for all the noise and stench below, and worrying about someone trying to rob me. And then nearly drowning yesterday…” Again she remembered her mother calling to her. “My mother’s sweet spirit must be very strong.”
Clint frowned. “What do you mean?”
Elizabeth turned on her side and curled up. “She called to me. She’s the reason you jumped into the water, you know…my mother…and God.”
He grunted a laugh. “They were, were they?”
“I’m serious, Mr. Brady. They used you to help me.”
He simply chuckled wryly and shook his head.
“You don’t believe in the spirits of dead loved ones being able to reach out to you?”
He took several long seconds to answer. “Maybe…sometimes.” Again he sneezed. He took a moment to blow his nose. “I’m surprised you believe in such things. Isn’t it anti-Christian to believe in spirits?”
“Oh, on the contrary. For one thing, we don’t really die anyway, not those who truly have loved and served God. We just travel heaven’s pathway to a beautiful home filled with peace and flowers and the glory of God. I like to believe that since our spirits simply take on a new form and live on with God, He allows us to hover close to our loved ones still living on earth and to help them however we can. God surely has enough to do. I believe He uses our spirits to help Him with His constant vigil to protect and love His children on earth.”
He shook his head again, grunting a little as he stood up and stretched. “Well, I don’t see where He does a very good job of protecting those still on earth. And me managing to find you like I did was just a quirk—nothing special.”
She smiled softly. “You don’t really believe that. The other men you helped were thrashing and yelling, easier to find. But me, I was sinking far below the surface, yet you found me. No one could ever convince me that God and my mother didn’t have something to do with that.”
Clint rummaged in one of his own carpet bags and pulled out yet another clean shirt. He began unbuttoning the one he wore, and Elizabeth’s eyes widened when she realized he was going to take it off in front of her! Other than black men working on the wharf in San Francisco, she’d never seen a man with his shirt off! She pulled the blankets over her head. “Mr. Brady!”
“What?”
“Couldn’t you wait until I’m gone to change your shirt?”
This time his light laughter sounded genuine. “You’ve never seen a man with his shirt off?”
“Of course not!”
“Not even your father or your brother?”
“Heavens no!”
Elizabeth heard the soft rustle of clothes. “Lady, your situation is even worse than I thought.”
Elizabeth waited, refusing to uncover her eyes.
“You can look now,” he finally told her.
Slowly she pulled the covers away to see him wearing a shirt and a leather vest. He was leaning over pulling on socks and boots.
“I think these boots have dried out,” he told her as he finished dressing. “By the way, in case you didn’t notice, I brought your things up from below, and I laid your wet clothes around the room to dry out.” He sneezed again. “I’ll leave for a while and you can dress and go to the kitchen and get something to eat, such as it is. At least you can get some hot coffee. You might as well pack up as best you can and be prepared to leave the ship later today. Next stop is Skagway. It’s a good thing you got some rest. You’ll need it when you reach that town. Rough and lawless, they say.” He straightened. “Did your money survive?”
“Yes, it’s under your mattress.”
He grinned and shook his head again. “Don’t tell me you thought I’d steal it.”
“Well, I…I just wasn’t sure where to put it.”
He chuckled. “Just make sure you stuff it back into your camisole.” He winked. “Where it’s dang sure safe.”
He walked out the door, and Elizabeth wanted to crawl through the cracks in the floors and disappear. She looked around the room to see that Clint had indeed hung her clothes all about the cabin to dry—including her camisole, under slips and drawers!
She closed her eyes in humiliation.
Chapter Eleven
For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: Now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.
—1 Corinthians 13:12
Skagway, August 20, 1898
Clint could see the outline of Skagway in the distance, visible only because of smoke and steam from the stacks of other steamers docked there. The crew of the Damsel had managed to keep the steamer’s leak in check enough to bring the ship into the “jumping-off” town with the help of a tugboat sent from there. That meant that everyone on board the Damsel could stay there and be towed in, much to the chagrin of some who were bent on getting to the town a day sooner.
Clint wouldn’t have minded if not for the fact that waiting the extra day had meant letting Elizabeth Breckenridge sleep in his cabin one more night. Try as he might, he couldn’t get the picture of her in his bed out of his mind.
If ever his resolve to resist temptation had been tested to the limit, the last two nights had been it. He’d managed until now not to think about how long it had been since he’d been with a woman. After Jenny was killed, all desire for any other woman in his life had left him. After a matter of time, he’d not even cared about being with easy women, let alone giving one thought to truly having feelings for any woman ever again.
So why had Elizabeth Breckenridge changed all that? It made him so angry he could spit. This was never supposed to happen to him again. For one thing, it was dangerous to care. That meant risking having his heart shattered yet again, and it wasn’t even mended from the first disaster. Besides that, he was full of too much hatred and anger to find room for caring about anyone. He hadn’t even cared about himself for the past four years. How many times had he wished that in pursuit of a criminal he’d get shot and killed so the pain in his heart would go away forever? Then he could be with Jenny…and little Ethan.
There came the sharp pain again, so real that it made him grasp the rail and bend over. For months now he’d managed to stop thinking about his son altogether. Maybe, just maybe, he could have gotten over Jenny, if only he still had his little boy…his sweet, innocent, joyful little blue-eyed, blond-haired son named after his daddy. From the day he’d had to look at that beautiful child lying dead he’d never again used his real first name, because every time someone would call him Ethan he’d think about that baby. He used only his middle name now. That helped some.
A hard sneeze brought him out of the pain of the past long enough to remember how lousy he felt today. This was the worst cold he’d ever experienced, and it hadn’t helped sleeping on the deck last night. It had rained, as it seemed to do several times a day in this place, but at night it was a cold rain that went to the bone. He’d
