“Excuse me, while I check on her.” Faith hurries out of the room, and he watches her go. He cleans up the dinner mess and takes a cup of coffee in the living room. A chill fills the small room, and he notices that she's almost out of wood. He steps out back and finds an ample supply of wood. Loading up his arms, he returns and stacks it inside near the fireplace, then stoops to start a fire.
Faith nurses the baby and returns to find a fire crackling and him sipping on his coffee. Hope is almost three weeks old now. She's wide awake and staring up at her mother. Faith murmurs to Hope and settles a blanket on the couch, and places her on her side and turns to talk to him. Solomon stands in the last of the day's sunlight as it filters through the window and he looks to her like an angel.
“I don’t know what to make of you Solomon. What are you thinking when you look at us?” she dares to ask.
“I think I see my future, Faith.” He moves closer and lifts a red curl. “I look at the two of you, and I long for a family, and that has never happened until you.” Her eyes drop to his mouth, and she thinks things a new mother shouldn't possibly be thinking.
“Solomon, you can’t possibly find me attractive, it is just your protective nature…” she starts to say, but the look on his face stops her cold.
“I haven't stopped thinking about you since I met you, Faith. I think about you day and night, and I wonder if your body is starred with freckles.”
She gasps as his hand cups her neck, and he pulls her slowly towards him. His mouth descends on hers, and he takes what he has been dreaming of. He kisses her like a man starved for sustenance. A hard, demanding kiss that lets her know precisely how badly he wants her. When his tongue sweeps into her mouth, Faith forgets all her doubts and meets his demands which a seductive moan of pleasure. His strong arms lift her up as his mouth takes hers, over, and, over again. They are both panting and out of breath when he slides her to the floor and steps away.
“I know that you need time to mourn your husband, and I have a job to do that will take me away. All I ask is that once you are settled, that you allow me to court you?” Solomon waits for her answer and smiles when she whispers her answer.
“I would like that, Solomon.” Her eyes are huge, and a smile curves her swollen lips. “But Solomon, you mustn't kiss me anymore. It is dangerous.” Her trembling hand touches her lips, and his eyes flash with desire.
“I plan on kissing you often, Faith. You taste like heaven.” He takes a step towards her, and her eyes widen.
He smiles and bends to pick up Hope, who has started to fuss. “Easy, little one. I haven’t forgotten you.” He puts her on his shoulder and pats only to laugh when she burps.
“I think I need to sit down.” Faith watches him, and her laughter joins his.
Chapter 24
The waterfront work is dirty, heavy, work, but the pay is excellent for those who are willing to keep their mouths shut. Jeb loads cargo on and off the ships and steamers which come and go. He missed four nights of work from drinking and recovering, which cost him. His supervisor wasn’t so understanding when he finally showed up.
“You interested in extra work, Jeb? I have a high paying job Friday night, unloading a steamer.” His supervisor asks from behind him.
“What’s the cargo?” Jeb snorts out.
“What difference does it make? You either want the work or not! I've got others who are willing to earn a double rate, and they don't ask questions.”
“Yeah, well, I ain’t doing nothing illegal!” he snarls and turns away to drop the crate he is carrying.
“Now hold on, no one said anything about illegal. Just dangerous. That’s why the pay is so good.”
Jeb turns with a gleam of interest in his eyes. “How dangerous?”
His lips purse in disapproval, and he looks around before answering. “Nitroglycerin, a couple crates coming in. We unload it onto a wagon and deliver it to the Wells Bank.”
“Count me in,” Jeb says, grabbing another crate.
“Good. Friday, 10 p.m. I’ll need you to be on time. If you’re late, you don’t work.” He stomps off.
An hour later, Jeb walks into the Pier 9 bar and orders a bottle of whiskey.
“A bottle?” the bartender asks with a raised eyebrow. “Pay up first,” he demands.
Jeb tosses cash on the bar and snatches the bottle before heading to the corner. Pier 9 isn’t your typical saloon. The dock workers are a tough lot from many nationalities. The owner turned the warehouse into a bar after discovering that everyone in this area shared one common trait, desperation. Those that end up here have lost hope, are missing their families, and wondering what the hell they’ve gotten themselves into.
Tables are set up on the brick floor with a huge rectangular bar made out of old crates sitting in the center of the warehouse. On top of the crates sits a metal bar which has been nailed into wooden tops with their rusty heads sticking out at odd angles. Bar stools in various states of disrepair line the bar. A scantily dressed woman in a sweat-stained bustier sings on stage while a piano plays. A fog of cheap tobacco smoke floats through the room mixing with the smell of fish and sweat.
For those seeking privacy, corner booths are
