Kathryn Albright - The Angel and the Outlaw

One boat full of crewmen already tested the turbulent ocean. Panic mixed with relief marked the faces of the fourteen men. They veered away from the Frisco Maiden, rowing with a vengeance to get clear of the larger ship. Waves washed over them, tangling kelp and sea grass around their bodies, fashioning them into grotesque monsters rising from the deep.

The ocean churned and heaved, playing with the Frisco Maiden and mocking her tenacious grasp on life. Stuart helped the remaining crewmen and Saunders make ready the second lifeboat. When they had all settled into the boat along with Linnea and Hannah, he hesitated.

“Come on, Cap’n!” Saunders yelled. “She’ll go under any minute. Save yourself. No need for heroics!”

“Are all the men accounted for?”

“Yes, sir.”

Stuart glanced about the deck one last time, then climbed over the railing and down the rope ladder to the lifeboat. Sheet lightning flared in the sky, this time farther to the south.

“We’re caught up!” Saunders yelled from the bow.

Stuart looked down into Linnea’s frightened eyes.

“I cannot do this by meself!” Saunders’s gravelly voice competed with the crashing of waves. “Give a hand!”

Stuart squeezed Linnea’s hand. “Hold tight to the side. I must help Saunders or we’ll be dragged under with the ship.”

His words seemed to penetrate her fear, for he felt a loosening of her grip. Quickly he moved her hand to the side of the lifeboat. He looked briefly at Hannah, and then crawled toward Saunders in the bow.

Kelp, seaweed and a plank of wood had tangled about the Maiden’s ladder. There was no hope in untangling the floating mass. He would have to cut them loose.

“Hold my legs!” he shouted at Saunders and grabbed the large knife he carried in his belt. He inched forward until more than half his body hung over the bow and then sawed at the thick hemp rope. In short time the rope gave way and they were free. Winded, he inched back into the boat and sprawled on the seat to catch his breath.

A swell rose fifteen feet above the lifeboat like a vengeful Poseidon rising from the deep. Stuart watched in horror as the swell broke at its apex and crashed down on them. The turbulence battered him, pushing saltwater into his eyes and filling his mouth. He gripped anything he could hold on to, climbing over his crew, trying to reach Linnea. When the water calmed enough to see again, surprisingly the boat still floated right side up.

But Linnea and Hannah were gone.

“Cap’n, don’t do it!”

He heard Saunders yell, felt hands reach for him, but there was no time to wait.

He dived in.

Groping frantically through the water, he searched for Linnea and Hannah. The waves shoved him about like a plaything. Kelp tangled around his legs, pulling at him, binding him.

Something drifted across his face—seaweed? More kelp? He struggled closer. In vain he tried to see through the murky waters. Then something bumped against him. He reached—and his hands closed on cloth. Hannah! He pulled her close, and suddenly Linnea was there, too, grasping his forearm with both hands.

Renewed strength flowed through him. He kicked hard for the surface, struggling with the weight of the two. His lungs burned with the need for air.

Lightning flashed above him. The surface was so close, so close. His legs muscles tightened into knots. He forced himself to keep kicking, straining. He had to breathe, had to reach the surface. Then Linnea’s hold loosened and he felt her hands slide down his arm. He tried to grasp her, but her fingers slipped through his. He reached again—and his hand closed on nothing but water.

Stuart woke with a start, disoriented, his body coated in sweat. He stared at the logbook on the desk, seeing it without knowing where he was, what it meant. He struggled to get his bearings. His heart pounded, yet quiet surrounded him. Through the window flashed a beam from the lamp, the circular pattern somehow familiar and settling. He buried his face in his hands.

The dream had come again.

He drew in a deep breath to steady his heartbeat, then closed the logbook and rose from his seat. It had been months since he’d dreamed of it—almost a year. He longed for the night it would leave him for good, and yet he feared it, too. The dream was his punishment for not protecting the woman he loved. Yet, in the dream he could still feel her touch and hear her voice.

He climbed the stairs to Hannah’s room and leaned against the door frame, studying her. At least he’d never forget Linnea’s face. Hannah was her mirror image. She slept on, her new doll crushed beside her.

That doll.

The events of yesterday rushed back into his thoughts. He’d been rude to Reverend Crouse and Miss Houston. But he wouldn’t apologize for his blunt words nor would he place his trust in a God who allowed an innocent woman like Linnea to drown. Still, he did feel a twinge of remorse. Hannah surely liked that doll.

Back in his bedroom he poured cool water into his bowl, then splashed it on his face. His hand strayed to the raised quarter-inch-wide slash that started just over his right brow and extended into his hairline. The angry red mark never let him forget it was his fault Linnea had died…his fault Hannah no longer talked or laughed.

Odd, when he thought over the previous day, how the vision of Miss Houston formed in his mind sharper than that of Linnea. She was nothing like Linnea, who had been soft and biddable. Miss Houston seemed all strong angles and had a decidedly sharper tongue. She certainly hadn’t been cowed by him—not with that parting question about prison time. Still, her urging to start Hannah in school nagged at him. Linnea would have insisted on private tutors long before now.

