Part of Your World (Once Upon a Time in Texas #2)

1. Chapter 1

"Look, Mama! A mermaid!"

The child's excited call snapped Muriel Quinn out of the mist of her daydreams like canon fire from a pirate ship. In a blink, she quit treading water and performed a surface dive to hide from the family standing on the pier by the Pagoda Bath House.

Daft girl. Gettin' swept up in dreams and forgettin' where ye be. If Da hears ye been swimmin' near the rich folk's beach agin, he'll lock ye away fer good. Or worse. He'd spear her with one of his disappointed looks. The ones that came with a heavy exhale and sagging shoulders.

It took a lot to make the powerful shoulders of Patrick Quinn sag, and each time she accomplished the feat, it left her soul a little bruised.

She hated disappointing her da. Unfortunately, she'd developed a special knack for it.

Ever since her eighteenth birthday, when her da decided it was time for her to start acting like a proper lady instead of an amphibious female who spent more time with fish than humans.

She'd tried to be more ladylike over the last year and a half, even let her older sisters take her in hand.

Well, until they tried to take away her swimming costume.

They'd have been more successful asking her to chop off her hair and dye what was left of her red tresses squid-ink black.

Muriel continued her underwater swim in a path parallel to the shore and away from the Pagoda Bath House.

Her well-conditioned legs propelled her through the Gulf currents as her arms pulled in perfect harmony.

The water hugged her on all sides, offering the cool comfort of a dear friend.

No blame resided under the sea. No embarrassment.

The fish didn't consider her inferior because her dresses had been handed down from her sisters and rehemmed to hide the wear.

The oysters didn't snicker behind their shells at her Irish brogue, and the crabs didn't look at her sideways because her father worked at the docks instead of owning the ships he unloaded. She could be at peace under the sea.

At least until she ran out of air.

Pushing for the surface, she kicked and surged upward, thrusting her head and shoulders into warm daylight as she drew in a deep, gasping breath. A grin stretched her cheeks as she closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun. Could anything be finer than a long swim on a sunny afternoon?

Muriel rolled to her side and settled into an easy scissor kick with an occasional arm stroke that would draw her west at a leisurely pace that would keep her from tiring on her way to the small, natural cove that served as her private entrance to the Gulf.

The cove sat nestled within a secluded inlet on a section of shoreline that possessed more rocks than sand.

A place neither locals nor tourists bothered to explore.

The perfect location for a would-be mermaid to venture ashore unseen.

A necessity if she hoped to avoid scandal.

The high-pitched cry of a seagull echoed overhead, drawing a smile from Muriel. She interrupted her stroke to wave. "Good day to ye, Gulliver. Fancy a fish supper, do ye?"

As if he'd been waiting for her signal, the bird dove toward the water a few yards from where she floated. Wings fluttered against the water's surface, sprinkling water across her face as his beak snatched a fish. In three chomps, the guppy disappeared down the gull's throat.

Muriel laughed. "Such paltry manners. Did yer ma ne'er teach ye 'tis rude to eat in front o' company without sharin'?"

The bird ignored her and paddled several inches to the left before grabbing another fish.

"I s'pose not." Muriel chuckled. "O' course, I'm not verra keen on raw fish, meself. 'Specially morsels with the scales and bones still attached. So 'tis fine fer ye to keep it to yerself." Her legs gave a scissor kick. "I'll leave ye to yer supper. See meself to shore."

The seagull dove again then flapped his wings and launched into the sky. A few seconds later, half a fish fell from above and slapped the water in front of her face. Muriel flinched then burst out laughing.

"So ye do have manners!" She rolled onto her back. "Thank ye, kindly, Gulliver," she called. "Ye're a true friend."

Resuming her swim, Muriel added an alternating overarm motion to her sidestroke, in the style named after the English swimmer John Arthur Trudgeon.

It would allow her to pick up speed. The sun's position warned that she'd been in the water longer than planned.

If she showed up late to choir practice again, there'd be no pacifyin' Da.

Honor and responsibility go hand in hand, me girl.

Respect yer obligations. Show that ye can be counted upon.

