The Marshal's Pursuit by Gina Welborn Page B

listened to her any more then Irene or Mr. Cady had. They’d seized control of her life and decisions as if she were a child, sending her into the unknown, with no one but a questionable stranger as her escort. For all she knew, he could be taking her to Maranzano, the gangster who’d put the hit out on her brother.
    Her chest tightened, and breath fled from her lungs. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t leave Giovanni. They had only each other. She had to get out of the tunnel, get away from the marshal. Home, she had to get home. She’d be safe there in the Waldorf.
    “Here’s your train,” the engineer called out.
    No time. She had to run.
    The marshal drew her close, his palm warm against hers. Malia pulled to no avail. His blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly in annoyance upon guessing her intention. Had she a wild look in her eyes? Ashen complexion? Or had her frantic pulse given her away? Yet he uttered no condemnation or chastisement as, like a doting suitor, he gallantly helped her onto the platform and over the threshold of the private coach.
    “My wife,” the engineer was saying, “wanted to elope.”
    “Why didn’t you?” the marshal asked.
    Malia left him to continue the charade he’d created to explain their need to sneak onto the train instead of going through the depot’s main entrance, where people could be looking for them. Amazing what a few crisp hundred-dollar bills would get a man. She moved past a sofa and a set of chairs, turning on the electric lamps. She paused at the dining table in the center of the coach.
    They were to wait thirty minutes before the train had to move to the platform for passengers to begin filling the Shore Line Express. The plan was cleverly laid, or so Irene had stated. They would go to Boston, slip immediately onto the night express back to New York, and then take a train to somewhere on Long Island where they were to hide out for the next three weeks. He’d even left the name of another marshal to contact in case of an emergency. Irene would provide a cover for Malia’s disappearance: she went to visit her aunt and cousins in England. All Malia had to do was what the marshal had asked before they sneaked out the back entrance of the special prosecutor’s office building—trust him to keep her safe.
    Safe? From whom?
    Perhaps people wanted to harm her—Mr. Maranzano sprang to mind—but she’d yet to feel any danger, except that coming from the marshal. She was a socialite, an heiress, an art patron whose life was so dull and ordinary that reading in the Times about a traffic block near the Brooklyn Bridge was the most excitement she experienced during any given week. She wasn’t worth killing. She just wasn’t worth it.
    Her eyes blurred.
    Something between a cough and a chuckle—yet completely hysterical—burst from between her pressed lips, breaking the stalwart composure she’d held for hours in the name of good behavior. While the marshal and engineer continued to speak outside, she ran to the back of the coach. The door handle rattled. Locked. Pinching her eyes closed, she clenched her lips until the need to scream passed.
    Malia slowly drew in a breath, crossing her arms, rubbing her sleeves. She couldn’t escape. Not from the coach. Not from her family. Not from him. Even if she did get free, the marshal would find her. He’d pursue her to the last place on earth she tried to hide. Because he knew what he was doing. Because she was naive. But mostly—she sighed—mostly because she was weak and powerless and afraid. Her arms fell limp to her side, the sour taste of defeat growing in her mouth.
    Malia flicked on the lights in the extravagant Pullman car. Brass and crystal lamps. Rosewood-paneled walls. Gold velvet chairs with fringed trim that matched the heavy drapes.
    She removed the ankle-length traveling coat and straw hat of her “disguise.” Soot dusted the tan leather, which meant she had soot on her. She certainly couldn’t lay the