Where Trains Collide Read online

  Where Trains Collide

  By Amber Stokes

  Copyright Page

  Seasons of a Story Publishing

  www.SeasonsofaStory.blogspot.com

  Kindle edition | Copyright © 2018 Amber Christine Holcomb

  All rights reserved.

  This novella is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Actual businesses, as well as brand names, are used only to set the scene, and no endorsement or copyright infringement is intended.

  Cover design: Lena Goldfinch at Stone Lily Design

  Cover images: © Syda Productions (couple photo), © Jbron (train tracks background) | Dreamstime.com

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  When Derrick and Samantha Met…

  Another Sweet Little Romance…

  Dedication

  To my heavenly Father, for showing me love that endures…and hopes.

  And to Elena, my friend through fair and foggy weather. I’m grateful for our memories; I’m grateful for you.

  Chapter 1

  Do you ever have days when you’re sick of the very thing you used to love? And not just in a “too much of a good thing” sort of way, but in a bone-weary, “I’m going to scream if I don’t get out of here” way?

  I think the only recourse in these situations is to hop on a train. Lucky for me, I actually live in a place where I can do that now.

  So I’m going to do it. No reason why not. And plenty of reasons why staying here is going to melt my mind into useless mush.

  I’m sorry this post is a little more personal than usual. But don’t worry—once I get where I’m going, I should have all-new material to share about trails I’ve yet to discover.

  See you on the path!

  —Where the Redwoods Lead, www.wheretheredwoodslead.blogspot.com

  ***

  Without letting herself think too much about how ridiculous and fruitless her latest blog post sounded, Trisha pressed the “publish” button and then set her iPhone aside. It was a rare day when she didn’t even bother to double-check the spacing or add some sort of photo that would make her article easier to share across the blogosphere.

  She blew out a breath, accompanied by a little snort. Why on earth would she want people sharing this pathetic post? The only reason she wrote it at all was to try to appease the guilt that snaked around her middle like a too-tight belt.

  She was leaving classes at UC Berkeley tomorrow without alerting her professors to her absence.

  She had bought the tickets without even telling her parents about the trip.

  And she planned to meet up with a friend who had no idea she was coming.

  So now the whole internet—or at least her 1,032 followers—knew she was leaving on a train. The people who should really know were in the dark.

  She slouched farther down on the unforgiving wooden bench, clutching her purse to her chest. As long as no one but the blogosphere knew about her excursion up to Oregon, no one could stop her with logical reasons as to why it was completely and utterly stupid to leave campus more than halfway through the semester, when projects and tests were coming fast and furious.

  A man’s voice broke through the speaker with a bunch of mumbled words she couldn’t decipher. She glanced out the window at the pitch-blackness of an autumn night in central California.

  This had to be her train. The time was right.

  She slid her iPhone into her purse with all the care of a doctor settling a tiny baby into an incubator. Then she swung the overloaded purse onto her shoulder and gripped the handle of her small rolling suitcase. The bright pink color clashed horribly with her outfit—dark green flannel shirt, soft beige scarf, blue jeans, and brown heeled boots. But she tolerated the suitcase’s appearance because her younger sister, Chloe, had picked it out for her, saying it reminded her of the pink case in that first episode of BBC’s Sherlock.

  The thought of one her favorite shows made her grin as she rolled down the station aisle, pushed out the door, and stood with a cluster of other passengers waiting outside the brick building.

  The night held a bit of a chill, although the temperature was almost warm compared to the place she’d grown up farther north on the California coast. She nestled her chin into the bunched fabric of her scarf and scanned the tracks, ignoring the people mingling about her—the people who had legitimate reasons for being here and destinations that were far more certain than her own.

  Blend in. No one had to know how out of place she felt. But her blush of embarrassment might just give her away.

  The whistle of the oncoming train distracted her and sent her heart lurching with conflicting hesitation and excitement.

  I’m here. She nearly whispered the words aloud as her fingers tightened around the handle of her atrociously pink bag.

  The subdued group turned as one to stare at the tracks, needing a glimpse of their future before stirring into action. When the first car came into view, Trisha adjusted her purse straps and filed into line as conductors attempted to herd people into some form of order.

  Her stomach grumbled a little, like the whining sounds Lulu—Chloe’s husky—made when the dog was perturbed by the sight of someone coming up the walk to their house. It was that time of night when Trisha generally started craving chocolate. Nearly 11:00. Her mind protested, fighting back with a headache compounded by nerves.

  She settled a hand on her stomach, willing it to stop complaining as the train came to an unexpected stop before their group. While passengers exited the train, she switched her attention to digging through her purse, pushing aside her camera, wallet, and emerald nail polish in order to reach her ticket.

  When she finally lifted her gaze, a big gap in the line awaited her, and antsy energy practically shoved her from behind. Her face burned as she tugged her bag along, clacking over the concrete, and handed her ticket to the conductor.

