Love Inspired Historical November 2014

by Danica Favorite

  Clay Howard could have only one reason for being here now. Somehow, his family had found him and sent him in pursuit of her. They must have thought she’d bow to his demands. She refused to be the little scared mouse of a girl who had wed his brother because she couldn’t bear to follow Clay into the wilderness. She was a widow now, a woman of her own making. She didn’t have to pretend she had the vapors.

  She drew herself up, looked down the nose her mother had always called entirely too pert, and said in a perfect imitation of Mrs. Howard’s prim tone, “You have no call to accost me, sir. Unhand me before I call the authorities.”

  Mr. Debro took a step closer. “Mrs. Banks? Is there a problem?”

  “Banks?” Clay shook his head as he dropped his hand. “I might have known you’d go by your maiden name.” He nodded to the purser. “This is Mrs. Howard, and I’m Mr. Howard. I suggest you leave the lady to me.”

  *

  Clay watched the purser’s frown deepen even as Allegra paled. The creamy color suited her more than the angry red she’d worn when she’d first seen him.

  Of course, he probably looked just as red. It wasn’t often you found your dead brother’s wife trying to board a ship of husband hunters. That was the kindest term given to the women foolish enough to join Mercer’s expedition to Seattle.

  Why would a woman put her faith in Asa Mercer after seeing his ad in a newspaper? By all accounts, he’d only held one meeting with the women. And as for the jobs supposedly waiting for these women when they landed on those verdant shores? He knew from experience they were more likely to find the willing arms of every lumberjack, fur trapper, farmer and prospector starved for female companionship.

  Allegra Banks didn’t need to go to Seattle to find herself another husband. He hadn’t been out of Boston a month before she’d married his younger brother. He was certain the men must be lining up for the chance to be husband number two.

  He would never be one of them. His mother and the Boston belles he’d met cherished a picture in their minds of the perfect husband, and he’d soon realized he could not fit that frame. He took too many risks, with his money, with his life, to ever make a good gamble for a husband.

  No job held his interest for long. He’d panned for gold in California and shipped lumber from the forests of Oregon Territory. Half the people of Seattle owed him their livelihood because he’d been willing to invest the money he’d earned to take a chance on their dreams. If they didn’t make good, he’d be back in the gutter again. What wife would ever put up with such an unpredictable lifestyle? And why should he settle for anything less than his freedom?

  If he had the sense God had given him, he’d have refused his mother’s request to bring Allegra back to Boston where she belonged. But for once he found himself in agreement with his family. The wilderness was no place for a pampered Boston socialite like Allegra Banks.

  As if to prove it, she shrugged out of his grip, blue eyes flashing fire. The black silky fringe trimming her gray skirts positively trembled in her ire. But before she could level him with a word, as he knew she was capable of doing, another voice interrupted. It was thin and reedy and seemed to be coming from the front of Allegra’s cloak.

  “Papa?”

  The word stabbed through his chest, made it hard to breathe. A little girl peered around Allegra to gaze up at him. Curls as golden as Frank’s were pressed inside the hood of her cloak. But those blue eyes, like the sea at night, were all her mother’s.

  “Hush, Gillian,” Allegra said, one hand going to pull the child close.

  Gillian. His mother’s name. No one had said anything about Allegra and Frank having a little girl, but then the mighty Howards were all too good at pretending. If they could forget they had another son besides precious Frank, they could certainly forget an inconvenient granddaughter. He couldn’t imagine his father willing anything to a girl, and he doubted his dutiful brother would have risked their mother’s wrath by leaving his estate to a daughter. Still, the pier must have been bucking with the incoming tide, for he suddenly found it hard to keep his footing as well.

  The purser didn’t seem to be having any trouble. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Aren’t you the widow Mrs. Banks?”

  He had the widow part right. And like the rest of Boston society, she probably thought Clay was to blame. He’d fought his father all his life. It was only logical that Clay should have been the one to go to war, the one who died fighting. He was the prodigal son who had never managed to ask forgiveness for leaving. No one in his family but Frank would have mourned his loss.

