Rewriting Rita Page 7

  He pulled Kidrick close, so that his nose was only inches from his own. “You will leave Miss Ryan alone or I will see you hanging.”

  Kidrick, bleeding and squirming, laughed. “You lack the chutzpah to kill me.”

  “There are worse things than death,” Christian flung the Russian away and sprinted to the door of the cabin. Where had she gone? Dem.

  He turned back and saw the Russian had drawn a knife. “You are so boring and predictable,” Christian complained as Kidrick charged. Christian kicked the knife out of Kidrick’s hand and leveled him with a fist in the face.

  Kidrick fell, and dust rose around him. Placing his boot on the inert man’s chest, Christian considered what to do. Every cell in his body longed to find Miss Ryan, but at least now he knew she was all right.

  But he couldn’t have Kidrick constantly interrupting him.

  With a sigh, he picked Kidrick up by the ankles and hauled him into the cabin, Kidrick’s head bumping behind. Immediately he saw the strips Kidrick obviously had used to tie Miss Ryan to the bed, and again Christian’s anger surged. With the strength of his fury, he easily tossed Kidrick onto the bed, stripped off the Russian’s clothes, and securely tied his wrists and ankles to the bedposts.

  ***

  A bird called out as Rita ran through the woods. The wind seemed to deliberately whip tree branches into her path. She tried to listen for the sound of water to get her bearings, but the river, so audible moments earlier, was now drowned out by her labored breath, footfalls and the beating of her heart. She moved deeper into the woods where the rising moon couldn’t penetrate the tree’s canopy.

  She had been a city-dweller all her life. The forest was as foreign as the surface of the moon, its creatures as alien as monsters—and nearly as frightening. She had been disoriented and lost on the wagon ride and hoped she was running toward town.

  The path led her to the water’s edge. After another glance over her shoulder, reassuring her that Kidrick wasn’t close behind, she stood on the riverbank, debating where to go. No beckoning city lights. No familiar sounds. Then she saw it, a bobbing light on the water. A raft? A boat? Help?

  A crack rang through the forest. Thunder? No clouds. A gunshot? As she ran, the dress she carried in her hands caught on branches. She tripped over a tree root, untangled and righted herself, and allowed a quick glance over her shoulder. The bobbling light, closer now, cast a glow over the water, and she ducked behind a tree as a houseboat drew along beside her.

  A voice rang from inside the boat’s cabin. “I swear I won’t tell!”

  Rita squatted behind a fallen tree, trying to make herself as small as possible, as she stepped into her dress.

  “That’s a fib if ever I heard one, you thieving bastard!” another voice answered.

  They sounded so close; Rita had to peek over the log to watch. One man lay on the deck, tied hand and foot, and two others stood over him, one with a pistol, the other a lantern.

  “Please don’t shoot me, Bill,” the man on the deck cried.

  Rita ducked down with a hammering heart. She couldn’t watch a man’s murder. She had to do something. Anything. She twisted her skirt with her hands, sad that her sewing kit couldn’t help her this time.

  The man with the lantern laughed and said, “Hear him beg! And if we hadn’t tied him up first he’d have killed us both! Put up that pistol, Bill.”

  “Nothing doing,” Bill said. “As soon as I take my eye off him I know he’s going to—what the hell?”

  Rita sat up to watch Kidrick, absolutely naked, charge out of the woods brandishing a shotgun. The men laughed until Kidrick peppered the boat with buckshot. The lantern died as its keeper dove into the water. Bill’s shots went wide.

  Rita ducked, offering silent prayers. When silence replaced the gunfire, cursing and yelling, Rita still kept her eyes closed and her head buried into her chest.

  “Looks like we got ourselves a boat,” a voice beside her whispered.

  Chapter 4

  Is there a gentleman from 30 to 40 years of age, weighing 170 to 200 pounds, measuring 5 feet and 10 inches up, honorable and intelligent that desires a good wife and housekeeper? Let them answer this number. I can give particulars, photo and best of references if required. Christian preferred.

