The boardwalk stopped about thirty yards shy of the high-water mark. Blanche dipped a tentative toe into the sand, and her shoe sunk in the soft surface. Giggling, she pulled back. “Do I dare walk forward?”
“If you do, sand will cover your shoes. Anytime we went to the beach, we came home with sand in every possible crevice. Dame Agatha complained she couldn’t get the sand out for two washings.” The memory brought a smile to his face. “If you want to skirt the grass here, it shouldn’t be bad. There’s another boardwalk in that direction.”
Blanche glanced at the sand, then at Ike. “I’d like that.” She kept turning to look at the ocean, mesmerized by the undulating waves. “I don’t think I would ever get tired of watching the water. Each time the waves wash over the beach, they draw pictures in the sand.”
The rather fanciful description suited the beach. “It’s peaceful.” Ahead of them, a family had spread out a blanket where gulls squatted, begging for leftovers. The father held a pair of binoculars to his eyes, and the mother glanced at a book between admonitions to their children. The young ones were busy filling a pail with sand. Pail-shaped mounds defined the outline of a sand castle. Ike pointed it out.
“Oh, that looks like fun.”
“Another time, perhaps.”
“If I come back.”
They needed to return to the Pettigrews’ house to meet the carriage on time, but Ike hated for Blanche’s time at the beach to end. The wave came up and washed away part of the castle.
“Oh dear.” Blanche laughed. “That must be what the Lord meant when He talked about a house built on sand and a house built on rock. The house built on sand would be washed away.”
“Temporary as sand, as eternal as the waves.” Ike stood behind Blanche, and she leaned ever so briefly against his chest. He resisted the urge to put his arms around her and pull her closer.
Sighing, she said, “It’s time to go back, isn’t it?”
He nodded, and they turned in the direction of town.
The driver held a slip of paper in his hand and offered it to Ike after he assisted Blanche into the carriage. Ike read the message and nodded. Good. Today was turning into a lucky day, after the difficult times last week.
“What’s that?” Faint pink appeared on Blanche’s face. Ike hoped she wouldn’t suffer from sunburn after their short time on the beach.
“Business.” He smiled and patted her hand. “Nothing you need to worry your pretty head about.”
She opened her mouth as if to protest then closed it without speaking. “Thank you for this lovely afternoon. I’ve been able to forget, for a few minutes, that I have lost both father and mother. God’s reminder that life goes on and I won’t be sad forever.” Leaning back against the seat, she closed her eyes. When her head fell against his shoulder, he adjusted her wrap and let her rest. He sought to nap but stayed locked awake.
As soon as they finished supper, Blanche and Effie excused themselves. Blanche took the account book with her. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“I regret anything that takes you away from me.” Eventually he would have to list the day’s business in the books, but it could wait. “Until tomorrow then?”
She smiled, and the two women left.
Ike retired to his cabin and set up things, setting out the bottle of whiskey he had managed to purchase before Old Obie’s death and opening a packet of cards. After full dark fell, he returned to the main deck and greeted Bart Ventura as he came down the wharf with a couple of business associates whom Ike had met.
“I’ve told my friends this is the best game in town. I’m glad you could accommodate us.”
“Glad to oblige.” He didn’t host games in port very often—if he wanted a game, he sought one out on land—but he wouldn’t refuse Ventura’s request. They would discuss some business tonight, now that Ike had final details about the return trip to Roma.
The evening passed the midnight hour, with Ike stone-cold sober but his guests feeling the effects of multiple shots of whiskey, when a sharp knock rapped at the door. Ventura swept the cards off the table in a practiced gesture, and the men removed their markers. Only whiskey glasses remained as telltale signs of the night’s activities.
“Who is it?” Ike spoke through the closed door.
“Police. Open the door or we’ll break it down.”
A swift glance at the table confirmed all signs of the game had disappeared. Half a dozen officers stood at the entrance, pistols in hand. With one hand pulling the door closed, he stood inches in front of the first officer.
