Free Scalpdancers by Kerry Newcomb

I visited my mother for the last time. Today I kissed a man for the first time,” she said, attempting to regain her composure. “Everything is changing. Everything I knew and trusted and counted on. Nothing will ever be the same again. And neither will I.” She unbound her hair, letting the auburn tresses fall, and her eyes flashed with defiance. She laughed aloud, a brittle sound, and turned to climb into the carriage. She glanced toward the church to find her father standing in the doorway, watching her. There was no doubt he had witnessed her behavior. She held out her hand and allowed Morgan to help her up, then scooted over, making room for him beside her.
    Julia grabbed the whip and applied it to the mare, and the carriage lurched forward. Morgan had to grab the edge of the seat to keep from being dislodged as they sped away from the hillside and the watcher in the doorway. Once they were out of sight beyond a granite outcrop, Morgan managed to wrest the lines from the woman’s grasp and rein the carriage to an awkward stop. Julia tried to regain control, but he caught her arms and drew her close, to take a kiss of his own.
    â€œNo,” she halfheartedly protested. “We sail at first light. And I shall never see you again.”
    â€œAll the better,” Morgan said and took his kiss, overpowering her token resistance. She was fire in his arms.
    â€œI know a place …” he bega.
    â€œTake me there,” she said.

4
    Temperance Rawlins bellowed for the trio of men unloading the barrels of salt pork to cease their efforts and wait for him by their wagon. Then Temp trotted up the gang-plank and with a nod to young Tim Britchetto forced the younger man to stand aside. Tim set down the barrel of provisions he’d just carried aboard.
    â€œWhen it comes to my salt pork, I like to inspect the wares,” Temp said with a wink. “Now I’ve eaten more’n my share of stale bread, but I’ll not be goin’ to sea with wormy meat.” The first mate drew his cutlass and worked the tip of the blade under the barrel lid and pried the covering loose. He lifted the lid. The odor would have bowled over a buzzard. “Now that’ll steal the wind from your sails,” Temp gasped. “Tainted. Look at them maggots wiggle.” He sliced a chunk with the cutlass and lifted the tip of the blade to hold the rancid morsel beneath Tim’s nose. The chunk was riddled with maggots feasting on the rotted flesh.
    Tim grimaced, almost gagged, and tried to look innocent, but Temp wasn’t buying his act.
    â€œHow many times have I told you to inspect these supplies before they come aboard?”
    â€œBut they come from Don Rodrigo. He’s a friend, ain’t he?” Tim protested.
    â€œThe only friend a sailor has is common sense,” Temp retorted and he rapped a knuckle against the youth’s skull. “Let it sink in, lad; listen to old Temp Rawlins and maybe one day you’ll captain your own ship like Morgan Penmerry. Why, if it weren’t for me takin’ him under my wing so to speak when he was but a young pup and learnin’ him the ways of the sea, he’d have wound up danglin’ from a yardarm or tossed into the sea for shark bait, mark me well.” Temp glanced about the deck. His eyebrows arched. “Speak of the devil, the captain hasn’t showed yet?”
    There was little activity on the deck, though Ansel Arvidson and a half-dozen men labored below deck, repairing the burned-out timbers in the ship’s hold.
    â€œNot that I’ve seen,” Tim replied, eager to shift attention from the salt pork. “And we’ve a dozen men gone again. They figured once we outfitted the ship there’d be nothing left to warm their palms but blisters. They want their wages in advance.”
    â€œDamn their black hearts,” Temp cursed. Then he cocked an eye and stroked his stubbled chin and studied the youth