O'Neal's Daughter: A Novel

By Jo Ann Ferguson

A train accident along the Ohio River propels Jasmine O’Neal into Spencer Galloway’s life. His house is closest to the river, so, because she is hurt, she is brought there. Spencer outwardly appears to live a boring life on a small farm, working as the local schoolteacher. He is raising three children that aren’t his own, and he leads a double life as a conductor along the Underground Railroad. The last thing he needs is Jasmine living under his roof and endangering his secrets. She wants to be gone, too, because she is used to a life on the road with a traveling show. Finding the intense man attractive, she tries to ignore her feelings. She was hurt by a bad love affair and doesn’t trust any man, especially one who is clearly hiding something. But their hearts demand to be freed, too, and they realize the only way they can save those they love from the tightening noose of the authorities trying to close down a suspected station along the Railroad is to set aside their pasts and embrace their present . . . and each other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Apr 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504008938

Jo Ann Ferguson

Jo Ann Ferguson is a lifelong storyteller and the author of numerous romantic novels. She also writes as Jo Ann Brown and Mary Jo Kim. A former US Army officer, she has served as the president of the national board of the Romance Writers of America and taught creative writing at Brown University. She currently lives in Nevada with her family, which includes one very spoiled cat.

Book preview

One

They’re coming! Spencer, they’re coming!

Spencer Galloway blew out his lantern and slipped past the barn door. Overhead, moonlight taunted the clouds, creating a tapestry of shadows. The breeze held a hint of tonight’s rain and the scent of mud from the river. The house was dark, save for a single candle in the kitchen. He heard the horse shifting in its stall. Thunder had shaken the barn a few minutes ago, but the storm must not have been as close as it sounded.

Everything was just as it should be, so why was Mae’s voice filled with panic?

Spencer, gasped the short woman who leaned one hand against the door as she pressed her other hand to her side, do you think they know?

Of course, they know the way here. They should have been given directions at the last station. They—

No! she exclaimed, keeping her voice low. Townsfolk!

He frowned, looking from the dark ruts of fear in Mae’s round face to the house. Townsfolk! What were they doing out here at this hour? He patted her shoulder. I’ll get rid of them, and then we’ll be set for the delivery. It will work out all right.

I pray so.

Praying is an especially good idea tonight. As he strode toward the house, the damp grass clinging to his boots, he suspected her smile had been as fake as his laugh.

He paused in the kitchen only long enough to speak to Angela, who was making coffee, and tell her about the change in plans. She nodded, but dismay made her brown eyes as round as the moon overhead. There should not have been moonlight tonight. A dismal night was best for their work.

He forced another smile. Make sure everyone stays quiet.

We’ll do our best, she said, opening the door to the back stairs.

Spencer hurried toward the front of the house. If Angela and Mae guessed how the throbbing of his heart and the pounding in his head excited him, both would chide him. He knew the danger of becoming overconfident. Too many lives, including his own, depended on him right now.

Nothing must suggest anything was amiss at the home of Spencer Galloway, the teacher here in Wheatonville, Ohio. A lamp was lit. Good. He glanced around quickly. He muttered at his own short-sightedness as he shoved a few magazines under the papers on the table in front of the green settee. He did not have time to do more before he heard the rattle of a wagon coming up the road.

Shrugging off his coat, he ran a hand through his hair and went to the door. He pulled a pair of spectacles from his vest pocket and set them on his nose. He would be wise to look as if these unexpected guests had interrupted his reading before he went to bed. Bed? Again he laughed, for he doubted if he would get much sleep tonight.

Spencer lit the lantern by the door and held it up as he stepped out onto the porch. Scents struck him—rain and mud and the reek of a skunk which must be down by the barn. A skunk! What more could go wrong tonight?

In silence, he watched as a single wagon drove past the large barn that sat cater-corner from the house. Relief filled him when the wagon did not slow until it reached the plank fencing surrounding the paddock.

A dozen men were following it, but no one carried a length of rope. No guns either.

He called, What’s wrong?

