Free Every Hidden Thing by Kenneth Oppel

Cheyenne—there’s a fort near there as well. And next would be . . . well, that would put them at our station stop.” He looked crushed.
    â€œIt’s most likely North Platte,” I said to cheer him up, though I hated the idea of Rachel getting off the train.
    â€œThat means they’ll be getting off at two a.m.,” he said, looking at the timetable. “Let’s hope.”
    Just then the lavender-scented lady from our car was escorted to our table by the headwaiter. Both Father and I rose and said, “Good afternoon, ma’am.”
    â€œI hope you don’t mind my joining you?”
    â€œNot at all, please,” said my father, pulling out the chair next to his.
    We sat and introduced ourselves. Her name was Mrs. Cummins, and she was traveling from St. Paul to live with her sister’s family in San Francisco. She’d lost her husband during the war. She must’ve married very young, because she couldn’t have been thirty, and was uncommonly pretty.
    She talked mostly to my father, who’d angled his chair toward her. He was trying to subtly stroke his mustache into some order. To straighten the lines of his train-rumpled jacket. No one could be as attentive to women as him. It was positively cosmic. Heturned on his full solar attention, and they actually seemed to lean closer, like they were gravitationally pulled.
    Despite Mrs. Cummins’s lush mouth, and the pleasing swell of her blouse, I was thinking only of Rachel. Watching for her to come and have her lunch. I only half listened to my father’s conversation with Mrs. Cummins. Mostly to make sure he didn’t reveal too much about our expedition. He told just enough to impress the widow with his fame. Our food arrived, and the two of them seemed scarcely interested in it. She liked to touch his arm when she made a point or was surprised by something he said. She was surprised a lot. I saw Father sit up taller, his smile spread roguishly across his face. He was never at a loss for words, asking her question after question, which she eagerly answered.
    Cartland and Rachel arrived and had their lunch with Landry and one of the students. She did not look over. Which was maddening.
    When we were finished, Mrs. Cummins shook our hands and excused herself and went back to the second carriage.
    â€œWell,” my father said, inhaling as if enjoying a fresh breeze, “she was a very pleasant lady. We should return to the carriage as well.”
    â€œBut shouldn’t we try to learn more?” I asked. “About the Cartlands.”
    â€œNever overplay your hand,” he said wisely. “Our best chance will be after dinner, when the bar opens in the parlor car. Until then, we have our own plans to discuss.”
    A big wintry gust of disappointment moved through me, butI followed Father back to the carriage. When dinnertime finally came round, we returned to the dining car. Much to my father’s disappointment, we weren’t seated with Mrs. Cummins. She was already with three Yale students, who mostly stared at her in stunned silence while she made sunny chitchat. I noticed she liked touching the arm of one of the handsomer students.
    We ourselves had the bad luck of being seated with two waxy-looking stationers. The more talkative one, very slowly and in excruciating detail, told us about the challenges of the job. I was shoveling food into my mouth so I could get away fast, but my father seemed to enjoy interrupting the fellow to pepper him with questions. I kept looking over at Cartland’s table, hoping Rachel would look over and see me. She did, just once, and held my gaze for an electrifying moment before turning her attention back to her father.
    By the end of the meal our stationers thought Father was a capital fellow and gave him their cards. They parted with hearty handshakes and invitations to visit next time we were in Sacramento.
    â€œAh, that was an ordeal,” he