A Light For My Love (30 page)

"I want to thank you for what you did
upstairs, Jake." She turned to face him. "I know that Susan is a
bit—well, a little odd, I guess."

Jake arched a brow at her understatement.

"All right, I suppose she's quite odd. I
didn't realize how much trouble she was in. But I don't think she
was always like this. And I know what it's like to wait for
someone, wondering when he'll be back. When there's no body to
bury, it's harder to accept the death."

He stood and walked over to her, putting a
hand under her elbow. "Come on, sit down," he said. "I'll get your
dinner." He guided her to the table.

She sent him a flimsy smile. "Are you going
to get even with me for those first few meals I gave you?"

He went to the stove, where the soup kettle
simmered. He chuckled. "I should, but I'm going to let you off easy
tonight."

She eased herself into a chair, glad for the
chance to sit. He ladled the soup into a bowl and set it before
her. Then he brought a part of a chicken and a loaf of bread to the
table and began cutting slices. He seemed easy and familiar with
the task; the slices were uniform, and he even cut off the bread
crusts.

China watched, fascinated, as he assembled a
sandwich for her, as nice as any restaurant's.

He noted her interest and smiled. "Surprised,
huh? When I went to sea, I spent a year or so in the galley. Ship's
cooks are pretty tough; you get it right or they'll boil
you
for dinner."

China thought of the things that had recently
passed between them and around them—the night on the back porch,
the potpourri box, the emergency with Susan, the story about his
mother. All this painted a picture of a complex man with many
layers. A man who veered sharply from the insensitive, truant
hell-raiser she'd believed him to be. He had altered her concept of
him again and again in the last two and a half months.

"But I'd learned my way around a kitchen
pretty well before that. Who do you suppose did the cooking when I
lived on Tenth Street with Pop?"

"I never thought about it, I guess," she
said, tasting the soup.

"Your old cook, Edna, and Aunt Gert showed me
a few things," he said, grabbing an orange from the pantry. He
brought it back to the table and pierced the rind with the edge of
a spoon, releasing its fragrance. "The rest I picked up along the
way. I can roast a turkey, make a stew, bake a cake."

She thought of him as a youngster, trying to
manage on his own, with only Aunt Gert for female input, and her
heart contracted a little. She'd lost her own mother when she was
young, but she'd grown up with a loving family around her. As far
as she knew, Jake and his father had always been at odds.

"Was it true, what you told Susan about your
mother?" she inquired softly. She looked at him as he sat across
from her, stripping off the orange peel, stripping away her last
defenses. His big hands were dexterous and, she remembered,
surprisingly gentle.

He breathed a slight sigh. "Yeah."

"Do you know where she is?"

He held an orange section out to her on his
open hand, and she took it, putting it in her mouth. Silence
stretched between them. Finally he said, "You know how it makes you
feel to talk about Ryan?"

She looked up from her plate and saw his eyes
darken. Nodding, she let the subject drop. The more she learned
about him, the less she knew, it seemed.

He leaned back in his chair and pulled off
two more orange sections. One he put on her plate and one he bit in
half. "The
Katherine Kirkland
is going back into the water
in two days. I'll be moving my gear back to my quarters then."

China put down her soup spoon, suddenly no
longer hungry. "When does she sail?"

"In a week." He leveled a watchful gaze on
her, as though waiting for her response.

A week. What could she say? Good? Two months
ago she would have danced on the kitchen table to hear such news.
Of course, everything had changed. But to admit it, to let him know
that she cared, now, when his love for her had long since died—that
was out of the question. Afraid that almost anything she said would
betray her heart, she let her gaze fall on the fine planes of his
face and maintained her silence.

Jake gave her the last orange slice and
pushed his chair back to stand up. One corner of his mouth turned
down in a mocking smile. "I thought you'd want to know."

