What She Left Behind

*Sensitive content regarding death and revenge.

California, 1868

Clara Emerson pressed herself against the train window, her eyes glazed and alert from exhaustion. She stretched out her aching legs, revealing her muddy shoes that poked out from underneath the hem of her dress. She retracted her feet back from visibility, gathering and stroking her straw-like, graying hair as she peered out the window. Clara glanced to see if anyone was watching her. Only a handful of people sat behind her, none of which were looking in her direction.

No. I’m safe.

She drew in a deep breath, steadying herself, but unease coiled in her chest and churned in her belly. Turning in her seat, she lowered her gaze to the small diamond band on her finger. Sunlight caught in its facets, scattering tiny prisms across her skin. For just a moment, she marveled at its beauty.

Clara looked up and locked eyes with a man several seats ahead.

Clean-shaven, with thin-framed spectacles perched on his nose, the man stared at her with a hollow, unreadable expression. Her pulse kicked. How long had he been watching her without her noticing? Her skin went cold and clammy.

Like a predator spotting easy prey, the man rose from his seat and approached her, not breaking eye contact once.

Clara’s stiffened in her seat as the man approached.

Go away.

“May I sit? I have a long journey ahead of me, and I could sure use the company,” he said to her.

No. “Of course.”

The man sat down across from her. His eyes remained on her, almost as if they were boring into her very soul.

“Didn’t anyone tell you it’s rude to stare?” she asked him, hoping that illuminating his behavior would cause him to cease, but it did not.

“Forgive me, ma’am. It’s just—you look so familiar. Do we know each other, perhaps?”

“No. I don’t recall your face. You must be mistaken.”

“No, I think we do know each other.” Why won’t he quit? “Where are you from?”

“I’m not going to tell you that. You haven’t even told me who you are!”

“Ah. How foolish of me. My name is Simon Klein.” He leaned forward, extending his hand to her.

He sat back down and continued to stare at her, expectantly this time.

Clara sighed, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “I’m…Elaine. Elaine Whitmore.”

“Elaine? Hmm. I would have taken you for an Alice or Charlotte or Clara.”

Clara froze in her seat, her eyes wide and her palms sweaty. Who is this man? “No. I’m just Elaine.”

Mr. Klein gave her a wry smile, shaking his head. “So, where are you headed to?”

Clara shrugged. “Anywhere that’s far away from here.”

“Ah, come on. California’s the place to be! There’s opportunity here.”

“Not for me. Not anymore.”

“Shame,” he said.

“What is?”

Mr. Klein chuckled. “Surely you have friends or family that will miss you. It almost sounds like you’re running away.”

Now he was just getting on her nerves. “You’re quite brazen, Mr. Klein. My business is none of your concern.”

Mr. Klein pressed his lips tightly together, as if he were in pain, and forced out a smile. “My apologies, Mrs. Whitmore. I never quite learned how to keep my nose out of others affairs. I am a curious fellow.”

Curious indeed.

Hoping to break the tension, she pulled out a flask from underneath her shawl. “Care for a drink?”

A wild glimmer in his eyes appeared. It was as if he wanted to reach out and strangle her. “No, thank you,” he said, his demeanor shifting.

There was something dangerous underneath this man’s calm exterior. Somehow that made him more terrifying. If he were angry and violent from the start of their encounter, she could predict his next move and accept that she was under attack, but this man unnerved her to her core. There was something almost familiar about him.

Gathering her shawl, she stood from her seat, and, as steady as she could present herself to be, she faced him. “I think I would prefer to be in my own company for the rest of the journey. Good day to you.”

“Please, there’s no need to leave. If you wish to be alone, I can accommodate.” Mr. Klein stood, moving back to his original seat.

Clara returned to hers, facing away from Mr. Klein this time. But she could still feel his eyes on her.

She waited until the train had passed a dilapidated old shack close to the tracks before rising from her seat and creeping her way down toward the caboose. Her heart quickened, as did her pace.

“Excuse me, sir,” she heard behind her. Sucking in a breath, she chanced a glance behind her, locking eyes with Mr. Klein, who was trailing close behind her. He did not smile this time at her. His eyes were cold and focused, focused on her intently like before, but there was a rage in those eyes—a bloodlust, in fact. She didn’t think twice this time, turning and running down the aisle like a mad woman.

She stumbled through the empty train carts, praying an escape plan would present itself to her before he reached her, but there wasn’t enough time and there was no where left to run.

I’m trapped.

She looked out the back window and considered the tracks. Maybe she could jump. Maybe. She might still have a chance.  

The door behind Clara creaked open. She spun around to see Mr. Klein reaching into his coat pocket, revealing a silver pistol. She backed away slowly, keeping her eyes trained on Mr. Klein—if that even was his name, and she pressed herself against the back door of the caboose. He pointed the barrel at her. Rage oozed out from beneath the calm, collected persona he performed earlier. His hand trembled, but he remained in control of himself, for the moment.

Clara trembled, terrified of what he would do to her. “What do you want from me? Why are you following me?”

“I saw you,” Mr. Klein said. “I saw what you did to my sister that night.”

Whatever she planned on saying to him, the words fell empty in her mouth. This is it. It’s over.

“What? You thought no one saw you sneak out of her house in the dead of night, and I find my sister dead in her home?”

“No! That’s a lie! I would never harm anyone! I’m a good woman!”

“How do you sleep at night?” he said, his finger twitchy on the trigger. “I know it was you who did it. No sooner had I returned from my hunting trip, I see you sneaking out of her house like some rat. She was dead when I found her.”

“Please! Have mercy on me! I would never do such a thing!”

“Liar!” Mr. Klein drew closer. She fumbled for the handle behind her, desperate for escape. Her weight against the door caused it to swing open, landing her on her back. She held her hands over her head to shield herself.

“Why?” he cried. “Why did you do it? Tell me!”

A shrill, raspy whistle emanated from the front of the train, distracting Mr. Klein for the briefest moment. Clara seized the opportunity and kicked Mr. Klein in the shin, dropping him to his knees. He screamed, clutching his leg as the gun clattered next to him. Without a second thought, she scrambled for the pistol and swiped it, aiming the barrel at him.

“Get up,” she said.

Mr. Klein held his hands up, pushing himself up off the floor. “I’m not the one that deserves this.”

“I’m not going to die today.” She pressed her finger to the trigger, but it wouldn’t budge. The hammer!

Mr. Klein grabbed hold of the barrel and yanked it back hard, too hard. Clara released the pistol, and with it, Mr. Klein—screaming as he staggered backward, tumbling off the train. He hit the tracks hard, rolling like a rag doll before coming to rest, bloodied and limp, his lifeless eyes fixed toward the sky.

The wind violently whipped Clara’s hair as Mr. Klein’s body disappeared beyond view. She steadied herself against the railing, her thumb absentmindedly tracing the curve of the diamond, lost in a thought she refused to finish.