A Wreath of Snow Read Online Free Page B

the safe confines of their carriage, the snow was hidden by the darkness except when a lantern posted on the line briefly illuminated a portion of the stark, white landscape. Fir trees bowed low beneath the weight, the branches leaning perilously close to the tracks.
    Their progress was slow and halting, as if the engine were dragging the carriages over a bed of rocks rather than along smooth steel rails. Each time the train abruptly paused, then lurched forward, Meg gripped the wooden armrest lest she careen into the aisle. After a few minutes the gentleman across from her put away his
Stirling Observer
and pressed his traveling bag hard against his side.
    Larbert station was six miles down the line, with at least one deep cutting in the terrain between here and there. Meg eyed the ice-shrouded window next to her. None of the familiar landmarks would be visible en route. Even the tunnels would be more felt than seen.
    As the minutes ticked by, the train seemed to pick up speed. Nothing close to its usual pace but somewhat faster. Megreached for her satchel, hoping her lesson plans for next term might distract her. When the gentleman glanced in her direction with an inquiring look on his face, she offered a slight nod in return.
I am well, sir. Kind of you to be concerned
.
    Meg looked at her watch again. She’d be home no later than seven, maybe half past—
    Her bag suddenly toppled into the aisle as she was thrown against the seat in front of her, shoulder first. The train shuddered. A terrible sound, like iron meeting ice, reverberated through the carriage, then silence. Stunned, Meg slumped forward, aware only of a searing pain and a little boy crying for his mother.

Chapter Four
    A hero is a man who
does what he can.
    R OMAIN R OLLAND

G ordon shook his head, dazed for a moment. How had he ended up on his knees, halfway into the aisle?
    Then he remembered the train coming to a violent stop and his fleeting awareness of their having hit something. He took his time standing, wanting to be sure he’d fully recovered his balance, then looked about the dimly lit carriage to see if the other passengers had fallen as well.
    Indeed they had. Judging by the way Miss Campbell was gingerly holding her shoulder, she’d been bruised. Or worse. “Are you quite all right, miss?”
    She nodded slightly. “Might you see to the child?”
    He eased his way down the aisle to where the boy lay on his back, limbs flailing. Gordon rescued him at once and deposited the wriggling lad onto the seat beside his mother. “How else might I help, madam?”
    She winced as she tried to sit up, one leg pinned beneath the seat at an awkward angle. “I’m afraid—”
    “Yes, I see,” Gordon said evenly, not wanting to alarm her.
    Miss Campbell was now on her feet and moving toward them. “If you will, sir, please locate the conductor while I tend to Mrs.…”
    “Mrs. Reid,” the woman offered, her voice thin. “And my boy, Tam.”
    Gordon made a hasty exit before either of them inquired after his name. It seemed Miss Campbell had yet to recognize him. How old had she been? Thirteen? Fourteen? If she learned his surname, would it likely stir her memory?
    No point worrying about such things now. Whatever had happened to the train, the news would not be good.
    Gordon opened the carriage door, then cautiously stepped down onto the railway bed. The night wind flapped his coat about his legs like a flag on a pole. Snow as sharp as icicles stabbed every area of exposed skin—the back of his neck, the narrow gap between sleeve and glove, the upper half of his face. He fought his way forward, chin pressed against his chest,as he grasped the outer handrails for support, keenly aware of the steep drop-off less than a foot to his right.
    When he reached one of the small first-class compartments, Gordon climbed up to the door with some difficulty, then yanked it open, sending snow cascading down from the roof and onto his shoulders.
    “Come, man!”