Free Elizabeth Grayson by Moon in the Water Page B

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    Making his way down to the Texas deck, Chase paused outside the door to his cabin. He smoothed his hair, let out a long, gusty sigh, and reached for the knob. It turned beneath his hand, but when he leaned into the panel nothing happened. He jiggled the latch and nudged a little harder. The door didn’t budge.
    Ann had locked him out of his own cabin!
    Chase fought a sharp jab of annoyance. “Ann,” he said, leaning close to the door so his voice wouldn’t carry. “Open up, Ann. I need to talk to you.”
    He didn’t hear so much as a whisper of movement from inside. Not a rustle, not a murmur.
    “Let me in, Ann,” His voice was sharper, less cajoling.
    He could imagine her sitting in there, knitting or reading with single-minded purpose while he stood out here.
    “Ann, please!”
    The silence persisted, growing stubborn, insolent, mutinous. Anger chewed along his nerves.
    “Ann!”
    Nothing.
    Damn the woman, anyway. All he wanted was to settle in the captain’s sitting room, savor a brandy and a cheroot, and reflect on all he’d accomplished. He’d been working toward this moment all his life. It was his triumph, damn it! His proof that a boy who’d been taken in out of pity could make something of himself.
    He wasn’t going to let Ann Rossiter—Ann
Hardesty
or whoever the hell she was—spoil his victory. He wasn’t going to let her lock him out of his own cabin.
    He glared at the door. He could break the lock without half-trying. He could kick his way into that stateroom and show Ann
Hardesty
that her new husband wasn’t a man to be trifled with.
    He backed up a step, balanced on his left leg and flexed his right. Did he really want to burst into that cabin and begin married life by bullying his wife into submission? Did he want the crew and passengers to come trooping up here to see what the commotion was about?
    That thought sobered Chase faster than a dip in the river. He straightened, let out his breath, braced back against the railing and glared at the door.
    He had to get Ann off his boat.
    What the devil was she doing in that cabin anyway?
    He realized all at once that the sitting-room windows were dark, and the only illumination glimmered dimly between the halves of the bedroom curtains.
    He stepped up close to the glass and peered between the velvet panels. He could only see a narrow slice of the room, the bottom half of the bunk, the built-in shaving stand on the opposite wall and the mirror that hung above it.
    He saw that Ann lay fully clothed toward the outer edge of his berth. That she was dressed meant either that Skirlin had neglected to have her baggage delivered, or that she thought the layers of clothes might offer some protection.
    Against him, he supposed.
    Chase let out his breath in exasperation.
    As he looked closer, he could see she slept with her knees drawn up and had left the lamp burning, like a child afraid of the dark. And he was suddenly very glad he hadn’t gone charging into that cabin like a madman.
    Still, a spark of resentment burned in him. Today he had gotten everything he’d ever wanted for himself, and Ann was spoiling his victory.
    Biting back a curse, he turned from the window and took the stairs down to the boiler deck where a few hardy passengers stood in the cold, smoking cigars. He spoke to each of the men in turn, then stepped into the warmth of the pastry kitchen.
    Unlike the galleys on most steamboats, Frenchy Bertin’s was spotless. The wide wooden tables had been wiped with vinegar, the floors swept, and the food stored away in the pie safe or carefully covered with cheesecloth.
    Since he’d elected to remain in the pilothouse right through supper, Chase was hungry. He scavenged two slices of bread, then headed into the starboard galley where Harley Crocker prepared the meat and vegetables. After making himself a sandwich of sliced beef and horseradish, Chase wandered back to Frenchy’s side of the boat for a slice of pie and a glass of whiskey