Strangers on a Train Page 2

  Heather gathered herself and looked at him. It certainly wasn't his fault, and obviously he'd paid a high price himself. "My husband was a Vietnam veteran. He used to say you could tell a man who'd seen action by a look in their eyes."

  "You're a widow, I take it?"

  She inclined her head. "You take it right."

  "I'm sorry."

  Heather met his eyes. Again the kindness of his eyes warmed her. He wasn't merely mouthing polite sympathy. "So am I."

  A pause fell between them and Heather drank the last of her coffee. "I have some studying to do," she said finally, reaching for her guitar. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

  Ben stood with her, blocking her exit. His chin was level with her eyes. "You don't have to run off, Heather. I think I frightened you again." He grasped her upper arm in a gesture of comfort.

  The moment he touched her, some of the panic she had indeed been feeling slipped away. For the smallest wisp of a breath, she studied his face again, uncertain what the next seconds would bring.

  He made no move toward her, but he didn't release her arm. "Sit down. I'm not crazy or haunted. I've got a gimpy leg and a brain that kicks out from time to time, but you're safe with me. I promise."

  What he said wasn't true. He was haunted. Behind that easy laughter and gentle teasing, there was another man. Perhaps that was why she sat back down. Simple curiosity compelled her to find out what lay beneath the kind facade—if anything.

  He dropped his arm to his side. "Now, tell me, are you running machine guns for the IRA, or is that really a guitar?"

  She laughed. "You have an overly active imagination. Do I look like the type to run guns?"

  "You never know. I hear they use the sweetest faces of all."

  "It's a guitar, I promise."

  "What do you play? Bluegrass?" he asked in mock hope.

  "Sorry. Classical."

  "Ah. Is that what you do to earn a living?"

  "Some. I teach guitar classes and do background for a Shakespearean troupe."

  "Are you an actress?"

  "Sort of. It chose me, rather than the other way around." She shrugged. "I do a lot of Shakespeare, more because I look right for the era than anything else, I think."

  "Well, you do look right." He grinned. "I didn't think you were real when I first saw you."

  "What did you think I was—a ghost?"

  "Something like that." He looked at their empty cups. "You want another cup? I'm going to get myself one."

  Heather nodded. "Sure."

  He stood. "Why don't you take off your coat and stay awhile?"

  She hadn't realized she was still bundled up in the heavy coat. It was like a shield of armor in the city. Obligingly she shrugged it off.

  At the counter, Ben turned to look at her as she removed her coat. Below it, she wore a soft white blouse with full sleeves. One long tendril of blond hair trailed over her shoulder and the small rise of her breast to disappear below the line of the table. She was real, all right, he thought—though what the hell he was doing with her, he sure didn't know. She definitely wasn't the kind of woman he generally kept company with. Nothing about her suggested those lusty, hard-living females—the kind of women who asked nothing of him and didn't probe.

  He shook his head. He'd spent a lot of years hiding after the war; hiding until he'd almost lost sight of everything he was. One morning he'd awakened to find half his life gone, and he'd vowed not to waste another day. This woman, for whatever amount of time he could sit with her, was who he wanted now. She might not be his type. He grinned to himself. But then again, she might be more his type than anyone he'd ever met.

  Carefully he carried the cups back to the table. Inevitably a little sloshed onto his fingers and he licked the place with a rueful smile at Heather.

  She smiled back. "I would have helped."

  "I'm used to it. No big deal. Usually I make sure there's a saucer." His gaze flickered out to the cleared fields beyond the windows. "You know, the first time I saw this view, the trees and everything had about a quarter inch of ice on them. The sun was shining and that ice glittered in every color of the rainbow. I had never seen anything like it." He grinned at her. "I acted like a little kid, grabbing everybody to get them to look at it."

  Heather laughed. "And anyone who was raised around here thought you were crazy."

  "Yep. They knew how cold it had to be to make it look like that." He shook his head in wonder. "Still, it's a good memory. The West doesn't ever look like that. No water in the air."