  Matrimonial News, January 8, 1887

  Rita lifted one cautious eyelid.

  Christian Roberts crouched beside her. He didn’t have on a shirt or shoes, but he was much better clothed than Kidrick.

  “What happened?” she whispered. “Did they all kill each other?”

  Christian shook his head. “We have been lucky but not that lucky. Two jumped ship.”

  Rita heard a loud splash.

  “Wait,” Christian said, “make that three have gone into the river.”

  “But why?”

  “Probably so that the other two won’t find them. It’s pretty easy to hide in the woods. It’s much more difficult to hide on a boat.”

  “Where’s Kidrick?”

  Christian shook his head but kept his gaze on the river. “Did he…hurt you?” His voice sounded strangled.

  “No.” She took a deep breath. “He took off my dress and left me in my shimmy, tied me to the bed, but after that…I think he may have wanted to… but was too drunk, or I don’t know. He seemed,” she paused, searching for the right words, “disappointed?”

  She didn’t know what to make of Christian’s prolonged silence, but after a moment, he reached out and tugged on her hand. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Onto the boat, of course.”

  “But you just said—”

  “They are going to be so busy hiding from each other that they won’t have time to look for us.” He tugged on her hand again, urging her to stand. She couldn’t do it. Her knees felt like uncooperative jelly.

  “Kidrick?”

  “Probably looking for his trousers. Which he won’t find, by the way.”

  She raised her eyebrows at him.

  “I burned them back at the cabin. Used a decent flask of whiskey, too.” He sounded wistful. “Let’s go.”

  She shook her head. “What if Kidrick is on board waiting for us? What if the men are—”

  “And what are we going to do here? Wait for Kidrick to find us?” He pointed at the boat. “That is the fastest way to Seattle.”

  Rita shook her head. “Kidrick had a horse.”

  “Horse stealing is a capital offense.”

  “What about boat stealing?”

  “We’re not stealing the boat. We’re just going to ride it while it floats downstream.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No. Are you?”

  Rita shivered. “I have to get back to the theater. The troupe is leaving in the morning.”

  “We must get on for the show to go on.”

  “I will ruin my clothes.”

  She felt Christian’s eyes travel over her mud-stained yellow dress and tattered blue cloak. He smirked. “I will carry you on board. It’s a small sacrifice I will be happy to make.”

  If her reputation weren’t already as tattered as her dress, she would have given more thought to crossing the river in Christian Roberts’ arms, but since she had already bidden goodbye to her parents’ and grandmother’s strict moral code, she let Christian swing her into his embrace.

  But although she sang and danced on the stage, Rita’s naiveté was still intact, so the feel and proximity of Christian’s broad, naked chest took her by surprise. She inhaled sharply and shivered when he took the first step into the water.

  “Cold?” he asked.

  A sharp wind blew down the river, but Rita wasn’t chilled at all. Quite the opposite, but she nodded. “It must be worse for you.” She disliked the breathlessness in her voice, so she cleared her throat. “I am barely getting wet, while you are completely soaking your trousers.”

  “They were already ruined.” He stopped and turned suddenly, and she realized h
e was shielding her from something. She peeked over his shoulder at the something. No, someone. Bill the gunman floated facedown, arms spread wide and boots pointing to the river’s depths.

  She opened her mouth to scream, but Christian placed a large hand on the back of her head and pressed her face against him. Another set of emotions filled her completely. She bit back her cries and inhaled Christian’s warm scent.

  “You are safe with me,” Christian murmured into her hair.

  But Rita knew she wasn’t.

  Christian lifted her onto the boat. The deck felt wobbly beneath her feet. She held the rail as Christian hefted himself over the side in a wash of water. The boat listed his way.

