A Texan's Honour. Kate Welsh

time she was sure his careless pose was purposeful. “And we are all thankful to fate that we don’t resemble my grandfather. He looked rather like a fat, out-of-sorts troll.” His smile was mischievous and irreverent. “Actually, he may have been.”

      Wondering again what Alexander hid behind the devil-may-care facade he presented the world, she handed the watch back but forgot to be careful. Her hand touched his. She gasped and dropped the watch, snatching her hand away.

       What was that?

      Touching him had felt the way she imagined lightning would were it to strike one’s person. Dangerous. She had to tighten her abdominal muscles to stop her stomach from its unruly series of somersaults. Her gaze flew to him as he straightened, having bent forward to pick up the dropped watch. He looked haunted but she was sure it was impossible that he had felt what she had.

      Men did not fear women. What she’d felt was fear and the need to run.

      Stop it! she shouted in her mind. You’re safe here with these people. It’s Father and Howard Bedlow you fear. Did Amber’s letters teach you nothing of good people? If you continue to tar all men with the same filthy brush, you will go as mad as Father says you are.

      She didn’t run no matter how compelled she felt to do so.

      Alexander finished settling the watch in his waistcoat pocket then looked at her again. “So now you have a picture in your head of your charge,” he said as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. She could see only kindness and a bit of sadness in his clear blue gaze. And then she remembered.

      Spawn of Satan.

      She had hurt him just as those other people had. This had to stop. She could not injure others because she harbored unreasonable fears. She forced herself to hold his gaze.

      If philosophers were correct and the eyes were the windows of the soul, then Alexander’s aquamarine eyes showed only goodness. She would not retreat in fear. She had to find a way to converse not just with him, but with other men near her age once again lest they see fault in themselves or her.

      “Your niece is lovely. Do you think we have woven the tale well enough to fit with the lives of not only the Winstons, but also with the movements of the Earl and Amber?”

      “It should certainly stand up to frontier scrutiny.” He chuckled. “I now know more about my new employees than I know about most of my so-called friends back in London. And I can say I like the Winstons quite a bit, especially since they are so willing to give aid to someone not of their station.”

      He smiled and this time it seemed genuine and not that false smirk. “You seem to have quite a bit of influence with the Winstons. Do you think you could get them to spend the rest of the trip at leisure? By Heddie insisting upon making up the berths and setting the table for meals, she is supplanting Virgil, the porter assigned the car. She is also driving me mad with all the dusting whenever we reach a station. Dust is part and parcel of train travel but Heddie refuses to give in to the inevitable.”

      She tilted her head and sighed deeply. “I have already tried.”

      Now he sighed as exaggeratedly as she had. “As have I. And I believe Winston refuses to be outdone by his wife. He intercepts the poor man as soon as he steps inside the door with our meals.”

      “They’re what my mother always called a force to be reckoned with. I’m afraid they’re beyond me.”

      Alexander shrugged, an ironic gleam in his eyes. “As you have retired from the field, I shall tip the man handsomely when he arrives with dinner. That way if he isn’t to continue on after Chicago he won’t be slighted. On my first cross-country trip I learned ex-slaves working as porters live mostly on their tips. I won’t be responsible for the man’s family doing without.”

      “That’s very good of you.”

      Shaking his head he spoke at so low a murmur she had to lean forward to hear. “I only have the monetary resources I do because my father embezzled from Adair’s coffers. Instead of seeing to the tenants’ well-being, he gave me funds to buy a commission in the army. Instead, I invested in Canadian railroads and eventually paid Jamie back but I cannot shake the guilt. No one will ever again do without because of me.”

      He looked away and stared moodily out the window, making her think he felt awkward for having spoken of his father’s illegal activities. Or he felt they’d run to the end of the subject of her new life story, and of his tragic life.

      Now that she was free to move away she hesitated. He looked so awfully tortured, though she couldn’t imagine how she could help or why she should considering trying. About to get to her feet now that she’d thought through the foolish impulse, he spoke absently with his attention still beyond the glass.

      “I’ve been thinking your Christian name could be a problem.” He glanced at her, blue eyes somber, then back at the scenery speeding by. “Changing it could be one, as well. You might not answer to another as instinctively as you should.” Again he spared her half a glance as he said, “I think it would be better not to speak it in public until we reach our destination.” Again his visual attention drifted out the window. “It could catch the attention of someone who’s heard of the search for a woman named Patience. Perhaps the Winstons could use a pet name for you.”

      “My mother used to read Mother Goose to me.” The wistful memory made her smile. “She called me Patty for Patty Cake—my favorite nursery rhyme. I could be Patty to them during travel. I believe I would automatically answer to that.”

      She was unsure if he’d heard her but was equally sure he was trying to gather the tattered vestiges of his devil-may-care persona. Did he know how unusual it was that he’d learned the porter’s name and bothered to use it? Or that he’d given away who he was under the mask once again. “On that last trip across America, didn’t you learn that people call all of the porters George after George Pullman? I believe coachmen in your country are all called John Coachman.”

      Then he looked back at her and nodded, an insolent grin in place. “So, Patty, do you play chess?”

      “I meant I should be called that by Heddie … no, Mum,” she corrected before he could tease her for forgetting her role as the Winstons’ daughter. She was almost sorry—but not quite—that she’d worried for his feelings. He was a man and men took advantage of any weakness they glimpsed. “I meant they could call me Patty. Are you always so impertinent?”

      “Oh. Yes. Always,” he said and grinned.

      “I shall remember not to take you seriously in that case. As for chess, I was the unofficial champion at Vassar for my last two years.”

      “Amazing.” He flipped over the table top between them. The flip side hid a chessboard. “Black or white, Miss Winston?” he asked and slid open the drawer containing the ivory and ebony pieces.

      She took up the ivory pieces and set up her side of the board. At first she played her usual restrained game, allowing Alexander to win. He teased her for losing to an unschooled barbarian, reminding her all men became barbarians when alone with a woman. But they weren’t alone and he all but begged for a rousing game. So she played to win and it felt wonderful. She made first one daring move, then another and another.

      Watching Alexander try to anticipate her next move brought a strange kind of gladness to her heart. Then she began to recognize that feeling again. It was like learning to ride the bicycle her father had brought from England when she was eighteen. Achievement. Triumph. Victory.

      Alexander fought hard, yet he didn’t seem to mind when she ultimately won. It was the first time she’d enjoyed chess in years. Against Edgar she’d had to walk a fine balance between losing and not making it obvious she had done so intentionally. The few times she’d miscalculated either way, she’d paid in bruises.

      She could admit now that somewhere inside her she’d been elated to see Edgar Gorham so humbled and furious at being bested by the wife he called a failure at every turn. Had she