California Caress (40 page)

The whole time he had talked, the man’s eyes had stayed glued with fascination to the masculine boots peeking out from beneath the cloak’s hem. It was almost with relief that Hope parted company with the arrogant man. Almost. She still didn’t have a ticket yet.

Deep in thought, she strolled to the dock’s edge. She leaned her shoulder against a large, bared tree trunk sticking up from the planks and coiled with rope, and fixed her gaze on the moon as it danced on the rippling surface of the water. The sound of waves crashing and people talking echoed in her ears as she inhaled deeply of the rich salt air. This time when the hood blew back, freeing the cascade of chestnut waves, Hope didn’t try to stop it. She was surprised to find that she actually liked the feel of the sea breeze rustling through her hair, grazing her cheeks and making them sting.

"So, you’re heading for Virginia?” a worn, cracking voice asked from behind.

Hope gasped and spun around. Barely two feet away stood a woman, her shoulders thick and hunched, her slight form completely enveloped in midnight black. Her lips were so thin it appeared, at first glance, that she had none. Her face had more wrinkles than a slept-in cotton shirt. Only her eyes—sharp and clear with the wisdom of age—revealed the feisty spirit locked inside her ancient body.

The woman leaned heavily on her unadorned wooden cane as her shrewd green gaze raked Hope from head to toe. “Heard you talking to Davis,” she said, as though the brief explanation meant she hadn’t really been eavesdropping. Like her eyes, her voice was crisp and direct. “The ship’s all booked.”

Hope hesitated. She would have backed up a step, to put some distance between herself and the gray-haired old woman, but the mooring post wouldn’t allow retreat. The woman seemed to be waiting expectantly for Hope to say something, but since she wasn’t exactly sure what, she said nothing.

“Hmph!” the old woman snorted, her wrinkled nose creasing still more. She waved a crooked hand at Hope, her gaze shimmering with confusion and not a little disappointment. “Bah! Thought I could help you, dearie, but if you can’t talk, I’ll guess I was wrong.”

Help her? What could this crooked old woman do to help her? Hope wasn’t sure, but she intended to find out. What the hell, it wasn’t as though she had any other options at that point.

“Davis did say the ship was booked,” she ventured, still leery. “Why? Do you know where I could buy a ticket?”

“Heavens no.” The old woman chuckled, a high, cackling sound, and Hope wondered what she’d said that had struck her so funny. “I do know where you’ll find an extra bed, though.” The watery eyes grew suddenly serious. “If you’re interested, that is.”

Interested? Right now she was obsessed with the idea of ridding herself of Boston once and for all, losing herself once again in the rolling foothills of Virginia. Only there at home could she ever hope to forget her time with Drake Frazier.

On instinct, Hope threw caution to the wind. After all, this was her chance—it might not come around again. “Yes,” she said, her voice breathless with excitement, “I’m very interested, Mrs.—”

The woman’s eyes twinkled with satisfaction as she leaned heavily on her cane. “Bentley,” she huffed, as though the explanation had been perfected years ago, and was purposely sarcastic. “First name, not last. No Mrs! You can ask me about that later. For now you can call me Bentley.”

“Bentley.” Hope nodded, testing the name. Unusual though it was, it fit the crooked old woman to a T.

The flesh that should have been lips pursed as she glanced at Hope’s feet, and the bare planks. “Got any bags?”

Hope shook her head.

“Didn’t think so.” One corner of the nonexistent mouth lifted with distaste. “You don’t snore, do you? I like company, but I don’t like snoring.”

“Company?” she gulped. So much for a quiet, secluded cabin to herself! Had she really thought the old woman intended to sell her a ticket? Only now did she realize how foolish that idea had been. “You mean I’d be sharing a cabin with—”

“Me,” the old woman huffed. “Of course. Who else would you be sharing it with?”

