Stealing Mercy

by Tate, Kristy

  Mercy silently agreed. The sheep were the color of slushy snow and had stragglers hanging from their wool. They moved and smelled like a sluggish creek and littered the paths. She much preferred the goats; they had intelligent eyes and darted about as if they had a sense of humor, if not a sense of purpose. Humor, frankly, was a much underrated attribute and she’d begun to despair of Steele’s.

  “Temptation,” Steele murmured. “I understand temptation.”

  Mercy considered him. Rich, handsome, charming, why did he set her teeth on edge? When did she realize the jitters he sent her were unpleasant? “Are you fond of mutton? Should I warn the sheep?”

  He turned to her and ran a finger down her bared arm, sending a shiver across her back. “I’m fond of buttons, undone buttons in particular.”

  Mercy woke in a sweat, her breathing labored and heavy. With sleep a distant and unpleasant memory, she flung back the covers and swung out of bed. The floorboards felt cold and solid against her feet. She covered the small room in ten strides. She needed answers, she had decisions to make, she had to be on solid ground.

  A cheery quilt on the feather bed, a night table large enough for a book and candlestick, a wardrobe bursting with clothes, she loved her new home and she wanted to stay. She thought about Trent, and how it felt to be close to him in the warm, secluded coach. He’d foiled her plans earlier, but was there still time? She went to the window and watched a pink sunrise tinge the sky.

  Six thirty am. Was it sane? Had she completely lost her mind?

  Crouching, she pulled the worn knapsack out from under the bed. With shaking fingers she drew out her father’s clothes.

  CHAPTER 10

  A healthy breakfast will not only provide energy for the day but will also promote concentration, problem-solving skills, and eye-hand coordination.

  From The Recipes of Mercy Faye

  Trent had been wrong. She was good at trellis climbing. Of course, it held more risk in the breaking day, as opposed to the dark night, but Mercy moved quickly, quietly and soon landed on the second story balcony. Not Steele’s room, but close. She hunched beneath the railing so she couldn’t be seen by anyone other than a lazy Tom cat that watched through slit eyes while he took his morning bath.

  Through half-open shutters on an opposite window she could see Steele standing in the middle of the hotel room. If he moved too far to the left or the right he’d be out of view. She thought about the first time she met him; he’d been as handsome as Melanie had claimed. He’d fallen for her pies, he’d said, and it had been so close to the story of her parents that she’d warmed to him immediately and made sure his pies were generously sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. Now she wished she’d laced the pies with something that would have kept him in New York.

  A safe lay at Steele’s feet, in kicking range. His eyes kept straying to the unmade bed where a collection of jewelry had been dumped into glittering piles on the pulled back sheets. Had he slept with them? It seemed unlikely.

  His fingers tightened on his whiskey bottle as if he fought back the urge to fling it against the wall. Who drinks before dawn? Mercy wondered.

  Wandering over to the bed, Steele scooted the jewels to sit down amongst them, and dangled the bottle between his legs. Cocking his head, he appeared to be listening to the sounds Mercy heard in the next room: a bed creaking, footsteps, a murmur and a laugh. Steele’s face flushed hot.

  He answered a knock on the door with a clipped, “Yes?”

  “Just checkin’, gov’nor,” a voice replied.

  “Hey, Lector,” Steele called.

  Lector poked his head through the door. “Sir?”

  “Last night someone broke into my safe.”

  Lector blanched.

  Steele stood and paced towards the door and loomed over Lector. “Where were you when someone was in my room? Were you hiding in fear, or perhaps, standing their guard?”

  Lector pulled at the collar of his shirt and twitched. “No one came in or out of this room, sir, I assure you.”

  “I’ll need to speak to Calhoun. This arrangement isn’t working.”

  Lector’s mouth turned down as he glanced into the open safe. The jewels on the bed sheets glistened in the early sun. “Don’t look to me like anything’s missing.”

  “There’s a great deal missing!” Steele flung the bottle against the wall and watched it break into a shower of glass and whiskey. He bent over, picked up a large shard and came to stand at Lector’s side. Side by side, Mercy could see that Lector outweighed Steele by at least fifty pounds, but that didn’t stop Steele from pressing the glass shard against Lector’s neck. The big man didn’t flinch.

