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  What Uncle Fletcher described made sense.

  What didn't was his insistence in dragging Twila along. It was clear neither he nor Lucius cared for her. Fletcher was ever quick to criticize, while Lucius behaved like a jealous sibling. She couldn't understand why Uncle Fletcher didn't just leave her at some young lady's academy, unless he was simply too stingy to pay the cost of boarding school. It certainly wasn't out of any fondness or even sense of duty. While Fletcher's son could seemingly do no wrong, it was clear to her she could do nothing right.

  She couldn't exactly remember when her uncle had begun referring to her as a jinx. But she knew some of the adversity blamed on her had actually come through Lucius' deliberate meddling. He delighted in causing problems for her. She smiled, thinking perhaps he might fall down a well or drown in the river her uncle kept bragging about, so near to where they'd be settling. Lucius couldn't swim.

  "Is this seat taken?"

  Twila glanced up from her musing to find a young girl indicating the empty seat next to Twila. "No, please do sit down. Are you traveling alone? I'm going to Nevada with my relations. That's my Uncle Fletcher and Cousin Lucius across the way."

  The girl nodded and took the open seat beside Twila, placing a brown satchel on the floor. Twila couldn't help but laugh. "Why, look at that! Our bags are so similar, and we're both—oh, did you say you had companions, also?"

  "My grandfather." The girl pointed at an elderly man with a walking stick. "But with his cane, he prefers to sit near the exit. Less distance to board and disembark. However, I absolutely hate the platforms! Do you know, my hat blew clean off and right under the wheels when we left Cheyenne? It was my absolute favorite, too!"

  Twila expressed surprise that the girl and older man didn't look familiar. As they compared travel histories, it turned out they'd been on the same rail line but a different schedule until now. The girl introduced herself as Hilde Vogel, and said she and her grandfather were bound for San Francisco. Twila chatted happily with Hilde until nightfall, when the Vogels retired to the sleeping car.

  Twila watched the girl help her grandfather depart with a pang of envy. Once she'd known that kind of caring concern in her family. Now she was an interloper, a pest, someone Fletcher Bell regarded as penance. A nuisance and burden.

  He complained that her parents had been irresponsible, hapless fools, who never thought to provide for their unmarried daughter's future before recklessly taking an ocean voyage. Now it was up to her uncle to find her a husband…which he constantly reminded would be a daunting task. After all, not only was Twila clumsy and prone to mishaps of every variety, but she was thin and had unremarkable, common features. No dowry. Indeed, Fletcher was certain he'd have to pay some man to take Twila off his hands.

  Fletcher loved to tell stories about olden times, when fathers and uncles had to pay marriage settlements or provide extensive dowries to foist their womenfolk off on stalwart males. The men were always more intelligent, brawnier, braver, and far more noble than any of the women in these anecdotes and fables. The women in them ranked just above horses and hunting hounds.

  He finally stopped spinning such yarns at the dinner table when Twila asked exactly how much Aunt Lavinia's father had offered Fletcher.

  Settling herself now as best she could, Twila closed her eyes and told herself to let the incessant clack of the train wheels lull her to sleep. She'd had to learn to rest sitting straight up. Her uncle refused to pay the extra cost for sleeping car accommodations. Twila cracked open an eyelid and noted with some satisfaction that Uncle Fletcher was curled into an unnatural position that should guarantee a kink in his neck after a few hours and Lucius fidgeted, unable to get comfortable. Good.

  Bracing her elbow with her satchel now occupying the seat Hilde had vacated, Twila drifted into a light slumber.

  * * *

  She awoke to shouting and mass confusion. A woman two rows ahead of Twila was sobbing aloud. Fletcher and Lucius looked angry. A glance at the windows told Twila it was still full dark, yet passengers were out of their seats, milling around, swarming a uniformed conductor.

  "What's happened?" she asked her uncle.

  "This blasted railroad is running defective trains, that's what!" a stranger bellowed. Several other men chimed in, shouting and hurling epithets.

