The captain moves to the railing, braces his hands, and looks over. I manage to secure Maggie May’s shoes before I free her.
I turn, and the captain cuts a fine figure there. He is a bull of a man—Norwegian, with broad shoulders and a thick head of straw-colored hair. He seems a decent type, which gives me hope for my eventual destination and the man who employs the captain as well as myself. Would a good riverman devote his life to the employ of one who’s unworthy?
Maggie finds the rail again, her boots slipping on the wooden rungs, the breeze lifting her skirt. She leans too far once again, and the captain clamps a big hand over her arm.
“Be easy there, Maggie May Rose.” He has greater patience with Maggie than I can muster these days. But life on this boat is normal to him. He has no secrets to keep. “Will you dive in there and rescue him yourself?”
“Don’t shoot him,” she pleads.
“Maggie May!” I scold. “The captain has a boat and passengers to see to. He cannot be worrying about . . .”
The captain turns to me then, his eyes the bright blue of the sky behind him. “It is one of God’s creations, Miss Rose.” He searches me, but for what I cannot say. “And a helpless one, at that. We are to aid the helpless, are we not?”
I sense that he may be talking, instead, about me. I wonder what he would say if he knew all of my story, but I won’t be telling it. “Yes, of course that is so.”
He lifts my sister down then and sets her at my feet in the gentlest of ways. “Mind you, stay away from the railing, though. Or we’ll be rescuing you and the foal.” Then he strides away, and in short order three slaves have been removed from their duties loading cordwood and sent off in a skiff to see after the foal.
Of those in the skiff, one of the slaves is the man called Big Nebenezer. In size and strength, he is equal to two men. I imagine that the first mate, Mr. Grazide, isn’t pleased to have Big Neb and the others gone from their task. I’m hoping he won’t learn that Maggie was the cause of it. The first mate is a rough fellow. He dislikes the look of Maggie May and me, and he loathes the captain’s attentions to us, that is plain enough. It matters none that it’s not my doing. If it were my way, we’d have no attentions here at all. I want only to be left alone to scratch out whatever life we can manage. I know that no respectable man will look my way with any decent sort of intention, not once he learns of my shame.
No sense in fighting what is, Bonnie Rose, Da told me in Ireland when the horses were gone and the house was taken, and there was nothing left to do but go. Best is to accept your lot, then get walkin’ forward.
The captain returns to the railing down the way now, but the first mate has come up, and there’s an argument brewing. The first mate pulls his pocket watch up by its chain, and points to the time.
The captain puts the first mate in his place quickly enough. I can tell it without hearing the words. The first mate grips his fists behind his back, like he’s wishing he could go to fisticuffs, but the captain stands a good head taller, and he is the authority on this boat. Such an act by the mate would be mutiny, and Mr. Grazide knows it. Finally, he turns away, but as he does, he gives a narrow look at me and then at Maggie May. He has discerned what’s happened.
Fear creeps over me again.
Meeting my eyes, he adds a quick jerk of his chin, as if in his mind he’s casting Maggie May off into the water. I know I can’t be leaving her to wander the deck alone again. No more sleeping with both eyes closed. Whatever it may take, I must see us safely all the way to Wildwood.
Down below on the bank, the men have brought up the skiff near the mired foal. The horses skitter off into the trees, but a mare runs to and fro, nickering and stomping. She wants to fight for her babe, but she cannot do it.
One of the men tosses a rope over the foal’s head from a bit away, as Big Neb wades in through the mud and water. He moves under the backside of the foal, bracing his shoulder down low. The men pull and Big Neb strains hard, letting out a cry that rents the air. Almost single-handedly, he pushes the foal out of the mud as the rest of them pull, and when it’s over, the man, his clothes, and the horse are all the same color.
There’s a cheer from the deck overhead, and I see that some of the passengers have come out to watch.
“Lovely! Just delightful!” A woman applauds as the foal trots off to its ma.
“Hear, hear!” seconds one of the gentlemen.
