Near Jefferson City, Missouri

September 27, 1871

The dining car swayed like a slow waltz, brass lamps throwing soft halos across polished silver and the dark glass of the windows. The gentleman on my arm—his name hardly matters—smelled faintly of brandy and tobacco. He had the easy confidence of men who have never been denied, and his laughter carried like a well-rehearsed melody.

Abigail sat three tables away with her children, their supper simple and silent. She kept her eyes on her plate, but I felt the tension in her posture—shoulders drawn, chin lowered, the quiet armor of a woman who belongs to faith and family. Her little ones whispered a prayer before touching their food. Even the lanternlight seemed to soften around them, as if it dared not intrude.

I raised my glass to the gentleman’s toast and caught her gaze only once. She looked through me, not at me, her expression neither accusation nor fear—simply a wall of certainty I could not breach. She finished their meal in haste and gathered the children, her Bible clutched like a shield. They vanished toward their car, leaving a trail of cool air and the faint scent of bread.

Dinner stretched long after their departure. The gentleman’s stories blurred into the hum of the rails, his compliments into a low rumble of brandy warmth. When at last he invited me to his private car, I followed with a smile that belonged more to the night than to him.

But as his hands traced the curve of my back, a sudden image seared behind my eyes: Abigail’s face, pale and wide-eyed, her lips moving in silent prayer. Her voice—though I could not hear it—echoed through my skull like a bell struck in water: Kate.

I froze, breath caught. The gentleman whispered something I did not catch. The vision sharpened—Abigail’s hands pressed together, the mark of the cross burning like white fire.

When the image faded, my skin was cold despite the heat of the brandy and the weight of his body. The rails sang beneath us, a long, low lament.

I took his money and left him sleeping, walking back through the dark corridor alone. The mark on my palm throbbed in time with the train’s wheels, each beat an unspoken warning.