  Mercy swallowed hard. She had to say something, she had to get help. She couldn’t witness a murder. When the door swung open and Steele dropped the glass shard, Mercy let out a long breath.

  “Is there a problem, sir?” Orson asked. Mercy immediately realized Orson had the brains of the two party henchmen.

  Steele contemplated Orson’s black eye and swollen lip and fear flashed across his face. He turned his back on his babysitters and stomped over to his cloak. “Get my guns,” he said, filling his voice with a commandeering strength that sounded false. “We’re going to Lucky Island.”

  Mercy slumped against the wall when the men left the room. Now what? She was stuck on the balcony. While she’d watched Steele and his goons, the sun had risen. Dim morning light was preferable to bright early sun for trellis climbing. She waited a few more minutes, crept along a ledge and then climbed into the empty room.

  After that, it was a short walk down the deserted hall and eventually up Lily hill. She met only an occasional squirrel and a few cats. She wondered what had caused Steele to wake so early. Sleep eludes the guilty, she supposed, sweet is the peace of the pure in heart.

  Then she practically snorted, remembering her own insomnia. She paused at the gate and watched her aunt’s house for signs of life. The windows were dark. She hated lying to her aunt. When she thought about how her aunt had welcomed her into her home, gave her work, sewed her clothes, no questions asked, Mercy’s heart welled with gratitude and affection.

  Tilly had left New York years before to follow a seafaring husband, a handsome man with schooner called Running Ruby and a home in Seattle. Bradley Malcolm had brought Tilly gold from Alaska, two Chinamen from San Francisco, and cocoa beans from South America. But one day, the Ruby didn’t return from a voyage and neither had Bradley. Tilly had used the gold to buy sewing machines. The Asians, Lee and Young Lee, helped set up a dry goods store. The cocoa beans, wrapped in gunny sack bags, sat in the store’s basement.

  Mercy slipped through the front door. Tilly’s snores rumbled through the house like a noisy wind. Mercy gently closed the front door, clicked the lock and stole up the stairs. A snore started and then stopped. And then resumed again. Mercy stopped shy of her bedroom door. The skin pricking sensation of being watched tickled the back of her neck. Her heart skipped a beat; she could feel her pulse skittering. Slowly, she turned.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw a red slipper climb the attic stairs and slide out of sight.

  *****

  Mercy jumped every time the bell jingled. Between customers, she found herself staring out the window, watching each passing pedestrian for Trent’s familiar hulk. She hoped that Eloise, who knew him as well as every other eligible man in town, would come in so that she could ask her about him and not raise her aunt’s foolhardy, matchmaking hopes. She could go to the Penny Store where Eloise worked, but that meant risking seeing Miles and potentially missing Trent.

  Around noon, Mercy gave the counter top another swipe with the dust rag before retreating to the backroom where she found Tilly pinning a pattern to a swatch of blue heavy cotton. Almost hidden between the bolts of fabric and stacks of crates containing the completed work shirts hummed two sewing machines manned by Lee and Young Lee. Their dark heads bent over the machines and their fingers flew along the cloth as their feet
beat out a rhythm that spurred the machines to life.

  Neither of the men looked up when she entered, but Tilly’s broad face lit with a welcoming smile. Her strawberry blond hair, a halo of frizz, had the unfortunate effect of making her head look as round as pumpkin. Her ruddy coloring and cushy girth furthered the comparison.

  “Auntie,” Mercy said, adopting her most casual tone. “Are you acquainted with the Michaels family?”

  Tilly took the pins out of her mouth, smiled and wagged her finger at Mercy. “I knew it. He kept coming in, asking about you. Why, before you showed up he’d never purchased more than a hankie from us, and then suddenly, we’re getting orders.”

