Chapter 5 — A Commander Who Couldn't Sweet-Talk Me

Cole bought sandwiches before we boarded, then returned to the counter for an apple after I said the smell of mayonnaise was making me queasy.

"You could have told me before I bought them."

"I didn't know before you bought them."

He considered that. "Fair enough."

The train was crowded, with luggage under seats and damp coats steaming in the overheated air. I lowered myself beside the window and tried to breathe through my mouth.

Cole knelt to tuck his folded jacket behind my lower back.

"Better?"

"You don't have to kneel on that floor."

"That wasn't the question."

"Yes. Better."

He handed me the apple and went to speak to the conductor. When he returned, he had arranged a sleeping compartment farther along the train.

"How much?" I asked.

"Less than the misery you'd spend the night in here."

"Misery isn't listed on the ticket. Money is."

He crouched again, lowering his voice. "Ella, I can afford it. I don't want you sick and uncomfortable just to make a point about surviving it."

I looked away first.

He didn't reach for me until I stood. Then he put an arm around my shoulders and guided me through the crowded aisle, taking the bumps himself. I could smell plain soap on his shirt.

Our compartment had two lower berths. I ran a hand over the clean blanket and tried not to look impressed.

Cole noticed anyway.

"You can be pleased. It won't make you irresponsible."

"I sold boots in freezing rain to earn my fare. You'll forgive me if I count things."

His face changed.

"Owen told me. I wish you hadn't had to."

"I was good at it."

"I believe you."

That answer mattered. He hadn't turned my achievement into another thing to pity.

"Walter offered me another consignment," I said. "If I ever come back."

"Do you want to?"

"Sell more boots? Maybe. I liked earning money that belonged to me."

He nodded without asking why his income wouldn't be enough.

"Then keep his number."

I slipped Walter's business card into my purse. Such a small thing, being allowed to keep a plan of my own. I hadn't realized I was waiting for Cole to object until he didn't.

He took a notebook from his bag. On the back page, he wrote his monthly salary, usual expenses, and savings, then passed it to me.

"I'm not offering this to persuade you to marry me. I just don't want you imagining I'm spending the rent on a sleeper ticket."

The figures were more than I had expected.

"You carry that much in savings?"

"Most of my meals are provided. I don't have expensive hobbies."

"Except sleeper tickets."

"Apparently I've acquired one."

He looked directly at me. I lowered my eyes to the notebook, which was considerably less dangerous than looking back.

"You can stop flirting," I said.

"Was that flirting?"

"If you have to ask, you're worse at it than I thought."

He took the notebook gently from my hands.

"You'll have to be patient. I haven't had much reason to practice."

"You wrote all that down for me?"

"You asked about money."

"Most men would tell me it wasn't my business."

"If we're talking about a life together, it is."

I touched the edge of the notebook, then closed it.

"I'm not taking over your finances."

"I didn't ask you to. But if you ever do, I'd prefer a little allowance for apples."

I laughed before I could stop myself.

He watched me with such open pleasure that my laughter faltered.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You have a terrible face for lying."

"I'm beginning to discover that."

At the next stop, a couple knocked. The woman pointed at my berth and said her heels made climbing awkward.

"We have upper berths next door," she explained. "You can switch."

"No, thank you."

She looked at my old coat. "My fiancé works with your husband. I'm sure he won't mind."

"He isn't my husband. And I mind."

Cole stood behind me.

The woman's fiancé recognized him and immediately straightened.

"Commander Whitmore. I didn't realize—"

"You don't need to realize who I am to leave her seat alone."

The man apologized. The woman began to explain that she hadn't meant anything by it.

Cole waited until she apologized to me rather than to him.

The woman tried one last smile. "If I'd known she was with you—"

"Then you would have spoken differently. I understood that the first time."

Her fiancé took her elbow and led her away. Cole shut the door and returned to unwrapping the sandwiches as though nothing had happened.

I looked at him over the paper wrapper.

"Everyone goes quiet when you speak like that."

"They weren't listening when you spoke politely."

"You don't look as though you have a polite version."

He glanced at the apple slices he'd laid beside my bread.

"You're eating it."

"You looked frightening," I said.

"Did I frighten you?"

"No."

"Good."

He gave me the apple, already cut into quarters with a knife he cleaned carefully afterward. I offered him half my bread.

He looked at it as though I had offered something considerably more valuable.

"It's bread, Cole. You can eat it."

"I'm aware."

His ears had turned pink.

By evening, the outside world had become little more than dark glass and occasional lights. I went to wash my face, returned, and found him making up my berth.

"You're very practiced at this."

"Beds generally respond better than people to instructions."

"Is that why you like your job?"

"No. People generally respond better than you do."

I threw the rolled towel at him.

He caught it, smiling, and placed it beside my pillow.

I fell asleep faster than I expected.

In the dream, Grandma stood across a road I couldn't cross. Cars kept passing. Every time I called, she moved farther away.

I reached for her and found a hand.

"She's all right," someone said. "You spoke to her nurse. We'll see her tomorrow."

I held that hand until the road disappeared.

When I woke, gray light filled the compartment. Cole was sitting on the edge of his own berth, flexing his fingers.

"What happened to your hand?"

"It fell asleep."

"Without you?"

His mouth twitched.

I remembered the dream, then the warmth beneath my cheek. "I held it, didn't I?"

"You were upset."

"For how long?"

"I wasn't timing it."

I looked at his untouched pillow.

"You should have woken me."

"You finally slept."

It was such a plain answer. No performance, no suggestion that I owed him something for it.

I moved closer and took his wrist.

"Let me see."

"It's fine."

"Then it won't mind being looked at."

I rubbed the cramped muscles at the base of his thumb. His hand was much larger than mine, the knuckles scarred, the palm rough in different places.

He went very quiet.

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

His gaze had settled on my mouth.

The train swayed. My knee touched his.

He stopped breathing quite normally.

"Cole?"

"I'm trying to remember you haven't agreed to marry me."

My hand was still around his wrist.

"That's relevant to your fingers?"

"It's relevant to the rest of me."

I went warm from my throat to my ears.

His thumb brushed my palm. It was a small movement, but nothing about it felt accidental.

"You can tell me to move," he said.

I didn't.

For a few seconds we sat close enough that his breath warmed my cheek. I could see the place beside his brow where the scar interrupted an eyebrow. Last time, I hadn't been able to see him at all. Now there was nowhere to look without finding something I wanted to touch.

A trolley rattled past the door.

I withdrew my hand so quickly I nearly caught it on the table.

Cole leaned back and rubbed his face.

"That conductor has unfortunate timing."

"He didn't knock."

"I'm trying to find somebody else to blame."

I let go and reached for the towel. The compartment suddenly felt too small.

Over breakfast, I tried to restore ordinary conversation.

"You'll be a good father," I said. "You're certainly patient enough."

He set down his cup.

"I hope so."

"That's what matters. The baby deserves somebody reliable."

"And what do you deserve?"

I shrugged. "A peaceful life would be a start."

"Is that all you want from me?"

I couldn't look at him.

The wheels clattered beneath us. He waited, giving me every opportunity to answer honestly, which made it harder.

"I don't know you well enough to want more," I finally said.

He nodded, though disappointment crossed his face.

Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"If there weren't a baby, would you let me get to know you at all?"

I looked at the two berths, the notebook, his cramped hand.

He had spent hours making me comfortable. I had spent the same hours trying to call it duty, because duty was easier to accept than wanting.

"You ask difficult questions," I said.

"I can give you an easier one."

"What?"

He lifted the hand I had been rubbing.

"Would you have moved away if the trolley hadn't passed?"