He’d said he could teach Hannah himself, but he wasn’t sure he could. He knew all about shipping, about commanding a schooner or steamer and bartering the best price for goods. That wouldn’t do Hannah any good. Was he selfish in wanting her to stay here with him? She needed to learn of life beyond the peninsula—but at what cost? All he wanted to do was protect her. His gut twisted. He’d done a damn poor job of that so far.

He could throttle Miss Houston for stirring up the ashes, for bringing back the nightmare. And that doll! He knew better than to accept it. Why had he? Now his conscience would prick him every time Hannah played with it—and he would think of her.

San Francisco

Dorian Lansing hurriedly mounted the steps of his mansion on Nob Hill, his walking cane tapping a rapid-fire cadence across the smooth-tiled entrance.

“Rose! Rose! Confound it, Whitlow, take these.” He shoved his cloak and top hat at the butler. “Where is that woman!”

“In the dayroom, sir…. Dr. Garrett is with her.”

Dorian dropped his cane in the wrought-iron rack by the door and headed down the hall. His wife lounged with her feet on the couch, still dressed in her pearl-colored morning robe. At least she’d allowed Mattie to draw her hair back with a pink ribbon today in deference to the doctor’s visit.

Dr. Garrett stood as Dorian entered the room. The heavy drapes remained closed against the light of day. No air stirred.

“You’re home early, dear,” Rose said in her birdlike voice. He detected a slight trembling of her hands.

“May I have a word with you, Mr. Lansing?” Dr. Garrett subtly nodded his head toward the hall.

“Certainly. I’ll be right back, Rose.” He followed the doctor to the hallway.

“How is she today, Doctor?”

“Thinner, paler.”

He’d thought so, too, but to hear his fears out loud made them so much more real. “What else can we do? We’ve tried everything.”

“This is not so much an illness of the body as it is an illness of the spirit. You must find something that captures her interest. She needs a reason to continue living.”

Dorian thanked the man and dismissed him. A reason for living! Of all the nerve. Apparently taking care of her husband and household wasn’t enough of a reason! Disgruntled, he strode into the dayroom, crossed the parquet floor to a southern window and drew back the heavy burgundy drapes.

“Please…leave that closed.” Rose struggled to sit taller. “What did the doctor say?”

He left the drapes as they were and began plumping the pillows at her back, avoiding her gaze. “Nothing new. You’re doing just fine.”

She caught his hand and motioned for him to sit. She didn’t ask why he was early today. He knew better than to hope for a show of interest from her. It had been years since he’d seen any spark in her eyes. He dragged a straight-back chair near and sat. This was his last hope.

“I have information regarding Linnea.”

The muscles in her neck worked convulsively as she swallowed. After Rose’s panic attack a year ago, the doctor had said not to bring up the accident or the past, but to wait for her to mention it first. So far, she never had.

By God, he’d had enough. Enough! He was not the type to sit around and take this situation a moment longer. He was through with waiting. “I heard from Miss Forester’s School for Young Ladies. The headmistress there confirmed my suspicions. She knew John Newcomb well.”

“That means…”

The plaintive plea in her voice knifed through him, and he turned from her, unable to bear seeing her hurt more. “Yes. John married our daughter to get his hands on her inheritance. He used her just as we suspected.” Dorian kept quiet about the mistress. Such information was not for a genteel lady’s ears.

“Oh, Dory.”

The reproachful tone set him off. “She should have known better!” His voice quaked with anger. “How could she have been so gullible as to let a man like that into her life? She was a Lansing, for God’s sake. Why didn’t she listen to me?”

Rose dropped her gaze and turned from him.

“I know what you’re going to say, Rose. But I was angry. And frustrated.”

“And you turned her away when she finally did come to us for help,” she said dully.

“She had to learn to live with her choices. Make the best of it.” He took his wife’s frail hand. “Well, no matter now. She is gone and we cannot change the past. But for certain, the child, our granddaughter, belongs with us.”

“Matthew is still involved, isn’t he? That’s why he hasn’t come back.”

Dorian stiffened at hearing that name and chose to ignore her question. He’d kept the part about the murder from his wife. She’d suffered enough. But he knew Matthew was involved, whether the rumors of adultery were true or not, it was his gun found on the docks. He’d probably pulled the trigger. “I’ve decided to hire another detective. Randolph has given me a name.”

A flash of fear crossed Rose’s face.

“I know we had little luck with the first one. I’m willing to try again. More important, are you?”

Her shaking grew worse, but when she looked up at him, her gaze was resolute. “Yes. Do try. It’s time we were a family again.” She drew a breath and added, “Even…even Matthew.”

Dorian felt a sickening lurch in his gut and hardened his heart at her words. “I don’t want to hear that man’s name spoken in this house or have you forgotten that?”

Rose visibly shrank in front of him. “No. I’ve not forgotten. But Linnea ran to Matthew. And he took her in. He loved her—as a brother would and…and possibly more.”

“Confound it!” He beat his fist on the arm of the couch. “The girl belongs with us. He isn’t her father.” The hate boiled up inside, choking him.