Stealing Mercy (3 page)

Trent bent and retrieved the hat that had nestled against his boot. He held it out to her and she stood, like a wild colt being offered an apple, unsure of whether to bolt or indulge. His eyes swept over her and he noticed for the first time her breeches. At the ranch, his gram and sister often wore pants, but he knew it wasn’t typical female attire. The hat, Trent realized, completed the woman’s disguise. She probably didn’t realize her breeches did little to hide her curves. He couldn’t tell in the moonlight, but he guessed she’d bound her breasts. Without taking her eyes off his face, she twisted her hair into a knot at the top of her head. She’d travel in disguise, but wouldn’t sacrifice her hair for her rouse. Devious, yet vain.

He held the hat out to her, chuckling, his seasickness forgotten. Would she hold character? Pretend that most young men had hair that fell to their waist when loose?

She walked towards him and he noted she moved with grace and poise despite the rollicking waves. He gripped the rail with one hand and held the hat with the other.

“I thank ye, sir,” she said in a deep modulated tone that she’d probably spent weeks perfecting. How long had she been at the masquerade and why? Was he the only one who knew? “You’re welcome, lad.” He emphasized the last word.

She moved for the hat, but he held it tight. “Hold on. What’s your name?”

She didn’t answer.

“No need to be nervous, I’m just making conversation. Where you from?”

“Seattle.”

His grinned deepened despite the rolling and tossing waves. Seattle was still a small town with an even smaller population of women. Although the city was rapidly growing, he felt confident he would have recognized her. “So, this is a homebound trip for you.”

She stuck out her tell-tale clean shaven chin. “Yes sir.”

“I suppose I’ll be seeing you, then, in town. Perhaps at the Lone Stag.”

She looked at him, her face a blank as a seasoned poker player. He could tell she wanted ask why anyone would meet at a lonely deer. “It’s a tavern,” he whispered moving closer, inhaling her warm scent. “When lying, it’s always best to stay as near the truth as possible.”

The ship rocked with a strong wave, the girl grabbed her hat and said in a soft soprano voice, “I wouldn’t know.”

Ocean spray hit him in the face and when he finished blinking she had gone. He looked across the deck; all was still and dark. He wiped off his forehead with his sleeve and slowly and tentatively, moved away from the rail. The slick deck made movement increasingly precarious. Walking took nearly all his concentration, but then he saw her, a flash of movement in the moonlight. He hurried after her, as best he could.

*****

Mercy tripped down the stairs leading to her berth, her heart thrashing and her breath ragged. She’d been on the ship for weeks and no one had guessed or suspected her disguise. Or so she supposed. She blamed the hair. She should have cut it. He never would have guessed if she’d cut her hair. Momentarily bracing herself against the wall as a wave tilted the ship, she considered her options. She’d have to stay in her room and have food delivered by the revolting little man, whom, she was quite sure, pilfered off her tray. Her stomach clenched when she thought of all the lovely produce that had been loaded onto the ship in Los Angeles. Oranges, grapes, and cucumbers. She glanced over her shoulder, looking for the man from the deck, but saw no one, just a long corridor lit by flickering lamps. Perhaps he would keep her secret.

No. She couldn’t trust him or anyone. Steele had taught her well.

The ship tossed on a wave and the lights wavered. In the hall, all of the berths were closed and only a few had candlelight peeking beneath the doors. She didn’t hear a door creak open and when a man spoke in her ear, she jumped.

“Mr. Steele,” a voice drawled. “Why I do believe you’ve lost hundred pounds since we last met.”

Mercy’s heart stopped. Had she fooled no one? Had she’d only fooled herself? She whirled to see the man named Wallace from the card table standing in a doorway. He had his shirt undone and she could see the tensed muscles of his chest.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said in her best baritone.

“Mr. Steele, I’m offended. We’ve shared countless business ventures.” He held the door to his room open, exposing a berth with gray tumbled sheets. “Presently, I think we have something to…discuss, payment for my discretion.”