“I don’t know, I hadn’t thought about it.” Hope paused, a scowl furrowed her brow as she met the watery gaze. “Why are you offering to let me share your cabin?” she asked, suddenly suspicious. Didn’t she have every right to be? It wasn’t every day that a stranger offered her a favor for no apparent reason. Logic told her that a bit of caution was definitely in order. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, understand, but your generosity is out of place. Everyone else I talked to looked at me like I had two heads. They weren’t willing to help me, so I guess it’s only normal that I’m wondering why you are.”

“I respect honesty,” she said dryly, “in small doses. Do try to keep it to yourself, though, dearie.” The spot above her chin cracked into a smile. The expression, not overly sincere, set a whole new variety of wrinkles to crinkle her liver-spotted face. In a way, she reminded Hope of Old Joe. A pain of remorse stabbed at her heart with the unbidden comparison.

“I still want to know why you offered to share your cabin,” Hope insisted when the woman again started to hobble away.

She turned back, her cane tapping on the weathered planks. “I already told you,” she answered impatiently from over a hunched shoulder, “I like company. I’ve got a stateroom for two, and now there’s only me to keep in it. You need to get to Virginia, exactly where I’m heading.” She scowled, and for a second Hope lost sight of her eyes amidst the wrinkles of sagging flesh. “You ask an awful lot of questions, dearie. Most would just thank me for my generosity and take the bed.”

“I am thankful,” she was quick to assure her. Now that a bed on the clipper was within her grasp, Hope was reluctant to throw the opportunity away. She’d kowtow to the old woman if she had to, if it meant getting home.

It took only three steps to catch up to the slow, stooped form. And as Hope shortened her own strides to accommodate the older woman’s hobble, she noticed that the top of the salt-gray head barely reached her own shoulder.

The woman named, oddly enough, Bentley, had obviously noticed the difference as well. “Making ‘em tall in Virginia nowadays,” she quipped, with a devilish smile. She spared Hope only a passing glance as she maneuvered herself around a large crate of spicy smelling tea.

“I’m taller than most.”

“And prettier.” The observation was said with a frank sort of candor that made it neither compliment nor insult, just a statement of fact. “Could have used you twenty years ago when George put those dern cupboards in the kitchen. Six feet high, they stood—and me only five!” She cackled with the memory. “Never did use the top ones. Couldn’t reach ‘em!”

“Is George your husband?” Hope asked absently, slipping a hand beneath the woman’s bony arm as she helped her to step over a stray banana peel. A waft of the woman’s faded rose scent engulfed her, bringing back bittersweet memories of her childhood and mother.

“One of ‘em,” Bentley shrugged. She stopped long enough to hold up a hand. Four crooked fingers stood at proud attention from the base of painfully swollen knuckles. “George was the first. George was the best. The rest couldn’t compare, although they tried like the dickens. You married—er—?”

“Hope.”

“You hope what?”

She smiled despite her resolve to be cautious of this stranger. There was something about the crooked old woman that spurred easy compatibility. “Hope,” she corrected. “First name, not last. No Mrs! You can ask me about that whenever you like. But for now you can call me Hope.” She smiled devilishly. “And no, to answer your question, I’m not married.”

“Oh, Lordy, a woman with a tongue in her head, and who knows how to use it. Heaven help us.” She sighed heavily, then ogled the girl head to toe. “Hope, huh?” she said, seeming to weigh the name on her dry tongue before nodding her head in approval. The brittle wisps of hair tumbling from her bun rustled in the salty breeze. “Not married, eh? Pity. Girl your age needs a man.”

“I don’t,” she countered quickly, her voice sounding hollow even to her own ears. Lord, but she was sick of feeling so damn independent. Her lips automatically continued the well-rehearsed phrase. “I don’t need anyone.”

Again those sharp green eyes raked her, and this time there was a glint of speculation shining in their depths. “Everyone needs someone. It’s human nature. No shame in it.”

Hope didn’t reply as they veered left from the docks, onto a warehouse-flanked side street. Instead, she eyed a group of well-dressed boys gathering around a lamp post. Their youthful laughter sang through the air as they playfully shoved each other around. The moonlight caught on the side of the bottle being passed. Hope tensed, waiting for a confrontation. The boys eyed the two women curiously as they approached, but, thankfully, left them alone.

