The Last Honest Seamstress Page 9

  He turned to look at her.

  "Thank you, Captain O'Neill. I needed a hero—more than you'll ever know. Goodnight." At that she spun around and ran back to the cabin.

  Her heart pounded furiously as she slipped under the covers in the Captain's bed, holding her photograph of Drew, staring at it, trying to push away alluring thoughts of the Captain. Anger, hate. That's all she felt now when she stared at the handsome face smiling back at her.

  Originally, she'd kept it because she couldn't throw it out. Drew had been too much a part of who she was. Now she used it like a talisman to ward off the feelings the Captain stirred. To remind herself that she was easily distracted by a handsome face, to remember what treachery felt like.

  And now her own body was the traitor, reacting with treasonous passion toward the Captain. Suddenly she couldn't see the freckles, only the firm set of his jaw, and the sparkle of his hazel eyes. She was frightened beyond reason.

  "Damn you, Drew! Damn you straight to hell!" She whispered into the dark night air, swearing aloud as only thoughts of Drew made her do.

  She tossed Drew's picture onto the bed beside her, covered it with the sheet so she did not have to face his mocking, lying eyes. She wiped at the tears on her wet cheeks, fearing the sensations the Captain had awakened, knowing she had to distance herself from him. She had to get back to the city. As soon as they docked, she would forget the Captain and begin to rebuild.

  It had been one long, nightmarish day. Exhausted, she fell back onto the pillow that smelled like the Captain. Tucked his sheets around her. Inhaled deeply. Pictured him on the deck. Just this night she would sleep in his bed, revel in the warm scent of him, draw strength from him. Tomorrow, she would leave.

  Fayth woke to the sounds of loud male voices, confused. Instinctively, she reached for Olive. Where had she run off to? It took a minute in her foggy fight to wakefulness to remember where she was, and another to remember how she got there. Memories of the previous day cascaded over her. The fire. Olive disappearing into the smoke. The Captain rescuing her. Her neat, orderly existence was gone, swept away by a rush of flames. The night had provided a dark, surreal buffer between terror and ruin. How could she face life in the harsh reality of day?

  Two men shouted to each other somewhere outside her cabin. Light filtered in through the curtained porthole. The Captain's clock read six-thirty. She breathed in the warm, manly scents that clung to Captain O'Neill's bed linens, and, for a moment, savored the pleasurable tremor they evoked. She pushed herself stiffly into a sitting position. Her shoulder throbbed in rebellion at the movement. A glance at it confirmed that the moist dressing needed changing. She remembered the Captain's gentle tending of her wound, the concern in his eyes, and his kiss on her lips. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

  Regrettably, she must forget. Once, she had trusted a man to be her salvation. She would not repeat that mistake. Not with the stakes so high. When Drew had abandoned her, she still had the sum from the sale of her father's business to sustain her. This time she had nothing but the slimmest of cash reserves.

  She needed to direct all her energy to survival. Somehow she had to rebuild. How could she accomplish this while distracted by a flirtation? Dared she even think of it as a courtship? Maybe what happened last night was only a mirage, a reaction to tragic circumstances. How else could she explain the Captain's sudden interest in her? Whether it was real or not, it could only complicate her life. Reason told her she must face this particular tragedy alone, but it could not prevent melancholy from sweeping over her.

  She pushed the sheet down around her, wincing again at the pain in her shoulder before sliding out of bed to the open porthole. The first unpleasant task she would learn to do for herself was tend her injury.

  She cocked her head toward the porthole. One of the voices drifting in belonged to the Captain. She could not see him from where she peeked through the curtain, but the way her heart fluttered at the voice confirmed his identity. Another vessel had pulled up alongside them. She could just make out the name, the Eliza, and a man, clearly the captain of the other vessel, leaning over the rail, yelling to Captain O'Neill.

  "There are at least four wharves still intact and operational, Con," he yelled. "Schwabacher's, Almond and Phillip's, Manning's, and Gilmore's. You can put in at one of them or sail to Tacoma and have your goods shipped up by rail."

