 |
||
|
Abigail Weaver had spent her life caught up in her career and caring for her elderly parents, until a burly, mysterious stranger on a train enters her world and teaches her that sometimes when you help someone else gain a second chance, you earn one for yourself. Chapter 1
The bus rattled
along the dusty road, leaving billowing clouds of smoke trailing behind
it as the sun set against the hot When Abigail
stepped aboard the bus in In her forties,
Abigail had never married and had spent her days teaching teenagers in a
As the bus pulled
into the train station in Abigail enjoyed
her solitude, so her family had purchased a ticket for a private
compartment. The young man set her luggage inside her quarters and she
handed him a bill for his trouble. He tipped his hat, thanked her and
was on his way. She crossed to
her window and peered out, taking one last look at her home state. As
she watched the people bustling about boarding the train, the whistle
blew the final boarding call and a burst of steam rose up to her window.
Abigail thought back on the events which had brought her here. She still
remembered the day the envelope with no return address arrived in the
mail. Inside she found a page from the Help
Wanted: experienced educator to
teach night and weekend literacy courses to adults in the Asking everyone
she knew if they had sent the advertisement, she was unable to ascertain
the mystery informant. Her brother suggested that it may have been sent
by her guardian angel in an attempt to entice her to stir from her rut
and live a little. One evening as
she, her parents, and her brother Doug sat around playing Scrabble;
Doug dared her to apply for the position and said he’d take up the
task of helping their parents whenever they needed it. For weeks her
father and brother goaded her onward. Her father even addressed and
stamped an envelope and handed her a sheet of paper on which to place
her resume. One late evening,
partly to satisfy their promptings, but more for a lark, Abigail placed
her resume inside the envelope and set it on the kitchen table. When she
woke the next morning, she’d thought better of her foolish notions and
sought to retrieve the envelope from the kitchen table only to find that
it was gone. When her mother
entered the kitchen to find Abigail crawling around on the floor looking
for the envelope, Vivian Weaver advised her that Mr. Weaver had already
set off to town to mail it for her. In a tizzy,
Abigail bustled around getting dressed to stop him, but just as she flew
to the door and opened it, her father stepped inside and informed her
with a smile that the resume was already on its way to After a momentary
burst of irritation, Abigail proceeded on to work and promptly forgot
about the resume, feeling certain that no one would actually select her
for the position. After all, surely there were plenty of teachers with
high qualifications in closer proximity to Weeks passed and
the resume had been long forgotten until an envelope arrived for Abigail
offering her the position. At first she insisted that she could not take
the job. After all, the last time she left Only when her
older widowed brother appeared on their doorstep with two suitcases in
his hands, did Abigail finally begin to waver. He insisted that he had
come to live with their parents and would need her room. When the family
gathered around to write her letter of acceptance, put it in an envelope
and stamped it for her, she finally got the hint that they really
believed they could survive without her. But could she survive without
them? The final icing
on the cake was the paid-in-full one-way train ticket from Now she’d be
living alone in her own little bungalow by the seashore and forced to
cook for herself. But also, there would be no one to pester her to clean
her room or to insist that she take her nose out of a book. She could
stay up as late as she wanted, eat dessert for dinner and leave her bed
unmade if she felt like it! Perhaps the move would be a good thing after
all, she decided as she unpinned her long brown hair and let it flow
down her back, plopped down on her berth and stretched out for a nap. Several hours
later, Abigail awoke with a start as a burly dark-headed man burst
through her door and quickly shut it behind him. Abigail shot up in her
berth, hitting her head soundly on the cot above her. She rubbed her
pounding crown and her eyes widened in fear. “What? What’s
going on?” she exclaimed. The man put his
