Rainy Day Dreams: 2

by Lori Copeland

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Cover photos © Chris Garborg; Vincent Louis, p.lange / Bigstock

  Cover by Garborg Design Works, Savage, Minnesota

  Published in association with the Books & Such Literary Agency, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370, www.booksandsuch.com.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  RAINY DAY DREAMS

  Copyright © 2014 by Copeland Inc. and Virginia Smith

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Copeland, Lori.

  Rainy day dreams / Lori Copeland and Virginia Smith.

  pages cm.—(Seattle brides ; book 2)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-5349-8 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-5400-6 (eBook)

  1. Brides—Fiction. 2. Seattle (Wash.)—History—19th century—Fiction.

  I. Smith, Virginia, 1960-II. Title.

  PS3553.O6336R35 2014

  813’.54—dc23

  2013037888

  All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  A Note from Lori & Virginia

  Discussion Questions

  About the Authors

  A Bride for Noah

  He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.

  I will say of the LORD, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust.

  PSALM 91:1-2

  One

  Seattle, Washington Territory

  Monday, January 7, 1856

  An unkempt sailor, scraggly and reeking of fish, pitched the steamer trunk from the ship’s gangway to the pier as though tossing a salmon onto the deck. Instead of flopping wetly on the wood, Kathryn’s trunk landed on the platform with a sickening thud that did not bode well for the contents.

  “Here!” She charged down the sloping plank, skirts swishing around her cloth-topped boots, and fixed the man with an outraged glare. “What do you mean, heaving my things about like that? There are breakables inside.”

  Footsteps pounded the wooden dock from behind and the captain drew up beside her. “Is there a problem, ma’am?”

  She whirled to face him. “The problem is my mother’s fine porcelain basin and pitcher, which are packed inside my trunk and probably in shards due to careless handling.”

  The sailor snatched the cap off his head and ducked to reveal a pink, balding scalp. “Sorry, ma’am. That’s a heavy trunk, that is. It slipped plumb out of my hands.” His gaze slid upward toward his skipper, as though to test the reception of his explanation.

  “Hmm.” Kathryn didn’t believe him. With her own eyes she’d watched him pitch the trunk rather than carry it the extra ten steps down the gangway. On the other hand, the large number of books with which she’d lined the bottom no doubt made her portmanteau heavier than most.

  “Accidents do happen, ma’am.” The captain offered the explanation with a hopeful smile.

  An answering retort rose to her lips, but she bit it back. What benefit would come of arguing? If the washbasin had been broken, the deed was done. She’d have no recourse, regardless of the exorbitant price her father had paid for her passage. Nor would she seek redress and risk offending the captain. She needed to remain in his good graces in order to ensure her place on a return voyage to San Francisco the next time the Fair Lady put into port in Seattle. Besides, she cared little for the breakable items inside the sturdy chest. Her library and art supplies were of far more import, especially here in this forsaken wilderness. And they could withstand a fair amount of rough handling.

  She forced a smile and shone it on both captain and crewman. “I’m sure there has been no harm done.”

  Relieved, the sailor planted the cap back on his head and stepped lightly up the plank, presumably to manhandle another passenger’s luggage. Having seen the exchange, a middle-aged woman stood on the gently swaying deck near a pile of trunks, clutching a valise in both hands and watching anxiously as the man headed her way.

  The captain returned to his conversation with a handsome young man to whom she had been introduced during the voyage and whose name she had promptly forgotten.

  She scanned the shore. The pier where the Fair Lady was moored extended into the water from a wide wooden dock. From there a muddy street stretched inland, lined with buildings made of rough-cut timber. Signs suspended above doorways identified a variety of businesses including a livery, a laundry, and even a dentist. The thick forest she had seen from the ship’s deck as they glided parallel to the shoreline this afternoon grew right up to the structures, leafy heights towering high above. In fact, trees surrounded the dock area on two sides, so thick she could barely see a few feet beyond the tall trunks of the first few. The forest ended abruptly to her right in a clearing that laid bare the shoreline all the way to a riverhead and beyond. A building sat on the shore at the mouth of the river, white clouds billowing from a tall smokestack. Ah, the famous steam mill. Before she left San Francisco, Papa had insisted on describing it in enthusiastic detail.

  “Imagine, Kathryn! You’ll live near the only steam-powered sawmill in the northwest. That mill was the making of Seattle, you know. Without it, the town would be nothing but a handful of pioneers trying to scratch out a life in the forest. Mr. Yesler is a forward-thinking gentleman, to be sure. And his vision has made him rich.” Admiration had gleamed in Papa’s eyes, and then his gaze turned speculative. “A shame he is married. Perhaps you’ll meet someone like him in Seattle.”

