Chapter 11

11

Sullivan stood on the texas deck at the ornate white railing beside Enya as the steamboat prepared to leave the St. Louis waterfront.

Huddled beneath her black velvet cloak, she shivered in the cold gray of the early morning.

He was tempted to wrap his arm around her and lend her some of his warmth, but he didn't want to upset the fragile peace that had settled between them since the first night he'd slept on the floor in her room.

He'd bedded there for a total of three nights in a row. And he would have stayed longer, but at dinner last night, she'd learned that her mother and the rest of her siblings were returning to the city, and later she'd privately asked him if they could depart for New Orleans.

She hadn't spoken of her reason for wanting to go. But the urgency in her tone and in her expression had told him all he'd needed to know—she didn't want to face her mother. Was it because her mother would condemn her for the pregnancy? For the hasty marriage? Or for both?

He'd granted her request without a moment of hesitation. Not that he hadn't enjoyed his time in St. Louis. He'd kept busy over the past few days in meetings with investors as well as working out more details with James and Kiernan for future railroad plans.

He'd also taken Enya to visit two other homes, but in the end, she'd liked the first one they'd visited the best. So he'd purchased it for her and had accompanied her to the initial meeting with the decorator, not because he cared how she designed the home, but so she would know he wanted her to have her way with anything her heart desired.

In the evenings during dinners with her family, she seemed to participate more in the discussion. And each night when he came to her room, she talked more with him too, particularly about their home and all the plans she was making. Her beautiful face came to life as she spoke animatedly about her dreams for the house, and he loved sitting in the chair by the stove while she sat under the covers on the bed and shared about it all.

He couldn't deny the difficulty in bedding down on the floor with her only a dozen feet away in bed ... in her nightgown ... and with her hair falling around her in tousled abandon. The first night had been torturous, especially after rejecting her offer to join her in the bed. All he'd been able to think about was sliding in next to her and holding her.

But he'd resisted his urges and forced himself to walk away, snuffing out the lantern before shedding his garments so she wouldn't have to see how hideous his scars really were.

He'd needed to prove to her and to himself that he'd meant what he said—that he'd rather be celibate and have friendship than have passion and no relationship.

"Can you see our house from here?" She peered over the St. Louis skyline.

Our house . He loved that she was referring to the home as theirs.

He analyzed the various buildings and structures beyond the levee, mostly row town houses, a few colonial-structured homes from the city's early days, and even the flounder homes with their high front facades and roofs that slanted down to the lower back wall.

Among the hundreds of buildings, he couldn't pinpoint the fine home he'd just purchased. "I don't see it."

"Maybe I'll have to hang a flag from the roof or paint something special in one of the upstairs windows so that every time we return to St. Louis, we can spot it easily."

"I like that idea." He shifted closer to the rail to make room for a porter hurrying past carrying two valises as an older woman trailed behind. From what Sullivan could tell, the steamboat crew were all going about their business as they should and didn't need his supervision.

Although he'd come aboard the steamboat before dawn to make sure everything was in order for the upcoming voyage, he'd decided to ride as a passenger this time rather than assume the role as captain. The Belle already had one of the best captains of their fleet and didn't need his leadership.

Besides, he didn't want to be so busy with captain duties that he had little time left to spend with Enya. The captain work was demanding and required overseeing nearly every aspect of the boat and the crew. And the truth was, he wanted the time to get to know Enya and continue to show her that he was different from the cad she'd been married to before.

"I admit." She shivered again. "I've never been to New Orleans. What is it like?"

He slipped out of his greatcoat and draped it over her shoulders. "It's warmer there. You won't need a coat."

She hesitated a moment, as though she intended to thrust the coat back toward him, but then she drew it tighter. "Thank you, Sullivan." Her tone held tension—a tension that was always present but grew tighter whenever he did something nice for her.

She was obviously attempting to remain polite, but he sensed her mistrust of his motivations.

"Maybe I should have packed my summer gowns."

"If you need new gowns, we'll call upon my mother's seamstress to make some for you."

"Ach, that won't be necessary. I'm sure I'll be able to get by."

At the pumping of the Belle 's steam whistle, one long blast that signaled a moored vessel was departing, Sullivan swept his gaze over the entire boat in a final check. The landing stage was pulled up, the deckhands were below with the cargo, the pilot was at the wheel in the pilothouse, and the engineer was overseeing the running of the steam engines.

As the vessel started moving, the motion threw Enya off-balance, and she grabbed on to his arm before she quickly released him, taking hold of the railing instead. He wanted to tuck her hand into the crook of his arm as he had from time to time over the past few days. But he'd already pushed her into accepting his coat, and he had to keep moving slowly and being patient with her.

