Linda O'Brien, COURTING CLAIRE, chapter preview: The Romance Club

TRC's 3rd Annual Halloween Event
October 12th - November 1st

YOUR FATHER HAS DIED. STOP.
BELLEFLEUR TO BE SOLD. STOP
COME QUICKLY. STOP.

Paducah, Kentucky, 1897 Thunder reverberated up and down the river as Claire hurried her sister along the dock. Fierce gusts whipped the girls' long skirts around them, binding their ankles and slowing their progress. Claire's grip tightened on the handle of her heavy leather valise as she glanced up at the turbulent gray clouds. Within moments the storm would break. Claire prayed that it would not prevent the boat from leaving.

But what if it did? Although the harbor master had assured her the LADY LUCK could make the trip, Claire's frantic mind sought solutions. Could she hire a hansom cab to take them such a distance? Was there a train they could catch instead?

"Cee Cee, I can walk alone," her twelve-year-old sister insisted in a frustrated voice, trying to shrug off Claire's arm. "Please, Em, it's dangerous. See that? The rain has started."

As she spoke, heavy raindrops broke from the clouds and battered the wooden planks, quickly soaking through the girls' light spring clothing. Beneath the dripping brim of her hat, Claire squinted at the white paddlewheel steamboat moored at the end of the dock.

Ahead, she could see passengers disembarking. Umbrellas unfurled as throngs of people scurried along the dock, seeking shelter. Claire clutched Emily closer so they would not be separated.

Her sister's protest barely registered, her thoughts on the telegram she had received from their housekeeper yesterday; three brief lines that had turned Claire's safe, insulated world upside down.How she wished the telegram had given her more information. But of course Mrs. Parks had been distraught when she'd sent it. The elderly woman had worked for her father for twenty years, and had been in complete charge of the household since Claire's mother had died four-and-a-half years ago. Her father had always said, "Thank God for Mrs. Parks. I don't know what we'd do without her."

But it wasn't Mrs. Parks they would have to do without. Once again Claire experienced that same sense of shock, that feeling of disbelief, she had felt when she opened the telegram. Her father was dead.

Upon receiving the wire, Claire had immediately begun preparations to get home. She functioned remotely, keeping her mind occupied with details. She took a leave of her studies, then set out to fetch Emily from her school, praying they would make it in time for the funeral.

Yet, although the impact of her father's death had not fully registered in Claire's benumbed brain, the second and third line of the telegram had.

The thought of losing her home paralyzed Claire with fear. She remembered too well what it was like to have no home, to huddle under bridges, sleep in barns, take refuge in alleyways. She had known the indignity of digging for food in the dead of night in someone else's garden, the humiliation of begging for scraps and the degradation of being so dirty even dogs shied away. And she had vowed never to suffer them again.

The telegram was a mistake. It had to be. Her father would not sell Bellefleur, especially after what he had revealed to her in his letter only ten days earlier. The estate was not only their home but their security for the future. Claire tried to assure herself that the message was just a product of an old woman's fears. Nevertheless, she was frightened.

Emily took that moment to declare her independence. "I'm going to walk by myself!"

"Don't be a goose, Em. We're almost there," Claire replied, as they drew near the boat ramp.

Emily was not to be denied. She twisted out from under Claire's arm, straightened her yellow bonnet and righted the slender cane she had been gripping in her hand. "I can walk alone!" she stated, taking a step forward.

But Emily could not see the immediate danger of her action. And before Claire could react to it, the toe of her sister's shoe caught the edge of the ramp and tripped her. Emily screamed as she fought for balance against the ferocious wind.

"Emily!" Claire lunged but wasn't quick enough to catch her sister as she pitched over the edge of the dock. "Someone help, please!" she cried over her shoulder, as she dropped to her knees. Clinging to the slippery wooden planks by her fingers, Emily dangled some ten feet above the dark, churning waters of the Ohio River.

Claire wrapped her own fingers tightly around the small wrists, praying for strength. "Hold on, Em. I'll try to pull you up."

Emily's face was white as she gasped for breath. "I - can't - hold on. I'm slipping."

"Yes, you can!" In horror, Claire saw the small fingers slide closer toward the edge. "Help, please!" Claire screamed desperately.

In danger of being pulled over herself, Claire stretched out flat to gain leverage. A vicious gust of wind tore her hat from her head, but she barely noticed. Her hands ached; her arms felt as though they were separating from her shoulders. She needed help. She couldn't hold on much longer and Emily was too heavy to lift. Had anyone heard her cries over the roar of the wind?

Claire choked back a sob. Emily was the only family she had. If something were to happen to her . . . "Don't be afraid, Em," she cried over the wind. "You're not going to die. I won't let you. Help will be here soon, I promise."

Standing under the protective shelter of the LADY LUCK'S promenade deck, Tyler McCane was talking with his assistant when he heard a woman's cries for help. He turned quickly, his keen gaze scanning the dock. Stepping to the rail, he focused on a slender figure lying on her stomach near the edge.

