The Angel and the Outlaw

His head started to nod and he jerked. What the heck were people saying about him in town? He wanted to keep a quiet existence here, not have people talking about him. He’d had little experience with such things before moving here, finding it easier to hide out in more populated areas. He was getting a fast introduction to small-town nosiness.

His head nodded. The pen fell from his hand. He lowered his head to the desk and closed his eyes. Just for a minute….

Stuart pushed open the heavy oak door to the captain’s cabin. A soft light from the whale-oil lantern illuminated the nooks and crannies of the small room, spilling a rich golden hue on the wooden beams overhead. Linnea sat at the end of his bunk and leaned over a makeshift bed, singing in a low chant to her daughter.

“Linnea?” he whispered.

She placed her finger against her lips. “Hush. She’s nearly asleep.” She smiled at him briefly, then continued her song. The dark bruising along her chin had healed to a yellow color but the shadows beneath her eyes confirmed his worry that this voyage had not healed her spirit. She wasn’t sleeping. But she hadn’t complained. She never complained anymore.

A thrill rippled through him at the scene in the small cabin. Three-year-old Hannah lay curled on her side, a white cotton nightgown covering her chubby limbs and a matching sleeping bonnet taming her fine blond wisps of hair. Wet spiked lashes quieted against pale cheeks. So there had been another battle of wills about bedtime. He smiled to himself.

Assured that all was well, he returned to the deck. The last pink rays of sunlight sparkled across the water as he barked out orders to adjust the sails and take full account of the northern winds. On the ship’s port side the purple outline of California’s southern coast rose above the sea, the hazy mountains familiar sentinels on his journey to San Pedro.

Linnea came to his side, pulling her shawl tighter around her for warmth. The breeze whipped golden tendrils of her hair across her neck and cheeks.

“She’s asleep now.”

He nodded his acknowledgment.

“Do you think John’s family will come after us?”

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“My father, too?”

“Especially your father. We left a mess in San Francisco. They will want to set it right.”

“By condemning you.”

He kept silent a moment, looking at but not seeing the water. “I killed him. John’s family will want revenge, or payment in some way. So will the law.”

“Oh, Matthew. I’m sorry to have dragged you into this. I just didn’t know where to turn.”

Stuart pulled her close, his arm around her shoulder. “You did the right thing. Never doubt that.” He felt the rise and fall of her shoulders as she took a deep breath.

“Yet there is one more favor I must ask of you.”

He waited.

“Promise me you’ll take care of Hannah if anything happens to me.”

“Lin—”

“No. I mean it. I’ve thought about this a lot. We don’t know what will happen. John’s family and my father have the law on their side. They have all the resources. Our running away looks like we planned John’s death. They’ll think we are lovers. John accused me of that so many times—I think to rationalize his own lack of fidelity.”

“He didn’t deserve you.”

Her chin trembled. “I should have waited for you, Matthew. I was weak and lonely at that school. I ruined everything.”

He squeezed her arm. “We’re together now. And don’t worry about Hannah. I’ll stand by both of you.” He looked over the water, subconsciously noting the increase in whitecaps while he tried to figure out what they should do after delivering the cargo to San Pedro. The voyage had given him time, but a reckoning was swiftly catching up.

First Shipmate Saunders approached with a worried look on his face. “Captain, I don’t like the looks o’ that horizon.” He raised his thick wiry brows toward the stern of the vessel indicating billowing clouds in the distance. A line of dark gray in their belly foretold of the rain within.

“I see it,” Stuart said grimly. “If it heads this way we won’t be able to use the stars tonight to guide us. We may have a swift race to port. Make sure the crew is prepared.”

“Aye, sir.” Saunders hesitated.

“What is it?”

“Touhy stands watch tonight.”

Stuart considered the level of experience of the younger man. “Have him wake me if the wind changes course.”

“Aye, sir. Can’t help thinkin’ one of Mr. Lansing’s steamers would have been a better choice for this trip.”

“Only our ten-year friendship makes it possible for you to say that, Saunders,” Stuart said with a sternness he knew his first shipmate would see right through. “The Maiden is old, but fit. Rather like you,” he teased lightly. “And she’s mine, not Dorian’s. That makes all the difference on this particular voyage.”

