Stealing Mercy (2 page)

If I find the diary, that missing part that would hopefully explain so much, maybe I could just read it, quickly, before leaving. I pause in the entry hall, my feet rooted to the tapestry carpet. To my left, Dot’s library. I see my reflection in the beveled glass doors. I look tiny and fractured in the reflection. My pearls cast a small glow. I tuck a strand of dark hair behind my ear, debating. If I stand stock still in the entry much longer, perhaps the caterers will come and carry me out along with the empty boxes and trays of partially eaten food.

The elegant flowers, the display of edible art, Dot’s viewing had been much different from any other funerals I’ve attended. Much different from Gregg’s. My heart twists and the guilty worm lifts his head. I dismiss thoughts of Gregg, slip into the library and immediately feel worse.

I’m not driven by impulse. I’d been waiting the opportunity to slip into the library all evening. I’d waited for the guests to leave so that I could look for the missing diary, the one that began in New York. My gaze flits around the room and I see the framed genealogy fan chart hanging on the wall, a stack of library books sitting on the desk, a mishmash of books marching across the shelves. I scan the collection, marveling at the eclectic choices.

The books, as well as the house, had belonged to Odious as it had once belonged to his parents and grandparents. It seemed odd to me that Dot would be awarded her husband’s family home in the divorce, but I didn’t question it. According to Dot, Odious was a man without sentiment. Standing on my toes, I find the tiny leather bound book on the top shelf.

I flip it open and my heart picks up speed when I recognize the copperplate handwriting. After another glance at the wet world outside the window, I lean against the solid walnut desk and begin to read.

CHAPTER 2

To lessen the effects of seasickness

Ginger Tea:

Boiling water

Chopped ginger

Sweeten with brown sugar.

From The Recipes of Mercy Faye

New York, New York

1888

Every noise seemed amplified as Mercy wrenched open what remained of the door and raced down the squeaky steps. Outside, she sucked in the cold night air and let it fill her lungs. She stole through an alley, relying on memory and moonlight to guide her through the towering rows of dark shops. When she reached the avenue, light from the street lamps twinkled on the dew covered sidewalk, her flat leather boots made no sound on the cobblestone street. An alley cat kept watch on a window sill and a rat scurried beneath a trash bin. Mercy lowered her father’s felt cap and hunched her chin into his scarf when she passed a pair of street walkers. The ladies, bruised and blue with cold called out to her, but she fled down the avenue to where the Brooklyn Bridge crossed the East River.

Mercy stopped on the bridge, the same bridge from which Mrs. Steele had thrown herself in a fit of melancholy a little more than a year ago. Mercy felt the wind pull at her clothes and tease tendrils of hair from the cap and sent Claris Steele a silent prayer of gratitude for the inspiration. After a glance over her shoulder to ensure her solitude, Mercy tossed the feathered bonnet into the swirling dark water and watched it disappear.

*****

Los Angeles, California

1888

Dust filled Trent’s eyes, nose and throat and the sun beat upon his neck, but he didn’t mind. Leaning against the railing, he watched the beauty in the ring. A silky midnight mane, a shivering amber coat, intelligent eyes and long, lean legs. Perfection. He shifted and squinted into the sun and let his gaze rest on the distant mountains. It’d be a long hard ride leading the untamed stallion through Southern California’s brown hills, the central valley and Oregon’s mountain passes, but, by the time they’d reach Seattle, Sysonby would be eating out of off his hand and nickering his name.

“I’d be begging your pardon, sir,” Mugs said behind him.

Trent didn’t take his eyes off the horse. Syonsby threw his head back and thrashed the air with lightning speed hooves while a stable hand scrambled from the ring. He’d enjoying breaking this one. “Yes, Mugs, what is it?” he asked over his shoulder. If they left at tomorrow’s first light, they could reach the mountains within a week.

“This just arrived.”

Trent turned and saw his driver holding a telegram and wearing a happy, no exultant, expression upon his typically hang dog face. Trent placed his hat on his head and fingered the brim, suspicious.

