“I don’t think he’s really a gambler,” Mama Rachael confided. “He’s too much the outdoor type, and his hands are callused like he’s used to hard work. He just gambles with us little old ladies on the boat.”
“Brett calls it a ti’ game,” Delta explained. “Ti’ meaning petite. He’s French or something.”
“Sounds like you were wise to outrun him, Delta.” Cameron chuckled. “A French gambler. Why civil war would likely break out in the Jarrett family if baby sister Delta came home with a disreputable gambling man.”
“I know.” Delta tried to sound lighthearted, but her heart thudded painfully against her chest.
“No need to worry,” Mama Rachael retorted. “Even after he sent her roses and escorted her to dinner she refused to be nice to him.”
Cameron turned the team into the residential section of town, giving Delta a respite from this tedious conversation. Delta and Mama Rachael stared in silence at the deserted streets and boarded-up residences. Many of the stately houses stood empty, their shrubbery unattended. Climbing roses grew in profusion, covering windows, adding vibrant color to the spectral ambiance surrounding them.
“I didn’t expect such desolation,” Delta observed. “The Widow Wadkins wrote that the threat of yellow fever had passed.”
“Folks are straggling back,” Cameron responded. “But of course some of these homes will remain boarded up. The fever took the lives of a great many citizens, entire families in a lot of cases.”
“Maud wouldn’t have insisted on my coming to visit if there was danger.” Mama Rachael’s sentence ended on a high tone that turned her statement into a question.
“You’re safe,” Cameron assured her. “I wouldn’t have let either of you set foot off that boat if I thought otherwise. The plague is over, and our new sewer system will prevent it coming back. That might be something you can mention in your articles, Delta. Way I see it, your articles on Memphis will help us as much as the showboat staying in dock three days.”
Maud Wadkins and Mama Rachael had been friends since girlhood. During the first outbreak of yellow fever, Maud and her daughter Hattie Louise had come to St. Louis to wait out the plague with the Myricks. When they returned to Memphis four months ago they carried Mama Rachael’s promise to visit so they could return the hospitality.
When Maud’s white, frame house came in view, Mama Rachael began issuing instructions. “If Hattie Louise is there,” she warned, “don’t either of you mention your Uncle Baylor. You know the trouble that went on between the two of them a few years back. Maud never revealed the details, but it couldn’t be much comfort to Hattie Louise to be reminded of that man.”
Cameron and Delta agreed.
“Now that Kale’s married and settled down, I suppose Uncle Baylor has become the black sheep of the family,” Delta mused. She seemed to recall something about wedding plans being scrapped at the last minute, but that had happened long before she reached the age to be interested in things like weddings and beaux, so she had paid little attention.
And now her mind was filled with other things.
One other thing—Brett Reall. As preposterous as it was for her to even fantasize about a relationship with Brett, she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Was it a woman’s lot to inevitably think of home and marriage anytime an eligible man entered the room?
She knew better than that, of course. As Cameron had pointed out, she’d turned down a number of suitors already. She’d never found anyone who interested her—before. Recalling her promise to discover the truth about Brett before she committed herself further, Delta realized she was already committed in her heart.
But here she was, destined to spend the next few days in the company of a Pinkerton agent. With his connections, Cameron could make inquiries. He would be glad to uncloak Brett’s past to reassure her, to alert her. Or to warn her off, when she already felt herself drowning in the relationship.
Her dream the night before had only made matters worse. If Brett were indeed an outlaw, alerting Cameron to his presence would be the same as turning him in.
She’d be no better than the “king’s man” in her dream. Brett might even have a price on his head. Would she be offered a reward for turning him in? The idea revolted her.
No, her reward would not be silver or gold. Her reward would be living forever with the knowledge that she had cost him his freedom.
But what if he deserved to be locked up? She unwillingly recalled Brett’s mercurial changes in mood. What if his crimes were so heinous he was a menace to society?
Raised in a law-abiding home, she had respected justice even before she decided to become a journalist. How could she condone allowing a criminal to remain free? Her body heated at the thought of his tender kisses, at his laughter, infrequent though it was.
