by Tate, Kristy
“RITA MISSING STOP RETURN IMMEDIATELY STOP”
*****
Hunger drove Mercy to the galley. She’d been able to keep to her room for several weeks, only emerging for solitary meals and midnight strolls on the deck, but by the time they’d landed in Los Angeles, her stomach cried for food, real food. The weeks of tinned beans she’d endured were about to end. During her last few jaunts from her berth, she’d heard the rumors of tangy oranges, bite size grapes, and juicy plums. Just thinking of fresh produce made her head swim and stomach ache. She stopped in the doorway and watched the men gathered at the tables.
Out of a sense of self preservation, she’d kept to herself, but loneliness and boredom had driven her to excessive eavesdropping and she’d learned more than just the passenger’s names and faces. Curly, Captain Kane, de la Mar and a man she didn’t recognize sat at a card table. The newcomer must have boarded in Los Angeles. Cards, poker chips and beverages sat on the tables. No food. Her stomach groaned a noisy complaint.
Curly, a bald stocky man, must have heard her belly growl. He caught her expression and grunted in her direction. “No vittles yet, lad.”
She felt tears rising and blinked hard, cursing her weakness. The room smelled of ale and fish and the ship rose and fell with the tide, making her empty belly cramp. Occasionally, the ship bumped against the dock with a smack and a shudder and while the ropes as thick as her thigh that held the ship to the dock, groaned at the restraint.
“You can always go on shore, there’s sure to be hawkers in the port,” wizened Captain Kane told her. She glanced out the window. A breeze blew in and she could smell and hear the temptations of dry land. She sat down hard at in a chair at a table close enough to watch the men and told herself to be patient.
Captain Kane grumbled into his hand of cards, although Mercy could see he held a pair of kings. Curly leaned back and rubbed his hand over his gleaming bald head. The captain sighed as if he’d soon regret his wager and pulled a jangle of coins from his pocket. He got a wild glint in his eye when Curly laid an unusual token on the table.
“Lofty stakes,” de la Mar murmured, sitting forward, his lean frame angling toward the new wager.
“Now how’d the likes of you get a hold of something like that?” asked the newcomer with the sort of jaw that looked like it’d been chiseled in stone. Mercy hadn’t remembered seeing him before and she would have. He had a cleft chin and his defined muscles bore a resemblance to the Greek statues she’d seen on display in the traveling artifact show. He turned towards her and his gaze lingered on her lips. A slow smile curved his mouth and he took a long slow drink of ale before returning to his pair of fives.
“Hey, I got my charms,” Curly laughed and looked smug.
“I wouldn’t be trading that away so lightly,” de la Mar said, studying his cards as if trying conjure a flush.
Mercy leaned forward and caught sight of the token. Her breath fixed in her throat.
“Now that’s worth playing for, hey lad?” Curly threw her a bawdy grin. Mercy blinked at him. She wanted to touch the token, to feel its heft and size, to study it and see if it could be as similar to the key in her pocket as it appeared.
Captain Kane threw the man with a cleft chin a hostile glance. “You acquainted with that particular coin, Wallace?”
Wallace, the man with the cleft chin, said, “I’m not.”
But Mercy was. Her fingers sought the key in her pocket. They matched, she was sure of it. The key she’d taken from Mr. Steele matched the token on the table.
“That there token can buy you one of the finest wenches in the country,” Curly grinned.
“They don’t just let any Joe into their club,” de la Mar said. “How you get that, Curly? Don’t tell me it was on account of your beauty.”
“Or your smell,” Wallace said, smirking.
“Ah, the smell of money,” Captain Kane, said, laying down his cards, the kings staring up at him. He beamed as his companions threw down their hands with oaths and curses.
Mercy leaned forward. “That key--”
“What key?” Captain Kane’s hands paused over his winnings. It wasn’t a key. It looked like a coin--a coin identical to the top of the key in her pocket. She didn’t need a second look.
“What exactly do you get with that token?” Mercy asked the men in her practiced baritone voice.
