Elizabeth Grayson (23 page)

“What if he chose to make a place for himself in her life?” Boothe proposed. “As a dear friend, or even a doting
uncle
?”

“Christina’s father should understand that if he comes near this child”—Ann clutched her daughter—“if he even hints to her about who he is, he’ll answer to me.”

Boothe threw back his head and laughed—a harrowing sound that reverberated off the study’s paneled walls. “My dear Ann,” he scoffed. “You’ve never been able to defend yourself. How do you expect to shield this little girl if her father chooses to make himself known to her?”

Something ruthless and maternal coalesced in her, a force that was powerful and ages-old. A fierceness that ran soul-deep, one she sensed would endure to her last breath.

“I might never have been able to defend myself,” Ann said in a deceptively quiet voice, “but I’ll do whatever I have to do to protect Christina. No matter what went on before, I will never
—never
let you hurt my daughter.”

CHASE STUDIED THE COMMODORE OVER THE RIM OF HIS glass, taking note of the blunt, big-knuckled hand wrapped around the cut crystal tumbler. Had those hands ever grabbed his Annie hard enough to leave bruises? Had he shaken her hard enough to set her head reeling? Had this man ever struck her?

Though Ann denied it, Chase thought he had. Certainly something that happened in this house had marked her: made his Annie start when someone came too close or made her recoil when someone touched her. He’d seen the shadows in her eyes, and he suspected...

Chase wasn’t exactly sure what he suspected. But from what he’d seen and heard today, he knew James Rossiter had been belittling and bullying and manipulating Annie all her life. Once he’d met his obligations and owned the
Andromeda
outright, he’d call the commodore to account for what he’d done. In the meantime, he meant to keep his Annie safe from both the commodore and her stepbrother.

But for the time being, Chase had his obligations aboard the
Andromeda
to see to, and some business to discuss with the commodore that had nothing to do with Ann. He needed to tell James Rossiter about the allegations he’d heard at Fort Benton.

“Refill, Hardesty?” the commodore offered from where he was refreshing his own drink. Chase swallowed down the last gulp of brandy and shook his head.

“While we were out West,” he began and set his glass aside, “I heard something about the Gold Star boats that worries me.”

“Oh?” Rossiter turned from the side table, glass in hand.

“It may be nothing more than talk....” Chase couched the rumors as diplomatically as he could, especially considering that what Barnaby Greene said that night in Fort Benton had been chewing at Chase all the way home.

The older man settled himself in one of the parlor’s graceful settees. “Let’s hear it, anyway.”

Chase rose and paced to the fireplace. “What I heard was that Gold Star steamers have been making unscheduled stops out west of here.”

The commodore sipped from his glass, unconcerned. “We’ve always made unscheduled stops. Anyone can flag us down.”

“Well, yes,” Chase agreed, beginning to wish he’d saved a swallow of brandy to lubricate the words. “I know most steamers respond to signals from shore. What worried me was the implication that the stops the Gold Star boats are making involve delivering illegal cargos.”

“Illegal cargos?” The commodore shifted and braced his hands against his knees. “And what would those illegal cargos be?”

Chase knew the man was baiting him and did his best not to squirm. “Contraband,” he answered.

“What kind of contraband?”

“Armaments to the Indians.”

“Guns, you mean?” the commodore roared at him.

Chase stood his ground. “The Indians are causing trouble out West. From what I heard at Fort Sully, the Sioux and Cheyenne menacing the Bozeman Trail are armed with Spencer carbines. Guns the army hadn’t even been issued yet.”

“And you think the Gold Star boats are delivering those carbines to the Indians?”

Chase shrugged. “I’m just telling you what I heard.” “Only the
Andromeda
and the
Cassiopeia
have ventured far enough west to have had truck with the Indians,” Rossiter pointed out. “I know Boothe wasn’t carrying contraband. Were you?”

A flush warmed Chase’s cheekbones. He glanced back at his father-in-law. “I would
never
transport contraband.”

Rossiter eyed him speculatively, as if to say he knew Chase had his price. Since he’d proved he did when he bargained his name for the
Andromeda,
Chase’s face went hotter.

“Most of the Gold Star captains,” the commodore went on, “have been with me for years.”

“I know.”

“I refuse to call their honor into question on the strength of a rumor you picked up out in the wilds.”

