3. Three
She’d been right from the start. This fella had lost his sunbaked mind. “My name? You’re sure?”
Mr. Gray shrugged. “Your father’s, more likely.”
Her stomach pitched like she’d run aground at full steam. “Papa?”
Snakes and saltwater. The way her voice squeaked, she sounded like a cabin boy who hadn’t yet grown into a man. She cleared her throat. Not that it helped any. Her pipes had closed up right good.
“I believe so, yes.” Mr. Gray leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. “That name led me to the Natchez docking records where I discovered the, um, unfortunate loss of your father. Imagine my surprise when I happened to see that very vessel docked on the banks on my way home.”
Heat combusted in her center, stoked by shards of loss, indignation, and fury. Some words on a page could never encompass the truth of what she’d lost. Or why.
She stood and wiped her hands on her trousers. “Thank you for the meal, Mr. Gray. I’ll be on my way now.”
He lurched from the bench. “Wait! You haven’t heard the rest of my story.”
The details hardly mattered. She crossed her arms. “Let me guess. You found some clues about an old family treasure. Probably during the war. Everyone thought it was lost, but wait! You’ve discovered something no one else has in all these years, and now you are the only one who can uncover the true location.”
His lips parted, and his jaw dropped a fraction with each throttled word. “He already told you about it?”
These things were all the same. Every family had a tale like…
Wait. What? “Who told me what?”
“Your father. He told you about the Hollis treasure?”
The name punched a hole through her chest, and she slumped back onto the bench. She forced air into her lungs. “You said your name was Gray.”
A crease sank between his brows. “I did. But this is the Hollis treasure. You know of it?”
“I know it cost me my father.” The swell of heat renewed, and she popped to her feet. “Good day, Mr. Gray.”
Politeness dictated she wish him fortune on his hunt, but she couldn’t bring herself to force the words from her lips as she started to walk away. Nothing good came from treasure hunting. People lost everything in the hopes of filling their empty pockets. Instead, they left their families with nothing more than shredded ambitions and a gallon of sorrow.
She’d have no part of it.
Despite the clear communication of her intent, Mr. Gray gained her side and increased his pace to match hers as she all but scurried like a frightened mouse back to the safety of home.
“Captain Lockhart, if you’ll just listen. There’s a lot more—”
“I don’t care. My crew is close to starving now. All the thanks they get for sticking with me. I am not going to reward their loyalty by taking them down this current again. I won’t.”
“But what if I know where it is?”
She planted her feet and jerked to a halt. “Impossible. Every fool always says that, but he has nothing more than hunches. My father said the same thing. And besides, if you already knew the location, you wouldn’t need my help decoding clues.”
“Your father…” Lines tightened around his eyes, and her stomach dove toward her knees. “Your father and mine were looking together. I think they were close. The problem is I don’t think you know what really happened that night.”
“And you do?” The words snapped from her lips. Wait. Had he said…? “What are you talking about? My father never worked with a Mr. Gray.”
Red snaked up from his shirt collar and painted his ears. “He went by Mr. Dixon.”
The name hit her like a volley. Her teeth clenched, and she had to force them open. “Why?”
“Something I intend to discover myself.” He thrust his hands into his pockets, but not before she caught their tremble. And his tone left no doubt the revelation had not been welcome.
She resumed her walk back to the boat. Mr. Dixon had lied about his name. Then what else had he fabricated? Had he been using Papa?
Suspicions she’d tried to bury resurfaced, tugging along her nerves and making her fingers twitch.
“Captain, if I may, I understand this is troubling news.” Mr. Gray’s elbow bumped her in his haste, and he widened the distance between them to a respectable arm’s length. “But it’s why I came to you. I believe we both want answers about what happened to our fathers.”
Her forward momentum stalled, and she stumbled. Thankfully, she caught herself before she went tumbling down the hill. She shouldn’t be listening to his rambling. Only trouble waited on the end of that line. But if he really had clues…
What if something he knew might help her understand what had happened to Papa?
She swallowed the lump gathering in her throat and studied the man holding out one hand to catch her should she choose this moment to resume her fall.
How could she trust the son of a man who had lied to them? Then once again, her mind caught up with all he’d said.
“Your father is also dead?”
One sharp nod.
“How?”
“I’m hoping to find out.”
The tight lines of his shoulders and his stiff posture indicated he spoke truth. She kept her roiling emotions out of her voice. “Mr. Dixon—whoever he was—wasn’t with Papa that night. He’d abandoned him.”
