by Sara Orwig
“Doctor?” Fortune said, the word drawled in a raspy voice.
“Your wife told me about your getting robbed and shot. You should have stayed in Atlanta and not kept traveling. Man, you are in no shape to move!” He pulled away the bandage on Fortune’s side. “I’m astounded you’ve survived this well. The wound is clean, but you need to lie still and let this heal.”
Fortune gasped and she clenched her jaw, hating to see him in pain and knowing he was hurting terribly all the time now. When the porter came with the last of their things, she ordered a tub and bath water brought to the room.
Finally Dr. Roth closed his bag. “He’s asleep. I’ll come by in the morning.”
“Thank you. What do I owe you?”
“You can wait and pay me when he’s up and around. I hope you don’t plan on traveling for a time.”
“No, we don’t.”
“He shouldn’t get out of bed for a few days.”
She nodded, knowing she couldn’t possibly keep Fortune from getting up if he was conscious when the morrow came. She closed the door behind the doctor, feeling somewhat better. Fortune was being cared for, and he could finally lie still in a bed.
The tub and water were brought to the room, and soon she was soaking in it, relishing the water, washing her hair. Every few minutes her gaze went back to Fortune, lying so still in the four-poster bed.
The room was comfortable with wide windows that let in a good breeze. Outside, she could see the branches of tall oaks stretching close to the hotel, their leaves giving cool shade.
By the time she had dried her hair and dressed in a blue organdy, she felt too tired to go to the dining room to eat. Easing herself down, she stretched on the bed beside Fortune.
“I love you,” she said, stroking his cheek. His chest rose and fell evenly, and she didn’t know whether he was in a deep sleep or Dr. Roth had given him something. Ends of his black hair curled damply against his forehead, and his beard was getting thicker now. She trailed her fingertips over the rough, short beard on his jaw. His eyes remained closed.
“I love you, Fortune O’Brien,” she whispered. “I love you. You have to get well. You’re going to be a father again.”
She looked down at her stomach, marveling at the fact that she was carrying their child. And then exhaustion seemed to pull her down and she closed her eyes, drifting to sleep.
In the night, she stirred to hear him groaning. She sat up, dazed for a moment and then remembering. Lighting a lamp, she moved around the bed to look down at him.
“Water …” he whispered, his voice trailing away.
She poured a cup and returned to slide her arm beneath the pillow and raise his head. “Here, Fortune. Take a drink.”
She helped him drink, feeling heat radiate from his body like a stove in winter, knowing he was on fire with fever. Finally he turned his head away as if he were too exhausted to talk. She lowered him to the bed and bathed his face with cool water for the next hour, placing cold cloths on his chest to try to keep him cool.
It was almost four o’clock by Fortune’s gold watch when she went back to bed. Climbing up beside him carefully, she left the light on so she could see him at once if he called for help.
“Claire.”
She opened her eyes to discover sunlight spilling into the room. As Fortune stared at her, his fingers closed around her wrist. “Come around here and help me get up and dress. I want to go down to the dock.”
“Fortune, Badru said he will watch. Take one day—”
“No. Come help me. I’ll do more damage to myself if I have to get up without help.”
She moved to his side, trying to avoid holding his injured side and reaching high beneath his arms to try to hold him as he stood. She felt his weight sag on her, almost shoving her down as he swayed and held the bed with one hand, holding her with the other.
“Fortune, you can’t leave this room! You can’t even stand alone.”
“Yes, I can,” he said, and she stopped arguing. “Help me across the room so I can wash.”
They moved slowly and she expected at any moment he would crash to the floor, but he finally stood in front of the basin and she moved away to give him what privacy she could.
“Take some money, and get a porter at the front desk to go to the livery stable and get our carriage. I want it ready and waiting.”
She nodded, knowing it was useless to protest his going.
An hour later, he stood by the door, holding the jamb, both arms in his shirtsleeves, his rifle in hand. “Help me down to the carriage, Claire.”
