The Last Honest Seamstress (17 page)

"Thank you." She stared at him, stunned and nearly speechless. "But how?"

"My men combed through it yesterday. I knew the mayor was dead wrong to let the militia go. The civil authorities wouldn't be able to stop looters. What few police Seattle has have been posted near the remains of the jewelry stores. It was like a treasure hunt when I rode by just now. People grabbing melted hunks of gold, anything they could find. I saw a policeman chase after one man, but he never did catch him.

"Mark my words, Miss Sheridan, the mayor will have to call the militia back in. He'll have no choice."

She noticed the formal way he addressed her. With the immediacy of the tragedy behind them, they were reduced to strangers. Or did he wish, as she did, to distance himself from the undeniable attraction growing between them?
 

"Thank you for your consideration, Captain." She marveled at his clear thinking and decisive nature. Not to mention his connections that allowed him access before the general public.

He watched her closely. "You shouldn't be out here alone. Is there no one you may ask to escort you?"

"Oh, my cousin Sterling would have come, but he had business of his own to attend today. I'm staying with him and his wife Elizabeth."

"Next time, you must insist." At the mention of her cousins, he sounded relieved, almost happy.

Embarrassed by his admonishment, she concentrated on the men sifting through the ashes of her property. "Why would they bother with my poor shop?" She turned to look back at him. "How did you get a pass? They were impossible to come by."

"I have connections." He looked devastating when he smiled.

"Captain O'Neill, I hope you are right, that the mayor won't delay in calling the militia back. But those poor, exhausted men need rest. Did you see them march out?" She paused, then decided to confide in him. "I own this land now."

"Do you?"

"Bought it a few days ago." Her eyes narrowed as she thought of rebuilding. She almost told him about her troubles with the banks. She changed the subject instead. "You were right about Seattle rising from the ashes. Everyone all over town is quoting you."

"You, Miss Sheridan, personify my theory. You look like a beautiful phoenix today yourself. You're the only spot of color in the place."

His compliment quickened her pulse. She pushed away thoughts of his strong embrace and warm kisses—thoughts too pleasurable, too dangerous and out of place against the stark reality before her. Instead, she focused on his amazing perception. How did he read her intentions so clearly?
 

A warm breeze blew off the water, ruffling her skirt. She must speak. "Thank you." Her voice caught. She turned the small package over in her hand, contemplating whether to open it or not. This was all that was left of her life? Nothing more?

"A few buttons and bobbins," he said, as if he'd read her mind again.

She blinked to draw in tears that suddenly threatened. Was she, after all, destined to be Sterling and Elizabeth's poor live-in relation? How could she ever recover and rebuild?
 

"This can't be all." Impulsively, she ran from the street into the midst of the ash and ruins, desperately seeking something more. She was ankle deep in soot by the time she stopped in the area that should have been the storeroom. Two stories of building and life reduced to inches of ash. She heard footsteps behind her, but paid no attention. She was too busy scanning the debris for signs of something recognizable. But there was nothing but burned, flaking timber. Thin, black-edged flakes of charred wood no thicker than paper dislodged with each gust of gentle breeze and blew about like desolate, falling snow.

"There must be more." It was her voice, but so agonizingly high-pitched she barely recognized it herself.

He was close behind her, so close she practically felt him. One tiny step back and she knew she would butt up against a hard chest and firm thighs. Trembling, she took a step forward.

"Let me assure you; my men were thorough." His sympathetic voice tore at her. When was the last time a man had addressed her with such tenderness?

"But I poured water over everything; how could it burn?" She knew her statement was absurd the moment she uttered it. There was nothing that inferno wasn't capable of consuming, wet or otherwise.

He gave her no answer, evidently assuming a rhetorical nature to her question. She turned to face him. His shoulders were covered with scales of falling ash. They alit in his hair as they danced about him. And his immaculately polished boots were gray with soot. He held his hand out to her. "Please, Miss Sheridan, let me escort you home. There's nothing more you can do here today and it's not safe for a woman to be out alone."

"Home? Isn't this it?" Her voice was softly ironic.

"To where you're staying then."

She put her hand gently in his, fighting to steady her voice as she spoke. "Thank you, Captain."

He handed her into the runabout before jumping up beside her and settling so close to her in the narrow two-person seat that their thighs brushed—his, hard and powerful, hers, outlined by skirt. She looked straight ahead as they rode, thinking how safe she felt riding with a large, powerful man, chiding herself in the next moment for her traitorous thoughts. Security came only from independence, certainly not from a handsome man.

He negotiated through the crowds and out of the city. The air lost its acrid burnt smell as they left the business district behind and headed for the surviving residential area. She breathed in deeply, inhaling disturbingly fresh smells of leather, horse, and bay rum.

She rode straight-backed, trying to distance herself from her own physical response to him, vowing that once home she would forget him. When they arrived, Mrs. Beard stood posted at the window, wearing her usual disagreeable look. It seemed nothing about Fayth's conduct pleased the aging servant.

The Captain helped Fayth down from the runabout. "May I be so forthright, Miss Sheridan, as to ask you to dine with me tonight?" Her face must have given away her intent to refuse; he continued before she could speak. "Please don't deny me an evening of distraction from the present grim atmosphere."

She accepted before better sense took over. But given such an eloquent plea, how could she deny him?

