by Ana Morgan
Last night, they’d docked for a few hours in St. Joseph. Clifford Benjamin had gone into town. Now he was passed out in a corner, an empty bottle of whiskey beside him.
“Shut it down!”
“I’m trying,” Big John yelled from the furnace room. Sweat dripped down his face as he scooped out red-hot coals and dumped them into a big steel ash pan. “She’s real hot. I think she’s gonna blow!”
Rufus Trimble appeared in the doorway, wearing a nightshirt and screaming a stream of profanities. He took one look at the gauge and backed away.
Blade followed and saw him dart into cabin one.
Trimble emerged carrying a moneybox fastened with a large padlock. He pounded on cabin two until Trimble Senior came out.
“I knew this was going to happen,” Trimble Senior shouted. “It’s that female’s fault.” Both men headed for the side of the ship and jumped into the water.
Mouse pushed Tom Little out of cabin four.
Stormy appeared in her doorway. Her eyes were wide with fear. “What should I do?”
“Get my saddlebags,” Blade shouted. “Mouse, take her and jump overboard. Head for the Missouri side.”
He sprinted back to the engine room. Big John was nowhere in sight. He picked up Clifford Benjamin, threw the lad over the side, and jumped.
As his feet hit the water, the boiler exploded with a deafening boom, shattering the freighter into a million pieces. He curled into a ball and hid below the river’s surface until his lungs were ready to burst.
When he surfaced and drew a desperate breath, the river and both shores were littered with jagged pieces of wood and iron. Snag trees and cut bolts bobbed in the muddy water. Trimble Senior’s big, stained coffee pot floated an arm’s length away, its lid still on. Someone’s shirt hung like a ghost in a tree. A rounded section of the boiler sat on the bank like a riverside bathtub.
Paddling carefully through the flotsam, he recognized Clifford Benjamin, clinging to a section of boiler stovepipe.
“Help,” Benjamin bawled. “I can’t swim.”
Ignoring the lad’s slurred questions about what had happened, Blade hauled him to the Missouri shore. Then, he waded back into the river and tried to gauge how far it had carried him since he’d ordered Mouse and Stormy to jump overboard.
A steamer rounded the downstream bend and chugged towards the disaster. Its whistle sounded the five short blasts of distress. Men held out poles with hooks and looked for survivors and bodies.
If Benjamin survived, Stormy and Mouse had to be alive.
Blade slogged his way upstream along the river’s edge, cursing the muck that sucked at his boots and slowed his progress. His anxious gaze swept the opposite shore, in case they’d ended up there.
He should have asked Stormy if she could swim. If she’d panicked in the water, and Mouse was hurt, she could be . . . Dread blurred his vision.
“Blade!”
He looked up. About a hundred yards ahead, Stormy waved her arms over her head.
He forgot how tired he was and scrambled toward her, whooping with joy. He wrapped his arms around her, and as soon as he caught his breath, he asked, “Where’s Mouse?”
“Back a ways,” she said. “Something hit his head and knocked him out. I towed him to shore. He’s awake now. I told him to stay put while I hunted for you.”
“Hoy there,” a voice called. Forty feet inland, a man wearing a straw hat reined up his horse-drawn wagon. Seven children sat behind him in the wagon’s bed. “You off the boat that exploded?”
~ ~ ~
Blade sat between Stormy and Mouse in the back of Johann Teller’s produce wagon. Teller’s family, and many others who lived nearby, combed the riverfront for spoils from the wreck. Small boats plied the muddy water, their occupants salvaging everything that could be snagged.
He’d negotiated a deal with Mr. Teller: they would help pick, wash, and sort vegetables for tomorrow’s market in exchange for supper, a straw bed in the barn, and an early morning ride into Kansas City.
He’d also schemed a way to St. Louis. His plan required some bravado, and he’d have to talk Mouse into posing as Stormy’s bodyguard. Once he had them decked out in new clothes, the rest would be easy.
