Chapter 8 - Morning Over Glenwood Canyon
Dawn broke over the Colorado Rockies not with a roar, but with a blinding, diamond-like brilliance.
Catherine woke to the sound of rhythmic metal scraping against the tracks below. Sunlight flooded through the frosted picture window, turning Compartment 12B into a radiant chamber of gold and ice. The storm had passed, leaving behind a sky of immaculate, cloudless sapphire. Outside, the snow-draped pine forests of Glenwood Canyon glittered beneath the morning light like fields of powdered glass.
Catherine stirred, feeling an unfamiliar, heavy warmth draped across her waist.
Henry was still asleep beside her, his arm hooked securely over her hip, his face buried in the crook of her neck. His breathing was deep, slow, and peaceful. In the bright morning sunlight, without the shadows of grief and emergency lights, the harsh lines around his eyes were relaxed, smoothed out by sleep.
Catherine lay completely still, terrified that the slightest movement would shatter the reality of the moment. Her heart fluttered with a strange, dizzying mixture of exhilaration and absolute terror.
She had slept with a man she had met less than twenty-four hours ago.
She, Catherine Bennett—the dependable, quiet high school literature teacher who hadn't gone to a bar in a decade, who still mailed handwritten Christmas cards to seventy people every November—had spent the night wrapped in the arms of a stranger on a stranded mountain train.
A sudden, sharp knock at the compartment door made Henry start awake.
He blinked against the bright sunlight, his eyes instantly finding Catherine. A slow, breathtaking smile spread across his face, warm and completely unguarded. ""Good morning,"" he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.
""Good morning,"" Catherine whispered, her cheeks flushing crimson.
The knock came again, accompanied by a cheerful call from the hallway. ""Power has been fully restored to all cars! Rotary plows have cleared Switchback 9! The dining car is serving hot coffee and breakfast pastries!""
Henry propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at Catherine. The velvet blankets had slipped down, revealing the bare curve of her shoulder in the morning light. ""It seems the world didn't end after all.""
""No,"" Catherine said softly, her fingers tracing the edge of the blanket. ""It didn't.""
Henry’s expression shifted, sensing the subtle tremor in her voice. He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ""You're panicking.""
""I don't do this, Henry,"" she said, looking away toward the window. ""I don't meet men on platforms. I don't share sleeper cars. In forty-eight hours, this train pulls into Salt Lake City. And then what? You have a daughter in Seattle and an architectural practice in Denver. I have a house in Milwaukee and a life built out of habits I can't just abandon.""
Henry sat up, resting his back against the mahogany wall. The playful cynicism that had defined him at the station was entirely absent; in its place was a quiet, resolute certainty that made Catherine’s chest ache.
""I’m not asking you to abandon your life, Catherine,"" he said softly. ""And I’m certainly not asking you to pretend Grayson didn't exist. But don't look at last night as a detour from your real life. Last night was the first real thing that has happened to either of us in a decade.""
Catherine swallowed hard, looking down at her hands. The gold wedding ring on the chain lay on the bedside table beside her purse. Beside it lay the jeweler's receipt.
""I need some air,"" she whispered, pulling the blanket around herself as she swung her legs over the edge of the berth. ""I just... I need to think.""
Henry didn't try to stop her. He simply watched her with those dark, perceptive eyes, nodding slowly. ""Observation dome. Twelve noon. Let's have lunch together, Catherine. And whatever you decide about what happens when this train stops... we’ll face it together.""
Catherine dressed quickly, pulling on her boots and coat, and stepped out into the bustling corridor. Passengers were laughing, drinking steaming cups of coffee, and pointing at the majestic frozen waterfalls tumbling down the red canyon cliffs outside.
As she walked toward the lounge car, her phone suddenly buzzed violently in her pocket.
Signal. Five bars.
A cascade of text messages flooded her screen: voicemails from Josie, worried emails from her sister, automated flight updates.
And then, a notification popped up at the top of her screen from an unfamiliar number with an Illinois area code.
May you like
The message read:
Mrs. Bennett? My name is Clara Calder. I’m Henry’s daughter. If you’re on the North Star Limited with my father right now, please call me immediately. There is something about that train ticket you need to know before you reach Salt Lake City.
