Midnight Caller (Moonlight Romance) (10 page)

“How dare you say that!”

“I know your secret, Emma. Your
dark
secret.” The words slithered out of his mouth.

Emma recoiled as if bitten by a snake. Her heart raced and her chin quivered. “How do you know?”

“A telegraph operator learns many things. Of course we aren’t supposed tell the contents of a telegram, but if you don’t agree to marry me, I will be forced to.”

Several thoughts swam in her head and she fished them out one by one trying to piece them together. Telegram? If Hank had found her family Bible…he must have telegraphed her estranged relatives. He knew. That was why he was so cold and why he didn’t want to have children. It all made sense.

Oh God.
She should have hidden her Bible more, but it was like a security blanket. She needed it close to her.

“You’re lucky your dark secret does not bother me, my dear. The rest of Louisville does not know. We will keep it a secret and you will keep your respectability.”

This had been her mama’s worst fear. Her dark secret coming to light.

Emma ran a hand down her cheek. She knew her mama would want her to succumb to Mr. Hawthorne’s blackmail. According to her, nothing was worse than being tainted with black blood.

But to her, being Mr. Hawthorne’s wife seemed worse.

And if he let all of Louisville know, then there would be nothing keeping her from marrying Frederick.

Emma swallowed hard. She wasn’t just changing her name she would be changing her social class. She would be changing how everyone perceived her.

She would have to spend the rest of her life enduring discrimination.

She could brave all of it if Frederick was by her side.

She jutted out her chin, locked eyes with him. “Go ahead and tell,” she spat.

Mr. Hawthorne’s face contorted like he had sucked on a lemon. He grabbed her arm, pulling her to him. Her heart rammed into her throat. Bracing herself, she didn’t know if she was going to get a kiss or slap.

He twisted her arm behind her back, the carpetbag on her arm helping to weight it in place like a ball and chain. “It isn’t going to be that easy.”

Adrenaline erupted inside her. With a surge or strength, she used her free hand to pull down her bonnet. She yanked out a sterling-silver hairpin and tried to jab it in Hawthorne’s eye, but he moved and she sunk the pin into his cheek.

“Why you little—” He let go of her arm and touched his bloody cheek.

Emma took off running. Her pulse drummed in her ears, and combined with her labored breathing, she couldn’t hear anything behind her. But Hawthorne wasn’t about to give up. He’d follow and this time he’d be as angry as a poked bear.

Her heavy carpetbags slowed her escape. She couldn’t leave them. They carried all her possessions.

Her feet pounded the pavement. Her arms hurt, her legs hurt, her chest hurt.

She didn’t know where to head, but she found herself going to the docks.

If she could find Frederick…Her eyes darted to all the docked steamboats, reading the names on their sides.
Blue Wing, Kentucky Belle…
Where was the
Comet
?

She saw lots of tall, muscular roustabouts. But not Frederick.

It would certainly cause a scene if she screamed his name. A scene was just what she needed.

She put a hand on her chest. She had to catch her breath to give strength to her voice.

She darted a glance behind her. Mr. Hawthorne closed in fast, a derringer in his hand.

“Frederick!” Emma screamed. Terror made her screech, her voice not carrying far. “Frederick!”

A hand wrapped around her mouth. Mr. Hawthorne stood behind her, his hot breath on the back of her neck.

“That wasn’t very nice, Emma,” he said. “Looks like I will have to teach you to be a good wife.”

I am not going to be your wife.
Emma tried to speak, but he had not removed his hand.

He pressed the derringer to the small of her back. “Now,” he said. “You are going to behave. We are walking back into town to find a preacher. Do you understand?”

Emma nodded.

“I will remove my hand and you will not scream, right?”

Emma nodded again.

He dropped his hand and Emma licked her bottom lip. Fear soured the air and immobilized her. Her nails dug into the folds of her dress. Her heart pumped in erratic bursts. “Mr. Hawthorne,” she said in a calm, even tone, “there is no need for you to threaten me with a gun.”

Mr. Hawthorne’s eyes looked wild. She gulped. Was he crazy? If he loved her, would he be capable of shooting her?

“I didn’t want to resort to this, Emma. You made me.” His voice was as hard as a limestone quarry.