  Kathryn had lowered her eyes in what may have been interpreted as meekness. In reality she hoped to mask the scorn that his ill-concealed enthusiasm stirred. Truthfully, Papa cared little for the bankroll of her prospective beaux, so long as they weren’t destitute. Actually, he probably wouldn’t mind a penniless son-in-law either, so long as the young man relieved him of the responsibility of his unmarried daughter. His insistence that she find a husband was downright insulting, as though a grown woman of modern times was incapable of surviving on her own.

  I’m surprised he hasn’t placed an advertisement in the Chronicle offering a sizable dowry so he can be rid of me quickly.

  The thought drew a bitter smile. What need
had he in placing an advertisement when he could send her to Seattle and accomplish the same end with much less expense? She scanned the area, taking note of the people who scurried down the covered walkways or stomped through the wide, muddy avenue. Men, every one of them. Not a woman in sight, except her and the few female passengers who had accompanied her on the Fair Lady. The rumor circulating among the patrons at the San Francisco Center for Fine Arts must be true. Imagine, one woman to every hundred men.

  And several of them openly staring at her at this very moment. She returned the direct and curious gaze of a man standing in the doorway of an establishment halfway up the street, beneath a sign identifying the place as Hop Sing Washing Ironing. With a prim look in his direction, she turned her back.

  “Excuse me, ma’am.” A nearby voice drew her attention to a wiry man with threadbare clothing and an eager expression. “Can I tote your bags for you?”

  She hesitated only a moment. She couldn’t very well lug her own trunk through the mud, could she?

  “Yes, I think so.” She cocked her head and fixed a narrow-eyed stare on him. “Do you know the Faulkner House?”

  “I know the place.” His gaze became speculative and roved over her from head to toe. “You planning on working there, are you?”

  With a hot flush, she thrust her nose into the air. Was the question a judgment on her apparel, as if she didn’t look wealthy enough to board there? “The proprietress, Mrs. Garritson, is my cousin.”

  “You don’t say.” His lips pursed as he studied her a second more, and then his expression cleared. “Twenty-five cents. And I’ll treat your trunk like it was made of glass too.”

  Obviously he’d overheard her exchange with the captain.

  “Done.” She jerked a nod to seal the deal, and then went on with a concerned glance around the area. None of the buildings in the vicinity looked like proper hotels. “Is it far?”

  “Just up the hill a ways.” The man grabbed a handle of her trunk, tested the weight, and then hefted it up onto his back as though the heavy case were packed with feather pillows. “Foller me, miss.”

  Kathryn started out after him, her heels pounding soundly on the plank walkway. She’d gone no more than three steps when a deep voice from behind halted her progress.

  “Pardon me, but did I hear you mention the Faulkner House?”

  She turned to find the young man with whom the captain had been speaking standing at her elbow. He wore an expression of polite inquiry, his square jaw set. Something about his expression put Kathryn off. Perhaps it was the way he slanted his shoulders away from her, or the way his gaze darted in her direction and then away. His bearing shouted of arrogance while the inexpertly sewn patches on the sleeves of his suit coat denied the unspoken claim.

  She tilted her chin upward. “That is correct.”

  A smile emerged on the serious face, its charm lost when it faded just as quickly. “I am headed there myself, as chance would have it.” His gaze sought the lackey who was placing her trunk into the bed of a small wagon while a mournful mule hitched to the front turned its head to watch. “Have you room for my luggage as well?”

  “If you have twenty-five cents, I have room.”

  “That’s fine then. Shouldn’t be but a few minutes.” He awarded her a distracted nod and then turned to watch the crewmen unloading trunks and crates from the cargo hold. Then his eyebrows drew together and he lifted his voice toward the ship. “You there, take care with that!” With three long-legged strides he was up the gangway and onto the ship’s deck, his finger stabbing toward the crew.

  The captain stepped up to the dock’s edge beside Kathryn, the lady with the valise at his side. “Miss Bergert, I expect you’ll have met Miss Everett?”

  They had been formally introduced before the Fair Lady set sail in San Francisco and had shared a cabin, though the older woman kept to herself throughout the week-long voyage. Dark hair with a few streaks of silver had been pulled back from her face in a severe knot at the base of her skull, and she hid her expression beneath the deep brim of a plain and sensible travel bonnet. An air of sadness surrounded the woman, creating an invisible barrier that the other passengers had respected and not broached. Kathryn nodded a silent greeting, which she returned.

  “Miss Everett has also booked lodging at the Faulkner House.” He raised his voice. “Carter, you’ll take her along with Miss Bergert and Mr. Gates.”

  Had the commanding tone been directed toward her, Kathryn would have bristled. The wagoner merely grinned and snapped to attention with an impudent salute. “Aye-aye, Cap’n.”

