A Dawn Most Wicked

Adams’s cabins (that actually had furniture). Of borrowing a lead line. And of eventually waving the Adams onward so she could cross the finish line first.

Oh, and of moving Cochran to the Adams as well. Fortunately he was unconscious and couldn’t put up a fight. He would make it to Natchez—but not if he had to stay behind on the slow-moving Queen.

Cassidy was white-faced, her mouth set in a grim line, as she helped carry him onto the Adams. I tried to speak to her . . . but she only snapped at me to get to the engine and “get the steamer moving again.”

I did as she ordered, and with a low heart and weary body, I made my way to the engine room. Where I found Kent Lang still at his post. The young man was soaked through with sweat, and several new slashes bled across his chest. Most impressive of all, though, was that he’d fallen asleep.

I shambled over and nudged him with my toe. Lang’s eyes snapped wide. He tensed, clearly expecting death. But then awareness sagged through him. “Thank God,” he breathed. “It’s you—and you’re still alive.”

“I’m still alive.” I sank to the floor beside him, sighing at the sheer pleasure of getting off my feet. Then I explained what had happened—and what we had to do now: get the Queen moving. Get her all the way to Natchez.

Lang huffed out a breath, but he didn’t argue. He simply attempted—somewhat pathetically—to drag himself to his feet. “I swear, Mr. Sheridan”—he gave a deep wince—“I never knew these muscles existed in my body. Now I not only know they’re there, I know that I hate them.”

“Consider it a life lesson, Mr. Lang.” I hauled myself up and extended my hand. “A chance to get to really know what goes on in your fleet.”

And at that Lang laughed. A full, rolling belly laugh that helped carry him upright. “You are absolutely correct, Mr. Sheridan.”

Before he could release my hand, though, I strengthened my grip and forced him to meet my gaze. “The Sadie Queen gets to stay on the Mississippi now. Right?”

His eyes flickered away from mine, and I could see the gears spinning in his head as he planned logistics and counted money. . . . But then he gave a slow nod. “If the ghosts are truly gone—”

“They are.”

“—then I see no reason to end the Queen’s career just yet.” He cast me a tired smile and pulled his hand free. “I’ll have to find a new captain, of course, but there are several in our fleet that will do.”

I stiffened. “New captain?”

“When I said Cochran would be fired as soon as we hit Natchez, I meant it.” Lang’s lips twisted down. “As the new president, I will not stand for behavior like his, and I have to make that clear from the start.”

“But he was just shot. A bullet got him right here.” I poked Lang in the shoulder with more force than I intended. The man winced, but that just fueled my words further. “That doesn’t matter to you, does it? You’re goin’ to fire him, and you don’t even care what the consequences are.”

Lang’s nostril’s flared. “I am sorry Cochran was injured, Mr. Sheridan, but if you wish to make me regret my decision, I suggest you stop. The captain lost support from the Lang Company long ago.”

“What about his sick daughter?” My voice roared out, louder and angrier than I wanted . . . but I couldn’t seem to keep it under control. We had all fought so hard, and for nothing. Ellis wouldn’t get treatment, and Cassidy’s heart would break. “You’ll punish her more than you’ll ever punish Cochran. But oh! What am I thinkin’?” I flung my arms wide. “You don’t care about your crew or your boats or anyone but yourself, Mr. Lang. You are just like every other rich man out there. All you care about is money and publicity—”

“That,” Lang snapped, shoving his face in mine, “is quite enough. You have no idea for what I do or do not care. I have plans for Cassidy Cochran—plans that will keep her sister comfortable. As soon as Miss Cochran told me about her sister, I wrote to England—to the Royal College of Surgeons. One of their doctors is the leading researcher for Hodgkin’s disease. With the right amount of . . . donations to his research, he has agreed to travel here and treat the younger Miss Cochran.”

My mouth bounced open. Royal College of Surgeons? England? Was Lang serious? “Why?” I asked, shaking my head. “Why would you do that? What’s in it for you?”

