Chapter 30

30

She hadn't been able to play any music all evening.

With a sigh, Enya lowered her head to the keyboard, letting the discordant notes fill the parlor since they already filled her heart.

No matter how much she'd tried to distract herself with various songs and even her latest composition, her mind always wandered back to Sullivan, to his sweet gesture with the flowers and the meal.

As much as she liked them, she knew deep inside she wanted something else even more. She wanted him. Aye, she wanted to hold him, talk with him, and spend every day with him.

But how could she show him that?

As the final strains of music faded to silence, another distant clang took its place.

She sat up and strained to listen. The fire bells near the river were ringing. And that meant only one thing.

Another steamboat was on fire.

Her heart gave an unsteady lurch. Of course fires hap pened along the levee because of the steamboats. In fact, she'd heard the fire bells on the waterfront only a couple of weeks ago. The steamboat had been set adrift and burned down to the hull. But no lives had been lost.

Even so, Sullivan was there tonight. What if the fire was near one of his steamers?

She pushed up from her stool. The window in the nursery. She'd be able to see something from the window. She had during the last fire.

With her footsteps thumping hard, she hurried out of the parlor, up the stairs, and into the nursery. As she crossed to the window, she breathed in rapidly through her mouth to push down a swell of nausea. She hadn't experienced nausea in weeks. But tonight, with Sullivan possibly in danger, her stomach was rolling.

Sweeping aside the draperies, she peered out toward the waterfront. At the sight of the leaping red blazes lighting up the sky, she sucked in another breath. But in the next instant, she bent over and wretched, only managing to grasp the closest basin just in time.

As she heaved for a few more seconds, Mrs. Christy's gentle touch upon her back let her know she wasn't alone.

As Enya straightened, she grabbed on to the older woman. "I need to get down to the waterfront now."

Mrs. Christy's gaze darted out the window too. She'd likely already heard the fire bells, and now her eyes widened at the conflagration in the distance. "I think Captain O'Brien would want you to stay here where you're safe."

"But I need to go see him—"

"It's after ten o'clock. And you'd just be in the way, dear."

Enya started back toward the stairway. "Please tell Mr. Dunlop to be ready as soon as possible."

"Mrs. O'Brien, the captain won't be happy with me if I let you go." Mrs. Christy rarely contradicted her, but this time her voice held distress.

Near the top of the stairs in the dimly lit hallway, Enya paused and clutched the older woman's hands. "I love him."

"Of course you do." Mrs. Christy squeezed back, her face wreathed with worry.

"I really, really love him." Each word drove the certainty of her love for Sullivan deeper. Somewhere and at some point, she'd fallen in love with him. She'd waited long enough to see him—weeks, days, hours. And now her love was relentlessly urging her to go be with him. She couldn't delay another moment.

Mrs. Christy studied her face, then released a sigh. "You promise you won't get too close to the fire?"

"I promise."

With each step down the stairway and through the hallway, Enya's heart thudded with painful need. As she reached the coat-tree and began to tug on her cloak, she could hear Mrs. Christy calling out the back door across to the carriage house where the coachman lived in the second-floor apartment.

A moment later, Alannah hurried down the stairs in a robe, her hair plaited in a long braid, likely already having been abed.

Enya didn't owe either of her servants an explanation, but over the past weeks they'd become more like family than hired help. "I have to see him tonight."

"Of course you do." Alannah lifted Enya's bonnet from a hook and settled it on her head.

"I should have gone earlier. Should have told him I loved him then."

"You'll tell him now, that you will."

Enya's fingers were trembling, and she fumbled with the velvet tie of her cloak. "What if I'm too late?"

"You'll be hurrying there, and we'll be praying you find him straightaway, that we will." Alannah finished tying the bonnet and then nudged Enya's hand out of the way before working on the cloak. "Even though I haven't met him, 'tis obvious he adores you."

"I hope you're right." He still cared about her, enough to send the meal and the flowers. But that didn't mean he could so easily forgive her for how she'd hurt him.

Within minutes, she was in the carriage and hurtling toward the waterfront at top speed. The closer they drew, the more people they had to dodge, until at last they turned onto the levee and slowed to a crawl. Enya peered out the window, glimpsing the waterfront and the steamboats and the dark sky reflecting the blaze.

So far, from what she could tell, the fire was mostly contained to just a few steamers on the north end of the levee.

She released a tight breath. Maybe she was worrying for nothing. And maybe Mrs. Christy had been right, that she should have stayed home away from the busyness and the danger.

The Morning Star seemed to be the steamer Sullivan commanded the most often, and in the glow of the firelight, she searched for the familiar luxurious vessel with its high side wheel and the name painted in fancy gold lettering.

She impatiently skimmed her gaze over the boats as the carriage drew closer. And then, in the light of the steamer that was blazing the highest, she caught sight of the word Star . It took only another moment to comprehend what she was seeing—the Morning Star was one boat away from the fire, and already the flames had spread to the steamer next to it as well as engulfing a portion of Sullivan's steamer.

