Halfway Home, page 6
“Gentlemen,” he said with cutting calmness, “disturbing a lady’s sleep is downright unmannerly. Not to mention unhealthy.”
You could have heard a fly land. After a moment, one man cursed and spit. Another one gave a nervous laugh. Then they were at it again, boasting, threatening, calling for another bottle.
Resigned to a sleepless night, Jericho got to his feet and gathered up his blanket and duffle. He slept in his boots. It was either that or risk having them stolen.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said politely. Stepping over two drunks who were passed out over a deck of grimy cards, he headed for the door.
“Hey, you ain’t going after ‘er, are ye? That ain’t fair! I saw ‘er first!” whined one young buck who was either bolder or drunker than his mates.
“Rest easy, gentlemen. The lady is entitled to her sleep.”
As it happened, Jericho also slept well for the rest of the night. The hallway that ran along the bedrooms was considerably quieter, not to mention cleaner, than the common room.
But that hadn’t been the sole reason he had done what he’d done. He had kept order among rougher crews than those in the common room, and without once resorting to the cat.
The woman was someone’s sister. Or daughter.
Or wife.
Although, for no reason he could put his finger on, he rather thought she was unmarried. The drunk was right—she didn’t have a married look about her.
But regardless of her status, he felt compelled to do what he could to protect her. For Louisa’s sake, if not his own. And so he spent the remainder of the night stretched across her doorway, his head pillowed on his coat, arms crossed over his chest, a long-barreled pistol in his right hand.
Chapter Five
On her way out to visit the necessary, Sara almost tripped over the man sprawled across her doorsill.
“Merciful saints alive,” she exclaimed, “you’re the man in black!”
He rose to his feet stiffly. And rose and rose and rose. He was taller than he had looked from a distance. “Beg pardon, ma’am. Didn’t mean to block your passage.”
“Did you drop something?” Sara stared up at a face that was all planes and angles, without a scrap of softness. Surely he hadn’t been trying to peep through her keyhole. He hardly seemed the type.
“Truth to tell, I was sleeping. It’s considerably quieter here than it is over in the common room.”
In the shadowy hallway, the man loomed over her. His hair, his eyes and his clothing were as dark as sin, yet she felt not the least bit intimidated. “Yes, well . . . I suppose it is.”
Oddly enough, she was inclined to believe him. He did have a blanket, after all, and a satchel. And his clothes, while plain and a bit worn, were of good quality. There was a gleam on his tall boots that bespoke the finest leather. Suspecting that he was unable to pay for a bed and too proud to say so, Sara went out of her way not to hurt his feelings. She did know the value of pride.
Hat in his hands, he seemed to make up his mind about something. “Ma’am, it occurred to me that a lady staying alone—that is, in a place like this, there’s some that might misunderstand—”
Touched by the odd mixture of strength and diffidence, Sara said, “Thank you, sir. If you’re offering to escort me through the lobby, I grant I would appreciate it. I don’t relish having to pass by that rowdy taproom on my way outside to the, um—the spring.”
Should she offer him money?
No, he would hate that. Besides, after giving Maulsie and Simon most of what she had on hand, she had scarcely enough to pay for her own board unless she wrote another bank draft. And if she did that, Titus might be able to trace her through the bank.
The truth was that if Archibald didn’t come soon, she might be forced to sleep in the common room herself, wherever and whatever that was.
No one could have been more respectful than the tall, somber stranger. He was waiting beside the back door when she came out of the necessary, having done her business and set her skirts aright. They both pretended she had merely stepped outside to fetch a tumblerful of spring water. Sara remarked on the weather and the brilliance of the sun on the nearby canal, and he nodded thoughtfully.
“Yes, ma’am, it is indeed a fine day.” He seemed to brace himself to say more. “Ma’am, it would please me greatly if you’d agree to take breakfast with me. My name is Jericho Wilde. I can ask the desk clerk to introduce us.”
Wilde. Wilde . . .