He looked down at Stormy, dozing beside him. Matted hair stuck to her head, and dirt streaked her cheeks. She didn’t look like a catch, but she really was. She’d risked life and limb chasing after him. A man couldn’t need more proof of love than that. If his parents didn’t embrace her, he’d write them off forever.
A boater fished a long leather coat out of the water.
“That looks like yours, Mr. B,” Mouse said.
Blade sighed. He’d bought that coat the summer he got Belinda. “Took me two years to break it in. Now I’ll have to start over. Speaking of starting over, if you’ll come with us, I’ll give you a job.”
“How you’s gonna pay me?” Mouse scoffed. “You was snagging for your passage and Missy’s.”
Stormy blinked and sat up. “His father owns a bank, and that’s where they keep the money.”
“Truly?”
Blade nodded. “There are times when being a rich man’s son has its advantages.”
Chapter 21
Kansas City had to be the noisiest place on earth. Whistles from river steamers and the Missouri-Pacific train station wailed like dueling mourners. Carriage drivers shouted for right of way. Street vendors plied their wares with a ferocity that drowned out civilized conversation.
Riveted by the commotion, Stormy caught the toe of her boot on the hem of Mrs. Teller’s too-long, hand-me-down dress and felt it rip. Without a pin to fix it, she followed Blade down block after block until he stopped in front of a fancy hotel called The Saint George.
A doorman, dressed in a dark red uniform with vertical rows of silver buttons, looked at her and frowned.
“Stormy, you must have a given name,” Blade said. “What is it?”
Stormy tore her gaze from the doorman, who was now approaching. “Ophelia, from Hamlet. But, no one ever calls me that.”
“When we walk into this hotel, you are Miss Ophelia, heiress to the Hawkins cattle empire. Mouse is your bodyguard.”
“No one will believe I’m an heiress,” she said. “I look like a flophouse floozy.”
“Just stand tall and look ‘em straight in the eye. I’ll do all the talking.”
“I can’t go in there, Mr. B,” Mouse said. “They’ll throw me in jail.”
“Trust me, they won’t.”
With a reassuring nod to Mouse, Blade set his hand on the small of Stormy’s back and propelled her toward the main door as if he owned the hotel.
The doorman extended his arms and puffed out his chest. “I think you’d better go elsewhere, sir. Our guests wear jackets and ties.”
Blade ignored him and escorted her into a sumptuous lobby with high ceilings, potted plants, and gilded mirrors. Bellhops stared as they approached the front desk.
“Mr. Ewins, please,” he said to the clerk.
The pasty-faced man peered over the rim of his half-glasses. “I’m sure he does not wish to be disturbed.”
By the likes of you. Stormy finished the clerk’s thought and tried to step back.
Blade didn’t budge. “If you want to keep your job, tell Mr. Ewins the man who holds the controlling interest in this hotel wishes to speak with him.”
The clerk blinked, set down his pencil, and darted into a side room.
Blade patted her hand reassuringly. “You still there, Mouse?”
“Yes, Mr. B, but I don’t like this.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
A middle-aged man with brown hair parted down the middle stepped out of a back office accompanied by the desk clerk. He wore a trim blue busines
s suit, white shirt collar tight against his Adam’s apple. A pristine handkerchief adorned his breast pocket. His pinched smile faded. Color drained from his face. “Mr. Masters.”
“Hello, Frank. It’s been a while. How’s business?”
“Very good, I assure you, sir.” The hotel manager pulled out his handkerchief and blotted his forehead. “You’ve read the latest annual report?”
“It’s on my desk. May I present Miss Ophelia, heiress to the Hawkins cattle empire, and her bodyguard, Mr. Mouse. We’ve arrived with only borrowed shirts on our backs. You heard about the steamer explosion north of town?”
“I lost all my belongings,” Stormy said in her best haughty-heiress voice.
Blade scowled at her.
She ignored him. An heiress wouldn’t be quiet. She’d be bossy and demanding.
Ewins’s head bobbed effusively. “The hotel and staff are completely at your disposal.”
