A Rogue in Sheep’s Clothing (36 page)

Ellie’s father squeezed her hand as he walked beside her, chin held high with pride.

Across the aisle Lady Davenport fished a handkerchief from her reticule as her tall, broad-shouldered son appeared on the altar. Hugh’s brown eyes met Ellie’s and a wide smile broadened his cheekbones. She grinned back at him.

When they said, “I do,” Mrs. Gower’s audible sob shook the nave.

Holding hands, husband and wife at last, Ellie and Hugh burst through the cathedral doors into the brilliant spring sunshine. He stopped her at the top of the stairs. Manifesto stood in the courtyard below. Bluebells adorned his mane and tail and he wore a matching blue saddle blanket. “Do you like him?” Hugh asked.

Ellie looked at her husband in confusion. “I love him. I’ve always loved him.”

“Then he’s my wedding present to you.”

Her limbs went weak. A buzzing rattled her brain. “You’re giving him to me?” she said, mouth open, shaking her head in disbelief. “But, but he cost so much money.”

Hugh threw his head back and laughed. He curled a hand around the nape of her neck and pulled her close. “Did you think your happiness is less valuable to me?” He leaned down and kissed her, his mouth closing over hers.

From miles away Ellie heard the stirrings of family around her. “They’re kissing.”

“Snap, stop staring.”

“Ah hem.”

When Ellie opened her eyes, the adults looked away – as if they’d been caught with a finger in the jam jar. Snap said with disgust, “Don’t do that, Ellie.”

Everyone laughed, including the new estate steward of Fairland, Toby Coopersmith, who, despite a peg leg, swooped down on Snap and lifted her high in the air. She screamed with excitement.

“Repeat after me,” he commanded, bouncing the little girl.

“Repeat after me!” Snap said, eyes bright with mischief.

“To the happy couple,” cried Toby.

“To the happy couple!” yelled Snap.

The rest of the company cheered and cheered until Hugh and Ellie fell back in each other’s arms and their lips met for another mighty draught of joy.

Elf Ahearn — yes, that is her real name — lives in New York with her wonderful husband and a pesky (yet irresistible) cat. Learn more about her at elfahearn.com or friend her on Facebook.

Oakland Point, California, July 1870

Weaving her way through the crowds thronging the Oakland Long Wharf railway terminal, Edith Marietta Alden of the Boston Aldens finally attracted the attention of a lanky Chinese man with a large wooden pushcart. By means of hand gestures and a few carefully enunciated words she indicated he should transfer her sturdy, metal-bound trunk from the baggage car to his trolley. While she waited she studied her surroundings and tried not to gawk. She remained optimistic about finding her middle sister despite what she saw. San Francisco was not the Golden Gateway her guidebook claimed, but it was exiting.

Ash from the puffing engines coated the depot walls. Bells clanged, porters and railway officials yelled a confusing mix of questions and instructions in a variety of languages. At the top of their lungs vendors cried their wares: souvenirs, foodstuffs, parasols, flowers, even slippers for the comfort of travelers. An amalgam of scents — meat, herbs, burning coal, and unwashed bodies — nauseated any traveler inexperienced enough to inhale deeply. Edith quickly learned to take shallow breaths. She knew every city had its seamier elements, but she would not let masses of people, dirt, and unending cacophony crush the hope she’d nurtured over the long journey from Boston.

“Is all bags, Missee?” The porter looked at the claim check then at Edith.

She scarcely heard him over the din but shook her head and gestured to the two cases resting on the platform at her feet. “No, no. These two carpet bags as well.”

“Good. I get.” The man bent forward and lifted the bags.

As he straightened she saw his eyes go wide. He tossed the cases at something behind her then, pushing his cart before him, ran toward the depot’s main entrance.

“Wait,” she shouted. But the porter raced away.

People in the man’s path leapt aside.

Edith didn’t pause to retrieve her bags. Without the letters and money contained in the trunk she had nothing to guide her search for Kiera or help her sister fight the charge of murder leveled against her. Edith lifted her hem, dashing off after the cart and its precious burden.

The porter passed the end of the train. Empty track lay on both sides of the platform with the main terminal just beyond.