"Mary, Joseph, and Jesus have mercy." Her whispered plea slipped out even as her chest constricted with fear.

If the Morning Star was ablaze, then no doubt Sullivan was on board doing everything he could to douse the flames. He was right in the middle of the disaster and the danger.

And what about the runaway slave? Sullivan wouldn't have had time yet to help the slave leave the closet and get to freedom, would he? Was the slave in danger too?

The carriage rolled to a stop near a grouping of barrels whose staves were marked with bold print: Bacon and Lard .

She was far enough back from the waterfront to remain safe from the fire, along with any sparks and embers, and she needed to stay in the carriage, just as Mrs. Christy had instructed. But her heart had ceased to beat, and it wouldn't resume functioning again until she had the chance to see for herself that Sullivan was safe.

Tossing aside caution, she threw open the carriage door, stepped down onto the causeway, and called to Mr. Dunlop, "I'll be back in a moment."

She didn't wait for his response, guessing he'd been tasked by Mrs. Christy to make sure she stayed well away from the danger. Although Enya was sorry she had to break the promise she'd made to Mrs. Christy, she wasn't sorry enough to hold back.

Sure enough the coachman called out, "Mrs. O'Brien, please stop! You need to remain with the carriage."

She only lengthened her pace, skirting past the piles of goods and making a direct line to the Morning Star .

"Mrs. O'Brien!" Mr. Dunlop's voice turned frantic. "Come back!"

Her feet picked up the pace as if they had a will of their own, and all she could do was bunch up her skirt and let fear and passion drive her toward the man she loved.

Billows of smoke rose into the night sky above the flaming steamboats, and the wind was pushing it over the levee now as well. The pungent scent filled her nostrils and stung her eyes.

At least a dozen firemen—if not more—were working at trying to douse the flames, having carried a hose aboard the steamboat between Sullivan's and the one engulfed in fire. They were spraying what appeared to be gallons of water onto the first steamboat, and though they seemed to have made some progress on the bow, the stern was blazing fiercely.

A gust picked up the flames, cinders, and sparks and sent them flying up into the air and onto the pilothouse of the middle steamer where the firemen had taken position.

Meanwhile, the Morning Star continued to burn, the flames slithering up the rails now and creeping toward the texas deck.

She pushed her way through the melee of onlookers and those trying to offer assistance. Why wasn't anyone boarding the Morning Star to help? If no one else would, then she'd assist Sullivan. Someone had to.

She pushed forward until at last she neared the water's edge. Stopping short, she had to pull back abruptly. The landing stage had been raised. Or maybe it was gone altogether. In the darkness she couldn't tell.

But the firelight provided enough illumination for her to search for Sullivan. She scanned the decks and the flames spreading much too quickly. In just the short time she'd been here, the fire had spread to at least double of what it had been.

There, among the flames on the hurricane deck, Sullivan was slapping what appeared to be a wet blanket against a wall of flames already flickering against the stairs. But he was only one man against an enormous hungry beast. How would he be able to stop it?

Should he get off now before he was hurt or before it was too late? Yet he wouldn't abandon the runaway, at least not willingly. The only way he would leave the steamer was if he had the runaway with him. But how could he do so without anyone being the wiser?

She glanced around the levee again. Another fire company was charging toward the fires, dragging their engine behind them. She guessed by the time they hooked up their hose to a fireplug and positioned themselves, it would be too late for the Morning Star .

Sullivan continued to beat against the flames, desperation in every strong blow.

"Sullivan!" Maybe he would be able to instruct her on how to help.

Among the clanging of bells and shouts of men, her call seemed to get lost.

"Sullivan!" She called his name louder, but still he didn't hear her, didn't turn.

A timid hand touched her arm, startling her.

She jerked back to find her coachman in his fine suit and top hat, standing beside her wringing his gloved hands. "Please, Mrs. O'Brien, come back to the carriage."

"Help me call to my husband. I must get his attention." She faced Sullivan and then shouted his name again.

After a moment, Mr. Dunlop joined her. Together their voices wafted over the river to the steamer.

Somehow, their calling penetrated through the noise. Sullivan halted and spun, scanning the shoreline.

Her heart jumping into her throat, she waved an arm. "Here! I'm here!"

He approached the railing of the hurricane deck, the light of the blazing flames behind him shining on him and revealing his face streaked with both sweat and soot, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. He'd either lost or discarded his hat, coat, and cravat. His white shirt beneath his vest was singed and blackened in places.

But he'd never looked better.

"Enya?" His eyes widened, and his voice held both surprise and dismay. "What are you doing here?"

She cupped her hands around the sides of her mouth, hoping to project her voice. "Tell me what I can be doing to help you!"

He glanced first to the steamer next to his and the firemen now attempting to extinguish the flames that were spreading. Then he shifted his gaze to the vessel opposite of his that hadn't yet been touched by the fire.

His expression remained grim.

She had no doubt he was frustrated about the loss of the Morning Star . At one point during their voyage, he'd explained to her just how costly every steamboat was, and the Morning Star had been even more so because of her size and all the luxuries she offered.

