Chapter 30
Lord forgive me.
I scrub the blood out from under my fingernails, rinse it from the seams of my dress. Dear God, how could I have done this? Killed an innocent man who never raised a hand against me.
The room whirls. I move through it in a nervous haze, my heart hollowed out like a cored apple. What now? What will become of us?
I want life to be simple again. Even when the waters were cruel, I knew how to keep my head above them. Now I am drowning in Kodiak’s world, the sting of salt and sea in my lungs, and I cannot tell if I am fighting the current or letting it pull me down.
What is the lesson, Lord? Why was he placed in my path?
I pace the small room, cold hands rubbing one another raw. Where has Kodiak gone?
Perhaps he’s only a step away, only a breath beyond the door, but the thought gnaws at me: what if he is farther? What if he has decided I am too much trouble, too much risk? What if he lets them find me?
I listen against the door, straining. Footsteps, chatter. Ordinary shipboard sounds. Nothing of alarm, no shouts of murder. That should ease me. It does not.
He would have taken Kodiak. Better my soul be damned than leave him to the rope. And yet, what of me? What will they do if they discover me? Send me back to Ohio. Back to the Shermans. Back to that inn that was my prison long before Kodiak was carried through its door.
In Ohio, I would no longer be just an innkeeper’s wife. I would be a scandal. They’d look at me with those judging glares, weighing whether to call me whore or conspirator.
Perhaps they’d be right. Perhaps I am both.
But I would rather swing from a gallows beside Kodiak than rot in their parlor, paraded as their wounded bird until the pity turned to scorn.
The ship creaks. Somewhere far down the hall, a child laughs, and the sound is so bright, so alive, it stabs through me. Life is carrying on, as if I did not stain it with evil.
I clean the basin twice, though no blood lingers. Scrub at the floorboards until my knees ache, though they were never marked. The knife I wrap in my shawl, binding it tight as though I could smother its memory.
My gown folded, his coat laid atop, boots polished. I stack it all by the door as if there is no question, no possibility but one: we will leave this ship together when it docks. Step onto Galveston’s soil as man and wife.
The lock clicks.
Kodiak slips inside with a sigh. “There’s another one.”
“Another—”
“Pinkerton. Looked to be waitin’. We got a few hours to port, then when that Pennington don’t show up, they’ll be investigatin’.”
This is it. The end of the road.
Kodiak sinks onto the edge of the bunk, staring at the floorboards like he might burn a hole through them.
“We’ll lay low. Soon as they drop the gangplank, we blend into the first-class crowd best we can.
Lord knows rich folk don’t take kindly to bein’ held up, ’specially if they think they’re bein’ accused of a crime.
Steward won’t risk stoppin’ a lady in silk.
All we need’s a little luck, a steady walk, and for you to hold your chin up like you was born in a pile a’gold.
You do that, and we’ll step on Galveston soil with pockets full and a whole new life waitin’. ”
I try to believe him. To let his certainty soak into me. Though hope is brittle, I nod anyway. Because what else is there? We will walk off this ship together—or not at all.
The air changes before the harbor comes into view. It’s charged now, like static, clouds above threatening a downpour as first-class folk make ready to disembark. Kodiak and I wait in the cabin until the last possible minute.
When he finally nods, we gather the bags. They’re heavier than sin. My arms ache before we even reach the passage.
“Head high,” he instructs. “Don’t you falter.”
The staircase down to the main deck feels endless. A tide of silks and fine hats presses around us, and I try to mimic their ease, their polish, but sweat trickles down my back.
Then I see him. The Pinkerton by the gangplank. Bowler hat, brown coat, eyes sharp as he watches each passenger descend, his thumb brushing the silver watch in his vest pocket. Waiting.
Waiting for us.
The crowd slows, clusters. A steward murmurs apologies as he checks tickets, his voice thin against the swell of passengers. The Pinkerton scans every face, lips set in a grim line.
Kodiak’s hand brushes mine—barely a touch, but enough to ground me. His whisper is hot at my ear. “Easy, lamb.”
