Verity and the Villain Read online

  “That there token can buy you one of the finest wenches in the country,” Curly grinned.

  “They don’t just let any Joe into their club,” de la Mar said. “How’d you get that, Curly? Don’t tell me it was on account of your beauty.”

  “Or your smell,” Wallace said, smirking.

  “Ah, the smell of money,” Captain Kane, said, laying down his cards, the kings staring up at him. He beamed as his companions threw down their hands with oaths and curses.

  “What exactly do you get with that token?” Verity asked the men in her practiced baritone voice.

  Captain Kane smiled. “I just won me a trip to Lucky Island.”

  Verity fidgeted. “And Lucky Island is--”

  “One of the finest brothels in the country,” the captain finished for her.

  “And that token gains you entrance for a night?” This was the longest conversation she’d had since leaving New York and it made her nervous. Any moment she expected her voice to crack, and yet she had to ask.

  “A whole night?” de la Mar scoffed and Curly, who’d been taking a swig of ale, snorted.

  Warmth flushed Verity’s cheeks, and she looked out the window again. She caught sight of a broad-shouldered man pushing up the gangplank. He had blond hair tied back in a short queue. He walked with athletic grace, but something about the way he moved said he didn’t want to get on the boat. It was almost as if he was fighting an invisible string that tried to keep him on land.

  “Can you imagine having a key to Lucky Island?” de la Mar asked.

  “I demand a rematch,” Curly said, watching his prize token slip away.

  Verity turned her back on the man climbing the gangplank and asked, “This Lucky Island, is it here in California?”

  “Naw, the finest wenches are in Seattle,” Captain Kane said, smiling and pushing away from the table. He flipped the coin into the air and caught it mid-air. “Gentlemen, I believe it’s time to set sail.”

  #

  Trent stood on the deck of the ship, his stomach matching the ocean’s churning. A light spray fell over him, but he didn’t flinch. He tried to focus on the emerging moon and the stars’ shifting light and not the dark, rolling tide pitching both the ship and the contents of his stomach. Gazing out over the hills where the mountains met the purpling sky, he could imagine Mugs, Sysonby and the other horses cresting the mountains before making camp. Transporting a team of horses single-handedly wouldn’t be easy, but it would be worthwhile. Mugs would first break and then train Sysonby, and no matter how often Trent rode or fed him, Sysonby would always belong to Mugs. Despite the paperwork.

  Paperwork, documentation. It said so much and did so little. He felt the weight of the ranch settle across his shoulders. He told himself it’d soon be his, but he was beginning to suspect that even if his gram deeded him the ranch, as she’d promised, as long as she had spurs on her boots, it would always be hers. And his. They both loved it, but sometimes, no, most of the time, they wanted to run it differently.

  The moon, a slip of silver, peeked through a haze of clouds. A star emerged. The ship rose on a swell and fell. Trent tightened his fingers around the rail, cursing his gram and his weak stomach. Maybe if he just didn’t eat he could make it to Seattle with the majority of his insides intact. Sailing turned him inside out.

  A mean wind blew the clouds shrouding the moon and a beam of light landed on a lone figure near the bow. She fought the wind for her hat, and her hair, a tangle of dark honey, swirled around her head. The hat, once pinched between her fingers, caught another gust, set sail and skittered across the deck.

  The woman managed to capture her hair into a twist, and she looked over the deck in his direction. Her eyes widened when she saw him, and she backed up against the rail.

  Trent bent and retrieved the hat nestled against his boot. He held it out to her, and she stood, like a wild colt being offered an apple, unsure of whether to bolt or indulge. His eyes swept over her and he noticed for the first time her breeches. At the ranch, his gram and sister often wore pants, but he knew it wasn’t typical female attire. The hat, Trent realized, completed the woman’s disguise. She probably didn’t realize her breeches did little to hide her curves. He couldn’t tell in the moonlight, but he guessed she’d bound her breasts. Without taking her eyes off his face, she twisted her hair into a knot at the top of her head. She’d travel in disguise, but wouldn’t sacrifice her hair for her ruse. Devious, yet vain.

