Authors: The Soft Touch
“Tell me about Montana, Bear,” Robbie said, snuggling into the pillows.
“Bear?” Diamond looked at him, then at McQuaid.
“Yeah. Out West they call him ‘Bear’ … on account of he outran a bear once,” Robbie said. When McQuaid held up a finger, he remembered the rest. “Also cause he’s mean as a grizzly when he gets up in the mornin.’ ”
“Close enough,” McQuaid said.
“You seem to know quite a bit about Mr. McQuaid,” she said, turning a burning, suspicious look on the tall Westerner.
“He doesn’t know the half of it,” McQuaid said, folding his arms across his chest and looking thoughtful. “I’ve been on Texas cattle drives and been trapped in mountain snow squalls and I’ve smoked a peace pipe with Indian chiefs—”
“Really?” Robbie’s eyes widened. “Did they capture you?”
Bear McQuaid laughed. “Not exactly. We did some trading and I—I’m ashamed to say—came out on the short end. That pipe of tobacco cost me dearly.” He punched a finger at Robbie. “Which is a good lesson for you, Wingate. Stay away from tobacco.”
“Wow.” Robbie drank it in. “Tell me about the cowboy stuff … and about your gun. I wanna hear about your gun.”
Before long, McQuaid was sitting back against the foot post with his long legs stretched out before him and his feet crossed, telling Robbie about some of the places he had been and the characters he’d met in his travels over the length and breadth of the West. Diamond listened, too, reining him in when his stories became a bit too explicit, acting suitably shocked and disapproving.
“Really, Mr. McQuaid—”
“Bear,” Robbie reminded her, “Call him ‘Bear.’ ”
“Really, Mr. Bear,” she said with a perfectly straight face, “I don’t think Robbie is going to be in any situation requiring him to skin a buffalo anytime soon. I believe we can skip the gory details.”
“Oh, no,” Robbie said, with a bloodthirsty grin, “I want to hear ever’thing … all about the guts an’ what you do with the eyeballs.…”
“Fine.” Diamond stood and straightened her riding skirt. “But if you have horrible dreams tonight, Robert Wingate, don’t come crying to me.” Then she turned to “Bear” McQuaid. “I can see I’m not needed here. I may as well arrange dinner. You will stay?”
“You’re inviting me to dinner?” he asked with mock surprise.
“I believe that’s what I just did.” She folded her arms.
“Well, that’s quite generous of you,” he drawled, eyeing her in a way that made her blush. “What are you having?”
Insolent man, she thought as she tromped down the steps to the center hall and headed for the service stairs leading to the kitchen. As if he wouldn’t stay to dinner unless they were having buffalo steaks and shoe-leather pie.
It was a light supper … only four courses … a simple white wine, no heavy beef dishes, and a raspberry fruit creme for dessert. Diamond—who had given in to her ingrained habit of changing for dinner and sat in her usual chair at the head of the table wearing a soft blue challis dress trimmed with French cutwork lace—directed the servants to offer McQuaid—seated at the foot of the table in his vest and shirtsleeves—seconds and then thirds.
He ate like a starving army. Though, in truth, it wasn’t
unpleasant watching his appreciative appetite. It probably took a goodly amount of food to fuel that large, powerful—
Dragging those thoughts under control, she realized that he hadn’t bothered to put on his coat for dinner. That should have roused her proper indignation. But when he sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, savoring the wine, she felt nothing even approaching disapproval.
His head popped up and he frowned. “Do I hear a bell ringing?” he said, glancing at the door.
“It’s the telephone.”
“The what?”
“Telephone. Surely you’ve seen them. The wired boxes you speak into and talk to people miles away. Philip Vassar has them at his bank.”
“I’ve heard of them,” he said. “Never seen one, though.”
Jeffreys entered the dining room. “Beg pardon, miss. Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey are experiencing some difficulty with the carriage. They say they can borrow the Masseys’ carriage if they are needed home right away. Otherwise, they shall have to wait until the Masseys’ stableman fixes the wheel.”
“I’ll speak to them,” she said, rising and heading for the door. She paused as Bear McQuaid rose from his chair. “You can come and see, if you like.”
