The River Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  Poker. More than one man had told her she was good enough to be a professional gambler. Poker might be the answer.

  Her men’s clothes were in her cabin, locked in a small sea chest. She’d brought them as a reminder of good times with her father, when Dunleavy insisted she leave the Schuyler estate and live with him. She even had her money belt, still loaded with cash from that last evening with her father at a gambling house.

  She could climb out the window at Dunleavy’s mansion. Maybe Sunday after Bridget’s funeral; nobody would expect her to run with these cracked ribs. She could cut off her hair in some back alley; thankfully, she’d kept it shorter than most ladies. It had first been cropped when she caught pneumonia after the near drowning.

  And after that, where would she go? The railroads could take her to…But if Lennox questioned any of her friends, he could hurt them badly. No. She had to stay away from trains.

  Then how could she travel?

  Boats.

  She shuddered, and a wave of pain slashed through her. She bit back a moan, unwilling to admit even that much weakness.

  No one would look for her on a boat or near the water. She could take a train to Pittsburgh and board the first riverboat sailing down the Ohio.

  Sailing down a river. Oh, dear God in heaven, she’d have to step on a boat and look at the greedy waters again. How could she do it?

  But since her guardian was Lennox’s fellow conspirator, she had to leave. There was no safety for her in Dunleavy’s house.

  “Rosalind.” The deep voice was far away.

  Rosalind rolled over and pulled the sheet over her head.

  A big hand shook her lightly. “Wake up, little lady.”

  Consciousness returned with a bolt of recognition. Lord have mercy, she’d spent the night with Hal Lindsay. She could feel the blush scorch her skin from the top of her head down to her breasts. She gulped.

  Hal turned the sheet back gently and looked down at her. Freshly shaven and immaculate in shirt and trousers, he showed no signs of having indulged a satyr’s hungers only a few hours ago.

  She glared at him, longing for a cup of coffee and the nerve to simply pull him down and resume their dalliance. It was dark beyond the lamplight; surely there was time for more frolics.

  Hal’s eyes danced. “Sorry to disturb you but I thought you wouldn’t want Ezra to see you like this. Here’s coffee and there’s a hot bath waiting.”

  “Bath?” Rosalind shot upright, clutching the sheet around her. A genuine hot bath in complete privacy?

  Hal chuckled and turned to leave. “I’m leaving in an hour, just before dawn. You’re welcome to ride with me or follow with Ezra.”

  “I’ll travel with you. Thank you,” Rosalind added as her hand closed around the coffee cup.

  “My pleasure.”

  The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving her to ponder his meaning. His pleasure that she had spent the night? Or was he so eager to hasten her departure? An unexpected pang shot through her.

  She flinched, then shook off any regrets. She’d enjoyed a night’s diversion with a handsome, skillful lover who’d kept her distracted from her pursuers. She’d slept well, with only one nightmare. It had to be enough, despite her heart’s yearning for a safe harbor.

  An hour later, Rosalind sipped coffee as she pondered Hal’s residence, given the insights from some exploration on her way downstairs. The furnishings were magnificent and eclectic—but sparse. Of five bedrooms, only two could accommodate sleepers. The library held a massive array of volumes but only one chair. The house would comfortably hold a single person, not a family.

  She set down her cup as Hal looked into the dining room, the Irish terrier at his heels.

  “Ready?” he queried.

  “Of course.” She touched the napkin to her lips and stood up. She was clean from the skin out and her hair was almost dry. Even her clothing had been sponged and pressed, thanks to Ezra. Mercifully, her body’s aches and pains didn’t show, at least if she was careful not to limp.

  Hal, of course, looked magnificent in a superb white linen suit, which flattered his strong body and golden coloring like a king’s coronation suit. After a quick farewell to Ezra, they reached the buggy before Rosalind looked back.

  “What about the dog? He’s a magnificent Irish terrier.”

  The little fellow wagged his tail as he gazed adoringly up at Hal. Samuel kept his face impassive from where he stood at the gelding’s head.

  “Ezra will take him to Asbury’s farm,” Hal answered curtly. “The man’s a fool for dogs and will give him a good home.”