We are, he had said and she had felt it, too. Some ethereal cord seemed to bind them together, as though it had been their destiny to meet, to—
To what? she countered. Was she destined to play Judas to the man she loved? How could she bear such a burden?
By the time Cameron pulled the horse to a halt outside the home Maud Wadkins shared with her grown daughter Hattie Louise, Delta knew what she must do. She must find a way to gain Cameron’s help without arousing his suspicions. Perhaps if he were to meet Brett—
Every time she visualized such a meeting, however, her latest dream popped vividly to mind—the king’s man, the plank. She couldn’t turn Brett over to the authorities. Not her. If he were caught, it would have to be by someone else’s hand.
Maud Wadkins had outdone herself—alone, it seemed since Hattie Louise wasn’t home—preparing enough food to feed the entire crew of the Mississippi Princess: roast chicken, with green beans, new potatoes, and squash, the vegetables all canned before the outbreak of fever, she assured them.
“Don’t be afraid to eat or drink in my house,” she added. “I boil water for everything, even bathing. I’m taking no chances on yellow fever creeping inside my door.”
Yellow fever was the sole topic of conversation around the table, and Delta tried to listen, knowing that events as devastating as the plagues that had hit Memphis were invariably used as datemarks. Like the war before it, for years to come everything that happened in Memphis would be described as “before the plague” or “after the plague.”
As soon as they finished lunch, Cameron carried Mama Rachael’s trunk into the house. “We should be going,” he told Delta. Then he winked at Mama Rachael. “Don’t worry about Delta and the gambler. I have so much sightseeing planned, she won’t have time to think about him.”
Mama Rachael flew to Brett’s defense. “You be nice to that young man, Delta.”
Once they were on their way Cameron chuckled. “I think she’s serious about you and the gambler.”
“They’re all serious about me and someone. Ginny and Hollis, included. They’re so afraid I’ll end up an old maid, they might be inclined to accept Brett just to see me married.”
At Cameron’s startled expression, she hurried to add, “I was teasing. There’s absolutely nothing between us.”
The first place Cameron took her was to Fort Assumption. Standing on a precipice overlooking the Mississippi River, he explained that this was the first permanent site of the present town of Memphis. “Chickasaw Indians were the first known settlers on these bluffs. Later came Europeans—the Spaniard De Soto, the Frenchmen Joliet and Marquette, then La Salle, and after them the British. More recently, of course, the Yankees and Confederates fought over this land.” He pointed to a portion of the river. “There’s where Union gunboats sank a whole fleet of our ships.” He pointed to another place in the middle of the Mississippi. “And the Sultana went down right there, in April of sixty-five.” He shook his head. “Seems there’s tragedy—or reminders of tragedy—all around us. The Sultana was carrying twenty-four hundred Union prisoners-of-war back home after the peace was signed. The boat exploded right out there. Most of the men were too sick
or undernourished to be able to save themselves. Sad part was that the accident could have been avoided. The boat carried six times its capacity.”
“How many men died?” Delta asked.
“No one knows for sure. The official count was somewhere around fifteen hundred.”
From the vicinity of the docks they heard the calliope tuning up. Its mirthful sounds seemed irreverent with so much death surrounding them—the War Between the States, steamboat explosions, yellow fever.
“Life goes on, else it has no meaning,” Cameron responded when she voiced her thoughts.
Delta scribbled notations for her article and later Cameron took her down to the mouth of the Wolf River. “Not many people realize it outside our immediate area, but before the war Memphis was one of the South’s largest inland slave markets.”
Cameron waited while she jotted down more notes. “Tomorrow I’ll show you some of the things our city fathers are doing to bring this town back since the war and the yellow fever epidemics.”
“You needn’t go to so much trouble, Cameron. I know you have work to do, and I can find my way around.”
