Chapter 28
ALICE
“Bear?” I whisper. We’re pressed close in the narrow bunk, my back to his chest, the iron rail keeping us tucked together.
The heat of his body envelopes me and soothes every raw nerve that had been frayed between Ohio and this ship.
Though, there was that look. Kodiak’s momentary pause of barely contained emotion.
I had meant to ask about it before he stormed out, but the question lingered.
“Yes, angel?”
“The Tafts. What they said at breakfast about children growing up without a mother’s love. It seemed to trouble you.”
He exhales deeply, weariness in the sound. “Why’d you have to bring that up now?”
I roll to face him, the lamplight faint against his handsome features, the shadow of his beard making his cheek rough. “Because I wish to know you. Truly.”
He makes a gruff sound. “Ain’t nothin’ to tell. What do you want me to say?”
“What was your life like? As a boy?”
He shrugs and offers a clipped, “I was a boy, now I ain’t.”
“Kodiak, please.” I soften my tone, careful but insistent. “Didn’t you have family? Randolph, that is your true name, is it not?”
The name. I had heard it before: Randolph, an old Virginian family. Tobacco planters and politicians. A dynasty that can be traced back to the founding fathers.
“Yeah, so what?”
“You are from Virginia, then?”
“Yeah, but it ain’t what you think. I’m from a broke line.
A line of drunks and gamblers who squandered away their fortunes and good name.
” He lets out a humorless chuckle. “Funny thing, though. All them years sittin’ at my old man’s table, hearin’ him rant about ‘the Randolph name’ while he pissed it away…
I picked up more’n I knew. How to hold a fork. How to smile polite and talk slick.”
It strikes me; the gentleman’s act he sometimes wears is not a disguise at all, but an inheritance he despises.
“And your mother?” I ask gently.
“Died birthin’ me.”
“I am so sorry.”
He shrugs, as though sympathy is wasted on him. “Never met her.” His arm shifts beneath me, restless. “Why you diggin’ up the past?”
“Because I want to understand you,” I answer simply.
He goes still, his expression dark and distant. “My old man, he weren’t just a drunk. He was cruel. Used to tell me I’d killed her, my ma. Said I come into this world cursin’ it. And I believed him. Every damn word.”
My hand reaches for his, but he does not return the grasp.
“When I was thirteen,” he continues, flat and unflinching, “he put a pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”
My throat tightens. I can scarcely breathe.
“His people wrote after. Said they’d take me in.” He snorts with disgust. “Sit me at their table, feed me on pity while they whispered I was bad blood. I weren’t about to bow my head for that. I’d sooner starve on my own terms.”
“What did you do?” I ask softly.
“Walked away. Left it all behind.”
The silence between is broken only by the creaks and groans of the ship.
I lay my palm against his chest, feel his heart thundering beneath. “You did not deserve such a burden,” I whisper.
He lets out a mirthless laugh. “Deserve got nothin’ to do with it.”
I watch him in the dim light, struck by the contradiction: a man who can sit polished before strangers, all manners and bearing, yet carry such darkness inside. The mask is not counterfeit but inherited, a legacy of gentility calloused into armor.
“There’s somethin’ I gotta tell you,” he says, his serious expression making my pulse hitch.
“What is it?”
“I seen a Pinkerton in the saloon. Pretty sure he saw me too.”
“A Pinkerton?” My breath catches. Dear God.
His voice goes cold. “I’ll handle it.”
I know what that means: violence, blood, an end I cannot stop.
My mind whirls. We are on a ship. There’s nowhere to run.
If that man goes straight to the captain, or to the purser, a single word from him and every officer will be set on us.
They can lock cabins, hold us at port, send a telegraph ahead.
In hours—less if he hurries—men in authority will be waiting at the dock.
No one knows us by name. Not our real names. To all aboard, I am Mrs. Byron. But perhaps…
If all of his crimes are known, then it’s possible the Pinkerton believes me a hostage.
An unfortunate woman found in the company of an outlaw.
That is the tale he might accept readily.
A frightened lady, begging for rescue, will lower some cautions and might draw the Pinkerton into letting his guard down.
Might he tell a victim where he lodges? Where he intends to make his next inquiries?
Or at least show himself moving toward the captain’s office?
“Kodiak,” I say. “If he’s seen you and does not yet speak to the captain, we must keep him from having the chance. He can put men to watch every exit before dawn. He can send word ashore. We cannot let him do that.”
“I know. I said I’ll handle it.”
“How?”
He snorts. “I was thinkin’ on it when I got back, but then you went and scrambled up my brain. I ain’t exactly worked it all out yet.”