  Lucius sniffed, "They've lost most of our baggage and several passengers, yet that imbecile of a conductor tells everyone not to panic."

  Passengers?

  "How on earth can a train misplace its passengers? I don't understand."

  "Two of the rail cars are somehow missing," Lucius huffed, as if Twila should easily grasp this incomprehensible news.

  "But how could railroad cars just vanish into thin air?"

  "The damned things came uncoupled," a big man informed her, his face florid. "And no one seems to know exactly when. The passengers from the rear sleeping car are now adrift somewhere behind us, along with our luggage placed in the storage bin in that caboose. Marooned in no man's land. And we could have just as easily shared their fate."

  "Oh my," Twila said numbly. It really was possible, and now that someone had explained how it could happen, really horrible to contemplate. "Miss Vogel and her grandfather…" she mumbled, still in disbelief.

  "No, madam, we cannot stop the train," the conductor advised a nearly hysterical woman. "We can't back her up. The engineer has no idea how many miles could be involved, and we only carry so much wood to stoke our engine. He can't risk getting us stranded, too." He glanced around. "Everyone, please take your seats!"

  The agitated knot dissolved somewhat. Several people did indeed sit down or back away, but all eyes were riveted on the poor fellow, who suddenly found himself the official railroad spokesperson.

  "Where's the other conductor, the one who came through here before?" someone asked.

  "It seems Mr. Digby was in the rear of the train at the time of the…mishap."

  "Well, at least the Central Pacific's suffered some inconvenience too!"

  The conductor held up his hands until the passengers quieted. "Thank you. Now, as I understand it, there was a mechanical failure which caused the coupling between this car and the sleeper to fail. That released the sleeper car and caboose. They're still linked together, but the engine's no longer pulling them."

  "Oh, my lands!" a woman gasped.

  "Ma'am, please calm down. The railroad has employees aboard. Not only the conductor, but a regular flagman, who rides in the caboose. They're professionals and have been instructed in emergency procedures. The flagmen will set out his lanterns, probably start a signal fire."

  "Who's he signaling, the Apaches?"

  "Ladies and gentlemen, please! There's no reason to assume the other passengers are in any danger. We'll be pulling into Evanston within an hour. We'll report the stranded cars. The company will send wagons back. Anyone with luggage in the caboose will be delayed getting into Ogden until we can retrieve it, but your baggage and all passengers will be accounted for."

  Twila was actually grateful for Uncle Fletcher's scrimping. He'd sold most everything they'd owned and insisted they travel with minimum baggage. All three Bells shared one large trunk and a couple of other bags. Unfortunately, that part of the luggage had been in the caboose. At least she'd kept her satchel at her seat. Glancing over at it, she realized something was odd.

  Then she opened it and nearly died.

  The bag wasn't hers! It looked similar, but this one must be the brown satchel belonging to Hilde Vogel. Hilde had accidentally taken Twila's satchel with her when she left for the sleeper car. She now had Twila's satchel, containing a change of undergarments and the only mementos Twila had of her parents—a hair ribbon her mother had worn before trimming her long tresses, a rusty compass her father had owned since he'd been a young boy. Items of no value to anyone save Twila.

  She wanted them back. So badly, it brought a rush of hot tears to her eyes.

  Rummaging inside the unfamiliar satchel, she
realized there was another compelling reason to find the girl and switch the bags.

  Miss Vogel's satchel enveloped two lace handkerchiefs, a hairbrush, a spare cotton chemise, and beneath these, a very expensive-looking necklace. Twila was no expert, but it didn't take intimate knowledge of gemstones to recognize pearls, and her guess was the other stones were sapphires and rubies. The Vogels were apparently rather well off. Hilde had mentioned losing a favorite bonnet, implying she had several others. This necklace, so pretty and patriotic in red, white and blue, could be extremely valuable. It looked old, maybe even from the Colonial period. Which might make it a priceless antique, for all Twila knew. This was terrible.

