The Heart's Haven

by Jill Barnett

  He swore loudly. Where the hell was Taber’s ship? The clipper should have docked weeks ago, though he knew it wasn’t unusual for merchant vessels to arrive a few weeks late, and battling anything from fierce storms to windless seas made the long voyage from the East Coast arduous and unpredictable. Having captained his own ship, Kit knew how nerve-wracking it could be, stranded in a doldrum sea, dependent upon the whims of the ocean current as the only mode to propel the ship, waiting for the wind to once again catch the sails and speed the vessel toward its destination.

  He could imagine his aunt ordering the crew about like a seasoned master. Spending those endless hours with her would be unbearable to the men on board. She could nag the weather into changing. If Charles Taber were resourceful, perhaps he could use Maddie’s flapping mouth to help blow the ship to port.

  With that thought, a smiling Kit returned to his desk. He picked up the last quarter’s market prices, forwarded by his father, and checked the figures against his current contracts. His smile faded. Prices were dropping, which was not good news to an agent who had a leased warehouse full of whale oil and baleen, waiting for shipment to the factories back East. He had promised his friend, Captain Jan Fredriksen, that he’d get top dollar for the Sea Haven’s last cargo. They had agreed to wait until Kit could sell the goods to the highest bidder.

  He leaned back in his chair and chewed on his pipe. Once the ship docked and unloaded, it would reload with Jan’s goods, already consigned and waiting. It would be a huge weight off of his shoulders to have those accounts settled and get out from under the warehouse lease. His own warehouse would be built with his agent’s share of the profits, alleviating the need to pay the huge warehouse rents that now ate up his profit.

  Now he had another problem. Although the ship’s arrival would eliminate his business problems, it would also bring a new one—his aunt. Kit cursed his luck, knowing with his aunt’s arrival, his heretofore peaceful existence would be no more.

  Hallie’s foot sunk into the oozing mud that masqueraded as a San Francisco street. With last night’s spring rain, the sandy dirt had turned into a reddish-brown clay that made the flat section of the road almost impassable. Hallie lifted her skirts and trudged through the boggy stuff.

  In her rush to get away from that greedy rat of an undertaker, she had passed the turn for one of the rare, wood-paved streets. Now she plodded her way down the unpaved section San Francisco’s banking district, heading toward her father’s bank. The gritty mud was seeping through the eyelets on the inside of her leather boots. By the time she reached a walkway, she banged her shoes a bit harder than was necessary, imagining it was Abner Brown’s knobby throat lying on the gray, weathered boards.

  Pacified somewhat, Hallie dropped her skirts and marched down to the Adams Bank and Express. The door opened suddenly, and she stopped. A petite, raven-haired woman emerged, dressed in an expensive-looking plum taffeta gown. The woman pulled the strings of her embroidered purse closed and drew a silk parasol cord off her gloved wrist. As she eyed Hallie up and down, her features filled with haughty disdain. She snapped open her parasol, and as if it would ward off some unseen plague, wielded it in Hallie’s face, forcing her back to avoid the sharp peak that bobbed so perilously close to her nose.

  Hallie frowned, watching the woman scurry away, then she caught her reflection in the window. No wonder that woman warded her off like some kind of riffraff. Lord, what a mess she was! Thick strands of pale blond hair had escaped from her long braid and hung from her head like Medusa’s snakes. She glanced down at the baggy flannel work smock covering her dark woolen dress, both which were littered with petals and twigs, as if she had rolled down a hillside. She swiped off the debris, embarrassed, her cheeks hot, ashamed of how she looked.

  She had taken to wearing the concealing smocks almost two years ago, when, in a matter of months, her boyish thinness had blossomed into womanly proportions. When she had dressed this morning, she hadn’t intended to go anywhere, but she couldn’t find Liv, and so she left her sixteen-year-old sister Dagny in charge of the twins and went off to track down her precocious nine-year-old sister.

  Her smock made her look dowdy. Little balls of wear speckled its front, and the dour shade of gray drew the color from her face. Hallie stepped into a nearby stoop, unbuttoned the overblouse, and pulled the wretched thing over her head. She looked around and spotted an old spittoon. Wadding the garment into a tight ball, she crammed it into the brass urn, holding her breath, because spittoons stunk.