“What can I do for the officers of the law?” Ike turned on his most convincing smile, the one smile that made women swoon and men agree to harebrained schemes. More than once, Old Obie had remarked that he was glad Ike was a reasonably honest man.
“Open that door.” The officer—a captain, Ike guessed by his uniform—shoved a piece of paper in his face. “Here’s the warrant.”
“Certainly.” Ike tried the door, pretending it was locked. “Silly me.” He took his time fishing his key out of his pocket. Heavy breathing and the smell of sweat identified the cops as men on the hunt.
The door opened to three men sitting around the table, cigars burning in ashtrays, which helped to mask the scent of whiskey. The drink, and the glasses, had disappeared, and all money had been put away. Ike allowed himself to relax. “How may I assist you this evening, Captain? As you can see, some friends of mine have gathered to offer their advice in this time of transition. You must have heard that our captain, J.O. Lamar, died last week.”
“The police have an exhaustive history of this boat, Mr. Gallagher.” He speared Ike with his glance while the officers pawed through his belongings. Ike bit his tongue to keep from asking what they were searching for.
“Here it is.” One of the officers, a black-haired man who sounded like a Cajun from nearby Louisiana held up a decanter.
The police captain—Ike had determined his name was Mason—opened the decanter and sniffed. He tipped it and let a drop drip on his finger, which he licked. “You have been serving whiskey.”
“What’s going on?” A feminine voice pierced through the crowd of men. Wrapped in a dressing gown that covered her from neck to toe, Blanche appeared in the doorway like an avenging angel.
CHAPTER 28
The clamor of half a dozen feet stomping down the stairs and hallway had awakened Blanche from a sound sleep. Worried about some emergency on board—a problem with the engine? A sandbar?—she had pulled on the dressing gown that covered her completely and followed the noise down the hall.
The hubbub centered in Ike’s cabin. Policemen crawled through his belongings like ants covering an ant hill, together with several men she had never met—and Bart Ventura. She almost coughed on the miasma of cigar smoke and sweat-soaked bodies and something else she couldn’t identify.
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with, ma’am.”
Blanche wished she had taken the time to dress. It was hard to exert authority while wearing bedclothes. “Let me be the judge of that. You are?”
“Captain Benedict Mason, ma’am. There is no need to be alarmed. I’ll have one of my officers escort you back to your cabin.”
When a dark-haired officer laid his hand on her arm, she shook him off. “If there is a problem with the boat, I want to know. I am the new owner.”
Too late she caught Ike’s frantic gestures.
Captain Mason’s eyebrows rose. “You are?”
“Blanche Lamar. Captain Lamar’s daughter.”
The man’s eyes darkened. “Were you aware that your—Mr. Gallagher was selling illegal whiskey to customers?”
Blanche looked at the decanter in the captain’s hands. Whiskey must have been the odor she couldn’t identify.
Ike pushed his way forward. “Captain, there is no need to distress Miss Lamar.”
“No, I want to hear your answer.” She wouldn’t let Ike send her away.
“I brought a bottle t
o ease my friend in his time of grief. No money has changed hands.” Mr. Ventura joined their circle.
Blanche reeled as the revelations poked more holes in her innocence in the ways of the world. “We don’t have a license to sell liquor.”
“No, you don’t, which is why we were concerned when we received word about this evening’s gathering.” Captain Mason had toned down his belligerence.
A cry from one of the officers announced his discovery of a stack of money. He handed it to Captain Mason. His belligerence returned in full force. “If no money exchanged hands, why does this paper say ‘IOU’?”
Gambling.
Mr. Ventura and Ike exchanged a long look. Ike gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders before speaking. “We were playing a friendly game of chance. I, um, wrote out the IOU until I can bring him the rest of the money. And that’s not against the law.” He cast an apologetic look in Blanche’s direction.
The policeman shifting through Ike’s trunk straightened. A shake of his head indicated he had found nothing.