  Yet Twila also knew there was no way she was about to advise her uncle. The accidental exchange was a reasonable mistake anyone could make, and really Miss Vogel's fault. But he was already angry about the rest of their baggage, and Twila knew Fletcher would blame her for the mix up. Once again, she'd be branded a scatterbrain and the cause of even more delay in their westward progress.

  No , the more she pondered it, the more she became convinced there was no reason to say anything to anyone. She knew the Vogels were headed for San Francisco. As the conductor explained, there'd be a delay at Evanston while wagons went back for the people and goods on the stranded cars. It would be simple enough to find Miss Vogel and switch bags before the reunited passengers embarked on the next leg of their trip.

  Twila wasn't going to trust a porter, and the conductor had enough distracting him at the present. With so many distraught and angry folks aboard, he didn't need the additional complication of a mix-up over two small bags. She could fix this problem herself. And she would, just as soon as they reached the next station. She kept a tight grip on the satchel's handle and began picturing how she's slip away to return the precious necklace without either of the nosy Bell men knowing she'd ever had it.

  * * *

  "What do you mean, there isn't any baggage? I watched the porter take my trunk to the rear car with my own eyes!"

  "And a very fine trunk it was, too," his companion announced, glaring at the railroad employee. "Are you saying the railroad has lost all our things? I say, there should be recompense for that, surely!"

  Twila listened to the heated exchange in numb shock. The same kind of shock she saw mirrored on the faces of other passengers. They'd disembarked at the Evanston station and waited for several hours, only to be told there was no point in waiting. Their luggage was gone. Every single piece of it.

  Apparently Conductor Digby hadn't been a hapless victim of circumstance; rather he'd been the inside man working with a team of robbers. Instead of stopping the train and robbing all its passengers, they planted a man within the railroad staff itself. He uncoupled the two cars, stranding them in open country. Robbers surrounded the cars once they rolled to a stop. The passengers inside the sleeper lost their money, watches, jewelry. The flagman was trussed and gagged. Wagons were loaded with all the trunks and grippes from the caboose storage bins.

  It was a quick, bloodless, efficient robbery. Clever indeed.

  Someone in the Central Pacific management decided it wouldn't be wise to deliver a carload of angry and shaken robbery victims to Evanston. After giving passengers verbal assurance that no one was in any danger, proof to the contrary would only exacerbate an already tense, unpleasant situation. So the Vogels and their cohorts had been escorted back to Green River's station. Everyone here in Evanston was being urged to complete their sojourn to Ogden and points beyond.

  Without their bags.

  However, no one needed a ticket for travel beyond this point. Refunds would be issued for all fares paid. Meals and beverages would be free. And passengers were asked to begin a formal accounting of items lost in the robbery. Railroad staff began handing out pencils and scraps of paper.

  "You're going to say your gowns were the finest satins and velvet, young lady. This is typical of your foul luck! The least you can do is see we receive a boon out of this nightmare."

  Twila didn't even bother looking up at her fuming uncle. She meekly accepted the pencil and began her list.

  CHAPTER 3

  "I think I speak for everyone present," her uncle boldly proclaimed. "Not a one among us is anxious to sleep aboard your infernal contraption. I demand we be put up in hotel rooms for the night, and set out again at daybreak. I will not risk having my very clothing stolen off my back while I close my eyes in sleep."

  Uncle Fletcher, always the master of overreaction and drama.

  Unless a robber had a desperate craving for musty wool and the odor of mothballs, Twila couldn't imagine why anyone would want his clothing.

  But his melodramatic ploy worked. Within seconds, other voices angrily joined in, demanding free lodging. Beefy fists clenched, male faces went florid or grim and pasty, while females looked pale and frightened. Defeated, barely holding back more tears. The company representative had little choice.

  "All right. We'll consort with the local establishments and make arrangements. Everyone please stay with your respective traveling groups. We'll need to take a head count."