  "Aye, we'll dock in Seattle. Appreciate the information, Bailey," the Captain said.

  She let the curtain drop. They were going to port. Probably today. As much as she feared facing the destruction that awaited her on the shore, after the events of last night, she feared confinement with the Captain more. She fell gingerly back onto the bed. She had better get moving if she was going to be ready. It wouldn't take long to reach shore.

  Half an hour later, the Eliza gave a fierce blast of her steam whistle as it pulled away, startling Fayth as she bent over her sewing machine on the main deck. There didn't seem to be any damage. Fayth was absorbed with thinking of a way to get it moved off the ship and back to shore. But where was she going to take it? Her inspection was interrupted by the Captain's approach.

  "You're up and about early this morning, Miss Sheridan. I trust you had a pleasant night's rest? How is your shoulder?"

  She had hoped to avoid speaking to him. "My shoulder is better, thank you."

  His eyes traced it.

  She remembered his gentle, caring touch. The way he leaned in to kiss her. Was her flustered state as evident as she thought it must be?

  "And my night was as pleasant as could be expected, given the circumstances. Your quarters are very comfortable, Captain." Her tone was cooler, and shakier, than she intended. "We're going to dock in Seattle today?"

  There was nothing intimate in his posture, expression, or tone. Not like last night, but the deck was filled with sailors this morning.

  "Yes. The wharves to the north of the city are intact. We're carrying goods and food the city desperately needs now."

  "It's still on fire." Fayth looked to the thick black smoke rising above the southern area of the city.

  "Coal bunkers. It'll be days before they burn themselves out, but they're not a danger. They're contained."

  Seattle looked ghostly and colorless and strangely at odds with the bright-blue summer day as her charred silhouette stretched skyward. Neither said a word as they both stared at the remains of the city. Con's sailors raised anchor. The steam engine roared to life.

  "I'm almost afraid to face it. What do you think we'll find?"

  "I wish I knew. And even more, I wish I could assure you that in some small way it would be pleasant," he said.

  "Pleasant would be finding Olive. Alive."

  "Yes." It wasn't convincing. He cleared his throat. "The militia has been in charge of the city since just after the fire started. They'll be guarding the burned-out area against looters. Captain Bailey told me it'll be a while before they let anyone in, even those with legitimate need."

  She stared at him openly now, not believing her ears. "But they have to let us in. Where else will we go?"

  "You can stay on the Aurnia for as long as you need. Or, I can take you to Tacoma, somewhere safe, until the city's reopened. Looters and hellions of all kinds are already descending and the smoke hasn't even cleared. It isn't a safe place for a lady."

  "It never has been, Captain."

  He took her arm. "Promise me you'll stay, Miss Sheridan." His eyes pleaded with her.

  How could she lie to him? "I—"

  One of his men called to him, saving her the trouble.

  When he returned his attention to Fayth, he was back in his role as captain. "I must assume command now. Billy has orders to attend to your needs."

  "Thank you, Captain." She had absolutely no intention of staying. And Billy just might be her means of escaping.

  Chapter 6

  The Aurnia's whistle sounded, announcing their arrival at the pier.

  Docking, alre
ady? Fayth hastily signed the letter she'd been writing to the Captain and secured it to the table with a paperweight. Call her cowardly and she wouldn't deny it. A note wasn't the most personal way to thank him for the great service he'd done for her—she owed him everything—but it was surely the kindest way to let him down with the least embarrassment to either of them.

  She flew around the cabin collecting her things and reached the deck just as the Aurnia's crew lowered the gangplank. Almost instantly, the deck swarmed with people coming to reclaim their rescued possessions and unload supplies. She picked her way through the throngs to her machine and set her suitcases down. She was still wondering how she was going to get her possessions off the ship when she spotted Billy.

  "Billy!" She waved to get his attention. She had to shout his name three times, but at last he made his way reluctantly toward her. "I need to unload my machine."

  He hesitated. "I don't know, miss."

