At Liberty to Love (Texas Romance Book 7)

by Caryl McAdoo

  In just a few days, it’d be exactly that—or more. Was it two thousand miles from Jefferson to the gold fields? Geography had never been one of his fortes.

  The last bell sounded, followed by a blast from the foghorn. Someone pulled up the gangplank, and the stevedores shoved the ship off. Its big wheel churned up the Red River’s muddy water as the old girl took the widow out of his life.

  Rebecca waved then cupped her hands over her mouth and hollered something, but he couldn’t make it out. He shook his head with a hand to his ear. “What?”

  Pointing to his carpet bag, she wrote across the air and hollered again. “Write me.”

  With a smile, he nodded. Would he ever see her again? How could he not? The ship turned a bit. She hurried back along the rail, keeping even with him.

  Was he crazy? Why was he letting her go?

  The desire to jump in and swim to her almost consumed him, but better judgement overruled his heart. Her beauty and class…she was beyond him. He’d only had the time with her because of sweet fate—riding the stage to the same place. He’d never forget the hours with her though… the bliss before cruel providence tore her apart from him.

  Tomorrow or next week, she’d see him for who he really was. A poor man without any prospects. Even if he secured the teaching post, the money wouldn’t be enough to even keep her in perfume, much less up to her father’s standards. But oh, how his heart pounded against his chest, demanding more of her.

  At the back of the ship, she stopped short of the spray from the paddlewheel and waved again. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she waved more like a lovesick school girl than a first class widowed matron. Could she have enjoyed the time together as much as he had? No, she only acted like her kind, generous self.

  He stood there until the the ship rounded the first turn.

  Then she was gone.

  Tears filled his eyes and overflowed, wetting his cheeks.

  What a fool he was. Crying over a lady he could never have.

  Ford stood on the dock staring at the river’s muddy water. The lady was gone and wouldn’t be coming back. Best he get on with his life. He wiped his cheeks. Such a fool. He had to get himself upriver and interview for that teaching position and live his life without her, no matter what his heart desired.

  Except the university lay in the wrong direction. The widow Rusk sailed south.

  Why had he let her go? Should he have stopped her? Could he if he had tried?

  Sticking his hand into his pocket, he touched the last three coins. Just enough to book passage to Nashville. Then what?

  No reason to stand there on the dock all day, wishing and hoping and pining over what could never be. He picked up his bag and made his feet take him back to the boarding house. The room, until noon, was his. What would he do after that?

  Was he in love? It seemed so.

  But how could he be? He’d just met the woman, though it seemed like he knew her well, having heard so much about her from Wallace and Levi. Rebecca…Bitty Beck. Even the General beamed when he spoke of her, and young Charley held her in such high esteem. Everything about her….

  Tears welled again.

  The sound of her voice still reverberated in his ears, her laughter, the twinkle in her eyes. The beauty’s loveliness loomed just beyond his vision. If he squinted just right he could almost see her. He’d never forget her. Of that, he was sure.

  With a heavy sigh, he climbed the stairs to his room then flopped on the bed. He should try to nap until his time in the room lapsed. Sleep would bring some relief from his dilemma. Why did it hurt so much? Julia and Michele dying certainly ripped his heart in two and drove him to the pit.

  But that was different. He’d put them in the ground.

  Rebecca lived, except she might as well be dead. He could never have her. Never taste the sweetness of her lips, run his fingers through her hair, hold her so tightly they’d become one flesh.

  “Stop being so morose, chowderhead!” He chided himself. “Get on with your life.”

  Had he really said that aloud?

  Sounded like something his father would tell him. Be a man, Boy. How many times had he heard that? Humph. He wasn’t the one who’d drank himself into an early grave. The old man’s shakes, so bad at the end… His mother had to hold the bottle to his lips.

  Rolling over, he forced himself to stand. His old carpet bag in the corner caught his eye, looking pretty sad alongside his new one. Didn’t need two.

