by Sandra Jones
His expression sobered with concern. He glanced around, then nodded and followed her inside the store.
Strolling past the barrels, she picked up the packaged items and read their names aloud. Jeremiah parroted her, duly pronouncing and sounding out the letters. When they reached the hanging garment racks, she spun around to face him. “My aunt has taken all my savings. Everything. She says I won’t need money once I marry Ephraim. After all, he’s rich. Oh, God, Jeremiah!” Her voice broke as she fought back tears. She hadn’t meant to let her friend know how desperate she was, but seeing the worry reflected in his eyes sent panic through her.
He put a kind hand on her shoulder. “They won’t make you marry him. You help with the still. They won’t wanna give up the labor and money you provide them. You’re a seer, too, right? People pay to talk to you.”
Voices grew near. The mercantile owner leading another woman to the fabric. Jeremiah dropped his hand from her shoulder.
“People come to me for things.” She shrugged. “I mostly just find lost items. Sometimes I simply tell folks what they want to hear. I don’t charge them a price, but they definitely pay. It’s not much. But Jeremiah, I can’t make things happen or prevent them from happening.”
His expression smoothed as an idea seemed to come to him. “What if I told you I knew where Mr. Matthews keeps the rest of his money? Beneath Painter’s Bluff where the bats gather. I dug the hole myself.”
Tempting though it was, she narrowed her eyes. “I’m a fortuneteller, not a thief.”
“We could take the money. You could leave. Go north and live like a queen. Heck, throw his money in the river, if you want! Your aunt and uncle wouldn’t find the man so appealing without his money, would they?” His words came faster as he tried to convince her.
“You don’t know them,” she scoffed. “I’d be afraid you’d get in trouble. Ephraim would know you were responsible. It’s not a viable answer.”
Ephraim had to leave town for good. Perhaps she could persuade the wretched man that something awful would happen to him if he stayed in Posey Hollow. Perhaps an act of God, a terrible storm coming that would take all his possessions…
“These fortunes of yours, Mr. Matthews puts a lot of stock in them. Maybe you could give him another reading.”
“Yes.” She nodded, watching the front of the store. “Now you’re reading my mind, Jeremiah.”
Watching Reuben Samuels, the moonshiner, back away from a loaded wagon with two jugs of whiskey in his arms, Rory’s heart gave a hard thump. He told himself it was just a heavy dose of anticipation, seeing Philadelphia’s uncle, because here was another opportunity to move closer to his goal of getting the card-reader on Moreaux’s steamboat. Surely it was only that, and not that he hoped to see the vivacious Miss Dell too.
However, something about Dell’s family—the greasy-headed, scowling moonshiner and his dour-faced wife—ran a foreign splinter beneath his skin. This once, he must keep Moreaux’s words to heart.
A gambler cannot afford empathy.
He excused himself from the conversation he was having with a cattle farmer and hastened to catch the whiskey peddler at the entrance of the crew’s barn. “Good morning, Mr. Samuels. Allow me.” Taking one of the coarse, dusty jugs against his silk brocade vest, he bit the inside of his cheek and feigned indifference.
With a gesture at Trap and Zeb, his oldest friends and best crewmembers, Rory had them unloading the brew while he had Dell’s aunt and uncle to himself. He pulled out one of the cigars he’d managed to pinch from Moreaux before leaving the Mississippi and passed it to Samuels. Ida’s nose wrinkled as her husband took the first puff. People in polite society probably didn’t smoke in front of women, but Rory ignored those conventions, never having the experience of polite society himself.
Leaning against a cedar post outside the barn, he exhaled a puff from his own cigar, and through the swirls of smoke, he regarded the children playing in the road outside the mercantile. He made idle conversation with the couple while he waited for the tobacco to mellow the gruff moonshiner and loosen his tongue. And truth be told, if Samuels had brought Dell to town with them, he might enjoy another exchange with her.
“Your whiskey is highly regarded in these parts, Mr. Samuels. I spoke with a man in Batesville when we were passing through who claimed yours was the purest quality.”
