* * * * *
Ritcherd knew he hadn’t slept, but when Garret spoke to him, he couldn’t recall hearing him come in. The cabin was dark except for the dim glow of a lamp.
“How you doing?” Garret asked quietly.
“Not good,” Ritcherd said. “I can’t decide if I would rather kill myself or kill my mother. Maybe both.”
Garret gave a disgusted sigh. “Well, forgive my lack of sensitivity,” he said with a trace of sarcasm, “but that is the most pathetic thing I have ever heard. I would have expected better than that from you, no matter how you might feel.”
Ritcherd turned and glared at him. “Well, you have no idea how I feel, now do you?”
“Maybe not, Captain Buckley,” he snapped. “But you’re never going to find peace with this when you’ve got an attitude like that. You have a right to your feelings. You’ve had a deep loss and you’re entitled to grieve. And you have a right to be angry with your mother, and obviously you’re going to have to come to terms with that eventually. But harboring self-pity and hostility will bring you to no good.”
Ritcherd sighed and resisted the urge to argue. He didn’t have the strength.
“Forgive my asking,” Garret said, “but have you prayed for help in this?”
Ritcherd suddenly found the strength to stand up as he growled, “I have prayed more than you could possibly imagine. A lot of good it’s done me.”
“Well, don’t be blaming God for the way it’s ended up. Sometimes things just happen. But I wonder how far your prayers are going to get while you’re wanting to kill your mother—and yourself.” Garret lifted a finger to stop Ritcherd’s attempt to retort. “Now before you get that nasty temper of yours all worked up, let me finish. You’re going to have to do what you feel is best. But there’s something I have to say. If it were me, I would need to at least know what had happened. And I would keep searching and praying until I did. Maybe she’s home by now. Maybe your information is wrong. Maybe it’s not as bad as it seems. But sooner or later, you will come face-to-face with her. And then you’ll know. So stop thinking about how much you hate your mother, and think about how much you deserve to be happy—in spite of your mother. You’re obviously going to have to make a life for yourself—with or without Kyrah. So you can get drunk and stay that way until you die in the gutter, or you can look around and see how much worse it could be. You can act like a man and find a way to be happy in spite of what’s happened. And then when you find her, the two of you can determine what to do with what you have left.”
Ritcherd took two steps backward and sat weakly on the edge of his bunk. He thought of the crew of the Phoenix and the tragic stories he’d heard them tell of their lives. He thought of all he’d been blessed with, in spite of the difficulties. And he knew Garret was right. He had to come to terms with this. He couldn’t give up until he found her—one way or another. And then he had to find a way to get on with his life. With or without her. The very idea threatened to rip his heart out. But he had to find a way to be happy. He just had to.
Ritcherd prayed himself to sleep, hoping God would help him beyond his anger to a place where he could find hope again. And perhaps eventually he would be able to find peace. The following day he didn’t bother continuing his search. Instead he wandered around with Garret while he went about his business. He still felt in a state of shock. And just as Garret had suggested, he felt that he had to grieve. It was as if Kyrah had died—or perhaps worse. Not knowing was perhaps the most difficult thing of all.
So he followed Garret around, feeling like some kind of ghost without the will to do anything for the time being except go on existing. But he found some comfort in staying close to Garret. He knew his partner would keep him from doing anything stupid until he came to his senses.
They spent many hours at the Captain’s Wheel, where Garret laughed and talked with many different men—some he obviously knew well. Ritcherd just listened with half an ear, staring at his drinks more than consuming them. He had no desire to end up drunk in a place like this. Odds had it that Garret’s profound words were very appropriate in this situation: drunk men become dead men.
Two days after his discovery of Kyrah’s marriage, Ritcherd followed Garret to the usual table and listened while he reported their current status of supplies. They were distracted when a crowd started to gather around someone telling a boisterous story about sighting whales somewhere that Ritcherd had never heard of. When the story ended, Ritcherd was the only one in the tavern who wasn’t rolling with laughter. Keeping his back to the action, it was easier to remain in his own thoughts.
Garret leaned back to listen as another story began. He seemed to be enjoying himself, but Ritcherd felt bored and disinterested. When that story ended with gales of laughter, the crowd dissipated a bit and the man who had been the center of attention sauntered casually to their table, holding out his hand to Garret.
“Ah, Captain Garret,” he said smoothly from behind a neatly trimmed mustache that matched his mane of curly black hair. The length of his hair wasn’t unusual; the fact that he didn’t wear it tied back was. Ritcherd had to take a second glance, almost to convince himself the guy was real. His appearance had a flawless, almost mythical dimension. “I was hoping to see you here. How have you been doing?” He was obviously American.
“Not so bad.” Garret grinned and returned the handshake. “And you?” he added, motioning for him to sit down.
“Never better,” he replied but remained standing.
“What can I do for you?” Garret asked, and Ritcherd was surprised not to hear the sailor’s drawl. Obviously this was someone Garret knew and trusted.
