by Susan Wiggs
“No.”
“Then lie down with me.”
“Why should I?”
He looked at her for a long time, but she saw no laziness in his gaze now, no insolence. Only acute interest—and a gentleness that made her hurt all the more.
“Because,” he said, taking a corner of his shirt and dabbing her cheek, “you’re breaking my heart.”
Speechless with surprise, she let herself be led to a bench in the galley. He sat down beside her, never letting go of her hands.
“I figure we’d better talk about this now, because if we don’t, it’ll always hang between us.”
She sniffed. “It will always hang between us even if we do talk about it.”
“Maybe, maybe not. If it’ll make you stop crying, I’ll apologize,” he said. “But I don’t think that’s why you’re crying.”
It wasn’t. She acknowledged this with a shrug.
“I’m not sorry for kissing you, Leah. I could never be sorry for that.” He lifted his hand and very lightly touched her lips, tracing their outline until they tingled.
He makes my lips ache, she thought absurdly.
“You’re so soft. You taste so damned good. Hell no, I’m not sorry.”
She found the strength to push his fingers away. “But it was wrong.”
“What was wrong with it?”
“It can’t mean anything.”
“It can mean I want to hold you. Touch you, kiss you.”
“Your wife just died.”
“So I should spend the rest of my life beating myself up over a woman who ran off on me?” Bitterness edged his voice.
“Maybe you should beat yourself up for a day or two before grabbing the first available woman.”
“Honey,” he said, “you’re not the first, and you’re sure as hell not available. Believe me, I don’t usually have to work this hard to get a woman to kiss me.”
She knew he was trying to be casual—callous, even—because it was easier than feeling the hurt of losing Carrie. “Then why did you?”
“Why did I what?”
Damn him, he was going to make her say it. “Why did you kiss me?” Why did you make me face the truth I’ve been hiding from ever since I first met you?
“I wanted to,” he said simply. “You wanted me to. The difference between us is, I’m not one to deny myself a basic human pleasure, and you are.”
“What on earth ever gave you that idea?”
He smiled. “Your eyes, sweetheart.” He placed two fingers under her chin and held her gaze. “They’re so damned pretty, and they say so much.”
More tears started, flowing unchecked down her face.
“Who was it, Leah? Who broke your heart? A fellow?”
“My father,” she whispered. With a shaking hand, she lifted the hem of her apron and dried her face.
“You miss him that much?”
She felt the beginnings of a wobbly smile. “You’ve got it all wrong, Mr. Un—”
“Jackson.”
She nodded, but didn’t say his name. “I grieve for him, yes. I’m sorry he died. He left me...incomplete. He gave me an education, but that was for my mind, not my heart.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know how to...to feel or act like other women. There was no one to teach me.”
“You grew up with a father. That’s more than some folks had.”
“You were probably better off on your own,” she blurted, then closed her eyes, thinking of all the times her father had berated her, convinced her she had worth only as a doctor, not as a woman. “I loved him with all that I had,” she confessed. “With every inch of my heart. But nothing moved him. The best I had was never, ever enough.” She swallowed, opening her eyes. “I never learned how to love and be loved.”
“Ah, Leah. You know.”
“I don’t.”
“Love makes you care for Bowie Dawson day in and day out, or take the time to teach Iona how to read lips. Love makes you sit up all night with a patient when you’re too exhausted to do one more thing.”
“That’s different. That is my profession.”
He gave a low whistle. “Your father did a hell of a job on you, then. He must have been one dandy salesman to sell you that bill of goods. There’s not a damned thing wrong with you, Leah Mundy. There’s not a woman alive who can love better than you.”
“How can you know that?” she asked. “You don’t even know me.”
“Honey, I know you better than you know yourself.” He ran his finger down the front of her surgical apron, casually tracing the rise of her breasts. “You needed that kiss. Hell, you need another one. I know I do. You should quit trying to please your father and pay attention to what you really want.”
That sparked her anger. “I see. The lonely spinster doctor needs a little excitement in her life, so you’ve decided to provide it. And when you’re gone, I’ll live the rest of my life on dreams of you. Isn’t that right? Isn’t it?”
“Leah—”
“Never mind. I know the answer.” She rose stiffly. “Don’t stand in my way again, Mr. Underhill.”
“I wouldn’t think of it.” With a mocking bow, he pointed out the exit through the gangway.
She knew he wasn’t backing off, just giving her a reprieve. She swept past him and left the boat. Yet as she walked back up to the house, she kept hearing his words echoing through her mind: You needed that kiss.
14 June 1894
My dear Penelope,
On days like today, I envy you your first glimpse of Puget Sound. The sky was never so clear, the water never so blue, nor the trees ever so green as they are here in summer. It does make the heart run wild—
Leah scowled down at the page. No. She would not let her mind wander to Jackson Underhill and what had happened between them. Not now, not ever. Resolutely, she dipped her pen and changed the subject.