Il Pesce
was one of many restaurants temporarily located in tents on sites of what were formerly full-fledged buildings. Fayth had never been to the restaurant before the fire. From the linen tablecloths and napkins, she realized that it had been a step above the Occidental in class and elegance. The staff deserved credit. Despite being housed in a tent, a pleasant, intimate atmosphere pervaded. The Captain seemed at ease in such surroundings. He dressed for the occasion in a white uniform with captain's braid at the sleeves.
 

Freckles. Freckles. Freckles.
 

She mentally repeated the word like a prayer to ward off the flutter of her heart, the trembling of her hands, and the floating, lighthearted feelings he brought out. She allowed herself to remember another man who once had the same effect on her—the darkly handsome, treacherous Drew. A good-looking man could again be her downfall. She must remember that.

Thoughts of Drew set her heart pattering nervously. She had gone through her things over and over again, but couldn't find Drew's photograph. She last had it in the Captain's bed and feared that's where she had left it. The Captain hadn't returned it in the parcel. In all probability he knew nothing of the photograph, for surely he would have returned it. Despite herself, she worried that he would find the thing and get the wrong impression. She could live without the photograph, if only he never found it. How to recover it without him knowing? How to approach him without giving away what she was looking for?

"I've been meaning to ask you, Captain—I didn't happen to leave something behind in your, er, bedroom, did I?" She sounded like a nervous fool.

He cocked an eyebrow. "Such as what?"

She bit her lip, a bad habit she must break. It gave away her nervousness too easily. "A photograph."

A look of consternation crossed his face. "No, not that I know of. I had the crew clean my cabin the day we docked. They didn't mention anything. But I can check with them for you. What was it a photograph of?"

She blew out a relieved breath. "Nothing important," she assured him too quickly. "I can live without it."
 

His gaze darted over her face searching for something, but she couldn't imagine what. Whatever it was, he must have found it, because he smiled, obviously pleased.

The waiter arrived with their first course. Fayth spoke as soon as he departed, trying to steer the conversation onto safe ground. "I have to say you were right about the militia, Captain O'Neill. I'm glad the mayor called them back in."

"He was a fool to dismiss them so quickly in the first place. Seattle lasted, what, all of three hours before the mayor begged them back into service?"

Fayth smiled. "Will you be sailing again soon? I'd heard that you made several excursions taking sightseers to view the ruins and donating the profits to help those left homeless. That was very noble of you."

"You think so? Billy thought I was an idiot. As you can imagine, we need money ourselves. But my charity work is done now. I have to oversee the rebuilding of my wharf and warehouse. Many of the other wharfingers have gotten the jump on us already.

"But I must tell you, Miss Sheridan, how very pleasant it is for me to think of you keeping abreast of my activities. It makes me feel vindicated for my interest in yours." His dimples showed through his beard when he smiled.

"It was in all the newspapers." She felt her own blush. And then a confused question occurred to her. "Interest in my activities?"

"You were in the newspapers, too."

"Oh, yes." Why was her laugh such a nervous titter? "It seems we're both celebrities."
 

In truth she was disappointed in his response. And maybe she was only imagining, but it seemed he bit back what he really meant to say. They spent an awkward moment staring at each other until Fayth was compelled to speak, "Captain O'Neill, after all we've been through together, I hate to see us acting like nervous strangers."
 

She thought she saw a spark of hope light his eyes. She leaned across the table toward him as if to whisper a secret. "Can we forget what happened on your ship? Chalk it up to emotions heightened by tragedy. In the balance of a scale, it can't outweigh the embarrassment of my proposal, and we survived that. Can we be at ease with each other now?"

"We can, if you allow me the honor of one further embarrassment." His tone was almost mischievous.

"And what would that be?" With the tension lifted, she found herself smiling.

"I have a favor to ask of you."

"You don't need to feel any embarrassment, Captain. I owe you a great debt. Ask away," she said lightly.

"I'd like you to marry me, Miss Sheridan." His tone held no teasing now.

Chapter 8

"What?" Fayth spoke a little too loudly.
 

The group at the next table turned to gawk at them. She ignored them and leaned across the table to whisper above the patter of her heart. "Why?"

"Why not? It's a wild and reckless time. The fire blasted everything out of kilter. If ever there's a time in our lives to do something just because, this is it. Will fate ever provide us the opportunity to be so free from convention again?"

Her mouth was so dry she couldn't respond. What was he talking about? Free from convention? Wild times? Marriage?
 

She knocked her nearly empty water goblet over as she reached for it. Not one of the dozens of marriage proposals she had received since arriving had set her at such a tilt.
 

He righted the goblet before she could reach it. She avoided looking at him, swiping her napkin at the dribbles on her dress.
 

"You look a vision tonight. Blue becomes you. I thought so this morning. You are like a mirage in a desperately dry city."

She laughed nervously and continued to dab at her dress. "Look at me now—what a mess I am." But her dress was not nearly as messy as the emotional maelstrom inside her.

"You look wonderful." He reached across the table and grabbed the hand that held the napkin. "Are you going to give me an answer, or string me along indefinitely?"

"Are you going to explain to me why you're proposing now, when you turned me down less than two weeks ago?"
 

He released her and settled back in his chair.
 

She set her napkin on the table. Would she ever understand this man, or herself? Why didn't she refuse him outright like she should?
 

"I'm old-fashioned. The man should do the proposing." His tone was light again.
 

She couldn't pin any specific emotion, or motivation, on him.

"You, of anybody, ought to know better than to propose a real marriage to me. One little kiss hasn’t changed my mind about what I want. I will only marry for business reasons."