finger to his lips, “Shhhh!” Pressing his ear to the door as he held
it closed and locked it, Abigail noted the pool of blood forming on the
floor at the man’s feet. “You’re
bleeding!” she exclaimed. “I know!” he
whispered and waved his hand angrily toward her indicating she should
pipe down. Still rubbing her
head, she stood up and backed toward the window, putting what distance
she could in the tiny berth between herself and the stranger. After several
moments, the man seemed satisfied that his pursuers were gone and looked
down at his thigh where a bullet hole had pierced his trousers. Abigail
held out her handkerchief to the man and grimaced when she saw the dark
stain surrounding the area. He took it from her quickly and held it to
his thigh. Rapidly the white handkerchief turned crimson. “Do you have
anything larger?” he asked. Abigail looked
down at her luggage and then, deciding not to use anything of her own,
turned toward the berth above hers and removed a white sheet from the
bed. The man whipped a knife
from his pocket and Abigail flung the sheet at him and stepped backwards
to the window. The brawny
intruder slit the sheet and then tore off a long shred, unbuckled his
pants and dropped them around his ankles. Unaccustomed to seeing a man
standing before her in his long Hawaiian boxers, Abigail threw her hand
to her mouth and whipped around facing the window. “Help me out
here,” he winced as he pressed the cloth to the wound. “Help you
what?” she exclaimed. “Help me get
this bullet out,” he gritted his teeth. “I don’t know
how to remove a bullet! I’ll go get you a doctor,” she answered as
she headed for the door, keeping her eyes turned away from the stranger. “No!” he
grabbed her arm. “No doctors! Turn around and help me,” he ordered. “I told you I
don’t know anything about such matters!” she exclaimed as he took
her arm in his powerful hand and forced her to face him. She gasped and
threw her free hand over her mouth as she beheld the horrendous wound
that drizzled blood all down his left leg. “Spread this
sheet out on the ground!” he barked as he clutched the cloth to the
wound and handed the remainder of the sheet to her. Abigail spread
the bedding out on the floor and the man carefully sat down on the sheet
still clutching the cloth to his wound. “Go to the
lavatory and get some soap and water and bring it back here. And don’t
open that door wide where anyone can see,” he ordered. She stood over
him trembling, staring in astonishment at the large muscular man who sat
sprawled out on the floor before her. She noticed now that he was
wearing a black suit jacket with a white shirt and blue silk tie. He
pulled his black hat from his head and flung it at her. “Go, go on now,
snap out of it and go get some soap and water!” Quickly Abigail
unlatched and cracked the door and slipped out into the hallway. She was
numb, as she staggered somewhat from the motion of the train toward the
lavatory. She knocked on the door and finding it empty slipped inside
and picked up a bar of soap, but had nothing with which to retrieve the
water. Thinking quickly, she remembered seeing a room service tray
sitting outside the compartment a few doors down. She slipped out the
door, grabbed two glasses from the tray, went back to the lavatory,
filled them with water and returned to her quarters. When she tried
the door, it was locked, “Let me in. It’s me!” she whispered.
She heard the man stagger and stumble to the door and it opened a
crack. She slipped in and kicked the door closed with her foot. The
stranger collapsed back onto the floor. Setting the two glasses on the
floor beside him, she returned to the door and latched it. “Here’s the
soap,” she held the bar out to him. “Dip it in the
water and lather up your hands, I need you to take this bullet out,”
he panted. “You’ve got
to be kidding!” she protested. “No, I’m not.
I can’t do this. I’m about to pass out,” he shook his head. He had
removed his suit jacket and now dabbed at the beads of perspiration
which had formed on his brow with his shirt sleeve. “It’s not that
deep, lather up your hands, stick your finger in there and pull the
bullet out. Clean it good with the soap and water and tie it up with
this strip of sheet.” Extremely pale and clammy, he laid his head down
on the floor. “I can’t!”
she insisted. “Yes, you can,
just do it. Do it!” he gritted his teeth and then passed out, his head
hanging limply on the floor and his jaw now relaxed with
unconsciousness. “Good grief!”