With a salute—and a wink—Saunders left.

That night Stuart awoke from his makeshift pallet on the floor. He sensed a change, a creaking of the ship as though forced on a new course. In the bed, Linnea slept fitfully, her soft breath puffing against the sheets. He rose and dressed quickly.

Above deck the light breeze of the evening before had transformed into a bitter gale. Stuart searched the black skies for any sign of lightness, anything to mark his bearings. The darkness was so thick he could only guess at the horizon, where sky dissolved into ocean without a trace. It would be time for the third watch—Touhy should be in charge. Why hadn’t the man woken him?

He grabbed the rail to steady himself and walked aft. When he neared the binnacle that housed the compass, a flash of lightning illuminated the sky. In that instant he recognized the familiar peaks of Santa Catalina Island rising not five hundred yards off the port bow. In the few moments the wind had grabbed control of their ship it had blown them far south of their plotted course.

“Bear away before the wind!” he shouted above the gale. Shipmen raced to obey his commands. “One thirty-five on a broad reach! Touhy! Get Saunders! Then take position in the stern!”

The Frisco Maiden surged ahead, her bow lifting high in the inky water, running on the forefront of the storm. Suddenly, sheets of rain plastered his shirt to his skin, chilling him to the bone. The storm had overtaken them. He glanced astern and his heart turned to ice at the sight of the monstrous waves forming. The vessel began to pitch and yaw, a toothpick in the violent, churning waters. Mast and foremast alike, weighed down with wet sails, creaked and groaned, protesting the strain as though alive.

No storm that Stuart had ever seen possessed such fury. Linnea! Hannah! He had to make them safe. Should the ship not clear the island—He refused to think of what might happen. He clung to the thick wooden railing along the gangway and made his way toward his cabin. Sailors ran before him, jumping to the bark of his commands.

Another bright, jagged flash of lightning coursed through the rain. The craggy islands stood behind them now. A wave crashed over the stern adding to the deck’s slickness as though layering it with whale oil. At the boom he joined his men pulling on the rigging to lower the foresail. If only he could get a few sails down before the next gigantic wave overtook them.

A deafening crack pounded his ears.

He looked up and found the main topmast hanging at right angle to the lower main mast. The eerie blue-white glow of Saint Elmo’s fire raced the length of the yardarms and danced along the top of the two standing masts. The light wavered and then disappeared against the backdrop of black.

Suddenly a swell, which had to have measured as large as the island itself, lifted the Frisco Maiden high into the air, high enough that Stuart could see the end of the storm front approaching from the north. For one brief, suspended moment he thought he saw a beacon of light shining from the mainland. It had to be his imagination. No lighthouse beam was that powerful. Then the swell curled over, crashing in upon itself and swallowed the ship.

Stuart clung to the railing with all his might. Frigid seawater swirled over him, alternately pushing and then pulling him. The salt stung his eyes, blinding him.

When he could drag a deep breath of air into his lungs, he straightened and took note of his surroundings as best he could in the dark. The ship listed to its side and he knew without being told that she was taking on water. How could he order his men into the small lifeboats in such a wild sea? But if they remained on the schooner, there would be no hope for them at all.

“Lower the lifeboats!”

The words rasped out of his throat, raw from the constant abuse of the storm and brine. Single-minded now, he made his way grasping at rigging and railing until he entered his cabin.

“Linnea!”

A mewling sound came from the bunk. He groped his way there, touching upon Linnea’s ankle. She sat huddled on the far side of the bed.

“Are you all right? Is Hannah?”

“She’s here, Stuart. I have her.” Seawater soaked the bed and the two shivered in their wet nightgowns.

“The Maiden’s taking on water,” he said, hugging them to him. “I must get you to the lifeboat.”

Lightning flashed outside, illuminating a small portion of the cabin through its only porthole. He could see the terror in both their eyes, see the white-knuckled death grip with which Linnea held to her bedpost anchor.

There was no time to waste. Stuart peeled her hand loose and immediately she grasped his arm, surprising him with her strength. He snatched Hannah to him and together they made their way above deck.