  “Mr. Howard is correct,” Allegra said, still so stern she could have been a professor at Harvard. “My married name was Howard, but he bears no responsibility for me. I make my own decisions.”

  And she had every right and capacity to do so. She was of age, and she’d been smart enough to turn down his offer of marriage once. But he couldn’t agree with her decision this time.

  The purser nodded toward the ship, where a couple of burley sailors had paused in their work to watch the scene on the pier. “In that case, I must ask you to do as the lady asks, Mr. Howard. I believe you will find yourself outgunned shortly.”

  The sailors were a match for him in size, but he’d tussled with bears twice as furious. “I don’t much care what you believe,” Clay said. “Mrs. Howard and her daughter are coming with me.”

  He flipped back one side of his coat. He could see the purser eyeing him, taking note of the size of his shoulders, the way his free hand hung down in ready reach of the pistol on his hip. Mr. Debro had to realize that Clay wasn’t one of the proper Boston gentlemen who courted women like Allegra Banks. They would only have protested, promised a stinging letter to the editor of the newspaper, refused to raise a fuss. Clay specialized in raising fusses.

  Still, the purser held his ground. “Mrs. Howard, do you wish to speak to this man?”

  Allegra frowned at him. She had to wonder at his presence, standing here, bag in hand, as if he’d just arrived on the stage. After all, the last time she’d seen him, he’d been begging her to marry him, to leave Boston and journey west. Her refusal had stung then, but everything he’d experienced since had told him she had been right to stay in Boston where she would be safe.

  And he certainly didn’t look the part of a gentleman ready to escort a lady home. His fur coat was patched together in places, his boots were scuffed and dirty, and all he carried with him were a few days of clothing and toiletries stuffed in his satchel. His own mother had refused to allow him in her parlor. Allegra would be mad to accept his help.

  Or desperate. As her breath came in short bursts like the puffs of a steam engine, he could almost feel her determination. He couldn’t understand what had driven her out of the city of her birth. Surely returning to Boston was preferable to traveling thousands of miles away to a place she was ill suited to live. Why was she so set on leaving home?

  “Excuse me.” Clay turned to find a pretty blonde in a tailored brown coat behind him along with a narrow-eyed woman in a cloak nearly as red as her hair. Around them ranged several other women, all with heads high and fingers clutching their reticules as if they meant to use the little cloth bags to effect.

  The blonde’s smile was tight under her trim brown hat. “The tide turns within the hour, sir,” she informed him, patrician nose in the air as if even the scent of his soap offended her. “We have a great deal to do before then. You have no right to detain our friend.” She flapped her gloved fingers at him as if shooing a chicken. “Be gone.”

  The other women nodded fervently.

  Clay inclined his head. “I’m not here for trouble, ladies. I have only Mrs. Howard’s best interests in mind, I assure you.”

  “Sure’n, isn’t that what they all say?” The lady with the red curls clustered about her oval face had a voice laced with the lilt of Ireland. She looked him up and down. “Go on, now. A big strapping lad like you can’t be so lacking for female companionship h
e needs to snatch his women off the pier. Have some respect for yourself.”

  For once in his life, Clay had no idea how to respond. As if she knew it, Allegra smothered a laugh. Even her daughter was regarding him quizzically.

  “Truly, sir,” the blonde scolded him, “it’s the Christian thing to do.”

  “It’s all right, ladies,” Allegra said. “Mr. Howard was just saying farewell.”

  Now besides the humor, he could hear triumph in her voice. She thought her posse of vigilante females would frighten him off. She expected him to wish these ladies well, to allow her and Frank’s daughter to board this vessel and sail off to places that would endanger their values, their faith and their very lives.

  Normally, he’d be the last to dissuade anyone from pursuing a dream. He knew the heady feeling of charting his own course, making his own way. Yet he also knew what lay waiting for these women in the wilderness.

  Father, how can I compromise my own beliefs and let them go?

  He couldn’t. Allegra’s determination must have been contagious, for he felt his shoulders straightening with purpose.