“You, trouble? Why, it isn’t every day I get to squire a pretty girl about town. Besides, you’re doing the city a favor, writing these articles. I will be obliged to leave you on your own the day after tomorrow, though. Business calls. But I’ll return in time to see you off the following morning.”
On the way back to the boat she invited him to stay for the show.
“Any chance I’ll get to meet the gambler?” he quizzed.
She shrugged. A part of her wanted him to meet Brett, to settle the question of this mysterious man’s identity. But another part wanted never to know who Brett was, feared learning the truth. What if Cameron recognized him? “I doubt it,” she responded. “Brett keeps pretty much to himself.”
“Brett?” Cameron turned a curious expression on her. “That’s three times by my count you’ve used his given name. Could Mama Rachael be wrong about you trying to outrun this gambler?”
“Mama Rachael is never wrong,” she hedged.
One good thing came of Cameron’s attending the performance—he met Zanna and approved of her as a chaperon for the rest of the trip to New Orleans.
“Hollis wired me to check things out,” he confessed after they had settled on the back row next to the aisle where Delta could sell tickets to stragglers. “That production manager is feisty enough to handle the seediest of gamblers.”
Delta caught herself short of protesting that Brett was far from seedy.
Suddenly Cameron let out a low whistle. “Who the dickens is that?”
Following his gaze to the stage Delta watched Nat make his grand entrance. “Sh,” she whispered. “That’s Nat, our leading man.”
“He isn’t your gambler?”
“Of course not!” She flushed at Cameron’s choice of words. “Brett—ah, M’sieur Reall isn’t my gambler.”
When Cameron failed to respond, she turned to see him staring at the stage, a deep frown etching his brow. “Stay away from that fellow, Delta.”
“From Nat?”
“Whatever he calls himself. Stay away from him. He’d sell his own mother if the price was right.”
“Nat?” she questioned again. “You must be mistaken.”
He turned serious eyes on her. “I’m not mistaken. That’s one dangerous man.”
“Dangerous? But he’s so … so …” She thought of Brett calling Nat a pantywaist. “I can’t believe Nat is dangerous.” She almost choked on the word, a word Nat had used to describe Brett. “Nat’s meddlesome, I’ll grant you, but dangerous—?”
“Delta, I won’t allow you to step one foot on that boat unless you promise to steer clear of him.”
“All right, I promise. Actually, I’m not very fond of him. He’s too conceited. But if he’s as dangerous as you say, why don’t you arrest him?”
“He hasn’t broken the law that I know of,” Cameron admitted. “He’s a bounty hunter. I’d give a plugged nickel to know what he’s doing on a showboat.”
How she managed to make it through the rest of the performance without giving away her distress, Delta would never know. Somehow she did. And from the rail outside her cabin later that night she watched Cameron collar Nat. Standing on the wharf, while deckhands waited to raise the gangplank, they spoke at length, arguing, she suspected from their gestures and body movements. After Cameron climbed back in the hack and rode off, Nat turned to stare in the direction of her cabin.
Delta awoke the following morning in a black mood. Cameron accused her of getting up on the wrong side of the bed. The truth, she knew, was that she had tossed and turned all night wondering what Nat had told Cameron. She had no doubt what a bounty hunter was doing on board the Mississippi Princess. No doubt at all, only profound regret.
And fear. What had Nat told Cameron? What would Cameron do with the information? And where was Brett?
She hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of Brett since they docked in Memphis and he learned her cousin was a Pinkerton.
No one, it turned out, had seen him. Zanna stopped Delta before she and Cameron left the boat for a second day of sightseeing.
“If you see Brett in town, tell him Mrs. Humphries and Mrs. Menefee are miffed that they missed their ti’ game yesterday. Tell him they’ve been complaining to Captain Kaney.”
All morning while Cameron showed her the new rail lines, introduced her to the city fathers, took her on a ride to see the lushness of the countryside along the mouth of Wolf River, a part of her mind remained fixed on Brett. Where was he? Was Nat after him? What had Nat told Cameron? She dared not address her fears directly, but finally she managed to talk around the issue.
