He goes still, his expression dark and distant. “My old man, he weren’t just a drunk. He was cruel. Used to tell me I’d killed her, my ma. Said I come into this world cursin’ it. And I believed him. Every damn word.”
My hand reaches for his, but he does not return the grasp.
“When I was thirteen,” he continues, flat and unflinching, “he put a pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”
My throat tightens. I can scarcely breathe.
“His people wrote after. Said they’d take me in.” He snorts with disgust. “Sit me at their table, feed me on pity while they whispered I was bad blood. I weren’t about to bow my head for that. I’d sooner starve on my own terms.”
“What did you do?” I ask softly.
“Walked away. Left it all behind.”
The silence between is broken only by the creaks and groans of the ship.
I lay my palm against his chest, feel his heart thundering beneath. “You did not deserve such a burden,” I whisper.
He lets out a mirthless laugh. “Deserve got nothin’ to do with it.”
I watch him in the dim light, struck by the contradiction: a man who can sit polished before strangers, all manners and bearing, yet carry such darkness inside. The mask is not counterfeit but inherited, a legacy of gentility calloused into armor.
“There’s somethin’ I gotta tell you,” he says, his serious expression making my pulse hitch.
“What is it?”
“I seen a Pinkerton in the saloon. Pretty sure he saw me too.”
“A Pinkerton?” My breath catches. Dear God.
His voice goes cold. “I’ll handle it.”
I know what that means: violence, blood, an end I cannot stop. My mind whirls. We are on a ship. There’s nowhere to run. If that man goes straight to the captain, or to the purser, a single word from him and every officer will be set on us. They can lock cabins, hold us at port, send a telegraph ahead. In hours—less if he hurries—men in authority will be waiting at the dock.
No one knows us by name. Not our real names. To all aboard, I am Mrs. Byron. But perhaps…
If all of his crimes are known, then it’s possible the Pinkerton believes me a hostage. An unfortunate woman found in thecompany of an outlaw. That is the tale he might accept readily. A frightened lady, begging for rescue, will lower some cautions and might draw the Pinkerton into letting his guard down. Might he tell a victim where he lodges? Where he intends to make his next inquiries? Or at least show himself moving toward the captain’s office?
“Kodiak,” I say. “If he’s seen you and does not yet speak to the captain, we must keep him from having the chance. He can put men to watch every exit before dawn. He can send word ashore. We cannot let him do that.”
“I know. I said I’ll handle it.”
“How?”
He snorts. “I was thinkin’ on it when I got back, but then you went and scrambled up my brain. I ain’t exactly worked it all out yet.”
“What if I speak to him?”
“And what, beg?”
“No,” I say. “Well…in a sense, maybe. As far as the authorities are concerned, I’ve been kidnapped.”
He nods, his eyes narrowing.
“What if I approached him, asked to speak in private. Perhaps he’d lead me to his cabin, or some other private place where you could follow undetected.”
For a moment he only studies me, pensive. “Lamb, you know damn well when I say I’ll handle it, I don’t mean askin’ nice.”
A pit opens in my belly. “I know.”