  He held the hat out to her, chuckling, his seasickness forgotten. Would she hold character? Pretend that most young men had hair that fell to their waist when loose?

  She walked toward him and he noted she moved with grace and poise despite the rollicking waves. He gripped the rail with one hand and held the hat with the other.

  “I thank ye, sir,” she said in a deep modulated tone that she’d probably spent weeks perfecting. How long had she been at the masquerade and why? Was he the only one who knew? “You’re welcome, lad.” He emphasized the last word.

  She moved for the hat, but he held it tight. “Hold on. What’s your name?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “No need to be nervous, I’m just making conversation. Where you from?”

  “Seattle.”

  His grinned deepened despite the rolling and tossing waves. Seattle was still a small town with an even smaller population of women. Although the city was rapidly growing, he felt confident he would have recognized her. “So, this is a homebound trip for you.”

  She stuck out her tell-tale clean-shaven chin. “Yes, sir.”

  “I suppose I’ll be seeing you, then, in town, perhaps at the Lone Stag.”

  Her face was as blank as a seasoned poker player. He could tell she wanted to ask why anyone would meet at a lonely deer. “It’s a tavern,” he whispered moving closer, inhaling her warm scent. “When lying, it’s always best to stay as near the truth as possible.”

  The ship rocked with a strong wave, the girl grabbed her hat and said in a soft soprano voice, “I wouldn’t know.”

  Ocean spray hit him in the face and when he finished blinking, she had gone. He looked across the deck; all was still and dark. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and moved away from the rail. The slick deck made any movement precarious. Walking took nearly all his concentration, but then he saw a flash of movement in the moonlight. He hurried after her, as best he could.

  #

  Verity tripped down the stairs leading to her berth, her heart thrashing and her breath ragged. She’d been on the ship for weeks and no one had guessed or suspected her disguise. Or so she supposed. She blamed the hair. She should have cut it. He never would have guessed if she’d cut her hair. Momentarily bracing herself against the wall as a wave tilted the ship, she considered her options. She’d have to stay in her room and have food delivered by the revolting little man, whom, she was quite sure, pilfered off her tray. Her stomach clenched when she thought of all the lovely produce that had been loaded onto the ship in Los Angeles. Oranges, grapes, and cucumbers. She glanced over her shoulder, looking for the man from the deck, but saw no one, just a long corridor lit by flickering lamps. Perhaps he would keep her secret.

  No. She couldn’t trust him or anyone. Steele had taught her well.

  The ship tossed on a wave and the lights wavered. In the hall, all of the berths were closed and only a few had candlelight peeking beneath the doors. When a man spoke in her ear, she jumped.

  “Mr. Steele,” a voice drawled. “Why I do believe you’ve lost a hundred pounds since we last met.”

  Verity’s heart stopped. Had she fooled no one? Had she’d only hoodwinked herself? She whirled to see the man named Wallace from the card-table standing in a doorway. He had his shirt undone revealing his ripped chest muscles.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said in her best baritone.

  “Mr. Steele, I’m offended. We’ve shared countless business ventures.” He held the door to his room open, exposing a berth
with gray tumbled sheets. “Presently, I think we have something to…discuss, payment for my discretion?”

  Verity stepped backward. “I think not.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Although the original humble pies of medieval days contained mostly entrails, it later evolved to a dish of sugary fruit.

  From the Recipes of Verity Faye

  He should be easy to break, Trent thought when he came across Wallace and the girl wrestling in the hall. He took note of the man’s pit-bull build pinned against the girl’s wiry strength. She placed her small fist in Wallace’s diaphragm and the big man woofed in surprise. Trent knew she should go with her nails. Men of his sort typically made their living off their beauty and would go to extreme lengths to guard their faces.

  After a moment of watching the girl’s unflagging pluck despite her unlikely odds, he spoke in Wallace’s ear, “Let her go.”

  Grinning, Wallace turned in his direction and stood taller, like a rooster ruffling his feathers to increase his size. He held the girl pinned against his chest. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and across her cheeks and her feet dangled four inches off the floor. “Why, this here is Mr. Steele, my business associate, and we’ve got matters that need attention.”