The lines on Captain Mason’s face deepened into a scowl. He turned on Blanche. “I’m surprised that a lady such as yourself would allow drinking and gambling aboard your boat.”
Blanche slammed her mouth shut, jarring her teeth.
During the course of their conversation, two strangers had slipped through the door. Mr. Ventura stuck his right hand out and clasped Captain Mason’s palm. “I wish we had met under different circumstances, but I trust there is no lasting ill will.”
Did Blanche imagine it, or did he slip a bill to the captain?
“No.” The word lacked the captain’s earlier anger. “But the next time I board this boat, I trust I won’t find any illegal refreshments?”
“No, you won’t.” Blanche took control. “I guarantee it.” She decided to take it one step further. “And Mr. Ventura, I believe it’s best if you make your future travel plans with a different company.”
“Now, wait a minute—” Ike barreled forward. “Bart, don’t pay any attention to her.”
“Do we have an understanding, Mr. Ventura?” Blanche extended her hand the way he had earlier.
He bowed over her hand, all of his earlier charm evident. “We will not be seeing each other again.” Straightening, he shook Ike’s hand. “It’s been a pleasure.” He wasted no time walking out the door.
Captain Mason bowed over Blanche’s hand. “I wish you the best on this new venture.” He nodded in Ike’s direction. “Mr. Gallagher.”
“Captain Mason.”
They could have been two men about to walk six paces and duel at dawn. Ike walked him to the door and watched his departure. “They’re gone.” Grabbing a shot glass in his hand, he raised his arm as if he was going to throw it. Instead he placed it on a clear spot on his dresser. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?’
“Do you remember your promise?” she shot back.
“Ventura’s one of our best customers. We have no way to make up for losing his business.” Ike stalked the room. “There’s a reason why the captain left me in charge of day-to-day operations. We need his business.” He tossed things in his chest, not bothering to fold his clothes.
His actions reminded Blanche that she was alone with Ike in his cabin, wearing only her dressing gown. “This isn’t over. We will discuss it”—she glanced at the clock in the corner—“in a few hours.” Keeping her eyes dry and her back straight, she whirled around and headed back to her cabin.
Effie sat in the rocking chair, knitting needles clacking in the silence. “What happened?”
Effie would have to know sooner or later. “Police raided the boat.” The words came out in clipped syllables. “They accused Ike of selling liquor without a license.”
“Ike would never do that.” Effie didn’t appear in the least bit upset.
“There was liquor.” Blanche still thought she might be physically ill. The smells in that room had overwhelmed her senses. Dry heaves shook her shoulders now. After a couple of unproductive bouts, she poured water into a basin and splashed her face.
“Ike doesn’t drink. Maybe a glass every now and then. But he does provide refreshment for his guests.”
Effie couldn’t understand the effect of such simple words on Blanche. Her mother, her pastor, her church, were all teetotalers. Her background taught her a single drink always led to drunkenness. But that bothered her less than gambling—an activity she had expressly prohibited. “His marks. Isn’t that the word they use? They were playing poker.”
At those words, Effie’s knitting needles stopped clacking. “I was afraid he would continue.”
“He promised.” Blanche choked on the words. “I thought I could trust him.”
“Oh Blanche.” Effie folded the yarn back into the bag. “Come here.” She patted the berth next to her chair.
“I can’t sleep.” Blanche plopped down on the pillow and unbuttoned her dressing gown. Even if she couldn’t rest, she could be cool.
“You can trust Ike to do everything he considers in the best interest of the Cordelia and Lamar Industries and you.”
“But he promised not to—”
“He promised not to do anything that would get you into trouble. Not the same thing.” Effie lifted a single finger. “The police raid will weigh heavily on his conscience.”
“He twisted my words.” Blanche rang her hands. “You’ll have to teach me how to knit. It might relax me.” When she picked up a ball of yarn, it rolled across the floor. That brought a giggle to her lips. “Maybe that’s not a good idea. I never was all that good with thread and needle.” The giggle turned weepy. She lay on the bed without climbing under the covers.
