For a while, he had lived lavishly off his inheritance, renting stately homes as he traveled to England and Spain and back. Here and there pretty women had caught his eye, and he kept company with them for a while, but when he grew bored, he left for another city. He was restless, always restless, searching for … something.
His search had brought him back across the Atlantic last year and with his funds rapidly dwindling away, he had once again entered the ring. There, some of the old gratification, release, returned to him with each win. And he followed the invitations southward, from Florida, into the chief ports of the Caribbean—where he seriously considered settling, so transfixing were the trade winds and swaying palms and blue waters—but even they grew wearisome in time. He moved southward again, to Venezuela and eventually Brazil, his white skin drawing record crowds and fat purses.
He had been considering a voyage to California for some time; this ship, the Mirabella, was to port in Mexico. So perhaps it was all for the best. His own brand of twisted luck that seemed to follow him like a long shadow.
William, a slender but strong man, suddenly was beside him, lifting a ladle to his parched lips. “Figured you might have a thirst,” he whispered.
Nic drank gratefully and considered how the man had crept down the nets again without being heard. Above the wind, he had not heard the creaks of the ropes. “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t suppose you have any rum in your back pocket?”
William laughed silently, a quick flash of white. “Best be back to my perch.”
“Thank you, William.”
“Aye.”
“And my name’s Dominic, Nic to my friends,” he whispered hoarsely over his shoulder.
“Hush now, Nic,” he returned, so quietly that Nic momentarily wondered if he was imagining a voice on the wind. “Try and catch some winks. It’ll make the night pass faster.”
Chapter 3
18 March 1887
A cold bucket of seawater splashed over Nic, and he howled in outrage, sputtering as the water dripped down his face. He had jerked his head up but now he winced, belatedly noticing the mass of knots from his fretful night of trying to sleep while standing up. He squinted and took in the warm golden light of sunrise that surrounded the first mate like a halo.
The ropes about him dropped, and he followed them to the deck, his legs too lifeless to support him. He sprawled out onto the wooden planking and glared at his laughing crewmates, walking aft to receive their morning rations from the cook.
“Pay them no mind,” Terence commanded. He squatted down beside Nic. “It’ll go best for you if you never brawl with another man aboard ship. The cap’n—and I’ll—have none of it.” Nic pondered his words, thinking of another man, warning him not to brawl in his town.
Reid Bannock, the treacherous wretch. Murderer.
It all seemed so long ago.
He pushed himself up with his arms to a sitting position. He shivered involuntarily as the pins and prickles of blood flow once again surged through his legs. Was there further damage to his limbs?
“You’ll recover,” Terence said. “You aren’t the first man to spend a night at the mast. But I’d wager you aren’t anxious to be the next.”
“No sir.”
“Good, then. We understand each other. Join Sherman at the aft deck after you eat. You will spend the next three days splicing rope.”
Nic grimaced. He’d seen what splicing rope did to even an old seaman’s hands. He pictured his fingers and palms, as raw and bloody as freshly butchered meat.
“Agreed?”
“I …” He looked up, saw the determined look on Terence’s face, and said simply, “Agreed.” There was no way to beat a master; one had to befriend them. Otherwise, no favor would ever be gained. The first mate, apparently satisfied, turned away. Nic used his arms to haul himself over to the mast until he could lean back against it. He massaged his legs, ignoring the pain now, determined to restore them so he could once again rise. He felt vulnerable sitting there.
“Here,” said a man, suddenly at his side. “Give it a little time.” He handed Nic a tin cup of water and a crude wooden bowl of gruel. On top was a chunk of salt pork. Nic, having been denied supper last night, eagerly accepted and glanced at the young man. “Thank you. I assume by the voice that you are William.”
“Not quite as handsome in the light of day as I am at night, right?” William said with a lopsided grin. He had long, wavy blond hair tied back at the nape of his neck.
Nic smiled. “All I saw of you last night was your teeth. And I doubt you have difficulty finding favor among the ladies.”