  Like me, she thought. No, I’m leaving for New York in a few hours. And not just that. New York is a springboard to a new life—one filled with adventure, excitement, and glamour. I will sing before the Queen. I will see the jeweled crowns. I will not be distracted by a man wearing wet trousers and water drops on his bare chest glistening in the moonlight. Stop it! Stop this! Stop staring!

  “Come.” He held out his hand. “Let’s see if they have any food. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

  Hungry? Now that he mentioned it, she was. How odd that she hadn’t noticed. She glanced at the cabin and felt ill. “What if there’s someone inside?” she whispered. “We don’t know for sure if the three we saw were the only ones onboard.” Her voice caught. “We don’t even know what happened to the others, except for— Kidrick, the man holding the lantern—maybe they’re in there.”

  “Maybe,” Christian said. “So we can stay out here on the deck, hungry and cold, where—assuming there is someone onboard—we shall shortly be discovered, or we can take the chance that we are alone—which I think is most likely—and go in the cabin and find something to eat, possibly even dry clothes.” He paused. “The last bit is perhaps more relevant to me than to you.”

  She tried to smile. “If you are cold—“

  After he glanced up and down the riverbank, he interrupted her. “You can wait here, and I’ll go and see if we’re truly alone. We will be safer once inside the cabin.”

  Panic gripped her. “No, I’ll go with you.”

  The cabin consisted of one room—a table flanked by two benches, cupboards built beneath the benches and a platform bed. Christian’s bulk swallowed up the tiny space, and she stayed near the entry while he rummaged through the cupboards.

  He straightened and held up a loaf of bread in one hand and a chunk of cheese in the other. “Our lucky day.”

  Rita’s mind flashed back to the past twenty-four hours and debated over use of the word “lucky.”

  Christian must have read her mind, because as he turned away to search the rest of the cupboards, he said over his shoulder, “Luck is all relative.” He found a knife and cutting board and cut the bread into thick slices.

  Rita stayed pressed against the door, reminding herself that she was an actress: Even though she felt nervous and jittery in such close quarters, alone, at night with a man, a man like Christian Roberts, she could at least act like a confident and world-wise sophisticate.

  But it had all been too much—being kidnapped, making the escape, witnessing the murder, seeing the floating corpse. Now that she finally felt a modicum of safety and release, her composure crumbled—and her knees buckled.

  Christian stepped forward and led her to the edge of the bed. She fell more than sat. He grabbed a rough gray blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. He sat down directly opposite her on the wooden bench and cut a bit of the cheese.

  “Your clothes are ruined. If we were in New York, I would take you shopping on Park Avenue. Have you been to the Ladies’ Mile?” he asked.

  She tried to smile, because she knew he was trying to distract her, but her lips quivered.

  “All the finest stores—Lord & Taylor, B. Altman, W. & J. Sloane, Arnold Constable, Best and Bergdorf Goodman.” He poured a glass of ale and set it in front of her on the table.

  “And what would you buy me?” she asked through chattering teeth.

  “The latest fashions, of course.”

  “Because you are very rich.” She was able to smile for real.

  “Why do I think that you don’t believe me?”

  She laughed, and it felt strange and yet, good. “If you are so rich, why are you here in Seattle?”

  He handed her bread and cheese. “Where do you think I should be?”

  “Anywhere but here.” The food tasted like sawdust, but she washed it down with a glass of bitter ale and warmth spread through her body.

  “You are harsh, my dear. This is a place of opportunity. Fortunes can be made in the Pacific Northwest. Cash here is separate and distinct from family and prestige.”

  He handed her more food, and she ate it quickly. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. “Is this where you made your fortune?”

  Christian’s lips tightened and she worried that she had overstepped their easy camaraderie. “Fortunes can also be lost here—consider poor Bill. Truly a poor unfortunate.”

  “And Kidrick lost his clothes.”

  “Are you worried about losing your reputation?” Christian’s voice turned somber, and he studied the ale in his glass. “Even in Godless Seattle there are moral codes. I’m afraid we’ve broken many of them.”