  She grabbed a handful of hair, pulled the two hairpins out of her pocket, and placed them between her teeth while twisting her braid into a lopsided bun. Jabbing the pins into her knotted hair, she tucked a few scraggly wisps behind her ears and glanced down at her dark dress. The soft wool didn’t hide her deep bust; instead, the fabric clung to her torso before it flared downward in draping gores. No, plum taffeta it was not, but she’d make do. Hallie squared her shoulders and, with a determined step, entered the bank.

  Miners were gathered six deep in front of a mahogany counter, and behind it stood two men, dressed in crisp white shirts and absorbed in weighing bag after bag of gold. When the din inside occasionally waned, she could hear the clink of gold nuggets as they spilled into the scale’s dish.

  Another line formed at the counter to Hallie’s right. She figured that this was the express station by the way the banker bellowed names of various cities and by the men who groped their way forward so they could arrange to send funds.

  Three desks were jammed into the room, their tops smothered with papers and empty chamois bags. The path to one of the desks was open, and the man behind it appeared to be immersed in a stack of papers, oblivious to his chaotic surroundings.

  Hallie walked up to the desk. “Excuse me, sir?”

  The sound of a distinctly female voice rendered the room suddenly quiet. The young man behind the desk looked up, and startled, he quickly rose. “Can I be of service, miss?”

  “I am Miss Fredriksen. My father is Captain Jan Fredriksen of the Sea Haven. He said he made arrangements for me to have access to his funds.” Her voice seemed to echo in the room’s sudden silence.

  “Just a moment, Miss Fredriksen. I’ll get Mr. Adams.” He walked over to a large door at the back of the room, knocked briefly, and entered.

  Hallie could sense the attention she was receiving, and she felt as conspicuous as a nun in a bawdyhouse. She could feel the heat of the miners’ eyes blatantly staring at her, and it was frightening.

  She wished for her smock.

  After a few long seconds she crossed her arms protectively over her chest and forced herself to stare straight ahead, wishing she still had the concealing security of her lackluster smock. She felt movement around her, but before she could panic, the door behind the desk opened and an older gentleman walked toward her.

  “Miss Fredriksen, it’s a pleasure.” He stepped around the desk and grasped her still trembling hand. He must have felt her shaking, because his expression changed to one of concern. He assessed the situation, then quelled the ogling miners with a stern look. Placing her hand on his stocky arm, he led her to the safety of the room beyond.

  After seating her and closing the door, he walked around the massive oak desk and sat down. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  Hallie looked at his kind, round face and felt reassured. “I need five hundred dollars.”

  “I see,” he said, his expression unchanging.

  He opened a leather-bound ledger and began thumbing through the pages. Appearing to have found what he needed, he perused the page, and during those awkwardly silent seconds, Hallie’s curiosity got the better of her. She stretched her neck, trying to decipher, upside down, the figures on the page. She was beginning to rise from her chair in her craning effort when she caught his sigh and quickly settled back down into her seat.

  He loo
ked up. “It seems we have a problem.”

  “But my father assured me he made arrangements for me to withdraw from his account. His voyages have been getting longer and longer, so he felt there might be a time when I would run short of funds. This is an emergency. I must have—”

  “Excuse me, Miss Fredriksen,” he interrupted. “Captain Fredriksen did give me the authorization. That’s not the problem. There isn’t five hundred dollars in the account.”

  Hallie was stunned. “I don’t understand, there should be at least fifteen thousand in that account. The cargo from my father’s last voyage was worth that much.”

  He looked back at the book. “There haven’t been any deposits for eight months.”

  “But my father’s agent should have transferred the funds over two months ago.”

  Mr. Adams looked concerned. “Who is his agent?”

  Hallie fidgeted slightly. “Howland and Company, across the street.”

  “Oh yes, I know Kit Howland. A fine young man. There must be some mistake. Kit is as honest as the day is long.”

