Chapter 32
ALICE
Bear and I lie in our bunk. The groan of the ship keeps time along the passing hours.
His chest rises and falls against my back, one arm slung heavy across my waist. “Texas is wide,” he says, his breath warm against my neck.
“Plenty of land to claim. A haul like this will set us up right. Build a house somewhere nice. Quiet.”
“With cattle?”
“With cattle. Or hogs.”
“We can have both.”
“And chickens,” he adds. “Live off the land.”
“That would be nice. But we need to make it off this ship first.”
“We’ll make it off this ship,” he says. There’s no doubt in his voice. His arms tighten around my middle.
I shift to face him, the wood beneath us creaking. The lantern in our tiny room casts just enough light to catch his features—the stubble that roughens his jaw, the pale scar that splits his eyebrow, his eyes—gold, green, something in between. One of them has a fleck in it, like an ember.
“What are you lookin’ for?” he asks, curious.
I rest my hand on his cheek, letting my thumb graze the edge of his mouth. His skin is warm, and I can feel the slow beat of his blood under my palm.
“Just learning you, I suppose.”
He doesn’t speak, and I don’t need him to. The ship sways beneath us, a slow cradle rocked by rough water. Somewhere, men murmur through the walls. One laughs too loud. Another coughs. But in our little bunk, it’s just us. He smiles that slow, reluctant smile that only shows on one side.
“Ain’t much to see.”
I start to speak, but he catches my hand and kisses the heel of it.
His hand finds my hair and brushes it back behind my ear. “You look at me like I ain’t half bad.”
I shift closer, touch my forehead to his, thumb tracing the edge of that scar above his eye. “You don’t have to be bad,” I whisper. “There’s goodness in you. I see it.”
He huffs. Not quite a laugh, more like disbelief. “Don’t tell nobody,” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t want word gettin’ out.”
The ship groans. His thumb brushes along my ribs with a tender rhythm.
“Sleep,” he says, barely audible. “I’ll keep watch.”
I close my eyes, steadied by the rhythm of his inhales and exhales, until the night melts into day.
Pain.
Searing pain. It radiates from my hip, deep and jagged, like something hot and wrong is lodged beneath the bone.
It’s bandaged. Why?
I try to breathe, but drawing in air is a labor in itself.
The ceiling is high and yellowed, wooden beams crossing overhead like ribs. A single oil lamp flickers in the corner. A woman’s voice sounds, faint behind a wall. Boards creaking above, as if someone’s pacing.
The sheets are coarse. My skin sticks to them.
I try to turn my head, and a bolt of pain shoots through my spine. My breath hitches.
“Bear?” His name barely escapes my lips. The memory clings to me—his arms around me, the sway of the ship, his voice whispering, Sleep. I’ll keep watch.
But the bed is too wide. The room is too cold.
He’s not here.
Where has he gone?
The memory floats just out of reach. I try to remember his voice clearly, but it slips sideways, muddied by pain and the weight of whatever happened next.
Did we make it off the ship?
We must have.
My eyes open again, lids heavy. A figure moves near the door, shape blurred by the lamp’s low flicker.
“You’re awake,” a woman says. Her dress rustles as she crosses the room. I catch the hem of a gray skirt, the edge of an apron. A basin in her arms.
“You’ll want to stay still.” She sets the basin on a table I hadn’t noticed. “You’ve torn the stitches once already.”
“Where—” My throat rasps. I try again. “Where is he?”
She doesn’t answer right away, just pours water into a chipped enamel bowl. The scent of carbolic soap curls through the air.
“You’ll need broth. Something soft.”
“Where is he?” I ask again, louder now.
She looks at me. Older, lined face full of pity, like she’s seen too many women wake up asking the same question.
“I don’t know who you mean,” she says.
The light is sharp now. Not the flicker of a lantern, but sun, high and intense, pouring through the window. It’s midday. I must’ve slept through morning.
The nurse dips a cloth in the basin and pats my forehead with it. Her hands are efficient, impersonal.
“Who brought me here?” I ask.
She glances at me, then back at her work. “I couldn’t say. You were brought in some days ago. Carried in unconscious.”
“How many days?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Wrings the cloth out. Folds it over. “Four. Maybe five.”
My heart kicks in my chest. Nearly a week. A floorboard creaks. A shadow moves behind her. “No. No. How can-–”
“Shhh, shhh. It’s all right.”
The voice crawls in like a draft under the door. Soft. Familiar.
I know the voice before I see the face.
Virgil.
Hat in hand, his hair is neatly combed, and the only sound he makes is the click of his shined boots. He draws the leather from his hand slowly, peeling off his gloves.
“Well,” he says, smiling faintly, “you are awake.” He approaches with the calm of a man who owns the bed, the room, and the land beneath the building.