  A short while later, Twila found herself in a dingy rear hotel room overlooking the manure piled behind a livery stable. The Bell males, on the other hand, were downstairs playing poker and smoking cigars with the other men from the train. Or, as they preferred to describe it, "celebrating their victory over the negligent and incompetent Pacific railroad."

  Lucius was in rare form that night, unable to recall when he'd had a better run of luck at cards. His father didn't appreciate some of his son's less savory talents, but Lucius knew a man had to be able to hold his own while standing in the middle of his emporium or sitting at a card table. His father generally frowned at Lucius partaking of spirits, as well. Except tonight. Fletcher was very much in favor of a bit of drink and sport—seeing as how all of it was at someone else's expense.

  Lucius won the pot for the third time. One of the Englishmen got up and groused about needing to relieve himself. His partner watched him depart, then gave Lucius an odd look. "What's your father guarding there in his breast pocket? State secrets?"

  His father never went anywhere without his ridiculous little journal. Fletcher Bell scribbled all sorts of nonsense down in a series of little bound books, convinced that someday someone would pay him handsomely to publish his memoirs. The train debacle had absolutely delighted the old man. There would be a story, he insisted.

  Somehow Lucius couldn't imagine telling this pompous English fellow that. Telling him that essentially his father was a little…peculiar. Actually, rather pathetic. Admitting that Fletcher Bell believed every bit of minutiae of his mundane existence should be preserved for posterity.

  The two "blokes," as they called themselves, hadn't been staying in the sleeping car, either, leading Lucius to suspect they could be misers like his old man. They'd loudly proclaimed they'd lost quite a lot of valuables in their trunks, and they looked prosperous sorts. Lucius could tell by their clothing and grooming. Fletcher had taught him to measure a man's wealth by his garments and shoe polish. A dapper fellow had money to spend keeping himself that way, whereas a man could boast all he liked, but worn shoes and frayed cuffs told a different tale.

  Lucius knew he'd never see these two again after the next couple of days. They'd all go in various directions from Ogden. An outrageous thought dawned. A really wicked little prank. He decided he rather liked the idea.

  "I wouldn't say anything too loudly, if I were you," he replied, glancing warily at his old man, who was puffing his cigar and regaling some other fellow with his big future plans for a new store. "And don't let on you've noticed. He gets really tense about that book of his. It's got the map, you see."

  "Map? What to?"

  Lucius verified that now the topic of his father's discussion had flowed into a heated economic and political debate with the fat man from Minnesota."To the mine, of course!" Lucius hissed. "We're going to Nevada, to a place along the Tr
uckee, not far from the High Sierras. You know it's all gold country out there."

  The Englishman dropped his monocle. "Your father's got a map to a bleedin' gold mine?"

  The fellow's mixture of shock and avid interest was so overwhelming, Lucius couldn't quite keep a straight face. "Naw, it's just useless things he likes to scrawl down to jog his memory. A copy of that list for the railroad, so he can be sure later they don't try to cheat him. Things like that. I was joshing about the mine. Still, my uncle Nathan knew several intrepid explorers. You never know."

  Lucius got up with his winnings, still smirking. The English fellow would be whispering to his cohort, thoroughly in awe of the Bells of Omaha—soon to be the Bells of Nevada.

  "You catch any of that?" Marquardt asked Cookson as the latter sat back down at the card table. Only two other men still remained, and they were counting their money, looking weary and ready to call it quits. "Think we've done it, gents. Enough cards for one night," Marquardt announced.

  The others agreed and headed off to their rooms.

  Cookson poured another glass of liquor and studied his partner. Marquardt had that look on his face—the look that warned he was on to some new scheme. "Wait just a moment…" Cookson frowned. "That young whelp who was at the table? Don't start ruminating on him. He and his old man couldn't afford themselves decent pillows. You seen them t'other night, heads on their chests? And that mouse traveling with them. She weren't no fancy bit of fluff."