Maybe he just wasn’t cut out to be a war correspondent. But nobody would be shooting at him down here. Nothing was going to spoil this start.

Suddenly, the train lurched violently, and Sam was thrown against the window, Gray Ellen in his arms. A dapper gentleman across the aisle turned their way and smiled. He wore a silver goatee and held a brass-headed walking cane between his knees. “They are still working on the roadbed.”

“Ah. Of course.”

“During the War, you know, a train I was riding jumped the tracks altogether. The carriages were stacked up like stove wood.” He smiled, as if he took great pride in having survived a railway disaster. “I helped pull the injured out of the wreck. Several we could not save.”

During the war, Sam thought—at that very moment, the Rough Riders were disembarking at Montauk Point to a ticker-tape parade down Broadway. At the front of the car, two returning soldiers shared a seat. “I hope they’ve fixed the track,” he said.

The man with the goatee chuckled. “I should hope so—that was more than thirty years ago. As I said, during the War. Headed down to Charleston to witness the secession. I was a newspaperman then.”

“You don’t say.” Sam reached across Gray Ellen and offered his hand, then introduced himself.

The other man took Sam’s hand in a surprisingly strong grip, studied him with gray eyes, and kept holding onto his hand, as if making up his mind about something. Finally, he said, “Alfred Moore Waddell, at your service. And this must be your wife?”

He dropped Sam’s hand and took Gray Ellen’s, stroking it lightly.

“Gray Ellen,” she said softly.

“Ah,” Waddell said. “Scotch or Irish?”

“Scotch-Irish.”

“Scotch-Irish! No finer stock on earth.”

“Yes. Both of my grandfathers were rebels in a losing cause. Pleased to meet you.” She took back her hand, settled into her seat, and closed her eyes. Sam wondered why she couldn’t at least be civil.

He kept his eye on Waddell. He’d had a lot of practice at observing people. That’s what being a newspaperman was all about—looking into people’s eyes and finding trust or betrayal. Listening to an earnest voice and deciding if it was lying or telling the truth.

Waddell had amazing eyes, he thought—the way they caught and held you. There was a word for it—charisma. Was that too strong? He wondered what line of work Waddell had been in before retirement. Not newspapers—not for long. Preacher, maybe.