change the subject.”
“No, that’s all right. I just haven’t talked about that day much.” Tom paused again and cleared his throat. “Well, it was me and my mother living with my grandma. I hadn’t seen my father for a few years—he liked to drink, and my mother had told him he needed to stop. He wasn’t ever happy unless he had a bottle in his fist, so he took off and told us he didn’t need us anymore. We were getting along fine, but then he showed up one day and told my mother she was coming back home with him.”
The conductor came down the aisle just then, and Tom paused until they’d handed over their tickets. After the man had worked his way down several more rows, Tom turned back to Harriet. “My mother told him she wasn’t going, that she could smell whiskey on his breath. I’d heard them shouting from outside and came in just in time to see him strike her. I tried to get between them, but he punched me good and hard and then pulled out his gun.”
Harriet realized she was holding her breath and forced herself to exhale. “Then what?” she asked when he fell silent.
“He shot my mother and left.”
“Oh, no.” Harriet pressed a hand to her mouth. “And you saw . . .”
Tom nodded.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She wanted to reach out and touch his arm, but didn’t.
“My grandmother fell ill because of grief and went to live with her sister. I was sent to live with my uncle, but he was a mean man and liked to use his whip for more than just training horses, so I left. I’ve been traveling ever since, and I’ve had a lot of adventures. So you’re not to feel sorry for me, Miss Martin.” He grinned when he used her surname. “I go where I want, I do what I want, and no one has me tied down. Mr. Brody’s been a good boss, though—I might stay in Topeka for a while.”
Harriet mulled that over. What did the future hold for her? After she met with Jane, would she go back to Atlanta? She just didn’t know.
“There’s one part of your story you’ve left out, and it’s one I’m particularly anxious to hear,” she said.
“Oh?” Tom raised an eyebrow.
“Yes. It’s about this Miss Beulah May Evans. It seems that I have a right to know all about her, considering that you mistook me for her once upon a time.”
Tom’s cheeks colored. “You’re right—you do deserve to know about her. Well, she lived in the house right next door to my grandmother’s. She was a spunky little spitfire, a lot like you—I guess that’s common with redheads.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Harriet said. Many was the time she had cursed her red hair and her mother’s Irish heritage, which had made all the women in the family for the last three generations a bit difficult to handle.
“Beulah May was about fourteen years old when I decided I was going to marry her. I told her that one day while we were out picking corn—our fields touched on one side, and we liked to work that side together and talk. Made things go much faster. Anyway, she didn’t seem to like the idea too much, so I set down my basket, pulled her to me, and kissed her.”
“Oh, so you have a habit of grabbing and kissing women.” Harriet shook her head in secret amusement. She should have been angry, but she couldn’t bring herself to it this time. “I’m sure you could come up with another way that would be more persuasive.”
“Oh, there’s nothing wrong with my powers of persuasion,” Tom said, another grin crossing his face. “As soon as I let her go, she promised to marry me on her sixteenth birthday. But then my mother died, and I left.”
“Did you ever go back to see her?” Harriet asked.
“I did, once. About two years ago. She’d married someone else and had settled down to raise a family. She told me she thought about me once in a while, but that it was probably all for the best that we hadn’t gotten hitched.”
“So when you kissed me, thinking I was Beulah May, you thought you were kissing a
“No, that’s all right. I just haven’t talked about that day much.” Tom paused again and cleared his throat. “Well, it was me and my mother living with my grandma. I hadn’t seen my father for a few years—he liked to drink, and my mother had told him he needed to stop. He wasn’t ever happy unless he had a bottle in his fist, so he took off and told us he didn’t need us anymore. We were getting along fine, but then he showed up one day and told my mother she was coming back home with him.”
The conductor came down the aisle just then, and Tom paused until they’d handed over their tickets. After the man had worked his way down several more rows, Tom turned back to Harriet. “My mother told him she wasn’t going, that she could smell whiskey on his breath. I’d heard them shouting from outside and came in just in time to see him strike her. I tried to get between them, but he punched me good and hard and then pulled out his gun.”
Harriet realized she was holding her breath and forced herself to exhale. “Then what?” she asked when he fell silent.
“He shot my mother and left.”
“Oh, no.” Harriet pressed a hand to her mouth. “And you saw . . .”
Tom nodded.
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She wanted to reach out and touch his arm, but didn’t.
“My grandmother fell ill because of grief and went to live with her sister. I was sent to live with my uncle, but he was a mean man and liked to use his whip for more than just training horses, so I left. I’ve been traveling ever since, and I’ve had a lot of adventures. So you’re not to feel sorry for me, Miss Martin.” He grinned when he used her surname. “I go where I want, I do what I want, and no one has me tied down. Mr. Brody’s been a good boss, though—I might stay in Topeka for a while.”
Harriet mulled that over. What did the future hold for her? After she met with Jane, would she go back to Atlanta? She just didn’t know.
“There’s one part of your story you’ve left out, and it’s one I’m particularly anxious to hear,” she said.
“Oh?” Tom raised an eyebrow.
“Yes. It’s about this Miss Beulah May Evans. It seems that I have a right to know all about her, considering that you mistook me for her once upon a time.”
Tom’s cheeks colored. “You’re right—you do deserve to know about her. Well, she lived in the house right next door to my grandmother’s. She was a spunky little spitfire, a lot like you—I guess that’s common with redheads.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Harriet said. Many was the time she had cursed her red hair and her mother’s Irish heritage, which had made all the women in the family for the last three generations a bit difficult to handle.
“Beulah May was about fourteen years old when I decided I was going to marry her. I told her that one day while we were out picking corn—our fields touched on one side, and we liked to work that side together and talk. Made things go much faster. Anyway, she didn’t seem to like the idea too much, so I set down my basket, pulled her to me, and kissed her.”
“Oh, so you have a habit of grabbing and kissing women.” Harriet shook her head in secret amusement. She should have been angry, but she couldn’t bring herself to it this time. “I’m sure you could come up with another way that would be more persuasive.”
“Oh, there’s nothing wrong with my powers of persuasion,” Tom said, another grin crossing his face. “As soon as I let her go, she promised to marry me on her sixteenth birthday. But then my mother died, and I left.”
“Did you ever go back to see her?” Harriet asked.
“I did, once. About two years ago. She’d married someone else and had settled down to raise a family. She told me she thought about me once in a while, but that it was probably all for the best that we hadn’t gotten hitched.”
“So when you kissed me, thinking I was Beulah May, you thought you were kissing a
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