by Tara West
“Mi amor, why are you crying?” He sat beside her, pulling her into an embrace.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and sniffled against his chest but said not a word.
He cupped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Please say something.”
She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, then wiped her hand across a gossamer gown which she wore over her shift. An ordinary man might have been repulsed by her behavior, but Gabriel was no ordinary man, and Safi was certainly no ordinary woman. He knew Safi was different the day he met her, and her child-like behavior was what he loved so much about her. He wondered if it was due to a lack of maturity, or if she’d simply been too coddled by her mother. She might be five hundred years old, but she had been asleep for all but seventeen of them. In a way, she was still a youth, having been torn from her mother’s bosom when she was learning how to be a woman.
“I-it’s nothing.” She shrugged. “Look at the pretty dresses I found.” Her smile appeared forced as she waved to the dresses laid out across the foot of the bed. There were many colors, but the thin white gown she wore was what caught his eye. He imagined his mate without the shift underneath, the sheer fabric revealing her dark, pebbled nipples and that auburn patch of curls between her thighs.
He shook his head at his wayward thoughts. His mate was in need of emotional support, and all he could think about was coupling. His new body had made him go loco for love.
He brushed a wayward crimson curl behind her ear. “They are beautiful, but do not try to distract me with fine lace. Why were you crying?”
The look in her eyes nearly broke his heart in two. “I-I just can’t imagine an eternity without my mother.” She ended on a sob, burying her face in her hands.
Gabriel’s heart clenched as he stroked her back. “You will see her again.”
“No!” She dropped her hands, looking at him with fear in her eyes. “She will try to separate us.”
Gabriel forced a smile. “She can’t. Not now that we are bonded.”
She looked lost in thought. “How can you be sure?”
Gabriel wasn’t sure. But one thing he did know—Safi’s mother loved her, and if she saw how happy Safi and Gabriel were together, perhaps she’d forgive them. “Give her time to cool down. You will see. She will forgive us, especially if we give her a grandchild.”
Safi’s jaw dropped. “You want to sire a dragon child?”
The way she said it, as if the thought of having a child with her should have repulsed him, filled him with sadness and anger all at once. How could Safi doubt his love and admiration for her?
“No.” He clasped her hands and looked deeply into her eyes, willing her to see into his soul. “I want to sire our dragon child.”
Her hands flew to her mouth as nervous laughter erupted from her throat. “Do you think your seed has taken root?”
Gabriel fingered the soft fabric of her white gossamer gown. He couldn’t help the sly smile that tugged at his lips. “I’m not sure, which is why we must try as often as we can.”
Safi’s stomach took that most inopportune moment to growl. He reached for her, then shrank back as the sound intensified.
“You’re hungry.”
“No.” She settled a hand on her belly. “I’m famished.”
Gabriel slid off the bed and held out his hand. “Come. I have a surprise for you.”
* * *
Dr. Straw held his head up high as he strolled into Ritter’s, a saloon frequented by the upper crust of society and the one establishment where he always kept up with his tab. The gentlemen who frequented Ritter’s were married to his best customers, so he had to put on a good show, especially considering he’d lost nearly half his clientele in the past two days. After he slipped off his hat and coat, he perused the room, captivated by two patrons arguing at the counter.
“I’m telling you, I saw a big fin and a long tail.” Mr. Goldman slammed his drink on the counter, lean arms spread wide. He glared, the ends of his grey bushy moustache hanging below his chin. His short, stocky companion laughed.
Mr. Goldman had never looked more vulnerable than that moment. Straw knew his fortunes were about to change, for Goldman had very deep pockets and a blessedly sick wife. If he came to Goldman’s aid, perhaps Goldman could help him regain his clientele.
“Goldman, you old fool,” Mr. Ball, a dock foreman who had no business being at an upscale saloon, laughed while slapping Goldman on the back. “It was probably a trail of seaweed.”
Goldman slammed his fist on the counter. “It was a tail.”
Ball stepped back, narrowing his beady eyes and running a stubby hand through his thinning, white hair. “I suggest you ease off the drinks for the night. You can go on telling your story, but there’s nobody here going to believe a tall tale like that.”