“Thank you, Frank. I expect nothing less,” Blade said. “We’ll take adjoining suites on the top floor. Miss Hawkins’ father expects us to take good care of her.” He leaned close to the hotel manager. “She’s worth a king’s ransom.”
Ewins looked her in the eye for the first time. “We are delighted that you’re our guest, Miss Hawkins.”
“I’m quite hungry,” she snapped, keeping up her heiress persona. “It’s been an ordeal, getting back to civilization.”
“Would you prefer room service, or should I open the Angus Room?”
“Room service. I am not suitably attired to dine in public.”
“Of course, madam,” Ewins soothed. With a wave of his hand, he summoned a capable-looking matron, whom he introduced as Mrs. Faron. She wore a long-sleeved ivory blouse and a floor-length black skirt. A wide tooled leather belt cinched her waist. “Mrs. Faron will attend to your every need during your stay. I would see to it personally,” he waved his hand again, “but someone has to run things. I’m sure you understand.”
“I do indeed, Mr. Ewins,” Stormy said. “Mrs. Faron, I’ll have three eggs over easy, four slices of buttered toast, bacon, milk, coffee, and preserves, not marmalade.”
“Right away.” Mrs. Faron gestured toward the hotel staircase. “Your suite is this way.”
~ ~ ~
Blade signed the hotel register and walked toward the stairs with Mouse.
A young bellhop accompanied them. He looked a bit lost without a bag to carry and probably worried whether he would receive a tip.
Blade made a mental note to withdraw some coins from the hotel safe. The bill for their stay and other expenses would be sent to St. Louis; a surprise inspection of the bank’s investment was a legitimate business expense.
“Missy sure is a pistol, Mr. B. Will the kitchen fix something for us, too?”
“What would you like, Mouse?”
“Steak and taters would be nice.”
Blade addressed the bellhop. “What’s your name?”
“Patchen, sir.”
“You’re going to be very busy today, Patchen, and you will be well paid. Please ask the kitchen to prepare two porterhouse steaks, pomme frites, and a pitcher of chilled tea with lemon.”
The bellhop’s face brightened. “Yes, sir!”
The suite on the top floor was well appointed, with two bedrooms, a sitting room, and a bath larger than two cabins on the Snagger II. The carpets were thick and spotless, the dresser tops dust-free. So far, the Saint George passed inspection.
Patchen left to place their breakfast order and returned quickly. “Shall I draw a tub, sir?”
~ ~ ~
Two hours later, Blade tapped on Stormy’s door. Patchen stood beside him holding two large, newly-purchased valises.
Mrs. Faron answered. “Come in, Mr. Masters. We’re ready for you.”
Inside, three seamstresses with pincushions strapped to their wrists snapped to attention.
Garbed in a silky white robe, Stormy sat on a couch surrounded by stacks of garment and millinery boxes. She looked scrubbed, brushed, and a bit overwhelmed. She rushed toward him.
He caught a glimpse of a lacy garment under her robe and knew what he’d like to do if they were alone.
“They want me to try on all these fancy clothes,” she whispered.
“You’ll need them when we get to St. Louis.”
Stormy blanched. “I don’t know what they cost. Nothing has a price tag.”
“I have money in the bank. Just listen to Mrs. Faron.” He set his hands on her waist and spun her around. “Miss Ophelia needs a complete wardrobe, from morning gowns to evening wear, as well as a comfortable travel ensemble. When I return, I expect to see a suitable selection.”
~ ~ ~
Grumpy and hungry, Stormy flopped onto an overstuffed chair and pulled her knees to her chest. Bellhops had run nonstop between her hotel room and specialty shops with French names in search of tighter fits and brighter colors. Following orders all day, she’d tried on each outfit, turned around, and took it off to try on the next one.
She’d also stopped voicing an opinion. Mrs. Faron knew far better what one was supposed to wear at noon and four and eight.
Blade returned wearing a single-breasted gray jacket and vest, charcoal trousers, and string bow tie. He moved with ease in his fine new clothes, reminding her again that he was returning to a life he knew well, and probably missed. He positioned a Queen Anne chair in the center of the room and settled into it like he had commanded a performance.
