The Sun and Moon and Stars

Chapter I

Frances's fingers curled around her carpetbag's handle and her hand gripped the wall as she walked down the metal steps. Smoke whistled out from beneath the train and billowed out around her ankles as she stepped onto the wooden platform. The porter placed her sturdy brown trunk down beside her. She dragged it away from the train and stood in the middle of the station platform. No one came out behind her, no one climbed on. The train blew its whistle. The ticket booth on the left was unmanned and the small building on the right was dark. A bench was pushed up against the wall. The train did not wait for any late arrivals and, with another whistle, it chugged out of the station.

Frances watched it leave, the large pillows of smoke swelling out from the smokestack. Her last tie to her family. They had seen her off at the station. The noise died down and she turned to face the small arch between the two buildings that led into the small town. Through it, the main street's length was displayed. But other than a couple figures crossing it farther down the town, it was dusty and deserted.

She glanced around, hoping she simply hadn't noticed Mr. Fellowes, who was supposed to meet her. But the platform was as deserted as the street. Even less as not even a bird flew by. Frances sighed and took a seat on the bench. Hopefully, he was just running late. Hopefully, he had not forgotten about her.

The spring afternoon was calm. Birds twittered from the nest of trees beside the ticket booth. Frances placed her carpetbag beside her and pushed the trunk beneath the seat. Despite her concern at being forgotten, it was a peaceful to sit alone for a few minutes. Not that the train ride had been particularly busy. Malborrow Creek wasn't the most popular location. Especially in this heat.

The sun burned through her hat and she was stiff beneath her heavy skirt and blouse. But the soft breeze kept her face cool. Her foot tapped on the wooden boards and she looked past the train tracks to the fields. For a little while, it was just gold prairie grass, rough and brittle. But with the wind blowing through them, they turned graceful, flowing along like waves on water. Beyond that, fields of wheat grew, tall stalks standing straight, as if reaching on their tip-toes towards the sun. A small dark dot stood near the horizon, a homestead perhaps.

The train station itself was a pitiful sight. Not old, as the town itself was fairly new, but small and left to fall into disuse. Almost abandoned, as if the people of Malborrow Creek were stuck in their little town and had never even thought of leaving. With the ticket booth empty and, with boards framing the windows, apparently out of use, Frances wondered where she would buy her ticket when she returned home. She tucked the question to the back of her mind, with all the others she had stored for Mr. Fellowes.

A man suddenly ran through the arch onto the platform and skidded to a stop. He looked over at the northward tracks, his breathing ragged, and Frances followed his gaze. The train was barely visible. Just a dark iron smudge with clouds chugging out of a steeple. The man let out a slew of whispered curses and slapped his hat on his knee. Frances winced at the words but couldn't help the smile that tugged at her mouth. He was really quite imaginative.

Shaking his head, the man gritted his teeth and turned to leave. But then he saw Frances and stopped. He watched her for a moment, and she watched him right back. Then he let out his breath and panted, bending over with his hands on his knees. Every few moments he would glance up at her, as if making sure she was still there. She couldn't help be amused. He had run in here like a boy late for school and even now, he hadn't introduced himself right away. Like a youngster who had forgotten his manners in a moment of surprise. The man caught his breath and straightened up, a small grin of relief tempting the corners of his lips.

"Miss Barrett?" he asked, playing with the hat in his hands. She watched his fingers as they tugged and pulled at the worn fibres of the newsboy cap. His voice was smooth with barely a hint of a soft Irish brogue.