“Stop that man,” yelled a voice from behind.

She ran faster, but hampered by her skirts, she didn’t add much speed. In her peripheral vision she saw two men in business suits pass her and pelt after the fleeing porter.

With the men three steps in front of her the porter, still running, reversed his direction and shoved the cart at his pursuers then continued his escape.

The shorter business man dodged the hand-trolley and increased his pursuit.

The pushcart picked up speed.

Mesmerized by the wooden behemoth bearing down on her, Edith slowed.

A blow from her left knocked her from her feet and sent her flying toward the edge of the platform. The force pushed her hat into her face.

Breathless, she lay on the hard surface. Her head spun, and her bones ached. A weight smashed her torso and heated her body. Needle sharp prickles fired every nerve ending.

The cart rolled across the out-flung skirt of her navy serge traveling dress, passed inches from her head then crashed onto the tracks.

The pressure on her chest eased slightly, but the heat remained. She coughed, trying to breathe.

The sound of footsteps fading in the distance indicated someone continued pursuing the porter.

“I’m sorry,” said a hard male voice.

Warm breath scented with mint and chocolate passed her ear. She shoved her hat backward leaving her thick veil the only barrier between her nose and a pristine white shirt that smelled of starch and man. The weight lifted completely. She stared at the suit trousers and dusty black shoes before her until a large, calloused but clean hand blocked her view.

Gripping the hand, she allowed the man to help her up. She adjusted her hat and veil, inhaled several short breaths then straightened her skirts.

“Are you all right?”

Edith lifted her gaze. She received a jumbled impression of strength, long legs, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a tumble of wheat blond hair, serious blue eyes under reddish eyebrows, and a generous mouth. He was smiling, though she couldn’t imagine what he might have to smile about.

Unaccountably, she smiled back at him.

“Are you all right?” he repeated. His voice, no longer hard, played along her nerves. The fiery, sharp tingles she thought the result of air-deprived lungs now centered in her core. Again she found herself breathless.

A concerned frown chased the smile from his face. “You’re still overcome. Here, sit down while I retrieve your luggage.” He grasped her elbow and led her to a bench. Then he shed his suit coat. Draping it beside her, he leapt down onto the rails.

Even beneath his linen shirt, she could see the easy play of muscles as he lifted her trunk onto the platform. She lowered her gaze, trying to behave like the lady she was raised to be.

Several workers arrived, and the man helped clear the wreckage from the tracks before placing her luggage beside the bench.

Not even breathing hard from his exertions, he stood before her and extended his hand. Nonplused Edith stared at the hand before taking it in her own. In Boston a man would never presume to shake hands with a woman unless she first offered hers. But this was San Francisco, the Wild West. No doubt different manners applied here. Perhaps here, she could be free as she never could in Boston.

“Dutch Trahern at your service, Miss … ?”

How awkward. No one was supposed to know she was in San Francisco. A female member of a family as wealthy as hers would never travel unaccompanied or deliberately seek out a bordello Madam. However, rescuing Kiera required drastic action. Back home Mae would explain Edith’s absence with the story that she was visiting relatives in Maine. She didn’t want to give the man her name. But he’d saved her from serious harm, perhaps even death. He didn’t deserve the lie she felt compelled to tell. Her face flushed as she swallowed against guilt. “Mrs. Ebenezer Smithfeld.”

His smile faltered minutely. “Delighted, Mrs. Smithfeld. Are you bound across the bay to San Francisco? May I escort you to your destination?”

“Thank you, no, Mr. Trahern. I am grateful for your help, but I’m meeting someone.” Her voice shook. Hopefully he would think she was still distraught from nearly being run over. And she must be or she would have thought of a better lie. She knew no one in San Francisco. If Mr. Trahern lingered, her falsehood would soon become apparent. Unable to continue meeting his glance she bowed her head and stared as her fingers pleated the fabric of her skirt. He unsettled her, and she didn’t know why. She did know that the sooner they parted ways the better.

He seemed rooted to the spot, so she raised her head a bit and watched his gaze travel around the nearly deserted terminal. Only railway employees remained. All the passengers and vendors had moved into the waiting room and ticketing office or beyond.