  Might as well get back the four bits he’d given for it. He put the extra change of clothes on top of his new suit, then decided better of it, and pulled his old things out. The new suit, and under it, the Bible she’d bought.

  He repacked it all in his new grip with the suit going in last and the book on top of that.

  Thirty cents was all he could get for his old bag, but that bought him a bowl of chicken soup and a wedge of cornbread. The food took his mind off her somewhat.

  It seemed more like she stood behind him instead of across the table, stayed with him some way. How had she wormed her way so deep into his soul?

  Never would he have thought it possible that anyone could unlock that door Julia’s death had slammed shut. It had to be love. He’d known the meaning of that word? He loved his wife…and his mother, although he harbored no desire to see her again, or the man she’d taken up with.

  Before, he never believed in love at first sight. But experience of the last twenty-four hours shattered that conviction like the teacup his daughter, delirious with fever, had knocked from his hand.

  He’d loved his baby girl from the first. But that was totally different. She needed him. But he couldn’t save her…or his wife. What kind of man was he?

  Not one Rebecca Rusk needed.

  “More coffee?” The waitress held out the pot.

  “Please.” He scooched his cup toward her.

  She filled it, turned away, then did a three-sixty. “Sir, I don’t mean to intrude, but you look so forlorn. My brother is needing a pole man. I mean…if you’re looking for work.”

  Forcing himself to focus on the lady, he gave a little half-hearted grin. “What’s that?”

  “He has a flatboat. Men with long poles push it along. He’s leaving for New Orleans come morning.”

  “New Orleans, you say?”

  “Yes, sir. Think you might be interested?”

  His heart quickened. That’s exactly where she was headed. “Well…I uh….” The interview beckoned, but he could teach anywhere. His heart already ached for her, and there’d never be anyone like her again in his life.

  What was he thinking? No one in the wide world could compare to Rebecca—ever. He’d been crazy to let her leave. “Yes, ma’am. I just might. What’s your brother’s name? And where do I find him?”

  Rebecca put her book away. She’d read the last line three times and couldn’t remember the last paragraph. Stupid. No, silly. That’s what she was being. A silly, infantile little schoolgirl, letting Marcus fill her head with such a load of nonsense.

  The man probably flirted with every female who caught his fancy.

  No doubt, he’d already forgotten all about her.

  A stroll around the ship. That’s what she needed…to fill her lungs with some good clean air and clear her head. Forget about Marcus Ford. Rebecca Ford.

  Whoa!

  Where did that come from? She was a widow, about to be a mother, and for sure and certain, did not need the distraction of any man in her life. No matter how handsome or intelligent, charming, talented or….

  She retrieved the sketch he’d done of her and stared at it. Just more of his flattery, drawing her so much more beautiful than she really was. Did he think she had no mirror?

  An idea crept to mind as she studied the paper. Hmm. The least she could do. After all, what was money for if not to help other people? And Marcus definitely fit that bill.

  Even smooth talking flatterers could use a hand of charity…someone to do something
nice for them. Not that she needed an excuse to write, or even pay the man a visit but….

  She smiled, certain he’d be surprised and pleased. What fun to turn the tables on him.

  Three more days until New Orleans. She’d start the gears turning once there. It’d be a great way to kill some time, if she kept to her schedule she had a day and a half extra.

  Ford stuck the pole into the muddy water, found bottom, then pushed hard, walking toward the back of the flat boat. The ache in his shoulders and legs begged him to quit, but he kept at it.

  The other pole men claimed that in another day—two at the most—the ache would lessen then be gone about the time they made New Orleans. He didn’t mention that he never intended to go back to Jefferson.

  The week it took going upriver against the flow would be easier, they bragged as if he’d found his new career.

  Then the maddening monotonous physical labor ended.