  “Give me five minutes, Allegra,” he said. “If I can’t persuade you to return to Boston, I won’t stop you from boarding the ship.”

  She held her ground, one hand on Gillian, the other grafted to the rope edging the gangway.

  “Mrs. Banks, er, Howard?” the purser put in, pausing to clear his throat as if as unsure of his reception as he was of her true name. “If you intend to speak to Mr. Howard, I must ask you to step away so I can continue the boarding process.”

  The blonde came to Allegra’s side, chin up and pale blue eyes narrowed with purpose. “If you want to go, Mrs. Banks, I’ll watch over Gillian.” She glanced at Clay as if she didn’t trust him. “But if you wish to board, I wouldn’t give this fellow another moment of your time.”

  He couldn’t chide her spirit or her practicality. Allegra hadn’t seen him in years. She had no way of knowing the man he had become. He tried to smile. She didn’t look any more certain of him.

  In fact, he could almost see the thoughts behind those deep blue eyes, weighing her options, determining his worth. He’d seen the look before, the calculation of a Boston socialite over whether a person warranted the pleasure of her company. He’d thought he was beyond caring about the conclusion of such an assessment. Once, that conclusion would have immediately been in his favor as a Howard. Now his family couldn’t be bothered to receive him. Still, he was surprised by the wave of relief that coursed through him when Allegra transferred her daughter’s hand to her friend’s.

  “Go with Ms. Stanway, Gillian,” Allegra said with a sidelong look to him. “I can allow five minutes for your uncle, but no more.”

  Chapter Two

  Five minutes should have been more than enough time to make her refusal to whatever Clay had to say. She couldn’t imagine any circumstance that would change her mind about her plans. If she remained in plain view of the ship, he could do nothing to prevent her from leaving. She’d seen Mr. Debro look at the sailors. She knew she could count on help if needed.

  But Gillian wasn’t content to let her go. She must have slipped her hand from Catherine’s, for she darted to Allie’s side. “Can I come, too, please? He looks like Papa.”

  The longing in her voice tugged at Allie’s heart. Gillian had been all of two when her father had left for war. Allie had read her all the letters he’d sent, especially the stories he wrote just for her. Gillian couldn’t understand the finality of death, the fact that her father would never return.

  But to see Frank in Clay? Allie looked him over more closely. Perhaps the color of his hair was similar, but his had always been straighter than Frank’s, his eyes more pale and piercing, his body taller and stronger. They had been so different, in temperament, in ambitions. Clay had never obeyed his parents with unquestioning devotion like her husband. Frank had been smooth, polished, proper. Clay had been defiant, commanding, but now everything about him was rough, from the stubble on his proud chin to the dust on his worn knee-high boots. She couldn’t see Frank in him.

  But at Gillian’s statement, he pushed back his hat. “Clever of you, little miss, to notice,” he said with a bow. “I’m your father’s brother. And I’m here to bring you home.”

  Gillian’s eyes widened. Allie sucked in a breath and stepped between them. How dare he try to use her daughter against her!

  “Gillian’s home is with me, sir,” she informed him. “And I am heading for Seattle.” She gave Gillian a hug before patting her back and pushing her toward Catherine. Catherine took the little girl’s hand and turned to give her own name to the purser.

  “I’m not trying to usurp your place,” Clay said quietly as he straightened and the other women returned to their places in line. “I thought Frank’s daughter deserved to know her family.”

  Guilt whispered; she could not afford to listen. She knew that by taking Gillian to Seattle, she was cutting off everyone the little girl had ever known. But Clay had been away for so long. He couldn’t understand how his family had tried to control Allie, to control Gillian. He knew she’d refused to leave Boston once. How could he realize how important this trip was to her now?

  “You are wasting your five minutes, sir,” she said. “I believe you only have three left.”

  His mouth compressed in a tight line. He glanced about, then led her through the crowds and a little apart from the gangway to the shelter of a stack of crates awaiting loading. Allie could see Catherine taking Gillian aboard the ship. Some of the tension seemed to be going with them. Whatever happened now, at least her daughter was safe.