Now why did that ring a bell? Sara pursed her lips thoughtfully while her companion waited for her answer. “Do you happen to know a Mrs. Best from Elizabeth City? I believe she left early this morning on the packet Albemarle, but she might have mentioned your name over dinner last night.”
For a single moment, a look akin to panic crossed the man’s lean, sun-browned face. “No, ma’am, I can’t say as I do.”
“Well. Never mind. I’m ashamed to say, I wasn’t paying all that much attention, anyhow.” Her eyes glinted with rueful amusement. “Breakfast, you say? To tell the truth, I don’t really relish dining alone. I’ve learned that it’s possible to have one’s meals served in one’s room, which is convenient if one happens to enjoy cold soup and congealed eggs.”
“Then, shall we?”
And with the courtliest of all gestures he offered her the support of his arm, enabling her to enter the dining room feeling like a queen. Or at least a princess.
Or at the very least, someone who hadn’t been abandoned on the far side of a whole string of burned bridges.
Breakfast was delightful. Sara learned, among other things, that his proper title was Captain. Captain Jericho Wilde.
“Although,” he admitted, “I’m presently between ships.”
Poor man. He was probably hoping to be taken on by one of the vessels that stopped regularly at the hotel. She tried to think of some way she could help him, but nothing came to mind. They talked at length, although later, when she was standing at her window watching for Archibald, it occurred to Sara that for all he had gone on about foreign ports and the fascinating ways of different people around the world, she didn’t know anything at all about the man himself.
Which made it all the more strange that she was so drawn to him. She did know that he was strong. Her father had been a weak man, her mother a semi-invalid for as long as Sara could remember. Titus and Noreen were even weaker. Sara got so very tired of having to be the strong one of the family. She would like, for just a little while, to be able to lean on someone stronger.
She knew, too, that he wasn’t frightening. Perhaps it was because of the hint of despair that lurked in the depths of his dark eyes. She’d thought at first that she had imagined it, but it really was there. Sometimes only a shadow—sometimes more.
Whatever bothered him, it didn’t keep him from treating her as if she were made of spun sugar and might shatter at the first harsh word. The novelty of that alone was enough to enchant her. If he only knew, she thought with amusement, that she could hitch up a mule and plow as straight a furrow as any man. She could bargain with the best for top price for her butter-beans and melons, and chase a weasel from her henhouse with no more than a willow switch.
Not that she’d been brought up to do all that. Once upon a time there had been servants to see to her every comfort, but times changed. It was just as well she’d had the chance to learn that she was perfectly capable of looking after herself.
* * *
Jericho paced the yard fronting onto the canal road. Within the week, Rafe had said. It had already been five days. Or was it six? God, he had lost all sense of time.
From behind him came the steady din of water traffic; sail, steam, and oar. Absently, he watched two boys paddle by in a dugout, ducking into a feeder ditch as the Lima passed by with a blast from her steam whistle. Next came the Only Son, warped by two teams of oxen so slowly that her gentle wake barely disturbed the reeds along the shore.
He thought of his own ship and wondered if she was being refitted or if she was already under sail, under the command of another man.
And then he set his mind back on course and resumed his watch for Smithers. Sooner or later, the scurvy bastard would have to show up. Not even a sniveling coward could ignore a direct challenge, not with a witness standing by.
Setting aside his own anxiety, Jericho made it a point to be waiting in the hallway outside her door when Miss Young stepped out for the midday meal. She needed the protection. He needed the distraction.
Besides, he couldn’t help but admire. her gumption. She was at a disadvantage, being a young, respectable woman at a hotel that was none too respectable. At first, he’d figured she was too innocent to know the dangers. Now he was beginning to believe she knew, but was too plucky to be intimidated by them.
At any rate, she needed someone to stand between her and the scum from the common room. As long as he was at loose ends, he might as well take the position.
She stepped outside, turned and locked her door, then smiled ruefully at the shiny new skeleton key, indicating that she knew full well how ineffective such an instrument was likely to be.