  The captain paid him no attention but strode away, his boots connecting with the dock in a confident thud-thud-thud. Kathryn watched his retreat while pulling her cloak tighter around her throat with a gloved hand. A constant breeze blew across the water and brought with it a chill that had not been present in San Francisco. She glanced toward the sky. Somewhere behind that thick ceiling of gray the sun lay in hiding, its absence fitting on this day of what she could only think of as her exile.

  Susan would not have accepted this fate meekly. She would have recruited Mama to her side and then pitched a fit until she got her way.

  A sniffle threatened, but she straightened her shoulders against such a piteous gesture. Her sister’s very nature, so different from her own, would have prevented her being placed in such an undignified position to begin with. That’s why Susan ran away from home, to escape Papa’s attempts to manipulate her life. Her leaving had bought Kathryn almost five years of peace. After their initial shock at Susan’s farewell letter, her parents feared they might lose Kathryn too if they tried to force her into a life she did not choose. If Papa had spent a single moment considering the difference in his daughters’ personalities he would have known he had nothing to fear. She would never act in such a headstrong manner.

  With a stomp of her heel against the wooden dock she pushed such thoughts to the back of her mind. Adventure had been thrust upon her by Papa, and she might as well make the most of it. Better that than become morose. Besides, she didn’t intend to stay in this primitive town one day longer than necessary.

  The other passenger—Mr. Gates, the captain had called him—returned with a carpetbag slung over one shoulder and a leather satchel in the other hand. A crewman followed, carrying a narrow wooden crate awkwardly before him.

  “Load it there.” He pointed toward the mule cart. “And take care, if you please.”

  When the luggage had been positioned in the wagon bed to everyone’s satisfaction, Carter approached the edge of the dock and, with a two-handed flourish, gestured toward the narrow bench. “This way, ladies.”

  Miss Everett threw a startled glance toward Kathryn. The wooden platform ended a few inches above the dirt-packed shore, a matter of one shallow downward step. Recent rains had softened the soil into mud, and apparently they were expected to walk through it in complete disregard for their footwear. Though Kathryn cared little for fashion, she had no desire to ruin her shoes. Judging by the handful of rustic buildings within sight, she doubted if Seattle offered much in the way of ladies’ clothiers. Replacements would be hard to come by.

  “Can you draw your mule nearer?” She drew aside her skirts to reveal the stylish boots Mama had insisted on purchasing before she left. “We’re hardly dressed for tromping through the mud.”

  Carter eyed her feet and indulged in an impolite chortle. “I hope you packed something sturdier. Them dainties ain’t gonna last long here.”

  Still, he obliged by grabbing the mule’s harness and angling the cart near enough to the wharf that a long step would see them safely aboard. When he made no move to offer assistance but stood holding the mule’s bit, apparently ready to watch them leap for the bench, Kathryn opened her mouth to deliver a sharp word. She shut it again when Mr. Gates stepped to Miss Everett’s side and extended a hand.

  “Allow me.”

  With a grateful smile, the older woman grasped his arm and climb
ed safely aboard. She scooted across to the opposite end of the bench and began arranging her cloak around her while Mr. Gates turned to assist Kathryn.

  “It’s nice to see that someone in Seattle has manners.” She spoke loud enough for Carter to hear. “Though obviously they’re not native to the locals.”

  Rather than taking offense, Carter’s chortle returned with increased volume. “They’s some gentlemen here. A few anyway. We’re plain folk, mostly.”

  Kathryn accepted Mr. Gates’s extended hand and climbed onto the wagon with one long step. He released her the moment she had her balance and hopped off the wharf. His boots hit the wet soil with a muddy splat. As she settled her skirts, a pair of sailors sauntered by and one of them let out an admiring whistle. She pretended to ignore them, though heat rose into her face.

  Carter dropped the mule’s lead rope, hands clenched into fists, and fixed a glare on the passing soldiers. “You watch yourself, y’hear? These here are ladies.”

  Kathryn exchanged a grin with Miss Everett. Carter may disregard the need for manners personally, but he clearly held others to a different standard. Or perhaps he simply disliked sailors. Her gaze slid to Elliott Bay, where a military ship lay in anchor. They had passed closely by her on their way to the pier. The name stenciled on the ship’s side read U.S.S. Decatur.

  “Mr. Carter, what is the purpose of that vessel?”

  As she asked the question, the man urged the mule forward and the wagon lurched. She grasped the edge of the bench to keep her balance.

  “Been here for months.” The answer was tossed over his shoulder. “Matter of fact, they hauled her out and cleaned her up not long ago. In a terrible state, so folks say.”

  Kathryn glanced over her shoulder. The Fair Lady and the Decatur were the only ships in sight. “Seems an odd place to go for repairs. Doesn’t the Navy have shipyards or similar places?”