A Pansy for Eleanor, part 4

Omaha, Nebraska

Dec. 1876

The train lurched as it pulled into Omaha, steam hissing from the engine as it slowed to a halt at the busy station. Eleanor rubbed sleep from her eyes as the conductor called for passengers to disembark.

She stepped onto the wooden platform, the cold Midwestern air biting at her cheeks. Omaha was unlike New York. Here, the buildings were smaller, the streets muddied with wagon tracks, and instead of carriages, she saw horses tethered outside saloons and trading posts. The scent of fresh-baked bread mingled with the sharp tang of coal smoke as vendors hawked their wares beneath the station’s iron framework.

Henry stood beside her, his eyes scanning the bustling depot. “One more train,” he murmured. “Then we’ll be in Thistle Creek.”

Eleanor exhaled, adjusting her cloak. They had come so far, and yet the West still stretched endlessly before them.

They made their way through the station, weaving past settlers, businessmen, and weary families huddled together with trunks and parcels. Omaha was a gateway city, the last stop before the wild, untamed frontier. She felt a frisson of excitement.

Henry approached the ticket counter, where a grizzled man eyed him from beneath the brim of his hat. “Train west?” Henry asked.

"Next one leaves in an hour,” the man grunted, sliding two tickets across the counter. “Headed through Denver, stops at a few small towns on the way.”

“Thistle Creek?” Henry questioned. The man nodded.

Henry passed the tickets to Eleanor. “This is it.”

She turned them over in her hands, the weight of them more than just paper. They were passage to a new life.

An hour later, they stood on the platform waiting to board. Eleanor gripped Henry’s hand, the last remnants of doubt fading they moved forward.

The moment the train conductor stepped onto the platform and raised his lantern, Eleanor knew something was wrong.

“Apologies, folks,” the man called, his voice carrying over the bustle of the station. “Snowfall out west has delayed the line past Lincoln. No departures ‘til morning.”

A murmur of discontent swept through the passengers, some grumbling, others sighing as they turned to find shelter for the night. Eleanor exchanged a glance with Henry, her fingers curling around the edge of her cloak.

“We’ll have to stay here,” she murmured.

Henry exhaled through his nose, clearly displeased. “I don’t like lingering in one place too long.”

Eleanor understood his concern. Lord Rutledge may have been left behind in England, but paranoia had settled in since their escape. They would not relax until they reached Thistle Creek.

Still, there was no choice.

They made their way through the station’s crowd, stepping onto the main street of Omaha as dusk crept over the town. Lanterns flickered in shop windows, their glow reflecting off the freshly fallen snow. The town had a rough charm, a mix of new brick buildings and older wooden storefronts with signs advertising everything from cloth to guns.

A saloon stood at the corner, raucous laughter spilling into the night as men pushed through the swinging doors.

“Not there,” Henry muttered, steering Eleanor away. “We’ll find something quieter.”

They continued down the street until they reached a modest boarding house with a sign that read Weston’s Inn – Lodging and Supper. The windows glowed warmly, a contrast to the sharp chill of the evening air.

Inside, a plump woman in a simple dress and apron greeted them from behind the counter. “Evening, travelers. Need a room?”

“Yes,” Henry said. “Just for the night.”

The woman eyed them for a moment. “Husband and wife?”

Eleanor hesitated, but Henry answered smoothly, “Yes.”

The woman nodded. “That’ll be two dollars. Supper’s still warm if you’re hungry.”

Henry fished coins from his coat and handed them over before taking the brass key she slid across the counter. “Upstairs, second door on the right.”

Eleanor followed him up the narrow wooden staircase, her skirts brushing against the steps. Their room was small but clean—a simple bed with a patchwork quilt, a washstand, and a single chair. A fire crackled in the small hearth, filling the space with welcome warmth.

She let out a breath, unfastening her cloak and laying it over the chair. “It’s not the Montrose estate, but it will do.”

Henry smirked, shrugging off his own coat. “I’d take this over a ballroom full of scheming aristocrats any day.”

Eleanor sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her hands together for warmth. “Do you think we’re safe here?”

His expression softened as he knelt in front of her, taking her hands in his. “We’ve crossed an ocean, outrun a lord, and made it farther west than most people ever dream. One night in Omaha won’t change that.”

She searched his face, drawing comfort from his steady presence.

“Come,” he said, standing and offering his hand. “Let’s have supper. Tomorrow, we’ll board that train, and by nightfall, we’ll be in Thistle Creek.”

Eleanor took his hand, holding onto the promise in his words.

Tomorrow, their journey would continue. But for tonight, they would rest.