Dunaway's Crossing by Nancy Brandon Read Free Book Online Page B

himself. The lady tucked the lock behind her ear and offered him a weak smile.
    Then Will noticed the monogram on her handkerchief— B F B —and with another bullet of embarrassment, he realized whom he had knocked down. “You’re Mrs. Ferguson, aren’t you? Netta Coolidge’s cousin?”
    She nodded and knit her brow. “How did you know?”
    “I’m Will Dunaway, ma’am. Ralph Coolidge asked me to fetch you. He was called away unexpectedly to see a patient.”
    “I see,” she replied. “Well, thank you for meeting me here.”
    Did he hear disappointment in her voice? Who could blame her? Ralph Coolidge couldn’t have chosen a worse person for this job. He might as well have sent a goat to pick up his cousin. He reached for her arm to help her up. At first she flinched, and he recoiled in response. Then he said softly, “May I help you up?”
    “Oh,” she said with a quick nod, as if she finally understood his intent. “Of course.” Still clutching her purse, she held up her arm, which he gripped at the wrist and elbow. She bore down on his grasp as she rose. Standing up, she came just to his shoulder. Will leaned forward to pick up her satchel, and as he did so, she took a step away from him. Was he that scary? He was trying his best to make amends.
    She dabbed at her lip with the handkerchief, and only then did he notice the small cut at the edge of her mouth. Just when he thought he couldn’t feel worse about knocking her down.
    “You’re bleeding,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I’ll get you some ice. Come, have a seat on the bench, and I’ll go get it.”
    “No, no, Mr. Dunaway.” She held up her hand reassuringly. “You didn’t hurt me. This”—she pointed to her mouth—“happened before I came here. I had . . . an accident at home.”
    Will cocked his head in confusion. What kind of accident could a lady like her have to bust her own lip? Was she just saying that to make him feel better? Maybe she just wanted to be rid of him. Silently, he berated himself. He had quite the penchant for hurting people.
    A porter wheeled a trunk on a luggage cart. “Mrs. Ferguson, where would you like me to take your baggage?”
    “I’ll take it from here.” Will dug into his pocket for a coin. “Thank you.” He tipped the porter and took the cart from him, placing the satchel on top of the trunk. “I’ll come back for your baggage,” he said to Mrs. Ferguson. “First, let me get you seated.” He held out his elbow, and she hesitated a beat before wrapping her thin, gloved fingers around it.
    Will walked slowly, in case she was still sore from her fall. After two or three steps, though, he realized he had to slow his gait even more. Mrs. Ferguson wore one of those skirts bunched at the ankle. He’d seen a few around town. Women thought the skirts made them look dainty, but Will thought they made women look like closed umbrellas. Mrs. Ferguson scanned the grounds surrounding the train station. A few automobiles sat here and there on the grass, but none of them in the direction he led her.
    “Which motorcar is yours, Mr. Dunaway?”
    “I’m afraid I’ll have to take you to the Coolidges’ house in my wagon,” he said, pointing to it with his free hand. “I have not followed the trend and bought myself one of those machines.”
    “Oh,” she replied, and then fell silent, as if searching for something else to say. How backward she must have thought he was.
    Still clutching his elbow, she virtually tiptoed to the end of the platform and leaned closely against him as she descended the steps. When they reached the wagon, Mrs. Ferguson’s eyes widened at the height of its seat, which was level with the top of her head. In her skirt she’d never be able to step up or down.
    “Wait one second, ma’am.” Will left her side and pulled an empty crate from the wagon bed. Then he placed it on the ground beside her. “This should help.”
    “Thank you.” As soon as she said it, Will’s