“And I don’t give a damn.” Goldman tossed back his drink before slamming the empty glass on the counter. “I know what I saw.”
Dr. Straw stepped up to the bar, hailing the bartender with a wave. “I believe you,” he said to Goldman as he rested his elbows on the counter. “I saw the sea monster, too.”
Goldman’s brows rose. “You were on the beach yesterday?”
“I was,” Straw lied, though it was an easy fabrication, for he’d heard the tall tale circulating through the streets and saloons. “It was the most bizarre occurrence. The healer’s daughter rushed into the water and saved the boy from the shark, then lost all her clothes without suffering so much as a scratch.”
Goldman flashed Ball a knowing look. “That is exactly what I saw.”
Straw stood to full height, pulling back his shoulders. “I tell you, though I consider myself a man of science, there is something dark and foul at work here.”
Ball’s gaze sharpened. “What do you mean?”
Straw cared not a lick what Ball thought of him, for Goldman probably earned four times his wages, and it was Goldman who leaned forward, eager to hear more.
Dr. Straw looked down at Ball with a condescending smile. “That boy suffered mortal wounds, and yet he lives. Abigail Jenkens fell twenty feet from the pier, yet she miraculously recovered. There is no scientific explanation for it.”
Goldman eagerly nodded. “I saw Pedro Cortez sitting with his grandfather on their front porch this morning. His face had a healthy glow. He didn’t look like a boy who’d just had a brush with death.”
Ball crossed his arms, rocking on his heels. “So what are you two saying?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Straw shrugged and looked for his glass, aggravated the bartender still hadn’t poured him a drink. “The healer and her daughter are witches.” He impatiently waved at the bartender again.
“Hogwash!” Ball shouted.
The annoying little man reminded Straw of an obnoxious barking dog the madam at his least favorite brothel kept as a pet. Straw had found pleasure in kicking that dog on more than one occasion. How he’d love to kick Ball now.
Straw imagined himself a preacher behind a pulpit, putting the fear of the devil into the bar patrons. “Mrs. Alderman could hardly stand because of her rheumatism. Mrs. Moody could scarcely draw breath. I have seen them both out and about town, acting as if they’d discovered the fountain of youth.” He dropped his voice to an ominous rumble. “But worst of all is the McClendon boy. Fever claimed his brain months ago, robbing him of the ability to feed himself and walk, and yet I heard he was playing tag in the street this morning.”
Goldman and Ball blinked at Straw, either too shocked or too dumb to speak. He seized this opportunity to put the final nail in the bitch’s coffin.
“All these people have had that redheaded witch put her hands on them. I have done some investigating, and all I could find about this woman and her daughter was that they arrived Saturday from Scotland. They go by Miss Fiona and Miss Safina. I have heard no one address them by a surname.” He did his best to appear thoroughly shocked and scandalized, though the women he kept company with were s
everal degrees more disreputable than the healer and her child. He turned up his nose and made a face, as if he’d swallowed stale brandy. “I find this whole situation too odd for my liking.”
Ball puffed up his chest, pointing a stubby finger at Straw. “You know what I find too odd for my liking? The fact that you claim to have been on the beach when the boy was attacked, and yet I didn’t see you helping him, Dr. Straw.”
The doctor did his best to remain impassive after Ball had thrown him off guard. “The mob was too thick. I couldn’t get to the boy.” Another lie. Truthfully, he’d been sitting at the poker table of a smoky saloon, doing his best to bluff his way out of a bad hand while the boy was drowning. He hadn’t heard of the incident until later that night, slinking past O’Leary and out the back door, five hundred in the hole.
Straw tensed when Goldman and Ball shared a look. He’d seen that expression too many times to count, the non-verbal exchange between two men who’d pegged Straw for the charlatan he was.
Goldman cleared his throat. “The boy’s feeble grandfather broke up the group. Why didn’t you follow us to Mrs. Jenkens’s house and help? You are a doctor, aren’t you?”
“Miss Fiona was attending the boy,” Straw grumbled.
