by Kaki Warner
Ash rounded on him. “The old lady is making me take you to Scotland, you simpering sod, but that doesna mean you’ll arrive there safely. Do ye ken?”
Pringle’s nostrils flared. His faded blue eyes narrowed mutinously below his bushy white brows. “I do, indeed, sir. Your lordship.” Another smirking bow.
As the muttering butler shuffled down the hall, Ash grimaced and dragged a hand through his gray hair. “This is becoming a bluidy circus, Rafe. I’m saddled with that bumbling ass, my wife’s acting strange, and now Thomas wants to be white. By the bones of Saint Andrew, I’ve a mind to go by myself.”
Rafe didn’t respond.
“Aye, well, too late for that. The vouchers from the White Star Line came this morning. We leave in a week on the Oceanic. Since I dinna want Thomas—white or not—prowling about in steerage, you and he will be sharing a cabin next to ours. But if he expects to eat with the other first-class saloon passengers, he’ll need a proper suit of clothes, including neckwear, and real boots.”
“Have your wife and Mrs. Rylander tell him. He responds better to ladies.”
“Aye.” Ash flashed a broad grin. “They’ll bring him to heel in no time.”
* * *
A week later, Rafe stood in the cabin he would be sharing with Thomas and looked around at the luxurious accommodations. Two tidy beds, a private lavatory with a tub that boasted hot and cold running water, an electric bell to summon the steward, bureaus, a built-in closet with a mirror, and a promenade deck right outside their window. Impressive. Rafe had read the brochure that came with the tickets, and knew the Oceanic was the latest design in oceangoing steamships. In addition to the hot and cold water and promenade deck, it also carried four masts for auxiliary sails, twelve boilers, a four-cylinder compound engine, and had an iron hull. They were traveling in class.
Thomas was less impressed. “Is that the only window?”
“Better than belowdecks in steerage with Pringle and the other single men. They don’t have any windows.” Opening his trunk, Rafe began transferring clothing and books to the bureau built into the wall beside his bed.
Thomas peered through the small window at the chairs lined up along the open deck. “I will sleep out there.”
“Not allowed.” As he unpacked, Rafe watched the Cheyenne pace the small cabin. He knew it was difficult for the Indian to give up the freedom he was accustomed to, and could only guess at how difficult it must be to straddle two cultures. But Thomas had chosen this path, so Rafe would try to make the transition as painless as possible—mostly for himself. He didn’t want to listen to him pace all night. “I thought you wanted to act white.”
Thomas turned to look at him.
“Then you’d best get used to sleeping indoors, and wearing proper clothes, and following the rules. Can you do that?”
Muttering in Cheyenne, Thomas slouched onto the bed against the far wall.
Ignoring the glare in those dark eyes, Rafe resumed unpacking. He respected Thomas. Liked the man’s steadfast loyalty and assured manner. But he sensed this whole “white” thing was destined for failure. What would happen to Thomas then?
After he emptied the trunk, he set it in the closet, then stretched out on his bed with one of the books he had borrowed from Mrs. Throckmorton’s library—Rob Roy, a historical adventure novel by Sir Walter Scott. It was hard reading because a lot of the dialogue was in Scottish, and he had to flip to the glossary for the meaning of the words. But since he would be visiting Scotland for a month or two, he wanted to get a feel for the people.
“You brought many books,” Thomas said after a while.
Rafe nodded absently. Then an idea came to him and he lowered the book. “Can you read, Thomas?”
There was a long pause before the Indian answered. “When Black Kettle was my chief, white missionaries came to our village with a book about your Christian god. They offered to teach us to read it. I tried. But I was young, and found the lessons boring, so I stopped going. Later, the bluecoats came with the papers they called ‘treaties’. I could not read them, but I wanted to believe they would keep the People safe. We soon learned the words written there were false.
“Then Prudence Lincoln came.” He looked toward the window, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I was a much better student with her.” The smile faded. “But none of her books spoke of the People. So I have not read since she left.”
“But you did learn your letters?” Rafe persisted.
“And numbers. But because I have no interest, I am slow.”
Rafe rose from the bed and went to the bureau. After studying the titles, he pulled one from the stack—The Last of the Mohicans by James Fenimore Cooper. “You might like this one.” He handed the book to Thomas. “It’s about an Indian and a white scout who fought together against the French many years ago.”
“Did they win?”
“Read it and see.”