Jasmine O’Neal heard the question, then slowly realized the wagon she was riding in had stopped. Or had it? She no longer was certain about anything except that Hal needed her. But where was he? She winced as a man shouted, Train accident. Out on the line to Cincinnati.

She was almost rocked off her knees in the wagon bed when he jumped to the ground. Behind where he had been sitting, she could see Hal Johnson’s motionless form. She wanted to help him. Stretching out her hand, she struggled not to fall onto her face. Her handkerchief was damp with the blood she had wiped from her face, but she tried not to think about that. Hal needed her. She must be strong.

Her trembling fingers touched his bald head and the nose which had been broken in too many fistfights. His bushy mustache drooped in the same direction as the wrinkles that life had imprinted on his face. Her fingers knew his face as intimately as her own, for she had helped Hal get ready for work more times than she could count.

Oh, Hal, she whispered, wishing that he would wake and comfort her, saying this was just a nightmare.

A young man put his hand on her arm. She tried to focus her eyes on him. Some part of her battered brain told her that this was the blond boy who had helped her off the train.

Can you get out, Miss O’Neal? he asked.

I think so. That was a lie, but she could not think of herself now. She must think of Hal. I’m a bit dizzy from the bump I took on the head. I’ll be right as rain once I know Hal is better. She looked at the house, which she guessed was white although it was a dull gray in the lantern light. Where are we?

Mr. Galloway’s place. He’s our schoolteacher in Wheatonville.

Hands reached into the back of the wagon to lift Hal. Hal Johnson had never been so still in his whole life. It frightened her more than when her world had upended as their train slid off the track and the caboose burst into flames.

Jasmine put her hand on one held up to her. Sliding across the dirty boards, she winced as she heard her skirt rip again. Much more abuse would render her clothes improper.

Easy does it, soothed a light-haired man. When she swayed, he kept her on her feet. Offering his arm, he matched his paces to hers while he walked with her up the slight hill she could not have managed alone.

Were many hurt? The voice from the house was as dark and rich as the night. In the eye-burning light from the lantern, she could discern nothing except that a man stood in the door.

Only the fool who jumped in front of it. Don’t know why these young idiots don’t look for the train’s light before they … The man helping her swallowed with a sound Jasmine translated as guilt or embarrassment. Her head hurt too much to be curious which. Mr. Galloway, two passengers were banged up pretty bad. We thought you might put them up.

Tonight?

Mr. Galloway’s question shocked her. His hesitation seemed odd. Then, as the door opened wider, she told herself not to be fanciful. Of course, the man was surprised. She watched the men carry Hal’s limp form into the house. She wanted to run after them, urging them to be careful, but she could not move any faster than this shuffle.

Just let them go first, said the man by her side. They’ll take good care of Mr. Johnson.

I hope so.

Instead of replying to her breathy whisper, he aided her up the steps onto the porch, which creaked, sending another pulse of agony through her head. Brighter light blinded her when they entered a foyer crowded with the tired men who had come to help the victims of the train wreck. Their deep voices rumbled against her aching skull. Each time she blinked, dizziness threatened to send her spinning back into the fathomless dark.

Upstairs. Third door on the right. The voice belonged to the man who had answered the door. When he stepped aside to let the rescuers carry Hal up the stairs, he backed into her. Excuse me, he said hastily. I … His voice trailed away as he faced her.

She stared. Never had she seen such ebony hair or such sapphire eyes. He certainly was not the old man she had envisioned as the town’s schoolteacher. As her gaze moved across his square jaw and along his aristocratic nose to the determination of his brows, she wondered how such a dynamic man could spend his life closeted in a stuffy classroom.

Lowering her gaze to his sedate vest, although the motion threatened to send her reeling, she murmured, Good evening, Mr. Galloway.

I don’t believe we’ve met.

No … no, we haven’t. These kind gentlemen told me your name, sir. She pushed her tangled hair back under the broken brim of her bonnet and winced as pain exploded in her head. She took a steadying breath. May I pass?

Pass?

His terse question disconcerted her. I’m anxious to make certain that my—

Why don’t you wait in the parlor?