Samuels nodded. His wife, who must have been the late Eleanor Moreaux’s sister, wore a high-necked gray frock and an expression of sour disapproval. “I’m surprised you spoke to anyone there a’tall, Captain Campbell, bein’s how you managed to strand that boat of yours. Looks to me like someone downriver coulda told you that you’d never make it to Calico Rock.”
Shrewd woman. He’d like to see her tangle with Moreaux. He smiled. “I’d been warned, but I wanted to see how far I might push her. Seeing the joy The Dark Enchantress brings the children is worth the effort.” The woman’s wrinkled brow smoothed slightly, but the set of her lips persevered. She had none of the legendary beauty of her fair sister, who’d stolen the hearts of many river pirates, including him, in her day. “I hope you’ll save a dance for me, Mrs. Samuels, with your husband’s consent, of course.”
She blinked. “I haven’t danced in years—”
Her husband interrupted between drags on his cigar, “I’ll need two dollars a gallon on the whiskey.”
“Of course. You must run quite the business, operating the only still in these parts. Does your son help you?”
“Nathaniel? No. He’s only six. He’d get in the way.” He made no mention of Dell or her help.
Rory’s cigar tasted bitter. He smashed it under his shoe. “What about the rest of your family? Are there more? Surely you can’t do all the work yourselves.”
Rory’s men passed by, steadily carrying heavy whiskey jugs inside the barn with an occasional gleam of spite in their eyes for their captain. He gave them a half-smile, certain he’d hear their opinions of his leadership later.
“My niece helps somewhat.” Mrs. Samuels frowned and rose on her toes for a better look at the storefront across the street.
“And her husband doesn’t mind?” Rory coaxed.
“No husband.”
“Not yet.” Mrs. Samuels’s eyes brightened. She indicated a lanky man standing outside the mercantile. “Ephraim Matthews standing there is Dell’s intended. He made a fortune in gold, and once they’re married, he’ll likely send his boy to work at the still.”
Philadelphia’s intended? Even from their vantage point, he noted the man’s emerald frock was a cut several years out of fashion. Would a young woman, such as Dell, want to be saddled with an older man bearing a full beard? Rory scratched his chin, noting a razor wouldn’t be remiss for him, either. Perhaps this Matthews was responsible for Dell’s reluctance to leave if she expected him to propose marriage at any moment. If money was what Dell pined for, Rory couldn’t compete. At least not here, so far from his boss’s bank account.
But perhaps Dell’s concern rested elsewhere. “Did you say his ‘boy’? He has children?”
“No. His slave. He’s a young man, but he’s strong as an ox.”
Rory struggled to keep from frowning. Dell had abandoned the Enchantress immediately to aid a slave. Perhaps they were one in the same. He longed to prod the couple more about their niece’s interests—more specifically about her card reading—but he caught a subtle wave from Trap, who headed inside with the last jug of whiskey.
“I expect your business will grow by leaps and bounds with more manpower in the near future. Thanks for the whiskey, my friend. When we retrieve your money from the Enchantress, perhaps I’ll bring it by myself.” If it didn’t rain soon, he’d be forced to tell half the town they didn’t have anything to pay for the provisions. Leaving one more debt he never intended to pay, he extended his hand to Samuels and gave him a firm shake. “I’d love to ta
ke a look at your operation.”
Sullen after being dismissed, the couple turned to leave. Out of the corner of Rory’s eye, he saw Ephraim Matthews amble toward the store where he met a black man coming out with a heavy-looking sack slung over one shoulder. Rory leaned against the post, casually watching their interactions. Matthews climbed aboard the wagon and waited as the other man, probably his slave, loaded his burden and hopped up to sit in the back.
Rory loved the South, with the Spanish moss of the lower Delta, and the lovely, obliging ladies of New Orleans, but right now he pined for the North. For the progressive thinking of Illinois or Wisconsin. Anywhere the Mississippi might take him far from slavery and oppression, which he knew all too well. Yet he couldn’t avoid his obligations no matter which direction he headed.