He followed her out into the center hall and around the curved staircase to a shadow-laden library. She paused just inside the door to touch something on the wall, there was a faint “click,” and light bloomed instantly around them. It was a strong, brilliant white that had none of the whoosh or smell or yellow tinge of gaslight. He looked up at the crystal fixture overhead. Above each of the former gas jets was a clear glass dome containing a glowing golden filament that looked similar to the ones he had seen in the electrified street lamps of some of the better sections of Baltimore.
While he was staring in fascination at the electrical light, she went to the large desk in the center of the library and raised the telephone to her ear. The sound of her voice drew his attention back to her and he joined her, scrutinizing the device in her hand. It was a wooden handle fitted with two black cones, one flattened and one bent slightly, that she held to her ear and mouth. The device was attached by a cord to a polished cherry box fitted with a crank that looked like a coffee-grinder handle.
“No need to rush,” she said, speaking succinctly into one of the cones. “We’re keeping Robbie cool with baths and using calamine and soda poultices for the itching. The doctor said it’s something he’ll just have to suffer through.” Her eyes narrowed and she held the listening part away from her ear. Bear could have sworn he heard the sound of raspy laughter from the earpiece. After a moment she returned it to her ear and said tersely, “Good-bye, Hardwell.” As she returned the telephone to its metal cradle, he stared at the polished box and receiver on the desk.
“You can honestly talk to people through that box and wires.” He rubbed his chin. “I read about these things in the newspapers on the train. I had no idea you had ‘telephones’ here.”
“Baltimore is a very progressive city. We can reach any one of more than two thousand people, and new lines are being strung all the time. We have just added service to Cumberland, Frostburg, Annapolis, and Frederick—”
“We?”
“I … invested. Our Chesapeake and Potomac Telephone stock is soaring.” She lowered her gaze to the contraption. “Would you like to talk to someone?”
The only person he wanted—needed—to talk to was standing across the corner of a desk from him. But distance wasn’t the only difficulty to be overcome in communication. With all that he had to say to her, he found
himself staring speechlessly at the golden highlights in her hair.
He straightened abruptly.
“How about calling your friend Kenwood? We could ask if he’s broken out in spots yet.”
When she looked up he could tell she was trying desperately not to smile. “He doesn’t have a telephone … or ‘spots’ … yet.”
Turning away, he strolled around the cluttered library. The floor-to-ceiling shelves were stocked with expensive leather-bound volumes, some of which had been displaced to stacks on the floor by mechanical objects that defied easy identification. He skirted the paper-strewn desk in the center of the room and passed a leather sofa piled with rolled-up documents and legal folios, on his way to a set of makeshift shelves below the windows.
He stared at the bewildering assortment of gadgets and materials, then picked up something that looked like a rug beater with a metal cup on the handle end. Then he peered into a pair of glass cylinders filled with red liquid and connected by a coil of copper pipe and studied what looked like a small metal horn projecting from a tin box to which bare copper wires were attached.
“What is this stuff?”
“Progress.” She strolled closer, smiling at his skeptical expression. “Or steps on the way to it. They’re inventions I’ve purchased … that is, I’ve bought the rights to manufacture.”
He thought of the inventor who had accosted her at the Vassars’ party. Scowling, he held up the “rug beater.” “You actually intend to produce this?”
“I consider it more an investment in the invent
or
than the invent
ion
.”
As he mulled that over, something off to the side caught his eye. He turned and found himself facing a full-sized
pair of locomotive wheels set back into the wall by the door. They were attached by a driving rod and rested on a piece of steel rail.
“What the devil are these doing here?” He strode over to them and ran his hands over their polished curves. “They look like Baldwin wheels.”
“They are,” she said, coming to stand beside him. “Mr. Baldwin sent me this pair of wheels when I—”
“Don’t tell me. You
invested
in his engine company.” His stomach tightened as she nodded. Baldwin Engine Company, for God’s sake. Was there anything she didn’t own a piece of? He stared at them, his heart pounding.
Just beside that massive set of driving wheels, on the ledge of the nearest bookshelf, was a miniature passenger car sitting on a bit of simulated track. He leaned to get a better look, traced the outline of the roof, and bent to peer into the windows. The interior was elegantly rendered in lush green velvet and highly polished mahogany; everything was perfectly to scale, including a tiny brass spittoon and sleeping berths complete with miniature sheets and pillows. He glanced at the gilt lettering above the side windows.
