Back Roads to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #6): A Novel (27 page)

There was nothing to do but wait; the stationmaster could make no promises regarding the schedule. Allison was intrigued when a train chugged into the station with a large white canvas sign stretched the full length of one car: Solid Trainload of Settlers for Alberta, it read, and a great mass of humanity, having boarded in Colorado, poured out, stumbled out, more than ready for a break before resuming the journey. How weary they looked, how battered. How harassed the adults, how rambunctious the children. And how grimly, soon enough, they climbed back aboard, enduring what had to be endured until their goal should be reached. They would grind across Manitoba, then Saskatchewan, finally reaching Alberta and, for them, the end of the rainbow.

The sight awed the watching Allison. She caught a glimpse of the lure of free land and the tenacity of men to have it for themselves.

When at last a train was announced for Saskatchewan and points north, Allison hastened to board, locating the second-class car without any trouble—she followed the bulk of the crowd, the unwashed, the weary, the bedraggled, the single-minded crowd. Standing helplessly in the aisle as this mass of humanity surged around her, Allison was eventually invited to join a young couple and their three children. Gerhardt and Sylvie Barchev had quickly dumped their belongings and plunked their children into a section designed to hold four people. But noting the number of passengers, some standing with little hope of finding space, they wisely gathered their gear together, put their children on their laps, and offered a seat to Allison. With gratitude she sank into it.

Families of six to ten members were attempting to accommodate themselves in the small sections. Overhead was a tray-shaped affair used for baggage, closed up for the day. At night the baggage would be removed and stowed under the seats; the trays would be pulled down and became beds into which two adults or numerous children could climb; the seats below made two additional beds.

The car was greatly overcrowded at first, although Allison was to discover it would become roomier the farther they went, as family after family disembarked, some at sidings where no station existed and no one awaited their arrival. They and their meager belongings were set out alongside the track and the train pulled away, leaving them alone with only stretching prairie as far as the eye could see. Others on the train, heading for the same fate, watched in silence.

Before that, however, came the boarding, locating seats, getting seated, and the hubbub was great. While mothers attempted to settle their families and arrange their goods, children bounced up and down, screeching, crying for attention, eager to run the crowded aisles and finding it hard going because of the mass of bodies.

“It was good of you to make room for me,” Allison said with appreciation once she was seated, with her portmanteau shoved precariously into place overhead. “I don’t know where I would have found a spot otherwise. I . . . I didn’t realize it would be quite like this.”

Sylvie Barchev smiled wanly and admitted, in her broken English, “We would have had to make room for another adult, I’m sure, for we’ve come all the way from the east coast by train and have seen how people have to shove together. We found right away we were smart to make the selection ourselves rather than have someone force their presence on us.”

Sylvie’s gaze swung to the next section where an elderly couple and their daughter had found part of their space taken over by a rough-appearing man, unkempt, whiskery, large. Poor man, his looks were against him. Actually, he settled himself with a sigh, closed his eyes, and caused no trouble aside from the fact that his feet were large and always in the way, and—obviously long without a bath—his odor permeated the space like heavy fog.

It was only one smell among many; soon the foul air in the car was almost more than a person could bear—not only body odors but soiled babies, garlicky cooking, and eventually the smell of sickness. But to open a window allowed for soot and smoke, with many complaints on that account.

The daughter of the elderly couple was obviously ill. Seriously so. At first she leaned her head back, pale and perspiring. Soon her face became flushed, her eyes too bright, clearly feverish. The man in the corner of the seat, with no alternate seating available to him, did his best to keep out of the way, sleeping much of the time, looking on uneasily at other times. The old mother wrung her hands, helpless to do anything to help her daughter.

It was then Allison noticed him for the first time—the man who was to make a difference in the entire atmosphere of the car, who was to spread cheer wherever he went. And he went everywhere. No baby too croupy but what he took it in his arms and walked the aisle, giving the distracted mother a chance to rest, to sleep. No child too wild but what he calmed it. Groups of restless children were enticed into quiet games. Cups of water were brought from the cistern to the aged and infirm, cups of tea were provided for those needing solace and comfort.

