Winter Kill

“Well, we’re on our way, Frank,” she said.

“Yeah, I know. I was just watching the shoreline fall behind us.”

She lifted a bottle that had been partially concealed behind the folds of her dress. “I thought we might have a drink to commemorate our departure and the start of our new venture.”

“It’s your venture, not mine,” Frank pointed out. “I’m just a hired hand.”

“I was hoping that wouldn’t be the case. I could use a partner, Frank. I was considering making that offer to Mr. Trench, once I got to know him better, but since he’s gone…I’m making it to you.”

“Me? In the mail-order bride business?” Frank managed not to laugh at such a loco notion. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea. I don’t have much of a head for business.”

That was why he had firms of high-priced lawyers in San Francisco and Denver looking out for his interests, he thought…but he didn’t say that to Fiona.

“Don’t worry about that,” she said. “I’d handle all the business end of the operation. What I need is a man to make the details run smoothly, and I must say, I’ve been very impressed with the way you’ve handled everything. I’m sure that if we run into trouble, you’ll handle that, too.”

“That’s what I figure, but you don’t need a partner for things like that, Fiona. You just need somebody to work for you, like Jacob was going to. Like I am.”

“A man does a better job if he has a personal stake in something,” Fiona said as she moved closer to him and shut the cabin door behind her. “That’s why I thought we could have a drink and talk about extending your involvement.”

He was slow as molasses sometimes, Frank thought as he suddenly realized why she had really come to his cabin. He said, “I’m still not sure that would be a good idea…”

She was right in front of him now, only inches away. She laid her free hand on his chest and murmured in that intriguingly hoarse voice of hers, “I think it would be an excellent idea.”

Frank was as human as the next hombre, and Fiona Devereaux was a beautiful woman with what appeared to be an excellent bottle of whiskey in her hand. He slid his left arm around her waist and pulled her closer.

“Sailors have a saying,” she said as she tipped her head back to look up into his eyes. “Somewhere in the world, the sun is over the yardarm.”

“I reckon I’ll drink to that,” Frank said. “Later.”

Chapter 9

Despite the rough seas, the Montclair handled the waves easily that first day. Frank went up on deck when the rain stopped that afternoon and saw that Captain Hoffman had ordered the crew to raise the sails. They were full and billowing as the ship tacked back and forth, running before the wind. The engines still chugged along, but they didn’t have to work as hard with the sails raised.

Frank quickly discovered that being on deck where he could see the horizon rising and falling with each wave made his stomach feel worse. He was about to turn around and go below when Captain Hoffman hailed him from the bridge.

“Mr. Morgan! How are you doing?”

Frank raised a hand in a gesture that was more casual than he felt. “All right, I reckon,” he replied. “I’m just not that fond of the water.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Hoffman called down reassuringly. “We’ll make an old salt out of you!”

Frank doubted that. He didn’t figure he’d be on board long enough to get too accustomed to the sea’s motion.

He was on his way back down to the belowdecks corridor when he encountered Fiona coming up. She wore a grim look on her face, and Frank thought he knew why. He heard sounds of retching coming from behind many of the closed cabin doors.

“Nearly all of the girls are sick as dogs,” Fiona said. “I don’t know what to do. I was on my way to ask the captain.”

“I don’t think there’s anything that can be done,” Frank said. “You’ll just have to let them get over it.”

“What if they don’t?”

Frank shrugged. “Some will. The ones who don’t will just have to be sick all the way to Alaska. It won’t kill them…although they’re liable to wish they could go ahead and die before it’s over.”

“Did you know it would be like this?”

“I figured as much,” Frank admitted. “But I knew there was no way around it. Shoot, I don’t feel too good myself.”

Fiona pressed a hand to her stomach. “Neither do I. In fact…oh, my God, Frank…”

“There’s a bucket in your cabin,” he told her, “or you can hurry on topside and maybe make it to the railing.”

“Ohhh…let’s try that.”

Frank took hold of her arm, hustled her up onto the deck, and over to the railing. They reached it in time, and he looked away discreetly while she was sick. When she was finished, she straightened and pushed back several strands of dark hair that had fallen over her washed-out face. Frank patted her lightly on the back, for whatever good that did.

“I’m not sure it’s worth it,” Fiona muttered.