Twice Loved (copy2) by Lavyrle Spencer Page B

thousand dollars, no small amount of money by any man’s standards. But the money could not buy Laura back. It was obvious she had a good life with Dan; he provided well for both her and the boy. Rye swallowed, peering through the dark to where the tip of his house must be, remembering his and Laura’s bed in the new private linter room.
    Damn! He takes her in my very own bed while I sleep in my boyhood bunk and eat bachelor’s rations.
    But not for long, Rye Dalton vowed. Not for long!
     
     
     

Chapter 3
     
    THE FOLLOWING DAY, FOG  had again settled over Nantucket. Its dank tendrils sniffed at Rye Dalton’s boot tops like a keen-nosed hound, then silently retreated to let him pass untouched. As he strode toward Joseph Starbuck’s countinghouse, the thick mist shifted and curled about his head while beneath his boots it turned the dull gray cobbles jet black and left them sheeny with moisture. On the iron bowl of the horse-watering fountain beads gathered, then ran in rivulets before dropping with irregular  blips,  each magnified into a queer resounding musical note by the enshrouding fog. Almost as an afterbeat came the click of Ship’s toenails as she followed her master.
    But in spite of the damp, gray day, Rye Dalton reveled in the unaccustomed luxury of being dry and clean after five years of being splattered by ceaseless waves and wearing oily, salt-caked “slops.”
    He was dressed in a bulky sweater Laura had knit for him years ago, its thick turtleneck hugging high against his jaw, nearly touching the side-whiskers that swept down to meet it. Those whiskers closely matched the color and texture of the tweedy wool, while down his sleeves twisted a cable knit that seemed to delineate the powerful curvature of the corded muscles it followed. His black wool bell-bottom trousers were waistless, rigged out with twin lacings just inside each hip, creating a stomach flap inside which his hands were pressed for warmth as he crossed the cobbles with long, masculine strides that parted the fog and sent it roiling behind him.
    The salmon-colored bricks of the countinghouse appeared specterlike, a hazy backdrop for the dazzling white paint of its door, window casings, and signpost that stood out even under the leaden skies. When Rye’s hand touched the latch, Ship dropped to her haunches, taking up her post with tongue lolling and eyes riveted on the door.
    Inside, the fires had been lit to ward off the spring chill, and the place swarmed with activity, as it always did after a whaleship came in. Rye exchanged greetings with countless acquaintances while he was directed to the office of Joseph Starbuck, a jovial mutton-chopped man who hurried forward with hand extended the moment Rye appeared at his doorway.
    Starbuck’s grip was as firm as that of the cooper. “Dalton!” he exclaimed. “You’ve done me proud this voyage. Chocked off and bringing a dollar fifteen a gallon! I couldn’t be happier!”
    “Aye, greasy luck for sure,” Rye replied, in the idiom of the day.
    Starbuck quirked an eyebrow. “And are they makin’ a landlubber of y’ or will y’ sail on the next voyage with the  Omega?”
    Rye raised his palms. “Nay, no more whaling for this fool. One voyage was enough for me. I’ll be content t’ make barrels with the old man for the rest of m’ life, but right here on shore.”
    “Can’t say I blame y’, Dalton, though your lay is a healthy one. Are y’ sure I can’t tempt y’ to try ’er one more time—say for a one-fifteenth share?” Starbuck kept a shrewd eye on Rye’s face while he moved again to the enormous roll-top desk that dominated the room.
    “Nay, not even for a one-fifteenth. This voyage has cost me enough.”
    A frown settled over Starbuck’s features, and he hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets as he studied the younger man. “Aye, and I’m sorry for that, Dalton. Hell of a mix-up for a man to come home to—hell of a mix-up.” He scowled at the floor