Ball tossed back his head and laughed. “But you said yourself she was a witch. Why would you allow him to be healed by witchcraft instead of surgery?”
It suddenly dawned on Dr. Straw how much he hated Mr. Ball. “N-no surgery could have saved him,” he stammered, then instantly regretted his words, for he knew he’d dug his hole even deeper.
Ball leaned up, jabbing a finger in Straw’s chest. “And yet he lives, no thanks to you.”
Yes, indeed, Dr. Straw hated Ball with a passion. If he wasn’t a gentleman, he would have probably ripped the portly man’s finger right out of its socket.
“Seems to me you’re jealous Miss Fiona is a better doctor than you,” Goldman said.
Straw cursed himself for a fool. Why did this woman have to move to his town and cause him so much trouble?
“Jealous?” He turned up his chin. “Preposterous!”
“Or maybe you’re just angry she’s taking away your clients.” Ball raised his fists, his eyes simmering with anger.
Dr. Straw didn’t like the direction this conversation was heading. He didn’t like violence, not when he was on the receiving end. “I can assure you I have more than enough clients.” He did his best to speak in a calm tone while feigning a smile. “My patients are loyal and trust their ailments to a man of science.”
“Then why are you not healing them now?” Goldman asked with raised brows.
“Even a doctor’s busy schedule must afford time for relaxation.” Straw made a big show of checking his gold pocket watch, one of the few things of value he had left to his name. “Speaking of which, where is my scotch?” He turned to the bartender with a scowl.
The man had the nerve to walk up to him empty-handed. The saloon owner’s son, whom the patrons called Davy, had the same strawberry-colored hair as his father, with more freckles on his nose than Straw cared to count. Straw disliked Davy, too, and not just because he still hadn’t served him a drink. Over the past few days, he’d acquired a distaste for redheads.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Straw.” Davy set down an empty glass in front of him. “But I can’t serve you unless you pay your tab.”
Straw jerked back as if he’d been slapped. “What? I always pay it at the end of the month.”
“I know, but….” Davy leaned forward, his voice dropping. “We’ve heard rumors from your creditors.”
Straw tensed at the sound of laughter from Ball and Goldman.
“Lies,” Straw hissed.
Davy gave Straw a knowing once-over. “O’Leary was in here earlier, looking for you. He says you have until this Saturday to pay up or suffer payback.”
Dr. Straw did his best to ignore Ball and Goldman’s sniggering as he stepped back from the bar. “If you would excuse me, gentlemen,” he said through a frozen smile. “I have a long evening at the hospital awaiting me.”
He walked to the exit with haste. As he donned his hat and coat, he cringed as the conversation from the bar carried across the room.
“That man is no doctor.”
“He’s a disgrace.”
“He needs to get his affairs in order before he points fingers at anyone else.”
A wave of humiliation surged through Straw as he walked out onto the pavement. He did his best to ignore rude stares and sibilant whispers as he pushed through the crowd, elbowing anyone in his way. When an elderly lady bumped his hip with her heavy handbag, he cursed, then slyly stretched out his arm, tripping her with his cane. He smiled as he heard her hit the ground with a grunt. After he’d put considerable distance between himself and the saloon, embarrassment turned to anger, and anger turned to rage. In the course of a few days, that redheaded bitch had besmirched his good name to the entire town. He swore on his dead mother’s grave, he would find a way to get even.
Chapter Five
Abby’s foot tapped out a nervous rhythm while she waited on the porch of Charlotte’s grand home, having rung the bell three times already. The setting sun at her back, the birds chirping overhead, and the breeze ruffling her hair made a fine backdrop to what would have been a pleasant evening. But tonight was not about pleasure. Tonight was about penance.
Why she hadn’t come to her senses after her first brush with death, she’d no idea. But things were different now, for last night she could not close her eyes without seeing that crimson pool in the water or hearing Pedro’s gurgling cries for help and the thrashing of the shark’s fins.
