A Most Unsuitable Match (12 page)

If only something
interesting
would happen.

Thanks to rain and sandbars and the leaking boiler, the
Delores
was behind schedule. At Omaha, Captain Busch discharged thirteen roustabouts. Samuel narrowly escaped being one of them. Lamar tried to avoid taking credit, but another roustabout told Samuel how the old guy had stood up for him, telling Captain Busch that Sam Beck was worth more than three men and the captain would be a fool not to know that. Samuel couldn’t imagine anyone telling Otto Busch he was a fool and living to tell, but there it was again—Lamar had a unique place in Busch’s life.

As for Samuel, the longer he was around Lamar, the more he learned. Lamar could recite impressive amounts of Scripture, and as the days went by and Samuel worried over Emma, Lamar spoke Scripture to those worries. Eventually, Samuel grew less anxious. He couldn’t have explained why, but the words in the Bible imparted a strange kind of peace about the future. Lamar said that wherever Emma was, God knew, and God was in that place, too. Sam should keep checking in the river towns where the
Delores
stopped, pray, and sleep well, knowing he was doing everything in his power.

Samuel did his best to comply. He wasn’t convinced that his own prayers carried much weight, but Lamar was praying, too, and God most certainly listened to Lamar Davis. The old man knew God better than he knew the river, and that was saying something.

The
Delores
was eleven miles north of Omaha when the strongest wind yet forced Captain Busch to lay up all night at a wood yard. Lamar showed Samuel how to position a lamp on the back side of the stairs leading up to the hurricane deck so that, between the woodpile and the stairs, they could keep a lamp lighted and play checkers.

When Lamar blew Samuel’s plan of attack to smithereens with one black checker, Samuel just shook his head. He was setting up the board for another game when the horses tethered at the far end of the deck began to snort and stomp. Lamar got up to see to them, but when Samuel prepared to join him he pointed back at the board. “I’ll get them calmed down. You just get the board set up so I can beat you again.” With a chuckle, he headed off.

Samuel was studying the board, trying to replay in his mind exactly how Lamar had lured him to defeat yet again, when he realized the wind had died down. Voices overhead drew his attention to the top of the stairs.

“You see,” a male voice said quietly, “if we sit right here we’ve a beautiful view of the river. The last time I came through this part of the territory I saw a white wolf at just about this spot. I’ll never forget it. Not quite as amazing as a white buffalo, of course, but—”

“A white buffalo? Whoever heard of such a thing.”

“You don’t know the legend of the white buffalo?”

E. C. Dandridge.
What was he up to now? Samuel hadn’t liked the look of the man the minute he sauntered on board. He roamed the
Delores
with an air of self-importance that set Samuel on edge. More than once, Samuel had had to walk away to keep from landing a blow to the man’s egotistical face when Dandridge called Lamar
boy
. And while he wasn’t given to watching what went on up on the hurricane deck, it seemed to Samuel that in recent days, wherever Miss Rousseau was, Dandridge wasn’t far away.

The man reminded Samuel of a wildcat stalking his prey. And now . . . he was just a few feet way convincing someone to sit on the steps to hear a story about a white buffalo . . . then saying she should move closer so he could shield her from the wind.
She.
It had to be Miss Rousseau.

Samuel’s hands had already balled up into fists when the first muffled protest sounded. He stepped out from beneath the stairs then and glanced up toward the hurricane deck. One glance was all he needed. In an instant he was clearing the steps two at a time, grabbing Dandridge by the scruff of his neck, hauling him to his feet, and tossing him toward one of the smokestacks with enough force that when his body connected, all the air went out of him and he slid to the deck like a rag doll.

When Samuel finally turned back her way, Miss Rousseau was standing in the shadows with one hand at the row of buttons marching from her waist to her neckline. Even in the light of a half-moon Samuel could see stark terror registered on her pale face as she stared past him toward the limp form crumpled on the deck. Samuel crossed to where Dandridge lay and bent to check on him before standing back up. “He’ll be all right.” He swallowed. “Will you?”

“I . . . I . . . ” She gulped. “Y-yes. I think so.” But just as she said it she hurried away to empty her stomach over the railing. The handkerchief she had tucked into one sleeve glowed white as she dabbed at her mouth.

Dandridge moaned. When Samuel looked over, he’d pushed himself to a seated position and was leaning against the smokestack. Miss Rousseau took a step back. Samuel held his hand up, palm out, and said, “Just—wait. There. I’ll see to him. He won’t bother you again.” Miss Rousseau nodded.