Mr. Gray winced. “I know. From what I can piece together, Father went missing right before he was to meet Captain Lockhart.”
Air rushed from her lungs. That changed everything. If something had happened to Mr. Dixon—no, Gray—then perhaps Mr. Dixon wasn’t a murderer after all. But with a false name, it was no wonder she’d never been able to track the man down.
His being dead played a part too.
She set her shoulders and attempted a calm exterior in defiance of the storm pitching around in her stomach. “It seems there are some things you and I need to discuss.”
“Yes, Captain. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
She could hardly begrudge him his tinge of annoyance. She had cut him off more than once without hearing him through. She fished Papa’s watch from her pocket. Not much time.
“I have to collect my crew’s wages. You can wait on Alma May if Solomon doesn’t mind. If not, come back in about an hour. Then we’ll talk.”
He parted his lips as though planning a protest, then must’ve thought better of it, and snapped his mouth closed. Good. If it was important enough to him, he wouldn’t mind the wait. And she didn’t have a choice.
She escorted him back to the boat and waved up at Solomon, who stayed near the railing. Probably watching for her return.
Is it all right if he waits here with you until I get back? We have more to discuss with this fella.
Solomon’s sharp gaze traveled to Mr. Gray, and he nodded. Solomon could hear her just fine, but the language of hand gestures he and his mother had taught her years ago proved a convenient way to speak privately with her engineer.
She gave him the thank-you sign by extending a flat palm from her lips downward and then returned her focus to the man at her side. “He says it’s fine for you to wait on the port deck. Don’t cause any issues for my crew.”
“I’m not a child, Captain Lockhart. I can manage to wait without getting myself into mischief.” An amused tilt to one eyebrow accompanied words that came out cool and businesslike.
Heat pulsed in her ears. Right. She smeared her hands on her trousers and stuck her hand out. “Camilla, when you’re not addressing me in public, will be acceptable.”
The amused tilt shifted to a surprised climb toward his cap. “An honor, Captain. You have my thanks. Please, call me Daniel.”
After a single pump, she released his hand and spun on her heel. Well. That had been awkward. What was wrong with her wits? Of all the things to say to the man, why had that been what escaped her mouth?
She scrambled back up the hill to the town proper. She needed to focus on her task, but her thoughts kept drifting back to Mr. Dixon. Too well she remembered the day he’d come to the Alma May dressed in a fine linen suit and brandishing stories of lost gold and certain fortune. She spit to the side as though she could clear the bitter taste from her mouth.
A woman in a fashionable calf-length pink skirt gasped and bounced away before anything could land on her black-and-white oxfords. She blinked at Camilla in confusion as they passed one another. Camilla tried to offer the lady an apologetic smile, but the woman only clutched her gloved hand to her pearl necklace and shook her head.
Camilla stuffed her hands in her pockets. There were a few perils to having been reared on a boat with a bunch of men. One did forget the finer details of being a lady from time to time. Still, she wouldn’t have changed her life on the river with Papa for anything. She only wished she still had him at her side.
She should have changed into her going-to-town clothes, but Mr. Gray’s arrival had spiraled all her plans into an impossible heap. Would Mr. Copeland be affronted if she showed up in trousers instead of a sturdy skirt?
Nothing for it now.
The bustle of Natchez swarmed around her, folks going about their tasks for the day. Checking the post office for parcels and heading to the market. Or whatever else people who stayed in one place all the time did. She hardly knew.
They’d had a house on the water’s edge when she’d been a small girl. But after Mama died of tuberculosis, Papa left the house and everything in it. They’d never returned. Sometimes she wondered if she could find that old house again. But the memories were too hazy, and she’d never talked herself into asking Papa.
She brushed old memories aside as she reached her destination. The stoic brick edifice crowded close to the street, hardly leaving room for the hitching post notched at its side. No space for motorcars.
“Copeland Enterprises” painted in bold golden letters swung from a carved sign overhead, the chains silently swaying in the breeze.
The polished brass knob cool against her sweaty palm, she opened the door and stepped inside. They’d been lucky to secure a job from such a fine establishment.
Afternoon sunlight poured through head-high windows and bathed the stone floor in a yellow glow. The flat slabs had been artfully pieced together, the edges connecting almost seamlessly. How did they do that? Cut the edges to make them fit or keep working to find the right stone to match its neighbors?
