Tides of Passion (2 page)

Just when he reached ten for the second time and opened his mouth to order her along, a misplaced swing caught him in the side and he stumbled forward, grasping Savannah's shoulders to keep from crashing into her. Motion ceased when she thumped the wall of the warehouse, her head coming up fast, her eyes wide and alarmed.

And very, very green.

He felt the heat of her skin through the thin material of her dress; her muscles jumped beneath his palms. Her gaze dropped to his chest, and a soft glow lit her cheeks. Blushing... something he wouldn't have expected from
this
woman.

Nevertheless, he stared, wondering why they both seemed frozen.

Zach was frozen because he'd forgotten what it felt like to touch a woman. How soft and round and warm they were. How they dabbed perfume in secret places and smiled teasing smiles and flicked those colorful little fans in your face, never
really
realizing what all that nonsense did to a man's equilibrium.

It was the first time he'd laid his hands on a woman since his wife died, except for a rescue last year and the captain's sister he'd pulled from the sea.
She
had thrown her arms around him, shivering and crying, and he'd felt for her, sure he had. Grateful and relieved and humble that God had once again shown him where the lost souls on the shoals were.

He hadn't felt anything more. Anything strong.

This wasn't strong either, nothing more than a minute spike of heat in his belly.

Nothing much at all. He didn't
need
like other men. Like his brothers or his friends in town. He had needed once, needed his
wife
. But she was dead. That life—loving and yearning and wanting—had died with her.

"Your mouth is bleeding," Savannah said and shifted, her arm rising.

Don't touch me
, he thought, the words bubbling in his throat.

Cursing beneath his breath, the full extent of his childishness struck him. She would think he'd gone crazy. And maybe he had. Stepping back, he thrust his hands in his pockets and gestured for her to follow, intentionally leading her away from the ruckus on the wharf.

Buttoning his shirt, he listened to her steady footfalls, thinking she'd be safe in his office until everything died down.

"I'm sorry you've been injured."

Dabbing at the corner of his lip, he shrugged. He could still hear the rumble of the crowd. No matter. His brother Caleb would break it up. They'd argued about who got what job in this mess.

Zach had lost.

"What did you expect, Miss Connor?" he finally asked. "People get heated, and they do stupid things like fight with their neighbors and their friends. Hard not to get vexed with you standing up there, rising from the mist, preaching and persuading, stirring emotion like a witch with a cauldron."

She rushed to catch up to him, and he slowed his deliberately forceful stride. "Those women work twelve-hour days, Constable Garrett. Twelve hours on their feet, often without lunch breaks or access to sanitary drinking water. And for half the pay a man receives for the same day's work. Some are expecting a child and alone, young women who think they can disappear in this town without their families ever finding them. Their lives up to this point have been so dominated and environed by duties, so largely ordered for them, that many don't know how to balance a cash account of modest means or find work of any kind that doesn't involve sewing a straight stitch or shucking oysters."

She stomped around a puddle in their path, kicking at shells and muttering, nicking her polished boots in the process. "If you can reconcile that treatment to your sense of what is just, then we have nothing more to discuss."

Zach halted before the unpretentious building that housed Pilot Isle's lone jail cell, getting riled himself, an emotion he rarely tolerated. He didn't know whether he should apologize or shake the stuffing out of her. "I'll be glad to tell you what I reconcile on a given day: business disputes, marriages, deaths, shipwrecks, the resulting cargo and bodies that wash up on shore, and just about everything in between. What you're talking about over at the oyster factory has been going on forever. Long hours, dreadfully long.

The men may well get paid a higher wage—I couldn't say for certain—but they labor like mules, too. Do you think Hyman Carter is begging people to come work for him? Well, he isn't. It's a choice, free and clear." Reaching around her and flinging the door open, he stepped inside and, by God, expected her to follow. "What the hell can I do about that?"

Her abrupt silence had him turning. Savannah Connor stood in the doorway, bright sunlight flooding in around her, again looking like a vision of blamelessness, of sweet charity. She even smiled, closing the door gently behind her. Troubled, Zach reviewed his last words, racing through them in his mind.