She had dressed in the blue silk she had brought. It was wrinkled and she had tried to smooth the skirt. She wore a tiny blue silk bonnet and the diamond sapphire earbobs Fortune had given her. She paused in front of him. “Do I look presentable enough to go on board today?”
He had a faint smile as he gazed at her. “You look beautiful. Let’s go.”
“Fortune, I have your derringer.”
He raised the rifle, and she knew he would use it on Wenger if he could.
“Fortune, don’t kill Trevor Wenger in front of Michael. Michael may think we gave permission for him to go with his grandfather. He may not know anything is amiss.”
“Let’s get down there, Claire. We’re wasting time.”
She went to his side to help him, agonizing as he groaned when he climbed into the waiting carriage. They rode down to the docks, moving in the crowd to stop again near the cotton warehouse across the wharf from La Liberté.
“I’ll go on board and talk to the captain. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Go ahead.”
She knew he hurt terribly. His forehead was beaded with perspiration, his face flushed. He had shaved away the beard, and grim lines were etched around his mouth. She noticed he held his rifle with his left hand. She couldn’t imagine how he would confront Trevor Wenger and expect to get Michael from him unless Badru or the Pinkerton agent was present.
She moved through the throng, hearing men yelling and talking, vendors calling. Smells of fish and rotting food and water assailed her. Wagon wheels rumbled on the cobbled street, and she constantly searched the crowd for any sign of Trevor Wenger and Michael.
As she approached the ship, brown water lapped its hull. Holding her skirts carefully, she walked up the gangway, raising her chin. When she stepped on board, a man noticed her.
“Where’s the captain?”
He turned and she followed his gaze to see a man in a white and blue uniform with a white cap. “Cap’n.”
The man turned and the sailor gestured toward her. “Sir, the lady asked to see you.”
“I’m Captain Gramercy,” he said politely, his gaze sweeping over her. “How may I help you, ma’am?”
“I’m Mrs. Fortune O’Brien. Captain, could we go to your cabin where I can talk to you privately?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Follow me.”
She moved along behind him, aware of stares from sailors working on the ship, keeping her gaze on the captain’s broad back and black hair. He opened the door and stepped back to allow her to enter.
His cabin was roomy with a desk, table and chairs, and bunk.
When she sat down on a chair, he sat facing her. “How may I help you?” he asked politely, his dark eyes studying her.
“My father and my son are sailing for France.” She paused and looked down at her hands a moment and then met his gaze. “This is very difficult. My husband owns a steel mill in Atlanta and is quite successful. Unfortunately, my side of the family is less respectable. My father is a gambler, and my husband disapproves of him. Even though my father has a notorious occupation, he’s quite successful and he’s taking my son to France for a visit. This is unknown to my husband, who thinks our son has gone to visit my aunt in Savannah, the only member of my family to have his approval.”
“Are they on my ship?”
“That’s why I’m here. Last week my husband told me he was going to S
t. Louis to talk to men there about buying their mill. He’s going to be gone for more than two weeks, so I came to Savannah to see my father and son before they sail.”
“That’s fine, but not all our passengers are on board ship yet. We sail tomorrow morning. They may arrive today. I’ll get the passenger list and see if they’re already on board.”
He leaned over his desk and picked up a sheaf of papers.
“This is the problem,” she said, smiling at him. “Since I’ve deceived my husband about where my son is, my father thought it would be wiser to sail under another name. I can’t remember the name he told me he would use.”
The captain’s eyes narrowed and he studied her, his gaze flicking over her again. “What steel mill does your husband own?”
“O’Brien Steel Works. I brought one of his ledgers because I thought you might question if I’m really Mrs. O’Brien.” She held out a small ledger she had found in Fortune’s belongings.
“This is highly unusual, ma’am.”
“My husband thinks gamblers are the lowest form of life on earth. And my father loves his grandchild and I want him to get to know him. My husband will not allow him to even speak to Michael.”