The mercantile’s door opened with the glint of sunlight on the glass. Dell Samuels stepped out and her eyes met his. Perhaps he just imagined it, but he might’ve seen a flash of worry in her expression as she stood in the open doorway. Worry for what? She had no idea the plans he’d begun to lay for her.
They stood trapped with tangled gazes for several seconds, and then Rory gave her a deep bow. She scowled in return.
Yes. Better and better.
Chapter Six
Rory snatched a glass from Trap’s hand as the burly Irishman lifted it to his lips, sloshing its contents to the freshly swept boards of the barn. He leaned in to speak in his ear over the sound of the fiddles. “Just because it’s here, doesn’t mean you’re to drink it all. What would your wife say? The dance has only just begun and you’re on your—what? Third drink?”
“Fourth, but who’s countin’?” His eyes glittered, as they always did when he’d had a few. That along with his spiky copper hair reminded Rory of a giant-sized leprechaun.
“Me. Your captain. I need you sharp. You’re my eyes and ears.”
“I’ve danced with three women already. It’s a small settlement with no gambling and nothin’ to keep me entertained. There aren’t many ladies here to begin with and even less wot knows more than a reel.”
“So bring them the liquor. I never said you had to dance.” Rory watched as a farmer and his wife thundered across the floor, swinging close enough to where he and Trap stood that he could feel the wind off the lady’s whirling petticoats.
He scanned the crowd. Dozens of people had packed into the barn after the rain began. The double doors were left open, and drainage fell off the roof outside. People poured into the building, lured by music, he supposed, and the offer of free refreshment. Unfortunately, the one person he needed to be there hadn’t shown. Nor did he expect her.
Rory took a swig from Trap’s cup, ignoring Trap’s whimper of protest. The whiskey burned down his throat, awakening his senses. He thrust the empty cup back into his friend’s hand. “Keep chatting with the girls. I haven’t checked on Asa in a while. I’ll be back.”
He threaded through the sea of people encircling the dance floor and slipped out the back door. A wooden ladder led up to the loft where his young charge lay.
The boy’s pallet since their arrival in the backwoods town was a thin layer of blankets on straw, but surely a better environment for the twelve-year-old’s illness than a steamboat sitting crooked in the middle of a river. He found Asa now sitting up, watching the dance floor from his vantage point. The boy’s pale face glowed in the light from the lanterns below as Rory sat beside him. With a blanket wrapped around his narrow shoulders, he looked a bit healthier than he had in the earlier part of their trip up the White from the Mississippi.
“You should be resting. Did you take your medicine?”
“Yes, mother.” Asa grinned.
Rory lifted his hand to give him a playful punch, then let it drop. He’d done a good share of prizefighting for Moreaux and often had to check himself, easily overpowering his weaker opponents. A good clap on the shoulder even might send the frail boy flying off his roost. He settled for a fake jab instead, avoiding touching the boy altogether as Asa preferred it so. Having been taken from the orphanage by Moreaux as a toddler, Asa had never known the arms of a parent. Just like himself. Now the boy spent more time in death’s embrace, fighting chronic malaria when it returned.
“Is the lady here? Quintus’s daughter?”
Rory’s stomach turned, hearing his boss’s name spoken with such trust and familiarity. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from objecting. Every day the struggle grew harder and he felt more impotent. All his crew—hell, the whole world should know the depths of Moreaux’s depravity. But Rory couldn’t say a damned thing or else they would know of the tarnish on Rory’s soul, as well.
He straightened the wrinkles from the sleeves of his black suit, and felt the angry burn of the whiskey in his gut. “She’s not Moreaux’s daughter. She was his wife’s daughter, and no, unfortunately, she’s not.”
“I don’t know why you don’t just throw a burlap sack over her head and kidnap her like a real pirate. Quintus used to know pirates who kidnapped people for real.”
Quintus is a pirate. “I think Dr. Sappington’s cure has made you batty—real men don’t kidnap ladies.” He was loath to admit it, but the idea had crept into his mind the past few hours. When faced with the possibility of returning to Moreaux empty-handed, abduction seemed the lesser sin.
Ennui brought out the greatest cruelty in his boss—especially toward the weak like Asa.
