“Don’t go nowhere,” I say, dropping our haul at her feet. “I’ll be right back.”
She don’t look, just folds her arms. I got no time for pouting. This was her idea anyhow, and I’m the one keeping us alive. Had she not come down half-naked, maybe the bastard wouldn’t of thought he’d be getting lucky.
I run back up, grabbing luggage, dumping stones out on the floor. Patting Byron’s pockets, I find a pocket watch, a chewed pencil, and a few coins. I take them and head back down. Alice stands in the street looking hollow, arms crossed, treasure at her feet. Ain’t no one around ’cept gulls and a roaming cat.
I split the haul between two bags, cinch them tight.
“Come on,” I call.
She don’t answer. Just follows, broke inside.
Seems she liked a taste of danger, a rough word, a hand on a pistol. But blood’s too ugly. Too real. Naive little thing. Don’t know nothing ’bout honor—the only thing worth a damn toan outlaw. She don’t see how that boy crossed every line ’cept spitting in my face. Out here, the weak don’t last. A man who don’t demand respect won’t never know peace, won’t never hold nothing safe, ’less he’s willing to die for it.
“Look alive, Alice,” I say, quickening pace toward the wharf, half a mile south. Dawn paints the sky. In the faint light, the gangplank shows, crew working at the landing.
We pass a shed with a placard:
MORGAN LINE — GALVESTON, SABINE, AND INTERMEDIATE PORTS
Texas.
At the gangway, a purser waits with a ledger open. “Name for the book?”
“Byron,” I say. “William Byron, and my wife, Mary.”
“Saloon or bunk? Bunk’s cheaper. Meals with saloon only.”
“Saloon,” I say, counting my coins. “Private.” I pull a double eagle and lay it down.
The purser bites it. My jaw tightens. “I look like a cheat to you?”
He glances at the dented rim. “Company policy,” he says, tearing a ticket, scrawling the dead man’s name, handing me the stub. “Steward’ll show you. Mind the step.”
I pocket the ticket and step aboard.
Chapter 26
ALICE
The steamer line’s “first class” is no bigger than a closet, a berth chained to the wall made up in white sheets, with iron bars along the side to keep a body from rolling out.
The sun rises as we depart, a fire burning over land that follows though the shore shrinks away. It will be two days to Galveston, and while I am relieved to put miles between me and the site of my worst sin yet—revenge, robbery, a life taken—the distance has not unencumbered my soul. My stomach sours, though I cannot say if it is the gulf waters or the weight of my sin.
I have never ridden a steamship before, nor any ship at all. A farm girl from Ohio, I have scarcely seen a lake, much less the boundless blue stretching in every direction off the deck’s edge. My only escape from Kodiak is to idle along the first-class promenade, and after finding our room, I do just that.
A gong sounds, announcing breakfast. The saloon fills with the smell of coffee, bacon, and biscuits. Long tables draped in white cloth stand ready, chairs fixed to the floor and upholstered in damask brocade of red and gold. I am admiring the fabric when a firm grip seizes my arm.
“You ain’t dinin’ alone, and you damn sure ain’t dinin’ with nobody else.”
Kodiak pulls me to a pair of seats at the far end of a table. I stand behind my chair, clutching its carved back like a cat clinging to the mouth of a well. His glare holds none of the warmth it once had.
“Sit,” he growls.
With a sigh, I turn the chair on its swivel and sink into it, folding my hands on the table, refusing to acknowledge his presence. Perhaps I will let my plate go untouched from here to Galveston. Perhaps I will never eat again.
An older couple lingers nearby. With the room filling, they claim the remaining seats, the woman beside Kodiak and the gentleman beside me.
A steward arrives with a tray, setting cups before us, pouring steaming coffee into china. Another follows with baskets of biscuits and plates of bacon, ham and eggs, laying them out with haste. The smell turns my stomach, though my mouth waters all the same.
