Steel Heart (Historical Western Romance) (Longren Family series #2, Chloe and Matthew's story) (12 page)

             
"What do you think?" Matthew asked as we strolled back to our overheated house in Reno, passing neighbors fanning themselves in the July heat.  Mavis's house was shuttered and empty.  During our trip, she must have finished her packing, hired the movers to take her goods to the train and she and her children were on their way back East. 
Trains were the future,
I thought.  She'd be home again in a week, among people who could help her heal and start her life over again.  Once, it would have been impossible to even contemplate such a trip.

             
Jenny and Richard waved from their porch, contentedly watching their children in the yard.  This wasn't a bad place, but it was day after day and it was a place where Matthew risked being shot while doing something that was only
almost
what he wanted to do.

             
"Would it always be the same route?" I asked without warning as we went inside.  The house looked dusty and shut up, as if we'd been away much longer.  I went to the kitchen, searching for lemons, sugar and water.  Matthew went looking for coffee as well.

             
"No.  Maybe for a few months.  Then it would change.  Or I could be on call to take whatever came in, though that might be harder with a wife."

             
"I can travel as lightly as you can," I said, mock offended.

             
"You can't," he said.  "That dress alone would wear down an engine."

             
I flounced.  The dress was lighter than dresses only a few years ago but it was long and complicated and had a lot of buttons.  "Help me out of it, then," I said and left the lemons and coffee for later.

October 4, 1881

              Driving rain swept through the forests above Susanville.  Clouds lowered until it seemed twilight had come early.  Lightning lit the forest, sheets of light turning the sky deep shades of purple. 

             
Matthew stood, relentless, his legs braced, his control of the train perfect, calling back and forth with Roy, the fire man in the tender car behind the cab.  The steam engine surged ahead, up an incline through the thick forest.  Earlier, I'd walked back through the passenger cars and noted drawn faces, nervous laughter and white knuckles.  It was a bad night, a bad storm.  Winds shook the carriages as if the iron horse weighed nothing.  Walking the cars took all the balance I'd learned in the last few months.  I tried to look reassuring and had a feeling I'd failed.  After Matthew started running trains for UP, I'd accompanied him almost every trip, heading over the Sierra after the first early snow in September, even.              

             
Nothing had come close to this night.  Abandoning the passenger cars for fear of scaring people further, I headed back up to the front of the train and sat quietly behind Matthew,

watching. 
                           

             
Ahead of us, the trees opened like a dark tunnel, blowing wildly on either side of the tracks.  The engine puffed, climbing hard, speed increasing even as we rose.  Matthew's knuckles were white.  So were mine.

             
Another gust of air hit the train, rocking the cab.  I sucked in breath, swallowed down a short scream.  I'd do nothing to interrupt his concentration.  I grabbed the edge of the bench where I sat.  My body swayed uncontrollably with the rocking motion of the train. 

             
Outside, the wind screamed.  I could hear trees cracking now as the wind broke branches and trunks.  More lightning lit the sky, horizon-wide, illuminating trees and mountains and sky into black, white and purple.  Rain streaked the glass, making it difficult to see the tracks and what was coming.

             
I stood, holding on to a hand grip, our coats swaying from it, batting me in the face, wrapping around me.  I brushed at them, absently, stared as hard as I could ahead of us, as if I could somehow make a difference. 

             
"Hang on," Matthew said, unexpectedly.  I didn't think he was aware of me.  When I looked at him, I could see my ghostly image reflected in the glass past him. 

             
The train was cresting the incline.  It looked as if the front of the train was jutting off into nothing, as if we were plunging over a cliff.  I couldn't sit, I couldn't even let go of the hand grip.  I grabbed it with my other hand, my shoulder pointing at the front of the train, my head turned that way as I watched, horrified.