Within moments he was kneeling beside the woman. "Here, I've got her," he said, leaning over to grip the child's forearms. The woman seemed reluctant to release her hold, as though she was in shock. "I've got her. Let her go!" he thundered, and she obeyed.

Wind-driven rain pelted his face and the heavy muscles in his arms shook from his efforts. Tyler blinked hard to clear his vision and gritted his teeth as he hauled the girl up. With a cry the woman clutched the girl to her, murmuring comforting words into her ear and stroking her head.

Jonas stepped forward and wrapped a blanket around the child's shoulders. "Let's get you both to shelter," he urged.

The woman stepped back and put a hand over her mouth, her eyes overflowing with tears as she watched Jonas usher his new charge onto the boat. When he and the child reached the top of the ramp, the woman covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

Purely by instinct, Tyler put his arms around her, tucking her head under his chin. She was soaking wet and shivering in the chill May winds. "It's all right," he said with a tenderness that surprised him. "Your daughter is safe."

"I nearly lost her," the young woman wept. "I wasn't vigilant. I have to be vigilant. Emily is my responsibility now. Everything is my responsibility now. How will I ever manage?"

Some distant memory within Tyler responded to the anguish in her voice. "The child is safe and so are you. Now let's get out of this rain."

The woman raised forlorn eyes to his, eyes of such a startling cobalt blue that his breath was momentarily taken away. "Thank you for saving her life," she said in a choked whisper. "Emily is all the family I have now."

Tyler studied her small, oval face. She was much younger than he had at first thought, certainly too young for the child to be her daughter. Her skin was as smooth and as clear as fresh cream, her bow-shaped mouth pale from her fright. Her hat had apparently blown off in the storm, and her hair, freed of pins, draped like sodden black curtains around her face and down the back of her white blouse. Her eyes, framed by long black lashes, spoke of sorrow and anxieties, yet, underneath, he saw a steely determination that he knew all too well.

At a loud thunderclap, Tyler picked up her valise and led her up the boat ramp. "Let's get you to shelter and see about something hot to drink to warm you."

"Do you know when the boat will leave?" she said through chattering teeth, as she followed him along the deck.

She stopped abruptly, her dismay evident. "Then I must speak with the captain. It's imperative I reach Fortune as soon as possible."

The coincidence surprised him. Fortune, Indiana, a small town on the Ohio River, happened to be his destination. But Tyler had no intention of setting out until the storm blew over and the river calmed. He hadn't made a name for himself by being reckless. "We'll leave when the danger has passed."

She stopped and turned, her guileless blue gaze piercing his thick shell of indifference. The hairs on his arms and neck prickled as a strong feeling of presentiment washed over him: this woman was going to destroy him.

Tyler let out his breath slowly. "Why don't we find your Emily," he suggested, keeping his tone matter-of-fact, "and then we'll get you some hot coffee." Shaken, he headed down the narrow inner passageway, telling himself he was crazy. No one could predict the future. And no woman would ever again have the power to destroy him.

"Please," she called from behind, "I have to get home. Mr. Galloway assured me you would be able to take me tonight. I'm willing to pay whatever it costs."

Tyler gritted his teeth in annoyance. Abe Galloway was a long-time friend who worked at the harbor master's office in Paducah. "Mr. Galloway had no business making assurances he couldn't keep. I won't leave at the risk of people's lives. We'll embark in the morning."

"No, you don't understand," he said, swinging to face her. "There are nineteen people on this boat. What reason could you possibly have that would make me risk their lives?"

The woman's eyes filled with tears and her lower lip trembled as she spoke. " I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. My father -- " she let out a shaky breath " – has just passed away. We wanted to be home for his funeral in the morning."

Tyler stared at her dispassionately. Her father wouldn't know if she made it to the funeral -- the man was dead, for God's sake. She wiped a stray tear from her cheek, and her suffering made him all the more grateful he had no one to mourn. Yet, for the briefest of moments, he found himself envying her father for inspiring that kind of devotion.

What harm would it do to help her out? He knew the storm would blow over soon. They could leave in the middle of the night and reach Fortune before morning.

Then what the hell is the problem? Tyler had no answer. He had never been a believer in fortune-tellers, prophecies or divinations. He used his head to make decisions. Yet, for some reason, that premonition had shaken him to the core. He let out his breath noisily. He was not going to be controlled by an illogical notion!

"I'll confer with the captain," he said irritably. "We'll try to have you home by morning."

Reginald Boothe gave his hand-tooled boot a last buff and pulled it onto his right foot. "So he's really dead," Boothe remarked to the big man sitting on the other side of his desk.

"I talked to Doc Jenkins yesterday," Sheriff Wilbur Simons replied, his hands resting placidly on his protruding belly. "And I saw the undertaker's wagon coming back from Bellefleur."