Samuel started moving toward Dandridge, but before he could do or say anything, the dandy had scrambled to his feet and stumbled off toward his cabin. Samuel picked up the top hat he’d left behind. It felt grand to fling it overboard. When Miss Rousseau cleared her throat, he turned back toward her.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she croaked.

“Let me walk you back to your cabin.”

She didn’t seem to hear him. He couldn’t just leave her alone on the hurricane deck. A door slammed. She started. The moon came out from behind a cloud. Finally, Samuel crossed to the stairs and sat down, staring at the river. Miss Rousseau continued to stand only a few feet away. She was crying softly. What should he do? What could he do?

The faint scent of roses wafted his way. Unbelievably, a white wolf stepped out of the underbrush and padded to the edge of the water. “Do you see that?” he said quietly.

“I do.” Her voice sounded stronger. “I suppose the white buffalo will come next. It is, after all, a night for all manner of varmints to be out and about. Preying on fools who put their trust in the wrong people.”

“I’m told the river has a way of attracting varmints,” Samuel said, “and that the closer we get to Fort Benton the more we’ll encounter.”

“Then I suppose it behooves the more naïve among us to be especially wary from here on out. Hannah’s been telling me that for quite some time now. I didn’t want to believe her.”

“I’d say caution is something that benefits everyone, ma’am. It’s my first time upriver, as well. I’m grateful I’ve had someone looking out for me.”

They hadn’t really looked at each another while they talked. Instead, they watched the white wolf as it lowered its head to drink and then pointed its nose toward the sky and howled. When the wind had carried the sound away, Miss Rousseau said softly, “You’ve looked out for him, too. I’ve noticed how you help each other. I’ve seen you carry more than your share to lighten his load.” After what seemed a long while, she finally murmured, “Thank you for waiting with me. I’d be grateful if you’d see me to my cabin now.”

Samuel leaped to his feet and offered his arm. He towered above her, and in that moment he thought of Emma, how she’d trusted him and how he’d failed her. How she would bear the mark of his failure until the day she died. Defending Miss Rousseau didn’t make up for Emma, but he was glad he’d been able to do it, just the same.

She paused a few feet from her cabin. “I’d rather Hannah stay asleep if at all possible,” she murmured. “She’d have my head if she knew—”

“There’s nothing to know,” Samuel said quickly. “Although I imagine she’d be fascinated to hear you saw a white wolf on your way to the necessary in the middle of the night.”

She squeezed his arm. “Thank you, Mr. Beck.”

Samuel watched her until her cabin door closed behind her. Then he made his way back down to the main deck. Told Lamar what had happened. Got the old man’s advice, and went to wait by the ladder to the wheelhouse so he’d be there when Captain Busch emerged from his cabin before dawn.

Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,
the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort.

2 
C
ORINTHIANS 1:3

“You all right, little miss?”

Fannie leaned against the closed door of her cabin, her heart pounding, her entire body trembling. She gazed through the darkness toward Hannah’s cot.
Go back to sleep, Hannah. I don’t want to lie . . . but I can’t tell you.
Moistening her lips, she croaked, “Fine, just . . . tired.” Hannah mumbled something unintelligible, then returned to deep breathing punctuated by soft snores. Fannie moved to sit on the edge of her cot. Her fingers trembled as she undid the very buttons that Dandridge had—
Don’t think about it. Just . . . be thankful nothing more happened. Be thankful for Mr. Beck.

She unbuttoned her cuffs before returning to the buttons marching up the front of her dress. And focused on Mr. Beck’s kindness. The concern in his voice. His strength. Clearly, the true gentleman on board the
Delores
wasn’t dressed in fine clothing.

How could she have been so . . . stupid? Hannah wasn’t overprotective. She was wise. Dandridge was exactly the sort of man Hannah had warned her against. And she’d been a fool. She was fortunate to have learned it with no less damage to her person than a slight tear in her silk waist.

Finally undressed and safe, lying beneath the mound of comforters Hannah had insisted they bring with them, Fannie inhaled the faintest aroma of home and closed her eyes with a thankful heart.
Thank you for protecting me against myself tonight. Thank you for sending Mr. Beck.

Her dreams were not peaceful, but thanks to the presence of a tall roustabout, neither were they nightmares.

He had to stop watching for Miss Rousseau, had to stop thinking about her, and most definitely had to stop smiling at her. Even if she did smile back, Samuel told himself, he did not have time for such things. He might be on the river to find a woman, but the woman he sought had red hair, not blond. Emma had pale eyes, not bright blue ones. Still, for all of Samuel’s resolve, at night when he retired beneath the wagon, the last thing he remembered before he fell asleep was the faint scent of roses and the feeling of Miss Rousseau’s hand on his arm.
Fannie’s
hand on his arm.
Fannie’s
smile.