Perspiration rolled across her scalp, dampening her hair. “I’m not making you do this.” Her voice shook. “Please put the gun away.”

Mr. Hawthorne grunted and didn’t budge. The hardness of the derringer against her back made her muscles tighten to the point of aching. She took a step forward. Thankfully he didn’t follow.

She turned around. If he was going to shoot her, he would have to look into her eyes. “You wouldn’t shoot your future wife, would you?” She tried to sound in control but failed miserably.

“A shotgun wedding wasn’t what I originally had in mind,” there was an apologetic twinge to his voice, “but I can’t trust you.”

“Yes you can,” Emma said, confident and eager. “Let’s go find a preacher.” Being married to Mr. Hawthorne would be better than being dead—barely.

Mr. Hawthorne lowered the derringer a little. “You really want to marry me?”

She smiled. “Yes, of course. Do you have a ring?” she asked, her voice as firm and sweet as crystallized honey.

“Ring?” Mr. Hawthorne glanced down and frowned.

Good. She was stalling for a second. Out of the corner of her eye she spied Frederick loading a wagon with sacks of grain.

Mr. Hawthorne grabbed her arm and yanked her toward the street. “I want all of your attention,” he snarled.

Her skin burned where he held her, and she screamed Frederick’s name until her lungs gave out.

A woman screamed his name. Frederick’s skin prickled and his heart and stomach lurched. Without seeing her, he knew it was Emma. His eyes darted to the right side of the docks. Mr. Hawthorne gripped her arm, leading her away, a derringer in his other hand.

Frederick blinked, making sure he wasn’t imagining the horror.
Emma!

He ran toward her. Hawthorne wouldn’t harm her. The derringer only had two shots and he’d take both of them. He’d make the man fight him.

Frederick looked at his massive hands. They were the only weapons he had. He’d gladly strangle the life out of that bastard. They’d hang him. But Emma would be safe.

“Let her go,” he roared, his voice taking on an animalistic quality.

Hawthorne turned around and his eyes widened. His fingers slipped off Emma’s arm. She ran.

“Board one of the steamboats,” Frederick said.

He kept his eyes trained on Mr. Hawthorne. “If you want to get her back, you’ll have to go through me.” His body language matched the challenge in his voice. Daring a rattler to strike wasn’t wise, but he couldn’t control the anger roiling in his veins.

Mr. Hawthorne’s eyes narrowed until they were merely green shards. “It will be an added pleasure,” he said in a low growl. He pointed the derringer at Frederick’s chest.

His large shadow loomed over Mr. Hawthorne. Frederick closed in, expecting the pain of a bullet tearing through his flesh.

Mr. Hawthorne’s finger applied pressure to the trigger.

Frederick crouched down and thrust himself at the man’s knees, knocking him down.

Hawthorne groaned, all of Frederick’s weight on top of him.

Frederick didn’t see the derringer. Suddenly his thigh was engulfed in burning pain. The .41 caliber bullet tunneled clear through, blood rushing down his leg. He hissed and his body jerked.

Hawthorne wiggled free.

Frederick forced himself to his feet, trying to ignore his wound. He swung his arm and knocked the derringer out of Hawthorne’s hand.

The man bent down to pick it up, and Frederick punched him in the stomach.

Hawthorne dragged in a ragged breath.

Frederick wrapped his large hands around Hawthorne’s neck and applied steady pressure, delighting in the red color of the man’s face. “You told me to leave Emma alone. I’m not good enough for her, but she deserves better than scum like you.”

Hawthorne kneed him in his bleeding thigh and Frederick winced, his grip loosening.

Hawthorne punched him in the throat, and Frederick stumbled backward, gasping for breath, fire blazing in his windpipe.

Both men’s eyes went to the derringer between them and reached for the prize. Frederick’s long arms gave him the advantage. He grabbed it and Hawthorne ran.

Frederick’s eyes followed the man onto the
Blue Wing
.

Now with the derringer, he had the power.

He ambled toward the steamboat, trying not to aggravate his wound. Hawthorne wasn’t going to leave the ship without him knowing. He could only reach shore the same way he boarded or he’d jump into the water.

Not hearing a splash, Frederick boarded the
Blue Wing.
The colored crew grew paler by the minute. They seemed nailed in place—their faces a mixture of fear and surprise. One of the roustabout’s eyes darted to a stack of crates and then back to Frederick.