             
It was steep, a descent that, on ordinary days, might not look so horrifying.  Today, we were plunging, it felt like we were going far too fast, the train tearing ahead.  Wind battered the cab, shaking us, and the rails seemed to vibrate under the wheels.  The scream of metal let me know Matthew was braking, I could see him moving purposefully, playing the brake lever, the steam brakes catching and releasing.  I gasped again, as the wind tore off branches, threw them across the tracks, battering the train, bouncing off harmlessly except for the noise.  More lightning, followed immediately by thunder, added to the thunder of the wheels and the scream of the brakes and the roar of the flood, cascading down the incline, along the mountainside. From the side window I could see it, running at us, not parallel and not directly crosswise at us, but coming at an angle, coming from the left and coming fast, a wall of water.

             
I said his name.  There was no way he could have heard me.  I saw him make one quick judgment.  There was no way to stop the runaway train.  Maybe giving it its head would get us out of the way of water.

             
There was too much train behind us, too many cars, too many passenger cars and drayage following us.  There wasn't anything else he could have done.

             
The water hit the train.  The scream of brakes initially increased, then squealed away as water rushed all around the train.  There was an instant of almost feeling as if nothing inside the train and none of us had any weight at all and then the train was wobbling, trying to come back down on the left side, the heavy engine tipping back down toward the rails and the earth.

             
Then, a second wave of water hit the train, blowing up under the cab, shoving it, forcing it forward and sideways and faster—and we tipped.  I lost my grip on the hand rail, felt myself sliding at the right wall that was no longer wall, felt myself tilting and flying and falling as the train went over on its side, screaming against the rails, Matthew falling, losing his grip on any of the controls.  I could hear passengers screaming.  I could hear myself screaming.  I could hear the water and the boom of thunder and the bellow of wind.

             
Then, the domino of the chain of cars, one after another, derailing, still attached to each other, crashing onto their sides, the entire train still heading down, now at an angle from the tracks, sparks flying, the weight of the cars behind the cab pushing everything forward, faster, endlessly falling, jack knifing and tumbling free of the confining tracks.

              It seemed to go on forever.  Cars sliced over gravel, crashed through trees, came free of the whole, or dragged it with them, and crashed into banks of trees that didn't give.  One car was crushed into a boulder alongside the tracks but there were no passengers inside.  The cab shrieked down the mountainside on the side where the door was, twisting and trying to shake free of the train that still held it.

             
I fell against Matthew and we instinctively grabbed for each other, hanging on tight as the slide picked up speed and then snapped to a stop.

             
The sounds came to a stop.  Thunder overhead grumbled and water coursed over the train but the sliding and grinding over rocks, the scream of brakes and clatter of wheels, the tearing of metal that tried to separate had ended.

             
The train lay crumpled and still.

             
"Water," Matthew said.  He spared one instant to stare into my eyes.  "Are you hurt?"

             
"No.  You?"

             
"Not important.  We have to get to Roy and we have to get to the passengers."

             
I wasn't sure we could get us out of the cab, but of course the door that led into the engine room was there, sideways but available, it led to the tender where Roy would have been working the fire box.

             
If the boiler exploded, the train could go up. 

             
If the boiler had sprung open, Roy could be scalded.

             
"How do we get out?" I asked, but Matthew was already kicking the glass from the front of the train, scrambling up and leaning back down and in to hold his hands out to me.  I climbed, pushing and pulling myself up, trying to use leverage and not make Matthew take my full weight.

             
Minutes later, I was atop the fallen cab, water flowing fast around us but not as high as I had feared.

             
"Stay here," Matthew said.

             
I bit my lip.  I wanted to protest.  I wanted to help, however I could, but I didn't want to distract him.  Already, I could hear voices, men pushing their way free of fallen cars, freeing women and children, moving to other cars in the lee of the train where the water didn't run as fiercely. 

             
Matthew moved first to the tender box, which had landed twisted, not quite on its side, not quite upright.  Much of the train in the middle still stood upright, curved back toward itself in a semicircle so I could see.  I hoped that fared well for the passengers and, already, I could see people emerging if I leaned far enough off the cab.