  "The Captain gave you orders to assist me, did he not? I need help moving my sewing machine ashore."

  Billy eyed her warily. It was a fine thing when a ragamuffin like Billy didn't trust her.

  "He didn't say anything about you leaving the ship."

  The last thing she needed was Billy fighting her, too. She knew full well the boy didn't like her. She hoped at least he'd listen to reason. "He didn't say anything about me being a captive here, either." She put her hands on her hips and stared him down. "Are you going to help me, or disobey captain's orders?"

  He stared at her with steely eyes and finally shrugged. "I'll help you get it off the ship and onto the dock, then my duty's done."

  She gave him a curt nod. "Fair enough."

  They pushed the machine down the gangplank. By the time they got it onto the dock, Fayth had broken into a sweat, from anxiety as much as exertion. Did she even still have a shop to go home to? And how was she going to get there if she did? She didn't possess the Captain's ability to acquire carts out of nowhere.

  As Billy made a trip back to the ship for the rest of her belongings, she surveyed the melee around her. The Captain had been right. Militiamen were everywhere she looked, even though the fire had not reached this far north.

  One saw her looking lost and approached her. "May I help you, ma'am?"

  "I need transportation to take my sewing machine and bags back to my shop."

  "I can help you secure a cart, ma'am. But if you're looking to get back into the area the fire destroyed, you'll be disappointed. The area is closed, by order of the mayor."

  Billy appeared at her elbow and unceremoniously dropped her bags at her feet.

  The officer flagged down a fellow militiaman who was mounted on a sturdy wagon. "Mr. Boggs will take you wherever you want to go, outside of the fire area. Just give him directions."

  Billy, who'd been standing by impatiently, tossed her things into the wagon, not waiting to help load her machine before he ran off toward the ship.

  The militiaman gave Fayth a hand up into the wagon. "Where to, ma'am?"

  She gave him directions to her cousins' home. What else could she do?

  Con had been too busy taking charge of unloading the ship to notice Fayth had left the Aurnia until too late. He first spotted the empty deck space where her machine had been and was about to call out to Billy when a blonde woman in the sea of men on the docks below caught his eye. He shielded his eyes with his hand. Sure enough, Fayth was being helped into a wagon by a uniformed member of the militia as another loaded her sewing machine. Moments later the militiaman clucked to the horse and they disappeared into the throng.

  Con cursed under his breath as he strode back to his quarters. Her letter on the table caught his attention. He picked it up and studied the perfectly formed, flowing feminine hand.

  Dear Captain O'Neill,

  There aren't words of gratitude enough to thank you for rescuing me yesterday. Your hospitality and generosity are overwhelming. I thank you for your kind offer of transporting me to Tacoma, but I believe it is best for me to return to Seattle. I cannot continue to impose on your gracious nature.

  With sincere gratitude,

  Fayth Sheridan

  Cold, formal, impersonal. He carefully folded the letter and slipped it into his desk drawer. He never should have kissed her. It had been damn reckless of him. Because of his loss of control, Fayth was alone out there in the ravaged city. A city full of vagabonds and looters. Abounding with shysters ready to take advantage of a woman's vulnerability.

  He strode back to the bedroom. A lump in the hastily made bed caught his attention. He threw back the covers to find an overturned picture frame. He reached for it and turned the gilded frame over slowly. A handsome, dark-haired man smiled back at him. His eyes narrowed as he stared at it, then looked out the porthole into the startlingly blue sky.

  He rose and strode back to the main room where he tossed the frame onto the desk with what he hoped was enough rancor to crack the glass. Whoever the man was, he obviously meant a great deal to Fayth. Why else would she take the man's picture to bed?

  The bastard!

  God alone knew how much more desperate Fayth would be to find a husband now. She claimed she'd given up the notion, but that was before the fire. He slammed his fist into the desktop. Was she loose in the city with another candidate already in mind?

  He had to find her.