Three more short blasts echoed in the air, this time indicating that the steamboat was backing into the river. Not all steamboats had adopted steam whistles as a mode of communication. Many of the smaller vessels still relied upon shouting and hand-rung bells, which, in his opinion, weren't loud enough. He hoped eventually all the steamboats would be required to use a central form of communication to make river navigation safer. But at least his fleet had the whistles.

Enya clutched her hat to keep it from blowing off and swayed again.

This time he gave her no choice. He placed a hand against her back to protect her.

He stared straight ahead, careful to keep his expression neutral. He didn't want her to know just how much the slight touch affected him, because it always did. The merest brush against her made his insides flip just like the paddle wheel, turning over and over, with just how attracted he was to her.

As he stared out at the levee with the dockworkers and stevedores and others that stood on the shore watching the Belle pulling away, he suspected that every one of their gazes was trained upon Enya. Even though her womanly figure was concealed beneath her cloak and now his coat, there was no hiding her lovely face and radiant hair.

In fact, every time he'd taken her out in public over the past few days, she'd drawn admiring glances, so much so that he'd had a difficult time resisting placing his arm around her or touching her arm to warn off men and let them know she was his.

Of course, they were probably wondering what a man like him was doing with such an incredible woman. And he still wondered that at times too. How had he ended up married to her? Why had God intervened in his life to bring him together with Enya?

He certainly hadn't deserved a woman so beautiful, and all he could think was that he was meant to help her heal.

"What will your family say when you show up with a wife?" As usual, she didn't notice the admiration directed her way. Instead, she'd shifted to take in his expression and gauge his reaction to her question.

"They'll be thrilled I'm finally married." That was likely an understatement, at least when it came to his father.

Sullivan had sent a letter with the Morning Star earlier in the week. He'd instructed the captain to make sure the Commodore received the note soon after docking. That way his father would learn of his marriage to Enya Shanahan and the deals he'd brokered as part of the nuptial arrangements.

His father would be surprised at the news, especially after their last parting when he'd made it clear he'd lost faith in Sullivan's ability to find a woman. Sullivan didn't blame his father for doubting him. He never would have been able to get married if not for the matchmaker's insight and ability to push him into it.

Bellamy McKenna was truly gifted at bringing people together.

Now Sullivan wanted to show his father that not only had he gotten married, but his wife was the most beautiful woman to ever walk the face of the earth. He relished the prospect of watching his father's expression when he introduced Enya. His father was expressive and emotional—different from Sullivan in just about every way. Sullivan had no doubt his father would gush over Enya and make his usual brash comments.

Enya was still watching him. "Will they find it odd that you married a woman from St. Louis rather than someone from among your family's social circles?"

"My father stipulated that I needed to get married by Shrove Tuesday, but he gave me no other requirements."

She grew silent and returned her attention to the growing distance between the steamboat and the waterfront and the murky water churning into a foam in their wake.

As another smaller packet began to depart from the levee, it seemed to be moving directly backward toward the Belle .

Sullivan narrowed his eyes on the stern-wheeler with its bright red paddle wheel as well as the stripe of red paint along the hurricane deck. He didn't need to see the name painted on the side to know it was the Ida May . A Memphis Packet Company boat. The one that Captain Fitch often commanded.

The vessel was sliding through the river rapidly. And the pilot didn't appear to be paying attention to the Belle directly in its path.

Sullivan grabbed on to the rail in front of him, a sudden urgent pressure forming in his chest—a pressure he'd never felt before, even though he'd been in plenty of dangerous, even life-threatening situations on the river.

At a shout of alarm from a deckhand below, as well as calls from the clerk and possibly the mate above near the pilothouse, Sullivan knew the danger had been spotted. In the next instant, the pilot was attempting to maneuver the Belle out of the way of the coming disaster.

The Belle 's whistle echoed in the quiet of the morning, a drawn-out screaming blast of warning.

But the Ida May didn't slow down.

The shouts of more crew filled the air, the commands to fire the engines and force the Belle to move faster to avert the danger barreling their way. No doubt the pilot was communicating with the engineer via the hollow speaking tube that ran down to the boiler deck. And the clanging of the bells below meant the pilot had also pulled on the bell ropes to signal the need to add more fuel.

But Sullivan had captained and even piloted enough of the superstructures to know that steering them was difficult, and heating the engines and gaining speed took time. Unless the Ida May veered course, they wouldn't be able to get out of the way quickly enough to avert disaster.

Another blast of the Belle 's whistle charged the air, longer and shriller than before.