"Mr. Galloway, I need to be—

His demeanor did not soften. I think you’ll be more comfortable waiting in the parlor.

Thank you. She winced again as she thought of Hal laughing if he had heard how easily she had backed down. She hoped he would wake soon, so she could tell him. She missed the sound of his hearty chuckle.

As Mr. Galloway brushed past her, she watched him. He seemed as skittish as a novice getting ready for his first show. His easy smile as he spoke to her rescuers did not match the intensity in his eyes.

Need help, miss? A thatch of corn-colored hair drifted in front of the boy’s brown eyes just as it had when he’d leaned over the seat in front of her and Hal on the train and told her that help was on the way.

I shall be—

Skeeter, he said with a grin. Told you that on the train, but guess you forgot.

Yes. She wondered what else had fallen out of her head that seemed as porous as cheesecloth. Thank you, Skeeter, but I shall be fine.

If you say so. He vanished into the crowd of men filling the foyer. She could understand where he got that nickname; he buzzed about never, alighting anywhere long.

Jasmine shook her head when another man asked if she wanted help. She wished she had not, for her brain seemed oddly disconnected from her skull. Putting her hand on the wall, she leaned against the frame of the arched parlor door as she heard the men congratulating each other on rescuing everyone. They drifted out the door.

She went into the parlor. She did need to sit down. Her knees were not doing a very good job of holding her.

She glanced around the room. From lace doilies on the armchairs to china figurines on a piano, the room offered stability. Something she did not know in her life. She paid no attention to the twinge of envy oozing through her as she took a deep breath of beeswax. Father would tease her about how quickly she would become bored with living in the same house, the same town, the same state week after week, year after year. Wandering, he had told her often, was in the O’Neal blood.

She moaned as she put weight on her right ankle. Leaning on a ladderback chair, she fought to subdue the pain. When the darkness eased, she realized she was staring at books lining one wall of the room. Books were a luxury she seldom enjoyed because she could not carry many in her portmanteau or trunk. Her eyes widened as she saw one she had never had the chance to read. Walden, or Life in the Woods waited next to another book whose notoriety was well known, but she ignored Uncle Tom’s Cabin. She had skimmed it and found it maudlin.

She reached for Walden, hoping Mr. Galloway would not mind. Blood! She cringed. Her gloves were etched with blood—hers and Hal’s. She pulled them off to stare at her scratched hands.

A throat being cleared froze her. Heat climbed her cheeks, and her composure threatened to desert her when she heard Mr. Galloway ask, May I help you with something?

She whirled to face him, almost collapsing. He put out his hand, but did not touch her when she steadied herself by gripping a wooden chair. I was just looking.

Why don’t you sit?

I’m fine.

You do not, if I may be so candid, look fine. He glanced out the window to watch the wagon vanish down the road. With a sigh, he turned to her again, the tension lessening on his face. Mr. Johnson has been put to bed, and the doctor is checking him.

The doctor?

He smiled. He arrived during the hubbub out in the hall. He will speak to you as soon as he is done with his examination of Mr. Johnson.

Thank you.

I’m no doctor, but I think something to eat might put some color back into your cheeks. Are you hungry?

Jasmine nodded. Both she and Hal had skipped supper, deciding to wait until they reached the depot in Cincinnati. It would have been convenient if the train had had someone aboard to sell food, but the rail lines made no such provisions.

A woman appeared in the doorway. A word with you.

Jasmine noted the black woman’s lush drawl, but tried not to stare at the colorful turban which did not match the simple robe tied around her lumpy body. Although it seemed odd that a schoolteacher could afford a maid, she told herself it was none of her business.

Yes, Mae?

Oh, I didn’t know … Mae gulped. I didn’t realize they had brought two passengers here.

She is waiting for word from the doctor, Mr. Galloway said. While we wait, will you be so kind as to get something for our guest to eat?

Of course. Is there something you wish, miss?

Her fingers tightened on the chair. If she said that she wished the room would stop whirling, she was not sure what they would do. Anything you have will be fine.