  Kit Howland. Her stomach lurched at the mention of that name. Oh Lord, I don’t want to face him. She could feel the heated blush of embarrassment flood her neck and face. Just the thought of facing him again sent tension speeding from her stiffened shoulders down to her fingers, now white and bloodless from clutching the arms of her wooden chair.

  “I’m sure Mr. Howland can straighten this out.” The banker rose from his chair. “In fact,” he said, flipping open an ornate pocket watch, “I have an appointment, so I’ll be happy to escort you over to see him right now.”

  Tucking the watch back in his vest pocket, he grabbed a low-crowned hat off a peg behind him and helped a stunned and subdued Hallie from her chair. He whisked her out of his office and through the racket of the bank before Hallie had a chance to regain her composure and find some excuse not to see Kit Howland.

  Once outside, her eyes locked on the bold black letters of the Howland and Company sign, watching them grow larger as they neared the opposite side of Montgomery Street. The banker led her along the board walkway that dissected the muddy street, and he chattered about how easy it would most likely be to straighten this matter out. He assured her that Mr. Howland was a reasonable man, a gentleman.

  Ha! Hallie thought. She remembered their last meeting vividly. The “gentleman” wasn’t very reasonable then; “livid” was a more appropriate description.

  He had been the handsome whaling agent her father had befriended, and sixteen-year-old Hallie had taken one starry-eyed look at Kit Howland and fallen deep into the throes of puppy love. When the men sat down to dinner, Hallie had been so busy staring at him in adoration that she had accidentally ladled hot chowder onto his lap.

  Horrified at her clumsiness, she had tearfully fled to her room, barring the door, and refusing to come out until the next day. While her father had been sympathetic, saying that Kit wasn’t too angry and he’d be fine in a day or so, Hallie knew otherwise. Kit had looked as if he wanted to smack her. She had seen his face redden in anger just before the tears of humiliation blinded her vision, so thereafter she made sure that she was never around when Kit was. Luckily, most of her father’s business was conducted in Kit’s office, so Hallie hadn’t had to do too much hiding.

  Mr. Adams led Hallie to the Howland and Company office door and gave her hand a fatherly pat. “Now, my dear, once those funds are transferred, I’ll see that you get your money. You just go right on in there and I’m sure Mr. Howland will clear this up.” He opened the agency door, and a pale Hallie reluctantly stepped halfway inside.

  Thinking quickly, she used the door to shield her from any occupants inside and she forced a polite smile to her lips. “Thank you, sir.”

  Hallie watched as he doffed his hat and turned to walk up the street. She had stepped back outside, planning to run as fast as she could in the opposite direction, when she noticed that the banker had stopped and turned back around. She quickly stepped back inside, peering around the doorjamb with a false smile and lifting her hand near her dimpled cheek as she wiggled her fingers at him in a farewell gesture. He stood, watching her with a puzzled look on his pudgy face.

  Resigned to her fate, Hallie shut the door. Taking a deep breath, she turned slowly, preparing to meet the man she had astutely managed to avoid for the last two years.

  Chapter Two

  The sound of the bell over the door drew Kit’s attention away from his papers. A hand curled around the half open door and the rustling flounce of a dark blue skirt appeared around the bottom edge of the door. Curiously, the skirt rested quietly for a minute before it suddenly whipped into full view as a female figure stood, apparently hugging the door protectively to her breast while her head remained hidden.

  From the woman’s stance, Kit assumed she was hiding from someone, so he stood and walked toward her, hoping to be of assistance. He was a few feet from the door when his eyes locked on her woolen-draped derriere—an enticingly rounded derriere despite the bits of crushed leaves clinging to it. His gaze traveled up her statuesque figure to the flaxen knot of hair lopsidedly skewered to her uncovered head. He stopped suddenly, for its unusual color was hauntingly familiar.

  No, it can’t be, he thought, with a shake of his head.

  Then the woman turned, taking a deep breath that made her exquisitely full bosom appear to grow even larger. Relief washed over him, for the silver-haired young girl he remembered certainly didn’t have a body like that.

  With a smile of greeting, he met her gaze. His look of disbelief moved back and forth from her face to her bust. It was Hallie Fredriksen.