  “Seat 5-11,” the woman told Trisha, handing back her ticket along with a little slip of paper with the seat number written on it. Trisha glanced up at the car towering before her, hoping to distract herself from thinking too much about 5-11 and how it reminded her of a sweet date she’d once been on in May.

  Someone jostled her bag as they attempted to hand their ticket to the conductor, so Trisha took a deep breath and stepped up onto the train to get out of the way. After glancing around at a bunch of baggage stacked up on shelves, she determined to hang on to her belongings and headed up the small, narrow staircase. Her bag bumped along noisily behind her, and she cringed with every step she took.

  When she arrived on the second level, seats fanned out in either direction. She glanced around until her gaze caught on the numbers above the nearest seats. Well, she was in the right section, and it looked like heading left was her best bet.

  Lifting her bag into her arms and hugging it close like the old stuffed cat she used to drag around as a little girl, she squeezed through the narrow aisle, swinging her gaze right and left until she spotted the number she wanted. A window seat! Her smile returned.

  No one sat in the other seat as of yet, so she settled into her spot by the window, set her bag down by her legs, and clutched her purse on her lap. Her shoulders fell as she relaxed for the first time since buying the train tickets.

  People still mill
ed around outside the train, departing passengers talking on cell phones or chatting in groups while the incoming passengers kept their focus on the conductors and the door yawning before them. The lampposts lit up the mixture of anxious, eager, and bored expressions. Trisha continued to observe them all until she sensed someone preparing to occupy the seat next to her.

  She greeted the middle-aged woman with a grin. The woman offered a quick smile in return as she stuffed a bag into an overhead compartment and then sat with a book in her hands.

  Trisha’s smile grew. A reader. The two of them would get along just fine. She hadn’t realized she’d been worried about her train companion until her stomach seemed to untie all the knots it had been working on since she’d boarded.

  Trisha pulled out a book of her own from an outer pocket of her bag. She enjoyed reading novels, but she also loved reading about wildlife—browsing through colorful pages that told her about the differences between species, along with the habits and appearances of a variety of creatures. Recently, she had bought National Geographic’s Field Guide to the Birds of North America—the updated sixth edition. Now she flipped through the first pages and studied the section on geese, swans, and ducks.

  When she got to the page on Canada and cackling geese, she studied the differences intently, trying to picture in her mind which ones she might have seen. The call of a formation of Canada geese overhead was almost as heart-wrenching to her as the whistle of a train. And here she was, studying geese on a spontaneous train trip. All on her own. Such a silly thing to be proud of at 20 years old, but she couldn’t help but cling tightly to the thrill of the moment.

  She had moved on to the swans by the time the conductor came around to check tickets and seat numbers. As soon as the conductor left, her attention zeroed in on the ducks. The male mallards were so pretty. She could clearly picture one on the shore of an Oregon lake, its emerald head glistening in the dusk. How she loved the color green, especially the green plumage of birds like mallards and hummingbirds.

  When she reached the bufflehead ducks, her gaze started to blur.

  She closed the book, pulled out a sweater from her bag, and then stored the book. After settling the sweater behind her head like a lumpy pillow, she took one last look out the window at the dark world beyond and shut her eyes, praying she hadn’t been an utter fool to give in to her starved impulsive side.

  ***

  The train appeared to be at a standstill at some small station when Trisha awoke. Pain shot through her neck as she sat up and fumbled for the phone in her purse, which showed her it was 7:30. She ran fingers through her hair as she debated what to do with her stomach, which had transformed from a whining dog to an angry dragon overnight.

  The woman next to her looked up from her book, apparently having a keen nurturing instinct. “The dining car’s open for breakfast. And you don’t need a reservation.”

  Trisha smiled gratefully. “Thanks.” She shuffled past the woman, whose attention was glued once again to the novel, and made her way forward. She figured if the chairs were all facing this way, maybe the food would be in the same direction.

  She passed through two cars identical to hers before she came to a car with windows marching down both sides. People were seated in chairs and benches facing the view outside. Autumn sunlight streamed over couples holding hands, friends and acquaintances chatting, and a group of people playing cards at a small table.

  Sure enough, the next car turned out to be the one she was looking for. A dark-haired man with deep-tan skin met her as the door swooshed closed behind her. “We’re full at the moment, miss, but there should be a table open soon. May I take your name?”

  “Trisha.” She gazed past him at the tables filled with passengers eating and enjoying themselves.

  “And will it just be you, miss?”

  She returned her attention to the man in the uniform. “Yeah.”

  “We’ll call your name when a table opens.”

  “Thanks.”

  Trisha left with one last longing glance behind her. After following the signs to a restroom, she then returned to the sunny observation car.

  An empty spot by one of the windows called to her. She sat and stared out at the terrain that was rolling past them once again. Were they in Oregon now? The northern part of California and the southern part of Oregon—at least the parts she was familiar with on the coast—often blended together. But as she calculated the time between when they left and when they were due to arrive in Eugene, she figured they had to have crossed over the border. That little thrill shot through her once again at the thought.