“The ladies?” He arched a brow. “No, I have little trouble with the ladies. It’s their husbands that seem to disfavor me.”
Nic nearly choked on a thick spoonful of gruel. “You’re a rogue, then?”
“I prefer ‘a gentleman among rogues.’”
“And far more willing to chat in the light of day.”
William leaned one shoulder against the mast, arms crossed, and shrugged. “I was on watch. You were … disfavored. It would not have been wise for me to be found out of the nest or speaking with you.”
“Granted.”
“Where do you hail from, Nic?”
“I was … procured from Rio, where I had been abiding for the last several months. I’ve been traveling for some time, rarely settling for long. But I consider Philadelphia home.”
“My own home was once in Charlotte. And I’m sorry to hear that you joined us by force rather than by choice. It’s a difficult way to begin any journey.”
Nic chewed on the stringy meat and washed it down with a swig from his tin cup. By William’s accent and language, he guessed him highly educated. “How long have you been a sailor?”
“Not much longer than you. I joined the crew in the West Indies. By tradition the greenest crewmen draw duty aloft.”
“So I might expect to relieve you up there some eve?”
William cocked a brow again. “It’s better than splicing rope,” he said as he shoved off, just a moment before the bell rang six times, signaling the crew that it was time to attend to their various tasks. “I’m off to catch my own winks now,” William said to Nic, walking backward. “Tear a bit from the bottom of your shirt, and wrap your palms and fingers. It’ll leave you some digits to work with.”
“Thank you,” Nic said, lifting his chin.
William smiled again and turned away, disappearing down the steps that led to the crew’s quarters.
Jesse turned to Moira in the carriage to better see her face. The years had been kind to him and a few lines of maturity had only served to make him more devilishly handsome. “Moira, I just arrived. You are asking me to return to London? I need them to beg me to return, not go knocking on their door asking favors. You know how it goes.”
“Come now, Jesse,” she said, pretending to fuss with the fit of her right ivory glove. “Were you not intending to ask the same favor of me? Did you not intend to use my connections here in Paris to secure a role?” She leaned forward and tapped the handle of her umbrella on the roof of the carriage. “Here, stop here!” she shouted to the coachman.
Jesse looked at her in confusion. “Why? Why are we stopping?”
She ignored his question. “What is Clarence Havender up to?”
“When I left, he was trying to secure a stage and a producer for a new opera, but—”
“There. You see? Clarence always adored me. And together, we could be a very comely duo as his leads. Remember how we sounded together in the Springs? No doubt you’ve learned as much as I in our years apart.” The driver opened the small door and offered his hand to her. “I’ll be back in but a moment. Think about what I’ve said while I’m gone, would you?”
She stifled a smile at his mystified expression. Four years ago, he had been the worldly, knowledgeable man of the stage. Now things were slightly different. She emerged onto the wooden walk of one of the finest Parisian neighborhoods, s
parkling after the spring rains, and today under a crisp, brilliant blue sky. She stood in front of her favorite dress shop, considering the words she’d use to convince the proprietress to purchase back some of her gowns to remake into children’s gowns. “Please,” she said to the driver, “fetch my trunks. I’ll be inside.”
And so it has at last ceased. I hold my breath each time I gaze out a window, holding my baby, wondering if the snow will return and steal a bit more of our future. But the sun now shines, warm enough to shrug off my heavy bearskin coat. The men have uncovered the bodies of the horses that perished. Only forty-eight were entombed there, which gives us hope that another fifty-two have managed to survive across the fields. Bryce tells me that horses have managed to survive all sorts of adverse conditions; they will eat bark from trees, if need be, just as the deer do in lean months. But that assumes they made it to the far side of our land.