  “Your attentions are most unwelcome, sir,” the girl said, dropping her baritone and trying to wiggle from the man’s embrace. Her boots kicked and occasionally made contact with Wallace’s shins, but the man didn’t seem to mind.

  Wallace swung her into the berth, but before he could close the door, Trent slammed his boot into the man’s back.

  “Pardon me,” Trent said. “Dem waves, you know.”

  Wallace toppled into the doorway, and the girl spun free. She ducked beneath Trent’s arm. Behind him, he heard her footsteps fleeing up the stairs. Now that the girl had escaped, Trent rather hoped Wallace would believe his words and not his fighting stance. But when the man rose with a curse, Trent knew his story wouldn’t fly. So, it’d have to be his fists.

  Wallace’s arm shot out and thundered into Trent’s chest, trapping him briefly against the wall. Trent shook him off and, in the process, lost his footing when a wave rocked the ship. Wallace leaped forward, landed at the foot of the stairs and took the first step to follow the girl. Trent scrambled to his feet and threw himself after him. He landed on Wallace’s back. Their combined weight crashed through the door of an empty berth, shattering and splintering wood. They wrestled on the floor until Trent had him pinned.

  “Leave the lad alone,” he said through gritted teeth. “Or I’ll shut down your pup and poodle show for good.” He straddled Wallace’s chest and pressed down his shoulders.

  Wallace, red-faced, scoffed even as he wrestled for freedom. “How you going to do that? We can’t be stopped by a few well-placed punches.”

  Trent shook him and Wallace’s head bounced against the floor, sending bits of wood skittering. “Don’t you get it? Steele’s gone. That girl has taken his place. You’ve been beaten by a girl, and I don’t think she’s going to be sympathetic to your business plans…just guessing… I suggest you leave her alone.”

  The ship pitched, as if in agreement and the partially destroyed door swung shut with a bang to accentuate Trent’s threat. He stood and let Wallace ease away, like grease sliding off a plate. For a moment he watched Wallace fumble with the door handle.

  Giving up, Wallace shoved his foot through the door, sending splintered arrows of wood flying in all directions.

  Trent smiled as he flexed his bruised hands and a sense of wellbeing flushed over him.

  He’d found a cure for seasickness. Distraction. Where had the girl gone? He could use a little more of her distraction.

  #

  A strong wind carrying warm air from South America sailed the Maypole along the coast and stopped, in record time, in the Seattle harbor. Verity, who’d been holed up in her berth, imagined Captain Kane’s impatience to utilize his new coin aided the wind in the record-time arrival. The view of Seattle’s harbor took her breath--a barely-there sun poked through billowy clouds resting on the pine green mountains that sloped to the bustling port. She faced the land with gratitude and trepidation. Grateful to abandon her isolation and breeches, she still faced the humbling prospect of begging a living off her aunt.

  Her berth had a window overlooking the starboard side so she could watch the disembarkation. Not wanting another encounter with Wallace, she’d determined to be one of the last off the boat. Fortunately, Wallace, sporting a fat lip and blackened eye, had been one of the first down the gangplank. Shouldering her knapsack and straightening her clothes, Verity knew without any help of a mirror that she didn’t look any more presentable than Wallace. Her thin shoulders were like small pointy hangers holding up her father’s shirt. She needed a bath and her hair resembled Medusa’s.

  She watched the man, the savior of her hat and late-night rescuer, move down the gangplank. Reaching the dock, he turned and looked back at the ship, as if searching for something or someone. Verity stepped from the window, and, for the first time since New York, she wished she could transform herself into someone clean and feminine.

  She wanted to make a good impression on her aunt.

  #

  Seattle’s streets lay on a grid that followed the shoreline. The shops and businesses mostly, if not all, were wooden structures rising from the muddy streets. Some had as many as three stories. Verity mentally repeated her aunt’s address as she walked down the boardwalk, her chin tucked into the collar of her coat and her hat pulled low. Her land legs felt like they belonged to someone else. She was like a puppet with unmanageable strings. Her boots were bricks on her feet. The shipboard food, or lack thereof, had left her hungry, weak, and despondent.

