If I Wait For You

by Jane Goodger

  “Get the bitch!”

  Within seconds she felt a hand grab at her hair, her head snapping back painfully. She became a wild woman, flailing her arms, struggling to run, all without making more than a strangled grunting sound. For even as she was filled with terror, she knew better than to cry for help. No one in this city would help her. She saw something flash, felt something at her neck, right before one of her sharp elbows hit hard into the man’s temple.

  She was free and running, her sodden skirts hiked up, her eyes wide with terror. Behind her she heard the men cursing and her bare feet sank into the muddied street as she ran toward the Julia. In her head, the ship’s name became a litany, a prayer. She ran past dockworkers, not giving a thought that one of them would or could help her. She had but one thought—to reach the Julia. It was there, and only there, that she would be safe.

  Footsteps slapped the mud behind her, harsh breathing sounded too close. She turned, unable to resist checking to see how close the men were, and screaming when she saw a blood-spattered knife just feet from her face. And then she hit the hard wall of a male chest, her scream cutting off abruptly.

  “Oh, my God.”

  His voice. What was he doing here? she thought dazedly, looking up to see West Mitchell’s rain spattered face. He clutched her shoulders tightly, and put her away from him to take a step toward the men who had skidded to a halt and were quickly escaping. Sara stood in the rain feeling oddly detached from herself as she watched the men throw themselves around a corner and disappear. Apparently realizing pursuit would be useless, West turned back toward her, his hard gaze going to her neck.

  Sara looked at him curiously. “Mr. Mitchell,” she said, but the words sounded odd to her, as if she spoke into a vast, empty room. She meant to thank him, but her neck hurt so. Moving a hand to the painful spot, her eyes widened when she felt the thick slickness of blood. She drew her hand away and stared at her red-coated palm, trying to accept what her eyes told her. She looked up to West, then again at her hand.

  “Mr. Mitchell,” she said, wavering on her feet. “I’m bleeding.”

  West caught her before she slumped in a faint to the street, his eyes trained on the wound to her neck. He quickly discerned that the flow of blood, while horrendous, did not pulse from the long slashing cut, but instead seeped in a steady way. The girl’s jugular had not been severed, but that was little consolation. She was bleeding badly and would die unless something was immediately done to stem the flow. Cradling Sara Dawes in his arms, he made his way to the Julia’s gangplank, striding up it as if he held a feather pillow in his arms and not a full-grown woman. He moved down the companionway and headed toward his mate’s cabins, kicking on the third mate’s door.

  “Come quickly, Mr. Dawes,” he said, then turned without waiting for his mate to answer. Behind him he heard Zachary open the door. “It is your sister. She has been injured.”

  “Sara.”

  Within moments, Zachary was there, following behind West and into his cabin. The young man looked as if he might faint when he finally realized how badly his sister had been injured.

  “Who did this?” he demanded, his eyes on his sister’s pale face.

  “Two men were giving chase when she ran into me. I recognized neither of them,” West said as he unbuttoned her dress and peeled back the top to better reveal her wound. While the wound appeared gruesome, he knew it wasn’t nearly as bad as it looked. He pressed a cloth against her neck.

  “Is she…will she…” His mate’s eyes filled with tears, and West was reminded that this young man had just lost both his parents and believed he might lose his sister, as well.

  “It looks far worse than it is. See? The bleeding is nearly stopped. We must not allow infection to set in and she should be fine.”

  Zachary knelt by the bed and held his sister’s hand. “I’m so sorry, Sara,” he whispered. The girl stirred slightly but remained unconscious. “Please Lord, I cannot lose her,” he said against her hand.

  West left the room and hurried to the surgery where he collected a needle and thread and clean bandages, wetting one with clean water before returning to his cabin. The girl looked impossibly pale lying on his sheets, her hair a mass of wet tangle around her head. The blood, seeping through his makeshift bandage was almost garish in comparison to the rest of her. He’d told his mate she would not die, but he had no way of knowing how much blood she’d lost, nor how strong a girl she was.