Life is not without its troubles, of course. Mrs. U______, the patient for whom you so kindly sent the materials on addiction, came to a bad end in a boating accident. I find myself in need, having lost one of my boarders, as well. My buggy horse has gone lame and I don’t know what I shall do for making calls on my patients—
A breeze wafted through the open window, tantalizing her with a whiff of sea air and the scent of blooming wildflowers. She should stop whining to Penny and do something with herself.
But what? She didn’t pay social calls. Didn’t work in the garden or play lawn tennis or anything of the sort. She just worked. Lately, she worked and she daydreamed; she couldn’t help herself.
As if her yearning had conjured him up, Jackson Underhill came walking along the road with a horse in tow. He headed for the barn and carriage house.
Dear heaven, what now?
Setting down her pen, she stuck her head out the window. “Mr. Underhill, what are you doing?”
He stopped walking, raised his hat briefly. “Putting up the new horse.”
“You bought a horse?”
“Nope.”
“Then—”
“It’s your horse, because the mare’s lame and you need one for making your calls.”
She bit her lip, admiring the beautiful animal—it was a sleek Morgan—but common sense prevailed. “I’m afraid I can’t afford—”
“It’s paid for.” He patted the gelding’s cheek. The horse tossed its head in a spirited manner. “Captain Hathaway gave him to you. Since he claimed to be cash poor and unable to pay your fee for taking out his appendix, I told him I reckon this Morgan horse of his would just about cover it.”
“Oh. Well, then. Thank you...I think.” She could come up with nothing more to say. She ducked back inside before he could see her smile. Captai
n Hathaway, as miserly as he was prosperous, would have taken until Christmas to settle his fee. She wondered what Jackson had said to get the Morgan. Sitting back down at her desk, she began to write again.
Sometimes we find Providence in the most unlikely of places, Penny...
Each night, Jackson paced the decks. He couldn’t stop thinking about Leah Mundy, and he just didn’t get it. He wanted her, and in the strangest way. To want a woman in his bed was one thing, familiar as the need to sneeze. But to want to keep company with her, laugh with her, let her weep against his chest, listen to her ideas, and tell her his deepest dreams—that was quite another, and unexplored territory for Jackson T. Underhill.
He didn’t know what to make of it.
The smart thing to do would be to abandon the broken-down Teatime, sign onto the next Canada-bound barge or steamer, and disappear.
The notion tingled in his mind, glimmered like a distant star. He knew this feeling. He got it every time he stayed in one spot too long, every time he started noticing a place was pretty and homey and friendly. This was nature’s way of telling him it was time to move on. It made sense. The only thing binding him here in these mystical isles had been Carrie. He’d spent years looking for her. Now there was nothing to hold him.
He had a huge hole in his life and just sailing aimlessly away wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He wanted a life, not an existence.
He leaned into the rope webbing and heaved a sigh. The lines creaked, and the boat seemed to sigh back as she rocked gently in the harbor waters. Nothing to hold him—but he felt the strangest tug as he thought about leaving, chucking it all, taking off with no more than his gun belt and the clothes on his back.
He ran his hand along the gunwale of the boat. The wood gleamed with a fresh coat of varnish—he’d put it on with his own hand, polished it until it shone. It was just a boat, he told himself. A hulk of old timber and mildewed canvas. Broken pumps, a crooked rudder, a leaky bilge, supplies that would cost him a month of winnings. In addition to the time he’d already put in, he still had weeks of work before she was seaworthy.
“Shit,” he said under his breath. He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a flat pewter flask, sucking down a generous swallow of corn whiskey and then grimacing from the harshness of it. Rum was sweeter. But the taste of rum reminded him of Leah, made him remember how velvety soft her mouth was, and that only made him more restless than ever.
A tiny red dot glowed on the dock. Davy’s cheroot. “Evening, Jackson,” said the harbormaster’s assistant.
“Hey, Davy.” Jackson held out the flask.
He shook his head. “No, thanks. The Sea Fox weighs anchor with the early tide, so I’d best keep my wits about me.” He nodded toward the mouth of the harbor, indicating the anchored four-master. “She’s bound for Java.”
“I know.” In addition to thinking about Leah Mundy, Jackson had also thought about the Sea Fox. She was headed for the vast Pacific to visit lands he’d only heard of in story and song. If he tried, he could most likely talk his way into a position as sailor aboard the big ship, and he’d be off. Disappearing forever. Into the sunset. “I ought to be weighing anchor myself pretty soon,” he said conversationally.
Davy chuckled.
“What?”
“You’re an optimist, Jackson. I’ll give you that.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Even if you get the pumps working right, there’s the small matter of the leak in the bilge. And the rudder, and the lanyard pulley system, and you need a new mainsail and spanker—”
“Well now, that’s real encouraging, Davy,” Jackson said mockingly. “I got here from Seattle, didn’t I?”
“From Seattle. Along a smooth, protected shipping lane most men could swim on a calm day. If you’re going any farther, you’re headed for some rough water. The Strait of Juan de Fuca’s nothing to scoff at.” The young man sucked on his cheroot. “I’ve seen ships break up like matchsticks. I grew up near the Columbia bar out at the coast. A couple of hours of heavy seas could eat a schooner alive. I’ve watched people drown, and you don’t know how helpless that makes a man feel.” He fell silent for a moment.
