I pace the small room, cold hands rubbing one another raw. Where has Kodiak gone?
Perhaps he’s only a step away, only a breath beyond the door, but the thought gnaws at me: what if he is farther? What if he has decided I am too much trouble, too much risk? What if he lets them find me?
I listen against the door, straining. Footsteps, chatter. Ordinary shipboard sounds. Nothing of alarm, no shouts of murder. That should ease me. It does not.
He would have taken Kodiak. Better my soul be damned than leave him to the rope. And yet, what of me? What will they do if they discover me? Send me back to Ohio. Back to the Shermans. Back to that inn that was my prison long before Kodiak was carried through its door.
In Ohio, I would no longer be just an innkeeper’s wife. I would be a scandal. They’d look at me with those judging glares, weighing whether to call me whore or conspirator.
Perhaps they’d be right. Perhaps I am both.
But I would rather swing from a gallows beside Kodiak than rot in their parlor, paraded as their wounded bird until the pity turned to scorn.
The ship creaks. Somewhere far down the hall, a child laughs, and the sound is so bright, so alive, it stabs through me. Life is carrying on, as if I did not stain it with evil.
I clean the basin twice, though no blood lingers. Scrub at the floorboards until my knees ache, though they were never marked. The knife I wrap in my shawl, binding it tight as though I could smother its memory.
My gown folded, his coat laid atop, boots polished. I stack it all by the door as if there is no question, no possibility but one: we will leave this ship together when it docks. Step onto Galveston’s soil as man and wife.
The lock clicks.
Kodiak slips inside with a sigh. “There’s another one.”
“Another—”
“Pinkerton. Looked to be waitin’. We got a few hours to port, then when that Pennington don’t show up, they’ll be investigatin’.”
This is it. The end of the road.
Kodiak sinks onto the edge of the bunk, staring at the floorboards like he might burn a hole through them. “We’ll lay low. Soon as they drop the gangplank, we blend into the first-class crowd best we can. Lord knows rich folk don’t take kindly to bein’ held up, ’specially if they think they’re bein’ accused of a crime. Steward won’t risk stoppin’ a lady in silk. All we need’s a little luck, a steady walk, and for you to hold your chin up like you was born in a pile a’gold. You do that, and we’ll step on Galveston soil with pockets full and a whole new life waitin’.”
I try to believe him. To let his certainty soak into me. Though hope is brittle, I nod anyway. Because what else is there? We will walk off this ship together—or not at all.
The air changes before the harbor comes into view. It’s charged now, like static, clouds above threatening a downpour as first-class folk make ready to disembark. Kodiak and I wait in the cabin until the last possible minute.
When he finally nods, we gather the bags. They’re heavier than sin. My arms ache before we even reach the passage.
“Head high,” he instructs. “Don’t you falter.”
The staircase down to the main deck feels endless. A tide of silks and fine hats presses around us, and I try to mimic their ease, their polish, but sweat trickles down my back.
Then I see him. The Pinkerton by the gangplank. Bowler hat, brown coat, eyes sharp as he watches each passenger descend, his thumb brushing the silver watch in his vest pocket. Waiting.
Waiting for us.
The crowd slows, clusters. A steward murmurs apologies as he checks tickets, his voice thin against the swell of passengers. The Pinkerton scans every face, lips set in a grim line.
Kodiak’s hand brushes mine—barely a touch, but enough to ground me. His whisper is hot at my ear. “Easy, lamb.”
My heart thunders as we inch forward. Every step a lifetime.
Ahead, the Pinkerton leans toward a gentleman, asks a quiet question, then lets him pass.
We’re three paces away. Two. The gangplank is there, sunlight glaring off the water, freedom close enough to taste.
The Pinkerton’s eyes cut to mine. Hold. Narrow. He steps forward, blocking the way.
“Ma’am. Sir.” His voice is polite, but firm enough to freeze me where I stand. “If you’ll pardon me, your baggage, please.”