One boat full of crewmen already tested the turbulent ocean. Panic mixed with relief marked the faces of the fourteen men. They veered away from the Frisco Maiden, rowing with a vengeance to get clear of the larger ship. Waves washed over them, tangling kelp and sea grass around their bodies, fashioning them into grotesque monsters rising from the deep.

The ocean churned and heaved, playing with the Frisco Maiden and mocking her tenacious grasp on life. Stuart helped the remaining crewmen and Saunders make ready the second lifeboat. When they had all settled into the boat along with Linnea and Hannah, he hesitated.

“Come on, Cap’n!” Saunders yelled. “She’ll go under any minute. Save yourself. No need for heroics!”

“Are all the men accounted for?”

“Yes, sir.”

Stuart glanced about the deck one last time, then climbed over the railing and down the rope ladder to the lifeboat. Sheet lightning flared in the sky, this time farther to the south.

“We’re caught up!” Saunders yelled from the bow.

Stuart looked down into Linnea’s frightened eyes.

“I cannot do this by meself!” Saunders’s gravelly voice competed with the crashing of waves. “Give a hand!”

Stuart squeezed Linnea’s hand. “Hold tight to the side. I must help Saunders or we’ll be dragged under with the ship.”

His words seemed to penetrate her fear, for he felt a loosening of her grip. Quickly he moved her hand to the side of the lifeboat. He looked briefly at Hannah, and then crawled toward Saunders in the bow.

Kelp, seaweed and a plank of wood had tangled about the Maiden’s ladder. There was no hope in untangling the floating mass. He would have to cut them loose.

“Hold my legs!” he shouted at Saunders and grabbed the large knife he carried in his belt. He inched forward until more than half his body hung over the bow and then sawed at the thick hemp rope. In short time the rope gave way and they were free. Winded, he inched back into the boat and sprawled on the seat to catch his breath.

A swell rose fifteen feet above the lifeboat like a vengeful Poseidon rising from the deep. Stuart watched in horror as the swell broke at its apex and crashed down on them. The turbulence battered him, pushing saltwater into his eyes and filling his mouth. He gripped anything he could hold on to, climbing over his crew, trying to reach Linnea. When the water calmed enough to see again, surprisingly the boat still floated right side up.

But Linnea and Hannah were gone.

“Cap’n, don’t do it!”

He heard Saunders yell, felt hands reach for him, but there was no time to wait.

He dived in.

Groping frantically through the water, he searched for Linnea and Hannah. The waves shoved him about like a plaything. Kelp tangled around his legs, pulling at him, binding him.

Something drifted across his face—seaweed? More kelp? He struggled closer. In vain he tried to see through the murky waters. Then something bumped against him. He reached—and his hands closed on cloth. Hannah! He pulled her close, and suddenly Linnea was there, too, grasping his forearm with both hands.

Renewed strength flowed through him. He kicked hard for the surface, struggling with the weight of the two. His lungs burned with the need for air.

Lightning flashed above him. The surface was so close, so close. His legs muscles tightened into knots. He forced himself to keep kicking, straining. He had to breathe, had to reach the surface. Then Linnea’s hold loosened and he felt her hands slide down his arm. He tried to grasp her, but her fingers slipped through his. He reached again—and his hand closed on nothing but water.

Stuart woke with a start, disoriented, his body coated in sweat. He stared at the logbook on the desk, seeing it without knowing where he was, what it meant. He struggled to get his bearings. His heart pounded, yet quiet surrounded him. Through the window flashed a beam from the lamp, the circular pattern somehow familiar and settling. He buried his face in his hands.

The dream had come again.

He drew in a deep breath to steady his heartbeat, then closed the logbook and rose from his seat. It had been months since he’d dreamed of it—almost a year. He longed for the night it would leave him for good, and yet he feared it, too. The dream was his punishment for not protecting the woman he loved. Yet, in the dream he could still feel her touch and hear her voice.

He climbed the stairs to Hannah’s room and leaned against the door frame, studying her. At least he’d never forget Linnea’s face. Hannah was her mirror image. She slept on, her new doll crushed beside her.

That doll.

The events of yesterday rushed back into his thoughts. He’d been rude to Reverend Crouse and Miss Houston. But he wouldn’t apologize for his blunt words nor would he place his trust in a God who allowed an innocent woman like Linnea to drown. Still, he did feel a twinge of remorse. Hannah surely liked that doll.