Jackson guessed he was thinking about La Tache. According to Rapsilver, the steam vessel had been sound. But something had gone wrong. Very wrong.
“Those ships I saw come apart were a lot more seaworthy than the Eat Me,” Davy said.
“The Teatime,” Jackson corrected.
“You still haven’t repainted the name. But I guess you’ve got plenty of other repairs to make before you can get out of this harbor safely.”
“What about unsafely?”
“Hell, you could leave tomorrow. But you’d end up swimming back.”
“You’re an irritating little know-it-all. And a pain in the ass to boot.”
“I’ve been called worse. Bet you have, too.”
A shiver that had nothing to do with the cool June night passed through Jackson. “Uh-huh.”
He stood poised at a crossroads with Davy. The self-assured young man held out the hand of friendship. It was up to Jackson to reach out and take it. But he couldn’t. Life just hadn’t taught him how to be any man’s friend. Or any woman’s, for that matter.
“So what’s it to be tomorrow?” Davy asked, clearly sensing Jackson closing up. “Test that aft pump?”
Jackson didn’t say anything. He hadn’t moved, yet he felt as if he were on the verge of some great precipice. He could step back now, slink away, sign onto the Sea Fox, and disappear. Or he could step off the edge.
And pray like hell for a net.
He wanted to stay. Wanted it fiercely. He’d never belonged anywhere in his life, but he belonged on this boat. It was the first thing that was really his. Not some fleabag hotel room, not a bedroll on bumpy ground. But a ship. A real, honest-to-goodness ship he’d won fair and square.
Texas was a long way away, he told himself. His route to Puget Sound had been slow and circuitous. No one would find him here. He was certain of that. Almost.
“Jackson?” Davy Morgan prompted. “You listening to me?”
“Yeah,” he said at last. “I’ll think about it.” But he already knew the answer.
* * *
Less than an hour later, Jackson stood before the chandler of the Sea Fox. “Sumatra?” he said.
“Yeah, we call at Java, too.” The chandler yawned. “Sometimes Bali and Fiji. It’s a hell of an adventure.”
The exotic names tugged at Jackson like a bright, shiny lure. “I’ll sign on, then.”
“I can’t give you full share.”
“I’ll take what you’ve got.”
The man studied him. “All right.”
Jackson blinked at the swiftness of the man’s reply.
The chandler took a slow pull on his bottle. “I won’t ask any questions. We generally don’t around here. Be aboard before the early tide. If you’re not here, we won’t wait.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Jackson went back to his own boat. His own boat. In honor of his last night aboard, he intended to get drunk and try to quit thinking about Leah.
* * *
When he bedded down in his bunk, he knew it was impossible. Tonight he couldn’t drink enough to get drunk, and his mind kept wandering to Leah Mundy. When Carrie was alive, he’d worried about her, but now she couldn’t occupy his thoughts anymore. His quest was over and he’d never thought beyond it, not until now. He’d just been working on surviving, not thinking.
What would you have done if the boat hadn’t exploded? Leah Mundy made him think. The feelings she stirred in him made him ache.
It was lonely as hell on the boat, he reflected. But it was his. It was home.
Not for much longer. Not if he signed onto the four-master.
He lay awake for a long time, listening to the hush of the water lapping the hull, the trickle of a leak somewhere below, the cry of an owl on the hunt.
Leah, he thought. Leah. Her lips were so damned soft, and the rest of her... He groaned and shifted uncomfortably on the bunk. The schooner had been built to accommodate the captain’s wife, the bunk in the main stateroom wide and comfortable. If he had any sense at all, he’d make love to Leah and get her out of his system.
But deep inside, he knew Leah Mundy was not a one-night adventure. She was a forever kind of woman, which meant she was not for him.
The distant thud of hooves roused Jackson. Too many months on the run had sharpened his senses, and he sat up fast, slamming his forehead on the beam above his bunk. Swearing, he opened a hatch and looked out toward the road.
A dark horseman holding a flickering lantern galloped toward the boardinghouse. Something in his manner—the flying cloak, the urgent posture as he leaned over the horse’s neck—conveyed a sense of danger. Before he could even think, Jackson had jumped into his clothes, stuck a pistol into the waistband of his jeans, and was running toward the boardinghouse. He reached it just as Leah and the horseman emerged from the surgery.
“What is it?” he asked, sizing up the stranger. His anxiety subsided. The youngish man had a light beard and terrified eyes. A farmer come looking for help, not for trouble.
Unlike me, Jackson reflected, thinking of his first midnight visit to Leah’s house.
“Mr. Amity’s wife is ill. I’ve got to go to her,” Leah said.
She was all business in a clean smock with her hair in a bun. Christ, it was the middle of the night. What did she do, use starch in her hair as well as her apron?
“Now,” she said, “you can either help Mr. Douglas hitch up the buggy or stand aside, Mr. Underhill. I’m in quite a hurry.”
“Then you should stop wasting time calling me Mr. Underhill,” Jackson said, and he raced across the yard to the coach house.