and the pile of bills still sitting out. Although she trusted Edward, it wouldn’t do to have the other servants learning the extent of their circumstances and gossiping to others in town. She stuffed the papers into the drawer, yet one envelope refused to fit tidily in. She pulled it out and then recognized Stuart’s careful penmanship.
He’d taken his ship south several weeks ago and should be returning any day now. He seldom made long trips anymore, always anxious to return to Rachel and his children. Years ago he’d had a falling-out with Grandfather. Other than an occasional business dealing, they no longer communicated. So this wouldn’t be a personal letter. As acting owner, she had the right to read it. She drew the silver letter opener across the seal.
Dorian,
I trust this letter finds you and Hannah well.
While finishing business here in Los Angeles, I’ve discovered information that may prove useful to you.
Wares from your last shipment have appeared on the open market here—without evidence of ill use by the sea. My records show that the Margarita stopped in San Diego and disappeared shortly thereafter. I shall see if I can learn anything more before starting home.
Stuart
She stared in shock at the note. This changed things. If the merchandise was turning up in Los Angeles—and in salable condition—that meant the ship hadn’t gone down due to rough seas. It meant something entirely different altogether. Could it be the ship was somewhere else—possibly across the border in Mexican waters?
Visions of the lighthouse where she had once lived filled her mind. Even now she could hear the cry of the gulls as they glided effortlessly on the updraft created by the sandstone cliffs.
Shaking off the memories, she read the letter again. Nervous energy built inside, a fine tension that ricocheted through her. If she could find out what had truly happened, perhaps it would be possible to fix things enough to save the business. That would solve everything! She wouldn’t have to marry Thomas—at least not on his terms.
This was not something she could hand off to someone else. She needed to keep control. Only then would Grandfather believe she could assume leadership of the business. She must prove herself. She shoved the letter into the drawer and locked the desk.
It was simple. She must go to San Diego. There would be some maneuvering involved—particularly regarding Grandfather. He couldn’t know until she was safely away. She’d have to leave a note for him. The staff—Nina—could give it to him after she was well on her way. Time enough later to explain things.
She tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear and realized her hand was trembling. Excitement coursed through her even as she tried to tamp it down. This was impulsive and perhaps a bit foolhardy, but if she considered every angle and prepared for difficulties, then surely she would get her answers. To sit and wait for Stuart to return or Grandfather to get well wouldn’t accomplish anything!
She’d need an escort. Edward could accompany her. Oh, think again, Hannah! Edward will go straight to Grandfather. The butler’s loyalty was commendable, but in this situation could only hinder her.
What about Caleb...?
The thought stopped her midflight, and she plopped back onto the chair.
Her gaze darted to the drawer that held the small address book. No. She couldn’t. She’d given Grandfather her word.
Besides, with Caleb’s penchant for adventure he could easily be in Timbuktu by now. Yet the thought refused to leave her. Caleb knew about the currents and tides—things she didn’t. After all this time, would he still be in San Diego? And more than that—would he even see her after the way she’d treated him?
She looked back at the desk drawer. At one time, back when they’d been friends, she’d written his name in that book. She fisted her hand. She shouldn’t. She really shouldn’t. She’d been so good. Tried so hard to please Grandfather. He would never approve of this.
Caleb even knew the shipping lanes and the crosscurrents.
Barely breathing, she reached out and pulled on the drawer. She withdrew the book...flipped through the pages.
Harrison...Heinrich...Houston...
Exhaling, she stared at her own childish penciled handwriting. Grandfather hadn’t updated the entry. In fact, he’d crossed out the name with bold slashes of indigo ink, nearly obliterating its existence. The action spoke of suppressed anger...possibly fear, but he had nothing to worry about. A promise was a promise—and for a Lansing, it held even more weight.
And because of it, Caleb was no longer a part of her life. She wasn’t proud of herself for what she’d done that day; in fact for many years she’d done her best to put it from her mind. It hurt to remember. But she’d kept her promise to Grandfather. That was the important thing. Her friendship with Caleb had been the price. Caleb would never forgive her, which was as it should be. She didn’t expect his forgiveness—didn’t deserve his forgiveness.
Her throat constricted. She couldn’t have it all. A choice had to be made and she’d made it. Selfish? Yes. Purely and wholly selfish—wanting to speak, wanting Grandfather’s approval, wanting...Caleb. She smoothed her fingers over her lips. To this day she remembered how his kiss had felt, how it had made her feel.
Suddenly angry with herself for dredging up a past she’d knowingly formed, a past that couldn’t be changed, she slammed shut the drawer. It had been a crush. Puppy love, perhaps. And it had died years ago.
She would still keep her promise to Grandfather. If Caleb was in San Diego, she’d hire him for his expertise—and that alone. She wasn’t going there to see him. That part of her life was over. What mattered was the business. Only the business.
Southern California, 1888
Keeping a steady hand on the reins, Caleb maneuvered his gelding past a sprawling pear cactus and then up the muddy slope from the river delta. With every step forward, the gelding slid halfway back through the soft muck. For the past three days, rain had drenched the earth, swelling the creeks and splattering the brown landscape with patches of green. The sparse vegetation needed it—for that matter, the people needed it to survive through the dry months.
He hiked the burlap sack higher on his saddle, tying it securely to the horn. Thoughts of the three coastal quail he’d shot made his mouth water. Bit by bit, with each mile that passed, the peaceful feeling he’d absorbed while hunting disappeared. Hardly came as a surprise. Solitude fit him. Always had.
He glanced at the horizon. The sun hovered just above the ocean. Wyatt would be looking for him. Putting the mudflats to his back and leaning forward in his saddle, he urged his mount into a rocking gait toward town.
When he entered the saloon on Fourth Street, his boss looked up from analyzing the ledger in front of him. His gaze landed on the heavy burlap sack in Caleb’s hand and a slow smile grew beneath his dark handlebar