  The city of his birth hadn’t changed much. More ships lined the expanded docks. Stevedores and blacks—slaves in those days, but now freed men—scurried along carrying their loads or rolling their barrels.

  Always with a song, they worked hard same as in the past. He did love the rhythm, the hum of the city.

  Still, a black cloud hung over his heart. He’d sworn he’d never set foot there again, but indeed both feet stood planted firmly on the wharf.

  Should he visit the graves?

  No. To what end? That life was gone. His horrible past with it.

  Might Rebecca be his future? He had no guarantee she’d even be there with the full day’s head start. He hefted his bag and set out. First thing, he needed to find her steamer.

  Rebecca silently counted the greenbacks with the man as he placed them on the desk in front of her next to the stacks of her silver and gold coins.

  The banker put the last twenty-dollar bill on the pile then slid a piece of paper toward her. “One thousand exactly. Please sign or make your mark.” He grinned. “I’m sorry, Miss Rebecca. Habit I guess.”

  She complied, put her money away, but didn’t let the man off the hook. Her extra time was quickly expiring and she still had shopping to do for Mary Rachel and the Mercantile.

  Probably should have taken care of that first, but she’d really wanted… she needed a boon. “I do have a favor to ask.”

  He eased down into his chair. “How may I be of further service?”

  “It involves a friend of mine, Marcus Ford.”

  The banker leaned back in his oversized, amply stuffed leather throne, and she explained what she desired him to do. He made a few notations on his pad then looked up and nodded.

  “If I’m successful, shall I draft your account?”

  “Yes, please, sir. If plans hold, I’ll be back in ninety days or less.”

  He stood. “Again, my condolences, ma’am. Horrible, needless war. Wallace Rusk died too young.”

  She extended her hand. “Yes, he certainly did, and thank you, sir.”

  The financier took it, but instead of a quick shake, he held on. “I’m free tonight…if you’d be so kind as to share a meal.”

  The gleam in the old letch’s eyes made him out to be a liar about regretting Wallace’s demise. “Thank you, but I sail this evening.”

  “Shame, perhaps on your return.”

  She withdrew her hand. “Perhaps.”

  Once back in her room aboard the steamer, she realized her stay in New Orleans had been too short. She hadn’t done half the things she’d intended. Not that she needed more clothes, but it would have been nice to acquire a new gown.

  Maybe the ship had a seamstress. Then again, what did she have to dress up for?

  At least, she’d done well by her sister’s mercantile with her negotiations. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed dickering. Quite invigorating.

  And the four copies of Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland she’d ordered straight from the publisher through the New Orleans’ bookstore had her almost giddy.

  The first edition—one for each of her sisters—should arrive in San Francisco before she left on her return. And she’d sent one to her daddy and Mama May as well.

  The allegations of Carroll being under the influence of cannabis while penning the imaginative story only added to its anticipation. What would her stepmother think of the novel?

  It would be a wonderful addition to their first edition collections.

  Hopefully, upon her return home, the banker would have good news for her. A trip to Nashville might even be in order. Wouldn’t that be something? For sure and for certain, she’d have to have a whole new wardrobe.

  After all, the professor had seen almost everything she owned, all that was of any account anyway.

  “Now you’re just being silly, Rebecca Rusk! That man probably wouldn’t remember one garment you wore. Humph.”

  Most likely, he’d already forgotten all about her and moved on with some other younger lady. He could have his pick, no doubt. The charming Mister Ford had surely found some other pretty face to tell how gorgeous she was.

  Her nails digging into her palms focused her attention on her balled fists. How ridiculous! Then she laughed out loud. Worse than a silly school girl! Talking to herself and being jealous over some imagined shadow lady.

  At least no one else had been present to witness her silliness and chide her over her infatuation.

  What claim did she have on Marcus? He was only a man on the stage. It made no difference that she’d spent a wonderful night with him, and… She gazed at the penciled sketch again. He was quite amazing….

  “Stop it.”