she wrung her trembling hands on her skirt, staring at the two glasses
of water on the floor. With great
trepidation she knelt on the ground before him, dunked the soap into the
water and began lathering up her hands. “Oh, I’m
going to be sick,” she mumbled and then leaned forward, placed her
trembling soapy hand on the wound, turned her head away and felt for the
bullet. As her forefinger sunk into his flesh, she grimaced and grew
faint. Bolstering her courage she groped a little deeper and felt the
cold hard bullet. Grateful that the man was unconscious, she inserted
her thumb and pinched the bullet from the wound and placed it on the
sheet beside his leg. She lifted his knife that lay on the floor, ripped
away another strip of cloth from the sheet and dipped it into the glass
of water. The water turned crimson from the blood from her fingers. She rung out the
cloth and began cleaning around the bullet hole, washing the wound
itself thoroughly with soap and water until both glasses where full of
bloody liquid. With great effort, she lifted his leg and slipped the
strip of sheet beneath it and tied it securely in place, wrapping it
around his thigh several times to form a bandage. Satisfied with the
job, she rose, crossed to the window and opened it. She poured the two
glasses of crimson water out the window, stopping only momentarily to
note the rural landscape rushing by outside. Quickly, Abigail
slipped out of the room and down the hallway to refill the glasses with
fresh water. When she returned to the room, the man still had not
stirred. Setting the glasses back on the floor beside him, she relatched
the door and knelt in front of him. After cleansing his leg and hands,
she washed her own hands and again threw the water out the window. Amazed that she
had succeeded at such a gruesome task, Abigail sat down on her bed and
looked at the man. She surmised that he had to be at least six foot two
and probably weighed about two hundred and twenty-five pounds. His legs
were large and muscular and she could see that the upper portion of his
body was just as well defined. She couldn’t tell exactly how old he
was for he wore a neatly trimmed dark beard which covered most of his
face. She figured he was probably in his forties or fifties. He reminded
her of a big bear. As a matter of fact, something about him reminded her
of a cute, cuddly teddy bear – hardly someone you’d expect to get
hit by a bullet. Sitting there
watching him, her mind concocted all kinds of possibilities for his
condition. Perhaps he was a federal marshal chasing after an escaped
criminal. Or maybe he was simply an innocent bystander caught in some
crossfire. What if he was a
criminal on the run from the police? After all, he refused her offer to
get a doctor and he appeared to be hiding from someone. Abigail began to
wring her hands nervously on her skirt. When he showed no signs of
stirring, she decided to do something about his pants that lay crumpled
on the sheet beside him. She folded them so that the blood wouldn’t
show and picked up the soap. Carefully, looking in all directions to
insure that no one would see her, she crept out of the room. Again she
entered the lavatory, this time to rinse the blood out of his pants.
After some time, she emerged from the lavatory and quickly darted past a
waiting woman and scurried back to her berth. Again the door was locked
and she tapped lightly. “Open up.
It’s me,” she whispered. The door opened a
crack and she slipped inside. The stranger had folded up the sheet and
placed it on a small table. He stood before her in his blood-stained
tropical boxers and his white shirt and tie. “Where did you
go?” he barked gruffly, his steal blue eyes piercing into her brown
ones. “I – I went
to clean the blood out of your pants,” she looked down at the floor
and held them out for him. “I’m afraid they’re soaking wet.” “Thanks,” he
mumbled and unfolded them so they fell the length of him, somewhat
covering his compromised position. Abigail turned
and latched the door. When she faced him again, he still stood there
sizing her up. Abigail was about five foot six, buxom and chubby from
her mother’s fine cooking. Her brown hair had streaks of auburn
highlights and it fell to the middle of her back, for she had never had
time to pin it after being startled awake by the stranger. Her beautiful
big brown eyes with thick black eyelashes met the stranger’s gaze and
the corners of his mouth turned up, starting to form a smile. “I am Abigail
Weaver,” she stretched out her hand toward him. “And you are?” “Jeff” he
muttered, took her hand and shook it firmly. At his capable touch, a
warm sensation started at her chest and filtered down her arms and legs. “Jeff?” she
repeated, waiting for him to give her his last name. “Just Jeff,”
he muttered. “Well, Just
Jeff, I guess you’re stuck here until your pants dry,” she chuckled,
the dimples in her cheek deepening. He smiled
slightly and scratched his head. “Thanks for tending to my leg.” “I didn’t
have much choice, did I? What was I supposed to do with you sprawled out
bleeding all over my floor?” His head cocked
to the side, “Thanks anyway.” “You’re
welcome,” she just stood there, wondering what to do next. Noting her
uneasiness he pointed to the berth, “Sit down, it’s your room.” “Aren’t you
weak?” “I can sit over
here,” he eased into the seat next to the little table by the window. “What happened
to you?” she ventured. “I got shot,”
he answered dryly. “I gathered
that much!” she rolled her eyes. “How did you get shot?” “I’d rather
not talk about it,” he muttered. “I’d rather
not have fished that bullet out of your leg, but I did it anyway!” she
retorted, a bit miffed that after all she’d done to help him he
wouldn’t enlighten her on his predicament. He released a
heavy sigh and shook his head side to side. “The less you know the
better.” “Can you at
least tell me if you’re a good guy or a bad guy?” her eyes widened,
demanding some sort of an explanation. “Neither,” he
muttered. “Neither?”