“You’re certain you didn’t mistake Nat for someone else?” she questioned over lunch at the Hotel Peabody.
“He’s a bounty hunter, all right,” Cameron confirmed around a bite of beefsteak.
“Maybe we should tell Captain Kaney,” she suggested. “He wouldn’t want a troublemaker on board.” Even voicing such a concern caused her fear to mount. As desperately as she wanted Nat removed from the boat, she knew she could not arouse Cameron’s suspicions.
“I don’t think it’s necessary,” Cameron was saying. “I wrestled with that question overnight and decided to take the man at his word.”
“His word? What did he say?” She held her breath, waiting to hear the worst, wondering what she would do when Cameron mentioned Brett Reall.
“He assured me he isn’t on a job. Said he was taking a leisurely trip to New Orleans. When I asked about his disguise as a thespian, he claimed it wasn’t a disguise. Said he’d always had a hankering to act and when he saw Zanna’s advertisement for a leading man, he decided to give it a shot since he was on vacation.”
“Vacation?” she whispered. Although this was what she had longed to hear, that Nat hadn’t mentioned Brett, relief came slowly. She didn’t for one minute accept Nat’s explanation. His presence on the same boat with Brett could not be accidental. At least, he hadn’t told Cameron. Whatever the reason for his silence, it gave her time to decide what to do.
“You have nothing to worry about,” Cameron assured her. “I laid the law down to him last night, warned him that if he looks cross-eyed at you I’ll have him snatched off that boat and thrown in the hoose-gow. I’ll have men come aboard at every stop down the river. If he gives you the slightest bit of trouble, you tell my man, and he’ll nab the fellow.”
Delta’s mouth fell open. Pinkerton agents at each port? What had she done? In thinking to allay her fears, Cameron had magnified them tenfold. Pinkertons watching the boat as they traveled idly down the river. Now her biggest concern was not whether to alert Brett, but how and when.
The latter was settled that night after Cameron returned her to the boat in time for the evening’s performance.
Zanna greeted them with, “I found Brett. He’s agreed to come on a picnic with the cast tomorrow.” She put
an inviting hand on Cameron’s sleeve. “You’ll join us, won’t you?”
“Sorry. I have business out of town tomorrow.” He eyed Delta then turned back to Zanna. “You’ll keep an eye on Delta and that gambler, won’t you?”
“Me?” Zanna questioned with mock innocence.
Delta cringed, wishing she could divert Cameron’s attention from the gambler. But again, she dared not arouse his suspicions. “If I didn’t know better, Zanna, I’d suspect Mama Rachael of leaving you to play matchmaker in her absence.”
Zanna hugged her. “Never. I have too much to do to meddle in other folks’ affairs. Speaking of which, I’d better get backstage. We’re giving the performance in our own salon tonight. Won’t it be elegant?”
It was, of course, but much of the elegance was lost on Delta who remained engrossed in worry—and anticipation. Tomorrow she would see Brett. The two days since she’d seen him seemed more like months. But how would she warn him? How could she even broach such a topic? What would he say?
I know you’re an outlaw. Nat’s a bounty hunter. I love you anyway.
I love you anyway? Where did her brain get such foolishness? Fiction, that’s all it was—all it could ever be.
The following morning she dressed with care—while her fluttering stomach told her she knew exactly what she was about—choosing a silk costume striped in shades of blue which Mama Rachael had copied faithfully from the spring edition of Harper’s Bazaar. The long princesse polonaise buttoned down the entire front and draped around her hips with revers of silk. Instead of flounces the skirt was trimmed with bands of the same material, cut with bias stripes, and yards of braid and fringe. Foregoing a bonnet, she pulled back her hair and tied it with a large bow of the same blue as her dress. She clipped on dainty pearl earrings, picked up the matching parasol, and again considered her magnificent wardrobe that was fit for a trousseau—and which Ginny had wished was one.
For several minutes after she joined Zanna and the cast on deck, however, she feared all her primping had been for naught. Brett Reall was nowhere to be seen.
Sunrise Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Three Page 12