“It’s what I can do for you.” He grinned. “You asked me to check up on what John Sloane told you about.” He glanced warily toward Ritcherd. Garret nodded to indicate Ritcherd could be trusted. “Well, I’m certain it’s the same man who swindled one of my men in a game just last week when we docked in Southport.” Garret lifted his brows, obviously pleased by the news, but he made no comment. “Just thought you’d like to know.” The mustached man grinned, gave a casual salute, and walked away.
“Thanks,” Garret called and was answered by a casual gesture to indicate it was no problem as this man seated himself at a nearby table with some of his shipmates.
“Who was that?” Ritcherd asked quietly.
“That,” Garret whispered, “is the Captain Cross.”
“Never heard of him,” Ritcherd said dully.
“You just did,” Garret grinned, “and if you ever get in a bad situation, just mention his name. You’ll either get treated like royalty or thrown to the sharks.”
“That’s quite a choice.”
“Well,” Garret laughed, “it all depends on whose side you’re on. Captain Cross is on ours.”
Ritcherd was surprised to have their conversation interrupted by a burly man who approached their table, looking almost as bad as he smelled.
“Cap’n?” he asked. They both turned so he added, “I’m lookin’ for Cap’n Buckley.”
“Here,” Ritcherd said blandly, wondering what on earth this lowlife would want with him.
“I understand ye’re lookin’ for a certain lady,” the man said, and Ritcherd’s interest perked considerably.
“I am,” he stated, trying to remain cool. Garret’s expression became intent.
“I think I seen ’er,” the man stated smugly.
Garret and Ritcherd exchanged a cautious glance.
“When?” Ritcherd asked. “Tell me what ye know.”
“What’s it worth t’ ye?” the man asked. Ritcherd saw Garret smile, knowing that nothing in this town came free.
Ritcherd pulled a significant amount of money from his pocket and laid it on the table, but he left his hand pressed firmly over it. He wondered if this man actually knew something that might help him. Garret stood up, motioning for the man to sit down, then opted for the same side of the table as Ritcherd when
he sat back down. They both faced him, but did their best to keep a distance.
“So talk,” Ritcherd demanded, meeting the man’s eyes pointedly.
“I was paid t’ kidnap ’er,” he stated, and Ritcherd went immediately tense.
“What?” he said too loudly. “By who?”
Garret interjected coolly, “’Ow do we know ye’re talkin’ about th’ same lady?”
The man gave a detailed physical description that made Ritcherd’s heart beat faster.
Garret still had trouble believing the woman he’d talked to wasn’t Kyrah. She certainly fit the description. But if Ritcherd said it wasn’t her, he wasn’t about to argue.
“Is it th’ same lady?” the man asked, and Ritcherd nodded to indicate it was. “All I know for sure is that I was paid a good price t’ pull th’ lady off th’ street an’ make it look like I was gonna have m’ way with ’er . . . if ye know what I mean.”
“Look like!?” Ritcherd said, forgetting his accent. His insides roiled to think of Kyrah subjected to this despicable-looking creature. “What do you mean look—”
Garret put his hand down firmly on Ritcherd’s arm to quiet him, and Ritcherd had to admit that he was grateful for Garret’s calm presence.
“Go on,” Garret said to the man.
“I didn’t hurt th’ lady,” he said adamantly. “All I did was pull ’er down th’ alley a bit, then th’ one who paid us . . . ’e showed up with a gun t’ make himself look like a ’ero. She left with ’im.”
“Who was it?” Ritcherd asked, now more calm.
“I don’t know ’is name,” the man replied. “’Twas m’ buddy took th’ money from ’im, but ’e left town, so ye can’t talk to ’im.”
“What did ’e look like?” Garret asked. “The one who showed up with th’ gun?”
“He was a big man, with dark slick hair, an’ kind o’ snaky lookin’. That’s all I can tell ye. It was dark, and it’s been a long time.”
Ritcherd fought to stay calm. He knew this man was talking about Peter Westman, and he was more certain than ever that Kyrah’s trouble had something to do with him.
“Then ye don’t know where th’ lady is?” Garret asked. “Or th’ man who paid ye?”
“No, I don’t, sir,” he said with a nod to indicate he’d finished. Again Ritcherd was grateful for Garret’s being able to think clearly and stay calm. He wondered how he could possibly remain reasonable on his own when his despair just seemed to settle deeper every day.
“Thank ye,” Garret said, and Ritcherd sighed as he slid the money across the table. The man took it and left.
“Do you know who it was?” Garret asked, moving back to the other side of the table to face him.
“Yes,” Ritcherd replied, “but it doesn’t make any difference now.”
Garret assumed by Buckley’s expression that the subject was to be dropped. He just bought a drink and listened to another of Captain Cross’s stories before they returned together to the Phoenix.
The Captain of Her Heart Page 46