  As he stepped close to his bed, his mate moved back allowing him to examine the wound more closely. He carefully pulled away the bandage, wincing when he saw how very close she’d been to dying instantly. As it was, she would need a few stitches to keep the wound closed.

  “Whiskey, Mr. Dawes.”

  Zachary hurried to his cabinet and pulled down a small flask.

  “This is going to sting like hell, so she might awaken. Stay close so she may see you if she does.” He soaked a cloth with whiskey, then carefully patted the wound. As the captain of a whaler, he’d tended wounds far worse than this. Yet there was something unnerving about tending the pale, soft skin of a woman. Once the wound was cleaned, he realize it was only deep in one small area and would require few stitches.

  “Hold her hand, Mr. Dawes, I have to stitch her up a bit.”

  “I swear I will kill whoever did this to her,” his mate vowed low.

  “Don’t be foolish. Your sister needs you now more than ever,” West said blandly, his concentration on pulling the needle through her impossibly soft skin. “There,” he said, tying a knot. “Good as gold.”

  “Thank you sir,” Zachary said. “I don’t know if I could have done that. I can’t stand the thought of hurting her. She’s such a good girl, sir.”

  “I’ve no doubt,” West said, gently wrapping a bandage around her neck. “Stay here, tonight, lad, and I’ll take your cabin.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Zachary pulled his cabin’s only chair next to the bed, and clasped his hands as if in prayer.

  West was awakened the next morning by a loud knocking on his door, his thought immediately going to the girl in his cabin.

  “Enter.”

  Zachary opened the door, looking hesitant about walking into his own cabin.

  “How is your sister, Mr. Dawes?”

  Deep weariness, but no grief, was etched into the young man’s face. Clearly he had not slept the past night. “She awakened briefly, then fell back into a peaceful sleep. She is sleeping still.”

  “That is good news,” West said, rubbing the sleep from his face. He motioned the young man out of the room and bade him to follow him to the after cabin. The room, which ran along the stern of the ship, held a bank of windows that let in the soft yellow of the early morning sun. West moved behind the table that served as a desk and sat down.

  “Though it appears your sister will live, I fear she will not be recovered completely anytime soon, and we sail in twenty-four hours.” His mate stood before him looking as if he might crumble to the ground at any instant. “Sit, Mr. Dawes, before you fall over.”

  His cheeks tingeing slightly red, Zachary did as the captain said.

  “I must ask forgiveness of you and your sister for disbelieving the danger she was in.” Zachary looked startled and began to reject the need for such an apology, but West waved away his words. “I don’t know that I would have done anything differently had I known, but I feel the need to express my deep distress over your sister’s injury.”

  West closed his eyes briefly, as much to block the sight of his mate’s disbelieving look as to rid himself of the insane proposition he was about to espouse. “Clearly your sister needs protection, and I am willing to offer that protection.” The words came out gruffly as if wrenched unwillingly from his throat.

  “Then you’ll marry her, sir?” Zachary’s expression was of disbelief and joy, a joy West quickly dashed.

  “No. I have not changed my opinion on that matter. I would never bring a wife aboard a whaler, not even on
e I wanted. However, I feel strongly that your sister has few other choices left to her than to escape New Bedford. Someone tried to murder your sister, Mr. Dawes. I do not believe those men meant to hall her before a judge, nor collect a reward. This is not the wild west, sir, where criminals are wanted dead or alive.”

  “That thought had come to me, as well, Captain.”

  West steepled his hands before him. “Here is my proposal.” He nearly winced at his ill-chosen words. “I am willing to act as protector of your sister. She may remain on the ship under my guardianship.”

  Zachary, who had begun to relax, stiffened slightly. “I do not understand your meaning, sir.”

  “There is only one way a respectable woman is allowed aboard a ship, and that is as the captain’s wife. Again, as I do not wish to marry her, the only other alternative is for your sister to pose as my wife. Her safety will be preserved, as will be my tenets.”