  She turned to find Clay eyeing her. “Why are you here, Allegra?” he asked.

  Though his tone was more perplexed than demanding, she felt her spine stiffening. “I would think that obvious. We’re going with Mr. Mercer to Seattle.”

  “And you think that’s your best choice for a future?” he asked with a frown. “What about Boston? Your place in society?”

  Her place in society? Well, she’d once considered it precious, and he had cause to remember. She was the one who didn’t like remembering. She’d been so sure then of what she’d wanted. She’d been taught to manipulate to achieve her goals, yet she hadn’t realized how easily she’d been manipulated until it was almost too late.

  She puffed out a sigh of vexation that hung in the chill air between them. “You honestly think I should be content to stay in Boston? And this from the man who ran away to join the Wild West show!”

  A smile hitched up, and it somehow seemed as if the gray day brightened. “I wanted to see the Wild West, not play cowboy in a show,” he replied. “And from what I’ve seen, the Northwest territories are no place for a woman.”

  “Which is precisely why women are needed,” Allie argued. “You can’t tell me Seattle won’t be improved by teachers, nurses, seamstresses and choir leaders.”

  He chuckled. “That statement merely shows what little you know of Seattle. There are few children to teach, a single struggling hospital for the nurses, no call for fancy clothes for the seamstresses.”

  Allie’s eyes narrowed. His description hardly matched the information Mr. Mercer had given them. How could Clay know so much about Seattle? If her in-laws had ever received letters from him, they hadn’t shared the news with her. And Frank, of course, rarely spoke of Clay. He thought the entire matter too painful for her.

  “So you’ve seen Seattle,” she said, watching him.

  His gaze met hers. Up close, the changes of time were obvious: the fine lines beside his eyes, the tension in his broad shoulders, the way his smile turned from pleased to grim.

  “I’ve been there,” he said so carefully she could only wonder if he’d robbed the bank. But perhaps they didn’t have a bank, either!

  “Then you must know why we’re needed,” Allie told him.

  “Besides being someone’s wife?” he asked, rubbing a hand along his square jaw. “No. Sea
ttle is a scattering of houses in a clearing, five hundred people, give or take. And the outlying settlements are worse. I heard most of these ladies going with Mercer are orphans. They’ve nowhere else to turn. You have a family, a home, opportunity for a future. I can’t see you as one of Mercer’s belles.”

  At least he hadn’t used one of the unkind names she’d seen in the newspapers. Cargo of Heifers. Petticoat Brigade. Sewing Machines. The editor of one of the local papers had expressed extreme doubt that any girl going to seek a husband was worthy to be a decent man’s wife. What, did the rest of the country expect every woman who’d lost a sweetheart, a husband in that horrible war to simply stop living? That they couldn’t find employment instead of decorating a man’s home?

  Anger bubbled up inside her. “I have no intention of seeking a husband in Seattle. And may I remind you that you had a home and opportunities once, too. That didn’t stop you from leaving.”

  His jaw tightened. “I knew what I wanted and what I was leaving behind. I doubt you do.”

  Didn’t she? How many nights had she lain in her canopied bed, warm, safe, suffocating? How many times had she prayed for wisdom, for guidance? Her prayers had been answered with a dream, a future for her and Gillian that didn’t include marrying someone the Howards picked out. When Allie had seen the advertisement in the paper for teachers and other workers in far-off Washington Territory, she’d known it was the pointing of God’s finger. She’d been the one to close the door on adventure once. Now He’d opened it, and she intended to follow His lead.

  “Save your doubts, Mr. Howard,” she said. “Save your breath, as well. You gave up the right to order me about years ago.”

  Clay’s brows went up, and he took a step back to stare at her. Allegra Evangeline Banks Howard would never have spoken to a gentleman that way, particularly not her husband’s brother.

  “You’ve changed,” he said.

  “How perceptive of you to notice,” she replied. “Did you think I had no more to worry about than which dress to wear? Motherhood, and widowhood, mature a woman in a dozen ways. And this trip will do more.”