Free Promise Me This by Cathy Gohlke Page B

would show best in a border or a bed, and the names of plants they were happy to grow beside.
    “I’ll teach him, Lord—all I am able.” Owen scarcely realized he’d spoken aloud or that two hours had passed since he’d begun his task.
    Before Owen finished his prayer, the Swede had broken into the room, eyes glazed and bearing the rank smell of vodka. He gestured toward Owen, then turned his back and ripped apart his duffel, strewing its contents across his bunk. Owen wondered if the man was sober enough to find whatever it was he sought. At last the Swede raised a bottle high and turned to Owen in jubilation. Though his eyes shone bright with drink, his brows peaked in curiosity at Owen’s packets and notes. The man’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement, then opened wide.
    Owen pulled together his packets, feeling strangely exposed with the Swede staring down on him. He knew his bag held not only his future, but that of Annie, of Uncle Sean, Aunt Maggie, and now of Michael. It held his hopes for Lucy, or for someone like her, someday.
    He knew, too, that there were dozens of farmers headed for the fertile soil in America, possibly the Swede among them. Any one of them would find a select stock of seed, free for the taking, a temptation. They would have no way of knowing the difference between common seed stock and the results of four years plus his father’s life work.
    Owen’s bag no longer felt a secure hold for his precious cargo. It was not as though he could take his lot to the purser’s office and ask that his valuables be locked in the safe. He would be laughed from the cabin.
    He turned his back on the Swede, hoping the man would return to his drinking, but it seemed to Owen that he dallied. Owen tucked the bag between himself and the wall, lay the full length of the bunk, and made as if to go to sleep. Still the Swede stayed, and it felt to Owen like waiting.
    The minutes ticked by and Owen found himself struggling to keep awake after a long day and precious little sleep the night before. He’d nearly dropped off when he felt the man’s presence too near. He opened his eyes to find the Swede standing above him. The man stepped back. Owen sat up and stared as the big man fumbled for his coat sleeves and stomped from the room, color in his cheeks.
    As soon as the Swede’s footsteps died down the corridor, Owen pulled a sewing kit and linen nightshirt from his bag. Ripping the shirt into a dozen pieces, he began to stitch pockets, deep and wide, to the inside of his jacket and more along the inner front of his heavy coat.
    Owen was still sewing when Michael burst in. “You’re awake, Mr. Owen! Do you want to have a go at the dancing?”
    “No, I don’t. I want you to put my jacket on and keep it on.”
    “Your jacket? But why, sir?”
    “Because I said so,” Owen snapped.
    Michael waited.
    Owen tossed the hair out of his strained eyes and cracked the tension from his neck. He jabbed the needle sideways through his coat and all but swore at the tenth bloodied prick of his fingers.
    “Do you want me to sew that for you, Mr. Owen?”
    “Can you run a stitch?”
    “Aye, I can, sir. I’ve had some practice on my own shirts. Mrs. Cairn taught me.”
    Owen didn’t know who Mrs. Cairn was, but he blessed her and gladly turned the needle over to Michael.
    “But why am I sewing patches inside your coat, sir?”
    “Pockets, not patches—to hold the seeds and roots and shoots I’ve collected from my flowers and roses in England. They’re the beginning of our Old World garden for America. Without these my help won’t mean much to Uncle Sean.”
    “Are you afraid someone might pinch them? Is that why we’re sewing them inside?”
    “You’re quick.”
    Michael shook his head and bit off the end of thread. “Experienced, sir. Experienced.”
    Owen tried not to smile. “Good, then. You understand.”
    “It’s the Swede, ain’t it? He’s a shifty-looking fellow. I don’t trust him, not from the minute