  Startled by his closeness, Hallie’s hand sprung to cover her surging heart, but her eyes feasted on his features. His hair was still dark and curly. It had been the first thing she noticed about him, those pitch-black springy curls so different from her own straight pale hair. She watched the slashes in his cheeks deepen in one of his rare and slightly crooked smiles. They were wedged into his square jaw, below a set of prominent cheekbones so noble in angle that they should have been on an ancient warrior in one of Dagny’s beloved mythology books.

  She died a little inside as his heavenly smile faded when he recognized her. What am I doing here? she berated herself, noticing that he kept looking from her bosom to her face. In her dazed and downhearted state, she glanced down and examined her bodice, trying to determine what was on the front of her dress that shocked him so.

  It slowly registered.

  Hallie quickly crossed her arms over her breasts, wishing for all the world that they were small and delicate like Dagny’s, and not so . . . so pronounced. She read his shocked reaction. When he swore angrily, she cringed. Her insides were crumbling, but she defensively raised her chin, hoping that a suitably haughty look would bluff him into thinking she wasn’t the least bit intimidated by him.

  Kit was having trouble dealing with the fact that the gawky and shy daughter of his friend Jan Fredriksen was so womanly. Jan had laughingly told him that all anyone had to do was mention Kit’s name and Hallie would disappear. His friend had painted such a vivid picture of her escape antics that Kit assumed she was still a young adolescent.

  Good God, what the hell was wrong with me? he thought. She’s still nothing but a kid, not much over eighteen.

  But Jo had only been seventeen when they had married. They’d spent her eighteenth birthday locked in the cabin of his whaler, and it had been the most sensual experience of his life.

  He spit out a pithy oath. Would he never forget that bitch?

  When he looked back at Hallie, she was giving him the same insolent look that his wife used when she wanted to wound him. That snotty little tilt of her chin that preceded one of Jo’s tirades on why she couldn’t care less what he did.

  “Who are you hiding from now, Hallie? Some poor unsuspecti
ng victim unmanned by your culinary skill?” He had meant to tease her. Her wounded gaze had Kit feeling thoroughly disgusted with himself. He turned away sharply and went back to his desk, where he filled the silence by shuffling through some papers before he slapped them back down and rubbed his fingers across his forehead.

  “Look kid, I’m sorry. Just forget about that stupid accident. I have.”

  “Obviously you have not forgotten,” she said.

  He took one look at her pale face and said, “Oh, for Christ’s sake, sit down.”

  She stood there, still giving him an injured look of a kitty that had been kicked.

  Hallie was deeply crushed. He’d called her a kid. To him she was nothing more than an irksome brat. Did she really expect him to view her differently? Two years ago she had run away, blubbering like a baby. Then what does she do? She avoids him like a green girl.

  She sat. What’s wrong with me? she asked herself, realizing she had been acting immaturely. She had never been so lily-livered before. Every time she was around Kit Howland she did something stupid! Her hands would get all clammy, her head foggy, and she’d panic. When the fog cleared, she’d do the first thing that flitted through her mind. That was what always got her into trouble. Her first reaction was usually all impulse and no forethought.

  Her self-derision was broken by the sound of his voice. He had been asking her something. She forced herself to look him straight in the eye, knowing that she must learn to harness her dithering reaction to this man. “Pardon me, what did you say?”

  “I asked you what you’re doing here.”

  His aggravated tone irritated her. He acted like she was intruding on his precious time. Wasn’t he the one who had made a mistake? Where was the money from the sale of the Sea Haven’s last cargo? He was trying to intimidate her. Well, she would show him; the green girl had grown.

  “Let me set you straight on a few things, Mr. Howland. Me hiding? You seem to have the ridiculous idea that I’ve been hiding from you. I have not. In fact, it seems to me to be the other way around.” Hallie realized that turning the tables on him wasn’t so hard; in fact, she was lying beautifully. “Our paths have not crossed most likely because you only showed up when I was busy elsewhere.” Hallie ended this last corker with a huff, and the indignation on her face rivaled her sister Liv’s.