             
Matthew banged on the side of the tender car, shouted for Roy and received no answer.  Looking back to me, he called, "I'm going in the top."

             
"Matt, no."

             
"I have to.  If he's hurt—" He didn't finish that.  The chances of Roy being alive and unhurt were slim.

             
I watched him climb up the tender car then slid down onto the ground, my boots hitting water up to my ankles.  It was fast and hard but not too deep.  If I kept hold of the train, I'd stay on my feet.  I wanted to be near the car where Matthew was, wanted to know what had happened to Roy, wanted to help with the passengers in any way I could

             
Matthew was only out of sight for an instant.  When he reappeared, I didn't have to ask.  Roy was dead.

             
I said a quick silent prayer and moved down the engine.

             
"Chloe!"

             
"I'm alright."  But I stopped, waited for him to climb down and come with me.  Lightning broke overhead, farther off now, a longer pause between flash and thunder.  The storm was passing.  The water was already flooding lower, like wading through a very cold creek.  The day was still dark, still clouded over, and the wind hadn't let up. 

             
"Is the boiler going to blow?"

             
Matthew took a breath.  "No.  The compartment flooded.  The pressure is off."

             
And Roy was dead, horribly.  I swallowed several times and followed Matthew to the passenger cars.

             
For the next several hours, we assisted passengers in and out of the cars, assessed wounds, wrapped sprains and cuts, made sure certain parties were together, and waited.  Eventually, the next stop on the line, Alturas, would send a telegraph to find out when we had left and get word back that we had left on time.  Another train would go out, looking for us, but it could be hours.

              The snow started before the other train arrived.  With no danger of the boiler exploding, most passengers opted to stay inside the cars that still stood or leaned.  Matthew paced, second guessed himself, worried about what else he could have done, grieved for Roy.

             
There wasn't anything else you could do
, I thought a dozen times.  Roy had stopped feeding the boiler the minute we realized there was flooding and we were facing a long, downhill stretch.  The steam brakes had worked and Matthew had braked, applying it and pulling back, applying the brake evenly and smoothly.  But the water had caught the train, the flash flood coming off the mountain and derailing us.

             
They'd tell him that when they came, the train that would be sent to rescue and the inspector who would be sent to inspect.  I'd watched Matthew, seen every move.  He'd never panicked, never lost control; he'd done everything he could.  He'd lost cars.  He'd lost Roy.  The rest of the passengers, maybe somewhat battered, were alive.

             
I didn't say any of it.  No point.  He'd hear me.  He'd appreciate hearing it, but coming from his wife, it would mean nothing more to him than that I loved him and believed in him. 

             
He had to hear it from the railroad.

             
The train arrived late afternoon, a skeleton crew, engineer, fireman, inspector and a doctor who'd been in the station and volunteered to go.  The first thing the doctor did was glare at me and ask what I was doing there. 

             
Driving the train
, I wanted to say, angered at his arrogance. He was annoyed at the sprains we'd wrapped and the measures we'd taken to make people comfortable.  With the railroad representative there, I didn't say that. 

             
I looked him in the eye, which meant looking down, actually.  He was a crabbed and bent little man, angry at the world.  I couldn't see how he was going to be much help.  "I'm helping," I told him.  "If you think you'd like to try it, there's a train full of injured people."

             
The color that shot to his face suggested sudden apoplexy. He turned away without another word and headed for the passengers.  I looked at Matthew and caught the only slight smile I saw from him the rest of that day. Then, I followed the doctor and noted that, for all his fury, he made relatively few changes to any of the things we had done for the injured.

              The inspector for the railroad, a tall, spare man with graying hair, thick brows and a beaky nose, gave us his findings before the passengers had even finished climbing onto the new train.  I'd heard him—when I wasn't following the doctor or watching the new train, or trying simply to stand somewhere the snow wasn't falling quite so thickly down my neck—asking Matthew question after question, about the braking, the fueling, the descent.