In spite of herself Allison found her eyes following the tall young man with fascination. Who was he? Was he an employee of the railway? This she doubted—he certainly wasn’t the usual conductor. For one thing, his “uniform” was a dark suit, far from stylish, in fact rather shabby, as though having seen much use. For another, she had never seen a railway employee dry the tears of a youngster who was upset for some reason or other.

The Barchev children, before the day settled into night, became restless, hungry, whining for something to eat. The prepared food from a basket had been doled out earlier in the day, and now Sylvie made the decision to use the stove at the end of the car to heat a meal of sorts. The crowd there had thinned a little; perhaps she could find a spot to set a pot into which she was emptying a can of beans. These, with some bread from her basket, would feed the family for the night.

Sylvie looked hesitatingly toward Allison.

“I plan to buy what I need,” Allison said quickly. “There will be peddlers up and down the aisle soon, I’m sure.”

Sylvie seemed relieved; the can of beans was small. “I’ll have to leave the baby with you, Gerhardt, and Tina, too,” she said. “Gus can come with me.”

Gus hopped happily from the seat to the aisle, jigging impatiently, happy for this variation in the long, boring hours. Gerhardt took the baby, but Tina, only two years old, frightened at the unaccustomed sounds and sights, screamed at her mother’s retreating back, struggling in her father’s restraining hand, trying to follow her mother and brother.

“No, Tina! Sit down! Wait—Mama will be back soon,” the father entreated, his face growing red with effort and frustration as Tina’s screams and struggles increased and the baby, startled, set up a cry.

Ignorant when it came to children and their needs, Allison hesitated, watching the little drama with sympathy. Tina would never come to her, a stranger, but the baby—

While she hesitated, slow about offering to take the bawling babe from the father’s arms, a tall, dark-suited form bent over
the seat, gently disengaged the infant from Gerhardt’s grip, lifted it over the heads of those in the seat, and cradled it on his broad shoulder, a shoulder showing signs of a previous child’s spit.

“Let me help,” he said, and who, being in trouble, could refuse? And where could he go but up and down the aisle, in plain sight of all? The baby was obviously safe, the parent greatly relieved. Gerhardt turned his attention to Tina and soon had her calmed.

Their savior was the young man Allison had watched all day. She watched again as he strolled slowly along, tottering at times as the train swayed, the baby on his shoulder perfectly happy. At the end of the car, he turned and strolled, perhaps staggered, back. This he continued to do as Sylvie, hot kettle in one hand and holding Gus with the other, came from the stove and sank into her seat, to locate spoons and feed her family. Then the baby was brought, peaceful and contented, back to its mother’s arms.

“Thank you, oh, thank you,” Sylvie said gratefully.

The young man, looking nothing like a nursemaid, said, “You’re welcome,” and added with a smile, “I need the exercise.”

Allison, sitting not two feet from the face that bent over her, saw the smile up close. Saw the square jaw, the firm mouth. Saw the warmth in the eyes that were turned briefly on her, blue—deeply blue—eyes.

This was no wishy-washy, namby-pamby male. Masculinity breathed from every part of him, showed in every movement. But it was a masculinity tempered with gentleness, concern, thoughtfulness.
Iron clothed in velvet
, she thought. Silly—but there it was, her impression of him.

Beans. The simplest of fare. Allison watched the little family eat and, not having eaten adequately all day, found her mouth watering. How foolish not to have thought of bringing food along. The Barchevs cleaned out the pot with apologetic faces,
but there was little enough for the two adults and two children; the baby, quiet now, nestled asleep.

The diner! Surely her presence would be acceptable. Hastily Allison straightened her clothes and her hair, spit on a corner of her handkerchief, and swiped at her face. Then, rising on unsteady feet, she made her way down the jolting carriage, through another and yet another, not so crowded, less smelly, finally coming to the dining car.

She had taken its opulence for granted. Designed for the wealthy, it reflected the luxury of the day. Holding her head high and her shoulders back, Allison commanded the attention and service afforded those who qualified, and she obviously qualified. Sinking into a richly padded chair, she ordered tea and—to the superciliously raised eyebrows of the waiter—toast.