Captain Kane smiled. “I just won me a trip to Lucky Island.”
Mercy fidgeted. “And Lucky Island is -- ”
“One of the finest brothels in the country,” the captain finished for her.
“And that token gains you entrance for a night?” This was the longest conversation she’d had since leaving New York and it made her nervous. Any moment she expected her voice to crack, and yet she had to ask.
“A whole night?” de la Mar scoffed and Curly, who’d been taking a swig of ale, snorted.
Warmth flushed Mercy’s cheeks and she looked out the window again. She caught sight of a broad shoulder man pushing up the gang plank. He had blond hair tied back in a short queue. He walked with athletic grace, but something about the way he moved said he didn’t want to get on the boat. It was almost as if he was fighting an invisible string that tried to keep him on land.
“Can you imagine having a key to Lucky Island?” de la Mar asked.
“I demand a rematch.” Curly griped, watching his prize token slip away.
Mercy turned her back on the man climbing the gangplank and asked, “This Lucky Island, is it here in California?”
“Naw, the finest wenches are in Seattle,” Captain Kane said, smiling and pushing away from the table. He flipped the coin into the air and caught it mid air. “Gentlemen, I believe it’s time to set sail.”
*****
Trent stood on the deck of the ship, his stomach matching the ocean’s churning. A light spray fell over him, but he didn’t flinch. He tried to focus on the emerging moon and the star’s glinty light and not the dark, rolling tide pitching the ship and the contents of his stomach. Gazing out over the hills where the mountains met the purpling sky, he could imagine Mugs, Sysonby and the other horses cresting the mountains and then making camp. Transporting a team of horses single handedly wouldn’t be easy, but it would be worthwhile. Mugs would first break and then train Sysonby, and no matter how often Trent rode, or fed him, Sysonby would always belong to Mugs. Despite the paperwork.
Paperwork, documentation. It said so much and did so little. He felt the weight of the ranch settle across his shoulders. He told himself it’d soon be his, but he was beginning to suspect that even if his gram deeded him the ranch, as she’d promised, as long as she had spurs on her boots, it would always be hers. And his. They both loved it, but sometimes, no, most of the time, they wanted to run it differently.
The moon, a slip of silver, peaked through a haze of clouds. A star emerged. The ship rose on a swell and then fell. Trent tightened his fingers around the rail, cursing his gram and his weak stomach. Maybe if he just didn’t eat he could make it to Seattle with the majority of his insides intact. Sailing made him feel inside out.
A mean wind blew the clouds shrouding the moon and a beam of light landed on a lone figure near the bow. She fought the wind for her hat and her hair, a tangle of dark honey, swirled around her head. The hat, pinched between her fingers, caught another gust, set sail and skittered across the deck.
The woman managed to capture her hair into twist, and she looked over the deck in his direction. Her eyes widened when she saw him and she backed up against the rail.
Trent bent and retrieved the hat that had nestled against his boot. He held it out to her and she stood, like a wild colt being offered an apple, unsure of whether to bolt or indulge. His eyes swept over her and he noticed for the first time her breeches. At the ranch, his gram and sister often wore pants, but he knew it wasn’t typical female attire. The hat, Trent realized, completed the woman’s disguise. She probably didn’t realize her breeches did little to hide h
er curves. He couldn’t tell in the moonlight, but he guessed she’d bound her breasts. Without taking her eyes off his face, she twisted her hair into a knot at the top of her head. She’d travel in disguise, but wouldn’t sacrifice her hair for her rouse. Devious, yet vain.
He held the hat out to her, chuckling, his seasickness forgotten. Would she hold character? Pretend that most young men had hair that fell to their waist when loose?
She walked towards him and he noted she moved with grace and poise despite the rollicking waves. He gripped the rail with one hand and held the hat with the other.
“I thank ye, sir,” she said in a deep modulated tone that she’d probably spent weeks perfecting. How long had she been at the masquerade and why? Was he the only one who knew? “You’re welcome, lad.” He emphasized the last word.
