Free The Marshal's Pursuit by Gina Welborn

wasn’t one to take advantage of an injury, but he suspected she needed an excuse to sit down. Only her need to look strong would never admit it.
    “My broken toe is screaming for me to give it a rest.” Not necessarily a lie because his foot was aching. He took a step back then motioned to the seating area. “Would you mind if we continued this conversation over there? Please?”

Chapter 6
    One might say the perfect traveler is one whose digestion is perfect, whose disposition is cheerful, who can be enthusiastic under the most discouraging circumstances.
    —Emily Price Post, Etiquette

    F rank waited until Miss Vaccarelli passed him, then he followed her to the seating area near the front of the car. She sat on the edge of the sofa, clutching a fringed velvet pillow to her stomach as if it were a shield, leaving him the chairs to choose from. Frank sank into the chair to her left, the better of the two to give him a view of the locked door. No one was expected to enter, at least not until they made it to New Rochelle. Still, he kept a gun within easy reach. If he were at home, he’d prop his foot up on the table; at his office, up on a stool. Here he had to make do with extending his leg in front of him.
    “How’s your arm?” It was an abrupt restart to their conversation, but it was superficial, inoffensive and, now that Frank thought of it, something he actually wanted to know.
    She looked from one arm to the other then back at him. “They’re fine. Why do you ask?”
    “Cady grabbed you pretty hard.”
    Her lips formed an O. She touched the spot where Cady’s fist had clenched. “It doesn’t feel bruised.”
    “Good. If it bruises, let me know.”
    “And what will you do about it if it does? Demand a duel with the special prosecutor?”
    That her expression was as serious as her tone caused Frank pause. So far in their short acquaintance, she’d shown no predilection toward sarcasm or a dry wit. Yet...
    “I was thinking ice pack.” And then, because he couldn’t help himself: “But if a duel would please you more, milady, I’ll have one arranged.”
    “I’m Van Kelly’s sister.” She said it in the same manner one would say, I’m King Herod’s wife. I deserve neither pity nor mercy.
    He touched the arm of the sofa, leaning forward. “No woman deserves a bruise.” He stared at her long enough for her to see he was deathly serious.
    Something flickered in her eyes. A hint of gratitude, perhaps, but he hoped it was something more, such as the bud of an epiphany that he wasn’t the heathen she’d presumed him to be. Or something resembling a simple You’re a good man, Frank Louden.
    The train slowed, brakes squealing, and the whistle blew again. They were approaching the loading platform, where hundreds would pile into the Shore Line Express for the multitude of stops between here and Boston.
    Frank eased back in his chair to give her needed space. Making her nervy would counter his progress, and he didn’t have time to tear down that wall a second time. “When people marry,” he said, “they don’t inherently trust one another.”
    Her head tilted, and he could practically see the interest she had in what he would say next. Not all women were like that. Some didn’t want to spend an evening by the fire, just the two of them and a conversation. Some didn’t enjoy conversation...or, at least, not conversation with him. Some despised watching those stupid baseball games at the Polo Grounds. They wanted to go only to operas, symphonies and balls, which he didn’t mind attending. Relationships should be give-and-take, not all take.
    “You were saying?” she put in.
    Frank started at her voice, so lost in his thoughts. “Saying?”
    “When people marry...?”
    The train continued to slow, brakes squealing; tracks rattled underneath them, vibrating the floor. The whistle repeatedly blew. With the private coach still in the tunnel, no one could see them, no one would know they were