CHAPTER TWELVE

Late the next afternoon, China sat in the
front parlor alcove, looking at the underside of her gold filigreed
box. She ran her fingertips over the engraving, feeling the slight
depressions that formed the initials. Jake had been out most of the
day on business, and despite her best efforts to keep busy, there
had been moments like this one, when she could only mope around.
China rested her chin on her hand and looked out at the forest of
masts lined up in the harbor. Really, it was for the best that he
was going. Life would finally resume its normal pace and cadence
after the
Katherine Kirkland
upped anchor.

And now that Harbor House was nearly ready to
open, perhaps . . . perhaps she might give more consideration to
Dalton's proposal. After all, as she'd told herself before, she had
great respect for him, and she was fond of him. Maybe Portland
would be interesting, too. It would mean leaving the family for a
time, but certainly she and Dalton would come back.

Susan had lingered in her room all day,
saying she was too tired to come out. Maybe she’d improve, though,
once Jake was gone. Oh, yes, everything would be better.

China glanced at the engraved initials again.
If Jake's leaving would solve so many problems, why did the
prospect of his absence make her feel so horrible?

Just then she heard Cap's awkward,
cane-supported gait on the front steps, and she went to the front
door to let him in. Back from his daily afternoon walk, he was out
of breath and even more red-faced than usual, as though he'd been
chased to the porch by the doomed phantom ship, the
Flying
Dutchman
.

"Cap! Are you all right?"

"There's big doings, Missy, big doings. Looks
like there might be an honest-to-God riot brewing over at that
boardinghouse you've been working on."

"What!"

He nodded and stumped to the chair that sat
in the hall between the front and back parlors. Taking off his cap,
he fanned his face, ruffling his thin hair.

"Aye. Seems one of those goddamned crimpers
stole a man last night and dumped him on a ship that lay at anchor
at Clatsop Spit. Came first light, he jumped overboard and tried to
swim to a fishing boat nearby. He didn't make it." He reached into
his pocket and produced a big red handkerchief to blow his nose
with a honking blat.

"You mean he drowned?" she asked.

"That he did, Missy. He sank like a bag full
of rocks."

"God in heaven! Then what?"

Though his face was no longer as florid, he
still hadn't quite caught his breath. "How about a drop of brandy
before I tell you the rest? I'm stove in."

She hurried to the liquor cabinet in the
front parlor and brought him a glass and the brandy bottle.

"Bless your good Irish soul, Missy," he said,
and poured a measure down his throat in one gulp. Thus fortified,
he continued. "The fishing boat skipper was able to recover the
body. He brought it in and reported the death. I guess the dead man
was one of the Finn lads from Uniontown. With a wife and two little
ones left behind." He held his glass out to her, which she
dutifully refilled, and he took another drink. "When the word got
around—and it didn't take long, believe me—that Williams fella got
some townsfolk together to march to the mayor's office to
protest."

"Dalton Williams?" she said, aghast.

"Aye. They were ranting and raving, 'No more
shanghaiing, no more shanghaiing.' But some sailor-runners tried to
stop them. When I started for home, Williams was piloting his group
to the boardinghouse, and the sailor-runners were on their
heels."

"Didn't anyone call for the police?" she
asked, tempted to take a drink of the brandy herself.

Cap unbuttoned his coat with stiff fingers
and felt around in his pockets for the meerschaum. "Even if they
did, you know it would do nary a bit of good. The law tends to look
the other way when it comes to shanghaiing, the lousy
bastards."

Yes, she thought, and that was why the
Sailors Protective League was formed. Well, there was nothing to do
but go to Dalton. Of course he was capable, but she couldn't stand
by and let him face this alone, not after all they'd been through
together for the league.

She put the brandy bottle in his hand. "Here,
Cap. Why don't you go out to the kitchen and get yourself some hot
coffee to make a toddy? That'll warm your bones."

"Oh, trying to sidetrack me, eh?" He gave her
a sharp look. "You're a pretty smart woman, Missy, but I'm not so
old and feeble that I don't know my barnacles from my binnacles.
And if you're thinking of going to that boardinghouse, you're
letting yourself in for a peck of trouble, I can tell you."