  "I like Western winters," Heather said. Weather seemed a safe topic. "It's so cold in St. Louis you can't go anywhere without a floor-length coat and mittens and a hat."

  Ben sipped his coffee and smiled his encouragement.

  "I came to Pueblo to go to school, and the first winter I spent there, they had a cold snap in January. The temperature dropped to about ten below. I kept hearing the reports, and I was afraid to go out, thinking it would be like St. Louis. It wasn't." She smiled. "I even took a walk."

  "Do you like the summers? Pueblo's pretty hot."

  Heather laughed. "I have the freedom of arranging my own schedule, so I just turn on the air conditioner and go to sleep in the hottest part of the day. By the time I wake up, the heat's bearable."

  "Ah, now that's intelligence—a siesta."

  "You may as well sleep." She shifted forward in her seat. "Have you ever noticed how people move on those really hot days? They drift through the afternoons like they have a ten-pound weight on each foot." She realized she was leaning over the table, and a sudden attack of shyness washed through her. He was a good listener, she thought; able to start conversations and keep them going with only a few little comments of his own. She was astonished to realize that she still knew next to nothing about him.

  "You're blushing, Titania."

  "It's the only time I ever have any color in my face," she said self-depreciatively. "I like to turn it on every so often."

  He laughed and touched her hand lightly.

  A tall, graying man paused by the table. "Ben! Hey, old man, I thought that was you."

  Ben swiveled to glance up. "George! How the hell are you?" He stuck out his hand and the other man shook it. "Where are you headed?"

  "San Francisco to see my sister."

  "Is your wife with you?"

  He nodded and sat down as Ben made room for him. Although the man looked pointedly at Heather, Ben made no move to introduce her. The two men chatted about people Heather naturally knew nothing of, and after a few minutes, when the conversation showed no signs of slowing, she cleared her throat delicately.

  "Thank you for the coffee, Ben," she said, and stood. "I really do have some studying to do."

  George didn't get up, and an expression of irritation crossed Ben's face. Awkwardly, he half rose around the table. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Heather."

  "You, too," she answered vaguely, and smiled. Then there was nothing left to do but return to the passenger cars and her seat.

  Ben glanced at George as Heather left. "Damn, man, you want to give me a little air, here?"

  George laughed. "Sure. She one of your fans?" So, Ben realized, George had imagined himself to be doing a good deed, rescuing him from a fan who had cornered him. The reverse was true, he thought wryly. Maybe it was better this way. He couldn't for the life of him see how that delicate woman would ever understand all that he was, all that he'd done and gone through. He didn't see how her frailty and quiet interests would fit into his life.

  "No," he said, finally. "I just met her and thought she was pretty."

  "Not exactly your type, is she?"

  Ben shook his head, conscious of a tinge of regret. "No. Guess not."

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  « ^ »

  The claim to have some studying to do was only half true, Heather reflected as she returned to her seat. The small theatrical company to which she belonged was in rehearsal for a production
of Twelfth Night. That part was true. The rest—well, she knew the music inside out, for she'd composed most of it herself.

  Still, needing to add some credence to her claim, she dutifully pulled out her paperback edition of the play and began to recite the lines quietly to herself. Then she closed the book and recreated the scenes in her mind as they would appear on Friday night. After a time, the rocking motion of the train lulled her into a light doze. It was dusk when she awoke, and an elderly woman had taken the seat opposite Heather.

  Heather stared out at the graying scenery, vaguely disoriented. James had walked through her dreams again, laughing. It was a sound she'd always heard when they were in the company of other people, rarely when they were alone. The jovial front he erected in social situations exhausted him, and when they returned home, more often that not he would stare moodily at the television or restlessly pace their small house, resisting all of Heather's attempts to engage him in conversation.

  She sighed. When dreams of him haunted her, she always awoke with conflicting emotions: the all-pervasive guilt, and relief. The relief fed the guilt, and guilt renewed the grief in a cycle Heather thought would never end.