Frederick gave a slight nod and headed in that direction. He kicked one of the crates and Hawthorne stood from his hiding place, swinging a cotton hook.

Frederick ducked, the hook brushing his hair.

He rose, aimed the derringer and pulled the trigger. The
click
and
pop
elicited a loud moan from Hawthorne.

Frederick gazed at the wisp of smoke coming from the derringer and then the pool of blood growing on Hawthorne’s chest. The man turned gray and slid down as if his muscles were melting.

“She deserves you,” he mumbled. “Emma’s no better than you, you black pig.”

Hawthorne’s head drooped and lolled to the side.

Frederick cautiously approached him and touched his neck. The flesh was warm, but there was no pulse.

He looked around at the crew, expecting a white sailor to attack him or slap him in irons. None approached. Only black faces watched him. The white sailors had left the ship unattended.

“Hurry,” a wiry, well-dressed colored man said. “Toss him into the water.”

Frederick grabbed both of Hawthorne’s hands and dragged him over to the side of the boat. He hoisted him over the railing and pushed him over. The loud
splash
made his heart flip, but then seeing the derringer tucked in his trousers squeezed out his joy. He had just killed a man. He threw the small gun into the water.

He shot a nervous glance at the steward. The man exuded controlled calm, helping to steady Frederick’s pulse. He drilled an icy stare at every one on deck. “Not a word,” he said. “Not a word.”

“Yes, sir,” they mumbled.

Frederick didn’t know the man personally, but he was the steward aboard the
Blue Wing
. He was in charge of the servants. They would follow his lead.

The steward pointed to the roustabout who had tipped Frederick off. “Clean the blood off the deck. Quick now.”

Frederick walked off the steamboat in a daze. His rush of relief was dampened by the fact Emma was nowhere to be found. Only God knew where she was hiding. Carriages and wagons traveled to and from the docks constantly. Maybe she had found a way back home.

He returned to the
Comet
.

George’s eye’s bulged at the sight of his bloody thigh. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Frederick offered a lopsided grin. “I still might.” He sat on a crate and tore the cotton around his wound.

“Is the bullet still in there?” George asked with a mixture of concern and disbelief.

“No. Just got to get this bleeding to stop.”

George cleaned his wound with alcohol and Frederick hissed. “It’s only going to get worse,” George warned.

Frederick bit his lip until he tasted blood. George had to state the obvious. His little brother heated a small knife and pressed it to his thigh.

Frederick’s throat felt clogged. He wanted to scream, but no sound came out. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he didn’t even wipe them away. The burn of the knife was intense but nothing compared to the burning pain he felt knowing Emma was lost to him. He sat up and wouldn’t meet George’s eyes. A man didn’t want another man, even his brother, to see him cry. But damned if he could find it in himself to care.

George swallowed, his eyes shifting away from him. He seemed equally uncomfortable. “What are you going to do now? They’ll be after you.”

“Maybe.” Frederick changed his bloody trousers, putting on his city pair. He wadded up the bloody trousers in his hand. He shouldn’t keep them. People would at the very least ask questions. Questions he didn’t have answers for. He offered them to the Kentucky River. They floated for a second before sinking.

Frederick leaned against a cotton bale, testing his sore leg. He could continue working, but there was no way he’d be able to keep up the strenuous pace at each stop. He raked a hand through his hair.

Emma was safe, but she was gone.

His chest fluttered and yet felt heavy. He didn’t know whether to rejoice or break down.

He’d never see her again.

All the strength drained from her body. There had been two shots and a scuffle. She didn’t dare leave her hiding place behind the tobacco crates. If Mr. Hawthorne had won, he’d want to drag her to their wedding.

If he killed Frederick, there was no way she would live with him.

The sun shone bright and warm, but gooseflesh covered her arms. Emma made a bed for herself against one of the cotton bales, wrapping her coat over her like a blanket. Her two carpetbags rested beside her and she placed a protective arm around one of them. She couldn’t lose her Bible.

Her adrenaline faded and left her a bundle of raw emotion. Her stomach tossed, and the steamboat wasn’t even moving. Bile seared her throat. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked, pushing them away. All she wanted to do was sleep. Maybe this day had just been a nightmare.