Mrs. Faron immediately held up the royal blue evening gown with puff sleeves and floral accents, and turned it front to back. When Blade nodded, she repeated the showing with the beaded blue slippers and over-the-elbow gloves.
Next, she introduced the sunflower morning frock, several day dresses with silly hats, and two sort-of-nice dinner dresses. Each had specific accessories—shoes, short gloves, pins—all would be useless on the ranch.
Holding the ensembles against their bodies, the seamstresses acted out scenarios. One walked into a restaurant and thanked the maître d’ for seating her. Another welcomed friends for tea. No one rode a horse or roped a calf.
Out of the corner of her eye, Stormy studied Blade, who seemed to watch the showing with rapt attention. She gulped when he approved every selection. If she wanted to make him happy, she was going to have to wear these get-ups. Remember what went with what. Pour tea. She hoped he didn’t expect her to gossip.
When the seamstresses finished, Stormy dashed into the bedroom for the one outfit she wanted. She pulled on the long hunter-green culottes, buttoned the shirt with the oyster shell buttons, and donned the matching waist-length jacket. She’d balked at the flouncy chapeau that Mrs. Faron liked and had chosen a felt trilby hat. It had a pull-down veil, but she intended to rip that off as soon as they checked out of the hotel.
The black over-the-ankle boots required a buttonhook, and Mrs. Faron had threatened to toss her ranch boots out the window unless she learned to use it. In a small act of defiance, she slipped the new boots on loose, pinched her cheeks, and stepped out into the sitting room.
“Look,” she said. “Pants that masquerade as a skirt.”
Stern-faced, Mrs. Faron spun her finger in a circle.
Stormy turned slowly, hoping for Blade’s approval. “It’s the latest fashion from Paris for traveling.”
Blade cleared his throat and smiled. “We’ll take it, too.” He signed the bills presented by the weary seamstresses and tipped them before they left.
Mrs. Faron opened a valise, busily packed her new undergarments and toiletries, and stood beside the evening dresses, draped carefully over the couch. “How should Miss Ophelia dress for dinner?”
~ ~ ~
Blade’s stomach growled as he sat in the hotel lobby waiting for Stormy an
d Mouse. Ninety minutes had passed since they’d agreed to dine in the hotel’s Angus Room. He’d sent off a wire to Zed Hawkins saying that Stormy was well, they were headed to St. Louis, and he’d bring her home, safe and sound, in about two weeks.
He sipped his second whiskey and smiled. For the first time in his life, he was enjoying spending his father’s money.
Mouse had come close to tears when he finally understood he was supposed to buy new clothes. Mrs. Faron had pulled him aside to complain that Ophelia was unlike any other heiress she’d encountered. He’d assured her that, despite her Dakota Territory ways, Miss Ophelia was worth every effort.
Mrs. Faron descended onto the landing of the staircase and stopped.
Intrigued, Blade moved to a chair next to the stairs.
Mouse and Stormy appeared next. He stood tall in his new black suit and boots.
The floor-length skirt of Stormy’s new dinner dress hugged her hips, and the red beaded top sparkled under the lobby’s grand chandeliers. Her hair was swept up in an elegant chignon. Pearls dangled from her earlobes. Standing still, she looked like a well-heeled heiress, except her hands were clenched into fists, and she chewed on her lower lip.
She tried to push past Mrs. Faron and failed.
“To make a proper entrance, Ophelia, take light, slow steps and hold your head high.” Mrs. Faron said. “Let’s try it again.”
Stormy glared at him and mouthed, “Do I have to?”
Blade nodded. Stormy was the love of his life, but she was unprepared for the world he was taking her to. St. Louis Society was cruel when it ridiculed. She didn’t deserve that.
Maybe if they stayed a day longer, Mrs. Faron could teach her enough etiquette to charm Society and delight his parents.
Stormy and Mouse disappeared up the stairs, and Blade stared into his glass of whiskey.
His younger sister Mary had always been kind to everyone. She wouldn’t have changed.