  A bell clanged, followed by the ship’s whistle. She hurried out. Where had the time gone? The big wheel bit into the muddy waters. How was it already six o’clock?

  She made her way to the wharf’s side of the boat. The dock’s lamps burned brightly. Three or four dozen folks stood around, some waving, others pointing. It nicked her heart a bit that no one was seeing her off. But then, she didn’t know that many people in New Orleans.

  Three loud notes sounded. Almost like her daddy’s ‘come to me’ call. Searching the crowd, she couldn’t find the whistler. Had it only been her melancholy? Wait! Her eyes darted back to the last group of folks.

  Could it be? She searched the faces in the crowd. She would have sworn…but no…it must have only been her aspirant thinking.

  Her professor had to be half way to Nashville by then.

  Ford whistled again, about blew his lungs out that time, but she just stood there. Had she seen him? Didn’t act like it, but what was he expecting? For her to jump in the river and swim to him?

  Surely if she had spotted him, she would have at least waved. Many of the travelers still did, but others started drifting off. He stood his ground, hoping, until the steamer disappeared.

  Was that his new lot in life? Watching Rebecca sail away?

  Why had he ever let her go in the first place?

  No doubt, she would have paid his way to San Francisco if only he’d asked. He and his stupid pride. Yet, there he stood like some lovesick school boy, watching his girl waltzing away with some other gent.

  Except she wasn’t his.

  That notion was only a piper’s dream. But she could be…right? If only.…

  Sticking his hand into his pocket, he pulled out the meager contents.

  How much was passage to San Francisco anyway? When was the next steamer leaving?

  He picked up his bag.

  Somehow. Someway. He had to get himself to California.

  First thing, Ford found the Pacific Mail Steamship Company’s office.

  To his dismay, the next one going south departed in three days. He had the eleven dollars to secure passage to Colon, Panama, but not the twenty-five bucks to ride the train across the Isthmus to Panama City—or the fifteen additional greenbacks it’d take to get him to San Francisco.

  And that didn’t include meals. He walked out of the office into the New Orleans evening.
Hated it all to pieces. He’d sworn never to set foot in his home town again, yet there he stood. So what did any other vow he’d made matter either?

  In light of Rebecca and the darkness of the wake in her absence, what did anything matter?

  He walked straight to the old man’s shop. Of course, it was closed. Never expected anything else. Would anyone be around who might remember him? He eased around to the back. A half-grown girl sat beside the kiln whittling on a stick.

  The young lady jumped to her feet. “This here is private property, mister.”

  “I know. You tending the fire?”

  She thrust her hand out, knife blade toward him. “The boss lady don’t like no strangers hereabouts. Best be moving on along.”

  “You look familiar. Who was your mama?”

  “You no nevermind. I done told you to get gone, so you gots to git!”

  The back door opened. A heavyset woman stepped out, remaining in the shadow of the stoop. She cradled a scattergun pointing directly at him. “This here is private property.”

  “That you, Miss Honey?”

  She eased the gun’s barrel to the side and leaned toward him. “Does I knows you?”

  “Marcus Ford. It’s been years, but if you’re Miss Honey, yes. Of course, you know me. My father once owned you and this shop.”

  The lady stepped closer, grinned real big, then spun around to the house. “Miss Daisy! Miss Daisy! Come on out here! You gots to come see what them cats done drug in.”

  The SS Orizaba proved nice enough. Rebecca liked her suite just fine, except for the quietness of it. Loneliness covered her heart in the manner an early morning fog hovered over the creek bottoms. She flopped on the bed as if sixteen again.

  Had it been Marcus on the dock? It couldn’t have. Just her romantic side wanting it to be so.

  Why, the man was probably already in Nashville by then, getting on with his life without even a thought of her. Like she should be doing! Instead of daydreaming about a man that she’d just met.

  Making way too much of a ride with a stranger on the stagecoach and the following time spent wiling away the hours.