by Martha Hix
Faracy chuckled. “Well, that’s fine and dandy, ma’am, but you’ll need a place to stay in the meantime. Unoccupied houses are few and far between on the island, and the rooming establishments are crowded as a rule. Perhaps I could make a suggestion?”
“Please do.”
“There’s a Mrs. Lightfoot you might call on. She lives a block north of the Strand. I can’t guarantee anything, but she’s been known to let a room, provided the renter is the upstanding sort.” Faracy winked in his good-natured manner. “I think she’ll find you to her liking.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
Emma took Woodley into her arms, and he slathered a kiss on her chin. She murmured a “no, no” while tapping his little black nose with her forefinger.
“Saving your kisses for the mister, eh?”
“Exactly.”
“Mr. Rousseau is a very lucky man.” Captain Faracy bowed politely. “Mrs. Rousseau, if I may, I’d be honored to introduce you to Mrs. Lightfoot.”
Emma realized that an unaccompanied woman might not be welcome. Add Woodley to the package, and chances were he’d be the coup de grace. But why was she concerned? Paul might have accommodations here in Galveston. She should look for him first.
No. That wasn’t a good idea. She needed to freshen up; he must see her at her best, provided he was in town. She accepted the captain’s offer.
Minutes later they were walking into Galveston. A babel of voices filled her ears, and warehouses and shops advertising drugs and chemicals lined the streets, which were hard-packed sand. She noted that all the buildings were constructed of wood.
Woodley stopped to lift his leg on an acacia shrub fronting the Come Inn grog shop. His deed done, he growled, tugged at his lead and pushed his nose beneath the thorny bush. An earless, tail-less pig oinked once, and made a run for it. The dog tried to give chase, but Emma laughed and scooped a squirming ball of white fur into her arms.
“Naughty boy. Leave that pig alone. She looks like she’s had a bad enough time as it is.”
“Swine run wild here on the island,” the captain explained, “but they keep the refuse cleaned up, so nobody minds. Least of all the dogs. Ergo, missing ears and tails.”
From the Come Inn a man threw a bucket of food into the street. As if materializing from nowhere, three pigs—round and pink, and devoid of ears and tails—pounced upon the heap and began rooting.
“They are a strange-looking lot,” Emma commented and fell in step with Captain Faracy.
Her eyes took in the town itself. Strange was the best adjective to describe this seaport. Why, she wondered, was Paul so fond of it?
Two more blocks and they arrived at a two-story white clapboard house with green shutters. On the sill of a front window rested a small, neatly painted sign reading Mrs. A. Lightfoot, Proprietress to the Discriminating.
Emma had expected a delicate woman of decorum and snobbish airs. She was shocked. Anthaline Lightfoot had a voice as huge as her body, which was big, tall, almost manly. She wore breeches and boots, and her carrot-red hair was cropped close to her ears. Her blue, wide-set eyes were her best feature, and they softened her pielike face. She said she didn’t like dogs.
“Now, Anthie,” the captain cajoled, “this here’s a nice little feller.” Faracy bent down to scratch Woodley’s brisket; the dog was giving Mrs. Lightfoot a dubious twice-over. “He’s been aboard the Winsome Lady for days, and I never received a complaint about him.”
“Can’t have no dog bitin’ the guests or peein’ on my floors.”
“Anthie, you’re being crude.”
Emma gave serious consideration to thanking the woman for her time, and leaving. She was not about to be insulted or grovel for a room. After all, the Tremont House was just down the way, and surely its management was more hospitable than Anthaline Lightfoot.
Faracy directed a sympathetic smile at Emma before saying, “I gave you my word about his behavior. And, Anthie, you know my word’s my bond.”
Anthaline Lightfoot propped her roughened, oversized hands on her mile-wide hips and said, “Well, Faracy, I know you wouldn’t lie to me. If that dog’s housebroken, he can stay. Dollar a day for room and board for the young lady, and two bits extra for the dog. Can you afford it, girl?”
Emma did a quick mental calculation. “You may have to evict me . . . after about fifty years.”
