a half for each child. They were gone as fast as she handed them out. She gave them each a piece of cheese and as equal a portion of broken biscuit as possible before handing the orange to Mitchell.
“Perhaps you could peel this?”
Her face fell. His expression was anything but thankful.
* * *
Mitch begrudgingly began to peel the orange. “Where did you get an orange this time of year?”
“It’s a Jaffa orange. They come from Palestine, but usually just before Christmas. My mother has a fondness for them because they are so sweet.”
Nothing about this woman made sense, Mitch thought. When had she planned to pull out this treat box? The other day, when they’d first met, she’d offered his children biscuits in open defiance of her mother’s scathing look, giving him hope that she liked children, but she’d then pawned off Emily on that woman who sat across the aisle, who was also looking with great interest at the treat box.
Then Victoria had kept the children busy with scratch cradle, seeming to enjoy the experience. Mitch glanced down at Emily, who was beginning to stir again. She’d need to be fed and changed soon. Victoria would no doubt simply hand the child over to the other woman like the mistress of a mansion. Yet her actions right now were more of a child at Christmas than an overbred lady.
The children eased over to him, their eyes wide and focused on the orange he was absently peeling. He hadn’t had one of these in years, not since some had been given to him as a wedding gift. The scent of fresh orange wafted up through the stuffy hot air into his nostrils, stirring his own stomach, for he had not eaten all day, either.
He was not hungry, he told himself. And he could feed his own children without Victoria’s help. He’d hired her to mind them, but mostly to care for Emily. And she’d foisted that duty off pretty quickly.
Still irritated, Mitch divided the orange into segments, telling the children in a gruff tone to take only one each.
“You should eat, too,” he told Victoria coolly. She took a segment.
“As should you.”
Begrudgingly, Mitch took the final segment.
He could feel Victoria’s curious gaze linger on him a moment, before it returned to the treat box. “Only one more thing tonight. Too many sweets will cause nightmares,” she warned them. She divided up the mince tarts into tiny portions, and Mitch noticed with a frown that she saved the larger portions for them, and not the children.
“I don’t need any more food,” he snapped.
“Yes, you do. The children have already wolfed down the meat pies and would polish this whole box off if we let them. You and I won’t do these children any good if we’re hungry and grouchy. So eat.”
Their gazes locked and he could see her pale eyes defiant beneath uplifted brows and a suddenly stubborn chin. He could argue that they shouldn’t eat any more in order to save it, but it would look as though he couldn’t afford to purchase food for them. And with most of the passengers around them far too curious, he’d rather not invite any more interested stares.
He should be grateful to God that her housekeeper had the forethought to provide this box.
Her housekeeper. Mitch knew she and her mother each had a personal maid, too. He’d seen them peeking out of the kitchen when he’d herded his children into the parlor. What had he been thinking, hiring Victoria as he’d done? She was going to make a fool of him the whole trip with her fancy airs.
His jaw set and his mouth pursed into what felt like a thin stubborn line, Mitch took the portion of mince tart and accepted a small chunk of cheese.
He waited until Victoria bit into her portion, her action more of a delicate nibble as she held her hand under her chin to catch any crumbs. What he did—shove the whole third of the tart into his mouth—felt clumsy and tactless.
The pastry was delicious, melt-in-your-mouth good, as was the cheese. With his last swallow, Mitch turned away.
Evening deepened, and while Victoria was seeing that Emily was prepared for the night, the porters set about making up the berths. Here in second class, passengers had to provide their own bedding. He’d purchased it and had it delivered to the train, knowing he’d need it at the ranch, anyway.
More purchases, more money borrowed from the bank, borrowed from Smith, the man who wanted his mineral rights so much his latest offer had borne an edge of a threat.
When Victoria returned with the baby, he gaped at the change. In the newly lit lamplight, she looked more like a schoolgirl than a young Boston socialite who seemed to have, for whatever reason he did not wish to learn, fallen on hard times. The porter had prepared all the bunks with plump mattresses, straw-filled and topped with wool, making up the beds with the sheets Mitch had purchased. Many of the passengers had already settled in theirs for the evening.
Now it was their turn.
* * *
Although Victoria had bartered away her corset and bustle, and had been wearing this dress with only a petticoat and chemise, she suddenly realized she wasn’t dressed for bed yet. An awkward situation, with Mitchell so close. His sudden and rather penetrating stare didn’t help.
“Don’t worry,” he muttered. “The boys and I will take the upper berth. You and the girls will take the lower one.”
She looked around. “What about our belongings?”
“The porter and the conductor will see that anything we can’t take into the berths is secured.”
Mary flung open the curtain below. “Look, Miss Templeton! Look at the big pillow!”
Victoria bent down and peered in as Mary pounded the pillow with two small fists. Mitchell had set the baby’s basket and her treat box at one end, and Mary, although still dressed, was pressed against the bottom portion of the curtained window.
“If that is all, I’ll say good-night.” Mitchell then told the boys to move down to the end before he heaved himself up, completely ignoring the porter as he hurried down the aisle with a small step stool.
Victoria watched him disappear into his berth and yank closed the curtains. Well, he couldn’t wait to be rid of her companionship, could he? With a surprisingly heavy heart, she slipped into the lower bunk and closed her curtains.
* * *
Mitch’s sleep was deeper than he’d expected, he decided the next morning, considering he’d had a long nap and had shared the berth with three boys who took up the majority of the space. Finally, when he heard the porter gently awakening the passengers, Mitch opened his curtain and eased out. If at all possible, he’d let the boys sleep longer.
Victoria was already up, fixing Mary’s pinafore. Emily was out of her basket and kicking about on the bunk. Before he could speak, the boys jumped down.
“The train is slowing, Papa,” Ralph announced. “I can feel it.”
“We’re coming into a depot. The locomotive needs to take on more water.”
“I’m