Mercy stepped backwards. “I think not.”

CHAPTER 3

Although the original humble pies of medieval days contained mostly entrails it later evolved to a dish of sugary fruit.

From the Recipes of Mercy Faye

He should be easy to break
, Trent thought when he came across Wallace and the girl wrestling in the hall. He took note of the man’s heavy musculature pinned against the girl’s wiry strength. She placed her small fist in Wallace’s diaphragm and the big man woofed in surprise. Trent knew she should go for his face with her nails. Men of his sort typically made their living off their beauty and would go to extreme lengths to guard their faces.

After a moment of watching the girl’s unflagging pluck despite her unlikely odds, he spoke in Wallace’s ear, “Let her go.”

Grinning, Wallace turned in his direction and stood taller, like a rooster ruffling his feathers to increase his size. He held the girl pinned against his chest. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and across her cheeks and her feet dangled four inches off the floor. “Why, this here is
Mr
. Steele, my business associate, and we’ve got matters that need attention.”

“You’re attentions are most unwelcome, sir,” the girl said, dropping her baritone and trying to wiggle from the man’s embrace. Her boots kicked and occasionally made contact with Wallace’s shins, but the man didn’t seem to mind.

Wallace swung her into the berth, but before he could close the door, Trent slammed his boot into the man’s back.

“Pardon me,” Trent laughed. “Dem waves, you know.”

Wallace toppled into the doorway and the girl spun free. She ducked beneath Trent’s arm. Behind him, he heard her footsteps fleeing up the stairs. Now that the girl had escaped, Trent rather hoped Wallace would believe his words and not his fighting stance, but when the man rose with a curse, Trent knew his story wouldn’t fly. So, it’d have to be his fists.

Wallace’s arm shot out and thundered into Trent’s’ chest, pinning him briefly to the wall. Trent shook him off and in the process, lost his footing when a wave rocked the ship. Wallace leapt forward, landed at the foot of the stairs and took the first step to follow the girl. Trent scrambled to his feet and threw himself after him. He landed on Wallace’s back. Their combined weight crashed through the door of an empty berth, shattering and splintering wood. They wrestled on the floor until Trent had him pinned.

“Leave the lad alone,” he said through gritted teeth. “Or I’ll shut down your pup and poodle show for good.” He straddled Wallace’s chest and pressed down his shoulders.

Wallace, red faced, scoffed even as he wrestled for freedom. “How you going to do that? We can’t be stopped by a few well placed punches.”

Trent shook him and Wallace’s head bounced against the floor, sending bits of wood skittering. “Don’t you get it? Steele’s gone. That girl has taken his place. You’ve been beaten by a girl, and I don’t think she’s going to be sympathetic to your business plans…just guessing. I suggest you leave her alone.”

The ship pitched, as if in agreement and the partially destroyed door swung shut with a bang to accentuate Trent’s threat. He stood and let Wallace ease away, like grease sliding off a plate. For a moment he watched Wallace fumble with the door handle. Giving up, Wallace shoved his foot through the door, sending splintered arrows of wood flying in all directions.

Trent smiled as he flexed his bruised hands and a sense of wellbeing flushed over him.

He’d found a cure for seasickness.

*****

A strong wind carrying warm air from South America sailed the US Maypole along the coast and stopped, in record time, in the Seattle harbor. Mercy, who’d been holed up in her berth, imagined Captain Kane’s impatience to utilize his new coin aided the wind in the record time arrival. The view of Seattle’s harbor took her breath--a barely there sun poked through billowy clouds that rested on the pine green mountains that sloped to the bustling port. She faced the land with gratitude and trepidation. Grateful to abandon her isolation and breeches, she still faced the humbling prospect of begging a living off her aunt.