“So—you’re a rich un, huh?” Those big blue eyes smiled down at Emma. “Well, that’s neither here nor there, long’s I get my money on time.”
That was all Emma could ask. If Paul had a house, her stay at Mrs. Lightfoot’s establishment would be short. Very short. And if he didn’t, she intended to find suitable private accommodations.
Captain Faracy flipped his cap to his head. “Well, Mrs. Rousseau, it seems you’re all set, so I’ll take my leave.”
“Thank—”
“Rousseau did you say? Any kin to Paul Rousseau?”
Emma brightened and turned to Mrs. Lightfoot. “Yes. I’m his wife.”
“Paul never said nothin’ about havin’ no wife.”
“I’ll be going,” Faracy put in, and hastened out the parlor door. “One of the hands will deliver your trunks straightaway,” he called back. “Goodbye, ladies.”
Emma turned back to the prior subject. “Paul and I were married a year ago this month.”
“Oh.” That one little word was heavy with meaning. “No use in us standin’ on ceremony. Name’s Anthaline, so call me that. What’s your first name, girl?”
Emma didn’t know whether she liked this Anthaline, but she had a grudging respect for her forthright behavior so she wasn’t contrary. Mainly, she wanted to find out what the woman knew about Paul.
“Emma. My given name is Emma.”
“Had a sister named Emma.” Anthaline allowed Woodley to smell the back of her hand, then she patted him. “Injuns scalped her.”
Woodley’s tail was thumping against Emma’s ankle as she murmured sincerely, “Oh, I’m so terribly sorry.”
“Aw now, wasn’t goin’ after your sympathy. Them’s one of the hazards of livin’ in the wilds of Texas. Wild Injuns, deserts, rattlesnakes, nasty Mexs wantin’ to fly their Buzzard and Snake over our land. Yep, we gotta lotta hazards here—it ain’t New York, that’s for sure.”
That was for sure.
“Where you from?” Anthaline asked.
“Virginia originally.”
“My ma’s from Virginie. Ever heard of the Smiths outta Williamsburg?”
“I don’t think so.”
Woodley forsook his mistress to sniff the giantess’s leg. Tongue lolling, he sat back on his haunches.
Anthaline’s mouth curved into a smile as she patted his head again. “He’s a right cute little whippersnapper. Even though I don’t like ’em on the place, dogs like me. Always heard they’re a good judge of character.”
Emma’s ear was being talked off as surely as the town swine were losing theirs, but she warmed to Anthaline. After several more of the big woman’s comments and questions, she asked, “Have you seen my husband lately?”
A question mark seemed to loom over Anthaline’s broad forehead. “How . . . how long’s it been since you heard from him?”
“He returned to his duties in July. We live in Louisiana, you see.” Emma took a fortifying breath. “The last I’d learned he’d gone to sea on the San Antonio.”
“Yep.”
Emma’s face drained of blood.
“Now hold on, girl. Let me finish. He sailed out on ’er, but he was put off down on one of them islands.”
“Thank God!” That was the best news Emma had had in days. Paul wasn’t on the missing ship. “Why was he put ashore?”
“Took sick. ’Course he’s well now, but it took him a spell of time to get back to these parts.”
Paul had been ill! “Do you know where he is?”
“Nope. Ain’t my week to keep up with him.” Anthaline turned on her heel and motioned toward the stair
case. “Come along, girl. I’ll show you to your room.”
“Are you trying to keep something from me?” Emma asked, halfway up the narrow stairs, which barely provided space for Anthaline’s hips.
“Nope.” After huffing and puffing to the top, Anthaline turned to a door on the right. She opened it and disappeared inside.
Emma and Woodley followed her. The room was painted white, and lacy curtains were at the lone window. A lantern rested atop a rough-hewn table, and Emma noted that the bed was wide enough for two, and long enough for Paul Rousseau’s legs.
“Breakfast’s at six; dinner’s at one; and supper’s at seven. Don’t be late. I don’t like it when people keep my help late. Effie and Mildred have families of their own to take care of.” Anthaline went over to the bed and poked it hard. “You’ll sleep like a rock here.”
