Strangers on a Train Read online

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  Contents:

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  Chapter One

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  Ben paused between two cars of the train, hearing the small puff of sound in his ears that sometimes signaled an attack—a flashback or a few moments of lost time. It had something to do with the injuries he'd suffered in that last shattering battle—an experience he had never quite been able to piece together in his memory.

  He wrapped his fingers securely around a handhold next to the sliding door that led to the passenger car. Fragmentally he thought about trying to get to the safety of a seat. The edges of his vision lit with a soft fur of excruciatingly bright light, and the unwelcome but all-too-familiar sensation of tingling spread through his body.

  Looking through the open door of the unmoving train, he focused upon the station with desperate attention, forcing himself to note each tiny detail. It was a small building set against a backdrop of girders and underpinnings that supported the highway. He noted the flat roof and pale bricks of the new station, plopped down like a computer chip into the debris of nineteenth-century industrial-revolution buildings. At the periphery of his vision, bits of flame licked at the furry light. He tightened his hold on the bar and stared at the doorway of the station.

  Into the halo of light stepped a woman. For a moment, he thought she was a specter created by his imagination to further confuse the time warp of the scene—one of the ghosts his mind continually conjured up when he was in this state. She emerged from the station with a case in her hand, into the gray light of the dark, fall day, in a gloom made denser by the St. Louis air. She was neither small nor particularly tall, and a long black coat hid her figure to below her knees. But Ben was transfixed, unable to decide whether she was real or a vision.

  She had yards of golden hair spilling over the black velveteen coat; it cascaded over her shoulders and down her arms and back, falling well past her waist. The crown was woven into what seemed to be a series of braids, worn like a cap.

  He continued to stare as she moved toward the train, mesmerized by the fantastic beauty of that hair. As she drew closer, his gaze lit upon her face, an oval as pale as the overcast sky, unremarkable except for the eyes, which were a very dark blue. There was something distinctly medieval about her and he knew she had to be a phantom created by his seizure, even when she climbed the stairs and the details of her personage grew more and more definite. "Titania," he breathed.

  "Pardon me?" she replied, staring, startled, into his face.

  Real then, he thought, and blinked, struggling to control the interruptions of the nerve signals in his brain. When he looked at her, the blue eyes showed alarm, and the spun-gold splendor of her hair blended with the halo of light in his eyes. She looked like a heroine in the late show, leaving him speechless.

  A little rush of receding blood in his face told him it would be over in a moment. Not long now. He closed his eyes, lurching as the train chugged into motion, his foot and ankle refusing to support him. He stumbled, and the woman steadied him with a gesture of firm kindness. "Thank you," he said thickly. He braced himself against the wall. He didn't look at her as he told her, "I'll be all right now."

  "Are you sure?" She dipped her head to look into his face. "I can help you to your seat."

  "I'm okay." The words were slurry even in his own ears and he glanced away from the probe of her eyes, knowing he sounded drunk.

  She gave a quick, curt nod and eased by him, her body unavoidably brushing against his as she struggled with the case in her hand. The door slid shut behind her.

  Ben took long, deep breaths of the cold air that whipped into the tiny area. Slowly his brain ceased its rebellion. It took longer for the trembling of his limbs to steady. His hands would shake perceptibly until he slept tonight.

  Feeling winded, he straightened, remembering the woman. God, was she real? He looked over his shoulder, almost afraid to discover that she was.

  * * *

  Heather found a seat near the back of the under-filled car and struggled with her guitar case and canvas shoulder bag until it was as out of the way as she could manage. She took the window seat and settled herself against the comfortable cushions. She sighed, trying to shake her mood.

  For a moment out there, she'd been painfully reminded of James. Although he was so drunk he could barely stand, that man between the cars had made her think of James with an ache of longing she hadn't felt in a long time.