“Better than no key at all,” he said, tipping his cap.
“But not as good as a heavy piece of furniture,” she countered, dropping the key into her reticule. She was wearing a pretty yellow dress that brought out glints of gold in her light brown hair. When he complimented her, she confided shyly that it was to be her wedding dress. “I would have liked something blue, but there was no time to have anything made up.”
Her wedding?
Her wedding. He’d known she was waiting for someone. Everyone in the hotel knew that.
Jericho didn’t want to talk about weddings or wedding gowns. Not that he begrudged Sara her happiness, but the thought of a wedding—any woman’s wedding—brought back his sister’s pitifully brief dreams.
Taking a deep breath, he closed a door in his mind. “If you’ve no other plans, may I escort you to the dining room?” He held out his arm, and she placed her small, shapely hand on his sleeve. Suddenly, he felt six inches taller.
Over bowls of thick cabbage soup, Sara explained that she had come to the hotel to meet her intended but was beginning to wonder if her letter setting the time and place could have gone astray.
Jericho choked on a bit of salt port. She had set the time and place? He wouldn’t have thought her so forward, but then, his experience with women was admittedly limited.
“I simply can’t go back home,” she confessed once the soup plates were cleared away and they were served stewed chicken and dumplings with rutabagas.
“Burned bridges?” Jericho asked.
She nodded. “Something of the sort.”
“Bridges can be mended.”
“Some bridges are not worth mending.”
From which he deduced that the lady had left behind an unhappy situation. It was none of his affair. Nor was the fact that she refused to allow him to pay for her meal and instead carefully counted out the correct amount and returned the rest to a rather flat purse.
The lady had her pride.
After leaving the crowded dining room, they strolled along the canal bank together. Jericho tried to think of a diplomatic way he could offer her money. God knows, he had no need of it, with Louisa gone and his own future uncertain. He had no intention of returning to Wilde Oaks. Not yet, at least. Not until the grass had had time to grow over Louisa’s grave and he’d had time to heal.
Maybe not even then.
Gazing down at the small figure beside him, with her leaf brown hair and her warm brown eyes, Jericho told himself that until her Mr. Ricketts turned up, she was in need of a protector. That much, at least, he could do for her. Louisa had needed a protector, and he’d failed her, being too concerned over having to sell his ship to see what was going on right under his very nose.
This time, he would not fail.
As the Albemarle steamed away from the landing and new arrivals scattered, either to register at the hotel or catch the connecting stage, Sara heaved a wistful little sigh, then seemed to collect herself and smiled. “Well, that’s that, I suppose. The packet has come and gone again, and no Archibald. Maybe tomorrow.”
Jericho stopped himself just before he slipped an arm about her shoulders. “There’s plenty of time,” he said. “Next stage’ll be along directly. Riders coming in all the time. Your young man will be along presently.”
If he had a grain of sense, he would. The man must be a fool indeed to leave a woman like this alone in a hotel filled with transients and the roughest elements of society.
*
Over dinner that night, Sara kept up a sprightly conversation, her cheerfulness flagging only now and then. She was trying to cheer him up, Jericho realized in amazement. When had anyone ever done that? When had anyone even given a single damn as to how he felt?
Should he tell her he was a lost cause?
No. Let her ramble on. God knows he could do with the distraction, and until Smithers showed up, he had nothing better to do with his time.
“It’s my stepmother, you see,” she said, and he realized that he’d missed part of what she was saying. “I happened to come into some money awhile back. I’d thought to pay off the mortgage, only then there wouldn’t be much left, and I do want to settle enough on Maulsie and Big Simon so they won’t have to work until they drop in their tracks. Only my stepmother wants me to marry her son and keep it all in the family.”
“You’re not interested in the lad, I take it?”
Sara shuddered. “Mercy, no. I’d be penniless again in a week’s time. He’s a gambler of the worse sort, and besides, he drinks too much, and he has this way of—well, I suppose you could call it a mean streak.”