My heart thunders as we inch forward. Every step a lifetime.
Ahead, the Pinkerton leans toward a gentleman, asks a quiet question, then lets him pass.
We’re three paces away. Two. The gangplank is there, sunlight glaring off the water, freedom close enough to taste.
The Pinkerton’s eyes cut to mine. Hold. Narrow. He steps forward, blocking the way.
“Ma’am. Sir.” His voice is polite, but firm enough to freeze me where I stand. “If you’ll pardon me, your baggage, please.”
Kodiak’s grip tightens on the handle of his case. The air hums between us. This is it—the choice. Hand it over and be undone. Fight and damn everyone in sight.
Kodiak straightens, a bear rising to its full height. “You best mind yourself. I don’t answer to hired men. Nor does my wife.”
A ripple passes through the line of passengers. Heads turn. Hisses prickle the air. Kodiak’s chin lifts a fraction higher, disdain cutting sharp across his face.
The Pinkerton doesn’t flinch. His eyes flick from Kodiak’s hand on the case to my face, then back again. “Sir,” he says. “Your name.”
Kodiak’s jaw hardens. “I’m not obliged to give it.”
“Travelers of interest match your description,” the man goes on, hand close to his coat. “I’ll need to search your luggage.”
“No, you won’t,” Kodiak answers, loud enough to feed the crowd eager for spectacle. The Pinkerton’s hand drops to the pistol at his hip, resting the heel of his hand on it.
“Mr. Byron!” Mrs. Taft sweeps forward, pearls flashing, indignant as a queen. “How dare you!” she says to the Pinkerton, planting her hand firmly on Kodiak’s arm. “This man and his wife are friends of ours.”
The Pinkerton’s eyes slide to her hand. To her glove. White silk, marred by a faint smear of brown-red.
Blood.
“Madam, where did you come by that stain?”
“What stain?”
The Pinkerton reaches for her, taking her wrist and twisting her arm slightly to give her a better look.
She stammers. “I-I cannot say. Perhaps the dining room, perhaps—”
He interrupts her. “Madam, please step aside.” He turns to us. “You step aside as well, please. I’ll need to speak with you all privately.”
Kodiak squares his shoulders. “We’re disembarking, same as anyone. We’ve nothin’ to say, in private or otherwise.”
The Pinkerton tips his head at a steward. “Bring me their bags.”
The steward hesitates, glances at us, then reaches for the case in Kodiak’s hand.
“Wouldn’t recommend it, boy,” Kodiak growls, voice dangerous.
The steward startles, but the Pinkerton presses. “It will be returned once I’ve inspected it.”
That’s when Kodiak moves. One hand seizes the Pinkerton’s pistol, the other drives his shoulder forward, twisting the man off balance. Before anyone can gasp, the barrel’s pressed to his temple.
The Pinkerton’s eyes widen.
A shot splits the air like cannon fire.
Gore sprays across the steward’s coat. The Pinkerton crumples sideways, skull shattered, the echo rolling through the ship’s timbers. For a heartbeat the deck freezes, stunned into silence.
Then the gates of hell burst open.
Screams. Shrieks. Parasols scatter. Men shove their wives behind them. Children wail. A gentleman vomits into the sea. Mrs. Taft stands perfectly still, expression frozen, silk hat spattered with blood.
Kodiak shoves the smoking gun into his waistband, seizes me hard by the arm, and drags me through the chaos.
“Move!”
We plunge into the sea of first-class passengers. They claw at each other, scrambling for distance from the corpse. I stumble, clutching the satchel to my chest. It’s heavy, so heavy. The steward slips in blood, and Kodiak kicks him square in the chest, toppling him into the rail.
Every officer’s whistle shrieks at once, the shrill blasts cutting through the panic.
“Stop them! Stop the shooter!”
But Kodiak is already angling toward the service stair, the narrow iron flight meant for crew. He barrels down, dragging me with him, boots pounding, shouts echoing above.
A shot rings out, then another.
Wood splinters near my shoulder. My scream catches in my throat.