  There were other widows who didn't linger so long in the limbo of mourning. She'd seen women begin to date again after six months, sometimes getting involved too quickly, in an effort to find lost intimacy again. Well, Heather thought with a droll twist to her mouth, she hadn't made that mistake.

  No other man had appealed to her since James had died. Unbidden, a picture of Ben Shaw flickered through her imagination. Just as quickly, Heather brushed it away. If a man had done time in Vietnam—especially if he'd been injured and carried that echo of jungle war in his eyes—she wasn't the right woman for him. James had taught her that. She simply wasn't strong enough to understand the demons a sensitive man could carry.

  It wasn't that she felt all veterans were slightly a-tilt. She knew many people had served in that war in much the same manner as any other—it had just been Heather's luck to get mixed up with one who didn't, who spent the rest of his short life reliving war scenes, trying to undo the damage he felt he had done. James had wanted to be a priest when he was seventeen. Instead, he'd been drafted. At first it had seemed odd to her that he hadn't taken conscientious objector's status, given his religious feelings. But time had shown him to be as patriotic as the rest of Pueblo, and he'd felt he would shame his family and his country by becoming a C.O.

  With a sigh of annoyance, Heather shifted. She wished she could play her guitar, but it wasn't polite to fill any small space with more noise than was utterly necessary.

  "Excuse me, honey," said the elderly woman in the other seat.

  Heather looked at her inquiringly. The woman was doing some sort of needlework and she held a pattern out to Heather, pointing with a gnarled finger to a spot circled in red.

  "I can't make out the code there in this light. Could you tell me what number that is?"

  "Of course." Heather smiled and took the piece of paper. "It's an eight."

  "Thank you. I ought to put it away, I suppose. But I'm going to Utah to see my new grandchild and I wanted to get it finished."

  It was a cross-stitch pattern of little bears and balloons. "It's beautiful. Was the baby a boy or a girl?"

  "A little girl," she answered with a proud smile. "The first daughter of a first daughter of a first daughter."

  "How wonderful!" Heather exclaimed with sincerity.

  "Do you have children of your own?"

  "No, I don't."

  "Are you one of those career women?" she asked suspiciously.

  Heather laughed lightly. Only an elderly woman from the Heartland could have asked that question in that tone of voice without getting a bristling response. Being the traditional hearth-warmer and having gained satisfaction and joy from her life, this woman saw it as her duty to perpetuate the family and tradition, hardly viewing full-time motherhood as the outmoded calling many thought it to be. Heather had seem many of her ilk in Pueblo. "In a way. I'm a musician. But I'm also a widow."

  "Ah," she said, peering at Heather over her smart, gold-rimmed glasses. "I thought there was something sad about you. Has he been gone long?"

  "Three years, November ninth."

  "Oh… Coming up on an anniversary is always hard. I'm fine until my husband's comes up, but plooey—" she made a sweeping gesture with her hand "—then I'm a basket case for a few weeks."

  "I always feel like I'm being melodramatic."

  "Heavens, no. It's perfectly natural. It'll probably be better once you get yourself another husband and some babies, though."

  Heather grinned. "You might be right."

  "What kind of musician are you?"

  "Guitarist. I compose and play classical music."

  "I like guitar music. It's soothing."

  "Yes."

  "My name is Madeline Gordon," the woman said, almost as an afterthought.

  Heather told her hers, then the conversation lapsed into silence as small talk between strangers will do. Heather looked out the window to the points of light twinkling on in farmhouses along the route. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine the luxury of living in a home, with the noisy voices of children and steamy windows at dinnertime, and a husband coming home to a meal she'd lovingly prepared. She thought she would like it, would like to create a home for a family. She let the vision expand a little. There would be soft pillows on the living room couch and toys scattered underfoot, maybe a big dog hovering about the corners of the kitchen, licking his chops in anticipation of supper scraps. Love and chaos. And Heather in the middle of it all—mother and wife and housekeeper.