  Late the first evening of Fayth’s stay, Sterling Kelley related the good will and can-do spirit of Seattleites to his wife and Fayth as they sat in the parlor enjoying their after-dinner coffee. In Fayth's opinion, Sterling could afford to be gracious and rather jovial about the disaster. His home sat well out of range of the fire's ultimate reach. And as a manager for Mr. Hill's Minneapolis and St. Cloud Railway, which had yet to reach Seattle, his job and business were in no jeopardy. Even his leased railway office which sat just south of the fire line hadn't been harmed by more than a little smoke. Yes, he was very lucky. And good luck made it easy to be magnanimous.

  "You would have been proud, Elizabeth. I've never seen such Christian spirit. When George Adair called for a vote to decide whether we should still send the funds Seattle collected for the victims of the Johnstown flood before the fire, the cry was a resounding. Send it away! They need it!

  "I've never seen such unselfishness."

  "That's wonderful, Sterling." Elizabeth held her coffee delicately in front of her as she sat ramrod straight on the edge of her chair. She glanced nervously at Fayth. "Of course, Johnstown did lose nearly two thousand lives. As far as we know, there hasn't been a single confirmed death from our fire. What else did you hear in town?"

  Poor Elizabeth! She was trying so desperately to be optimistic and steer Sterling away from thoughtlessly throwing Fayth's reduced circumstances in her face.

  But Sterling was having none of it. "There may not have been a loss of life, dear, but our people are just as homeless and destitute as Johnstown's survivors." He seemed determined to wear other people's tragedies as if they were his personal stripes of honor.

  "Sterling." Elizabeth shook her head subtly at her husband, reproving him for his lack of tact, nodding toward Fayth.

  "It's fine, Elizabeth. Sterling is right to be proud of Seattle. How much did we collect?" Fayth was only half engaged in the conversation. The full force of her mind wrestled with weightier issues, namely self-preservation.

  She was still reeling from the devastating afternoon blow of discovering the bolts of cloth the Captain had saved from the fire were not the wools and broadcloths she needed to sew for her male clientele and rebuild the business. No, he’d rescued the bolts of pink and yellow figured silk, and the light, watery blue plain silk from her office, the costly material to bring her sketches to life. Costly, but basically worthless to her here in Seattle. Even those smelled of smoke, but then, what in the city didn't? She could air them out, for all the good they'd do her.

  The Captain had risked his life for nothing. She couldn't blame him. The smoke had been blinding.
He'd grabbed what he could. Now she'd have to rely on her slim savings to get started again and hope she could get a shipment of cloth in time to get back in business soon.

  "Doesn't everyone know the amount? It's been in all the papers since the day before the fire," Sterling said. "Five hundred and fifty-eight dollars, and every penny of it could just as easily be used here in Seattle." Sterling sobered and lowered his voice, "That is, if the bank vaults weren't destroyed by the fire."

  "What?" Fayth nearly sloshed coffee all over herself. With one simple statement Sterling had captured her full attention. She hadn't considered that the vaults could melt. The money in the bank was her last line of salvation. If all her money had been lost as well . . .

  "You don't think they were?"

  Sterling looked at her sympathetically. "I hope not, Fayth. I sincerely do. But no one knows yet. At best they're all buried under layers of rubble. The mayor has asked the militia to help with the excavation. It's hoped the vaults will be recovered within the week. We'll just have to wait and see."

  "Thank goodness the bulk of our assets are still back East," Elizabeth added, evidently operating under the misapprehension Fayth hadn't moved her money west, either.

  Unfortunately, Fayth had trusted the local banks and had put all of her money in them when she'd severed her ties with Baltimore.

  Sterling cleared his throat. "Well, not to worry now. I have more news to report—the powers that be are talking about raising Front Street and replatting the city. Imagine! Roads that lie on a grid and actually make some kind of sense on a map!"

  By changing topics, Sterling surely meant to be kind and distract, Fayth. Unfortunately, he was failing miserably.

  "How much higher of a regrade are they talking about?" Just another worry. How would the replatting affect her ability to secure another location for her shop downtown? And what would the cost be to local merchants?