  It wasn't surprising. Everything the last few days had brought James with it. It was periodic, her grief, triggered by the most mundane daily occurrences—a laugh in the back of the theater, a pair of boots like those he had worn, a car he would have noticed. Now drunks on trains twisted the knife. She pressed her lips together and stared at the backs of the red brick buildings they passed as the train picked up speed.

  She was tired. The trips to her mother's house always had to be rushed—twenty-four hours on the train to get to St. Louis, twenty-four to get back to Pueblo, with a long weekend sandwiched in between. This time, Heather had stayed three days. It was the longest she could stand to be under her mother's roof. Even as a child, the great booming stillness of the St. Louis home had made her feel claustrophobic. Now that her mother lived alone, mostly dreaming of the departed faces that had once filled her hours, Heather felt the house to be more than ever like a mausoleum. It was so quiet, the ticking of the clocks could be heard at any hour of the day.

  Heather shrugged unconsciously. No wonder she had been thinking so often of James again, the way death shrouded everything in that house—not just human death, but death of time and of joy, as well. Her mother even rebelled at putting a recording of Rachmaninoff on the stereo.

  She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. After three years, she'd thought the sorrow ought to be finished. At twenty-nine, she was far too young to mourn for the rest of her life. Intellectually she knew that. Emotionally—well, emotionally, it was more difficult. No other man could take James's place. Not ever.

  "Excuse me." A voice interrupted her thoughts—a male voice with the blurry undertones of the West.

  Heather opened her eyes. Standing in the aisle next to her seat, holding his soft, brushed Stetson in his hands, was the drunk from the landing. "Yes?" she asked warily. All she needed was a drunk to keep her company all the way to Kansas City.

  "Can I sit down for a minute?"

  He didn't sound drunk now. Nor did he look it. She measured him for a moment. He had a kind face, she observed, and wondered what it was that made a face look kind. It was the eyes, she decided—eyes the color of a cup of rich, black coffee, and fringed with the sort of sweeping lashes women always wish for and certain lucky men end up with. A thick mustache, threaded with red and blond amid the more predominant brown, framed a full bottom lip and square chin. He looked nothing like James, she thought, and frowned before she nodded to him.

  The man swung himself into the seat opposite Heather and folded his hands loosely between his knees. "I wanted to apologize."

  She held herself stiffly erect, wanting to maintain distance. His hair was cut neatly around his face, but loose brown waves fell well over his collar. Heather bit her lip—nothing like James. What had made her think that? James had been blond and aristocratic looking and blessed with the bone structure of a prince. "What apology could you owe me?" she asked.

  He cleared his throat before he spoke. "I frightened you, and I'm sorry." His gazed settled on her. "I've got a little trouble with the nerves in my brain. Things get kind of mixed up—almost like I'm dreaming. I'm sure you thought I was some crazy drunk, and I wanted to let you know you don't have to be afraid of me."

/>   Heather stared at him, surprised at this straightforwardness. "I did think you were drunk. I'm sorry."

  "It's natural."

  His warm gaze stayed locked on her face, uncommonly direct. Heather glanced at her hands.

  "You have the prettiest hair I think I've ever seen," he drawled.

  Heather looked at him. A grin danced over the rugged face and for a moment, she couldn't reply, amazed at the transformation that smile made on his face. All the lines fell into place, his irises lit with mischief and his mouth curved broadly, openly, as if laughter was what it was meant for. Without thinking, she said, "You're very handsome when you smile."

  A chuckle escaped those laughing lips. "Does that mean I could ask you to have a cup of coffee with me?" She hesitated, suddenly aware that his hands were trembling. Handsome or not, she had no business relaxing in the company of a total stranger. She preferred formal introductions, made by acquaintances of long standing. That's your city upbringing, she told herself.

  "If you're worried about another seizure," he assured her, his smile fading, "I can assure you there won't be another one."

  His honesty touched her. What must it be like to know you might suddenly lose control in public at any moment? "You don't have to tell me all of this."