His stare finally returned to her. “Is it possible that your party forgot or mistook the day?”

Edith ordered herself to stop fidgeting. She squared her shoulders to present a confident façade.

“More likely
he
has been delayed.” She stressed the male pronoun. Mr. Trahern might be more inclined to leave if he thought she waited on a man’s arrival.

“Then allow me to be your escort, please.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. The man was too persistent by half. “I … I couldn’t desert my friend.”

“You can leave a message for him at the ticket window. I promise to take you directly to your hotel and deliver news of your safe arrival to your friend personally.”

“I don’t … that is, I’m uncertain of his address.” Her fingers sought her skirt, and she forced her hands to still.

“I’ve lived in this area most of my life and have a great many friends and contacts. Give me your friend’s name. If I don’t know him I can find someone who does.”

This would never do. Edith had to get rid of Trahern. She stood, drawing herself up to her full height, which had her staring at his neck. And a very nice neck it was too. She shooed away the errant thought and waited for him to back up out of courtesy. He didn’t. She fought the excitement of close proximity by summoning her best chilly reserve. The one she used to discourage familiarity with servants who saw her as an equal because Grandfather treated her just as harshly as the help.

“Really, Mr. Trahern, you need not concern yourself further in my affairs. I am quite capable of fending for myself.” The words emerged firm and even, no longer nervous and shaking.

• • •

Maybe back east she was capable of managing on her own, but Dutch didn’t think for a minute that Mrs. Smithfeld could safely navigate San Francisco’s rougher waters. He studied her. Earlier, he’d caught a glimpse of porcelain skin and auburn curls, but she’d straightened her veil too quickly for him to see her face. Her form was nothing unusual, a bit thin perhaps but shapely enough and on the tall side for a woman. The navy serge dress and matching gloves told him only that she had an eye for quality goods and practical colors. However her movements, even while so obviously nervous, were extraordinarily graceful. Her voice was dark and smooth with a slight edge like the best chocolate. Her words implied an educated, cultured background. And she smelled like a field of daisies. Dutch found her clean simplicity powerfully attractive and wished he could see the face behind the obscuring cloth.

Why did she wear the veil anyway? Veils were hot and impeded vision. Worn to keep dust and dirt off the face, most women would raise a veil whenever possible, but Mrs. Smithfeld kept hers securely tucked and tied. Then there was her ramrod posture and her fidgeting fingers. All combined to rouse his suspicions that she wasn’t quite what she claimed to be. He despised liars, and if she hadn’t seemed so helpless, he would have obliged her and left.

She was right that her affairs were none of his business, but something — her slim rigidity or those nervous fingers perhaps — raised every protective instinct. He should leave her to her own devices. She was married for crissakes, or claimed to be, but he couldn’t make himself walk away when she was so distressed.

“No doubt you are capable of caring for your safety in your own community. However, this is San Francisco. Trouble lurks for the unwary on every street corner and in every stoop. Our city is unfortunately full of rogues, thieves, and charlatans.”

Dutch waited for her reply and tried to penetrate her veil. He wanted, needed to see her features. To see truth or lies on her face.

Her shoulders trembled.

Had he upset her? Was she crying?

“Which are you?”

Dutch shook his head. “Which what am I?”

“Are you a rogue, a thief, or a charlatan?”

She was laughing at him. His brow lowered. “None, I’m a businessman.”

“Really?” Her voice was low and touched with humor. “You did not include businessmen on your list of San Francisco’s populace.”

He reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a card, and handed it to her.

“I’m Dutch Trahern of Trahern-Smiley Import & Export.”

She accepted his card. “I appreciate your concern, and I thank you for your warning. Nonetheless I must refuse your kind offer. Even in San Francisco a lone woman who accepts the escort of a stranger for any appreciable distance must be considered unpardonably fast.”

Unbidden and unwanted the memory of his mother in the company of strange men rose like bile. She’d always refused his pleas for her to stay home. The same helplessness he’d felt then knotted his chest now. He sucked in a deep breath and forced back the image, the feelings, to focus on Mrs. Smithfeld. Short of abducting her, he’d done everything he could. Frustration tightened his mouth. “I can see I’m unable to change your mind.”