Chapter 3

3

The cravat was choking him. Sullivan O'Brien yanked it from his neck and tossed it onto the bed of the spacious cabin he always reserved for himself on the texas deck of the Morning Star .

"Blast." He stared at himself in the gilded mirror mounted to the wall above the settee, which was bolted to the floor like all the furniture to prevent shifting during rough voyages.

The lantern was glowing brightly on the pedestal table beside the settee, illuminating his imposing figure—his broad shoulders, large torso, big hands, and towering legs. At six-feet-four inches, he'd always been too brawny.

His brown eyes peered back at him in his leathery face, tanned from hours, months, and years spent in the sunshine and on the river. The layer of scruff on his face and the overlong locks of his dark brown hair made him appear even more rugged.

He combed his fingers through his hair, pushing the strands off his forehead. Maybe he should have gotten a haircut and a shave to look his best for his wedding.

He tugged his high collar and tried to cover the splotch of puckered red on his neck. If only the spot wasn't so hard to conceal. At least the scars that stretched over his shoulder and down his back were easier to keep hidden.

Even without the burn marks that covered a third of his body, he'd never considered himself a particularly appealing man. He'd always struggled with feeling clumsy and awkward.

But since returning from the Mexican War half dead two years ago, he'd struggled even more with his inadequacies. He was the first to admit those insecurities had kept him from fulfilling his father's requirements to get married, until tonight. Until it was almost too late...

Of course, he'd never been without female attention, especially whenever he was at home in New Orleans. But that was because women knew he was the son of Commodore Callahan O'Brien, the wealthiest, most powerful steamboat magnate in Louisiana—maybe even in the entire United States. That status drew women to him like bees to pollen. And he could have chosen one of them to be his wife.

However, most of them were friends of the family. Or friends of friends. And that, therein, was the problem. He didn't want to marry a woman who knew what an oaf he was but was willing to marry him regardless because of his family's fortune.

He released a loud huff. What made him think that a woman in St. Louis would be any different? And what in the name of the holy mother was he thinking in trying to get married tonight?

He dropped onto the settee and bowed his head. Maybe he'd been a blathering idiot to have a conversation with the matchmaker tonight. He almost hadn't spoken to Bellamy McKenna, had almost left the pub without bringing up the need for help.

But somehow Bellamy had guessed why he'd been at Oscar's Pub. No doubt it was partly because he'd lingered longer than he usually did and partly the fact that on Shrove Tuesday he was one of the only single men in St. Louis who wasn't out celebrating his own marriage or that of a friend.

Whatever the case, Bellamy had questioned him about his need for a match. And the matchmaker hadn't even acted surprised upon the revelation that he had to be married by midnight on Shrove Tuesday. Instead, Bellamy had behaved as though men came into the pub every day and made such requests.

Of course, Bellamy had warned him that most eligible women were already matched by Shrove Tuesday. But he'd indicated that he'd do his best to find an unattached woman who was still wanting to get married.

What if there weren't any young women left? Especially one who met the qualifications on the short list he'd given Bellamy?

Sullivan hopped up from the settee and then paced to the other side of the room, to the curtained window that overlooked the promenade running the length of the starboard deck.

The silence and the stillness of the steamboat was always strange but peaceful after the noisy and crowded two-week trip up the Mississippi from New Orleans to St. Louis.

It wouldn't be peaceful for long. Tomorrow the steamboat staff would be busy loading cargo and guests for the return trip. Thankfully, the cholera epidemic that had ravaged New Orleans city since late last year had slowed down. He hadn't had to stop so many times on the voyage up to St. Louis to bury immigrants dying of the painful disease.

He peeled back the curtain and peered out at the dark levee. At the late hour, the normally bustling waterfront was deserted, except for a few loafers and wharf rats. Only the massive piles of cargo remained, unloaded from the dozens upon dozens of steamboats that docked in St. Louis—lumber from the Great Lakes regions, bales of hemp from Missouri, barrels of brined pork from Kentucky, and more from every region that intersected the great Mississippi highway.

Most of the mounds were covered in tarps to protect them from the damp February weather. But the majority of goods that arrived every day on steamboats were taken directly into the warehouses that lined the levee, where more crates and barrels filled with countless merchandise awaited transport in horse-drawn drays to various places within the city.

Sullivan breathed in a deep lungful of the chilly air and tried to calm his racing pulse. He could do this. All he had to do was show up at the church, take his vows, and then he'd be a married man. Once that was done, his father would finally be happy.

"You're a meddling old man," Sullivan whispered as a fresh wave of frustration swelled within him.

His father believed the reason Sullivan hadn't yet taken a bride was because he was gone on the river too often and was married to his work overseeing their fleet of steamboats. And the Commodore was partly right. Sullivan loved his work. He'd devoted years—aside from the one that he'd been gone to war—helping to build the New Orleans Steamboat Packet Company into what it was.

