Along the way, his dream is challenged and shaped through his encounters with a diverse group of fellow travelers, and his introduction to the many exciting innovations and opportunities being ushered in by the American industrial revolution.

Once he arrives in Portland, Oregon, his adventure continues to unfold through unexpected twists which ultimately point him to the true nature of his pursuit.

Come aboard this riveting journey, find your seat, and immerse yourself in a nostalgic odyssey that will evoke laughter, touch your heart, and leave you shaking your head – a story where perhaps even your own dreams will be challenged. An Elusive Pursuit awaits, promising a ride filled with emotion and discovery.

Here is an excerpt from the book:

It was still early morning as we pulled into Grand Junction Depot, but I had already been awake for a while. Though I much preferred sleeping in the berth over spending the night sitting up in a seat, neither one of them was ideal. So I got up, dressed, and walked the aisles of the train.

I spotted the conductor and asked, “How long will we be stopped here?”

“Thirty minutes and no more,” he replied, looking at his pocket watch.

“Is there a bakery near the depot or somewhere I can get a bite to eat?”

“Yes, there’s a good bakery just beside the depot,” the conductor told me. “It’s run by an Amish family from back East, and their sticky buns are the best in the West,” he added with a smile. “You won’t have enough time to eat there, but you should be able to buy something to bring back on the train. If you decide to go there, be sure to be quick about it!”

The conductor abruptly turned and continued on his way through the car. I followed him to the back of the car so I would be ready to hop off as soon as we came to a complete stop.

The depot was quite impressive and apparently fairly new. It was a simple two-story structure that was more pleasing than imposing. It was constructed of white brick with terra cotta ornamentation under a red tile roof.

The only people inside were those waiting to board our train. I quickly made my way through the main hall and exited onto the street. I didn’t need to look around to find the bakery—all I needed to do was follow my nose. The pleasing aroma of freshly baked bread and pastries made my mouth water and my stomach rumble.

A pleasant, middle-aged woman wearing an apron and a prayer kapp was placing trays of freshly baked treats on the shelves of a display case. Though it all looked—and smelled—delicious, my eye was drawn to the pan of sticky buns that had just come out of the oven.

“Good morning, young man,” the woman greeted me with a smile. “What can I interest you in?”

After surveying the trays, I replied, “Those sticky buns look out of this world. I’ll take two, packaged, so I can take them on the train.”

As the woman readied my order, I asked, “Where are you originally from?”

“My family moved out here a few years ago from Lancaster, Pennsylvania,” she replied. “Have you ever heard of it?”

“I sure have,” I grinned. “I passed through it once with my father on my way to Philadelphia from Williamsport.”

“Are you from those parts?” she asked, obviously pleased I knew of her hometown.

“Yes, I lived there all my life until a little over a week ago,” I told her. “And I grew up eating sticky buns that looked and smelled just like these. My mother used to make them!”

“I’m glad to hear that,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Hopefully they’ll provide you with a taste of your mother’s home cooking. Where are you headed?”

“To Portland, Oregon, ma’am.”

“What’s taking you out there?”

“I’m chasing a dream, and I hope to find it in Portland.”

“Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for, young man. But I’m sure your mother misses you.”

“Not really, ma’am. My mother passed away a few years ago, so it’s just me and my father.”

“I am so sorry to hear it. I’m sure that was hard for you both. Your mother was obviously taken much too soon.”

“Yes, ma’am it was—it is. I don’t reckon it’s something he and I will ever truly get over.”

“I believe there is a special bond between a mother and her son, young man. My only son died in an accident on our farm a few years ago. It is an ache that never truly goes away. That’s actually why my husband and I moved out here. Everything in Lancaster reminded us of our son. It was hard to move on; I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to go forward.

“A loss like that causes families to grow apart or grow closer together. Gratefully, my husband and I grew together. We knew we needed to start fresh, for the sake of our Eli, to honor his memory and not run from our loss.

“I hope that’s what you’re doing, young man. I hope you’re headed to Portland to honor your mother’s memory—and not run from her loss.”

I didn’t quite know how to respond to her statement. Because no matter how hard I tried to convince myself I was running toward my dream, there was a part of me that knew I was running away from something. And I knew I was running away from those to whom I needed to be drawing closer.

Just then, I heard the train whistle, and I knew I needed to hurry back.

“How much do I owe you for these, ma’am?” I asked.

“Not a thing, young man,” she replied tenderly as she handed me the bag and patted my hand. “They’re in honor of your mother. Think of them as a gift from her.”

Suddenly there was a lump in my throat I couldn’t swallow. Just then, I did something I had never done with a stranger. I gave her a big hug—and she hugged me back. And for a moment, I felt like I was in my mother’s embrace.

As I walked out of the store, I heard her say, “Run toward your dream, Gene; don’t run away from it.”

Halfway to the train, I was struck with a thought: How did she know my name? But I knew I didn’t have time to go back and ask her.

I arrived back at my seat with only a few moments to spare. Most passengers were still asleep as the train left the station. Thomas was nowhere in sight, so I had the seat to myself. I was glad for no interruptions as I mulled over my conversation with the Amish woman. The conductor was counting heads as he passed my seat, but this time he turned and stopped.

“I see you made it back in time,” he said, noticing the bag in my hand.

“I sure did. And this one’s for you,” I added as I handed him the bag. “Thanks for the recommendation. You’re right! They are most definitely the best sticky buns in the West . . . and so much more!”