With a smirk, Boothe leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head and propped both booted feet on his desk. "The timing couldn't be better. I wonder if that little talk I had with Arthur had anything to do with his sudden demise?"

The sheriff scratched the back of his neck, shifting uneasily in the chair. "I couldn't say"

"And who is there to say?" Boothe replied in his meticulous British accent. "That antiquated, feeble-minded housekeeper? She can barely remember her own name."

"I give you credit for your patience, Mr. Boothe," the sheriff said. "You've wanted that land a long time."

The banker's smile flattened and his expression grew hard. A very long time. But Arthur Cavanaugh was dead at last, and his two brats certainly weren't going to be an obstacle. "Too long, Sheriff. I intend to move forward quickly. I'm meeting with Tyler McCane, the owner of the riverboat LADY LUCK, tomorrow, hopefully to sign our partnership agreement. With McCane's gambling license and the

Cavanaugh's land as an operating base, I'll be a millionaire within two years, mark my words." Boothe pointed his finger at the sheriff. "I won't forget your help, either."

Sheriff Simons' heavy face flushed with gratitude. "I appreciate that, sir. But what if McCane doesn't like the agreement?"

"He'll like it. He's as eager to make a deal as I am. After all, look what he's getting: prime riverfront land; an adjoining piece of property to build his own house if he so chooses; the money to build a fleet of steamboats; and a prominent businessman as his backer. And all he's putting in is half-ownership of his boat and gambling license."

"On the surface," Boothe replied calmly. "But McCane knows the value of his gambling license, and I guarantee you that he's already found out I've tried unsuccessfully to come by one through other sources. We must never forget, Sheriff, with whom we are dealing. McCane has a reputation for being a clever, ruthless man."

The banker smiled smugly. "Then let's just say McCane and I both know how to get what we want."

Simons opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again, as though fearful of broaching a sensitive subject. Boothe chafed impatiently, tapping his fingers on the desk top. "If you have something to say, Sheriff, say it."

"What will happen if Arthur Cavanaugh's daughters decide to fight for their land?"

Boothe took pleasure in the sheriff's apprehension. Wilbur Simons knew full well how far he would go to get what he wanted. "It won't be a problem. Cavanaugh was so heavily in debt that they can't possibly afford to keep it. A loan without collateral is out of the question, and an extension of time is simply not possible, especially since I hold the lien. We're dealing with a pair of females, and mere children at that. Do you really think they'll pose a threat?" At the sheriff's shamefaced look, Boothe said, with a lift of one eyebrow, "And if they should, do you have any doubts about my handling them?"

With a heavy sigh, Simons lowered his gaze. "Looks like you thought of everything."

Boothe leaned back in his chair and formed a temple with his fingers. "Wilbur, something is on your mind. Out with it, man."

The sheriff nervously scratched his mustache. "I've known the oldest girl since she came to fortune. I hate to think of her losing her home, especially with that blind child to look after."

Boothe eyed him over the tips of his fingers. "You feel sorry for her, do you? Even though her father nearly cost you your job? Well, Sheriff, here's a solution: marry her."

"Marry Cee Cee?" The sheriff looked stunned. His full face reddened and his hands clasped together, twisting and wringing, as though he was waging an inner war with himself. "But I'm twenty-seven years her senior."

"How long have you been a widower now? Five years?" Boothe gave him a knowing wink. "A mature man may be just what she needs."

Simons rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know. She probably wouldn't have me."

"You can offer her a home, security, a place for her sister -- things she'll be desperate for. Think about it, Wilbur. You could ease your conscience and get yourself a young bride to boot."

Boothe watched as the sheriff scratched his mustache and shook his head, contemplating the suggestion. Wilbur Simons was incompetent -- the whole town knew it -- but Cavanaugh had been the only one to try to do something about it, until Boothe stepped in.

Wilbur Simons made a perfect lackey -- a simple man with a simple mind, yet smart enough to know where his loyalties belonged. And they belonged to the man who had saved his job: Reginald Boothe.

After the sheriff had departed, Boothe swivelled his chair to look out the open window, where the smell of fresh fish wafted through on a spring breeze. From his second story office of the Fortune Farmer's

Bank, he had a clear view of the Ohio River. For a moment, he watched a barge move slowly past. Another barge was being loaded at the docks directly in front of him. From below he heard the jingle of horses'

harnesses and the shouts of men in dingy work clothes and sweat-stained caps unloading heavy crates from flatbed wagons.

Boothe turned his gaze down river, where he could see the rise that signaled the beginning of Cavanaugh land. Soon, he thought with a contented smile, his riverboats would be plying the Ohio from that land, his land, raking in those lucrative gambling dollars.

Thinking back to all the years he had fought with and plotted against Arthur Cavanaugh, Boothe began to chuckle. He would have the last laugh after all. "You can rot in hell, Arthur, and your brats with you. You may have had Marie, but I will have your land – one way or another."

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