But the main reason Sullivan needed his life on the river was because there he could keep busy and not have to think about all the ways he was inadequate. Out on the river, no one cared what he looked like or that he came across as gruff. Instead, crew, passengers, and even other steamboat captains respected him for his skill and his strength and his ability to keep everyone safe.

He and his father had been arguing for months about the topic of marriage. Finally, back in January, his father had given him an ultimatum. He had to get married by Shrove Tuesday. If not, the Commodore planned to ground him in New Orleans until he chose a wife.

Sullivan had considered letting his father pull him off the fleet and try to get by for a few weeks without him. No doubt without his leadership and ability to keep the steamboats running smoothly, the Commodore would let him return to the river before too long.

At the same time, Sullivan didn't want to disappoint his father. Nearing thirty years of age, Sullivan understood that he wasn't getting any younger. In order to have a family of his own, he needed to start working toward that end sometime soon.

Yet the Commodore didn't understand that not everyone could have the same kind of happy marriage he'd found. Sullivan had begun to close the door on that kind of marriage the day Imogen had rejected him for not being attractive enough. The door had slammed shut after the war when he was burned and she realized he was a monster.

He supposed that's why an arranged marriage held so much appeal, especially to a woman he didn't know, someone who was plain and didn't take stock in her own appearance. Such a woman would be less likely to care about how he looked and more likely to enter the marriage for practical purposes.

He pulled out his pocket watch. He had thirty minutes until eleven, thirty minutes until he was scheduled to meet Bellamy and his new bride at the cathedral, thirty minutes until he was officially a married man.

He tugged the heavy curtain back into place, then turned to face the cabin, with its large bed occupying half the room. If Bellamy didn't find him a wife, this would likely be his last mission for an indefinite time.

He crossed to the cabin door and made sure it was securely locked. Then he knelt beside the plush rug that covered the floor between the bed and settee. He rolled it back to reveal a hatch in the floorboards. Lifting it only a few inches, he peered inside. There, in the dark closet between the decks, a young man of about fifteen sat with his back against the wall in tattered garments hardly worthy of being called clothing.

Sullivan wished he could offer the young man fresh garments. But if he started bringing strange clothing into his cabin, he'd raise questions he didn't want to answer, especially because no one else on any of his boats knew about his secret operation of transporting slaves to freedom. He'd purposefully kept it that way. Then, if he ever got caught, he'd be the only one to get in trouble and thrown in prison, and none of his crew would be at fault.

While he wasn't able to offer new garments to the runaway, Sullivan had provided for all the young man's other needs during the two-week trek. He'd kept the closet stocked with blankets for warmth and comfort. He'd made sure the lad always had plenty to eat and drink. And he'd even emptied the chamber pot into his every morning.

Now, the young man peered up at him, his gaze less frightened and belligerent than it had been during those first days of traveling. Instead, his expression was filled with curiosity, a little fear, and maybe even excitement. The end of the lad's journey was within sight. While slavery was legal in St. Louis and Missouri, the free state of Illinois was directly across from the St. Louis waterfront.

Tonight Sullivan's unknown contact among the Illinois abolitionists would row out under the cover of the blackest hour of night. He'd locate the glowing lantern in Sullivan's cabin window and know which steamboat to approach. At two o'clock, Sullivan would help the runaway climb over the deck down into the waiting rowboat. Then the nameless rescuer would slip away into the mist and row back across to Illinois.

Of course, runaways weren't automatically safe in Illinois either, not with the laws allowing owners to hunt down their runaway slaves even in free states. But Sullivan had heard that the abolitionists had formed what they were calling an underground railroad to help the slaves go even farther north, possibly even into Canada, where their former masters wouldn't be able to capture them.

"I'm leaving for a little bit." Sullivan kept his voice to a whisper, even though he was alone on the steamboat, save for a few of the crew and the pilot. He always erred on the side of caution. He couldn't do the slaves any good if he was incarcerated.

He also couldn't do them any good if he was stuck in New Orleans and unable to make the journey upriver. That was why, more than anything else, he'd gone to Oscar's Pub tonight and talked with Bellamy. He needed to get married, and not just to make his father happy. More importantly, he couldn't give up his mission to help as many slaves to freedom as he could. Even though transporting one each voyage didn't seem like much, over time, it had added up.

"I'll be back by two o'clock." Hopefully earlier. But he didn't know what exactly would be expected of him on his wedding night. "Stay here until I come for you."

The lad nodded. "Yessir."

Sullivan lowered the hatch, replaced the rug, then stood. He swiped up his cravat from the bed and wrestled it around his neck. He did a quick job of tying it before reaching for his flat-brimmed captain's hat from the end of the bed. He situated it over his hair, then tugged on the lapels of his coat before rubbing a sleeve over the double rows of large brass buttons that ran up his coat, polishing them as he went. He gave himself a final glance in the mirror, then took up the lantern.

Whether he wanted to or not, it was time for him to get married. And whether he wanted to or not, he had to hope Bellamy had found him a bride at the late notice.