“A Pullman car.” He frowned, studying it.
“Mr. Pullman was nice enough to send us a model of our own personal car. My father ordered one just before he died.” She bent beside him to look in the windows. “This was my favorite thing in the whole world when I was a little girl. I took a thousand trips in this little car … London, France, India, China …”
Her eyes and voice softened as she pointed to a curtain-draped berth at the rear of the little car and smiled. “That was always my bed. At night I always refused to draw the shades because I wanted to imagine lying on my bed and watching the moon chase the car along the tracks. Then every morning I had breakfast in a different country and
read books about—” She halted and straightened abruptly, staring at that little car with a tumultuous look.
She struggled internally for a moment and when she spoke again her words were clipped and efficient. “How many Pullman cars have you ordered for your new railroad?”
Bear was still focused on that miniature train car and the jarring contrast it posed to a pair of five-foot driving wheels. One spoke of an investor’s power and determination and the other was an unexpected glimpse into the dreams of a little girl’s heart. He had to shake his head as he straightened, to make himself register the question. She had asked about his railroad … his …
“None,” he answered. “It’s a short line. Mostly freight. Beef and grain. We won’t usually have passengers.”
She pounced on that statement. “Over two hundred miles of track that opens up new land to settlement? You’ll have people coming and going constantly. People have to move themselves and their households and their stock and equipment. You’ll have to have at least one or two sleepers, and Mr. Pullman’s cars are by far the best.”
He scrambled to meet her gaze and assessment, caught off guard by her changed mood.
“They’re overpriced,” he said shortly. “Farmers don’t need down pillows and velvet seats. The line’s not long enough for anybody to use it for a bed.”
“But it would be foolish not to add that capacity,” she said with equal terseness, “when you have to buy a few passenger cars anyway.”
A few passenger cars here, a few Pullman cars there … he could see her waving a privileged hand and making them appear instantly on the track. She had no idea what it took for a struggling railroad to come up with the cash for something as luxurious as a Pullman Sleeping
Car. Or something as basic as steel and timber. Or cranes and equipment. Or a serviceable old engine or two.
Irritably, he turned away and spotted on a nearby shelf a pair of metal cylinders with shafts, attached to rubber hoses and a curved metal contraption fitted with what could only be called a piston. Reaching for the curved part, turning it over and over, he examined the workmanship and interplay of parts. A brake shoe … with a pressure line and cylinder attached. Recognition flooded him. He’d never seen the working parts of a Westinghouse air brake outside of a rail car. How the heck did she get hold of—
“That was sent to me by—”
“George Westinghouse,” he supplied.
“That’s right.” She seemed pleased that he recognized it. “Soon the whole railroad industry will be using them. They’re so much safer that there is talk that the government in Washington may soon require them on all train cars.”
“Just what railroaders need,” he muttered, replacing the brake shoe on the shelf, “more government interference.”
“I hardly think it’s interference. They’re simply trying to use new ideas and equipment to make the rails safer.”
“Safer?” He reached for and held up one of the hoses. “These things can be a menace. The pressure holds fine in the engine and first few cars, but in anything over five cars, the pressure drops and the rear cars don’t brake at all. And since there aren’t enough brakemen to turn the hand brakes, the cars go runaway and overtake the front cars on the slightest downward grade. There isn’t a curve in Colorado or Wyoming that hasn’t seen cars hop rails because of these damned things.”
She seemed indignant. “That’s absurd. They’re ten times safer than the old hand brakes. They’ve saved hundreds of brakemen’s lives.” She stalked closer and pulled
the main pressure cylinders from the shelf. “And anyway, these are the new and improved brakes.”
“New and improved?” He gave a skeptical huff.
“Mr. Westinghouse has added a new valve system to maintain pressure, so the rear cars will have just as much braking power as the engine and tender. By the time they’re installed in all new cars and engines and refitted into existing cars—”
“Mr. Westinghouse will be a damn sight richer than he already is,” he declared. “Look … every requirement those bean heads in Washington dream up just drives up costs for railroaders.”