  Rita scowled “If I cared what people said, I would never have joined the stage. Besides, I’ll be gone soon, and few will even remember me.”

  Christian nodded. “You are new enough here. Are you sure you don’t want to stay?”

  “Absolutely.” She drained her glass and held it out.

  Christian poured another stream of golden goodness. “Where did you come from?”

  “New York.”

  “Is that why you want to go back?” He offered her another slice of bread and she took it but refused the cheese.

  “I have no wish to linger in New York.”

  “It’s a stepping stone to brighter stages?”

  “Yes.” Her voice sounded wistful to even her own ears.

  “What about your family and the people who love you? Won’t you be missed?”

  Rita’s lips twisted. “I do not miss them, and I doubt they will miss me—or the embarrassment I cause them.”

  “I find that difficult to believe.”

  “That’s because you are kind.”

  “Are you saying that your family is unkind?”

  “Oh, no, they believe in being very kind.” She forced a bite of the coarse bread down her throat. “To people they believe to be important. They simply don’t believe it’s important to be kind to those who aren’t their ‘sort.’”

  “And their sort doesn’t perform in the theater.”

  “They go—but to perform? That is not up to snuff.”

  He chuckled. “Does your family take snuff?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “That is a disgusting habit.”

  “I agree.”

  She settled against the wall, slightly shocked by her own behavior, but the bed was soft, the greasy lump that passed for a pillow beckoning. As if watching herself from a distance, she saw Christian remove the glass from her hand and pull a blanket over her as she fell victim to sleep.

  ***

  Rita woke with sunlight streaming onto her face. Birds sang while her heart sank. She had spent the night on a boat with a strange man. If she had set her reputation in flame by joining the stage, then it was now in smoldering ashes. She eased off the bed, never taking her eyes off Christian Roberts.

  He lounged against the cushions, one arm over the back of the bench and the other resting in his lap, legs stretched out as much as the space allowed and crossed at the ankles. Head cocked and neck cricked, he looked uncomfortable. Rita fought the temptation to slide the pillow beneath his head and save him from a pain in the neck.

  Was she a pain in the neck? She flushed, and after one long last look to memorize the planes and shape of his face, s
he turned to leave. The morning air hit her hard, the sharp sting of it catching her breath. Mist rose from the river, and the sun lingered over the distant eastern hills. What time was it? And where was she?

  Sometime in the night, Christian must have tied the boat to the pier protruding into the swollen river. The water ran high in mid-August, fat and slow, fed by distant glaciers. Rita stepped onto the pier, aware of ogling fishermen nearby preparing boats to go out.

  She straightened her dress and cursed her rigid puritanical upbringing. Maybe when she was in Paris, safely away from her grandmother’s spies and pesky cousins, sleeping with men on boats would be par for the course. Did they have houseboats on the River Seine? Were there piers off the Left Bank?

  She used the imaginations of her future in Paris to distract her as she hurried along the pier and its adjoining rough boardwalk, keeping her chin tucked into the blue cloak and shielding her face as best as she could from the curious gazes of the fishermen. Away from the docks, the city slept. Dawn came early to the Pacific Northwest in the summer, and she knew from experience that the city folk slept in much later than farmers or ranchers.

  Her grandmother would be awake. But if she were dead, she’d be rolling over in her grave if she knew that Rita had spent the night with a strange man on a stolen boat. But her grandmother was very much alive and most likely livid that Rita had managed to escape her omniscient eye.

  Rita stepped off the boardwalk to cross the dusty road. She had a vague idea of where she was and she headed toward the streetcar tracks. It wasn’t as if she had set out to be wicked. Maybe her mother wouldn’t have acted so, but Rita was certain that her grandmother would have done the same to try to rescue a girl like Corinne from a marriage to a devil like Kidrick. Rita hadn’t intended to stumble upon a murder, and she certainly hadn’t planned on getting kidnapped or committing some sort of maritime theft. Christian Roberts had been the only sweet morsel in that stew of awfulness.