They’ve had a good afternoon’s entertainment, courtesy of Captain Engle. A little cheer for brightening up this slow, overburdened trip upriver.
The passengers are still glowing over it that evening at dinner, the ladies in their gowns and the gentlemen in their silk jackets and high starched collars. Amid all the color, Maggie May and I appear like poor relations.
Tonight much talk is given to the captain’s kindness, but not a thing is said of Big Neb, whose strength and labor freed the foal.
“And what do you think, Miss Rose?” Mrs. Harrington addresses me now, calling attention my way, no doubt because she knows I do not want it.
Mrs. Harrington’s grown son, Jeffrey, turns with an interested eye. There’s not another young lady on the trip unescorted, and I fear he finds me of slight fascination. It is a fortunate thing his mother keeps him within an arm’s length. I can only imagine the trouble it would be if he were to make advances. “Yes, tell us what you think, Miss Rose. Is it worth the time and the risk of three slaves to save the life of one scrappy wild pony? The stallion could have come out of the brush at any time and gone after the men.”
It’s surprising sometimes what the fine folk don’t know about horses. Da was right—there’s many a gentleman hasn’t a thimbleful of sense about what pulls his carriage or stands beneath his saddle. “I’ll wager the stud wouldn’t go near the bog, sir. He’s survived a good long while by knowing better.”
Mrs. Harrington pats her collar and turns away at the mention of the stud. Such a word wouldn’t be coming from her gentle mouth, I suppose. I turn my eyes to my plate, since I’ve given an answer.
But young Jeffrey hasn’t finished with me yet. “So it is your opinion that it was worth the trouble to rescue the little scrapper from the mud?”
I fold my hands in my lap, hold them tight. “It is not my decision, sir.”
“But if it were?”
I wonder what the talk was this afternoon among the gentlefolk—perhaps a debate as to the captain’s wisdom regarding the foal. Doubtless, they saw the argument with the first mate. Tempers on the New Ila run high at this point.
The first mate has spoken not a word all through supper, but he’s lookin’ at me now. I feel that something has tumbled from bad to worse. We’ve an enemy here, and now this has rubbed him crossways.
I look up, and the captain is watching me through curious eyes, waiting for my answer to Jeffrey’s question.
I straighten in my seat and say what is right to say. “It is one of God’s creatures, sir. And God’s creatures are meant for our kindness, surely as not. I do not suppose a kindness is ever wrong.”
“Hear, hear!” Mr. Searcy, a gentle mill keeper, lifts his glass. “May we have the patience of Job, the strength of Samson, and the countenance of Solomon.”
The others raise their glasses, and I do as well, but the sip of wine slips sour down my throat.
At the far end of the table, it is whiskey in the first mate’s glass. But he does not drink of it.
Chapter 7
ALLIE KIRKLAND
APRIL, PRESENT DAY
I saw the mystery cowboy again the day before the first big meeting of cast and crew was scheduled to happen at the Berman. On Tova’s orders, I’d ventured out to do some errands. With the costuming personnel arriving next Monday, it was suddenly critical that there be a coffee machine, as well as various foodstuffs and a standing order for a deli tray to be delivered to the basement each day. Given the condensed time frame, there was concern as to whether the costume designers, stitchers, cutters, and f
itters could accomplish the dressing of over seventy cast members in slightly under eight weeks.
My assigned mission for today was to finish equipping the basement with anything else needed to make it as self-contained and efficient as possible. Since that task brought me above ground, I was thrilled.
And then, suddenly, there was the mystery cowboy. Blake Fulton—I’d learned his name from the tuxedo rental card that was still taped to Tova’s wall. I rediscovered him, of all places, in the little city grocery store just down the block from the Berman. He was at the deli counter, ordering salami on rye. My mind stumbled over itself, trying to place his voice when I heard it. Then I recognized something about the way he was standing.
The mystery man, in the flesh. Making sandwich selections. Go figure.