China affected what she believed to be an
innocent expression, then averted her eyes from his probing gaze.
"Don't worry about me, Cap. You know I'd never do anything so dumb.
Besides, I have Susan to look after."

"Aye, well—" He sounded unconvinced but
apparently was willing to let it drop. He rubbed his hand over his
jaw and looked at the brandy bottle. "Maybe a toddy would be just
the thing to cure what ails." With considerable effort, he hoisted
himself out of the chair and took a couple of hobbling steps toward
the kitchen. Then he turned and looked back at her. "I can give you
but one bit of advice, Missy: keep your head down and your ass
covered. It's not as much fun, but you'll live longer."

*~*~*

China raced toward Harbor House with no
particular plan of action in mind; it was simply her duty to be
there. Her low heels rumbled hollowly over the plank sidewalk, and
she pressed a hand to the ache developing in her side.

But when she caught sight of the mob in the
street up ahead, she slowed her headlong rush, pulling her cloak
tighter. The odor of stove oil reached her nose. With daylight
waning, several in the crowd carried blazing torches, their smoky
flames gleaming brightly against the darkening sky. She felt the
anger emanating from them, and as she cautiously drew closer, she
saw that the people in the street were merely an overflow of those
who were crammed into the front yard. A low, angry buzz ran through
them, but their attention was focused on the front of the house.
She recognized the impassioned, stentorian voice of Dalton
Williams, carried on the wind currents.

China sidled around to the front yard,
hovering on the fringes of the throng. Front windows that had
previously been hidden behind the shrubbery were now visible.
Apparently Willie had made good progress with the yard work. From
her place in the back, she couldn't see much except Dalton's head
as he paced back and forth on the porch.

". . wife and two children who'll never see
him again. This man had his whole life ahead of him, but it was cut
short by the greed of men in expensive suits, to whom a man's life
means nothing—
nothing
—and by politicians who allow this
kidnapping and murder to continue!"

China detected a powerful, frank edge of
emotion in his voice that surprised her. A thrilling, forthright
speaker, Dalton had never resorted to theatrics to win an
audience's sympathy, and she wondered why he was doing it now. But
then, as if to answer her question, the crowd shifted just enough
to reveal the cause of his reaction. On the porch flooring at his
feet lay the gray, lifeless form of a man, obviously the drowning
victim. The Finn had a full head of thick blond hair that, upon
first glance, made China's heart turn over in her chest.

She stepped up on a nearby carriage block to
get a better view.

Dalton stopped pacing and raked a hand
through his hair. "We'll never make sense of Frans Hakkala's
pointless death. But, by God, let him not have died in vain. Raise
your voices to make the politicians hear you, the judges, the
police. Save your sons and your brothers, and the hearts of your
women. Because the crimps are out there—right now, tonight,
tomorrow. In broad daylight and in the night's darkest hour. And
next time they may come for you!"

He leaned over and spoke a few words to the
two men closest to the edge of the porch, and put a consoling hand
on the shoulder of each of them. Then they climbed the steps and
lifted the blanket-wrapped body to bear it away.

A respectful silence descended upon the crowd
as a path opened for the pallbearers.

From the other edge of the group, a
malevolent voice rang out, "You'd better sleep with one eye open,
Williams, because you could be next."

China whipped her head around toward the
direction of the speaker, but could see nothing. Almost immediately
after, a brick arced across the yard, smashing a front window.

The mob's angry buzz grew to a deafening roar
of fury, and the mass erupted into total confusion, violent and
frightening. Which were friends and which were foes was impossible
to ascertain in the chaos. China hadn't envisioned a scene like
this. She knew she ought to stay out of the way, but when she saw
that brick and heard the glass shatter, she jumped forward,
outraged. How dare these mindless, uncaring barbarians damage
Harbor House, the object of painstaking work and worry? They were
completely out of control, attacking like wild animals that had
picked up a blood scent. She saw, and heard, an axe handle swing
down upon the head of a man standing far too close to her, making a
sickening pulpy thump, like a broken watermelon.