The old woman seemed not to notice the disturbance, or, if she did notice, chose to ignore it. She hobbled along at the same rate, her gait as precarious as ever.

They walked down one narrow, twisting street after another, always staying close by the waterfront. Bentley glanced up. “Ah, finally,” she sighed, pointing a crooked finger at the building to Hope’s right. “End of the line, praise the Lord! Got a room here for the night. Where are you sleeping, Hope-who-doesn’t-need-anyone?”

Hope’s flicker of hesitation made the answer painfully obvious. She rushed to cover the slip, “I—I’m staying with friends in the city,” she replied, nervously fixing her gaze on the toe of her boot. She hated lying to a woman who had been nothing but honest and direct—but she also hated the thought of accepting any more of the woman’s charity.

“Didn’t get to be my age without knowing how to lie and knowing when I’m being lied
to
,” the crackling voice said. The green eyes sparkled shrewdly. “Looks like you need practice there, too. Don’t worry, dearie, I’ll teach you the ropes.” Her crooked fingers gripped the brass doorknob and she looked back at Hope. “Well, come on, then. Wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight wondering what happened to you. And I’d probably miss my boat in the morning looking for you, too.”

“But I—”

“Bah! Swallow your pride for once, and move that cute little behind. Getting dern brisk out here, and I’m too old to be standing in the cold wind arguing. Keep me out, and it’ll be your fault if my rheumatism starts acting up again. Can you live with that on your conscience?”

Yes, the woman
did
have a way about her. Reluctantly, Hope followed. She knew better than to protest such a blunt-mannered argument. And, in truth, she was too tired, too drained, to fight. She decided that, just one more time, she would accept Bentley’s generosity—and pay her handsomely for it, as well as her passage to Virginia, come morning.

The masts of the clipper ship,
Witch of the Waves
, stood straight and proud against a crystal blue, cloudless sky. Glistening white sails caught the wind, billowing back and forth as though playing with each hearty gust. Her bow was ornamented with the carved figure of a woman in flowing white, the glowing eyes trained seaward. Gracing the stern was a witch floating in a sea shell, at the port, an imp riding a dolphin.

Fanciful figures, Hope thought as she leaned over the rail. The salty wind played with the loose chestnut waves as they floated to her waist in a waterfall of confusion. The black cloak whipped around her ankles.

Her seasickness had passed remarkably fast, considering how ill she’d been on the illfated trip to California. Her companion was not so lucky. As she had been for the last six days, Bentley was below decks, curled up on one of the beds in their stateroom. The poor woman suffered from seasickness worse than anyone Hope had ever seen. She lay awake at night, moaning at each groan of the planks, each splash of waves against the hull, as the ship rocked to and fro. More than once Hope had caught her cursing the great-nephew who’d insisted on such discomforts. For an old woman, her curses were imaginative!

Today, however, they had reason to celebrate. This morning Bentley had kept down half a bowl of broth and a sliver of dry bread. Also, the faded-rose color was finally beginning to return to her weathered cheeks.

Hope sighed, craning her neck and letting the crisp salt spray sting her cheeks. The old woman’s bluntness had taken some getting used to, but she had adjusted quickly. In fact, she was finding she actually liked Bentley, sharp tongue and all. Right now, she was waiting patiently for her new friend above deck, ready to make good on her promise of a stroll in the mid-afternoon sunshine—Bentley’s reward for finishing breakfast.

Apparently, the other passengers had the same idea. Hope glanced up at the sound of footsteps and a throaty giggle.

A young couple strolled by, apparently immune to the inquisitive stares their passing elicited. No one talked to the Millers. No one had to. It was obvious from the way they clung to each other, murmured to each other,
looked
at each other, that they two were newly married. And, of course, the time they spent closeted in their stateroom spoke for itself.

She sent the pair a covetous glance as they disappeared through the doorway leading below. Although neither was striking alone, they made a handsome couple. Hope thought that it was the aura of love that seemed to surround them that made the pair so attractive, and so damned enviable.