All around, the passengers at the railings were beginning to murmur their concern. Even Enya stiffened and sidled closer to him.

A dozen scenarios raced through Sullivan's mind. Should he climb up the railing to the pilothouse and take over the steering? Or should he climb down and head to the boiler rooms? Climbing the steamboat's railing was faster than taking the steps, and he could do it effortlessly enough.

But even if he attempted to gain control of the situation above or below, he'd be too late to help. Should he start getting passengers to safety, if that were even possible? From the angle that the Ida May was heading toward them, she'd crash into the port side near the center of the boat. They'd be lucky if the collision didn't cause a boiler explosion that would send the whole boat up in flames and kill anyone nearby.

The better alternative would be that the Belle 's guard and hull cracked and began to take on water. A slow sink would hopefully allow for most passengers to be picked up by nearby boats. Even then, the Mississippi was running high from melting snow and recent rain. And the temperature was frigid. If anyone ended up in the river, they'd risk freezing to death.

Enya's eyes were widening with every foot closer the Ida May came. "Is that steamboat planning to stop?"

Sullivan didn't know how to answer. All he knew was that he had to keep her—and everyone else—safe. Somehow. He tugged her away from the railing and shouted out, "Everyone move away from the center of the boat. Go to the stern!"

On the promenade right below theirs, he could hear the crew echo his command.

Any other time, he would have stayed at the center and made sure passengers were moving out of danger. He wouldn't have cared he was putting his own life in jeopardy as a result. But this time, he didn't wait. An urgency drove him to protect Enya. His wife. He had to get her far away from the crash site.

Pulling her against his side, he draped his arm around her in an attempt to shield her body, intending to take the brunt of the hit if necessary. As he hurried her toward the stern and away from the dangerous engines, he kept one eye on the Ida May still on a collision course.

What was the pilot thinking?

Sullivan knew the fellow Captain Fitch normally put at the wheel, and he was a decent pilot who would never make the huge mistake of running into another steamboat right off the St. Louis levee.

Screams and shouts filled the air, followed by another blast of the Belle 's whistle, one that implored the Ida May to stop, to switch directions, to do anything but continue straight ahead.

With the impact only seconds away, Sullivan dragged Enya fully against him, wrapping her up as tightly as he could, hoping his body would shield her and the baby from whatever damage would erupt.

But just as he braced for the hit, the Ida May veered rapidly, using the Belle 's wake to turn south. The smaller steamboat was close enough that the landing stage—if lowered—could span the distance.

A swell of relief pulsed through him with such force, he couldn't keep from sagging against Enya, who remained in his embrace, for once not resisting his proximity. Clearly she understood that he'd been trying to shelter her from the danger.

He glared up at the Ida May 's pilothouse. The pilot needed to be fired. Immediately.

But instead of the usual pilot, the familiar face of Captain Fitch peered back at him. With scraggly whiskers and slick hair along with a thin, pointed nose, Fitch had always reminded Sullivan of a river otter.

Captain Finch tipped his flatcap at Sullivan before rotating his wheel and steering the Ida May farther away from the Belle .

Sullivan's gut churned faster. Had Captain Fitch purposefully driven the Ida May close to the Belle ?

If the captain had witnessed Sullivan embarking on the Belle earlier, maybe he was trying to scare him, especially if he'd heard about the marriage and partnership with the Shanahan family. The news might have stirred up more animosity.

Sullivan released a short, taut breath and held back a slew of curses he wanted to spew at the captain.

What did the fellow think he'd accomplish with this stunt? He wouldn't get them to change their business practices, not when they weren't doing anything wrong.

If only Sullivan could report Captain Fitch to the authorities for nearly running into them. But Sullivan had no proof the fellow did it purposefully. Accidents happened all the time, and no one would be able to tell the difference, especially since there hadn't been any damage or injuries.

Enya was peering past him to the Ida May chugging downriver past them. "That was too close."

It had been too close. Had he made a mistake in bringing her aboard?

He'd been on hundreds of journeys up and down the Mississippi through all kinds of weather and conditions. And he'd never once lost a vessel. He had a remarkable record, one most captains envied, mainly because he was so experienced and savvy on the water.

But today, he'd almost brought disaster to a ship. Worst of all, he'd almost brought it to Enya.

As though she finally recognized that he was still cradling her tightly in his arms, she pushed away from him. He didn't want to let go, wanted to hang on and keep holding her for the rest of the day. But as her muscles strained in her efforts to free herself, he loosened his grip.

She stepped back and didn't meet his gaze, almost as if she was embarrassed that she'd clung to him.