“Nothing is in it for me.” An offended scowl creased his forehead. “I happen to care for Miss Cassidy Cochran. If I am a lucky man, then one day she might harbor such feelings in return. And if not, then at least I know I helped a girl in need.”

He had feelings for Cass? Had I that heard that right? But when I gaped at his face, I saw only a stubborn slant to his jaw.

I jumped back like he was on fire. “Are you gonna marry her?” When his expression didn’t change, I reared back another step, gripping the sides of my face. “So you’re bribing her feelings by helping her sister—”

“No.” Lang’s voice was barely a whisper, but the twitch in his nostrils and the grinding of his teeth—I knew I had crossed a line. . . . And like a punch to the throat, I choked. He did care about her.

And goddammit, I didn’t know what to do with that. “Does she . . .” I gulped back nausea and dropped my hands. “Does she know how you feel?”

Lang’s chin lifted. “No. Not yet. A girl like her is on the Mississippi more often than she is not. Yet that does not mean she shouldn’t be courted properly. I would never buy her feelings, Mr. Sheridan. Never. And as for her father, I will pay for his medical treatment and provide him with a healthy pension. But I will not change my decision—no matter how I feel for his daughter.”

I stared at him, not sure what to say. My stomach wasn’t sitting right. It was moving into my chest . . . spinning into my throat. . . .

But Lang seemed to misunderstand my gawking. He gave a frustrated groan. “I am the president of a company, Mr. Sheridan. As much as I might wish for Miss Cochran’s affection, I must think of my employees first. Of their safety. Or . . . am I wrong to assume he gave you that bruise?” Lang motioned to my face—to my still- healing eye. “I may seem like a man who cares only for himself, but that could not be further from the truth. Now.” In an elegant arc he swooped down and snatched up the ax. “I believe we have an engine to fix, and if you have finished lecturing me about Captain Cochran, then I suggest we get started.”

Again, all I could manage was a stare. Because Lang was right, and I didn’t know how to handle that. I couldn’t go to Cassidy and beg her to pretend Lang wasn’t a better man. . . .

And that hurt the most—that made my stomach feel like lead. I couldn’t compete against Lang. He was an heir with education and poise; I was a pickpocket off the streets of Chicago. He was the president of a company; I was a fugitive with a bounty on my head. He intended to court Cassidy proper . . . and I had just taken her with no thought for what she wanted.

With a tight exhale I forced my head to rise, fall, and rise in an accepting nod. “You’re . . . right, Mr. Lang.” I swallowed and held out my hand. “We have an engine to fix, and I’m wastin’ time. Give me that ax.”

“I can manage—”

“You deserve a break,” I growled. “Plus, I feel like smashing the hell out of something.”

It took us another eight hours to navigate past Devil’s Isle and into Natchez. With most of the firemen gone it was hard to keep the furnaces burning. And hard for me to manage both engines by myself. Lang tried, but the man didn’t know a throttle from a gauge. And he sure didn’t know the command bells.

It was just as the sun reached the middle of the eastern horizon that the city landscape finally shifted from dismal black forest to a hill of bright green. Natchez’s enormous mansions and brick-front shops watched us from high atop its hill, and a brilliantly blue and cloudless sky floated overhead. The dirty wharf below was unusually packed with steamers as we approached. I could only assume they were visitors here to see the race.

The Queen had traveled two hundred and sixty-eight miles in twenty-two hours and fourteen minutes—a full four and a half hours behind the Adams. But the fanfare that met us suggested that no one cared. Spectators lined the hilltop city’s edge and the muddy wharf below, and their wild shouts and exultant music drifted out to the Queen the instant Natchez came in sight.

It was a complete contradiction to everything that had happened only a few hours before. It made me feel . . . heavy. At odds with the world.

Lang took his leave the instant we hit shore—he was over four hours late to his own presidential party. But