  “I’m afraid I do not understand why you would allow a woman on board to pose as your wife on the one hand, and not allow a wife in truth to sail with you. It seems to me, sir, that if your objection is to having a woman on board, my sister would qualify.”

  West tapped his fingers against his lips, uncomfortable explaining his position. In truth, he did not think it appropriate for a woman to be on board, if only because a woman was at times a distraction, but he had no strong objection. Many captains brought their wives along during the long years away from home. And many wives died.

  As cold as it might seem, he had no compunction about allowing a woman on board that he held no devotion for. Such an unorthodox passenger would simply mean suffering a minor nuisance—she was simply another mouth to feed, which in turn would translate into a slight decrease in profits. Were he not the owner of this ship, he would never consider such an arrangement. West had no trouble thinking about this girl as an extra bit of baggage. Let her brother entertain her. He would give her a place to sleep, food to eat, and that was all.

  But a true wife, well, that was a different kettle of fish altogether. A wife would expect conversation, smiles. A wife would expect children and love, things a husband would gladly give her. And that was why West would never allow a wife on board his ship. The thought of asking a woman he loved to risk her life simply to be with him was unconscionable. Elizabeth had understood, had not even pressed the point, much to West’s vast relief.

  It had been different with his brother Jared and Abigail; when they married, there had been little debate about whether she would accompany him on his whaling voyages. Now, Abigail was dead and his brother ravaged by grief. Just that morning he’d spoken of Jared with their mother.

  “I expect Jared will be home soon,” she’d said. “It’s already been more than three years.” Julia’s voice trailed off.

  “And that long since either of us has heard a word from him,” West said, more harshly than he’d intended.

  “He’s changed.”

  That was a terrible truth. Jared, always a robust and jovial man, was now nothing but a hollow shell. Five years previous, Jared had married the girl he’d been smitten with since he was ten years old. Abigail was a captain’s daughter and used to the whaling life and what it meant for women—long waits, endless loneliness. Jared would not have that life for his beloved, and Abigail, a sweet and gentle girl, agreed to sail with him. She would suffer anything, she’d told her new husband, if only she could be with him.

  Abigail, along with their nine-month-old baby girl, died of infection at sea after being splashed by boiling whale oil spouting from the bubbling caldrons aboard ship. Jared blamed himself, for the sea was rough, perhaps too rough, for boiling the blubber, and he blamed himself for allowing Abigail and their baby on deck during the dangerous enterprise.

  Jared’s family was gone, and the incident only cemented West’s belief that a wife should not be aboard ship—nor languishing alone at home as his mother had done. He was not so wedded to the whaling life that he would grieve its loss. Hardly. The day he stepped aboard to start a journey, he always felt a gut-wrenching sickness. No one knew, of course. No one, except perhaps, his mother. But he knew even she would be shocked to learn just how much he loathed the whaling life, the life he’d been born and bred to, the only life he’d ever known.

  He could almost hear his father’s sneer: “You goddamned coward. You’re no son of mine. Sissy boy.”

  He’d been fourteen when he’d made his first kill. Fourteen without a hint of peach fuzz, but made of sinew and grit, and the almost pathetic determination to please a father who could not be pleased. He’d begged to be allowed to head the fourth whaleboat, and took his place at the steering oar proudly when three giant sperm whales were spotted off the starboard bow.

  At first, it had been exhilarating, the sea whipping salty spray into his face, the oarsmen heaving, groaning and cursing, as he prodded them on. They rowed endlessly, oars bending from the effort, sweat dripping from the men’s brows even in the cold of the Atlantic. He drove the boat nearly onto the great whale’s back, shouting in triumph as the boatsteerer heaved the harpoon deep into the whale’s thick blubber. And then they were off, the rope whirling out of the boat, hissing against the wood as the whale frantically tried to escape the harpoon imbedded in its flesh.

