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other seat. Then he nudged her foot again. Tucking her booted feet as far under the seat as she could, she glared at the man and locked the metal in her spine so that she sat ramrod straight. She gathered her travel-stained skirt closer to her legs and turned slightly toward the window. Short of stabbing his foot with a hairpin, she had no weapon. Obviously withering looks didn’t count.
    She knew he was watching her, could feel it with every nerve in her body. Should she tell the conductor? But what could she say? This man is bothering me?
    If there were other seats available, she could just get up and move, but the car was full except for the seat next to her and the seat next to him . If he was cramped for foot room, why didn’t he move over?
    The nudge again.
    The conductor made his way back down the aisle calling out the next stop as the train whistle cried and the train began slowing down.
    Dear God, please make this man get off here .
    But he didn’t. Instead he lit a cigar and waved it at her whenever she made the mistake of looking up.
    If the window wasn’t so important to her, she’d have moved over. After all, she did have her knitting along. She could hear her mor admonishing her to not waste a moment of precious time. But she wanted to see this new country.
    Augusta tightened her jaw. There he was again, this time touching her ankle. That’s it! She rose, regal as a Viking princess, and deliberately planted her heel on the top of his foot. Then turning to give it a good mash, she headed for the necessary. The grunt she heard as she left more than made up for the discomfort of deliberately hurting another. She started to think person and changed her mind. But she couldn’t call him an animal either. Animals weren’t obnoxious like that, so she guessed he was a man. She shook her head. At least God had spared her meeting men like that in her past.
    Dirty rude man.
    When she returned, he took the cigar out of his mouth, nodded to her, and moved his feet out of the way so she could resume her seat. The leer was gone, his expression now showing a measure of respect.
    If only she could get her heart to return to its normal place and pace.
    When they finally arrived in St. Paul, he was right behind her as she stepped off the train.
    The conductor pointed her in the direction of the information window and the huge board that showed train arrivals and departures. A man on a ladder was erasing some lines and writing in others. Wheels screeching, steam hissing, vendors hawking their wares, babies crying, children running and laughing, men shouting—the tumult made her want to clap her hands over her ears.
    The man stayed right behind her. Even above the cacophony, she sensed his presence.
    Heart thundering in her ears, she waited in line to ask her questions. The line moved slowly. She could hear him humming under his breath.
    Shivers chased each other up and down her spine. Why, oh why won’t he go away?
    She stepped up to the window and, keeping her voice low, asked, “Which is the train to . . . to . . .” She had to check her carefully written-out itinerary. “G-Grand Forks.” Would the man with the green visor above his eyes understand her Norwegian?
    “Right over there, number. . . .” A voice over a loudspeaker drowned out his words.
    The man behind her cleared his throat.
    “Mange takk.” She clutched her tickets tightly in hand and nearly ran across the marble-tiled floor. Surely there would be only one train in that spot right now. If not, she’d have to ask again. She glanced back over her shoulder.
    Here he came! Would he never leave her alone?
    She went down the stairs and followed the crowd. But there were three trains, all lined up with only a walkway between them. Which one? She studied the numbers on the front of the engine. What did he say? Oh, Lord above, what number did he say?
    The man was drawing nearer. Two others came down the stairs together, singing some song at the top of their