He winced as his brother placed a protective arm around Naomi’s shoulders. Her head was bowed over the blanket-wrapped child in her arms, her face hidden by the brim of her burgundy velvet bonnet, yet Thorne could see her golden hair as clearly as if they were once again walking hand in hand through a meadow and dreaming of an idyllic life together.
He set his jaw. Whatever else happened on this voyage, he was not going to resurrect a love better left dead. He and Naomi had had their chance at happiness, or so Thorne had thought, and she had chosen to wed Aaron, instead. That was all there was to it and all there ever would be. He had long ago concluded that romantic love was highly overrated and nothing had happened since to change his mind.
Guiding his guests into the captain’s cabin he explained, “I’ve arranged for you to occupy these quarters until we can prepare a suitable suite elsewhere. It’s not the quality you’re used to, of course, but it’s the best I could do on such short notice.”
“It’s fine,” Aaron was quick to say as he ducked to guide his wife to a chair beneath a swaying lantern suspended from a beam. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“All I ask is an explanation,” Thorne replied. He leaned against the inside of the cabin’s narrow door and crossed his arms. “What has happened to make you so insistent on leaving New York?”
Aaron’s gaze darted to his wife, then rested lovingly on the small boy asleep in her lap. “It’s mostly because of Jacob,” he said sadly. “Father has grown more and more irrational as the years have passed. We think he may be going insane, although no doctors will agree to it and chance losing the exorbitant retainers he pays them. He’s turned against us just the way he turned against you.”
Thorne gave a deep-throated laugh. “I doubt that very much. At least he doesn’t keep reminding you you’re not really his son—or refuse to allow you to call yourself an Ashton.”
“He may as well do so,” his brother said. “He’s made up his mind that my family is evil and has ordered me to divorce my wife and abandon my child.”
“What?” Thorne’s dark eyes narrowed. Unfolding his crossed arms, he removed his hat and raked his fingers through his thick, almost-black hair. “Why would he do that?”
“It’s evident that his mind is unhinged. Some of the threats he’s made lately are dire, indeed. There is no way I would consent to remain under his roof one more day, let alone subject my family to his lunatic ravings.”
“I can understand that,” Thorne said. “But why leave the city?”
“Because,” Aaron said with a shaky voice, “if I won’t agree to a divorce he has threatened to free me by having Naomi and my son killed.”
Chapter One
San Francisco, 1854
Charity Beal stood on the board walkway outside the hotel, pulled a paisley shawl around her shoulders and raised her face to bask in the sun’s warming rays. A mild breeze off the ocean ruffled wisps of pale blond curls that had escaped her neatly upswept hair and her blue eyes sparkled in the brightness of the day.
Smiling, she did her best to ignore the noise of the passing horses and wagons as she sighed and breathed deeply, enjoying the sweet, salt air. Thankfully, a recent shower had washed away most of the dust and dirt, yet hadn’t left the streets too muddy for normal travel.
Spring days in the city by the bay were more often foggy than clear and Charity was loath to retreat back inside even though it was now her duty to assist Mrs. Montgomery in the kitchen. Perhaps stealing a few more precious moments of sunshine would be all right, she told herself, appreciating the balmy weather yet cognizant of her place as part of the hotel staff.
The Montgomery House Hotel had been rebuilt of brick after its damage in the earthquakes and fires of 1850 and 1851, as had many of the other commercial buildings, including the Jenny Lind Theater. Few of the thousands of immigrants who crowded the city could afford to board at Montgomery House but those folks who did were usually well satisfied, especially since the rooms now contained real beds with feather ticking instead of the narrow, hanging cots of the previous structure.
Charity and her father, Emory Beal, had begun as tenants and had quickly decided to stay on. At least Emory had. As far as Charity was concerned she knew she could be happy anywhere as long as she remained a widow.
Remembrances of her cruel husband made her shiver in spite of the warmth of the day, and she drew her shawl more tightly against the inner chill. She knew it must be a terrible sin to celebrate anyone’s death but she couldn’t help being grateful that the Lord had seen fit to liberate her from her degrading marriage to Ramsey Tucker. Just the thought of that vile man touching her again made gall rise in her throat.
Shaking off the unpleasant memories and turning to reenter the hotel, Charity noticed a small group of people trudging up the hill from the direction of the wharf. Travelers of that class weren’t often seen, yet it was the imposing gentleman in the lead who immediately caught and held her attention.
He reminded her of someone going to the gallows—or perhaps the hangman, himself—such was his aura. A short, black cape furled from the shoulders of his coat as he walked and he carried a silver-tipped cane. His Eastern-style felt hat had a narrow enough brim that she could easily discern his scowl and square jaw.
Trailing him were a man and woman holding the hands of a small child who struggled to keep up while walking between them. Their clothing was elegant and obviously expensively tailored but their countenance was as downtrodden as that of the poorest immigrant.
Charity hurriedly ducked through the doorway and had almost reached the visiting parlor when a deep, male voice behind her commanded, “Wait.”
She whirled to face the dark-haired traveler she’d been surreptitiously studying. “Yes?”
Instead of approaching the desk where a young clerk awaited, the stranger removed his hat, bowed slightly and addressed her. “We require rooms. Can you vouch for the character of this establishment?”
She nodded. “Yes, sir. I certainly can.”
“Have you stayed here often?”
“My father and I live here,” she said. “If you choose to join us in the dining room for supper, you’ll meet him. The evening meal is served at seven. Dinner is at one but as you can see—” she gestured toward the grandfather clock at the far end of the room “—you’ve missed it.” She peered past him to smile at the weary child. “I can probably find a few cookies and a glass of cold milk if the little one is hungry.”
“Jacob always enjoys a cookie,” the pale, light-haired woman replied. “We would be obliged.” She bent down to the boy’s level and added, “Wouldn’t we, son?”
He merely nodded, his eyes as wide and expressive as a frightened doe’s.
Charity approached and offered the woman her hand. “I’m Miss Beal, please call me Charity. And you are…?”
“Naomi. This is my husband, Mr. Ashton.” She shyly glanced toward the taller man who had proceeded to the clerk’s station and was signing the register. “And that gentleman is his half brother, Mr. Thorne Blackwell.”
Charity lowered
