Free The Enchantment by Kristin Hannah

Emma placed her white-gloved hand in his, hiked up her heavy wool traveling skirt, and followed him into the train.
    The train. She thought of the two words as capitalized. The Train.
    The Train in which she'd be sitting next to Dr. Dimwit from New York to New Mexico.
    If only she were one of those people who suffered fools gladly.
    If only he weren't so easily cast in the role.

    Emmaline perched stiffly on the edge of the plush burgundy velvet seat, edging herself as close to the window as possible. Her hands were wadded in her lap, her back was ramrod-straight.
    She waited for the telltale clomp, step, clomp, step of Digby's ponderous gait. At each passenger's entrance on the train, her vertebras tightened.
    Calm down. It wouldn't do a scrap of good to go working herself into a snit. She was riding cross-country in this—her gaze shot to the small settee opposite her, and she groaned—this minuscule compartment with Digby, and that was that.
    She breathed in and out slowly, forcing herself to calm down. Squeezing her eyes shut so that she wouldn't have to greet Digby when he finally worked his way to their seat, she leaned against the thick brocade shade that covered the window. The musty scent of aged fabric crept to her nostrils.
    Then she heard it: Clomp, step, clomp, step . . .
    "Here you are, Dr. Digby: 62-A."
    Emma heard something land on the velvet settee op-

    68
    Kristin Hannah
    posite her. She could almost see that ragged old duck valise bouncing on the squabbed cushion.
    "Thank you," Digby said in a voice that could only be described as breathless. "I hope that grandson of yours feels better soon."
    Grandson? The idiot had asked the train attendant about his family? Emma groaned silently, waiting for the attendant to leave before she cracked one eye open. Across from her, Larence scooted to the edge of his seat. Emma felt the soft brush of his wool-clad knees against hers. Before she knew what he was up to, he'd reached over and patted her clasped hands. One quick touch and then his hands were back in his own lap.
    She stiffened in shock. People so rarely touched her. . . .
    He smiled. White teeth flashed at her. "Isn't this great? I 've been reading about ..."
    He launched into another monologue. Emma grimaced. It was time to set some ground rules. "Let's get something—"
    The train lurched forward; she flew backward, cracking her head on the bench's mahogany back. As quickly as it had moved, the train stopped again. The car rattled, hummed, shook.
    A headache burst to life at the base of her neck. Closing her eyes, she pressed two fingers to her temples and eased herself deeper into the settee. "Would you hand me my gladstone bag?" Nothing. Not even a stupid answer. She opened her eyes hesitantly. Digby had his nose buried in a scruffy, dog-eared copy of Century Magazine that was dated 1882. She stifled a groan. Only Digby would bring an eleven-year-old magazine to read.
    THE ENCHANTMENT
    69
    She cleared her throat.
    He looked up. Emma craned her neck for a look at the article's title: "An Aboriginal Pilgrimage."
    She made a mental note not to accept any reading material he offered her. ' 'Would you hand me my glad-stone bag?"
    "What gladstone bag?"
    "The one I handed to you at the concourse." She glanced around the tiny compartment. "Where did you stow it?"
    "I didn't."
    Emma's headache intensified. "Didn't what?"

    "Stow your bag."
    "Then what did you do with it?"
    "Nothing."
    The train lurched forward. Emma's stomach dropped. "What do you mean, nothing?"
    "I mean nothing. I didn't touch it."
    With a cry, Emma snapped to her feet. The train bucked forward, and she staggered back, flopping onto the velvet seat. She yanked the gold silk tassel beside her. The shade jerked once, then bounced up the window and clapped around the metal rod that housed it.
    Emma's gaze shot to the bench. There, piled neatly on the hard wooden surface, were her traveling bags.
    Leaning up against the bench was her expensive