Her berth had a window overlooking the starboard side so she could watch the disembarkation. Not wanting another encounter with Wallace, she’d determined to be one of the last off the boat. Fortunately, Wallace, sporting a fat lip and blackened eye, had been one of the first down the gang plank. Shouldering her knapsack and straightening her clothes, Mercy knew without any help of a mirror that she didn’t look any more presentable than Wallace. Her thin shoulders were like small pointy hangers holding up her father’s shirt. She needed a bath and her hair resembled Medusa’s.

She watched the man, the savior of her hat and late night rescuer, move down the gangplank. Reaching the dock, he turned and looked back at the ship, as if searching for something or someone. Mercy stepped from the window and for the first time since New York she wished she could transform herself into someone clean and feminine.

She wanted to make a good impression on her aunt.

*****

Seattle’s streets were laid out on a grid that followed the shoreline. The shops and businesses mostly, if not all, were wooden structures rising from the muddy streets. Some had as many as three stories. Mercy mentally repeated her aunt’s address as she walked down the boardwalk, her chin tucked into the collar of her coat and her hat pulled low. Her land legs felt like they belonged to someone else, like a puppet with unmanageable strings. Her boots felt like bricks on her feet. The shipboard food, or lack thereof, had left her hungry, weak and despondent.

Misapprehension dogged her every slow, ponderous step. What if Tilly had moved or died since their last contact? Or, supposing she even found her aunt, what if her aunt was horrified and scandalized at her sudden and outlandish appearance? Mercy wondered if she should try and find some female clothes.

The clock in the bell tower struck six. The businesses lining the streets had drawn their shutters. Mercy knew very few establishments in bustling New York that carried premade clothes. She doubted she could find such a shop in Seattle.

Although, Seattle was larger than she’d imagined. She passed a YMCA, a building named The Ladies Relief Society, blacksmith’s shops, a Methodist Church, and at the corner of Occidental and Yesler, a street car. Mercy walked the perimeter of the church. Some churches in New York had bins outside for cast off clothing for the poor. She’d rather meet her aunt in a hand-me-down dress than her father’s breeches, but after a quick look around the church and then at the dark heavy rainclouds, Mercy continued up the street until she saw Bradley’s Dry Goods. She’d walked fast to beat the impending rain and stopped to catch her breath. Shifting the knapsack, she tried to brush off the weeks of grime clinging to her pants. As she peeked through the window a raindrop fell.

Inside the shop shelves filled with bolts of fabric lined the four walls. Aside from the spotless wood plank floor and gleaming counter top, the room was a riot colors and patterns. Mercy watched a tiny Chinaman bustle a bolt of fabric up a back stair. She’d heard of the racial tensions in Seattle, the Chinese massacres and attempted expulsions. She knew in San Francisco it was illegal to shoot a cow but not a Chinaman. Watching this robust lady, who looked like a healthy female version of her father, work side by side and laugh with the Asian reassured Mercy; perhaps her aunt, who showed no signs of bigotry, would be as equally liberal-minded about her niece arriving in men’s clothes.

Mercy braced her thin shoulders and pushed open the door. A bell overhead jingled welcome, but Mercy had a hard time crossing the threshold.

The woman turned and the Asian hurried up the stairs, a fabric bolt balanced on his shoulder. The woman looked at Mercy with a may-I-help-you face that crinkled into tears.

“You must be Alfred’s daughter.” She swallowed a small sob. “You look just like he did as a boy.”

Aunt Tilly moved with surprising speed for a woman her size. She held out her arms and soon had Mercy pressed in a warm embrace that smelled of lemon. Small, sharp somethings stabbed Mercy’s chest and she realized that Tilly had pins poked into her bodice.

Rose Arbor, Washington

“
Thank you, Ms.-” Odious, standing at my shoulder, interrupts the story. When had he suddenly appeared?

I drop the diary. It lands with a thud on the leather topped desk beside the stack of library books. I flush and stand up straight. From a distance, he’d looked much younger, but in close proximity I see his tired eyes and the thin lines around his mouth. “Mrs. Michaels,” I tell him, swallowing.

He glances at the diamond I still wear on my left hand.