A Wreath of Snow Read Free Page B

small woman bearing a rambunctious toddler in her arms.
    He was about to face forward again when a burst of icy air heralded another passenger’s arrival. A young woman wearing a large black hat hastened through the carriage, her expression troubled. She claimed the seat across the aisle from him, placed a small satchel at her feet, then folded her hands in her lap. Her movements were efficient, her posture straight as a plumb line.
    Gordon regarded her out of the corner of his eye. Most Scotswomen of his acquaintance had dark or coppery hair and freckled skin, but this one was fair-haired with a porcelain complexion. Not a woman he’d likely forget if he ever had the good fortune of being introduced. Was she a Stirling lass?
    When she glanced at him from beneath the brim of herhat, Gordon noted the hint of sorrow in her clear blue eyes. Perhaps she was bound for a funeral. A sad thought, especially on Christmas Eve.
    He returned to his
Stirling Observer
, but the printed words blurred as his mind wandered back in her direction. Something about her seemed vaguely familiar. Had their paths crossed before? In a restaurant, perhaps? A theatre lobby? Her bright eyes suggested an equally bright mind. If she was from Glasgow, he might have seen her at a lecture or noticed her across a shelf of library books at the university. Gordon ventured a sidelong glance, then waited for her to look his way again.
    After a bit she raised her chin to meet his gaze once more. Though he saw no spark of recognition in her eyes, he did note a slight flicker of interest. Or was he imagining that too?
    When she looked away, Gordon reluctantly did the same, then folded his newspaper, weary of the pretense. Without a proper introduction he could not engage her in conversation, much as he might wish to. Little remained but to stare out the window, willing the snow to stop and the train to move.
    A long ten minutes crawled by, then twenty, then forty. Consulting his pocket watch did not improve things. He looked at the wind forming snowdrifts—
wreaths
, his Scottish granny had called them—against the base of the platform and over the wheels of the train. They had no hills to climb en route toEdinburgh and only a minor curve in the track before Falkirk station. Was it not better to press on rather than wait for even more snow to accumulate?
    When the railway conductor stepped into the back of the carriage, the passengers turned to him as one, seeking answers.
    “You’ll be wanting to know what’s delayed our departure,” the conductor said matter-of-factly, his broad face chapped from the wind. “Ice on the tracks. The wheels cannot get any purchase. We’ve sent men ahead to clear the way, but …” He shook his head. “Could be six o’clock. Could be later.”
    Gordon didn’t like the sound of that. How much later?
    “Disembark if you wish.” The conductor gestured toward the platform, dusting the nearby passengers with snow from his coat sleeve. “Spend the night in Stirling.”
    Impossible
. Gordon nearly said the word aloud.
    The fair-haired woman across from him looked distraught as well. “Will you not keep trying, Mr. McGregor?”
    “Aye,” the conductor assured her, “for we’ve passengers at each station down the line waiting for our arrival. You’re welcome to stay on board. As long as the ashpan doesn’t become caked with snow, we’ll have enough draught to keep the coal burning and the carriages warm.”
    Gordon glanced out the window at a sky now the color of ink. Nightfall came early in December, swiftly dropping the temperature.
    The conductor moved toward the door. “The weather may yet improve, Miss Campbell.”
    Campbell?
Gordon was taken aback, though her surname was common enough. Campbells resided in every corner of Scotland.
    “Then I shall wait,” she replied, turning forward in her seat.
    Gordon didn’t move, riveted to her silhouette. That small upturned nose. That determined tilt to her chin. Why