Slipping around a display of Granny Smiths, I listened in on his conversation. For the better part of two weeks now, the paper he’d given me hadn’t been touched, and after being horsewhipped with the thing the day Tova found it, I wasn’t about to mention it again. From time to time, she brought it up as a case in point—I was not to overstep my bounds and do anything that she had not specifically instructed me to do. In other words, I was not to think for myself . . . unless it was a case in which I was supposed to think for myself, such as the ordering of the fabric racks and shelving.
Now suddenly, here was the man. He liked mustard, lettuce, tomato, and a frightfully large helping of jalapeño slices on his salami sandwich. Yuck.
The girl behind the counter was flirting like crazy, and he was into it. Contrary to our encounter in the theater basement, today he seemed relaxed, friendly, and in no hurry. Right at home, even. The deli girl knew just how he took his coffee. “So how’s the work going on the building?” She paused to deliver a come hither look as she put the lid on his cup and handed it over the deli case.
Building? I wondered. What building?
“Going fine,” he answered amiably. “No problems with the rain.”
The deli girl took a minute to clue in to the joke. The last few months had been mercilessly dry in Texas, especially considering that it was spring. She giggled. “You’re funny.”
He favored her with a dazzling smile, straight white teeth, twinkling hazel eyes, and then a little wink. The whole cowboy enchilada, so to speak.
“Just right,” he said after tasting the coffee.
Bracing a hand on her waist and jutting her hips to one side, she struck a pose, getting her groove on as best a girl can in a hairnet and plastic gloves. “So which building did you say you were working on? The Berman, wasn’t it? That’s such a pretty old place. I’d love to go inside there.”
The Berman? What? I stepped back so quickly that a trio of apples rolled off the edge of the display and fell onto the floor.
Blake Fulton turned, saw me there, and registered surprise. I’ll bet he was surprised.
“Funny you should mention the Berman.” I picked up an apple and tried to put it back on the display, but it rolled back into my hands again. “Remember me?”
The deli girl shot a concerned look back and forth between us, but Blake Fulton quickly moved from surprised to flirtatious again. “How could I forget?” He graced me with one of the slightly off-center smiles that had been working so well across the sandwich counter, then he moved to the navel oranges, tested a few, and selected one for his lunch. “Orange?” He offered me one too.
What kind of game was he playing? There was no remodeling going on in the Berman. Surely he realized I was aware of that. One thing was for certain: He’d caused me no small bit of agony at work, and this time I wanted some answers. “You know, you got me in trouble with my boss. She thinks you either wandered in off the street, or I made you up. Anyway, she would love to meet you. She’s got a few questions about those documents you gave me.”
I imagined bringing the mysterious cowboy to Tova, thereby redeeming myself. “We could walk down there now. She’s in the office.”
“Did she call the number on the top sheet?”
“What number? There was no phone number.”
He actually looked surprised. “I must’ve forgotten to write it on there.” He was already reaching for his cell phone. “Hang on a minute. I’ll get it for you.”
“Get what for me?”
“The phone number for you to give to your boss, Allie.” He looked at me when he said my name, his eyes bright in the neon glow of the deli lights. I was mesmerized for a moment before it occurred to me to wonder how he knew my name.
Then I realized I was still wearing my Razor Point Productions employee badge . . . with my name on it.
He tore a piece from his lunch sack and jotted a number on it. “Just have your boss call. They’ll explain it.” In one smooth movement, he retrieved his lunch and tried to hand me the scrap. No way was I falling for that trick again.
“I’ll just let you give that to her yourself. You know what they say about shooting the messenger.”
“Would if I could, but I’ve got a three o’clock flight to make.” He flashed another aren’t I adorable grin. “Sorry I got you in trouble. See you in eight weeks, Allie Kirkland.”
Underneath all the obvious thoughts about this ridiculous cat-and-mouse game, there was another one—stealthy and slightly insidious, like an undertow. He didn’t even look at the badge again. He remembered my name. Some annoyingly girly part of me liked that.
