the man’s harsh words and the solid
impact that had quickly followed. Shortest fight he’d ever been in,
Gabe thought, somewhat abashed.
He was fortunate he hadn’t been killed, he realized, before deciding
that the same fickle luck had caused him to encounter one man among
hundreds who’d be hell-bent on hurting him. But where was Deming
now? For that matter, where was he?
As his vision cleared, a solid shelf of wood appeared about two and
a half feet above him. Gingerly, he turned his head until he could take
in the narrow confines of the small room he found himself in— the two
doors of the stateroom, the lamp above the table. Apparently, he was lying
in a lower berth. Across from him, a young woman sat in the room’s
lone chair, her fingers absently fluffing the fur near a tiny kitten’s ear.
A woman? He groaned, frustrated in his attempts to comprehend
all that had happened. Only then did he realize she was the same
woman he’d seen on the wharf boat earlier.
“What . . . ?” he began, scarcely guessing which question was
attempting to emerge from his confusion. “How . . . ? How did I
get here?”
She frowned, as if his appearance were an unpleasant surprise to
her. “My own foolishness, I’m afraid. Do you remember what that
horrible, wild man did?”
“Something to my head, if I’m thinking straight.”
She nodded, and the lamplight gleamed off her black hair, now
uncovered. A few wavy strands had escaped a bun to frame her face.
“You’re lucky that you can think after that crack on the skull. Good
thing you Yankees are so intractably hardheaded.”
“That explains the way I feel, but it still doesn’t tell me why I’m
here.” He attempted a smile despite a swirl of nausea. “I’m not complaining, mind you. I figured I’d end up in a box instead.”
“Or as bait for catfish. That man meant to throw you overboard!”
Her voice rose on a tide of indignation. “And if I hadn’t come along,
those others would have let him. I’d thought you Yankees always
stuck together.”
“I hear a Michigan judge gave him two choices: join the army or
serve time. You Rebels saved us housing on that Deming fellow,
throwing him in prison.”
“But surely someone should have stood up for you against that
criminal, someone besides me.”
Of course, no one else had helped him. Gabriel closed his eyes tightly
and wondered if he’d ever live down a simple act of—what?
Kindness? Cowardice? Even after six months, he still felt uncertain of
the answer.
When he looked at her again, her name rippled across his mind. Eve
Alexander, she had said in that Southern accent he’d come to hate so
much. Her words sounded silken, the same way those dark tendrils
that framed her face looked.
“So why did you, Miss Alexander? What was one less Yankee
to you?”
“It seemed a shame to drop the only half-decent Northerner I’ve
met headfirst into the Mississippi.”
“How’d I get in here, alone with you?”
The black-and-white kitten curled into a fluffy ball on Eve’s lap.
She lifted her chin defiantly, as if she’d detected censure in his
words. “I was not about to waste my grand gesture by letting those
ruffians toss you in the river the moment my back was turned, so I
shamed two of them into bringing you in here. However, if you’re concerned about the propriety of such an action, I’m certain we can call
Mr. Deming back.”
He laughed, though his throbbing skull made him instantly regret
it. “You misunderstand me. I’m very grateful, but I’m also confused.
I’ve never had a lady save my life before, especially not a Southern
one. I’m not too clear on the etiquette.”
She tried to pinion him with an indignant glare, but the amusement in her hazel eyes dashed it all to pieces. “I believe I read an
essay on the very subject in Miss Edith Willington’s new book, The
Right Way to Live.”
“Was it tucked between the chapters on ‘Maintaining One’s
Complexion’ and ‘Evil Thoughts Toward
impact that had quickly followed. Shortest fight he’d ever been in,
Gabe thought, somewhat abashed.
He was fortunate he hadn’t been killed, he realized, before deciding
that the same fickle luck had caused him to encounter one man among
hundreds who’d be hell-bent on hurting him. But where was Deming
now? For that matter, where was he?
As his vision cleared, a solid shelf of wood appeared about two and
a half feet above him. Gingerly, he turned his head until he could take
in the narrow confines of the small room he found himself in— the two
doors of the stateroom, the lamp above the table. Apparently, he was lying
in a lower berth. Across from him, a young woman sat in the room’s
lone chair, her fingers absently fluffing the fur near a tiny kitten’s ear.
A woman? He groaned, frustrated in his attempts to comprehend
all that had happened. Only then did he realize she was the same
woman he’d seen on the wharf boat earlier.
“What . . . ?” he began, scarcely guessing which question was
attempting to emerge from his confusion. “How . . . ? How did I
get here?”
She frowned, as if his appearance were an unpleasant surprise to
her. “My own foolishness, I’m afraid. Do you remember what that
horrible, wild man did?”
“Something to my head, if I’m thinking straight.”
She nodded, and the lamplight gleamed off her black hair, now
uncovered. A few wavy strands had escaped a bun to frame her face.
“You’re lucky that you can think after that crack on the skull. Good
thing you Yankees are so intractably hardheaded.”
“That explains the way I feel, but it still doesn’t tell me why I’m
here.” He attempted a smile despite a swirl of nausea. “I’m not complaining, mind you. I figured I’d end up in a box instead.”
“Or as bait for catfish. That man meant to throw you overboard!”
Her voice rose on a tide of indignation. “And if I hadn’t come along,
those others would have let him. I’d thought you Yankees always
stuck together.”
“I hear a Michigan judge gave him two choices: join the army or
serve time. You Rebels saved us housing on that Deming fellow,
throwing him in prison.”
“But surely someone should have stood up for you against that
criminal, someone besides me.”
Of course, no one else had helped him. Gabriel closed his eyes tightly
and wondered if he’d ever live down a simple act of—what?
Kindness? Cowardice? Even after six months, he still felt uncertain of
the answer.
When he looked at her again, her name rippled across his mind. Eve
Alexander, she had said in that Southern accent he’d come to hate so
much. Her words sounded silken, the same way those dark tendrils
that framed her face looked.
“So why did you, Miss Alexander? What was one less Yankee
to you?”
“It seemed a shame to drop the only half-decent Northerner I’ve
met headfirst into the Mississippi.”
“How’d I get in here, alone with you?”
The black-and-white kitten curled into a fluffy ball on Eve’s lap.
She lifted her chin defiantly, as if she’d detected censure in his
words. “I was not about to waste my grand gesture by letting those
ruffians toss you in the river the moment my back was turned, so I
shamed two of them into bringing you in here. However, if you’re concerned about the propriety of such an action, I’m certain we can call
Mr. Deming back.”
He laughed, though his throbbing skull made him instantly regret
it. “You misunderstand me. I’m very grateful, but I’m also confused.
I’ve never had a lady save my life before, especially not a Southern
one. I’m not too clear on the etiquette.”
She tried to pinion him with an indignant glare, but the amusement in her hazel eyes dashed it all to pieces. “I believe I read an
essay on the very subject in Miss Edith Willington’s new book, The
Right Way to Live.”
“Was it tucked between the chapters on ‘Maintaining One’s
Complexion’ and ‘Evil Thoughts Toward
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