  Mercy ran her fingers along a bolt of blue surge fabric and averted her eyes from her aunt’s scrutiny. “Auntie, I’m sure he just discovered the high quality --”

  “Oh you silly prat, don’t you think I’ve eyes in my head and ears under my hair?” Tilly chortled, causing the floor to slightly bounce with her mirth. Lee and Young Lee looked up when Tilly raised her voice, but their feet or hands never stopped working. “I saw you in his coach last night and so did about fifty other people!”

  And had all of them rushed in to tell her aunt? Mercy had seen a handful of customers pass through the store, and her aunt hadn’t left her perch behind the machine, so how did she acquire gossip? She was like a sponge that could extract and soak up water from the air -- a gossip sponge that was able to float through the sky and hear what was on everyone’s lips and then translate it into her own story. Tilly had been so valiant in sending Trent away before, but now that she thought -- wait? What did she think?

  For a moment, Young Lee made eye contact with Mercy. His gaze darted back to his work. Mercy wondered what he’d heard. The two men rarely spoke. They moved through the shop like quiet, efficient ghosts intent on completing their tasks. Mercy suspected that because of the recent racial unrest they were grateful to have employment and comfortable housing. Tilly treated them as she treated everyone, with unflinching kindness and generosity.

  Mercy didn’t doubt their allegiance to her aunt, but so far she hadn’t determined how they felt about her. Her sudden arrival, her instant place in Tilly’s home, store and heart, the men seemed to be keeping their opinions on Mercy to themselves. She felt as if she’d yet to win their approval.

  Mercy tucked a loose curl into the knot at the back of her neck, conscious of the two men watching her through their dark eyes. “It’s not what you think.”

  Tilly placed her hands on her hips. “And what, pray tell me, do I think? Seems like that’s something I should know, what I think, since it’s me doing the thinking.”

  “And I appreciate your thinking of me, but --” Mercy stopped, biting her lip. Maybe she should let her aunt assume Trent was interested in her. Perhaps Mr. Steele would tread carefully if he thought her involved with Trent. “Please, Auntie, you know everyone and everything, you must know the Michaels family.”

  The bell on the door jingled, announcing a customer. Mercy turned toward the front, but Tilly raised her hand to stop her. “Well, if I give information then I expect information in return.”

  “Information?” Mercy’s heart speed up. Her aunt had never questioned her sudden arrival in unorthodox clothes. She’d only asked after her brother, how he’d died, where he’d been buried. She hadn’t pried into the circumstances of Mercy’s departure or cross country trip.

  “Of course, I want to hear everything he says, does, where he touches you, if he kisses you --”

  Mercy flushed. “Really, we just met,” she said over her shoulder as she made her way to the store’s front.

  “Sometimes that’s all it takes. One glance, one brief encounter and poof, it’s like a spark in a tinder box,” Tilly called after her.

  Mercy adjusted her apron and tried not to think about how it felt to be in his arms when he’d lifted her into the coach. Was she the spark or the tinderbox? Was he one and she the other? Did it matter if no matter what, together they were combustible? “If there’s any sparking, I’ll tell you first.”

  Tilly hugged her scissors to her chest, smiling as if in memory. Her aunt clearly missed Bradley Malcolm, just as she would miss Mercy, if the situation demanded her disappearance.

  Mercy stopped in the doorway. Trent stood in the morning light. She took a deep breath and prayed that he hadn’t overheard her conversation with her aunt. She stood, parked in the doorway, until her aunt, coming from behind, pushed her into the room.

  “Mr. Michaels!” Tilly gushed. “We were just talking of you!”

  The blood rushed to Mercy’s face as her aunt bustled toward Trent.

  “And saying kind things, I hope,” he said.

  “I was telling Mercy of your grandparents -- the king and queen of Seattle society.”

  “That was some time ago.”

  “Before your grandfather’s unfortunate death.” Tilly paused, as if paying a moment of silence tribute to the departed Mr. Michaels. “We haven’t seen your grandmother in an age. I trust she’s well.”

  “She’s very well.”

  “And the ranch?”

  “Is flourishing.”

  “Your grandmother runs the ranch?” Mercy asked, surprised.

  “The finest in the west,” Tilly said.