  "I know." Still his eyes met hers evenly.

  Heather couldn't have said why, but she suddenly agreed to his offer. "I could really use a cup of coffee," she said. What, after all, could happen on a train, in the company of so many other people?

  "Great." He stood up. Heather found herself admiring his long, hard thighs encased in close-fitting jeans. Her eyes flickered up to his face to see that smile again, a smile that said he'd noticed her perusal and was pleased by it. She felt her ears tingle with embarrassment and stood quickly.

  His hand, inserted between the rack above the seats and her head, was all that saved her from a nasty blow. "Don't get all flustered, now," he admonished, with a teasing note in his voice.

  The tingle of self-consciousness spread from her ears over her cheeks. She was flustered beyond explanation. To make matters worse, as she tried to recover herself and move into the aisle, she felt a length of her hair catch in one of the buttons of his jacket. She winced. "I knew I should have braided it," she muttered.

  He reached up to untangle the snagged tendril of hair. "I'm glad you didn't."

  Up close, he smelled of leather and cigarettes—an overwhelmingly male scent. Heather risked a glance at him as he freed her hair. He was utterly masculine, she thought: coarse skin and booted feet, a slightly bowlegged stance. Had he ridden in rodeos? Was that where he'd received his injury? She mentally shook her head. How did she even know he'd been injured? Maybe it was an accident at birth or an inborn condition. Somehow, though, she didn't think so.

  She straightened as he pulled the last of her hair free. One long golden strand still clung to his coat, and he wound it tightly around the button. "According to some voodoo spells, this one little piece of hair could give me a whole lot of power over you," he said.

  "I suppose," Heather replied, recovering a little of her equilibrium, "that I'll have to trust you not to use it."

  He inclined his head and lifted an eyebrow, saying nothing. Then he turned to lead the way to the café car.

  Heather walked behind him. His progress was slow, careful. He had a definite limp and a lack of mobility in his left leg, giving credence to the theory of an injury. Strangely, the limp wasn't as ungainly as it might have been. He moved his body with it rather than against it, as though it had been with him a long time. Other than the limp, there was nothing at all wrong with the back view of him. The long legs, encased in new blue jeans, led to a torso that tapered attractively from wide shoulders. He'd slapped his hat back on, and the dark waves of his hair curled appealingly over his collar.

  She lowered her eyes, working her hand into a firmer grip on the guitar case she carried. It had been a long time since any man had stirred more than a cursory interest in her. She rarely even noticed men. Surely there was no danger in admiring a fellow traveler, she thought, taking another peek at the broad shoulders. The circumstances prevented the possibility of anything coming of it.

  In the café car, they paused at the counter. "What would you like?" her companion asked Heather.

  "Oh, coffee is fine."

  "No yogurt? An orange?"

  Heather smiled. "No, thank you. My mother always makes certain I'm well fed before I begin my journey home."

  "Visiting your mother," he said. "Is that what you've been doing?"

  She nodded. But his attention had shifted, ordering cups of coffee for each of them and a sweet roll for himself. He hesitated very briefly upon looking at the coffee cups, and Heather smoothly picked up both. "If you would be so kind as to carry my guitar…" she said graciously, and led the way to a booth.

  When they'd settled, he poured several packets of sugar and cream into his coffee. At Heather's expression of amazement, he responded, "When I was injured, I had to give up drinking. Seems like ever since then, I can't get enough sugar. I figure," he went on licking one finger, "sugar won't kill me."

  "And liquor?"

  "Liquor wouldn't have killed me either." Again that engaging grin flashed on his face. "It was the fights I started when I was drinking that would've done that."

  "What did you fight about?"

  "Anything. The color of the sky, the size of a tree, a brand of beer. Didn't matter."

  She smiled a little, as she was meant to, and sipped gingerly at the hot coffee.