'Tis how trust is built and maturity is gained.

The Lord himself said that the one who is faithful with small things will also be faithful with much.

Ye dream of a big life, Muriel, but ye must prove that ye can be a good steward of the humble life ye live now before ye can be trusted with more.

Her father's most recent lecture resonated like a vibrating gong in her mind as she cut through the water.

He told her she needed to grow up. Take on the responsibilities of a woman instead of flittin' about like a child.

But she had, hadn't she? After the last of her three sisters married nine months ago, Muriel had taken over the chores of running her father's household.

Cooking, cleaning, laundry. Did it really matter if dinner was a little late or the table linens not perfectly pressed?

Well, perhaps it mattered when Da invited his supervisor to supper as he had last week.

She'd lost track of time while beachcombing with her nephew Fletcher that day.

But it wasn't as if she'd been off stirrin' up trouble or anythin' of that ilk.

She'd had the house tidied before their arrival and served a tasty meal thirty minutes later.

Mr. Barstow even complimented her on her fine cookin'.

Course, he'd had to skedaddle after only a few bites.

Apparently, he'd had another appointment.

Which wasn't her fault. She couldn't be expected to be privy to the man's schedule.

Da hadn't seen it that way, though. 'Tis why he'd lectured her so thoroughly afterward.

She'd withstood the bluster well enough, but when his shoulders sagged at the end of it, and he'd let her see his disappointment .

. . well, her defiance had crumpled, leaving her with stinging eyes and a renewed determination not to let him down again.

But here she was, lettin' her fancies steal her time and slow her progress.

She'd merely intended to use the Beach Hotel as a landmark to signal when to turn around and head back to her cove.

But the hotel windows had glimmered in the sunlight and set dreams to dancin' in her head like music-box ballerinas.

Spinning and twirling in elegant circles.

How she longed to be part of that world.

A world of pretty dresses and handsome gentlemen callers.

A place filled with servants to tend the chores so a lady could be at her leisure.

A leisure she could spend however she chose.

Swimming. Singing. Conversing with seagulls.

When one had money, one was allowed eccentricities.

At least that's what her sister Alana said whenever she told tales on the more unconventional ladies staying at the Beach Hotel where her husband worked.

Muriel understood unconventional. It might as well be her middle name.

Yet, being unconventional wasn't a bad thing.

Just look at Agnes Beckwith. The woman was a sensation.

All the papers carried stories of her remarkable swimming feats.

A regular performer at the Royal Aquarium in London, she'd swum five miles in the Thames from London Bridge to Greenwich in a little over an hour at the age of fourteen.

The next year she doubled that achievement, swimming ten miles from Chelsea to Greenwich.

Two years after that, she swam twenty miles.

The woman was incredible, and only six years older than Muriel.

Da estimated the swimming distance to the Beach Hotel and back totaled about six miles. Muriel was no Agnes Beckwith, but if she had more time to train, she might be able to swim the entire length of Galveston Island one day. Maybe then, her name would be in the papers. Wouldn't that be grand?

Spotting the outcropping that marked the edge of her cove, she turned toward shore. Unexpected movement caught her attention, and she lifted her head farther out of the water. A small figure stood on the rocks, waving with large, sweeping arm motions. Was that Fletcher?

Her stomach clenched. Had something happened to Alana or one of the wee ones? Kicking her legs at a frenzied pace, she raced for the inlet. As soon as the water shallowed enough, she rose to her feet and waded forward, her tired limbs fighting gravity as well as the tide.

"What's wrong, lad? Has somethin' happened to yer ma?"

Her ten-year-old nephew wagged his head, but the movement brought little reassurance. He continued to urge her to shore with frantic gestures as he cast glances back toward the path that led into town.

"It's old Miss Seward. She's had one of her spells. Told me not to fetch the doctor. Said she'd be fine. But she didn't look fine. She was wheezin' somethin' awful, Muriel."

"Ye did the right thing fetching me." Muriel scrambled up the small beach and pointed to the rock where she'd left her sack of clothes. "Hand over me towel, would ye?"