As you wish. Mae glanced at Mr. Galloway. Jasmine could not guess at the message in her eyes, which were as intense as his.

Mr. Galloway waited until Mae’s footfalls disappeared into the back of the house. Then he said quietly, The doctor should be done checking your father soon, Miss Johnson.

A weak smile strayed across her lips. Miss O’Neal, sir. Jasmine O’Neal. Mr. Johnson isn’t my father.

Oh? She could not miss the distaste in the word.

Mr. Johnson is my father’s friend. She started to add more, but staggered. His hand under her elbow helped her to sit on a thickly upholstered chair.

A hint of compassion underlined Mr. Galloway’s cool voice. You’re hurt yourself. He brazenly drew aside her tousled hair. You have a gift for understatement, Miss O’Neal. That’s quite a bruise on your forehead. Did you lose consciousness?

I think so. She shivered as his words forced her to recall the horrid moments when she thought both she and Hal would die. The smoke had surrounded her, choking her in its fiery caress. Glass had been sprinkled on the floor. No, not the floor. She had been lying on what had been the car’s side, a bench pinning her to the wall. Hal had been beside her, his blood mixing with hers.

Miss O’Neal!

She looked up, startled, at Mr. Galloway’s sharp voice. Don’t think about it, he said.

How can I not think about it?

You are alive, aren’t you? It’s better not to dwell on the past and things you can’t change. Again an odd expression fled through his eyes. Were you on your way to Cincinnati?

She guessed he was trying to fill the uncomfortable silence. As she started to nod, she thought better of it. Her head seemed alternately as heavy as a boulder and as light as a dried leaf. We were hoping to be there tonight.

It’ll be dawn before the tracks are cleared.

You sound as if a wreck isn’t a rare event.

His laughter remained cold as he sat in a chair facing her. They are frequent enough.

She noted the magazines on the table between them. A copy of The Liberator was half-hidden beneath the others. Her eyes widened; then she told herself there was no reason to be surprised at seeing a radical antislavery magazine here. Ohio was rife with abolitionist societies.

Mae’s arrival with a tray of sandwiches and a steaming pitcher saved her from having to answer. I brought a cup for Dr. Boole also.

Good idea. Mr. Galloway’s smile was more studied than his servant’s. I’m sure Austin will want to examine Miss O’Neal, too.

Can I get you something off the tray? Mae asked.

Realizing that the woman was talking to her, Jasmine whispered, Yes.

Tea?

Yes. At her breathless answer, she saw Mae glance at Mr. Galloway again.

Mae poured a cup of tea and put it in front of Jasmine. Mister Spencer, things look as if they are going to be all right all around.

Is that so? Everyone is set?

Jasmine looked from one to the other. She must be missing something, for their conversation made no sense.

Except for one. Mae’s fingers trembled as she reached for a sandwich to set on a plate for Jasmine. What with the train wreck …

I understand, Mr. Galloway replied grimly.

Jasmine wanted to say that she did not, but she had no business intruding on their private conversation. When she tried to pick up the cup as Mae went back to the kitchen, her fingers closed almost a full inch from the handle. She hoped Mr. Galloway had not noticed.

She realized how foolish her wish had been when he said, Miss O’Neal, I suspect you have been optimistic about the state of your health.

I’m fine, she argued, but faintly.

You don’t lie very well. He stood and took her arm, bringing her to her feet. Heroics aren’t something you can afford. I suggest you come upstairs and let the doctor take a gander at you.

First, I must be sure that Hal—

Who?

Mr. Johnson. She pulled her arm out of his hand. I can manage.

Then, this way. He gestured toward the stairs.

On her first step, pain seared her leg, which melted beneath her like candle wax. A soft cry of anguish and denial fled from her lips as the room telescoped into ebony. She thought she heard Mr. Galloway say something, but a wave rushed through her head, drowning every sound.

Spencer caught the tattered woman as she collapsed against him. When he lifted her into his arms, her limp limbs drooped around him like sun-starved blossoms. He adjusted