  Misapprehension dogged her every slow, ponderous step. What if Tilly had moved or died since their last contact? Or, supposing she even found her aunt, what if her aunt was horrified and scandalized at her sudden and outlandish appearance? Verity wondered if she should try and find some feminine clothes.

  The clock in the bell tower struck six. The businesses lining the streets had drawn their shutters. Verity knew very few establishments in bustling New York that carried pre-made clothes. She doubted she could find such a shop in Seattle.

  Although, Seattle was larger than she’d imagined. She passed a YMCA, a building named The Ladies Relief Society, blacksmith’s shops, a Methodist Church, and at the corner of Occidental and Yesler, a street car. Verity walked the perimeter of the church. Some churches in New York had bins outside for cast-off clothing for the poor. She’d rather meet her aunt in a hand-me-down dress than her father’s breeches, but after a quick look around the church and then at the dark heavy rainclouds, Verity continued up the street until she saw Bradley’s Dry Goods. She’d walked fast to beat the looming rain and stopped to catch her breath. Shifting the knapsack, she tried to brush off the weeks of grime clinging to her pants. As she peeked through the window, a raindrop fell.

  Inside the shop, shelves filled with bolts of fabric lined the four walls. Aside from the spotless wood plank floor and gleaming counter top, the room was a riot of colors and patterns. Verity watched a tiny Chinaman bustle a bolt of fabric up a back stair. She’d heard of the racial tensions in Seattle, the Chinese massacres and attempted expulsions. She knew in San Francisco it was illegal to shoot a cow but not a Chinaman. Watching this robust lady, who looked like a healthy female version of her father, work side by side and laugh with the Asian reassured Verity; perhaps her aunt, who showed no signs of bigotry, would be as equally liberal-minded about her niece arriving in men’s clothes.

  Verity braced her thin shoulders and pushed open the door. A bell overhead jingled welcome, but Verity had a hard time crossing the threshold.

  The woman turned and the Asian hurried up the stairs. The woman looked at Verity with a may-I-help-you face that crinkled into tears.

  “You must be Alfred’s daughter.” She swallowed a small sob. “You look just like he did as a
boy.”

  Aunt Tilly moved with surprising speed for a woman her size. She held out her arms and soon had Verity pressed in a warm embrace that smelled of lemon. Small, sharp somethings stabbed Verity’s chest and she realized that Tilly had pins poked into her bodice.

  CHAPTER 3

  LOVE POTION TEA

  1 pinch of rosemary

  2 teaspoons of black tea

  3 pinches thyme

  3 pinches nutmeg

  3 fresh mint leaves

  6 fresh rose petals

  6 lemon leaves

  3 cups pure spring water

  Sugar

  Honey

  Brew tea on a Friday during a waxing moon.

  From the Recipes of Verity Faye

  Verity, in love with her new life, stood on the boardwalk, her arm tucked through Minnie’s. She loved living with Tilly, working in the shop, and she loved her new friends. The queasy apprehension that had plagued her ever since her father’s death had finally settled so that when she thought of him and the life she’d left behind, as she often did, she felt a sweet sadness no longer tinged with the overriding loneliness that had haunted her. Occasionally, she still had nightmares, but when she woke and found herself in her aunt’s home on Lily Hill, the fears abated. In the daytime hours between her work at the shop and the social whirl her new friend Minnie had introduced her to, she rarely thought of New York and the horror she’d left behind.

  As she watched men disembark from the tall gray ship in the harbor, Verity thought about her own arrival just three months prior and how far she’d come in so little time. The long hours the bakery demanded, the predawn hours spent rolling dough, the tiny, dark apartment--it seemed like another life belonging to a different person.

  Minnie squeezed Verity’s arm as they strolled down First Avenue. “They say that there are about a hundred men to every woman.” An elfish brunette with violet eyes, in New York at age twenty-two, Minnie would have been placed on the shelf, but in female-starved Seattle, she was a decidedly top shelf commodity. Angling her dark curly head at the stream of men disembarking from the US Maypole, she murmured, “Tall ones, short ones, fat ones, skinny ones…why did I ever hesitate?”