  The whale pulled them for what seemed like miles. West stood at the bow, having switched positions with the boatsteerer, lance at the ready. The whale, as they all did, began to tire. “Won’t be long now, boys,” he shouted at the men who stood ready with the oars. The men began hauling on the rope, pulling the exhausted whale closer and closer to the boat, close enough finally for West to thrust his lance deep into the whale. He did, until the ocean ran red with the beast’s blood, until its spout showered them with hot spray, blood from its fatally wounded lungs.

  It was the whale’s last valiant attempt to recapture life that took any joy from the kill from West. It was the silence on the boat from the men too weary to talk, when the whale circled the boat, one final, terrible time, and died, its head pointing toward the sun.

  West cried, tears as hot as the whale’s blood. It was no victory, it was…tragic. If the men noticed, they said nothing, for they knew they had a long row back to the ship that awaited them. Later, the men joked good-naturedly with West, congratulating him on his first kill, asking him whether he planned to cry over every whale he killed. West had let them men tease him, let himself smile and accept congratulations, telling himself next time would be better. Next time he wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t even want to.

  His father heard the banter and slapped him across the face. “You wept for a dumb animal, sissy boy?” Some men laughed nervously, but most gave the captain a wary look before backing away. Everyone knew you never crossed the captain. His father ordered him tied to the mizzenmast and flogged. He received five lashes for his cowardice. West’s only comfort was in knowing that the men, already in fear of his father, also grew to hate him—almost as much as West himself did.

  His heart ached for Jared, who had reminded him of his father the last he’d seen him. Jared, the only man he’d known who could find joy in a cold, empty sea, could now find joy in nothing. It didn’t help matters that Jared had taken after his father in looks, deep set eyes that once crinkled with laughter but now held a look of menace that chilled even West.

  When West allowed himself to imagine Elizabeth on board ship, fear ripped through him. Though West knew he didn’t love Elizabeth in the consuming way Jared had loved his Abigail, he understood that losing her would destroy him.

  West blinked away those bitter memories and gave Zachary a level look. “My objection is not in having a woman on board, but a wife in truth. A wife means children and I will not—ever—endanger the life of a child. It is why I have not allowed anyone younger than fourteen on my ship, and why I will not marry before we sail.”

  Zachary looked thoughtful for a moment, weighing his captain’s words, as well composing his own response.

  “Sir, I ac
cept your proposal and I thank you. Sara is all I have left and I would die before she is hurt again. There is one matter, however, I would like to discuss.” Zachary shifted uneasily. “I know you are a man of honor. Given that, I fear I will insult you by demanding a promise of you. I’m quite certain my sister has never had a beau. It’s quite possible she’s never been kissed. I want your promise, sir, your word as a gentleman, that you will leave Sara’s innocence intact.” Zachary’s cheeks flushed, but his gaze remained steady.

  “You have my word and my promise,” West said without hesitation. West knew he was not a man who was ruled by his baser side, and aside from the nubile and willing native girls who swam out to the ship to trade their bodies for whatever they fancied in the ship’s slop chest he abstained. A part of him was honest enough to admit that abstention on a whaler was no great accomplishment. After all, the ship would often go weeks and sometimes months before finding port. Celibacy was forced on a whaler and West had never had his will tested, having never been in close proximity to any woman for more than a few hours—and then it was usually in some salon or ballroom.

  Still, as he and Zachary shook hands solemnly, he had no doubt—not even the tiniest niggling of unease—that he would find it remotely difficult to keep his word. He was an engaged man, after all, with his future as secure as a whaling captain’s future could be. He departed the meeting, his mind content with the knowledge that he was an honorable man, a noble man even, who was saving the life of his mate’s younger sister.

  It wasn’t until some hours later when he was checking on the girl’s well-being that the first small doubt hit him. He knocked on his cabin door and entered to find her awake and looking impossibly small in his bed. He hadn’t truly looked at her, he realized, not the way a man would look at a woman. But as he walked to his bed, he was struck suddenly by how very lovely she was, with her gold-blonde hair curling around her, and eyes that were the color of a Caribbean sea. She was, God help him, beyond lovely.