Westbound

The train rumbled steadily along the tracks, cutting through a landscape of pine trees dusted with snow. Former San Diego PD Detective Christian James sat on the narrow bunk of his sleeper car, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the blurred scenery rushing past the window. He wasn't really seeing the trees, the frozen lakes, or the distant mountain peaks. 

All he saw was her. All he saw was Abigail. His Abigail.

They were out on a call that night. Gang war had erupted in the streets. One of the witnesses, who had seen the shooting go down, had a heart attack from the fear and the stress. Abigail was kneeling on the pavement that night, her blonde hair darkened with sweat and clinging to her face. Her hands moved in sharp, precise rhythms — pressing, counting, breathing. The man beneath her had collapsed on the sidewalk, and Abigail — always the first to step up — jumped in to help. She barked orders at Christian without looking up: 

"Get his head elevated! Call EMS!" 

He had done exactly what she said. The ambulance arrived, but before the paramedics could unload their gear, Abigail’s breath hitched, her hands faltered, and she slumped sideways. 

Christian had barely caught her before she hit the ground. He remembered the way her fingers, the same ones that had fired a thousand rounds on the range with flawless precision, had curled weakly against his shirt. 

"Chris...I...I can’t breathe."

He had shouted for the paramedics. But by the time they got her into the ambulance, she was gone. 

The doctors called it a pulmonary embolism — a blood clot from her earlier injury. Abigail had survived being shot, only to die saving someone else. That was Abigail. She was always the hero. That was why he loved her. In fact, it was she who rushed him to the hospital that night. They had both been shot and Christian wasn't looking too good. Only when a nurse pointed it out did Abigail realize that she had been shot as well.

His fingers clenched on his knee as the train swayed. The air in the sleeper car felt stifling. He stood and paced the narrow space, trying to outrun the memories. He could still hear her laugh — the full-bodied, unapologetic laugh that made you feel like you’d just told the greatest joke in the world. He could still see her sitting at her desk, paperwork scattered everywhere, stirring her fifth cup of coffee with a chewed-up pencil. 

Christian let out a bitter chuckle. 

"You were supposed to outlive me," he muttered. "You were supposed to retire first...get a cabin somewhere and make fun of me when I couldn’t quit the job." 

He stopped pacing and stared out the window again. The train had left the woods behind, and now endless white plains stretched toward the horizon. Alberta. A ranch in the middle of nowhere. 

It had been Abigail’s idea. 

"You know, you should try it sometime," she had told him a few months back. "Get out of the city. Try something quieter. You’d make a decent cowboy." 

He’d laughed at the time, but now here he was — following her advice, too late for her to know. 

There was a knock at the door. 

"Mr. James?" A voice called from the hallway. 

"Yeah," Christian said, clearing his throat. 

The conductor slid the door open just enough to poke his head inside. "We’ll be at the next stop in twenty minutes. If you’re looking to stretch your legs, now’s the time." 

"Thanks," Christian said, but he stayed where he was. 

When the train stopped, he stood on the platform for a while, watching other passengers come and go. The cold air bit at his face, and the scent of pine and frost filled his lungs. He didn’t know what he expected to feel — peace, maybe. Clarity. Something that made this trip seem less like running away. 

Instead, he felt empty. 

As he turned to board the train again, Christian caught sight of a young woman across the platform. She knelt beside an elderly man whose face was pale and drawn. 

"Sir?" she said. "Can you hear me?" 

Her fingers found his wrist, searching for a pulse. She glanced over her shoulder. 

"Somebody call for help!" 

Christian’s heart seized. The scene was too familiar — too much like that night. He stepped forward before he realized what he was doing. 

"Here," he said, kneeling beside her. "Let me help." 

The woman looked startled but nodded. Christian’s hands moved on instinct — checking the man’s airway, positioning his head, feeling the faint flutter of a pulse beneath his fingers. The man groaned softly, his eyelids fluttering. 

"He’s breathing," Christian said. "But we need EMS fast." 

The young woman was already dialing her phone. As she spoke to the dispatcher, Christian stayed with the older man, keeping his breathing steady until paramedics arrived. 

When they finally wheeled the man away, the woman turned to Christian. 

"Thanks," she said, breathless. "I...I don’t know what I would’ve done without you." 

Christian tried to smile, but it barely reached his eyes. "You did great." 

She nodded slowly, studying him. "Are you...a doctor?" 

"No," Christian said. "Used to be a cop." 

"Well..." She paused, shivering slightly in the cold. "You saved his life." 

Christian thought of Abigail — her hands pressing down, her voice calm even in the chaos. 

"No," he said softly. "I didn’t." 

He boarded the train again, finding his way back to his bunk. The scenery outside the window seemed clearer now — the stark beauty of snow-covered plains, the way the sky stretched endlessly above. 

For the first time in months, Christian let out a breath that didn’t feel like it was caught in his chest. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring — if he’d find peace on that ranch or if his mind would keep dragging him back to that night. 

But tonight, he'd helped someone — the way Abigail would have. 

And for now, that was enough.