“May I help you?” A pinched male voice pulled her attention to the receiving desk squatted in the center of the room.
She propped an elbow on the polished wood. “I’m here to see Mr. Copeland.”
Droll eyes met hers. “And you are?”
“Captain Lockhart.” She put a touch more emphasis on the first word, lest he think her a waif from off the street.
A bushy gray eyebrow twitched. She should have put on the skirt.
He ran a finger down his ledger. “Come to deliver a message in your father or brother’s stead?”
Apparently, she’d not put enough emphasis on her title after all. She stretched her lips into a pleasant smile. “No, sir. I speak for myself. My crew and I did a delivery for Mr. Copeland, and he is supposed to relinquish payment today.”
He tapped a bony finger on the page. “I see no notation about a recompense or a lady coming to collect it.”
Her fingers tightened on the desk’s edge. “I have a scheduled meeting with Mr. Copeland. So if you please, I’ll see myself to his office.”
The businessman’s domain had to be back there behind this ancient gatekeeper somewhere. She’d knock on every door if she had to.
The elderly man moved with more swiftness than she’d thought possible of one so stooped. She’d scarcely made it past his bastion before his clawed fingers pinched down on her elbow.
“You will do no such thing.”
Icy currents rolled over her. “You will release me. Now.”
His fingers creaked off her sleeve, and she snatched her arm away. “Mr. Copeland promised payment today, and I aim to retrieve it.”
Upper lip curling, the rusty codger stalked ahead of her to a hallway behind his desk. He rapped an enlarged knuckle on the first slab of oak to the left. At the answering call, he cracked the door.
“Sir, a young woman here claims to be a captain in seek of payment. How would you like me to dispatch her?”
Camilla dug her nails into her palms. Of all the condescending—
“Captain Lockhart? Send her right in.”
Papa would have said a lady never let pride paint her face, but she couldn’t help the satisfied smirk as she sauntered into the room.
The grumpy man closed the door behind her without a word.
Mr. Copeland rose and extended a hand. “Don’t mind Mr. Naples. He’s a…traditional sort.”
She accepted his smooth handshake and settled into the leather chair in front of his desk. “Thank you for seeing me today before your trip, Mr. Copeland. My crew and I are grateful for your accommodation.”
Dressed in a tailored black suit with a powder-blue tie, Mr. Copeland had the kind of features most women swooned over. A strong jawline and a thick head of sandy hair styled with pleasantly scented pomade. But Papa always said the eyes gave away a man’s true nature, and Mr. Copeland appeared as slick as an eel’s underbelly.
“Yes, well, about that.” He loosened his jacket button and draped his tall frame into the masculine chair with little concern.
Her heartbeat pounded against her rib cage, but somehow, she remained poised on the edge of her plush seat. She even held his gaze without showing the terror his words incited.
Well, except for the way her hands kept twisting together in her lap. But perhaps he didn’t notice. She stilled them anyway.
“There was an unexpected problem with your payment.” He laced his fingers together on the desk.
“Problem? I don’t understand.”
He drew out his words as though needing to explain shifting currents to a babe. “You see, I can’t pay you until I’ve been paid. I encountered an unforeseen delay in receiving my remittance from the client. But rest assured, I’ve been promised we will have the funds next week. Two at the most.”
She glued her eyes wide in an attempt to dissuade dreadful tears from springing free.
He reached for a pad of paper. “Shall I wire for a bank transfer once it arrives? That way you won’t have to schedule a time to return here.”
Keeping her tone even, she measured her words. “As I’m sure you can understand, we need to restock before leaving Natchez. We anticipated using the funds promised today to do so.” She pushed steel into her voice. “Surely a company of this size has available funds to cover its scheduled payments for hired work.”
His smile soured though his words remained pleasant. “I do wish it worked that way, Miss Lockhart.” He rose and buttoned his jacket. “I’ll have Mr. Naples make a note to wire the money to your bank as soon as we receive it. Be sure to leave your banking details with him before you go.”
The hand gesturing to the door blurred. This couldn’t be happening. Her insides squeezed, and she grabbed the armrest. Her pulse thrummed.
Whatever platitudes Mr. Copeland cooed as he helped her to her feet and guided her out of his office fell on deaf ears.
The door clicked with finality behind her, leaving her alone in the hallway decorated with fine oil paintings. Bet one of those would fetch enough to feed her crew for a week. Her fingers itched toward it, and she forced her hand into her pocket.
Lord, what are we going to do now?