asleep if at all possible,” she murmured. “She’d have my head if she knew—”
“There’s nothing to know,” Samuel said quickly. “Although I imagine she’d be fascinated to hear you saw a white wolf on your way to the necessary in the middle of the night.”
She squeezed his arm. “Thank you, Mr. Beck.”
Samuel watched her until her cabin door closed behind her. Then he made his way back down to the main deck. Told Lamar what had happened. Got the old man’s advice, and went to wait by the ladder to the wheelhouse so he’d be there when Captain Busch emerged from his cabin before dawn.
Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,
the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort.
2 C ORINTHIANS 1:3
“You all right, little miss?”
Fannie leaned against the closed door of her cabin, her heart pounding, her entire body trembling. She gazed through the darkness toward Hannah’s cot. Go back to sleep, Hannah. I don’t want to lie . . . but I can’t tell you. Moistening her lips, she croaked, “Fine, just . . . tired.” Hannah mumbled something unintelligible, then returned to deep breathing punctuated by soft snores. Fannie moved to sit on the edge of her cot. Her fingers trembled as she undid the very buttons that Dandridge had— Don’t think about it. Just . . . be thankful nothing more happened. Be thankful for Mr. Beck.
She unbuttoned her cuffs before returning to the buttons marching up the front of her dress. And focused on Mr. Beck’s kindness. The concern in his voice. His strength. Clearly, the true gentleman on board the Delores wasn’t dressed in fine clothing.
How could she have been so . . . stupid? Hannah wasn’t overprotective. She was wise. Dandridge was exactly the sort of man Hannah had warned her against. And she’d been a fool. She was fortunate to have learned it with no less damage to her person than a slight tear in her silk waist.
Finally undressed and safe, lying beneath the mound of comforters Hannah had insisted they bring with them, Fannie inhaled the faintest aroma of home and closed her eyes with a thankful heart. Thank you for protecting me against myself tonight. Thank you for sending Mr. Beck.
Her dreams were not peaceful, but thanks to the presence of a tall roustabout, neither were they nightmares.
He had to stop watching for Miss Rousseau, had to stop thinking about her, and most definitely had to stop smiling at her. Even if she did smile back, Samuel told himself, he did not have time for such things. He might be on the river to find a woman, but the woman he sought had red hair, not blond. Emma had pale eyes, not bright blue ones. Still, for all of Samuel’s resolve, at night when he retired beneath the wagon, the last thing he remembered before he fell asleep was the faint scent of roses and the feeling of Miss Rousseau’s hand on his arm. Fannie’s hand on his arm. Fannie’s smile.
Every time Samuel had reason to go up on the hurricane deck, his heart beat faster than it should. He tore his shirt one day while hauling wood, and Miss Rousseau noticed and Mrs. Pike mended it. The idea that Miss Rousseau was watching him haul wood drove him to distraction. She’s not watching you, you idiot. She’s bored. What else is there to do? She’s anxious to get to Fort Benton and begin searching for her aunt—and return home to civilization. Just because she watches the goings-on at the woodlots doesn’t mean a thing. And even if it did, he couldn’t let it mean much.
From the number of yards of silk gathered into Miss Rousseau’s mourning dress, she was obviously a lady of means. There might as well be an entire ocean between the two of them. But that didn’t keep Samuel from thinking about her. Nights were the worst. Just when he’d developed enough callouses that his hands didn’t hurt, just when he’d gotten used to the work and the aches and pains didn’t keep him up anymore . . . thinking about Fannie kept
“There’s nothing to know,” Samuel said quickly. “Although I imagine she’d be fascinated to hear you saw a white wolf on your way to the necessary in the middle of the night.”
She squeezed his arm. “Thank you, Mr. Beck.”
Samuel watched her until her cabin door closed behind her. Then he made his way back down to the main deck. Told Lamar what had happened. Got the old man’s advice, and went to wait by the ladder to the wheelhouse so he’d be there when Captain Busch emerged from his cabin before dawn.
Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,
the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort.
2 C ORINTHIANS 1:3
“You all right, little miss?”
Fannie leaned against the closed door of her cabin, her heart pounding, her entire body trembling. She gazed through the darkness toward Hannah’s cot. Go back to sleep, Hannah. I don’t want to lie . . . but I can’t tell you. Moistening her lips, she croaked, “Fine, just . . . tired.” Hannah mumbled something unintelligible, then returned to deep breathing punctuated by soft snores. Fannie moved to sit on the edge of her cot. Her fingers trembled as she undid the very buttons that Dandridge had— Don’t think about it. Just . . . be thankful nothing more happened. Be thankful for Mr. Beck.
She unbuttoned her cuffs before returning to the buttons marching up the front of her dress. And focused on Mr. Beck’s kindness. The concern in his voice. His strength. Clearly, the true gentleman on board the Delores wasn’t dressed in fine clothing.
How could she have been so . . . stupid? Hannah wasn’t overprotective. She was wise. Dandridge was exactly the sort of man Hannah had warned her against. And she’d been a fool. She was fortunate to have learned it with no less damage to her person than a slight tear in her silk waist.
Finally undressed and safe, lying beneath the mound of comforters Hannah had insisted they bring with them, Fannie inhaled the faintest aroma of home and closed her eyes with a thankful heart. Thank you for protecting me against myself tonight. Thank you for sending Mr. Beck.
Her dreams were not peaceful, but thanks to the presence of a tall roustabout, neither were they nightmares.
He had to stop watching for Miss Rousseau, had to stop thinking about her, and most definitely had to stop smiling at her. Even if she did smile back, Samuel told himself, he did not have time for such things. He might be on the river to find a woman, but the woman he sought had red hair, not blond. Emma had pale eyes, not bright blue ones. Still, for all of Samuel’s resolve, at night when he retired beneath the wagon, the last thing he remembered before he fell asleep was the faint scent of roses and the feeling of Miss Rousseau’s hand on his arm. Fannie’s hand on his arm. Fannie’s smile.
Every time Samuel had reason to go up on the hurricane deck, his heart beat faster than it should. He tore his shirt one day while hauling wood, and Miss Rousseau noticed and Mrs. Pike mended it. The idea that Miss Rousseau was watching him haul wood drove him to distraction. She’s not watching you, you idiot. She’s bored. What else is there to do? She’s anxious to get to Fort Benton and begin searching for her aunt—and return home to civilization. Just because she watches the goings-on at the woodlots doesn’t mean a thing. And even if it did, he couldn’t let it mean much.
From the number of yards of silk gathered into Miss Rousseau’s mourning dress, she was obviously a lady of means. There might as well be an entire ocean between the two of them. But that didn’t keep Samuel from thinking about her. Nights were the worst. Just when he’d developed enough callouses that his hands didn’t hurt, just when he’d gotten used to the work and the aches and pains didn’t keep him up anymore . . . thinking about Fannie kept
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