Free River Queen by Gilbert Morris Page B

you were being a gentleman.”
    “Maybe if you acted more like a lady, I’d act more like a gentleman,” he drawled.
    “Ooh! You’re insufferable!” Julienne almost shouted.
    “Okay, then, if you can’t stand me so bad, I guess you don’t want my help. Be seeing you, Miss Ashby.” He turned to walk toward the double doors.
    But just before he disappeared Julienne said, “Wait. I mean, please wait, Mr. Bronte.”
    “Yes?” he said, turning.
    “It seems I require some assistance with my trunks,” she said in the politest tone she could manage. “Would you please help me, sir?”
    “I dunno. What about your little French pet he-goat? He gonna show up and try to butt my shins again?” he asked, his strange greenish eyes alight.
    Julienne gritted her teeth. “Mr. Etienne Bettencourt is not my—oh, never mind. I’m asking you, as a gentleman, to please render your assistance to a lady.”
    “Of course, ma’am.” He went back to the trunk he’d placed, and Julienne thought he was going to lift the top again. She bolted to it and slammed her hand against the top, looking at him accusingly.
    “I was just going to see if you locked it back, ma’am,” he said. “Stored down here, it better be locked.”
    “Oh. Well. No, I suppose I didn’t. You confused me. Here, I’ll lock it now.” She bent to insert the key and lock the trunk securely again.
    Dallas Bronte went to the other trunk, which was slightly smaller, and brought it to the corner. When Julienne finished, he set it on the top of the other one. “It was kinda funny, you know,” he murmured, “you showing me your pretty underthings.”
    “It wasn’t. And neither was the pet goat.”
    “Yes, it was,” he said, grinning at her.
    She looked rebellious, then her mouth twitched. “Maybe. Maybe it was just a little funny. Not very funny.”
    “I dunno. Seemed pretty funny to me.”
    They argued the entire time as Dallas walked her back to the stateroom. As he left she was still smiling.

    AT MIDNIGHT JULIENNE MOST definitely was not smiling. The storm had fought them all evening and night, with great deafening peals of thunder, wild wind, and rain that spattered hard against the shuttered window. The steamer rocked and pitched as the Mississippi River fought the fierce elements.
    Still, Julienne was unafraid. She could feel the comforting great throck, throck of the sternwheel paddle, steady and secure. The little steamer was tight and well-built, for they had had no leaks, no water sloshing along the decks, not even dribbles from the single window in the stateroom.
    But Tyla was deathly ill. Her normal rich cocoa-colored skin looked an unhealthy yellow, and her eyes were dull and feverish. As the night had worn on, she had developed a cough with thick congestion. Her coughing had gagged her, and she had vomited until she could bring up nothing else, but still she heaved. Julienne knelt by her bunk, holding her head, keeping the two blankets tucked securely around her. Tyla had grasped her hand in a death grip, gasping that she was scared they were going to wreck, that the storm would kill them. Julienne held her hand and stroked it, telling her in a soothing, soft voice that the boat was fine, that Tyla was just imagining things because she was ill, that Julienne would take care of her and not let anything happen to her. Finally Tyla had fallen back, seemingly senseless.
    Julienne continued to kneel by her and hold her hand, and she felt it grow hot. She pressed her wrist against Tyla’s forehead. Tyla was going into a fever. This isn’t seasickness, Julienne thought uneasily. I wonder if she’s got the influenza? Oh, Lord, no, please not that!
    Influenza had spread among the field hands at Ashby Plantation, and three men, eight women, and eleven children had died. That was why her father had been spending so much time there the last weeks. Aunt Leah, insisting it was her Christian duty, often went out to the plantation with him, nursing the