Sipping the invigorating brew, feeling herself revive, Allison was startled to note the helpful man of the second-class car making his way down the aisle. As he passed her, his gaze dropped to her lifted face, and again he smiled, obviously recognizing her.

For a moment Allison’s attention was distracted from her teacup; at that moment a vicious jolt of the train caused her arm to jerk and the tea to spill. She gasped as the hot liquid splashed over her hand.

The man in the aisle, thrown off balance momentarily, regained his footing, steadied himself, and lifted the cup from Allison’s trembling hand. Setting it down he picked up a serviette, giving it to her for the purpose of dabbing at her hand, her clothing, the tablecloth.

“Are you burned badly?” he asked, concern showing in his voice. “Perhaps we should ask for some help; there may be balm available, or some such remedy.”

“I think I’m all right,” Allison managed, examining her wrist and hand. The skin was red but not seriously burned. “The tea usually isn’t hot enough to suit me,” she said shakily, “and in this instance I guess that was a good thing.

“I’m going to have the teapot refilled,” she said, noting the waiter hurrying toward her. Appreciative of the stranger’s help, she added, “Why don’t you sit still long enough to have a cup? After all,” she said, to justify her boldness, “I feel I know you, having watched you all day as you helped this one and that one with one thing and another.”

The man hesitated, then, with a nod, sat down. “A cup of tea would be refreshing. It’s a madhouse back there, isn’t it?”

“Bring an extra cup, please,” Allison requested, and the waiter hurried off, stepping like a dancer in a lively jig in time with the sashaying of the car.

“Heavens! What can be the trouble?” Allison wondered, swaying in her seat.

“I believe it’s because the track shifted through the winter’s freeze. The ground tends to swell; I suppose the rails may warp. It seems to be particularly bad along here. It’s so open, you see, no trees, no protection. I can only imagine what winters are like. Fierce, I expect.”

“Did you wish to order?” Allison asked belatedly, lamely. She realized she had been bemused by the man whose presence seemed to work some sort of spell on her so that she wasn’t herself at all.

“Thank you for reminding me. I’m here to see if I can get a bowl of soup . . . if they’ll accommodate me in that way. It’s for the woman in the section next to yours—”

“Feverish. Sick. Do you mean,” Allison asked slowly, “you are looking after her?”

“Someone needs to,” the man said with a shrug. “Obviously her elderly parents are overwhelmed—”

“Why?” Allison asked abruptly. “Why do you do it? Are you a doctor?”

“No, indeed. I suppose it’s because I see a need and get satisfaction out of filling it. And,” he added with a grin that made his face boyish under a thatch of sandy hair much in need of straightening at the moment, “I might as well keep on the move. You see, I haven’t got a seat.”

“No?” Allison was incredulous. For hours this young man had been on his feet, with no break.

“Actually,” he admitted, “I had one, but there were people standing. My mother,” he said with another grin, “taught me never to sit if ladies had to stand.”

The grins gave him away. The sober suit branded him a serious man, perhaps a businessman, but the grin—it was that of a mischievous lad.

The tea arrived, and Allison had just begun to relax when her companion set aside his cup, stood, asked again if she was sure she was all right, and explained that he really should be seeing about soup or some other nourishment for the sick woman.

As he made his way down the swaying car and returned with a bowl balanced in one hand, Allison found herself disappointed that the conversation had been so brief. Passing her, he shifted his gaze only momentarily from the bowl and its sloshing contents to give her, once again, his wry grin.

Turning her head, she watched, impolitely she was sure, as he made his way with grace and as much dignity as possible through the car, past various encumbrances including unsteady passengers, to exit the car.

She saw him no more that day; perhaps he had found a seat after all. But the woman in the next section seemed to perk up a bit after her nutritious meal and, when night came, managed to climb into the tray-bed, along with her aged mother. It was a painful, precarious procedure, reenacted up and down the length of the car.

In their section, Allison and Sylvie and the baby occupied the seats for the night, curling up, sleeping fitfully, while Gerhardt and the two older children made the climb overhead.