Why she felt compelled to confide in this solemn stranger, Sara would never know. It wasn’t her nature to burden others with her troubles—not that anyone had volunteered to shoulder the burden. It occurred to her that she and the captain were not unlike ships in the night, touching briefly, then each going its own way, never again to meet.
Which was sad, in a way, for she did like being with him. Liked looking at him, for while he was not strictly handsome—at least, not in the same way Titus was handsome—there was something reassuring about that square jaw and those steady dark eyes.
Even so, she must take care not to mention any more names. She was not all that far from home, and sooner or later most travelers in the Tidewater area had cause to pass this way, for it was the most direct route south—or north, as the case may be. Titus regularly came this way. Fortunately, he could seldom afford a hotel and usually managed to sponge off friends, or even friends of friends.
“But even if I liked him,” she continued earnestly, “I would never want to be married for my money. The whole time Mr. Ricketts was paying me particular attention, I was poor as a church mouse. He liked me anyway.”
Jericho murmured a response, his attention captured by the way her mouth moved when she talked. She had a remarkably expressive face. Not a face that could keep secrets easily. But she was keeping them. Or trying to. He didn’t know what they were, nor did he want to know.
“—So I said to myself,” she continued. Again he’d missed the first part of her statement. “I said, Sara Rebecca, that man is plumb hungry for companionship, but if you wait for him to pop the question, you’ll be waiting until—” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oops! I never meant to tell you that. You won’t tell anyone I did the asking, will you?”
Jericho’s eyes sparkled with amusement. The little witch! She had proposed to her man as well as naming the place and day. He gave her full marks for gumption and only hoped her judgment was as sharp.
A short while later he saw her to her room, waited until he heard the key turn in the lock and the chair slide under the doorknob, and then went back out to the lobby, acutely aware of the curious gazes following his course. The same ones that followed them into and out of the dining room, and out along the canal bank.
It couldn’t be helped. The lady needed protection, and until her young man arrived to keep her safe, why then, they would just have to contend with the whispers and speculative looks.
Striding purposefully toward the bat-wing doors, Jericho waved them open, crossed to the bar, ordered a whiskey, and then turned to face the crowd. He was wearing his usual garb, a plain black shirt and a black worsted suit. With his dark coloring, the effect was sobering. Having taken command of his first ship at the age of twenty-three, he had found it necessary to employ a few props to maintain order. Now, at the age of thirty-two, he no longer needed such things. Command came as natural to him as breathing, but being a creature of habit, he still wore black.
Deliberately, Jericho allowed his gaze to move around the smoke-filled room, touching on first one rough customer, then another. He planted his hands on his hips and hooked his thumbs in the waist of his trousers, shoving his coat back just far enough to reveal his guns. In the days before he had set out from Wilde Oaks, he had practiced until he could hole a card at twenty paces and put out a candle at ten. He felt like a damn fool wearing the things—he had no need of guns to command authority—but in a place like this, a smart man didn’t leave his valuables lying about for pilfering fingers to discover. Besides, a pair of fine weapons might discourage any would-be troublemakers.
*
Early the following morning, Jericho was on his way to the dining room, Sara Young on his arm, when Rafe Turbyfill arrived. He paused in the doorway and Jericho looked past him, half expecting to see Smithers’s girlish face. Not now, damn it, he thought, and turned to lead Sara into the dining room, hoping Turbyfill hadn’t spotted him.
No such luck. The older man quickly crossed the crowded lobby and removed his beaver. “Morning, Rico. Care to present me to your friend?”
Alongside Rafe Turbyfill in his fancy claw hammer coat, his brocade waistcoat and his Polish cape, Jericho suddenly felt like a damned crow. Tight-lipped, he made the introductions. He told himself that the resentment he felt was only because he didn’t want Sara to be touched by a single element of the nasty business that had brought him here.