Back in his bedroom he poured cool water into his bowl, then splashed it on his face. His hand strayed to the raised quarter-inch-wide slash that started just over his right brow and extended into his hairline. The angry red mark never let him forget it was his fault Linnea had died…his fault Hannah no longer talked or laughed.

Odd, when he thought over the previous day, how the vision of Miss Houston formed in his mind sharper than that of Linnea. She was nothing like Linnea, who had been soft and biddable. Miss Houston seemed all strong angles and had a decidedly sharper tongue. She certainly hadn’t been cowed by him—not with that parting question about prison time. Still, her urging to start Hannah in school nagged at him. Linnea would have insisted on private tutors long before now.

He’d said he could teach Hannah himself, but he wasn’t sure he could. He knew all about shipping, about commanding a schooner or steamer and bartering the best price for goods. That wouldn’t do Hannah any good. Was he selfish in wanting her to stay here with him? She needed to learn of life beyond the peninsula—but at what cost? All he wanted to do was protect her. His gut twisted. He’d done a damn poor job of that so far.

He could throttle Miss Houston for stirring up the ashes, for bringing back the nightmare. And that doll! He knew better than to accept it. Why had he? Now his conscience would prick him every time Hannah played with it—and he would think of her.

Chapter Five

San Francisco

Dorian Lansing hurriedly mounted the steps of his mansion on Nob Hill, his walking cane tapping a rapid-fire cadence across the smooth-tiled entrance.

“Rose! Rose! Confound it, Whitlow, take these.” He shoved his cloak and top hat at the butler. “Where is that woman!”

“In the dayroom, sir…. Dr. Garrett is with her.”

Dorian dropped his cane in the wrought-iron rack by the door and headed down the hall. His wife lounged with her feet on the couch, still dressed in her pearl-colored morning robe. At least she’d allowed Mattie to draw her hair back with a pink ribbon today in deference to the doctor’s visit.

Dr. Garrett stood as Dorian entered the room. The heavy drapes remained closed against the light of day. No air stirred.

“You’re home early, dear,” Rose said in her birdlike voice. He detected a slight trembling of her hands.

“May I have a word with you, Mr. Lansing?” Dr. Garrett subtly nodded his head toward the hall.

“Certainly. I’ll be right back, Rose.” He followed the doctor to the hallway.

“How is she today, Doctor?”

“Thinner, paler.”

He’d thought so, too, but to hear his fears out loud made them so much more real. “What else can we do? We’ve tried everything.”

“This is not so much an illness of the body as it is an illness of the spirit. You must find something that captures her interest. She needs a reason to continue living.”

Dorian thanked the man and dismissed him. A reason for living! Of all the nerve. Apparently taking care of her husband and household wasn’t enough of a reason! Disgruntled, he strode into the dayroom, crossed the parquet floor to a southern window and drew back the heavy burgundy drapes.

“Please…leave that closed.” Rose struggled to sit taller. “What did the doctor say?”

He left the drapes as they were and began plumping the pillows at her back, avoiding her gaze. “Nothing new. You’re doing just fine.”

She caught his hand and motioned for him to sit. She didn’t ask why he was early today. He knew better than to hope for a show of interest from her. It had been years since he’d seen any spark in her eyes. He dragged a straight-back chair near and sat. This was his last hope.

“I have information regarding Linnea.”

The muscles in her neck worked convulsively as she swallowed. After Rose’s panic attack a year ago, the doctor had said not to bring up the accident or the past, but to wait for her to mention it first. So far, she never had.

By God, he’d had enough. Enough! He was not the type to sit around and take this situation a moment longer. He was through with waiting. “I heard from Miss Forester’s School for Young Ladies. The headmistress there confirmed my suspicions. She knew John Newcomb well.”

“That means…”

The plaintive plea in her voice knifed through him, and he turned from her, unable to bear seeing her hurt more. “Yes. John married our daughter to get his hands on her inheritance. He used her just as we suspected.” Dorian kept quiet about the mistress. Such information was not for a genteel lady’s ears.

“Oh, Dory.”