But she also knew Sullivan was trying to figure out how to save the life of the runaway more than he was wanting to save his steamer.

As he turned his attention to the shore, his jaw hardened. "Help me cut the moorings!"

She scanned the ropes that ran from the main deck to the riverbank. If she severed the lines, the Morning Star would float away from the riverbank, be caught in the swift current, and hopefully take the flames away from all the other boats nearby.

In doing so, Sullivan's steamer would burn up and sink. Most likely it would take him and the slave down with it. Even if he managed to jump overboard before being burned alive, the current was dangerous to navigate for even the best of swimmers.

She wanted to shout at him no, that she refused cut the moorings, that she would do anything but that.

"It's the only way!" he shouted.

Something in his tone told her what he couldn't say aloud, that even though it was risky, it might save the runaway from being discovered ... and might keep him from being caught for helping the runaway.

Already, he was hopping over the rail and down to a lower deck, his agility and ease showcasing his experience. He reached the main deck within seconds and raced toward the stern, toward the mooring rope.

It was clear he intended to cut the Morning Star free whether she helped or not. She didn't want to, but the sooner the boat moved out into the middle of the river, the more time he'd have to try to escape the burning vessel before he and the runaway were consumed by the flames.

With a burst of determination, she turned to her coachman. "We need to find knives and cut the moorings." Even as she moved to begin asking fellows standing nearby, her gaze snagged upon a large man with a long black mustache wearing a stiff black coat buttoned all the way up.

She froze.

Roan Whistler stood only a dozen feet away, his expression as stoic as the last time she'd seen him on board the Morning Star the day he'd searched for runaways.

What was he doing here on the levee at this hour? Was he hoping to catch Sullivan and the slave trying to make an escape from the burning ship?

Of course he was.

He wanted the Morning Star to incinerate here near the shore so that he could prove to the world that Sullivan O'Brien was helping to free slaves. In doing so, he'd put Sullivan in prison and return the runaway to slavery.

He started toward her, his mouth set in a firm line.

Did he intend to stop her from intervening? Perhaps even restrain her?

She backed away from him and then darted toward the newest group of firemen who were rushing around with their hose.

"Help! Over here!" she called to them. "We need to cut the Morning Star loose from her moorings!"

Several stopped to watch her.

Behind her, Roan Whistler's footsteps crunched against the levee.

She picked up her pace, knowing she couldn't let him get ahold of her, and he wouldn't dare touch her if she was near the firemen. "The captain of the Morning Star wants us to set her free so she can drift away from the other steamers and prevent the fire from spreading!"

As the men took her in, she could see the frank appreciation in their eyes.

"Aye, miss!" one of the younger men said, already unsheathing his knife.

Several others followed suit and jogged toward the Morning Star . She kept on their heels, praying Roan Whistler wouldn't try to stop the firemen from their heroic act of trying to save the rest of the steamers lined up on the levee.

She huddled close to them as they sawed at the ropes, and the next time she glanced around, Whistler wasn't in sight.

She guessed he hadn't gone too far, that he'd be watching the Morning Star until it sank.

As the firemen cut the moorings and the Morning Star began to float away from the levee, the flames flickered onto the texas deck. Sullivan was climbing back up, and now the firemen were calling for him to jump, to save himself before the inferno took him down with the boat.

But Sullivan didn't stop climbing until he reached the pilothouse. He disappeared inside the small glass-enclosed room. Was he planning to try to steer the steamer to keep the burning inferno from inadvertently floating in the wrong direction and causing more havoc?

Whatever the case, the Morning Star was soon moving farther into the middle of the river and at the same time was floating downstream. Enya stood with the firemen silently watching, even as she inwardly screamed and prayed and ranted.

As the flames shot up and lapped at the pilothouse, she held her breath and waited for Sullivan to come out and make an effort to enter the captain's cabin to free the runaway.

With the ticking of the seconds, and no sight of him, her muscles tensed.

The fire was spreading with each gust of the wind, leaping and twirling and setting fire to every inch of the boat. Within only minutes the entire vessel was engulfed. And still there was no sign of Sullivan.

The weakened beams began to crack, and pieces fell into the river. A moment later, a whole side broke free and disappeared under water.

The fireman beside her made the sign of the cross, clearly counting Sullivan a casualty. Then he spoke to her gently as he sheathed his knife. "You shouldn't be down here, miss. This is no place for a pretty lady like yourself."

Another flaming section of the Morning Star toppled and crashed into the water. Even if Sullivan made it off, how could he get away with the debris burning all around? What if he was on fire like he had been during the battle that had given him his scars?

At the thought of the horror and suffering he might even now be experiencing, she couldn't hold back a small cry. Her body swayed.

In the next instant, the young fireman was bracing her up, and Mr. Dunlop was directing him toward the carriage still parked near the barrels of bacon and lard.

As they reached the carriage and the fireman helped her inside, she couldn't take her eyes off the Morning Star completely ablaze.

When the carriage began to roll forward, she craned her neck to watch the burning boat until she could no longer see it. Even then, the image stayed in her mind. It was seared there forever.