Odessa couldn’t think any longer about the horses—lost, wandering, waiting for rescue. So she set down her pen and then went to pick Samuel up from his cradle. She laughed at his round cheeks, bright red with sleeping heat. From beneath a furrowed brow, he stared back at her with beautiful sea-green eyes. “A St. Clair you are,” she whispered. “I won’t tell your papa if you won’t.” She put on her coat and then picked up the child, stepping outside. After so many days of being sequestered in the house due to the blizzard, it felt glorious to be outside. But soon the smell of burning horsehair assaulted her nose. The men had begun the grisly work; they were burning the bodies of the dead.
She turned the corner of the house and shielded her eyes. There, to the north, five tendrils of dark smoke rose above a bank of pure white snow. It would be better when they were gone, when there was nothing left but ash to gaze upon, rather than decomposing bodies that raised the question what if?
Bryce had not slept in a week, entering their shared bed late, rising before she or Samuel woke. She had crept out into the hallway one night to see him sitting beside a blank canvas, brush in hand, paint upon the palette, but doing nothing but stare out the dark window. Morning after morning that canvas remained blank.
Father God, she prayed, as she walked toward the stables. Show me how to comfort my husband. Show me how to maintain faith when I am afraid. She hoped he was down here, and not with the men burning the bodies. It would be too much, and not good for his lungs. He needed time among the living, the bodies that represented their future, rather than among the dead.
Carefully, she wound her way up and over the slippery, slushy path toward the stables. Outside, in two corrals, Ralph and Dietrich tossed hay across the fence. The horses were agitated, as if desperate to eat, even though they had been well fed throughout the storm. As if they knew death was just a snowstorm away.
“Ma’am,” said Ralph, tapping the brim of his hat when he saw her.
“Ralph,” she returned. “Is my husband in there?”
“Think so, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” She moved to the big central door, unlatched it, and let it swing open. After a moment, her eyes adjusted and she spied her husband, chin on folded arms, staring into her horse’s stall. Her heart leapt with fear. “Is everything okay with Ebony?”
Bryce straightened and turned toward her and Samuel. “My two favorite people in the world. Sure it’s safe, bringing the baby out?”
She smiled and handed the child to his father. “Sure enough. I think he has as bad a case of cabin fever as I today. He’s been fussy all morning, until I got him bundled up to go.”
“Is that right?” Bryce asked, more to the child than her. He smiled down at Samuel, then turned and lifted him a bit, as if to get him in better light. “Those sea-green eyes just show a bit more of his St. Clair side every day, don’t they?”
Odessa moved closer, wrapping her hand around her husband’s arm as she leaned in to gaze with him at their baby. “I guess the secret’s out. I told him not to tell.”
“Not to tell what?” Bryce said, slanting a glance down at his wife. “That he’s the son of the most gorgeous woman in the valley?”
Odessa laughed. “That’s high praise indeed, considering that there are maybe a hundred of us in the valley, including Westcliffe.”
Bryce lifted his chin. “Regardless of the competition, I stand by my compliment.”
Odessa smiled. “And I accept it.” Ebony moved to the front of the stall, nosing her and taking in big draughts of air, as if she hoped to get to know the baby. “Hey there, girl,” Odessa said. “Miss me?”
“I think she’s eager for a ride. But there will be no riding for some time, you understand me? The snow’s too deep, and there’s likely ice in many spots.”
“Yes. But can the boys get her out to the corral, give her some room to run around?”
“I’ll see to it myself.”
Odessa wrapped her arms around his body from behind, and Bryce closed his eyes, relishing the comfort of her slender form. “Are you all right, Bryce?”
He heard the deeper question, what she really wanted to know. She knew his attachment to the herd, the way he nicknamed every horse, even those destined for the train. All his life, he loved spending time with horses, nearly as much as he loved the sea. “I’m as well as I can be. It’ll be good to have the bodies gone. I don’t want any mountain lions venturing over and then deciding to seek fresh flesh.”
He felt her shiver behind him, and he regretted his words. She leaned her forehead against his back. “I love you, Bryce.”
“I love you, too.” He swallowed hard, wondering if now was a good time to voice his concerns or if he should keep them to himself. Somehow, somehow, there had to be a way … “We’ll make it through,” he said, over his shoulder. “You know that, right?”