  It was a vision so completely different from that of her own silent, ordered childhood, she had to wonder if it even existed outside scripts written for television. Comforting to imagine, though, she thought. What sort of man would complete the picture? She had no clear idea—just someone tall and kind and full of honest laughter.

  With a small smile for her indulgence, Heather returned her attention to the older woman. They had dinner together in the little café car, eating hamburgers and drinking coffee to chase away the chill of the drafty railway car. Heather glimpsed Ben once, asleep in one of the other passenger sections, his hat cradled on his chest. With surprise, she found she was disappointed he hadn't sought her out again. She deliberately turned her eyes away from the sleeping face. Whatever man she'd imagined for her farmhouse, it wouldn't be some stranger she met on a train.

  The elderly woman slept during the last leg of the journey into Kansas City, where an hour-long layover was scheduled at midnight. Heather read a magazine and dozed, anxious now for her private little room on the train that would take her into La Junta tomorrow afternoon. In the roomette she could play her guitar all night if she wished, watching the Kansas fields sweep by.

  * * *

  The Kansas City station had always intrigued Heather. One portion of the huge building had been improved with modern wall-coverings and escalators and a new magazine shop. It was in this section that passengers awaited the next train.

  Outside the renovated area, however, stretched the cavernous halls of the old railway station, and walking through it, Heather never failed to feel the past swirling around her. She could almost touch the women in their velvet dresses and corsets and bustles. It wasn't difficult to imagine the ladies' plumed hats and gentlemen with pocket watches in the hallway of the past.

  When Mrs. Gordon spoke it was a surprise. "This part of the station always frightens me," said the elderly woman. "It's old and creepy."

  Heather took her hand and looped it through her arm with a reassuring pat. "Stick with me, madam," she said lightly in an imitation of an English accent. "I'll see you come to no harm."

  Mrs. Gordon laughed nervously. "Thank you, dear."

  She saw the old woman settled with a magazine and excused herself to brush her hair. She wove it into one long braid that touched the swell of her hips, then sli
pped the braid under her coat. Finally she pulled a black band over her head. The effect was what she'd wished for. No one would notice her in any crowd without her hair. It was her only beauty—the only distinction she had with her pale skin and slight figure; and if she were honest with herself, this was one of the reasons she couldn't bear to part with it.

  The other, stronger reason had nothing to do with vanity. She'd once read that women felt one of two ways about their hair—either they wore it as an accessory to be changed with the seasons and fashions, or they thought of it as an extension of themselves, like a limb. Heather would no more chop off her hair than cut off a toe. It was unthinkable.

  But in the strange confines of an Amtrak station in an unfamiliar city, it was best to remain unnoticed.

  She rejoined Mrs. Gordon, who gasped at Heather's transformation. "You look about thirteen," she commented.

  Heather laughed. "Since I'm more than a decade and a half past that, I thank you. I think." She scanned the room curiously. No sign of Ben Shaw. Perhaps Kansas City had been his destination, she thought. This hadn't occurred to her until then, and she realized she'd been hoping to run into him tomorrow, perhaps in the dining or the observation car. She chided herself as being ridiculous now.

  "How about if I find us something to drink?" Heather suggested.

  "That would be nice. If it's coffee, I take it black." Heather nodded at the hint. She headed for the little news store. On her last trip through, there'd been coffee in there. As she rounded the corner into the shop, she noticed a large urn on a table, with Styrofoam cups, baskets of creamers, sugar, and tea bags. Heather headed for it.

  A body appeared between the table and herself, and she looked up into Ben Shaw's dark eyes. "I hardly recognized you in that getup," he drawled. He folded his arms over his chest. "Come to think of it, I never did see that guitar. You sure you're not running guns?"

  "Positive." Although she'd hoped to run into him, she was now irritated that he thought he could charm her again so easily. "Excuse me, Mr. Shaw. I was about to get some coffee for myself and my companion."

  His mustache wiggled in a smile. "You have a good heart, don't you? Looking out for that old woman." He followed her to the table. "Could you leave her long enough to take a little walk outside with me? I need to stretch my legs before I get back on that train."