The reproachful tone set him off. “She should have known better!” His voice quaked with anger. “How could she have been so gullible as to let a man like that into her life? She was a Lansing, for God’s sake. Why didn’t she listen to me?”

Rose dropped her gaze and turned from him.

“I know what you’re going to say, Rose. But I was angry. And frustrated.”

“And you turned her away when she finally did come to us for help,” she said dully.

“She had to learn to live with her choices. Make the best of it.” He took his wife’s frail hand. “Well, no matter now. She is gone and we cannot change the past. But for certain, the child, our granddaughter, belongs with us.”

“Matthew is still involved, isn’t he? That’s why he hasn’t come back.”

Dorian stiffened at hearing that name and chose to ignore her question. He’d kept the part about the murder from his wife. She’d suffered enough. But he knew Matthew was involved, whether the rumors of adultery were true or not, it was his gun found on the docks. He’d probably pulled the trigger. “I’ve decided to hire another detective. Randolph has given me a name.”

A flash of fear crossed Rose’s face.

“I know we had little luck with the first one. I’m willing to try again. More important, are you?”

Her shaking grew worse, but when she looked up at him, her gaze was resolute. “Yes. Do try. It’s time we were a family again.” She drew a breath and added, “Even…even Matthew.”

Dorian felt a sickening lurch in his gut and hardened his heart at her words. “I don’t want to hear that man’s name spoken in this house or have you forgotten that?”

Rose visibly shrank in front of him. “No. I’ve not forgotten. But Linnea ran to Matthew. And he took her in. He loved her—as a brother would and…and possibly more.”

“Confound it!” He beat his fist on the arm of the couch. “The girl belongs with us. He isn’t her father.” The hate boiled up inside, choking him.

“But the things you said—”

“He as good as killed Linnea. Matthew murdered our daughter.”

Rose shrank away from him and lay back against her cushions. “Oh, Dory. Do what you must. I want nothing more than to find Hannah. She belongs here. This is her birthright. Bring her home any way you can.”

Dorian took her hands in his. “If there is a way on earth to find her, I will. And when I do, Matthew will have no choice but to hand her over to me.” The vengeance in his voice surprised even him. Slowly he loosened his grip. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Chapter Six

The strong September sun had finally burned away the fog that hovered each morning over the peninsula. Rachel lifted her face to its warmth for a moment and then glanced behind her. Two wagons and five carriages loaded with churchgoers and food snaked their way to the point like an army of determined ants.

She sat in the bed of the wagon, one arm resting on a picnic hamper, the other holding tight to the wooden side. She had spent all of yesterday baking. Her mouth watered at the thought of the pies nestled between the slow-baked beans and cold chicken.

“So, how much longer do I have to put up with this prison sentence?” Caleb asked from his sprawled position beside her. “Haven’t I been okay for the past couple weeks?”

“The sheriff said at least two months,” Rachel answered. “You’re lucky he didn’t put you in jail for starting that fire.”

Caleb scowled. “No one cares about those hide houses anyway. One less wouldn’t hurt anything.”

“But they aren’t your property!” she said, exasperated with his attitude. “Besides, you could have torched the entire town. It was irresponsible.”

He clamped his hands over his ears to shut out her voice and glared at her. After a few minutes he looked up at Reverend Crouse. “Is the light keeper coming to our picnic, Reverend?”

Rachel tensed. It had been three weeks since her visit with Mr. Taylor and three weeks spent pondering the man. Impulsively, she’d even ordered a book on sign language from back east, just in case it could help the young girl.

“He’s welcome, as is anyone,” Reverend Crouse answered her brother. “After all, this is a community picnic.”

“It’s not a good idea,” Caleb said.

Reverend Crouse glanced over his shoulder. “Why do you say that?”

“’Cause he shot at those fisherman a while back. He’s not right in the head. Living out here has made him crazy. Enrique said—” Caleb stopped at the amused look in Reverend Crouse’s eyes.

“Don’t believe everything you hear. Rumors have a way of growing and changing over time.”

“I still say you shoulda had the picnic somewhere else.”

They crested the last brush-covered rise and saw the lighthouse. When they neared, Mr. Taylor stepped through the open front door, his jaw set tight. Resentment radiated from him, thick and strong.