Chase shifted on his feet. He could see he’d been a fool to bring this up.

“If you get proof that any of my captains are involved in running contraband”—Rossiter slugged down the rest of his brandy—“you come see me. In the meantime, you keep these damn rumors to yourself.”

Chase couldn’t fault James Rossiter’s stance. It was exactly the kind of backing
he
would want from the head of the steamboat line he worked for.

“I just thought you should know,” Chase said by way of apology. “Stories get passed up and down the river faster than the collection plate at Sunday services. Even if the rumor isn’t true, it could damage the Gold Star’s reputation.”

Rossiter gave a grunt of acknowledgment and rose to pour himself another drink. “I’ll see what I can do to squelch it,” he conceded. “And while we’re talking business, I have something else I need to discuss with you.”

Chase nodded for him to continue.

“I’m reassigning Goose Steinwehr to another vessel.”

It wasn’t what Chase had been expecting. “The contract we signed when I married Ann gave me my choice of officers.”

“And you had it
—for the run to Fort Benton.
But the men work for Gold Star, not for you. And Steinwehr’s expertise is needed elsewhere.

“Besides,” the commodore went on slyly. “You don’t take full ownership of the
Andromeda
until the end of the season.”

Nor was the commodore likely to relinquish control of the steamer one minute sooner than the contract specified. His father-in-law was putting him in his place, and Chase didn’t like the feel of that.

As sorry as he was to lose Goose Steinwehr, Ann was going to miss him even more. Chase said as much, and Rossiter dismissed his concerns with a snort of derision. “Ann has no business whatsoever living aboard the
Andromeda,
much less fraternizing with the crew.”

“I promised her I’d rent us a house here in town,” Chase said to appease the commodore. But in truth, Chase himself was spending more and more of his time thinking about how good it would be to come home to Annie and Christina at the end of a run. To sit down to supper with them and play with Christina afterwards. To turn to Ann in bed and have her open her arms to him. It was the life he wanted for all of them.

“Ann would be far better off staying on in the town house with me,” the commodore insisted, breaking into Chase’s thoughts. “She’s got no business gallivanting up and down the Missouri River when she’s got a baby to tend. She’s your wife, Hardesty. You tell her you’ve decided she ought to stay on here with me.”

Chase nodded as if he’d agreed. But since he’d begun to suspect why Ann refused to live under James Rossiter’s roof, he wasn’t about to force her.

“So who are you assigning to the
Andromeda
in Goose’s place?” he asked instead.

“Joel Curry is my choice.”

Chase did his best to hide his contempt. Curry was one of Skirlin’s cronies and not half the mate Goose Steinwehr was. But since Chase had no choice, he put the best face he could on the commodore’s decision.

“I’m sure Curry will work out fine.”

Just then, Ann returned to the parlor with Christina asleep in the crook of her shoulder. As she nestled the baby in the basket they’d brought for her and drew up the blanket, Chase saw that her hands were trembling.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly, catching her wrist.

Ann cast a glance at her father, then to where Boothe was returning to the parlor himself. “I’m fine,” she whispered.

Chase didn’t think she was fine. But before he could discern what was wrong with her, the commodore shepherded them all into the dining room.

ON HER WAY BACK FROM BREAKFAST THE FOLLOWING morning, Ann found Frenchy Bertin sitting slumped and disconsolate at one of the counters in the galley. The way he’d braced his head in his hands and kept mumbling in French made her think what was bothering him was far more serious than burning a tray of pastries.

She paused to ask. “Is something wrong?”

“Ah,
mon Dieu
!” he moaned. “I have had the worst news!”

“Frenchy, for goodness sake!” she exclaimed, noticing the closely written letter lying on the countertop between his elbows. “What’s happened?”

“It’s from my wife Anouk in New Orleans.”

“Is she ill?” Ann asked, rubbing his bony shoulder. “If you need to go to her I’m sure we can—”

“Non,
she is not ill. She is coming here to live with me!” He picked up the letter and waved it at her. “Anouk and the children are moving to St. Louis! She wants to be with me when this new baby is born!”

“Why that’s wonderful!” Ann exclaimed before she recognized the panic in his eyes. “Isn’t it?”

“I can’t have Anouk living in St. Louis!”