She moved for the hat, but he held it tight. “Hold on. What’s your name?”
She didn’t answer.
“No need to be nervous, I’m just making conversation. Where you from?”
“Seattle.”
His grinned deepened despite the rolling and tossing waves. Seattle was still a small town with an even smaller population of women. Although the city was rapidly growing, he felt confident he would have recognized her. “So, this is a homebound trip for you.”
She stuck out her tell-tale clean shaven chin. “Yes sir.”
“I suppose I’ll be seeing you, then, in town. Perhaps at the Lone Stag.”
She looked at him, her face a blank as a seasoned poker player. He could tell she wanted ask why anyone would meet at a lonely deer. “It’s a tavern,” he whispered moving closer, inhaling her warm scent. “When lying, it’s always best to stay as near the truth as possible.”
The ship rocked with a strong wave, the girl grabbed her hat and said in a soft soprano voice, “I wouldn’t know.”
Ocean spray hit him in the face and when he finished blinking she had gone. He looked across the deck; all was still and dark. He wiped off his forehead with his sleeve and slowly and tentatively, moved away from the rail. The slick deck made movement increasingly precarious. Walking took nearly all his concentration, but then he saw her, a flash of movement in the moonlight. He hurried after her, as best he could.
*****
Mercy tripped down the stairs leading to her berth, her heart thrashing and her breath ragged. She’d been on the ship for weeks and no one had guessed or suspected her disguise. Or so she supposed. She blamed the hair. She should have cut it. He never would have guessed if she’d cut her hair. Momentarily bracing herself against the wall as a wave tilted the ship, she considered her options. She’d have to stay in her room and have food delivered by the revolting little man, whom, she was quite sure, pilfered off her tray. Her stomach clenched when she thought of all the lovely produce that had been loaded onto the ship in Los Angeles. Oranges, grapes, and cucumbers. She glanced over her shoulder, looking for the man from the deck, but saw no one, just a long corridor lit by flickering lamps. Perhaps he would keep her secret.
No. She couldn’t trust him or anyone. Steele had taught her well.
The ship tossed on a wave and the lights wavered. In the hall, all of the berths were closed and only a few had candlelight peeking beneath the doors. She didn’t hear a door creak open and when a man spoke in her ear, she jumped.
“Mr. Steele,” a voice drawled. “Why I do believe you’ve lost hundred pounds since we last met.”
Mercy’s heart stopped. Had she fooled no one? Had she’d only fooled herself? She whirled to see the man named Wallace from the card table standing in a doorway. He had his shirt undone and she could see the tensed muscles of his chest.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said in her best baritone.
“Mr. Steele, I’m offended. We’ve shared countless business ventures.” He held the door to his room open, exposing a berth with gray tumbled sheets. “Presently, I think we have something to…discuss, payment for my discretion.”
Mercy stepped backwards. “I think not.”
CHAPTER 3
Although the original humble pies of medieval days contained mostly entrails it later evolved to a dish of sugary fruit.
From the Recipes of Mercy Faye
He should be easy to break, Trent thought when he came across Wallace and the girl wrestling in the hall. He took note of the man’s heavy musculature pinned against the girl’s wiry strength. She placed her small fist in Wallace’s diaphragm and the big man woofed in surprise. Trent knew she should go for his face with her nails. Men of his sort typically made their living off their beauty and would go to extreme lengths to guard their faces.
After a moment of watching the girl’s unflagging pluck despite her unlikely odds, he spoke in Wallace’s ear, “Let her go.”
Grinning, Wallace turned in his direction and stood taller, like a rooster ruffling his feathers to increase his size. He held the girl pinned against his chest. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and across her cheeks and her feet dangled four inches off the floor. “Why, this here is Mr. Steele, my business associate, and we’ve got matters that need attention.”
“You’re attentions are most unwelcome, sir,” the girl said, dropping her baritone and trying to wiggle from the man’s embrace. Her boots kicked and occasionally made contact with Wallace’s shins, but the man didn’t seem to mind.