“You gave us quite a fright,” he says, settling into the chair beside me.
“We had the entire country searching for you. Notices in every rail town between here and the Lakes. Pinkertons, private agents—we spared no expense. And now,” he continues, folding his hands, “we’ve found you.
In Galveston. In the company of the man who killed my brother. ”
My stomach tightens, but I say nothing.
“You were unconscious when he brought you in. Curious, don’t you think? An outlaw carrying his victim into a hospital at such great personal expense?”
He lets the question linger.
“One might almost mistake it for concern. Of course, no one is making assumptions. Not yet. These are complicated matters. Emotions. Fear. Confusion.” His voice gentles.
“You were taken. You were grieving. You lost your husband under violent circumstances, then vanished without a trace. That is a tremendous burden for any woman.”
I turn my face slightly toward the window.
“But now that you’re safe, the proper course can be set.
Justice can be served. Joseph can have peace.
And so can you.” He leans forward just enough that I can feel the shift in air, the nearness of him.
“The trial will be soon,” he says, lower now, almost private.
“You’ll be called to speak. All I ask is that you tell the truth, Alice. ”
A trial? If there’s to be a trial, that means they have him. My mouth goes dry as ash. I cannot let it show. Virgil is watching.
“I’m sure you remember what that is,” he adds.
I smooth the sheet with my fingers, steadying them. When I speak, my voice is soft. “Of course I remember.” I meet his eyes. “Thank you. For coming.” A smile. Just enough to keep him from looking deeper.
Virgil returns the smile, polite as ever.
“Of course. I wouldn’t be anywhere else.
” He picks up his gloves but doesn’t put them on.
Just smooths the fingers flat against his thigh.
“There will be a deposition before the trial. A statement taken under oath. It will be read before the court, alongside your live testimony. The federal prosecutors will ask for details—how he took you, where he kept you, what you saw.”
He glances at me. There’s nothing sharp there. Nothing overt. Just the glint of calculation.
“They’ll want to know why you didn’t escape.
Why you didn’t run when you had the chance.
” A long pause. He clasps the gloves in both hands now.
“You were in mourning. You were taken from your home, disoriented, coerced. You were held against your will, moved across state lines by a violent man—one responsible for the death of your husband.”
He recites it like a script. Polished. Unassailable.
“You feared for your life. He threatened you. You did not participate. You were forced to witness unspeakable things. You followed him only because there was no choice. That is the truth I expect you’ll be telling.”
I feel the heat rising behind my eyes, but I say nothing.
Virgil stands. “Because any other version,” he says, straightening his cuffs, “would be unfortunate. For you. For the Sherman name. There is no public appetite for hanging a woman. Especially not one who used to sit at my family’s table.
” He walks to the foot of the bed. Slow, composed.
“What I am offering you, sister, is not protection from the law. It’s protection from what the law will do to you if you defend that man. ”
Sister. My jaw tightens and fury brews hot in my belly. I cannot hold my tongue at these thinly veiled threats. At his revisionist history. My voice is steady, but cold. “I am not your sister. Do you think I loved your family? That I loved Joseph?”
He lets out a breath. Not quite a sigh, more like disappointment I am no longer participating in this charade.
“That’s irrelevant. What matters is what the papers print.
What the jury hears. What the Sherman name can survive.
Our relationship with the L&N is critical.
We cannot afford for them—or any of our partners—to believe a Sherman ran off with a criminal who derailed their trains and cost them thousands in damages. ”
He looks at me, no softness left.
Of course. It’s only ever been business.
“We will not suffer that loss because you couldn’t control yourself.”
The words land like a slap. Not shouted, but sharp enough to cut. I feel him waiting for something. A denial. A protest. Even tears. I give him nothing.
Let him fill the silence with whatever story he needs.
After a long moment, I hear the rustle of his gloves as he pulls them back on.
“Rest, Alice,” he says, smoothing the leather down each finger. “You’ll need your strength for the days ahead. There’s no need to dwell on what’s already decided. The truth will keep you safe.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
My body is rigid. The light through the window shifts again, catching the brass bed frame and throwing a dull gleam across the floor. The nurse doesn’t return. No one comes.
Just me and the pain.
Kodiak is in custody.
There will be a trial.
And he will hang.
My gut turns, and I brace against the mattress. A shiver runs up through my shoulders, into my throat. I blink hard as tears burn. I try to breathe, but my chest won’t rise. It’s too heavy. Like something’s caved in. Like something's crushed beyond repair.
A sob tears loose before I can swallow it.
It slips out sharp and ugly, then another follows, and suddenly I’m crying—quiet, violent.
I clutch the blanket, bury my face in it, teeth clenched to keep from screaming.
I cry until my ribs ache and my throat is raw.
Until the only sound left is my breath and the madness echoing in my head.
He will hang.
Unless I do something.