she questioned. “What kind of an answer is that?” “I take it
you’re a movie goer,” he stated rather than asked. “Yes,” she
nodded. “And I bet you
read a lot of books?” he observed. “Yes,
I guess you could say that. Why?” her eyes scrunched with puzzlement. “Because you
think everything is black and white – good guys, bad guys,” he
sniffed back a sarcastic chuckle. “I bet you even think right always
wins and love always triumphs.” He rolled his eyes patronizingly. “And you
don’t read very much do you?” she quipped. He simply huffed
as if reading were a waste of time. “If you did
read, you’d know that every story doesn’t have a happy ending. Romeo
and Juliet died at the end. Even in movies, everything doesn’t work
out perfectly. Bogie doesn’t get Ingrid Bergman at the end of “But overall,
you don’t see life as a tragedy do you, Ms. Weaver? You’re a
‘glass is half full’ kind of woman aren’t you? One of those
eternal optimists.” “Why, yes, I
guess so. I guess I do expect that somehow things will work out in the
end,” she conceded. “Sometimes they
don’t,” he grimaced and tightened his grip on his leg, obviously
experiencing some pain. “I take it
you’re implying that your story has a rotten ending?” “Yep, you could
say that,” he winced. “You’re not
dead yet, so how would you know that for sure?” she chuckled. “There are
worse things than death,” his expression grew stone cold, and a shiver
ran up Abigail’s spine. Who in the world was this man she was helping?
Maybe she should have just reported him to the conductor when he passed
out. Then again, there was something about him that she liked – an
endearing quality. “Where you
heading?” he changed the subject. “ “Oh really?
What part?” he asked so nonchalantly that she didn’t think about the
possibility that she could endanger herself by revealing her ultimate
destination. “ “Ah, the beach.
Beautiful, you’ll love it. Ever been there?” “No.” “The most
beautiful pristine beaches you’ll ever see. White sands, blue skies,
gentle breeze off the ocean this time of year.” “So you’ve
been there?” “A few
times,” he nodded. “You on vacation?” “I’m moving
there,” she replied. “Oh really? All
the way from “Yes, I have a
job waiting for me,” she answered. “Let me
guess… single female, traveling to “How do you do
that? What makes you think I’m single? Or a school teacher?” she
smiled through her puzzled eyes. “No ring on
your finger. Read a lot. Traveling alone, just makes sense,” he
deduced. “And what are
you? Some kind of detective?” she chuckled. He didn’t reply
but started smoothing out the bandage on his leg. She could tell by his
reaction that she’d hit a nerve. Maybe he was
a private detective? Maybe he was working a case that had gotten more
dangerous than he expected. “Do you work
for the government?” she asked. “No!” he
instantly replied shaking his head negatively. “Are you a
policeman?” “No.” “A private
detective?” “Look, like I
told you, the less you know the better.” “Are we in
danger right now?” there was an edge of panic in her voice. “Probably not.
No, I don’t think so,” he shook his head. But she wasn’t
convinced. It was at that
moment that she realized he didn’t have a gun. No holster, no weapon,
other than his pocket knife which any man might carry on his person.
Surely a private detective would carry a weapon. And if he were a horrid
villain, he would surely be carrying a gun. “I interrupted
your nap earlier. Why don’t you just lie down and rest for a while,”
he suggested as he sprawled out on the floor and rested the back of his
head on his hands. She reluctantly stretched out on her berth when he closed his eyes. She thought she’d never go to sleep, but all the excitement must have caught up with her and she finally dozed off. Hours later she awoke when the train came to a screeching halt and sent her hurling onto the floor. It was dusk and only the faint light from the sunset illuminated her quarters. She scrambled up from the floor and looked around to see that Jeff was no longer in her quarters. No sign of him remained, not a sheet or even the two glasses she’d used to gather water. She went to the window and looked out in time to see a large man limping quickly away from the train into a wooded ravine. The train sat motionless for two or three minutes and then resumed its progress along the tracks leaving Jeff behind as only a bizarre unexplained memory in Abigail’s mind. Join the Clean Romance Club to Read the Full Story
Tell a Friend About Us! CleanRomanceClub.com is
a Project of CES
Business Consultants and Distractions,
Inc. |
Second Chances