Taking my hand, he put the paper in it, then folded my fingers over the top before he sauntered off, leaving me momentarily stunned. He’d almost made it out of the produce aisle before my mind kicked into gear, and I hurried after him.
Rushing around the seedless grapes, I headed him off at the pass, hemming him up against a giant box of Rio Grande watermelons. A brilliant maneuver. “Now listen.” I shook the paper with the phone number on it. “How stupid do you think I am? You just told that girl at the deli that you were doing renovations on the Berman building. And now you want me to deliver yet another message to my boss? No way, mister. Who are you really, and what is going on?”
His gaze tangled with mine, and I couldn’t tell if he was irritated or just amused. He glanced at his watch. Then, as calmly as if he were opening the door and stepping onto the front porch, he settled his hands on my shoulders and gently moved me aside. We were suddenly in close quarters as he slipped through the space between me and the watermelons, leaning close as he did. “Take the number to your boss, Allie. Tell her to call it. It’ll be all right.”
I felt his breath on my ear, and a jolt of electricity traveled down my neck, sliding under my T-shirt and raising an unfamiliar prickle there. Suddenly, there wasn’t one intelligent sentence in my entire pea brain, so I just watched him stride to the cash registers, pay at the self-check, then head out the door.
He was way too big for me to tackle, anyway.
My iPhone rang as I was juggling packages on my way out the door. I grabbed the call without looking, thinking it might be Tova with more instructions for me. Instead, my mother was on the other end. “Allie, how are you, sweet? Your father and I were just going through the summer calendar.” I felt the usual stab that came with the your father reference to Lloyd. Maybe it should’ve seemed natural after sixteen years, but it just never had been. Hard to say whether that was because the term had been forced on me before I was ready, or because my relationship with Lloyd was always more miss than hit. He just didn’t like me very much and never had.
“Fine. Good.” A knot formed in my stomach. I hadn’t told them anything about my new job. Day after day, I’d convinced myself that, given the typical lifespan of downstairs production assistants in the Berman, I should wait a while to fight the family battle. Any given day, I could end up getting fired. “Working on wrapping up another semester.”
“We’re making summer schedules,” Mom said. That explained the unusual midday call. “I’ll be gone to Coronado Island with Whit, Ashley, and the grands the week of May 17, and Lloyd is scheduled to fly to Tai
wan for merger talks with one of his clients. The twins have been invited to train at an invitation-only day camp with an Olympic-level coach. Their gymnastics team just swept the regionals. Emerson brought home gold in two events and Madison took the overall. The camp is an opportunity too important to miss. If they’re seen by the right people, it could mean scholarships and . . . well, who knows.”
“Sounds awesome.” I had that sinking feeling that comes with realizing major family milestones have been reached and no one even bothered to share them with you. “Tell them congratulations for me, okay? Actually, never mind. I’ll send a text.”
“It’s a little after the fact now.” The answer was sharp, and I could only guess at the meaning . . . perhaps that I would’ve been there for all the family happenings if I hadn’t chosen to run off to grad school in Texas.
“Guess so.”
“I’m hoping you’ll be home by that May 17 week, at least?” Mom got back to the point, and that explained the call, in a nutshell. Emerson and Madison weren’t old enough to shuttle themselves to their invitation-only camp. They needed a driver while Mom and Lloyd were away.
I sat down on the bench in front of the store, let the grocery load rest beside me, and contemplated a homeless woman pushing her shopping cart down the sidewalk. Did she have a family somewhere? People she’d left behind because it seemed like every contact ended painfully?
“When is your flight?” Mom pressed. “I need to add it to the calendar. Lloyd says he’ll just go ahead and put you on salary at the law office the week you’re looking after the twins. Logan’s going to the beach with me. He doesn’t have soccer camp until the next week.”
“So, I’m the nanny while you’re gone? That’s why you’re in a hurry for me to get there?” I pressed my fingers to my mouth as soon as I said it. The little burst of venom burned, but I couldn’t stop it. Over and over and over our conversations led to something poisonous.
Wildwood Creek Page 6