“Ma’am, how am I to know that this isn’t your husband taking your child from you and you’re trying to get him back?”
She laughed. “My father is a very tall man who can shoot quite well. Even if what you said were so, which it isn’t, how could I take a child from a man like that?” She gave him a wide smile. “Captain, when you see us together, you’ll know I’m telling the truth. You can ask my son, ask his grandfather. I just want to find them and visit with them before they sail.”
He studied her and then looked down at the passenger list. His fingers were thick as sausages, grimy beneath the nails with a smudge of oil across the back of one hand as if he had just come from working on machinery.
She watched his index finger move down the page, sliding over scrawled names that she couldn’t read from where she sat. His finger paused and he glanced up at her. “What’s his real name?”
“Trevor Wenger.”
“I have a Charles Ames who is traveling with a six-year-old boy, Horace Benjamin.”
“Oh, my! I recognize the names now that you’ve said them. That’s my father and son.”
“They haven’t boarded yet, and I don’t know exactly when to expect them,” he said, flipping the pages closed and tossing the list onto his desk.
She stood up. “I’ll come back this afternoon. I imagine they’ll be on board by then.” He stood and held open the door. She went out ahead of him and on deck at the gangway, she turned to him. “Thank you, Captain. I’ll tell my father what a wonderful help you were.”
“Yes, ma’am. You come back this afternoon, and I’ll tell you whether they’ve boarded or not. Most people who bring children don’t board until the last minute.”
She flashed him a broad smile. “Thank you, Captain. You’ve been so helpful.”
“You’re welcome, Mrs. O’Brien. I’ll tell them you’re looking for them.”
“Thank you, Captain Gramercy.” With another big smile at him, she turned to step onto the wide, scuffed plank, holding her parasol over her head, touching the rope lightly. As she looked over over the dock, she spotted Fortune standing up by the carriage. Surprised he was standing, she paused as he stepped forward taking his rifle in his hand.
She frowned, her gaze sweeping the dock, and she gasped. Moving slowly through the crowd was the Wenger carriage. She looked at the shiny black closed carriage that could easily carry six people plus the driver and servants on the outside. The yellow wheels turned slowly. She looked back to Fortune, but he had disappeared. She felt a rush of panic, searching the crowd wildly before finally spotting his black hat. He was headed toward the ship, angling to his right toward the carriage. Her heart thudded violently because Trevor could look out the carriage window, spot Fortune, and if the crowd parted, shoot him without Fortune being able to fire in return. She knew Fortune would never fire into a carriage carrying Michael.
She rushed toward them as the carriage moved steadily toward the ship.
All three of them were converging from different directions. The driver stopped the Wenger carriage far back from the ship, and she pushed through the crowd, terrified she would be too late to keep the two men from killing each other.
She glimpsed Fortune and felt another shock. He was walking slowly and purposefully as if he weren’t wounded. And the rifle was in his right hand.
She pushed against people blocking her way. “Excuse me,” she said, feeling desperate. And then the crowd moved out of the way of the carriage. It stopped and Trevor Wenger emerged while Michael remained inside sitting close to the window directly behind Wenger. If Fortune fired at him, he would hit Michael.
Wenger had a coat over his arm, and she saw the tip of the muzzle of a revolver extending beyond the coat, pointed at Fortune.
“Stop where you are,” he said coldly, facing Fortune across a few yards.
Chapter 25
“I have a gun pointed at you. If you want to live, you’ll turn around and walk away,” Trevor said quietly.
“I came to get my son back, and I’m going to.”
Claire looked at Michael’s white face and round eyes and wondered if Trevor Wenger had threatened him. Then she saw someone move beside Michael, and she realized a servant must be in the carriage. And she wondered if he was holding Michael at gunpoint.
She looked at Fortune, who was acting as though all were normal. Where was Badru? She prayed he would appear. Yet it would do little good if one of Trevor’s men held Michael.