“What if I speak to him?”
“And what, beg?”
“No,” I say. “Well…in a sense, maybe. As far as the authorities are concerned, I’ve been kidnapped.”
He nods, his eyes narrowing.
“What if I approached him, asked to speak in private. Perhaps he’d lead me to his cabin, or some other private place where you could follow undetected.”
For a moment he only studies me, pensive. “Lamb, you know damn well when I say I’ll handle it, I don’t mean askin’ nice.”
A pit opens in my belly. “I know.”
“First thing—we find out if he’s alone. Pinkertons travel in pairs more often than not.
You’ll know ’em dressed fancy, flash of a tin badge on a coat.
But more than anything, they’re always watchin’.
If one goes missin’ while another’s aboard, best believe no soul leaves this boat till they got answers. ”
I nod, dread coiling in my chest. Oh God. How many dead men will we leave in our wake?
“Problem is,” he says, jaw tight, “I don’t want to give him a chance to spot me again and confirm his suspicions. I can’t leave this room till we got a plan firmed up.”
Just like that, the reality clicks into place.
“So I’ll need to investigate on my own?”
“Afraid so, sugarplum.”
I press my lips together, trying to contain the shake in my chest. They could take him from me—drag him in chains, hang him for everything he’s done.
I’d never again feel the warmth of his touch, the shelter of his arms. If stepping into danger is the price to keep him free, then I will pay it. Without hesitation.
In the morning, I dress for breakfast while Kodiak stays behind, laid out in our bunk, watching me. We’re set to reach land today—God willing. My job is simple: make sure we get off this ship together. And free.
I’m nearly at the door when he stops me, pulling me back, his hands resting at my waist.
“Whatever happens,” he murmurs, “you’re my greatest adventure of all.”
It stabs me right in the heart and twists. I can’t breathe.
“Why would you say such a thing?” I whisper, shoving him gently, a sting rising.
“Because I still can.”
I draw in a breath and hold it, then let it out slow.
“It’s goin’ to be all right, lamb,” he says, his hands gliding down my arms. He leans in, presses his mouth to mine, and I savor his taste.
Lord above, help me—I’ve lost all sense of up and down, right and wrong, for loving this man. But no one, not in all my life, has ever looked after me the way he does. No one has ever fought to keep me safe, no matter the cost. Though he is brutish and brash, he is mine—and I am his.
If we’re truly bound by divine design, then surely all will be well.
I step back and smooth my skirts. It is simply breakfast. Perhaps this Pinkerton never noticed Kodiak after all. Perhaps it was only paranoia.
“Wait,” he says. He crouches beside the bag, rifles through it, and rises with the hunting knife in hand. “Take this.”
The knife. The one he used to kill the hotel clerk, but now in a leather sheath.
“Why are you giving me this?”
“In case you need it. I pray you don’t.”
“You pray?”
“For you, yes, I do.”
I stare at it—dark-bladed, bone-handled, pregnant with the memory of the man he killed with it. It’s too big for a pocket, too brutal for subtlety.
I lift my blouse and reach for a stocking from the trunk. He doesn’t look away, and I don’t ask him to.
“Tie it tight,” he says.
I loop the fabric around my ribs and knot it twice, anchoring the knife so it rests along my side. When I lower my blouse, I feel it there with every breath. It presses cold against my skin, an unforgiving weight. A reminder.
Kodiak reaches for me one last time, his fingertips brushing my wrist like he’s memorizing the shape of me. There’s no jest in him now, no shield of bravado.
“Whatever happens out there,” he says, “you come back. That’s the only thing I care about. You hear me?”
I nod, not sure I can speak. My throat is too tight. My body too aware of the blade at my side, the finality in this goodbye, the storm waiting just past the dining room doors.
I turn toward the door, hand on the latch. The ship sways gently beneath my feet as I step into the corridor. I do not look back.
The dining room bustles loud as ever, first-class passengers laughing with their new shipboard acquaintances. I, however, have no interest in chatter. I skim the room, searching. Kodiak had described him—a red vest, a matching tie—but he’s nowhere in sight.
I hover near the doorway, unwilling to sit. The room presses in: the scrape of cutlery, the clink of porcelain, the mingling smells of coffee and fried ham.
“Mrs. Byron,” a voice chimes.
Mrs. Taft sweeps toward me in all her silks and pearls, smiling as though we were fast friends. Her gloved hand touches my arm. “Where is your darling husband?”
“He’s not feeling well,” I say, careful, cautious.