He wanted to tell her she could cling to him anytime, and he'd never tire of it. But he turned away from her and surveyed the rest of the passengers and crew, hoping to hide the desire that was emerging all too easily whenever he was with her.

She was the most beautiful woman in the dining saloon. Not only was she stunning in her fashionable evening gown, but she was vivacious and animated and talkative with the other guests at their table.

Sitting next to her, Sullivan felt like the oaf he was—big, bumbling, and boring.

He couldn't carry on conversations with anyone, usually couldn't think of anything to say beyond one- or two-word answers that came out sounding abrupt. He didn't laugh whenever everyone else did because he rarely found anything funny. And he never had witty retorts.

He was the complete opposite of Enya. That had become increasingly clear during the evening meal in a way he hadn't noticed during the few days together in St. Louis when she'd been at home with her family and had been reserved.

Here, in the grand saloon, amidst the other guests, she'd come to life like a flower that had been wilting and was now starting to revive. It was almost as if getting away from her family and the ghosts that had haunted her in St. Louis had brought her new vitality.

Even throughout the day, he'd noticed her blossoming as he'd given her a tour of the steamboat, taking her to every deck, even showing her the engines and how they were powered by steam. He introduced her to all the crew, including the pilot, and let her take a turn holding on to the enormous wheel that directed the boat.

There had still been times when she withdrew, grew quiet, and seemed to get lost in her past. She'd wanted to rest for most of the afternoon. And she'd been silent on their walk to the saloon.

But now that he'd glimpsed her true temperament—what she would be like again once she had the chance to heal from her broken heart—he was afraid he'd made a mistake in agreeing to their union.

He laid his linen napkin over his empty plate, then reached for his glass of port. He should have insisted that Bellamy stick with what he'd asked for in a wife—someone plain and simple and quiet. Because eventually Enya would tire of how plain and simple and quiet he was. And then she'd regret marrying him.

She was laughing at something one of the other gentlemen was saying. The glow of the chandelier positioned over the table seemed to highlight her stunning hair, flushed cheeks, and sparkling green eyes.

"Enya Shanahan?" A woman passing by their table halted behind Enya's chair.

Enya shifted to take in the guest, her smile faltering.

"I thought that was you." The middle-aged woman stood beside another passenger who appeared to be her sister, at least from the similarities in their fleshy faces and large eyes.

"Mrs. Townsend." Enya's smile disappeared altogether, and wariness filled her expression.

"I do admit, I'm surprised to see you here." The woman—Mrs. Townsend—glanced around the table at the other finely dressed guests. "I heard you'd run away with a young man and that your dear father located you and brought you home."

Enya's face turned pale, and her lips stalled around a response as if she didn't quite know what to say.

Even though the music from the piano and chatter from other diners wafted around them, the guests at their table had grown silent and were watching Enya with interest.

Indignation ignited in Sullivan's gut. He didn't know Mrs. Townsend. But he'd encountered many people like her over the years, people who tried to elevate themselves by lowering the esteem of others. He wouldn't let anyone do that to Enya. Not tonight. Not for the rest of the voyage. Not ever.

He stood and pulled himself to his fullest height. "I'm Captain Sullivan O'Brien, and I'm Enya's husband." He didn't care that his voice was solemn and stern or that he probably frightened the women.

Enya started to stand, and he quickly took her elbow and assisted her to her feet.

Mrs. Townsend's hand fluttered to her chest, and her eyes rounded even more. "I didn't know. I wasn't aware—"

"My wife, Mrs. O'Brien, is well taken care of." Sullivan leveled a glare at Mrs. Townsend and her traveling companion. "You'd do well to abstain from spreading needless gossip."

"Of course." Mrs. Townsend had the grace to flush. "I beg your pardon. I assure you I had no idea."

Enya's eyes practically begged him to take her away from the room and the people staring at her.

Without another word, he steered her through the maze of tables. A steward quickly gathered Enya's wrap and brought it to them. When they stepped outside into the darkness of the evening, Enya finally sagged. It was almost as if she was wilting again.

"I'm tired." Her voice was low and wobbly. "I think I'd like to retire for the evening."

He nodded, wishing he knew what to say to make her feel better, to ease the sting of what had just happened. But as usual, he couldn't find any words. Instead, he situated her hand in the crook of his arm and guided her toward their stateroom.

"I don't think I'll eat in the saloon anymore," she said as they approached the room. "I'll take my meals privately."

"I'll arrange it."

She paused at the door and expelled a tired sigh. "Thank you."

Maybe he couldn't speak eloquently and wasn't entertaining, but he could take care of her and make sure she had whatever she wanted. He just hoped that would be enough for her—that he would be enough.