"Why do you get a snack and juice while I have nothing?"
"We clearly bought the same ticket."
Davey was waiting for the train when a woman's voice spoke beside him.
She was a blonde girl, probably just past twenty. Instead of the usual courtly gown most women wore, she was dressed in a more modern style—denim jacket and jeans.
Denim clothing had its roots in the 1849 California Gold Rush. Levi Strauss, a Jewish immigrant, was credited as the inventor of jeans. Known for their durability, they had become a staple of fashion across the West.
Her jeans, however, were unlike ordinary ones—dyed a deep blue and cut to better fit a woman's figure.
"Miss, perhaps you should ask the staff about that instead of taking it out on me," Davey said evenly.
Golden curls framed her face, her skin pale as cream, and her eyes the color of the clear western sky. She fit perfectly within Davey's tastes.
She looked to be in her early twenties, though perhaps a bit younger. Girls in the Union tended to mature fast.
"You're being presumptuous. I'm not a 'lady.' My name's Catherine Montoya—you may call me Miss Catherine."
Catherine had a friendly, confident air—perhaps it was Davey's refined manner and gentlemanly dress that made her feel comfortable approaching him. Most travelers at the station weren't from her social class, and among them, only Davey seemed worth her attention. Bored, she had probably found an excuse to strike up a conversation.
Even in denim, the cut and quality of her outfit clearly marked her as someone from a well-off family.
"Davey Callander," he replied with a polite smile. "You may call me Mr. Callander. Beautiful Miss Catherine, you must be from one of the East's more civilized cities. It's an honor to meet you here."
He found her intriguing—and chatting would certainly help pass the time.
In the Union, only the eldest sons and daughters of a family were addressed by surname; younger siblings were called by their given names. As the eldest of the Callander brothers, Davey was properly known as Mr. Callander.
"Mr. Callander, how did you know I was from the East? Was it my accent?" Catherine asked as she sat gracefully across from him.
"Such modern, stylish tailoring isn't something a western seamstress could produce. Only designers in civilized cities like New York or Washington City could create such work."
He gestured for a station attendant to bring another plate of pastries and juice, leaving a dollar tip. Catherine smiled, clearly delighted by his gentlemanly manners.
"I'm curious," Davey continued, "was it the scenery of the West that brought the lovely Miss Catherine here?"
Catherine laughed lightly. "I'm a student at Union University, majoring in journalism. I came West to gather material for my graduation thesis. I've traveled all across the East, but nothing there inspired me to write—so I came here instead."
Davey's eyes brightened at the mention of Union University. That was no ordinary school—it had been founded by the President who established the Union itself, inaugurated on November 4, 1861, only thirty-eight years earlier. Those who attended came from families of wealth or influence.
"Miss Catherine," he said gently, "a young and beautiful woman like you could find herself in trouble out here in the wild West. Perhaps you'd be safer returning East."
Catherine smiled. "I'm only taking the train to enjoy the scenery. I won't stray from the station grounds." Then, with a teasing glint in her eye, she added, "Besides, with a gentleman like Mr. Callander nearby, I think I'll be perfectly safe. You'll protect me, won't you?"
"Of course," Davey replied with a warm smile. "It would be my honor, beautiful Miss Catherine."
Time slipped away as they talked. Thirty minutes passed in what felt like moments.
When the train was ready to board, Davey rose and gave a small, graceful bow. With his left hand behind his back, he extended his right hand, palm up, toward her—a gesture from the courts of old Europe, known as the Princess's Hand Presentation, reserved for royal ladies.
The meaning was clear enough: In my eyes, you are like a princess.
Catherine understood perfectly. Tilting her delicate, pale neck, she placed her hand in his and rose with elegance.
Just then, a station attendant hurried over, courteously offering to carry their luggage.
As they walked, Catherine naturally slipped her arm through Davey's. Together they looked like a pair of newlywed nobles.
Their closeness, in that moment, deepened.
"Thank you, sir," the attendant said.
"My pleasure," Davey replied with polite modesty.
He handed over another dollar as a tip, earning a grateful bow from the worker.
Catherine's eyes lingered on him with new admiration. Most nobles she'd met were arrogant and self-important—but Davey's calm, courteous grace set him apart.