This one’s not occupied?” Mr. Magnusson asked.

“Not at the moment, sir.”

Mr. Magnusson flashed the porter a train ticket. “We were on the 127, my sister and I,” he said, motioning to include her. “They switched us to this train in Salt Lake City. My sister’s husband . . . well, there’s no sense in mincing words. The man’s a mean drunk, and he was threatening her, you see. And she’s got a bun in the oven. A bad situation.”

Hadley’s mouth fell open.

The porter looked as confused as she felt. “Yes, sir.”

“So they were kind enough to move us,” Magnusson continued. “They told us to come aboard, and that the ticket office manager would bring us the new tickets while they called the police—you know, to detain her husband. For her protection.”

“Oh, my,” the porter said, leaning to get a better look at her.

“Only, the train left the station, and the manager never came. So now our luggage is on the 127, and we’re stuck here without a stateroom assignment.”

“No one informed me,” the porter said.

“It happened so fast,” Magnusson replied, shaking his head. “Her lousy husband had a revolver—can you imagine? Pointing a gun at a woman carrying his own child.”

“Ma’am,” the boy said with sympathy.

Hadley responded with a strangled noise.

“Now, now,” Magnusson said, patting her shoulder. “Buck up, old gal. I know you say he only drinks when he’s overworked, but this can’t go on. Daddy will hire you a lawyer. It’s just not safe. You have to think of your child, now.”

“A crying shame,” the porter mumbled.

“Amen,” Magnusson agreed. “Do you think this is the stateroom they had in mind for us?”

“This one? It’s been booked by a party scheduled to board in Nevada.”

“Oh.” Magnusson’s face fell. He turned sad eyes on Hadley. “I know this is upsetting, and you’re exhausted and terrified. I’m so sorry.”

“I’ve already endured so much with you tonight . . . dear brother,” she replied dryly.

The porter cleared his throat. “I suppose the couple who booked the compartment haven’t been through your difficulties. I can put them in an open coach berth, if the two of you don’t mind sharing this compartment.”

Hadley didn’t like the sound of that, not one bit, but her protest was buried under Mr. Magnusson’s overdramatic sentiment.

“Oh, that would be wonderful. Just wonderful,” he said, flashing the porter a grateful smile as he enthusiastically pumped the man’s hand. “We’re both grateful.” He fumbled in his wallet and gave the boy a five-dollar bill. “Do you think you could do us one last favor and bring a pot of coffee and some sandwiches?”