Excerpt of An Outlaw For Christmas by Lori Austin

As dusk settled over New York City, the train sped west. Ten-year-old Ruth O’Leary huddled alone in the first seat of the car reserved especially for orphans on their way to Kansas.

No one had asked her to sit with them. No one had even said hello. They’d only stared at her with empty orphan eyes--eyes that had lost hope long ago.

Snuffling a bit, Ruth rubbed her face. If she was going to start a new life, she had to stop being such a baby. If she was going to survive these few days on the train, she’d better not let any of the wolves smell her Ruth had lived at St. James orphanage for as long as she could recall. Being small in a world where big was valued, and scared when she ought to be brave, had brought Ruth more than her share of persecution. Being alone in a world that lived in twos, threes or more had made her feel bereft when she’d never lost anyone she remembered.

“This is the chance of your lifetime,” Sister Maude had told Ruth when she’d brought her to the train station.

Despite the assurances of an ancient nun, Ruth had her doubts.

She was most likely exchanging one set of mean orphans for another, and who knew what awaited her in Kelly Creek, Kansas. Ruth had only the word of Miss Burton, from the Aid Society, that a family waited there hoping for a little girl just like her.

A commotion from the rear of the car made all the children turning about in their seats. Mr. Drake who, along with Miss Burton was taking this group of thirty orphans to Kansas where they would be placed out with families, stood next to the last seat in the car. In his hand he held a rope.

“Sit there and cause no trouble, boy.” Mr. Drake stared into the darkened corner of the seat. “You agreed to this, and I said you’d be kept away from the children.”

Mr. Drake tied one end of the rope to a metal ring on the back wall. Ruth’s gaze followed the rope to a shadow much larger than any boy’s should be. She could not see his features in the graying light from the window.

Most of the children appeared wary. Miss Burton looked downright scared. Who had Mr. Drake tied to the back wall of the train?

The Aid Society worker scowled at them all. “Never mind him. He’s confined. Now turn around each and every of you.” He made a shooing motion. “Peruse the countryside while we still have a bit of light. You won't get another chance like this.”

Ruth did as she was told, watching as house after house, street after street, gave way to field after field and river after river. Since the train sped toward the sun, away from the night, she was able to observe for quite a long time. Exhausted, Ruth dozed. Until someone pulled her hair--hard.

She yelped. Snide laughter was her answer. Night threatened, leaving just enough light to distinguish nearby faces. Turning around, Ruth discovered the two girls in the seat behind her were asleep, but the boy across the aisle was not.

“Satan’s fire in your hair,” he sneered. “Ought to be yanked out by the roots.”

Though probably Ruth’s age or younger, the boy was bigger than she. Most everyone was.

Ruth huddled in the corner of her seat. But every time she began to relax and go back to sleep, the horrid boy reached over and grabbed a handful of her hair, then yanked and laughed. Her poor head felt afire.

Lip trembling, Ruth searched for Miss Burton or Mr. Drake, but both were gone. The horrible boy now had friends and they all began to jeer at her.

“Little devil’s helper, go back to Hell.”

She tried to ignore them. Sometimes that worked. But they only taunted louder. As she continued to say and do nothing, the boys got bolder, yanking her hair and punching her arm. Ruth looked to the girls for help but found none.

She sighed. No one ever helped her when the bullies came. They were closing in and she had to get out. With a cry, Ruth jumped from her seat and ran toward the back of the car, where there was a door, a way out of this torment.

She surprised the bad boys enough to get past, but not enough to get free.

One of them caught her skirt, another her hair, then they yanked her back. Frantic, Ruth tore away, but someone tripped her. A girl this time, she thought.

Ruth went down face first, bruising her knees, scraping her hands, smacking her chin. She saw stars for a moment.

From that fuzzy world came a whisper. Was it God?

“Leave her be.”

No, not God. The bad boys would never scramble back to their seats that fast for him. Perhaps the devil they spoke of so freely might command them, but then Satan would care nothing for a little girl huddled upon the cold floor of the train car. Not Satan, nor anyone else in Ruth’s experience.

Ruth lifted her head. Her chin stung. So did her hands. There was dirt on her tongue; grit scratched between her teeth. None of that mattered. She stared at the shadows still shrouding the last seat of the train.

The only thing visible was the end of a rope securely fastened to the ring on the back wall.

Once the horrible boy realized the mysterious traveler was still bound, he would no doubt sneer at her protector, just as he’d sneered at her. But when Ruth glanced behind her, every tormentor sat in their seat, and the nasty fight had gone out of them. Slowly she got to her feet and took a step toward the shadowed corner.

“Go back.”

The voice that came from the darkness rapidly spreading from the sky outside, through the windows and across the railroad car, was that of a man. Why on earth was a man in the car for orphans?

“They won’t bother you again. Will you, boys?”

Heads shook. No one spoke. Who was back there, and why were the others frightened of him?

Ruth didn’t want to return to her seat at the front of the car, where she’d been all alone and preyed upon. But the door at the back of the car rattled and one word shot from the shadows, “Go!”

Ruth ran, reaching her place just as Mr. Drake followed Miss Burton into the car. The adults distributed dry bread, which was all they had for dinner. The train ride would be short, as such things went, and once in Kansas food for the orphans would be the problem of their new families.

“Get some sleep children,” Mr. Drake said. “You’ll be amazed at the distance we will have traveled come sunrise tomorrow.”

He frowned at the last seat, then took an empty one nearer the middle of the car. Miss Burton joined some little girls, perhaps two or three years old, who whimpered in a corner all by themselves.

Ruth tried to sleep, but every time she began to drift, she awoke with a start, fearing the bad boys were sneaking up in the dark to pull out all her hair.

The darkness within the train was now complete. No lantern for the orphans. No moon to light the sky. The windows shone as black as Sister Maude’s habit.

In all of Ruth’s life no one had ever defended her. She had rarely felt safe or protected--until one miraculous moment on this train. Ruth wanted to feel that way again. So she crept from her seat. All the children slept.

Inching down the aisle, the sound of Miss Burton’s loud snore came from the left, while Mr. Drake’s soft wheeze whispered from the right. Another few feet and she reached the last seat in the car, where she hesitated, peering at the blackness that hovered so thick she could only penetrate the gloom by squinting until her eyes watered.

Dark and unkempt, his clothes dirty, torn and far too small for him, her savior had the face of a boy and the body of man. Even slouched against the wall, she could tell he was huge. His legs disappeared beneath the seat in front of him and his chest was as wide as the window.

Now that she could see him better, the slight roundness to his chin was the only thing that spoke of youth. Certainly not the straight blade of his nose and the height of his cheekbones, which were as unusual as the long, dark curtain of his hair. The rope tied about his waist added to the picture of a captured wild thing.

“Are you going to sit down, or just stare at me all night long?”

Ruth caught her breath, and lifted her gaze from the rope to his light-colored eyes, which shone from his weather bronzed face. He was awake! And he could see in the dark like an Indian.

She should run all the way back to her seat and never get up until they kicked her off the train in Kansas. She should be scared of this young man they’d tied to the train, at least as scared as everyone else was.

Instead a whisper of warmth, like a fire on a snowy winter night, curled through her. Sister Maude always said there were angels everywhere. Maybe this terrifying, fascinating man-boy was hers.