Mugs pushed back his curly hair and tried to steady his twitching lips. “It’s from your gram.”

Trent had guessed that. If he refused the telegram he could say with a certain degree of honesty that he’d never seen it. He’d be on the trail by morning and his grandmother’s message would be roasting in a campfire by nightfall. Trent studied Mugs. The man who typically had the demeanor and appearance of a troll practically shimmied with anticipation. Trent trusted him implicitly, but he knew that Mugs could never match wits with Hester Michaels. Mugs, like most people or animals, hadn’t a prayer of success if pitched against his grandmother. He’d never be able to keep a secret from her.

Trent inhaled the mixed odors of hay, dung and sweat and took off his hat to shoo away the flies. If he tried to deny knowledge of the telegram, Hester would wring the truth from Mugs within minutes and then Trent would be mucking out stables, waiting for the day when she deeded him the ranch. On her deathbed.

Twenty odd years of shed shoveling.

Trent frowned at Mugs and held out his hand for the telegram.

“RITA MISSING STOP RETURN IMMEDIATELY STOP”

*****

Hunger drove Mercy to the galley. She’d been able to keep to her room for several weeks, only emerging for solitary meals and midnight strolls on the deck, but by the time they’d landed in Los Angeles, her stomach cried for food, real food. The weeks of tinned beans she’d endured were about to end. During her last few jaunts from her berth, she’d heard the rumors of tangy oranges, bite size grapes, and juicy plums. Just thinking of fresh produce made her head swim and stomach ache. She stopped in the doorway and watched the men gathered at the tables.

Out of a sense of self preservation, she’d kept to herself, but loneliness and boredom had driven her to excessive eavesdropping and she’d learned more than just the passenger’s names and faces. Curly, Captain Kane, de la Mar and a man she didn’t recognize sat at a card table. The newcomer must have boarded in Los Angeles. Cards, poker chips and beverages sat on the tables. No food. Her stomach groaned a noisy complaint.

Curly, a bald stocky man, must have heard her belly growl. He caught her expression and grunted in her direction. “No vittles yet, lad.”

She felt tears rising and blinked hard, cursing her weakness. The room smelled of ale and fish and the ship rose and fell with the tide, making her empty belly cramp. Occasionally, the ship bumped against the dock with a smack and a shudder and while the ropes as thick as her thigh that held the ship to the dock, groaned at the restraint.

“You can always go on shore, there’s sure to be hawkers in the port,” wizened Captain Kane told her. She glanced out the window. A breeze blew in and she could smell and hear the temptations of dry land. She sat down hard at in a chair at a table close enough to watch the men and told herself to be patient.

Captain Kane grumbled into his hand of cards, although Mercy could see he held a pair of kings. Curly leaned back and rubbed his hand over his gleaming bald head. The captain sighed as if he’d soon regret his wager and pulled a jangle of coins from his pocket. He got a wild glint in his eye when Curly laid an unusual token on the table.

“Lofty stakes,” de la Mar murmured, sitting forward, his lean frame angling toward the new wager.

“Now how’d the likes of you get a hold of something like that?” asked the newcomer with the sort of jaw that looked like it’d been chiseled in stone. Mercy hadn’t remembered seeing him before and she would have. He had a cleft chin and his defined muscles bore a resemblance to the Greek statues she’d seen on display in the traveling artifact show. He turned towards her and his gaze lingered on her lips. A slow smile curved his mouth and he took a long slow drink of ale before returning to his pair of fives.

“Hey, I got my charms,” Curly laughed and looked smug.

“I wouldn’t be trading that away so lightly,” de la Mar said, studying his cards as if trying conjure a flush.

Mercy leaned forward and caught sight of the token. Her breath fixed in her throat.

“Now that’s worth playing for, hey lad?” Curly threw her a bawdy grin. Mercy blinked at him. She wanted to touch the token, to feel its heft and size, to study it and see if it could be as similar to the key in her pocket as it appeared.