“Whyever not?”

“How will I visit my wife Marie in Natchez and my wife Charmaine in Dubuque?”

Ann gaped at him. “You mean you really
do
have three wives?” she asked incredulously.

The dramatic lift and droop of Frenchy’s shoulders was all the admission Ann needed.

“How on earth did you end up married to three different women?”

“The priests insisted,” he answered with a sniff. “They said Marie and Charmaine would go to hell if I didn’t marry them.”

“And you’d lain with these women, I suppose,” Ann guessed. She’d never had any illusions about Frenchy’s weaknesses for cards and women.

“Oui.”

It was an outrageous situation, yet somehow it had always been Frenchy’s foibles that endeared him to Ann, that made her own difficulties and deceptions seem modest by comparison.

“And which wife is Anouk?” she wanted to know.

“My first,” he answered on a heavy sigh. “I apprenticed at her father’s bakery; Anouk sold bread in the shop. She was so pretty in her big white apron and embroidered cap—and even prettier
out
of them.”

Ann saw the gentle melancholy that came into his face as he remembered. “You still love her, don’t you?” she asked softly.

“Of course I love her!” He ran his big hands through his lank hair. “I love them all. What am I going to do about Anouk? What can I say to keep her from moving to St. Louis?”

In spite of what he’d done, Ann found herself consoling him. “There has to be a solution to this,” she promised him.

Just then, Chase pushed open the door from the salon. “Annie,” he called and gestured her closer.

Ann gave Frenchy a final pat and crossed the galley.

“Someone’s come to see you,” Chase told her quietly. “A man named Throckmorton. He says he’s a lawyer.”

Uneasiness blossomed beneath Ann’s ribs. “A lawyer?” she breathed. “Why would a lawyer want to talk to me?”

“He didn’t say what he wanted.”

The image of her stepbrother flashed through her mind, and then the commodore. “I can’t have done anything wrong, can I?”

“That isn’t the only reason lawyers look for people.” Chase trailed his hand along her arm, and for all its brevity, his touch was comforting. “I had Mr. Throckmorton wait in the salon. Why don’t you go see what he wants, while I check on Christina and Evie.”

Ann caught his wrist as he turned to go. “I won’t go back to the commodore’s!” She hadn’t meant to let her fear slip out, but the visit to the town house the night before had stirred up a kind of dread she hadn’t felt in months.

“Oh, Annie.” Chase squeezed her hand. “You’re my wife now. You belong with me.”

It was both the reassurance Ann needed and a reminder of her own doubts about the future. She drew a breath to calm herself, then smoothed her palms down the front of her bodice. “I’ll go see what he wants.”

Quite a few of the cabin passengers had already come aboard in preparation for the
Andromeda
’s midday departure and were seated at tables in the steamer’s long main room. In spite of the crowd, Ann spotted Mr. Throckmorton immediately.

He was a trim, gray-haired man who sat with his knees together and a lawyer’s satchel in his lap. Though he didn’t look particularly intimidating, Ann’s legs were rubbery as she made her way toward him.

The moment he realized who she was, he sprang to his feet. “Mrs. Hardesty?” When Ann inclined her head, he continued. “Are you the former Miss Ann Pelletier Rossiter, daughter of Rupert and Sarah Pelletier of Philadelphia?”

“Yes,” Ann answered. What could her parents possibly have to do with this?

“And you recently wed Chase Ezekiel Hardesty?” Chase’s middle name was Ezekiel? She hadn’t known that!

“I recently married Captain Hardesty,” she confirmed.

“Then please allow me to introduce myself.” He gestured her into one of the chairs at the table and resumed his own seat. “I am Thomas Willis Throckmorton of Throckmorton and Latham Solicitors, and I believe I have some rather good news for you.”

“Do lawyers ever bring good news, Mr. Throckmorton?”

He smiled benevolently. “Why don’t you be the judge of that, Mrs. Hardesty.” He took a sheaf of papers from his satchel and placed them on the table between them. “It seems that not long before her death, your mother received a sizable inheritance from one of her aunts.”

“My Aunt Isobel?” Ann asked, calling up a memory of the diminutive, papery-skinned woman whose house had always smelled of oranges and cloves.

“The very same,” he confirmed. “Your mother, in turn, used that money to set up a trust for you.”