“I do. Do you? Or are you merely saying the words a worried wife would want to hear?”
He turned to face her, and caressed her lovely sculpted cheek with his free hand. “I believe it. The Circle M hasn’t endured loss like this since the early days, when we’d lose half the herd to rustlers. But if my uncle could make it then, we can make it now.” He leaned forward and kissed her, tenderly, and then pulled her close. They stood there for a time, the three of them, a solace to one another in their silence. Even the baby was quiet, staring up at Bryce. But Bryce’s mind was filled with memories—of letters of their losses to his father from an uncle. Bryce’s father, so far away, blamed him for mismanagement, lack of judgment.… He could still hear the recriminations in his mind, how the man would carry on for hours, how his mother would try to assuage his fury.
Bryce looked up at the stable rooftop. He had failed the Circle M, endangered all they had built. He’d chosen water rights over building snow shelters. At the time it made complete sense. But now …? He shook his head.
Odessa glanced up at him, eyes squinting with curiosity. “What is it?”
He forced a smile and shook his head again. “Oh, just trying to see my way clear. Figure out our best course now that we’re at this new juncture.”
“You’ll find it,” she said with a squeeze, then released him and took the baby from his arms. “You always do.”
“Thank you, Odessa. For trusting me.”
She looked more deeply into his eyes, and Bryce wondered at the brilliant blue-green of hers, so like the sea … so like the waters he would soon enter again. “Bryce? Is there something else?”
“No, sweetheart. You be on your way and I’ll be on mine.”
Chapter 4
25 March 1887
“How’re those hands?”
Nic looked over to William, who was again sharing a bit of conversation as they ate their breakfast. He swallowed his mouthful of gruel and held up one bandaged hand to show his new friend. “Coming along. I keep breaking open the wounds every time I take up a rope, though.”
“You dipping them in seawater thrice a day?”
“’Bout kills me every time.”
“Stings like the devil, but nothing will heal them
faster. Trust me.”
Nic nodded and dug back into his bowl of gruel. At least he was now spared the splicing duty. He had been moved into the ranks of standard crewman. He admitted to himself that he liked climbing to the lanyards, high above the decks, the water racing beneath them, and hauling in sail, lashing them down. The other sailors were easing their jibes and taunts, grudgingly accepting him. They called him “Brawler,” rarely using his name, as they had dubbed William “Scholar,” making fun of his uppity language. Nic shrugged off their teasing and dug in beside them, doing more than their own shares, making it nigh unto impossible for them to complain about him. They were worthy workers, even if few educated men ever wandered the decks of a brig other than captains and first mates looking to gain their own commission or ship. The Mirabella was a private vessel, a merchant mariner out of Rio. She carried in her belly a wealth of spices and wood and was bound for Mexico, or if the Mexicans couldn’t meet the captain’s price, California.
Nic’s eyes moved aft, to the captain, who paused to converse with the first mate. Yes, he could cope with life aboard ship. But it would never make it right, what the captain did …
“Dominic?” William said, and by his expression, obviously for the second or third time.
Nic jerked his eyes from the captain to his new friend. “When will we port to reprovision?”
“Two, maybe three days. Desterro. Ever been there before?”
“Never this far south of the equator.”
“She’s a decent city. And has her share of dark-skinned beautiful women.”
Nic met his meaningful gaze. “Think the mate will allow me ashore?”
“Not likely.”
“No,” he said, choking back his agitation. “Thought not. I’ll be waiting on your stories.”
“Next time you’ll go with me.” William gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder and then went to drop his wooden bowl and spoon in the wash bucket. Then he disappeared below decks to catch his measure of rest. The bell clanged, and others hurriedly shoved gruel or salt pork into their mouths, before reporting to their stations. In minutes, all stood where they ought, and the captain strolled out among them. He nodded once, as if in grave approval, and then continued toward the helm, where the first mate was at the wheel.
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