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He took the card; giving a grateful nod heedless of the fact no time soon would he be planting roots. Of any kind.
As if drawn by his own thoughts, he turned his head and followed the woman’s icy blue gaze. A wall of trees greeted him. Amongst a forest of golden leaves, a mix of pine and spruce dotted the rich timber landscape. Not a sign of life to be found.
Pocketing the card, he turned away and thought even if he were to stake a claim, it certainly would not be in this god-forsaken country with its endless countryside of bush.
Chapter 2
She ignored him. He made her feel far too edgy. He wanted something. She knew the signs.
Up close, she noticed his steely eyes were actually the color of rusty gold. Much like the bullets lining inside his holster. Her gaze slid instinctively toward the edge of the table where she could see it peering just beneath the surface.
She wished Mr. Radford had requested he remove the holster rather than the hat. At least then she wouldn’t have been able to see his eyes so clearly. Or feel them fastened on her, daring her to look his way. But her unyielding indifference would not give in so easily. It had been the only thing which kept her sanity intact all these years.
And her life.
The dinner hour seemed to drag. Eating was torture. Every bite felt as if she were swallowing rocks. His continual scrutiny made her feel highly charged. Uncomfortable. Alert.
She ate in silence. Distant. Not participating in the conversation around the table. Her glass of water trembled beneath the rolling train, rattling the ice cubes inside. Reaching out, she took a large gulp of water and was reminded of the open window back at her compartment. How she wanted desperately to slip back there and crank it open. That wasn’t actually true. What she rightly wanted was to get off this suffocating contraption on wheels. Even the huge windows couldn’t lessen the feeling of being slowly smothered. And to think she had six more days of it.
But more than that, what she greatly desired was to part company with the man across from her. She had barely glanced his way, but she had registered the scruffy look of his attire. Noted the long but thin shaggy locks of hair drawn into a ponytail at the base of his neck. Noticed the five days growth of hair that shadowed his square jaw line.
It was no wonder the Radford’s hadn’t wanted him to sit with them. He didn’t resemble anyone they associated with.
She eyed his reflection in the window. He was still sitting openly studying her. She didn’t like being stared at, it made her nervous. Cautious. She considered asking him to stop.
“So what brought you to Canada?”
The question
was obviously directed at her. His voice, though tilted slightly at the end, sounded flat. Bland. Nevertheless, she flinched inwardly just the same. She did not wish to speak with him. Particularly regarding that subject.
Not caring how rude she appeared, she ignored him again, hoping he would finally leave her be. She knew her behavior would not unsettle the Radford’s. They spent most of the time ignoring her as it was. They had never asked of her past. The only thing that mattered was whether she could attend well or not. And she sincerely doubted they appreciated the topic around the table centered on their servant either.
When her silence stretched on, he continued to sit watching her, while she watched his reflection. Even if it wasn’t the clearest image, she could tell his eyes were sparkling. Curiously, as if animated. Excited. It put a certain sparkle in their depths and, ruthlessly, she admitted he wasn’t a terribly homely man. Regardless of his appearance. Actually, she was certain many American women would fancy him attractive.
“I’m certain I’ve seen you before,” he said. “Perhaps in Chicago?”
She flinched. She couldn’t help it. Reluctantly, she turned her gaze from the window and looked across the table at him, noting the satisfaction spread across his face.
Who was this man?
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Michalski,” Allison Radford said. “Moira has not left my employment since arriving in Canada. And certainly not to the United States.”
“My mistake,” he said, but didn’t sound convinced. He placed his elbows on the table and leaned toward her. “But still. . .”
He allowed the implication to hover, but added nothing more. Instinctively, she recoiled from his person, needless of the fact a table sat between them. His eyes narrowed. The urge to bolt had her gripping the edge of her chair to keep herself seated. Those rusty golden eyes of his continued to survey her closely. Irritation finally, thankfully, began to stir at his continual scrutiny.
“Perhaps, sir, I suggest you be traveling in the wrong direction, if the woman ye be looking for is in Chicago,” she said, hoping her words would finally have him leave her be.
On the contrary, Sam Michalski’s hazel eyes only narrowed even more. “I don’t recall stating I was searching for a woman. I merely mentioned you reminded me of one from Chicago.”
She knitted her brows together in a deep frown, trying to recall exactly what it was he had said. When he continued to sit there openly staring at her as if he were visually dissecting her, she blurted the only thing she could think of. “Well, I’m not from Chicago.”
“Yes, I know.” He smiled suddenly. “You’re from Ireland.”
The smile held so much insincerity and coldness it could have turned the water in her glass into ice. Yet for some odd reason, she felt the tiniest flutter of warmth in the vicinity of her stomach.
Distressed, she turned and stared back out the window. Row after row of telegraph lines whirled past making her feel dizzy. The familiar sense of nausea had returned. If she sat very quiet and still, it would surely pass as it always did. Her gaze lifted to the window and she caught his likeness in the glass.