  The dining-car guy reemerged through the door and started listing off names. “Mr. and Mrs. Zater. Trisha. Paul. Your table is ready.”

  A tiny shiver of dread zinged through her body, taking over the thrill from a moment before. She shook it away. Such a stupid reaction just from hearing Paul’s name. She knew plenty of guys named Paul who were perfectly nice.

  Only one of them had dashed her dreams.

  Since she was closest to the dining car, she followed the waiter through the doors and to the table he indicated a few rows back. She scooted in on the side facing away from the dining car’s entrance, waiting for her breakfast mates to join her.

  The Zaters, an older couple who appeared to be in their sixties or seventies, settled onto the bench across from her. She greeted them with a grin and a polite nod.

  The grin fled as soon as she spied the man who was going to sit next to her.

  Paul Benson.

  Chapter 2

  Trisha scooted over toward the window as far as the booth would allow her. Away from Paul and the startled look on his face that was rapidly replaced with curiosity and what appeared to be the tiniest of smirks. As if he were applauding himself for having chosen the exact train and the exact breakfast hour that would propel him directly into her path.

  Maybe she was reading too much into that little quirk of his lips.

  Trisha almost begged the waiter to assign Paul to a different seat, but the same fear that kept her from sending back a wrong order kept her from sending away her ex-boyfriend. She slid her cold hands under her knees and feigned great interest in the trees passing by the window.

  “Hey, Trisha.” Paul released the words casually, but they fell to the table with all the weight of three years’ worth of distance and unmet expectations. With a slight turn of her head, she flashed a brief smile at him and then offered an appreciative look to the waiter, who stood at the ready to take their drink orders.

  The Zaters asked for water. Meanwhile, Trisha studied the menu in front of her without comprehending a single thing. After an embarrassing moment of silence and indecision, she croaked, “Milk.”

  A predictable choice. Should she order chocolate milk to liven it up?

  Nope, no chocolate milk on the menu, and soy milk was definitely not appealing.

  Plain old white milk would be just fine.

  She guessed Paul’s choice before the word “cranberry” sounded next to her. It relaxed her, if only momentarily, to remember that some things never changed—and that wasn’t always a bad thing.

  As the waiter left, swaying slightly with the motion of the train, Trisha returned her gaze to the menu. The words on the plastic sheet escaped her, swimming around before her eyes and floating in unrecognizable patterns through her head. Until, finally, she latched on to two words that brought back breakfasts at home. French toast.

  Relieved to have made up her mind, she gave the plastic menu a little shove forward and raised her head. Mrs. Zater was murmuring softly to her husband, pointing at something on the menu he was holding in front of his face like a visionless mask.

  Drat. So much for making small talk with them. Maybe the waiter would return soon, so she wouldn’t have to make conversation with—

  “Where are you headed?” Paul’s voice was a smidge deeper than she remembered, but it still had the ability to soothe her and bring her home.
/>   Her Paul Bunyan of the redwoods.

  In her happy memories, he wore his red “lumberjack” shirt, dark jeans, and hiking boots. Despite everything, it always made her breathe out a little laugh to think of him at the Trees of Mystery, standing on the boot of Paul Bunyan’s statue with his fists on his hips, trying to hold a straight face but failing miserably.

  She imagined he didn’t have any trouble holding a straight face the night he broke up with her over the phone.

  Paul flicked a corner of his menu while he waited for her response.

  “Oregon,” she finally hedged.

  Paul chuckled. “Well, any particular part? You do know we’re already in Oregon.”

  Trisha didn’t really feel like telling Paul where she was going. But it was silly not to say anything.

  “Eugene,” she conceded. “You?”

  “What’s in Eugene?”

  Trisha huffed. “Why does it matter?”

  Paul shifted, causing their seat to squeak. “My stop’s Eugene, too.”

  She shut her eyes and sifted through the less painful memories, trying to figure out whom Paul might know in Eugene or why he might be headed there. Before she could come up with anything, he added, “I live there now. Just coming back from a brief trip to visit my parents. They moved to Sacramento about a year ago.”

  A jolt caused her fingers to twitch where they rested on the hard tabletop. She finally looked at Paul—really looked at him. His dark blond hair was shorter than it used to be, less unruly. His hazelnut eyes took in her startled reaction with a solemnity he had only displayed on rare occasions, like the Mexico mission trip meeting and the funeral of a mutual family friend. His button-down shirt made him look like a businessman, the opposite of her Paul Bunyan memories. With another jolt, she realized he could very well be a businessman now.

  “Come on.” His soft words brought her attention back to his face. “Don’t tell me you haven’t looked me up online since then.”

  She wanted to shove him, but the action would be too playful, too much like before. So she ignored his teasing and that crease in his cheek—the one that warned he was about to break into a wide grin at her expense.