Sam closed the door of James Randolph’s office, shut all thought of the man’s sister from his mind and extended his hand. Randolph’s gaze was straightforward and friendly, his grip firm.
“How may I be of service, Captain?”
Sam shook his head. “There is nothing in particular, Mr. Randolph. I am sure Goodwin has informed you of all the regulations concerning businesses and steamboats in St. Louis. I am here because I make it a practice to call on new businessmen in town to let them know who I am, and that I am ready to assist them if they have any problems of a legal nature.”
“An excellent idea, Captain. I appreciate the gesture. I shall certainly call on you should the need arise.” James Randolph smiled and indicated the chair in front of his desk. “Please, have a seat.”
Sam noted the openness in Randolph’s face and gesture. It was not indicative of a man with something to hide from the law. But appearances could be deceiving. He removed his hat and folded his long frame into a Windsor chair. “I stopped by yesterday, but you were engaged in a meeting. You want to be careful who you deal with, Mr. Randolph. St. Louis sits on the edge of the frontier, and that creates problems unknown in the cities back east. It is easy for a man to cheat someone, then simply up and disappear—though we have ways of tracking them down eventually.”
Sam watched James Randolph carefully, hoping to detect the slightest change in expression or demeanor as he talked. The veiled warning seemed to have no effect on the man. Randolph was either dense, honest—or a good actor. He pushed on. “We are doing our best to tame the less restrained who come to town to celebrate after months in the mountains or a long and successful journey upriver. And, also, to maintain some control over the establishments they frequent and the undesirable…er…shall we say, residual effects of those visits. And then, of course, there are the Indians. They are usually quite a shock to those who come to St. Louis from the eastern cities.” He stared into James Randolph’s eyes. “I assume you had no Indians freely roaming the streets of your city?”
“Nary a one, Captain. And you are right—they were quite a shock. Especially to my sister. Mary was reluctant to face them on her own. As was I, to have her do so.” James Randolph rose, stepped around the desk toward him and extended his hand again. “Thank you, Captain Benton, for your kindness in escorting Mary to market yesterday. You have my deepest appreciation.”
Sam rose and grasped the offered hand. “No thanks are needed, Mr. Randolph. It is my duty to see to the safety and comfort of St. Louis’s citizens.” He quirked his lips in a wry smile. “And I am not at all sure your sister shares your gratitude. My services as her escort were summarily dismissed after an encounter with a young thief.”
“Yes, I heard of that.” James Randolph’s smile matched his own. “Mary can be a little autocratic when riled. And she has a soft heart for those who are downtrodden. Nonetheless, she is grateful for your assistance.” The smile faded from Randolph’s face. “Now, as you say there is nothing we need discuss, I must beg your pardon, Captain. The Mississippi and Missouri steamer line seems to have been run in a very slipshod manner by the previous owner and his manager, and I have much to do to set it aright.”
Sam nodded. The disquiet was back. He filed away the two pieces of information he had learned from the visit. Thomas had run the steamer line in a careless manner, and James Randolph was hiding something. He had adroitly avoided the invitation to divulge the name of the eastern city of his origin—as had his sister. Perhaps it was time to tip his hand and shake Randolph up a bit, see what fell out into the open.
“I understand.” Sam tugged on his hat and moved to the door. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Randolph. I make it my business to find out about the people who take up residence in St. Louis. And, if in the course of your familiarizing yourself with this business, you find that need for my services, do not hesitate to call upon me.” He dipped his head and walked from the room, leaving James Randolph staring after him.
A steamship’s horn pierced the silence. Another answered. Mary turned onto her back and sighed. She tossed the sheet aside, slipped her feet into her silk slippers and used the brilliant starlight to guide her to the window. Sleep was impossible. She was supposed to be in Philadelphia planning her wedding. Instead, she was at the edge of a wilderness in St. Louis, Missouri, facing an unknown future. How could she sleep when her whole life had gone topsy-turvy?
Her stomach cramped. She pressed her hands against her abdomen and took a long, slow breath to ease the pain of the nervous spasm. What would life hold for her? It was true she would rather be a spinster than some man’s bargain. But that did not mean her desire to love and be loved, to marry and have children, to grow old with a beloved husband beside her was gone. It was all in her heart, and stronger than ever.
Tears welled. Poor little Miss Mary. She’ll have a hard time findin’ herself a husband, bein’ plain like she is. Now, if she was blessed with the beauty of Miss Sarah… Oh, how true her nanny’s words had proved to be.
Mary blinked the tears away and lifted her face toward the dark sky, the same questions that had plagued her all her growing-up years swirling in her mind. Why had God made her tall and thin and dark-haired? And, what was worse, given her the bold, forthright nature that was off-putting to men? Why had He not made her small and blond like her sister, with a golden beauty and gentle sweet nature that drew men the way nectar drew bees? The way Victoria drew Winston. Why did God not love her as much as He did others?
The familiar hurt squeezed her chest, made it hard to draw her breath. She opened the sash, then went to her knees, crossed her arms on the sill and rested her chin on them to catch any movement of air. Muffled sounds of revelry, from the direction of the levee, floated in on a warm breeze. A steamboat blasted its whistle. Another answered. The noise of the levee continued day and night. And it was all so strange and new.
Fear nibbled at the last shreds of her composure. The tears she had held back slipped down her cheeks. What had she done? Was her decision to leave Philadelphia a right or wrong one? Should she have swallowed her hurt and her pride and accepted Winston as her husband even though she knew it was only her father’s money he wanted? Was he her last chance for a family of her own? Was the pretense of love better than a life alone?
“Twelve o’clock and all is well.”
The words came, muted but distinct. She grasped on to them like a lifeline. Twelve o’clock—the beginning of a new day. And all is well. Pray God it might be so.
Sam leaped back from the slashing blade, grabbed the mountain man’s thick wrist and twisted. The double-edged skinning knife clattered to the floor. He grabbed a fistful of the cursing drunk’s buckskin shirt and shoved him toward his deputy. “Take him to jail and let him sleep off his meanness. I’ll run him out of town in the morning.” He picked up the weapon and walked outside.
A roar of voices calling for whiskey or beer erupted behind him. Music started playing. The din mixed with the noise coming from the other saloons, the lapping of river water, the churning of paddle wheels and the blasting of steam whistles to make St. Louis’s own peculiar sound of revelry.
“Twelve o’clock and all is well.”
Twelve o’clock. Time to go home and let his lieutenant and the night guards take over.
Home. Sam snorted, adjusted his hat and started up the road. Home was a room in Mrs. Warren’s boardinghouse on Walnut Street, handy to the jail and courthouse. True, it was a vast improvement over the broken-down hovels he had lived in as a kid. Or the open fields, hay mows and sheds that had been his only shelter after he had run away from his drunk of a father. But it was far from what he had