  Rosalind raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? More to the point, does the terrier believe that?”

  Pain chased briefly over Hal’s face. “He will soon enough. There’s no room in my life for him.”

  “Indeed.” She forbore to say anything else, given Hal’s distress and the dog’s evident admiration. Hopefully, he would enjoy Asbury’s farm. Better that than try to live somewhere he wasn’t welcome.

  Hal lifted the reins, Samuel stepped back from the gelding’s head, and they were off. The terrier barked furiously and ran alongside.

  Hal urged the gelding into a trot. The dog started to lag, but kept following, barking constantly.

  Rosalind glanced back. “He’s still with us.”

  “He’ll go back to Samuel, as the other dogs did,” Hal bit out and increased his speed.

  The buggy jolted down the muddy road at an alarming rate, forcing Rosalind to hold on. The dog’s barking grew more distant, but never disappeared. Hal pushed the horse faster and faster. Rosalind wasn’t sure either of them would survive the ride.

  Suddenly, one of the buggy’s wheels caught the edge of a nasty pothole. The buggy bounced and started to roll. Cursing violently, Hal steered it to a safe stop. Rosalind swallowed hard and carefully uncurled her fingers from the grips.

  The terrier barked from close by.

  Hal looked around. “Dammit, fellow, don’t you ever give up?”

  “Apparently not. In fact, the gods would appear to be on his side,” Rosalind remarked, watching the gallant dog limp toward the buggy.

  Hal’s mouth was a grim line. “I’ll not take another dog, just to see him killed.”

  Her eyebrows went up in surprise before she recovered. “This lad looks well able to take care of himself.”

  “Perhaps.”

  The terrier paused, panting for breath, behind the buggy, as the two humans watched. Then he leaped up onto the luggage rack on the buggy’s rear. He circled once and settled down, tongue lolling out in a canine grin. A single woof announced his readiness to continue the journey.

  Hal turned back to the road ahead. “Perhaps he wants to stay with you.”

  Rosalind snorted. “He’s never looked twice at me. Besides, I can’t take a dog to Fort Benton with me. Too conspicuous.”

  “You haven’t told me why you left New York.”

  She considered for a moment. He could probably guess, if he heard any gossip. And it would be such a blessed relief to have a confidant. “If I tell you, will you keep the dog?”

  “Don’t be absurd. Of course not.”

  “Then I have nothing further to say.” Rosalind studied the scenery.

  They rode in silence for a few more minutes before he spoke again.

  “Guess I have a dog.” He sounded more resigned than enthusiastic.

  “Guess you do. What do you plan to call him?”

  “Damn Dog? No, can’t say that in front of my sister.”

  Rosalind chuckled. “Probably not. How about Cicero instead? He seems to be quite the orator.”

  “Cicero? Good enough.”

  Rosalind smiled a bit grimly and cautiously began her story. “My father died in January, of a bad heart.”

  “My condolences. He was a fine gentleman and an example to us all.”

  “Thank you.” Her throat was tight, and she had to swallow before she could go on. “His will n
amed his banker, Silas Dunleavy, as my guardian until I turn twenty-five and gain full control of his estate. At the funeral, Nicholas Lennox, a junior partner at Dunleavy & Livingston, paid me marked attention. I turned a cold shoulder, of course—”

  “Of course,” Hal murmured, effortlessly guiding the horse around a steep downhill corner.

  “But he was importunate. I reminded him that I had a fiancé. He sneered at that and told me that barrier wasn’t worth a snap of his fingers. The next day, David broke off the engagement, saying his family believed he was too young to tie himself down.”

  “Balderdash! He cared for you. And even if he hadn’t, giving up your money on such a flimsy pretext is idiot’s work. The David Rutherford I knew, who served three years on Grant’s staff, would never be so stupid.”

  “I believe he was lying. There was a look in his eyes that spoke of terror. I did not press him for more of an explanation but simply returned his ring.” And cried myself to sleep yet another night.

  Hal patted her hand comfortingly. Rosalind went on more slowly.