“Let my son go,” Fortune said in a low voice, and a few people on the dock turned to stare at him.
“No. He stays with me. I’m giving you three seconds to walk away. After that, I’ll consider that you’ve threatened my life, and I had to shoot you to defend myself.”
“There are witnesses.”
Trevor Wenger shook his head. “I have my own witnesses, and you know I can get off. No one is going to take me to prison for killing you.”
“I won’t let him go.”
“One …” he said.
Fortune swayed slightly, then righted himself. She saw his finger move to the trigger of the rifle, but there was no way he could fire without harming Michael and he knew it. He would never shoot.
Knowing Fortune would be killed in the next second, she stepped between the two men and faced Trevor Wenger.
“You can’t shoot Michael’s father! If you had any love for your grandson, you would never be so cruel to him.”
“Stop protecting O’Brien and get out of the way. You’re not Michael’s mother. You mean nothing to me.”
“Move, Claire,” Fortune said, shifting out from behind her, and Trevor turned so the revolver was aimed at Fortune.
“You didn’t love your daughter. If you had, you would never have lost her,” Claire said, stepping between Wenger and Fortune again. “You killed her by taking her away from the husband she loved. He’s a good man and the father of your grandson. Mr. Wenger, love is giving, and all you do is take. You took her happiness and her life.”
“I didn’t kill Marilee!”
“Oh, yes, you did. That night before she died she warned me to beware of you. She said, ‘Beware of my father,’ ” Claire stated firmly, knowing that was what Marilee had intended.
“Never!” he said, his face flushing.
“You killed her, and she never got to see Michael grow up, never got to live with a husband who adored her and would have cared for her forever.”
“I loved Marilee!” he yelled, his face flushing.
“No, you didn’t. You loved what you thought she ought to be, something for you to groom and display and control like your horses! I know!” Claire cried. “I had a father like you. A father who wanted to marry me to a man I didn’t love! You didn’t love Marilee! You don’t love Michael! I know, and Maril
ee knew!”
“Mama!” Michael flung himself out of the carriage and threw his arms around her. She looked over his head at Trevor Wenger, whose face was ashen as he gazed down at the boy.
“I loved Marilee, and I love Michael.” His voice was filled with agony. She placed her arm across Michael’s shoulders, and with one last look into Wenger’s eyes, she eased Michael beside her and turned to walk to Fortune, her back to Trevor Wenger.
Fortune came forward. He took two steps, then suddenly his eyes rolled back. He crumpled as though he were filled with sawdust.
“Papa!” Michael ran to him at the same time she did.
Kneeling, she pressed her hand against his warm throat and felt a fluttering pulse. “We have to get him to the hotel,” she said, looking around.
“Ma’am” came a deep voice and she looked up to see Badru push his way through the gathering crowd. “I’ll get him,” he said. “You take Mr. Michael and go on to the carriage.”
She glanced back to see Trevor Wenger standing just as he had been, staring at her, a wounded look of shock on his face.
She held Michael’s hand and hurried ahead, seeing Badru pick Fortune up as easily as if it had been Michael.
“Will Papa be all right?” Michael asked in a high voice.
“Yes, he will, Michael,” she said, praying that she was right.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He got hurt at work,” she answered stiffly, wondering if they would ever have to tell Michael that his grandfather had tried to kill his father.
Badru lifted Fortune into the carriage, and she climbed in beside him while Michael rode in front with Badru.
As they pulled away from the dock, she glanced back once more. Trevor Wenger was still frozen in place, staring at them without the power to move a muscle.
Her gaze shifted to Fortune, whose face was ashen, his breathing rapid and noisy. His skin was burning, and she was terrified he had pushed himself too hard.
“Where do we go, ma’am, hospital or hotel?” Badru asked.
She looked down at the unconscious Fortune, knowing if he were able to talk, he wouldn’t allow her to take him to a hospital. “Take him to the hotel, Badru. As soon as we get there, you’ll have to go for Dr. Roth.”