"Oh no," he said, flinging his hand up in a motion his son knew meant no, flat out. "I'm not getting involved in this campaign of yours. Except to end it, I'm not getting involved."

"Why not get involved?" she asked, the edge back. "Give me one worthy reason why. You're the perfect person to request a review of the factory's processes."

Ignoring her, he slumped into the chair behind his desk, dug his cargo ledger out of the top drawer and a water-stained list out of his pocket, and began calculating entries. He was two shipwrecks behind. The town couldn't auction property—funds they desperately needed—until he, as keeper of Life-saving Division Six, completed the sad task of recording every damaged plank, every broken teacup, every sailor's shoe.

Work was good for the soul, he had always thought; it had saved
his
a couple of years ago.

Besides, maybe Miss Connor would quit talking if he didn't look at her.

Moments passed, the only sound the scratch of pen across paper and the occasional crunch of wagon wheels over the shell-paved street out front. When the cell's metal door squealed, Zach started, flicking ink across the page. He sighed. "I'm almost afraid to ask what you're doing."

Looking up from plumping the cot's pillow, she flashed a tight smile. "Getting ready for a long night, Constable Garrett. You're writing"—she pointed—"a summons for me in that little book, correct? What will it be? Disturbing the peace? Instigating a mutiny?" She shrugged, clearly unconcerned. "I've been charged with both of those before."

The fountain pen dropped from Zach's fingers. "
Arrested
? Ma'am, I've no intention of—"

"Thirteen times if you count the incident in Baltimore. That time, the police took us to a school instead of the local station. They didn't have a separate holding area for women and felt it would be inappropriate for my group to share quarters with common offenders."

Thirteen
. Zach coughed to clear his throat. "I'm not arresting you. I only brought you here until things calm down on the wharf."

Savannah smiled, relief evident in the droop of her shoulders. "Then you'll help me. Thank goodness."

Gripping the desk, he shoved back his chair. "No way, no how. Are you deaf, ma'am?"

"Are
you
, sir? Did you hear those women out there today begging for equal rights? Women under your protection I might add."

His lids slipped low, the spasm of pain in his chest hitting him hard.
Protect
. Zach had spent his life trying to protect people. And so far he'd failed his wife, his brothers, and 81 passengers that he and his men had not gotten to in time. All events Reverend Tiernan said were in God's hands and God's hands only.

On good days, Zach agreed.

Opening his eyes, he forced his way back to his work, recording the wrong number in the wrong column. "Hyman Carter is a decent man. Pays his taxes, attends town meetings. He even donated enough money for the church to buy new pews last spring."

"He bought your loyalty in exchange for pews?"

His head snapped up. "No one buys my
anything
, Miss Connor."

She simply raised a perfectly shaped brow, sending his temper soaring two notches.

"Listen here, ma'am. That scene you caused today isn't the way to accomplish much in a town like this, though I'm sure it works fine in New York City. Personally, I don't cotton to taking orders from a mulish suffragette whose only aim in life is to secure the vote."

She took a fast step forward, her cheeks pinking. "Constable Garrett, you've grown too comfortable."

"That I have."

"No excuses?"

"Not a one."

"Well, you must know I won't rest until we come to a reasonable compromise."

"All right, then, you must know I can't change a man's way of running his business if it doesn't fall outside the law." He dipped his head in a mock show of respect. "Ma'am."

"Don't you realize that the situation at the oyster factory isn't
just
?"

A headache he hadn't felt coming roared to life. Pressing his fingers to his temple, Zach said, weary and unrepentant, "When did you get the idea life was just, Miss Connor?"

Savannah turned, pacing the length of the small cell, the sudden flicker of emotion in Zachariah Garrett's smoke-gray eyes more than she wanted to see, more than she could allow herself to. Feeling sympathy for an opponent violated a basic tenet of the abolitionist code. And whether she liked it or not, this man was the gatekeeper.

In more ways than one. She'd only been in town a week, but it was easy to see who people in Pilot Isle turned to in crisis. She had heard his name a thousand times already.

Just when she had devised a skillful argument to present for his inspection, a much better one strolled through the office door.