Sleeping was Emma’s last consideration!
“Guess I’ll have to scare up a pallet for your dog there. What’s his name, anyway?”
“Woodley. And he has his own bed. It’ll be arriving with my belongings.”
“Should of known. Poor people have to sleep in the streets, but rich dogs bring their own beds. What’s this world comin’ to?”
Emma flushed at the statement’s truth. “Does seem unfair.”
“Aw now, ’tain’t your fault, the world bein’ what it is. Little scamp means a lot to you, don’t he?”
“Yes. He’s been fine company since Paul’s been away.” Was she ever going to get a straight answer about him from this woman? “Anthaline, if you know where I can find my husband, please tell me.”
“I don’t like to meddle in other people’s business.”
“Please.”
Anthaline rubbed her palm over her mouth. “Try the Blow Fly Inn over on the Strand. Ask for Carl—he might know where Paul’s at.”
Ten minutes later Emma and Woodley were within two buildings of the Blow Fly Inn, which appeared to be a disreputable establishment. On pilings, it leaned to the side. If a paintbrush had ever touched its clapboard siding, it hadn’t been in that century.
Woodley halted, sniffed the ground, pointed his tail, and howled. Picking up a scent, he dragged Emma toward, and up, the eight steps leading to the grog shop. A crudely lettered banner at the entrance read Ment Jewleps 10 Cints. The sound of a tinny piano came through the door. She opened it, and a haze of tobacco smoke enveloped her.
As the dog lunged across the sawdust floor, Emma’s eyes followed his course—and stopped. Paul was trying to disengage a blond floozy from his lap!
Emma swallowed her ire. She was here to make amends, and sugar was a better husband-catcher than vinegar.
“Get up, Evelyn,” Paul ordered through gritted teeth, but the tart held on to his neck.
All eyes, most of them bleary, were taking in this scene. The music stopped.
Emma hadn’t expected Paul to rush to her arms, and he didn’t. But she wished he had. Even from a distance, she realized he was pale, had lost weight. And despite the woman clinging to him like ivy to brick, she decided she was going to make him better!
Head high, she walked over to the two. “Hello, darling.”
“Hello, chérie. What brings you to Texas?”
“Who’re you?” interjected the blonde, turning her green eyes on the intruder.
For a moment, Emma was struck by the physical similarity between herself and this Evelyn. But her competitor’s eyes were outlined with kohl, her cheeks with rouge. Emma’s were only ringed with worry.
Paul rested an elbow on the table. “She’s my wife.”
“You never said nothin’ about bein’ married, honey.”
“Evelyn, get up. And I do mean now,” Paul said, none too gently.
“Well, I swear!” The painted one huffed to her feet and half stumbled over Woodley, who was running rings around Paul’s chair, ’oofing and begging for attention.
The barkeep lumbered over. He was round, dark, and had a square face. Polishing a glass with a dirty towel, he asked, “Can I be gettin’ ya anything to drink?”
“I’ll leave that to my husband.” Emma’s gaze went to her beloved’s guarded amber eyes. “Would you like me to have a drink with you?”
Did the sun rise in the east? Paul was elated by his love’s appearance, but caution had to prevail. Too much had been left unresolved between them. Still, he wouldn’t tell her no. “Do as you please, you always do.”
“Then I’ll have a mint julep. And would you please bring a dish of water for my dog?”
“Don’t got no water.”
“Then a dish of ice will do.”
“Set ’em up, Carl,” Paul drawled, dragging a chair over to him with the toe of his boot. “Sit down, Emma.”
She did, and her furred companion jumped into his master’s lap.
“I think he’s missed me,” Paul said, warding off a slathering tongue. Even though the tavern was packed with its faithful, no one existed for him except Emma . . . and Woodley, who wouldn’t be denied. His family.
“We’ve both missed you,” she said. “Me in particular.”
He searched his heart and soul for the right words. He loved her, yearned to hold her in his arms and never let go! But that night in Louisiana haunted him.
“Seems we’ve had a similar discussion. Didn’t lead anywhere.”