Then there was that other thing she’d seen in the water. She still didn’t know what it was, but of one thing she was certain—it was somehow connected to Safi, and Safi and her mother were not human. She suspected they’d been sent by the angels, not just to protect and heal the people of Galveston but to get them to change their ways. Abby had a lot to change, starting with the way she’d treated her dearest friend. She only hoped it wasn’t too late for Charlotte’s forgiveness.
After what felt like an eternity, the heavy door finally swung open, revealing Charlotte’s most trusted servant. He was a few heads taller than Abby, and his broad shoulders filled the grand portico as if the mansion had been designed for him. The whites of his eyes shone against his ebony skin as he looked down at her with a wide smile.
“Good evening, Miss Abby.”
She cleared her throat, which suddenly felt as grainy as a sand dune on a hot summer day. “Good evening, Josiah.”
He ushered her inside. “Have you come to dine with the mistress tonight?”
“No, no.” Abby slipped off her gloves and hat, handing them to Josiah. “But I must speak with her.”
At the sound of a female calling to him, Josiah stepped back, revealing Charlotte standing on the bottom step of the grand staircase, clutching the bannister like a lifeline. She looked even more beautiful than when Abby had last seen her, the blush of motherhood adding a pleasant pink to her porcelain skin, a fine contrast to her bright blue eyes and thick hair swept up in a stylish coiffure with little blonde ringlets trailing down her nape. She wore a shimmery gown of soft green, one that Abby knew must have cost her husband a small fortune, for the material was of the finest iridescent silk and was accentuated by three ropes of pearls and matching earrings.
“Abby.” Charlotte paused as if she was letting the shock of Abby’s presence sink in. “How nice to see you.” She flashed a thin smile. “Teddy and I were just sitting down to dinner.”
Abby swallowed hard, resisting the urge to hang her head in shame and rush back out the door. Charlotte had always been so welcoming, so kind, and Abby hardly knew this woman standing before her. Not that she blamed Charlotte. After Abby’s last visit, when she’d told Charlotte her lace yoke made her look like a hen and paraded Safi about as her new best friend, Abby was surprised Charlotte was speaking to her at al
l.
“I’m sorry,” Abby said, wringing her hands. “I won’t impose on you too long. May I have a moment?”
Charlotte’s smile faded. “Of course.” She waved toward the parlor.
Abby’s legs felt like deadweights trudging through quicksand as she forced herself to follow.
Charlotte wasted no time with pleasantries as she lowered herself onto a chair, rubbing her bulging stomach with a groan while warily eyeing Abby.
Just as Abby sat on the edge of the brocade sofa opposite Charlotte, Charlotte’s husband, Mr. Theodore “Teddy” Carter, entered the room with a purposeful stride. He looked as dashing as always, his thick, dark hair brushed back in neat waves and warm chestnut eyes alight with energy that seemed to light up the room. What Abby admired most was his strong jaw and full, kissable lips. Teddy could have been carved from granite, fashioned in the image of Adonis.
Abby shook her head, purging thoughts of Theodore Carter’s lips. She reminded herself this Adonis had been claimed by another, one who’d proven to be very deserving of his affection.
“Dearest.” He placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Your soup is getting cold.” He turned to Abby with raised brows and bowed stiffly. “Oh, good evening, Miss Jenkens.”
Abby was glad Teddy was a businessman, for he’d have made a poor thespian. It was clear he didn’t wish her a good evening. In fact, the only thing he probably wished was that she’d leave their home and never disturb them again.
Abby stood on shaky legs and gave a slight curtsy. “Good evening, Mr. Carter.”
He smiled warmly at Charlotte before turning a stoic face to Abby. “Please forgive me, but my wife is in no condition to accept visitors.”
Abby fought the nervous tension which formed a knot in her throat. “I know, especially not visitors as unkind as me.”
Charlotte gasped, but Teddy managed to remain impassive.
“I’ve come to apologize,” Abby continued. “I’ve been the worst friend imaginable. I’ve let my jealousies rule my behavior with no care or thought to your happiness,” she said to Charlotte, “and if anyone deserves to be happy, it’s you.” Abby fought the tears that pricked the backs of her eyes. She swallowed hard. “You’ve been the kindest friend imaginable, always bearing my moods without objection.”
