about, the way Cousin Gareth had taught her long ago, before he went to seed and became an enemy. She closed both fists and held them out. “Which hand is the stone in?”
“That one! That one!”
Mrs. Summerton opened her eyes and observed the scene in silence. Glancing over to Atkins, she appeared reassured by the man’s presence. Big and burly, he had the means to restrain any threat from a lunatic.
Miranda spoke, allowing her education to show. “My name is...” her eyes strayed toward the trees from which she had emerged “...Mrs. Woods.” She disliked lying, but it made no sense to leave a trail for Cousin Gareth to follow.
“I was taking a stroll in the forest,” she went on. “I needed a moment of privacy after my husband’s funeral. I am on my way to back to New York City, but the train can wait. I thought you might benefit from assistance to entertain your young ones.”
Miranda opened her right fist. Empty. The left fist. Empty. She tugged at the nearest blond pigtail, shook the pebble out of it. The little girls jumped up and down, screaming in delight.
Mrs. Summerton broke into a smile of relief. “Thank you. If there ever was an angel sent from heaven, you must be it.” She pointed at the little girls. “Two sets of twins. Can you believe it?” She rubbed her belly. “This one will be a boy. My husband is convinced.”
While they waited for help to arrive, Miranda kept the four little girls occupied, allowing their mother a moment of peace. Soon a young freckle-faced footman brought a crowd from the public house down the road and they hoisted up the carriage for the coachman to secure the wheel.
“Would you like to ride to Boston with us?” Mrs. Summerton asked.
It would save time and keep her out of sight. And she could hear the plea in the woman’s voice. Miranda accepted the offer. By the time they reached the city, Miranda had adjusted her ideas about the joys of motherhood. She alighted at the railroad station, with another four dollars in her pocket and an offer of a position as a governess if she ever needed one. The mere thought made Miranda shudder. She hurried away, the voices of the four little hoydens ringing in her ears.
The money Miranda had earned entertaining the boisterous Summerton children allowed her to buy a ticket on the train to New York City, which avoided having to sell Mama’s brooch in Boston where someone might have recognized her.
On the train, she kept her face averted, her bonnet pulled low. An express service covered the journey in six hours, but to save money Miranda took a slow train that made frequent stops. By the time they arrived in New York City, darkness had fallen.
Once the passengers had dispersed in their carriages and hansom cabs, only creatures of the night remained—gaudily dressed women past their prime, accosted by men willing to benefit from their favors. The evening cool did little to clear the sultry air thick with coal smoke.
Appalled at the squalor, Miranda found a hidden corner behind an empty newspaper stand and huddled there for the night. All thoughts of finding a jeweler to sell Mama’s brooch vanished. She hated the city and could not wait to leave. In the morning, as the station grew busy again, she snuck on board the first westbound train.
Traveling without a ticket proved easier than Miranda had expected. Days turned into nights and nights into days. The train made frequent stops, in small towns and at water towers, and she used them to move from car to car, to minimize the chances of getting caught.
Twice, she charmed a conductor into believing she’d misplaced her ticket. Another conductor proved immune to feminine allure, and Miranda burst into tears, pretending to be too distraught by the loss of her husband to produce her documents.
Despite her success in evading exposure, an uneasy feeling prickled at the back of her neck. A sensation of being watched. Miranda told herself it was only natural. She had become a lawbreaker, and the guilty conscience put her nerves on edge.
Through the window, fields and meadows gave way to run-down tenements and warehouses. The glass-paneled door at the end of the car swung open. The conductor—the small, potbellied man who had been immune to her charms—strutted up the aisle.
“Chicago!” he yelled. “Next stop Chicago. Everyone change. Southern Pacific Railroad to St. Louis and all towns south. Union Pacific Railroad to all towns west.”
Miranda gathered up her sailcloth bag. To economize, she’d avoided the dining car, instead taking the opportunity to buy bread and cheese and stuffed pies from platform vendors. Even then, she had less than a dollar left.
She followed the stream of passengers down the metal steps. The platform teemed with life. Between a farmer with a pushcart full of potatoes and a donkey with two heaped panniers, Miranda glimpsed a man—and felt a blow in her gut.
Her frantic eyes took in the fawn trousers, the peacock blue coat. The tall hat, the silver-topped walking stick. Light brown hair and long sideburns. Pale skin and the sullen features of a man who drank too much, gambled too much and seemed to harbor a bitter grudge against life.
It couldn’t be. But it was. Cousin Gareth.
He must be following her. And whatever she did, she must not lead him to Charlotte. Miranda spun around and set off running in the opposite direction. She knocked into the pushcart, sent a flurry of potatoes rolling over the platform. The farmer burst into an angry bellow. Passengers tripped over the spill, crying out complaints. Miranda dipped and darted through the throng, bumping into people as she hurtled along.
A train was pulling away. With an extra spurt of speed, Miranda raced after it, her boot heels clicking a frantic beat against the concrete platform. The whistle blew. A cloud of steam billowed from the engine. The train left the station but Miranda kept up her chase, leaping down to the tracks. Her canvas pouch fell off her shoulder. Not pausing to pick it up, she forced her legs to move faster.
Lungs bursting, arms pumping at her sides, skirts flapping around her feet, she hurtled along. She was gaining on the train, the gap shrinking. Five yards. Four. Three. Another merry whistle, and the train clattered onto another set of rails, slowing down for an instant while the wheels negotiated the junction.
With a desperate burst of effort, Miranda threw herself forward and grabbed the handrail around the small platform at the end of the last car. Her feet lost contact with the ground. Grimly, she hung on, the toes of her button-up boots bouncing against the timber sleepers, her fingers locked in a death grip around the iron handrail.
The train increased its speed. Pain tore at Miranda’s arms. Inch by inch, she dragged herself upward, her body like a coiled spring, her muscles vibrating with the effort. A violent shaking seized her. She almost lost her grip but managed to swing one foot up on the iron steps. Another foot. With a final jerk of her arms and shoulders, Miranda flung herself onto the platform and collapsed there, panting for breath, exhaustion and relief coursing through her.
When finally her senses sprang back to life, Miranda looked up. She could see the Chicago skyline disappearing off into the distance. Beneath her, the train rocked with a steady motion. The sun baked down on her black clothing, adding to the perspiration that coated her skin. She reached up one hand, found her bonnet dangling by its ribbons.
Slowly, she scrambled to her feet, her fingers clutching the handrail. She tried the handle on the door at the end of the car. Unlocked. Miranda went through. It was the mail car, with boxes and parcels stacked on both sides of the narrow passageway. A thin man in a white shirt with sleeve garters was sorting letters into slots on a wooden rack.
He stared at her. “Where did you come from?”
Miranda gave him a shaky smile. “I almost missed the train.”
He puffed out his narrow chest with an air of authority common to petty bureaucrats all over the world. “You can’t stay here,” he said. “This car is for authorized personnel only.”
Miranda