  “Lennox became more and more insistent, demanding an immediate marriage. I declined, repeatedly.”

  “Good for you. What then?”

  “During the return to Manhattan, Lennox told me I needed a strong hand and he’d arranged for our wedding at his family estate. I refused emphatically. I’m afraid the language I used was not the most ladylike.”

  She stopped, remembering what had happened next.

  “He beat you, didn’t he?” Hal’s voice was barely audible.

  She nodded. Her flesh cringed at the memory of the boot heading towards her ribs. And when dear Bridget had burst in and screamed…

  “The cold-hearted bastard. He should be castrated and made to run a gauntlet of armed women. He—”

  Rosalind stared at Hal. “You don’t think I caused it?”

  “Of course not. You did exactly what any respectable woman would have done in those circumstances. He’s the villain, not you, and it’s a pity he’s still alive.” His voice gentled. “Don’t fret, my dear.”

  “Thank you.” Tears of relief blurred her eyes.

  Hal curved his hand over hers, and she gripped it. To be accepted by him, and not considered stupid or deserving the punishment, set wings to her heart. She held her head up higher as she continued her tale.

  “My brothers had taught me how to pose as a man for their own amusement. After they died, my father taught me how to pass as a male poker player, mostly to give us both an occupation other than grief. So I took my masculine clothing, and some cash, and fled Dunleavy’s house. I cut my hair off and headed for Pittsburgh, thinking no one would ever hunt for me on riverboats.”

  “And you were right. You’re very clever…and very brave.”

  “Thank you.” She leaned her head against his shoulder for a fleeting moment. If she was to have only one night, and the scraps of this morning with him, it had to be enough. If nothing else, he’d given her the courage to continue.

  Hal guided the buggy down Main Street toward the levee, Rosalind silent beside him. He always preferred peace and quiet in the morning, something he’d never found with a woman before. Damn, why did he have to enjoy her company so much when they’d part in a few minutes?

  He shrugged off the fancy. “What hotel are you staying at?”

  “Gillis House.”

  “Good choice.”

  The streets were nearly empty at this hour. A few drunks staggered home and a cop patrolled his beat, shoulders erect and brass buttons glimmering in the early morning mist. Just ahead, Jonah Longbottom came out of a seedy boardinghouse, tucking something back into his leather portfolio.

  Hal stiffened. Damn. Longbottom had started his hunt early. Since today was Tuesday, he had to be looking for Rosalind.

  “That’s the Pinkerton man, isn’t it?” Rosalind hissed. “Put me down now before he spots me! I need to hide.”

  “No.” Hal rapidly reviewed her options. What next? Railroads? He’d never give anything he cared a fig about to those bastards. Hide her in a seedy rooming house and hope she’d survive till the Star left? More than likely, Longbottom would find her before then. And to see her hauled back to Lennox, to be beaten into submission…A growl vibrated in his throat.

  “I have money. I can buy a ticket on the Spartan and leave town today.” Desperation threaded her voice. Longbottom was now only two buildings away.

  Put her on Hatcher’s packet? “Like hell.”

  He felt more than saw her stare at him. “Relax and look bored,” he ordered.

  A heartbeat later, she obeyed, falling back into a sleepy young man’s posture beside him. He spared a brief thanks to the Almighty for her quick obedience. Now, if only her nerve would hold.

  Longbottom touched his hat as they came alongside him. “Morning, Captain Lindsay. May I have a word?”

  “Certainly.” Hal drew up Jones, and the buggy stopped. Praise the Almighty, Rosalind was on the far side from the Pinkerton man. She eased further down on the seat, letting Hal’s body block her from Longbottom’s sight.

  “Have you seen this woman, sir?” Longbottom handed up a leather portrait case. He cast an incurious eye at Hal’s passenger, but said nothing.

  The portrait was of Rosalind Schuyler, dressed for a ball. A woman would probably notice the pearls and diamonds embroidered on her gown. Any red-blooded man would see the bountiful cleavage, startling to one who’d seen her unclothed, and stop thinking with his brain. All in all, the picture was an effective red herring since few would pay attention to her face.