Wallace swung her into the berth, but before he could close the door, Trent slammed his boot into the man’s back.
“Pardon me,” Trent laughed. “Dem waves, you know.”
Wallace toppled into the doorway and the girl spun free. She ducked beneath Trent’s arm. Behind him, he heard her footsteps fleeing up the stairs. Now that the girl had escaped, Trent rather hoped Wallace would believe his words and not his fighting stance, but when the man rose with a curse, Trent knew his story wouldn’t fly. So, it’d have to be his fists.
Wallace’s arm shot out and thundered into Trent’s’ chest, pinning him briefly to the wall. Trent shook him off and in the process, lost his footing when a wave rocked the ship. Wallace leapt forward, landed at the foot of the stairs and took the first step to follow the girl. Trent scrambled to his feet and threw himself after him. He landed on Wallace’s back. Their combined weight crashed through the door of an empty berth, shattering and splintering wood. They wrestled on the floor until Trent had him pinned.
“Leave the lad alone,” he said through gritted teeth. “Or I’ll shut down your pup and poodle show for good.” He straddled Wallace’s chest and pressed down his shoulders.
Wallace, red faced, scoffed even as he wrestled for freedom. “How you going to do that? We can’t be stopped by a few well placed punches.”
Trent shook him and Wallace’s head bounced against the floor, sending bits of wood skittering. “Don’t you get it? Steele’s gone. That girl has taken his place. You’ve been beaten by a girl, and I don’t think she’s going to be sympathetic to your business plans…just guessing. I suggest you leave her alone.”
The ship pitched, as if in agreement and the partially destroyed door swung shut with a bang to accentuate Trent’s threat. He stood and let Wallace ease away, like grease sliding off a plate. For a moment he watched Wallace fumble with the door handle. Giving up, Wallace shoved his foot through the door, sending splintered arrows of wood flying in all directions.
Trent smiled as he flexed his bruised hands and a sense of wellbeing flushed over him.
He’d found a cure for seasickness.
*****
A strong wind carrying warm air from South America sailed the US Maypole along the coast and stopped, in record time, in the Seattle harbor. Mercy, who’d been holed up in her berth, imagined Captain Kane’s impatience to utilize his new coin aided the wind in the record time arrival. The view of Seattle’s harbor took her breath--a barely there sun poked through billowy clouds that rested on the pine green mountains that sloped to the bustling port. She faced the land with gratitude and trepidation. Grateful to abandon
her isolation and breeches, she still faced the humbling prospect of begging a living off her aunt.
Her berth had a window overlooking the starboard side so she could watch the disembarkation. Not wanting another encounter with Wallace, she’d determined to be one of the last off the boat. Fortunately, Wallace, sporting a fat lip and blackened eye, had been one of the first down the gang plank. Shouldering her knapsack and straightening her clothes, Mercy knew without any help of a mirror that she didn’t look any more presentable than Wallace. Her thin shoulders were like small pointy hangers holding up her father’s shirt. She needed a bath and her hair resembled Medusa’s.
She watched the man, the savior of her hat and late night rescuer, move down the gangplank. Reaching the dock, he turned and looked back at the ship, as if searching for something or someone. Mercy stepped from the window and for the first time since New York she wished she could transform herself into someone clean and feminine.
She wanted to make a good impression on her aunt.
*****
Seattle’s streets were laid out on a grid that followed the shoreline. The shops and businesses mostly, if not all, were wooden structures rising from the muddy streets. Some had as many as three stories. Mercy mentally repeated her aunt’s address as she walked down the boardwalk, her chin tucked into the collar of her coat and her hat pulled low. Her land legs felt like they belonged to someone else, like a puppet with unmanageable strings. Her boots felt like bricks on her feet. The shipboard food, or lack thereof, had left her hungry, weak and despondent.
Misapprehension dogged her every slow, ponderous step. What if Tilly had moved or died since their last contact? Or, supposing she even found her aunt, what if her aunt was horrified and scandalized at her sudden and outlandish appearance? Mercy wondered if she should try and find some female clothes.