Rory only needed the woman’s influence for a few short weeks—long enough to coax Moreaux into a high-stakes game with Wainwright. It was just a small imposition on her time when compared to the help it would bring.
If her presence on the Moreaux steamboats were to cause anyone grief, it would be Rory. Didn’t he have enough trouble keeping the men in line, the boys safe and the Monster from killing more gamblers? A woman—a tempting one at that—in close quarters with a man lacking morals like himself might test his resilience.
He should be relieved Dell hadn’t accepted his invitation to the dance, but he wasn’t.
Movement in the doorway caught Rory’s attention. New faces entered the barn. Samuels, his wife, his two children, the gold miner…and Dell.
“Ah, there you see.” Rory climbed to his feet, feeling the grin tugging his lips with more satisfaction than he felt after a good night of cards. “Real men let the ladies come to them.”
Dell hung behind Ephraim, watching as he approached her neighbors for a handshake. She felt no sympathy for him when the other men ignored him. A few greeted him tentatively—wealth had that effect, she supposed. Meanwhile, she caught the scowls of the wives, and surprisingly, even a few men. For what? Attending their stupid dance? For wearing her hair down? She’d tamed it with curls and tied it back, looking as white as she could. Maybe their disdain was because she told fortunes. They sure as hell liked her enough when they needed something found. Or perhaps it was just the fact that she’d walked into the festivities with one of the most-loathed residents of Posey Hollow.
Her family disappeared into the loud, churning fray of the dance, leaving her alone with Ephraim. Her association with the widower was unfortunate, but couldn’t be helped. Tonight she needed to make sure he was good and liquored-up, then she could give him the card-reading of his life after he escorted her home.
“Would you care to dance, Miss Philadelphia?” He’d finished making his greetings. His watery eyes moved over her before drifting over her head to scan the crowd once again.
She supposed she ought to be thankful his attention was diverted to making a good impression on the people who scorned him, but tonight she needed him completely focused on her. Then, once she got him soundly foxed and under her full control, he’d leave town at her warning. All it took was the right fortune. Heck, with enough whiskey, he’d paint himself red, white and blue and run through the assembly naked if she said it would save his ass.
Dance wit
h him? The horrors! “I’d rather have a drink. Wouldn’t you?”
Ephraim smiled in answer, exposing the gaps in his teeth, and excused himself, leaving in search of the night’s refreshments—and the only alcohol to be had in town that night.
Dell stood on tiptoes to see the faces of those standing in a circle around the dance floor. She told herself she wasn’t looking for the sandy hair of the steamboat captain among the new men and boys, but disappointment pulled her mood lower. None of the packet’s crew looked familiar. More than once, she saw a pointed finger lift in her direction as couples leaned heads together to gossip. She held back a flood of anger and hurt. The talk would end soon enough when the gold miner was gone, and she could return to trying to earn enough money to leave.
“Looking for someone I know?”
She startled, spinning around to find the source of the sexy voice that made her stomach dip.
Right behind her in the crush of the crowd, Rory stood so near that the leg of his dress pants brushed her skirt. So close, in fact, she craned her neck to look up at him, standing a good foot taller than she. His mouth quirked in a wry grin, his emerald eyes alight. Her body gave a sudden flutter. Anger at his amusement? Or something more frustrating? Attraction.
“Not at all, Captain. Just getting a good look at your crew. They seem to be enjoying themselves.”
His humor faded as he scanned the crowd, spurred by her words. One redheaded fellow in particular—Trap, maybe—seemed to be drawing a crowd of girls, including Sarah.
Rory tugged at his cravat. “I’m delighted you changed your mind about coming.”
“I didn’t. I’m here with my family and a patron. I’m doing a card-reading later, otherwise I wouldn’t have.”
“Then the good fortune is all mine for sharing the pleasure of your company.” His hand cupped her elbow gently, guiding her a step closer to him to avoid a teenage couple headed to the dance floor. She tingled beneath his touch. “Your patron is a lucky man…or woman. I’d like nothing more than to see you in action.”