“I’ve changed. I’m ready to give as much as it takes to get you back. If there’s a baby, I’ll—”
Like lightning, his fingers shot forth to cover her lips. “Don’t say it. Not in this place.” He removed his hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Where to?”
“Somewhere private. A drive along the beach?”
“That sounds wonderful.”
Paul rented a cabriolet from the livery, and they set out, Woodley yowling from the floorboard, for a ride along the hard-packed sand of the island’s surf side. The sun streaked orange and blue through scattered clouds above the ocean. It was no accident Paul headed the horses toward a deserted part of the island.
Emma spoke first. “It’s beautiful, the way the waves tumble over each other.”
Not as beautiful as you are. “I agree.”
A trickle of sweat ran down Paul’s neck as he held the reins. It was an airless evening. Too airless.
“I arrived early this afternoon, in case you’re wondering,” she said. “I’ve taken a room at Anthaline Lightfoot’s house.”
“Salt of the earth, that’s Anthaline.”
“I didn’t like her at the onset, but I’ve changed my mind.”
“She has that effect on people.” Paul wasn’t about to admit the effect Emma had on him. “Why exactly did you come to Galveston?” he asked, fed up with chitchat.
She turned her light green eyes to him. “I’m sorry for those awful things I said. And I didn’t send money to Mexico City. I never meant to in the first place. My temper got the best of me, and I knew that was the only way I could hurt you. I’m sorry, so sorry.”
He reached for her hand. Sorry was the most difficult word to utter, but saying it always had a healing effect. He realized a few words from him might heal old sorrows, too. “And I’m sorry for what I said, too.”
“Then we have something to draw from.” She returned the pressure on her fingers. “I was so scared, so frightened. I heard the San Antonio was missing, and—”
“It’s not missing. It’s gone. Davy Jones’s Locker. Sunk.” He reined in the team, stopping near the shoreline. Agony assailed him as he leaned back against the seat. “And they’re gone, Emma. Montgomery and Tampke and all the rest. Dead.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “It was my ship—I should’ve been with them.”
“Don’t do this to yourself.”
He rubbed his grim lips. “Guess it goes with the territory. A captain should go down with his ship.”
“But you were sick!”
“Who told you that?”
“Anthaline.”
“It figures.” He laid an
arm across his bent knee. “Yes, I was sick. It started out as a cold, but it settled in my ears. It messed up my equilibrium.”
“Paul, that cold caused you to be seasick!”
“That’s about the size of it.” A sheepish look blanketed his face. “Just like dear old Underfoot.”
She laughed and punched his arm. “Serves you right for taunting him!”
“Probably. But luck’s with me—my one and only bout of seasickness is gone.” He captured her hand, bringing it to his lips. After he dusted a kiss on it, he said in French, “From the moment we met I’ve adored you. You’ve been the center of my universe. I’ve wronged you, but I want to make amends.”
She answered in the same language.
“You know French!”
“I’ve been studying.” She grinned. “A lot.”
“Ah, bien-aimée, I love you.”
Her heart was pounding. For so long—forever—she had waited for this moment. “I love you, too.”
“Love means forever.”
“I know,” she murmured.
A gift from heaven, that was what she had given him. But he had to be sure, absolutely positive, that she realized what they were getting into. “I’m the same man who left Louisiana.”
“And I’m the same woman. Basically. But do you think there’s a chance we could start over—forget the past, and go back to that night in the St. Charles?”
“If we did, we might end up with a baby.” Memories of that last night in Louisiana nagged him. “Emma, I didn’t mean what I said about a child of ours. We shouldn’t consider our bloodlines or the misdeeds of our kin, we ought to just raise our children right. Give them love. Dedicate our lives to the future, not the past.”
She leaned against him. “You’re not a scoundrel —you’re wonderful!”
His chest puffed. “Never thought I’d hear you say that!” Then he became serious. “There are some parts of the past that are worth remembering.” He touched her cheek. “Let’s pretend. Let’s go back to that night we met. I’ll tell you what I was thinking, and you tell me your thoughts then.”