The woman was attractive and trim... and quite obviously smitten with Constable Garrett. Unbeknownst to him, she smoothed her hand the length of her bodice and straightened the straw hat atop her head before making her presence known.

"Gracious, Zach,
what
is going on in town today?"

Zach slowly lifted his head, shooting a frigid glare Savannah's way before pasting a smile on his face and swiveling around on his stubborn rump. "Miss Lydia, I hope you didn't get caught up in that mess. Caleb should have it under control by now though."

Miss Lydia
drifted toward the desk, her clear blue gaze focused so intently on the man behind it that Savannah feared the woman would trip over her own feet if she wasn't careful. "Oh, I didn't get near it, you know that would never do. If Papa heard, he'd have a conniption. But I
was
at Mr. Scoggin's store and it was all anyone could talk about." She placed a cloth- covered basket on his desk. The scent of cinnamon filled the room. "Lands, imagine the excitement of a rally, right here in Pilot Isle."

Zach sighed. "Yes, imagine that."

"And"—Lydia glanced in her direction—"you've, um, detained
her
. "

"I haven't—"

"Constable Garrett, if I may?" Savannah gestured to the cell door she'd shut while Miss Lydia stood in the threshold, hand-pressing her bodice. "I promise to be on my best behavior. It's just so hard to converse through metal bars."

"Oh, dear Lord." Zach yanked a drawer open and fished for a set of keys he clearly didn't use often. Stalking toward the cell with murder in his eyes, he asked in a low tone, "What game are you playing, Miss Connor?"

"Forewarned is forearmed, Constable."

With a snap of his wrist and a compelling shift of muscle beneath the sleeve of his shirt, he opened the door. "
Out
."

"My, my, Constable, such hospitality for a humble inmate." She plucked her skirt between her fingers and circled him as she imagined a belle of the ball would.

Belle of the ball was called for with Miss Lydia, Savannah had realized from the first moment. The bored woman of consequence needing fulfillment.

And a cause.

Savannah would gladly give her one.

"If I may introduce myself." Savannah halted before Miss Lydia and flashed a hesitant smile. "Savannah Connor. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Miss Lydia struggled for a moment but good breeding won out. In the South, it always seemed to. "Lydia Alice Templeton. Pleased, also, I'm sure." She gestured to the basket on the desk. "Would you like a muffin? You must be starved, poor thing. These are my special recipe. Cinnamon and brown sugar, and a secret ingredient I won't tell to save my life. Zach, oh." She tapped her bottom lip with a gloved finger. "Mr. Garrett, loves them."

"I'm sure he does," Savannah said, not having to turn to see his displeasure. It radiated, like a hot brand pressed to her back. "And I would love one. I'm practically faint with hunger."

Miss Lydia sprang into action, unfastening and cutting, spreading butter, and clucking like a mother hen. Savannah admired women who could nurture like that; Miss Lydia was a born mother when children scared Savannah half to death.

"Here, dear," Miss Lydia murmured, full of warmth and compassion. "Mr. Garrett, haven't you a pitcher of water?"

No reply, but within a minute a chipped jug and a glass appeared on the desk with a brusque clatter.

"Do you mind if I perch right here on the corner of your desk, Constable?" Savannah asked and bit into the most delicious muffin she had ever tasted. "Truly, these
are
good. Ummm."

"I win the blue ribbon every year at the Harvest Celebration." Lydia shrugged as if this were a certain thing in her life. "My father owns a commercial fishing company, and my mother passed some time ago, so I take care of him now. I bake all day some days." She turned her hand in a dreamy circle. "To fill the time."

Savannah halted, a mouthful of muffin resting on her tongue. She couldn't stop herself—really, the urge was too powerful—from looking up. Constable Garrett stood in the cell's entryway, shoulder jammed against a metal bar, feet crossed at the ankle, those startling gray eyes trained on her. Trained without apology.

"
No
," he mouthed. An honest appeal from an honest man.

She hadn't dealt with many honest men in her life, including her father and her brother. Also, she was confident she hadn't ever had as attractive an opponent. It was wicked to feel a tiny zing when she imagined besting him, wasn't it? Was that letting personal issues and professional ones collide?