  Trent flushed and pulled on his collar. “Well, that may be an exaggeration-”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Tilly said. “Although, as a mere female, what do I know of raising horses?” And from her tone, Mercy suspected that her aunt, while admiring Trent’s grandmother for her success, disapproved of women ranchers. “ Breeding horses, breaking horses, Hester is a wonder.”

  “A wonder,” Trent echoed rather hollowly.

  “And how is little Chloe?”

  “Not so little anymore. She’s actually performing with the Puget Players at the Grand Hotel.” Mercy noticed he managed to say this without moving his lips which made her wonder if her aunt had touched a sore spot.

  Tilly sucked in her breath. “Goodness,” she said in the same tone of voice that she’d used to express her thoughts of female horse breeders.

  Mercy remembered seeing Chloe’s name on a marked trunk in room twenty. Had Trent been familiar with the room because his sister shared it as a dressing room with the female cast members? If his sister had been on the stage, then he might have been on a simple errand, like fetching something from the dressing room. Maybe he hadn’t an interest in Steele, after all. Mercy had a sinking feeling, as if the floor was giving way beneath her feet. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how much she had hoped for Trent’s help in foiling Steele.

  Tilly smoothed out a piece of fabric on the counter and picked up a pair of shears. “I think it’s curious that we never saw much of you or Chloe until a few months ago. You were both off the social registers and then suddenly, pop, you’re everywhere and at everything.” She slid her gaze towards Mercy, as if she could be held responsible for the Michaels’ sudden sociality.

  Mercy sank into a nearby chair. She knew she couldn’t take credit for Trent’s sudden reappearance.

  Tilly watched his face for a clue, but since nothing was forthcoming, she continued, “Hmm, well it sure seems like we see you a lot around here.” Tilly tucked the shears into her apron and slipped a couple of pins into her mouth. “But, isn’t that just what I said, one glance, one touch, and pop.” She spoke while the pins poked out of the sides of her lips. “Come, Mercy. I need you to run an errand for me.”

  Mercy, with a heart full of misgivings, followed her aunt to the back room.

  *****

  On the sidewalk, a closed door away from her aunt’s listening ear, Mercy let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. The tension eased between her shoulders and she smiled up at Trent. When he returned her smile, her insides twisted back up.

  “Where are we going?” He seemed a different creature in the daylight, out of the dark and shadows of the theater. Well dressed and clean shave
n, he looked urban despite the fact that he moved with natural athleticism. His muscles were well defined across his shoulders and chest.

  “To Neilsons for a ham bone.” Mercy had her basket on one arm, the other she tucked through Trent’s.

  Trent smiled. “And where are the Neilson’s?”

  Mercy sighed, embarrassed by her aunt’s shameless matchmaking attempts. “Across town. To be fair, I think she thought you’d have a buggy.”

  “And now, because I chose to walk, I have to carry a hambone across town.”

  Mercy shook her head. “Don’t be silly, of course you don’t. I’m capable of carrying a piece of pork all on my own.” She gazed at him from under her lashes.

  “She walks in beauty, like the night,” he quoted Lord Byron. “Even when carrying pork.”

  Mercy choked back a laugh. “This is beauty?” She nodded at the street teeming with horses plowing through mud and muck. The wagon wheels cut into the mire and spat filth with every rotation. Gulls and pigeons flocked around the fish stalls and the air reeked of the briny putrid Sound combined with fish stench.

  “I was talking about you, not Seattle,” he said, tucking her arm closer so that their hips bumped as they walked. He leaned down and whispered into her ear. “There are so very few women with which I can discuss brothels.”

  She lowered her eyelids. “Should I be offended, Mr. Michaels?”

  “Not at all,” he replied. He placed his hand over hers, securing her to his arm and side. “But, I have the information and the upper hand.”

  She walked beside him, annoyed and yet unable to stop smiling. “So you admit to being upper-handed?” Mercy’s smile faded when she thought she caught sight of a familiar dark head in the distance. No, it couldn’t be, she reasoned. There are so many, and they all look surprisingly similar. She banished the niggling thought. “Does that mean you’re underhanded as well?