A Most Unsuitable Match by Stephanie Whitson

stepped out from beneath the stairs then and glanced up toward the hurricane deck. One glance was all he needed. In an instant he was clearing the steps two at a time, grabbing Dandridge by the scruff of his neck, hauling him to his feet, and tossing him toward one of the smokestacks with enough force that when his body connected, all the air went out of him and he slid to the deck like a rag doll.
    When Samuel finally turned back her way, Miss Rousseau was standing in the shadows with one hand at the row of buttons marching from her waist to her neckline. Even in the light of a half-moon Samuel could see stark terror registered on her pale face as she stared past him toward the limp form crumpled on the deck. Samuel crossed to where Dandridge lay and bent to check on him before standing back up. “He’ll be all right.” He swallowed. “Will you?”
    “I . . . I . . . ” She gulped. “Y-yes. I think so.” But just as she said it she hurried away to empty her stomach over the railing. The handkerchief she had tucked into one sleeve glowed white as she dabbed at her mouth.
    Dandridge moaned. When Samuel looked over, he’d pushed himself to a seated position and was leaning against the smokestack. Miss Rousseau took a step back. Samuel held his hand up, palm out, and said, “Just—wait. There. I’ll see to him. He won’t bother you again.” Miss Rousseau nodded.
    Samuel started moving toward Dandridge, but before he could do or say anything, the dandy had scrambled to his feet and stumbled off toward his cabin. Samuel picked up the top hat he’d left behind. It felt grand to fling it overboard. When Miss Rousseau cleared her throat, he turned back toward her.
    “I don’t know how to thank you,” she croaked.
    “Let me walk you back to your cabin.”
    She didn’t seem to hear him. He couldn’t just leave her alone on the hurricane deck. A door slammed. She started. The moon came out from behind a cloud. Finally, Samuel crossed to the stairs and sat down, staring at the river. Miss Rousseau continued to stand only a few feet away. She was crying softly. What should he do? What could he do?
    The faint scent of roses wafted his way. Unbelievably, a white wolf stepped out of the underbrush and padded to the edge of the water. “Do you see that?” he said quietly.
    “I do.” Her voice sounded stronger. “I suppose the white buffalo will come next. It is, after all, a night for all manner of varmints to be out and about. Preying on fools who put their trust in the wrong people.”
    “I’m told the river has a way of attracting varmints,” Samuel said, “and that the closer we get to Fort Benton the more we’ll encounter.”
    “Then I suppose it behooves the more naïve among us to be especially wary from here on out. Hannah’s been telling me that for quite some time now. I didn’t want to believe her.”
    “I’d say caution is something that benefits everyone, ma’am. It’s my first time upriver, as well. I’m grateful I’ve had someone looking out for me.”
    They hadn’t really looked at each another while they talked. Instead, they watched the white wolf as it lowered its head to drink and then pointed its nose toward the sky and howled. When the wind had carried the sound away, Miss Rousseau said softly, “You’ve looked out for him, too. I’ve noticed how you help each other. I’ve seen you carry more than your share to lighten his load.” After what seemed a long while, she finally murmured, “Thank you for waiting with me. I’d be grateful if you’d see me to my cabin now.”
    Samuel leaped to his feet and offered his arm. He towered above her, and in that moment he thought of Emma, how she’d trusted him and how he’d failed her. How she would bear the mark of his failure until the day she died. Defending Miss Rousseau didn’t make up for Emma, but he was glad he’d been able to do it, just the same.
    She paused a few feet from her cabin. “I’d rather Hannah stay