a novella

Tropes: Disappointed Heroine – Veteran Hero – Disappointed Hopes – Logging Camp – Dangerous Occupation – Different Goals

Chapter 1

December 10, 1865

He wasn’t about to let a narrow doorway and a duffel bag bulging with all his worldly possessions trap him aboard the Atlantic. Wesley Fisk was a man of solid ground and sturdy horses. He’d charged onto many a battlefield. But booming cannons and screaming Confederates were nothing compared to the vessel beneath his feet. The overgrown washtub had lurched, groaned, and smashed into floating hunks of ice that should have sunk it to the bottom of Lake Huron. He’d been warned the trip could be hazardous this late in the season, but he’d wanted to save time.

In the future, he’d stick to horses, slower or not.

In the passageway barely wider than the door, he braced his feet and heaved on the duffel bag until it popped through the entrance. It smacked into him mid-chest, and he staggered back a step—right into someone else.

“Umph!”

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a dark blue cap even in height with his own.

He said, “Pardon me, sir—”

“Sir!”

That one word carried a caisson’s weight of outrage. It also held distinctly feminine tones.

Uh-oh.

Wes twisted around as best he could in the cramped passageway. The Atlantic hadn’t been built for men of his size.

“My pardon, ma’am. I didn’t see you.”

In his defense, it was dark in the passageway, and she was covered in a plain dark blue coat that hung below her knees and matched the knitted cap. Besides, no woman had the right to be that tall. But one look into her stormy gray eyes, just inches from his own, convinced him to keep that observation to himself.

“Perhaps you could move along so I can disembark.” The flinty voice matched her eyes.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m truly sorry to have—”

“It’s miss, not ma’am.”

Could he say nothing right? He touched the front of his cap in a half-salute, hugged his long duffel bag to his chest, and waddled down the passageway toward freedom. Freedom from the confines of the floating coffin, freedom from the war he’d left behind, and freedom from sticking his foot in his mouth regarding the woman on his heels.

Orange and purple sky greeted him as he stepped through the passageway opening and onto the deck. Breathing in the scents of sawdust, wood smoke, and fish, he could hardly wait for his boots to strike solid ground again. But he stepped to the side and skidded on the icy planks of the boat.

“Be careful, miss, it’s slippery.” He extended his hand. “Can I assist you down?”

She took his measure from the top of his ratty wool cap to the toes of his brand-new boots. From the set of her lips, he’d not met her standards. She pulled her thick coat aside and breezed past him with a curt, “No, thank you.”

Out in the open, he shouldered the duffel and followed her down the gangplank to the dock. Two steps and he floundered again, slipping and staggering to catch his balance even though the gangplank was free of ice. From ahead of him came a muffled snicker. He braced his legs, regained his balance, and then marched on, carefully watching where he put each foot. He stepped off the gangplank onto the dock and had another moment of disorientation.

“It’s called finding your land legs.” The woman’s voice held less flint and more humor this time. She glanced over her shoulder. “You obviously haven’t sailed often.”

“Not ever.” The truth slipped out before he could think better of it.

A smile tugged at one corner of her mouth.

He pulled his attention away from her lips and to his new surroundings. It’d taken the better part of four days from Buffalo, New York, to reach this bustling port in Michigan. A sign at the end of the dock, hanging a little askew, read “Welcome to Alpena.” At least he’d landed in the right place.

The tall woman waited at the foot of the dock, holding a large carpetbag in each hand, and ignored the ruckus of men rushing around unloading barrels and crates from the Atlantic. The boat was lashed down fast, and sailors poured from its decks. It appeared the captain was a man of his word. Captain Pratt had made sure Wes understood that the boat would not be returning south. It’d stay the winter at port and not sail again until the ice cleared in the spring. Whenever that might be. Not that it mattered.

For Wesley Fisk, there was no going back.

***

Where was Louie? Eliza Beth Edmonds refrained from tapping her toe at the end of the dock. Refined women did not tap their toes in public. She’d spent too many months at Boyd’s Young Ladies’ Seminary to lose her poise over that oaf from the Atlantic.

The stranger was behind her, gawking as if he’d never seen a port before. She’d rather not draw his attention again, so she turned her face away. Being mistaken for a man had put the crowning insult on two weeks of crushing disappointments. She didn’t wish to rehash it.

“Miss?”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before facing the stranger. After all, being rude was something refined women never were. When she opened her eyes, the wide red stripe down the sides of his trousers knocked the breath from her.

Union blue trousers. With sergeant stripes.

She gritted her teeth for a moment before loosening them to issue a curt response. “Yes?”

He pulled the cap from his head, releasing a thick mat of sable waves that contrasted pleasantly with his hazel eyes. “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”

She nodded, once more resisting the urge to tap her toes.

“You seem to know this place. I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of a hotel.”

The tension eased a bit from her shoulders. After all, it wasn’t as if this veteran would be taking her job away. “I’ve been away for several months, but the new hotel on Chisholm Street should be finished by now. I heard they were to call it The Alpena House.”

“Chisholm Street.” He mashed the cap in his hands, his ridiculously large sack leaning against his hip. “And where might that be?”

She turned and pointed as a voice rang out.

“Eliza Beth!” Seated on a high-wheeled cart, Louie waved one hand above his head.

“Looks like you’ve got a ride,” the man said.

“Yes. If you’ll excuse me.” She walked to where Louie was stopping the cart.

“Golly, am I glad you’re here.” Louie’s words were quick and tense. “There’s been an accident.”

The blood drained from Eliza Beth’s face, leaving her even colder than the December wind off Lake Huron.

“It’s your ma.” Louie’s usually mischievous face was pulled into stressful lines.

Eliza Beth dropped her bags and clutched at her coat’s collar.

“What’s happened?”

“Don’t rightly know. Someone found her on the floor when they came in for supper. I went straight to Doc’s house first—did you know we have a doctor now?—then here to fetch you. So let’s get you aboard.”

Eliza Beth fumbled with her coat and skirts to mount the cart.

“Let me assist you.” The man from the boat steadied her. She grasped his hand while his other came behind her and tugged her coat free of the wheel’s hub. “There you go.” Once she was seated, he handed her carpetbags to Louie. “I hope everything turns out okay.”

She glanced down and murmured, “Thank you,” as Louie slapped the reins, sending old Buster down the street at a fast trot.

“Can’t you go any faster?”

“Not in town, it ain’t safe.” Louie shot her a look that said he understood. “And not much faster outside of town. Buster raced all the way here, and it’s getting too dark.” He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I’m real sorry, Eliza Beth. Real sorry.”

She gripped his shoulder. “I know. Thank you for getting the doctor first.”

Last week’s dismissal from the school had been the low point in her life. She’d been sure it couldn’t get any worse. How wrong she’d been. Fumbling to remember a suitable prayer, she closed her eyes and mentally whispered, please Lord, over and over again as the cart left the town streets to bounce along the frozen ruts of an old tote road.

Ma was all Eliza Beth had left.

paperback ISBN: TBA – ebook ASIN: B0HFQDWY8C

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