Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
EVELYN WHITMORE
If there’s a proper way to flee one’s wedding, I’ve missed it by several blocks and one very broken heel on my pearl-buttoned satin pumps. Ridiculous footwear for a getaway. Nearly as bad as Margaret’s oversized travel coat flapping behind me.
Just twenty minutes ago, I stood in front of the ladies’ room mirror at the church with sewing scissors and absolutely no hair-cutting experience, lopping off my long locks. Now I’ve got a bob worthy of a bootlegger’s moll. All I need is a flask, a felony, and a mobster.
The train whistle shrieks.
“Last call for the Golden Arrow Express to San Francisco! All aboard!”
I clutch my handbag tighter. My lifeline of a few bills from Aunt Josephine meant for a silver tea service. Aunt Jo always did say I should follow my heart, though I doubt she meant quite like this. I’m cashing in her wedding gift for freedom.
I dart toward the ticket window. The clerk blinks at me, eyes traveling from my uneven curls to my disheveled slip to the stolen coat I’m swimming in. His mustache twitches.
“One ticket to San Francisco, please,” I say. “A sleeping car.”
“Round trip or one way, miss?”
“One way.” The money I slap on the counter is crumpled, just like me. But it’s enough to cover the trip.
After an excruciating pause, he stamps the ticket. “Platform Three. Better hurry.”
I snatch the ticket and dash for the platform, weaving between porters and passengers.
The lace slip beneath my coat catches between my legs, threatening to send me sprawling across the station floor. One garter has come loose, my silk stocking sliding inch by inch down my leg, another threat to my dignity.
The conductor stands at the steps of the last car, pocket watch in hand. "Cutting it close, aren't you, miss?"
“But still on time.” I flash him what I hope is a carefree smile rather than the grimace of a fugitive bride.
He helps me aboard just as the train lurches forward. I stumble into the corridor.
And just like that, I’m on the train.
I did it.
I left the church, the dress, the orchestra warming up for the waltz. I left Charles, who may never forgive me, and Margaret, who definitely won’t once she realizes I’ve taken her best coat.
I left everything that was expected of me.
I’m not marrying.
I’m not a Whitmore anymore.
I’m just a girl with a one-way ticket west.
And for the first time in my life, I’m free.
The train picks up speed, the clacking sound steadying my nerves. I straighten my borrowed coat and attempt to look like a woman traveling on the Golden Arrow Express rather than a fugitive bride.
A passing porter greets me. "Your car is further ahead, miss.”
I follow his direction, moving from the day coaches through increasingly luxurious accommodations. The red carpeted corridor narrows, lit with brass lights fixed to mahogany walls.
A group of gentlemen in dinner jackets pass by, cigars in hand. I duck my head, heart seizing. What if one of them recognizes me? But they continue past, laughing about stock prices.
I check my ticket—Car 8, Compartment D. When I reach it, I slide the door open and step inside. The compartment is everything I imagined. Plush velvet seats, a small table with a single rose in a silver vase.
"Well, Evelyn Whitmore," I say to myself, "you've actually done it."
I drop my handbag on the seat, a laugh bubbling up from deep inside me. I did it. I actually—
The bathroom door swings open.
A man stands in the doorway, sleeves rolled to his elbows, suspenders hanging loose at his sides, and a cigarette between his fingers. He's tall, with dark hair slightly damp at the temples, a face that belongs in moving pictures, and an expression of surprise that must mirror my own.
Then his gazes take a long perusal from my moll-bob down to my satin pumps, and back up again, lingering for a moment on the lace of my slip showing between the lapels of my coat.
One eyebrow rises. “You’re either very lost… or very bold. Which is it?”