“There’s nothing more we can do about it until tomorrow morning.” Effie patted Blanche’s shoulder before she climbed back into bed. “I’m praying about it.”
Lately prayer felt like a wasted effort. Was prayer going to make up for the difference between Ike’s promise and his betrayal? She had prayed and prayed and still had no clue what she should do for her future. Had she traded the sure friendship of the people of Roma for the passing regard of Effie and Ike? She never should have left home. She should have known nothing good would ever come of living on a steamboat.
If she had never boarded the Cordelia, she never would have met her father.
Once Effie’s breathing had settled into a steady pattern, Blanche took her place in the rocking chair and stared at the door. Staying or leaving, she had to decide.
Ike didn’t bother cleaning his cabin. He cleared off his bed and lay down. Guilt-plagued dreams that had police locking him in jail while he was awash in a river of whiskey troubled his sleep. After tossing and turning for a couple of hours, he awoke, his head splitting, leg sore where it dangled over the side of the bed.
The whiskey decanter stood on his table, taunting him, inviting him to drink a shot, to take the edge off the terrible day ahead. He had done what he must to protect Blanche’s inheritance. That’s why the captain had made him the director of daily operations. Wasn’t it?
Ike had never used alcohol as a crutch and he wouldn’t start now. No amount of alcohol or coffee would answer the central problem: would Blanche decide to direct Carver to sell the Cordelia and split the profits? Would his actions deprive himself and his sister of both a means of support and their home?
Whatever the day might hold, he would greet it with his usual savoir faire. A single glance in the mirror revealed dark stubble on his chin that made him look more sinister than daring, and dark circles emphasized the harshness of the night. Nothing could remove the dark circles, but he would allow himself the luxury of a hot shave. While he waited for the water to heat, he checked the suit that Dame Agatha had returned to him yesterday, freshly pressed. His hand wandered over his tie rack, settling on his red tie. Red always made him feel better.
Once he had his basin of hot water, he sudsed soap with his shaving brush and lathered his face. The bristles fell in
to the basin, and the brace of aftershave woke up his skin. He added pomade to his hair. Now he could face the day. With a tip of the hat he pretended he was wearing, he left the cabin with a swagger.
Soft piano music filtered from the salon as Ike approached. Effie must be doing better. The melodies flowed from one of Old Obie’s favorites into another. Sentiment washed over Ike, causing a hitch in his step. When Effie began a new melody, Ike began whistling “Yankee Doodle Went to Town.” The hand-clapping, happy song brimmed with the captain’s larger-than-life personality. She must be doing better.
Taking courage from his sister’s music, Ike pushed through the door. The room seemed empty, with only the crew and no passengers. Blanche wasn’t at her usual seat at the captain’s table. Relieved, he took another step into the room before he spotted the head of red hair at the long table with the rest of the crew. She talked and laughed as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened only a few hours earlier.
Two could play at that game. With a warm smile and a practiced air, he swept into the room. “Good morning, everyone.”
Blanche’s shoulders stiffened before she twisted in her seat. “Good morning, Mr. Gallagher.”
Mr. Gallagher. That didn’t sound friendly, not friendly at all. Ike headed for the opposite end of the table, but Blanche waved him back. “There’s a seat across from me. We have some matters to discuss.”
How did she sound so chipper? Ike took the seat she had indicated. Smithers poured a cup of coffee before he had a chance to say no. “I’ll take a glass of milk as well.”
Effie stopped playing and took the seat next to Ike. Blanche said grace over the meal. Conversation flowed around the three of them, sparing Ike the necessity of saying anything.
Under the cover of laughter, Effie’s voice intruded on his thoughts. “How are you this morning?”
She knows. Of course she did. She knew everything that happened onboard. “I’ve had better nights.” He kept a smile on his face for Blanche’s benefit in case she happened to glance in his direction.
The Brides of the Old West: Five Romantic Adventures from the American Frontier Page 34