  Hal passed the case over to Rosalind. She glanced at it and handed it back. Gallant player that she was, her hands didn’t shake.

  Best give Longbottom some of the truth, at least what he could confirm elsewhere. “Miss Schuyler, is it? I met her in New York last year.”

  The man perked up. “And since then?”

  “No, haven’t seen the woman since,” Hal lied cheerfully. Jones sidled briefly, setting his harness jingling. “What about you, Carstairs? Ever seen a female who looked like that around here?”

  “Can’t say as I have, sir.” Her voice was as steady as if she was betting on a set of aces in a poker game.

  Longbottom sighed. “Pity. But since you’re an acquaintance, you’d recognize her, Captain Lindsay.”

  “I’d certainly notice anyone that beautiful.”

  “Indeed. I’ll not keep you then. Good luck, Captain.”

  “Good day, Longbottom.” A moment later, Jones was trotting down Main Street again. Hal heard Rosalind draw her first deep breath since they’d seen Longbottom.

  Now to take her someplace safe from Pinkertons. “Ever consider becoming a riverboat pilot?”

  She snorted in disbelief. “Have you lost your mind? Men will fly to the moon before I become a pilot.”

  “I can use a cub pilot, someone to teach the ways of the river. It’d give you a berth on the Belle.”

  “Do you know how much I hate water? The instant I set foot in the pilothouse, everyone would know I’m a fake.”

  “Nobody would say, or do, anything,” Hal snapped back. “I own the Cherokee Belle. I hold a pilot’s license for the upper and lower Missouri, plus the lower Mississippi. I also have my master’s license. I can teach anyone I choose and do any damn thing I want on that steamer.”

  She shook her head. “It’s crazy. Someone will realize I’m a woman.”

  “Has anyone—other than myself—seen through your disguise?”

  “No. In all these months, only you did.”

  “And I’d met you before, an advantage no one else on the Cherokee Belle possesses.” He paused. She managed a tight nod. At least she’d agreed with him so far. Now, onto the mechanics of how to pull this off.

  “I’ll have a cot set up in my stateroom, and I won’t force my attentions on you. Ezra will fetch your luggage from Gillis House. No one will know. All the world will see is two men, two separate beds—not lover
s.”

  She was silent, her shoulders shaking a little beside him. Her fingers clenched and unclenched on the rail.

  He gentled his voice. “Do you have any other choice?”

  “No.” Her voice was a thin thread of sound.

  “Then give it a chance, little poker player. If it doesn’t work, you can transfer to the first boat we meet that’s also heading upriver. Good enough?”

  “It has to be, doesn’t it? May God help us both,” she finished softly.

  Chapter Five

  Hal stopped the buggy in front of his office and sprang down. His eyes flickered sideways but Rosalind didn’t need the warning.

  Less than a block away, dozens of people streamed over the levee and down to the Cherokee Belle, gleaming like a bank of lilies against the dawn sky. They were mostly men, with a few women and children to enliven the group. She could see some army uniforms mixed amongst the civilians’ colorful attire, plus fringed buckskin jackets on others.

  A groom coaxed a mare to the stable at the main deck’s rear, while a roustabout carried a case of wine onboard. Freight covered the main deck and most of the guards, the main deck’s extensions that stretched beyond the hull and nearly doubled the boat’s width.

  A trio of roustabouts sang something about long, hot summer days as they stacked barrels. The rhythmic rise and fall of their voices, with the mate’s curses as counterpoint, sounded like a prophecy of times to come.

  A steam whistle blew sharply once, twice, from the river to the west. The Spartan was passing through the Hannibal Bridge’s opening, and making a great deal of noise about doing so. Thanks be to God that Desdemona Lindsay’s lover—the man she’d bidden farewell to at the hotel, who was hopefully not Nicholas Lennox—was leaving town.

  “That Hatcher. He’s just the biggest damn showoff in Kansas City,” Hal snorted, Cicero circling happily next to him. “You’d think no other riverboat ever had a steam whistle, the way he carries on.”