“Keep low!” Kodiak snarls, shoving me ahead.
We burst into the lower deck, the stink of coal thick in the air. Dockside ropes are already being thrown ashore. Dockhands shout; whistles blow; chaos reigns above us.
Freedom gleams just ahead.
“Almost there, just—”
A bullet rips past, biting into my side. I stumble, blood warm at my hip.
Kodiak catches me before I fall, hauling me tight against him as he runs headlong for the gangway. My knees buckle. The satchel slips in my grasp. I clutch harder, knuckles white, but my strength is leaving me. The bag drags me down with its weight, like an anchor pulling me under.
“Bear,” I gasp again. “I can’t—”
Eyes wild and blood streaking his face, he notices the crimson staining my gown and he makes a quick decision. “Drop it,” he orders.
I shake my head, tears spilling. “No. We came this far, we—”
“Drop it, goddamn it!” His voice is a whip, fierce and final.
I let go, and the satchel strikes the dock with a hollow thud, bursts open, and gold scatters like embers from a fire. Coins roll wild, jewels skitter across the planks. Hands dive for them—porters, passengers, and strangers scrambling like rats.
I sway, breath shuddering in my throat. Kodiak hauls me up into his arms, cradling me against his chest. Behind us, the fortune vanishes into grasping hands, gone as if it never was. Ahead, only the open dock, the sun blazing cruel and bright.
“Hold on, lamb,” he growls, barreling forward, voice raw with something I’ve never heard in him before—fear. “Ain’t no gold in this world worth losin’ you.”
We hit the gangway at full tilt. Dockhands scatter, dropping coils of rope and crates as Kodiak barrels through. Blood drips from my side, hot down my skirts, but he doesn’t slow, doesn’t falter.
Someone yells, “Catch the outlaw!”
Pistols crack, shots raining down from the rails.
Kodiak clears the gangway in three strides, boots hitting Galveston soil with a thunder that rattles through me. He scans once, sharp as a hawk, and spies a carriage horse tied to a post. The horse rears at the noise, the whites of its eyes flashing.
Kodiak’s already moving, barreling toward the animal, brushing men aside like they’re no more than stalks of tall grass. With one savage wrench, he rips the reins loose, vaults onto the beast’s back, and yanks me up in front of him.
Pain sears through my flank as I’m hauled across his thighs. His arm locks around me, an iron band.
“Hold on,” he cries.
Gunfire cracks from the wharf, bullets sparking off crates, tearing through canvas. Dockhands duck, women shriek, men scatter in every direction. The horse bolts at the sound and rips down the wharf, knocking over barrels and baggage. Briny wind whips my hair across my face, stinging my eyes.
At our backs, whistles sing, and we leave the port a kicked hornets’ nest of fury. Ahead, the wide street gapes open, lined with carriages, wagons, and startled townsfolk diving for cover.
Kodiak’s voice rumbles against my ear, fierce and raw. “Don’t you quit on me now, lamb. You hear me? You keep breathin’.”
I clutch at his arm, slick with sweat and blood, and try to answer, but the words won’t come.
The horse’s muscles band and strain under us, every tromp lashing my wound, but I cling to Kodiak, the only thing keeping me from descending into the abyss.
The world blurs, bright sun flashing, shadows strobing past as the horse flies beneath us.
My fingers slip on Kodiak’s arm, too slick, too weak.
“Stay with me!” His chest hammers against my back, every breath of his ragged and fierce.
Mine come shallow, broken. My skirts cling heavy, wet with blood. The air tastes of iron. I try to lift my head to answer him, but my vision spins, dark pressing in from the edges.
“Kodiak,” I breathe, barely a whisper.
His arm tightens, crushing me close, his voice breaking rough as I’ve never heard. “Don’t you dare leave me, lamb. Don’t you—”
But I’m already plummeting, sinking into the dark. Away from his voice, his heat, the charge of hooves. The last thing I feel is his grip, fierce and steadfast, the last sound his roar—half prayer, half curse.
Consumed by endless black.