Captain Kane threw the man with a cleft chin a hostile glance. “You acquainted with that particular coin, Wallace?”

Wallace, the man with the cleft chin, said, “I’m not.”

But Mercy was. Her fingers sought the key in her pocket. They matched, she was sure of it. The key she’d taken from Mr. Steele matched the token on the table.

“That there token can buy you one of the finest wenches in the country,” Curly grinned.

“They don’t just let any Joe into their club,” de la Mar said. “How you get that, Curly? Don’t tell me it was on account of your beauty.”

“Or your smell,” Wallace said, smirking.

“Ah, the smell of money,” Captain Kane, said, laying down his cards, the kings staring up at him. He beamed as his companions threw down their hands with oaths and curses.

Mercy leaned forward. “That key--”

“What key?” Captain Kane’s hands paused over his winnings. It wasn’t a key. It looked like a coin--a coin identical to the top of the key in her pocket. She didn’t need a second look.

“What exactly do you get with that token?” Mercy asked the men in her practiced baritone voice.

Captain Kane smiled. “I just won me a trip to Lucky Island.”

Mercy fidgeted. “And Lucky Island is -- ”

“One of the finest brothels in the country,” the captain finished for her.

“And that token gains you entrance for a night?” This was the longest conversation she’d had since leaving New York and it made her nervous. Any moment she expected her voice to crack, and yet she had to ask.

“A whole night?” de la Mar scoffed and Curly, who’d been taking a swig of ale, snorted.

Warmth flushed Mercy’s cheeks and she looked out the window again. She caught sight of a broad shoulder man pushing up the gang plank. He had blond hair tied back in a short queue. He walked with athletic grace, but something about the way he moved said he didn’t want to get on the boat. It was almost as if he was fighting an invisible string that tried to keep him on land.

“Can you imagine having a key to Lucky Island?” de la Mar asked.

“I demand a rematch.” Curly griped, watching his prize token slip away.

Mercy turned her back on the man climbing the gangplank and asked, “This Lucky Island, is it here in California?”

“Naw, the finest wenches are in Seattle,” Captain Kane said, smiling and pushing away from the table. He flipped the coin into the air and caught it mid air. “Gentlemen, I believe it’s time to set sail.”

*****

Trent stood on the deck of the ship, his stomach matching the ocean’s churning. A light spray fell over him, but he didn’t flinch. He tried to focus on the emerging moon and the star’s glinty light and not the dark, rolling tide pitching the ship and the contents of his stomach. Gazing out over the hills where the mountains met the purpling sky, he could imagine Mugs, Sysonby and the other horses cresting the mountains and then making camp. Transporting a team of horses single handedly wouldn’t be easy, but it would be worthwhile. Mugs would first break and then train Sysonby, and no matter how often Trent rode, or fed him, Sysonby would always belong to Mugs. Despite the paperwork.

Paperwork, documentation. It said so much and did so little. He felt the weight of the ranch settle across his shoulders. He told himself it’d soon be his, but he was beginning to suspect that even if his gram deeded him the ranch, as she’d promised, as long as she had spurs on her boots, it would always be hers. And his. They both loved it, but sometimes, no, most of the time, they wanted to run it differently.

The moon, a slip of silver, peaked through a haze of clouds. A star emerged. The ship rose on a swell and then fell. Trent tightened his fingers around the rail, cursing his gram and his weak stomach. Maybe if he just didn’t eat he could make it to Seattle with the majority of his insides intact. Sailing made him feel inside out.

A mean wind blew the clouds shrouding the moon and a beam of light landed on a lone figure near the bow. She fought the wind for her hat and her hair, a tangle of dark honey, swirled around her head. The hat, pinched between her fingers, caught another gust, set sail and skittered across the deck.

The woman managed to capture her hair into twist, and she looked over the deck in his direction. Her eyes widened when she saw him and she backed up against the rail.