  He ate his sweet roll with relish, saying not a word until it was done. Afterward, he carefully brushed his mustache clean with his napkin and leaned forward, elbows on the table, to stare at Heather. "So, who are you, my lady? Guinevere? Lady Godiva?"

  She laughed.

  "No, I know who you are. You're Titania, the queen of the elves."

  "That's right."

  "And you live in a forest grove, filled with sunlight and flowers. And when you walk beneath the trees, a lute player follows and your subjects rush out to touch the hem of your gown."

  Heather blushed slightly. "Well, not quite."

  "Who are you, then?"

  Not "what is your name," but "who are you?" Heather didn't know how to answer him. "My name is Heather Scarborough and I live in Pueblo. Nothing so romantic as what you conjured up, I'm afraid."

  "Only because—" and now his eyes definitely sparkled with laughter "—you haven't discovered your destiny."

  Heather laughed out loud. The sound surprised her as it rolled up from her chest. It felt good, like a pleasure just dimly remembered. "You might be right." Shaking her hair back from her face, she looked at him. "And you? Are you a refugee from the OK Corral, maybe, or the James Gang?"

  He grinned. "Close. Real close." He laughed at some secret joke and extended his hand. "My name is Ben Shaw."

  Heather held out her own hand. His strong fingers clasped hers gently. Instead of shaking it as she'd expected, he drew her hand forward and planted a kiss on her knuckles. His lips were firm and warm, and his mustache tickled her skin. Her hand had been kissed before, but she felt this one clear to her toes, in a zingy rush of sensation. Hastily she drew her hand back. The imprint lingered like a ghost and she found she'd lost her voice.

  Ben filled the pause. "So, your mother lives in St. Louis?"

  "Yes." The word came out on a sigh.

  "You don't like visiting your mother?"

  Heather shook her head slowly. "I hate to admit it." In fact, she'd never done so to anyone before. "I love her, but she's grown into a bitter old woman, and it's hard to be around her."

  "What makes her bitter?"

  "I don't know, exactly. She misses my father. He died two and half years ago." Almost six months to the day after James, she remembered with a pang. What a year that had been. "I understand why she misses him. I just wish she would find something to do with her time."

  "How old is she?" />
  "Seventy."

  His mouth turned down at the corners in surprise. "You must have been an afterthought."

  Heather smiled slightly. "Yes. They never thought they'd have children. I was born when my mother was thirty-nine. My father was forty-three."

  "Only child?"

  She nodded.

  Ben's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "A lonely child, too, with aging parents and no brothers or sisters. I bet you read a lot of books."

  She cocked her head, unsure how she felt about this acute perception. A part of her resented the intrusion. Another part of her felt so relaxed with him it was difficult to work up the defenses necessary to keep him at arm's length. "I read a lot." Her gaze fell on his hands just as he lifted one to grasp his coffee. Again the trembling of the fingers struck her. "Do you mind if I ask how you were injured?"

  He shook his head. For a moment he concentrated on the coffee cup in front of him and Heather realized she'd been unpardonably rude. "I'm sorry," she said quickly. "Please ignore my bad manners."

  "It's all right."

  When he lifted those sweeping lashes, there was an echo of James in his eyes—and she understood. Before he could continue, Heather stated flatly, "Vietnam." There was utter certainty in her words.

  "Good guess."

  She looked out the window at the farmland they were passing, a landscape that dripped greenery in the summertime. As Heather looked at it now, the gray sky and withered growth seemed to reflect the sudden bleakness in her heart. It seemed as though every man she met was a veteran, she thought bitterly. Not terribly surprising, considering that Pueblo boasted some staggering statistics on numbers of former soldiers of the Vietnam War. Her adopted hometown was a working-class city, traditional and patriotic. The boys of the era had served their country even in that unpopular war, and if Heather's experience was any indication, many had lived to regret it—if they lived at all. "It wasn't a guess," she admitted quietly.

  Ben remained silent for a minute. "Sore spot?"