A polite knock sounded on her door. She opened it to Jackson.
“Mr. Houston is in the lobby.”
Hannah nodded her acknowledgment and shut the door. She walked to the bedroom and stood before the full-length mirror to smooth her skirt. For the third time that morning, she puffed the sleeves on her blouse and repositioned her blue velvet hat just above her chignon. “What Mr. Houston thinks is not my concern,” she told her image. “It’s the manager at the Hotel Del that I need to impress.” She took a deep breath, grabbed her parasol and started for the door.
In the lobby, the sight of Caleb waiting for her, holding what looked to be a new black Stetson, had her gripping the handle of her parasol a bit more tightly than necessary. He’d been busy. He’d shaved, which brought the strong line of his jaw into view. His hair hung wet and slightly wavy where it brushed his white shirt collar. Instead of the bandanna he’d had on yesterday, a dark gray bow tie circled his neck. He wore a dark gray vest and black pants. And his boots... He’d polished them recently—this morning? Caught off guard by the sudden butterflies inside, she pressed her hand snug against her tummy.
He walked to the base of the stairs, looking her over in much the same way she’d just appraised him. “Mornin’.” He took her cloak from her arms and draped it over her shoulders.
Edward had done the same for her numerous times over the years. So why did Caleb’s closeness and his clean, soapy scent stir those butterflies in her stomach into a frenzy? He picked up a black wool coat lying on the wing-back chair and, with a crooked finger, slung it over his shoulder as he escorted her through the lobby and out the door.
“You’re mighty quiet,” he said once outside.
“I...I expected the same person I met last evening. You...you clean up well.”
He huffed. “I’ll change if that’s what you want. You are paying me to accommodate you.”
“No. Of course not. I’m...more than pleased.” She opened her parasol and propped it on her shoulder. For all his surliness, he sure watched her closely.
“Don’t see those much around these parts.”
“I burn easily.” And she needed something to keep her hands busy. With so many years of signing her thoughts, her hands retained the connection of the words and motions—a weakness should she suddenly forget herself and start signing in the midst of her confrontation with Mr. Barstow today.
“Hmm. Well. Let’s get a move on.”
He accepted her answer easily enough. She had the urge to explain further, but already he’d started down the boardwalk. She picked up her pace to catch up to him.
“We’ll walk to the docks,” he said. “It’s not too far. Word is there are carriages arranged on the other side to take us from the ferry to the hotel.”
She stopped suddenly. “We aren’t taking the Coronado line?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“They’re still laying track. Won’t be done for another two months or so.” When she didn’t move, he arched one dark brow. “Something wrong with the ferry?”
She swallowed. “I...I just thought... The hotel is on a peninsula, isn’t it? I thought we would take the train or...perhaps a buggy?”
“We’d never make it in time for the ceremony.”
“Still—there must be another route...a shortcut perhaps?”
He smirked. “Other than a hot air balloon ride over the harbor, this is your only option.”
His sarcasm irked her. “You needn’t be condescending. I’m well aware the sea breeze would send a balloon toward the foothills—not toward the peninsula.”
“I’m not tryin’ to be—” He stopped talking. The puzzlement on his face dissolved into speculation. “Wait a minute. Are you saying you’re afraid of the water? Miss Lansing, heir to one of the largest shipping enterprises on the West Coast—is afraid to get on a boat?”
Her cheeks warmed. “Of course not. That would be silly.”
“Then, what is the problem?”
“I just prefer land travel to water. Always have.”
His expression sobered. “It’s a short ride on the ferry. You can see the other landing from here. No waves, no swells. I’m not taking a buggy twenty miles out of my way just so you can keep your boots dry. We either take the ferry or we don’t go.”
Hannah rubbed her forehead. This was unexpected. She had to talk to the two owners of the Hotel Del Coronado, or at least the manager. They’d all be at the ceremony today. “There must be another solution,” she said, although her voice carried none of its previous strength. “I...I really must attend.”
His green eyes hardened. “It’s the ferry or nothing.”
She gazed longingly at a carriage passing by. It had been years since she’d last boarded a boat. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad now. Perhaps, if she forced herself, she could overcome her discomfort. “Very well. It seems I have no choice. The boat it is.”
They turned the corner and passed a grocery with boards on the windows and then, farther down the street, a sad-looking milliner’s storefront with nothing but empty hat stands in the windows.
Her steps slowed. “I was informed business was doing well here.”
He glanced sideways at her. “A month or so ago land prices started coming down. Your stake in the Hotel Del might not have been timed the best. People ’round here are selling out and leaving.”
She nearly told him the truth then—that there was no money invested, although it had been her wish to advance a small sum. Grandfather had refused. In the end, she held to her own counsel and let Caleb assume what he would. Better too little information than too much.
They walked a while before he spoke again. “So are you going to tell me anytime soon how you got your voice back?”
It was inevitable he’d ask. She had prepared an answer—enough to satisfy his curiosity and no more. It was the “more” she wanted to avoid.
“You said it had been a while,” he prompted.
“Nearly four years ago.” She could see him calculating back. “It was the hypnotist. I saw him for over a year, going back weekly. Grandfather was not happy about that—he thought him a charlatan at first. But the man, Mr. Donniger, was adamant that it would take more than just a few visits, that each session built on the last. And something... I guess a small change, a small insight each time, made me keep going back. Six months into the therapy, I uttered my first word.”
Caleb blew out a low whistle. “So it worked after all. I was of the same mind as Dorian about the hypnotist.”
“I remember.”
They stepped around the corner of a brick warehouse
