Travels With Isabel

Prequel to The Ocean Between Us

Travels with Isabel by

Susan Wiggs CONTENTS Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty

Isabel Fish-Wooten has lived a life of travel and adventure, always staying one step ahead of her mysterious past. She considers herself a tourist — not just of landmarks but of life itself. Only on the rarest of occasions does she feel the phantom twinge of loneliness. Now, on a train headed toward San Francisco, Isabel has no idea what the future has in store. Could this adventure lead her to what she's always longed for: a place to call home?

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Chapter One: Letter to a Friend Friday, 29 May 1891 En route to San Francisco, California To Mrs. Michael Rowan, Moon Lake Lodge, Saratoga Springs, New York My dear Helena, I was pleased to find your delightful letter waiting for me at the Western Union office in Chicago. For the past year, I have been touring the fabled cities of your vast nation — Philadelphia and Baltimore, Atlanta and New Orleans and St. Louis, and then Chicago, where your note was waiting. I apologize for the delay in writing this reply, but my travels often keep me from attending to social duties. That is a distinct flaw in my character, and one I frequently pledge — and subsequently fail — to repair. I think often and with deep fondness of the ladies of Moon Lake Lodge. It was a privilege to witness the discovery of thermal springs on the property. You have created a unique and special haven for women who need a safe place to go. Fame of the thermal springs is spreading. I purchased a copy of Rand & McNally's Pictorial Railroad Guide, and you can imagine my surprise and delight when I saw that the Sarah Dalton Memorial Spring has been listed as a point of particular interest. It was with unfettered delight that I greeted the news that you and Michael are expecting a baby... Isabel paused to reread what she'd written. She read slowly, distracted by the rhythmic sway of the Pullman Palace car. She was lucky to be aboard. Among her fellow passengers were the Honorable

Henry Harrison Markham, Governor of California, along with his wife and daughters. The presence of the eminent politician and his family created a shortage of decent berths. Never averse to a challenge when it came to traveling, Isabel had sweet-talked a clerk into a first-class billet, which included privileges in the opulent Palace car. Kitty-corner from Isabel sat a preacher and his wife who appeared to be blissful newlyweds. Though their clothes and bags were homemade and threadbare, they seemed oblivious to all but each other. A few other passengers occupied the remaining seats and banquettes, but they generally kept to themselves. With a hand that was not quite steady, Isabel inserted her pen tip into a narrow-necked bottle of Louis Waterman's Patented Ink. She pumped to refill the chamber, and gathered in a breath for strength. Just lately, she seemed to have particular trouble congratulating people expecting a baby. Sometimes, without warning, a terrible and frightening envy reared up in her, leaving her breathless. It was not that she yearned for anything of the sort — far from it, she sternly reminded herself. But she would have to be deaf and blind to fail to notice that women her age all seemed to possess a husband and at least one baby, usually more. Her life of travel and adventure left no room for anyone else; certainly not a child. She would leave the child-rearing to other women. To women who enjoyed staying in one place and tending to hearth and home, women who had husbands. With firm resolve, she wiped her pen nib on the felt cloth in her writing kit, held back the frothy Camden lace spilling from her sleeve, and finished her letter. ...I wish you all the best as you prepare for the imminent accouchement. I was also pleased to hear that young William's studies are going well, and that he has come to enjoy the excitement of sports and the outdoors as much as he loves his books and studies. I am equally impressed by the progress of your own scholarship, my dear Helena. It was extremely courageous of you to declare yourself unable to read or write, and then to set yourself to the task of learning. A willing heart can conquer anything, and your achievement is proof. As for myself, I still remember with utmost affection my brief sojourn at Moon Lake Lodge last August, though as you know, I never stay in a place longer than a single season. My plans for the coming months are as yet unformed, but rest assured it will be a summer filled with adventures. Most sincerely yours, Miss Isabel Fish-Wooten. She waved the sheet of paper in the hot air, both to fan herself and to dry the ink. When her words turned a burnt amber color, she folded and sealed the letter. Ordinarily, she never wrote to people, but Helena Rowan had been good to her once, and Isabel would not forget that kindness. When she had first come to America, born like a phoenix from the ashes of an unspeakable past, she had landed instantly in trouble. Helena and the ladies of Moon Lake Lodge had offered her safe haven. Now, as she'd confessed to Helena, it was time for something new. Isabel didn't know what to expect when she arrived in San Francisco, but of course that was the way she preferred to conduct her life — as a series of surprises. That way, she was never bored. Only on the rarest, most unguarded occasions did she feel a phantom twinge of loneliness. Melancholy was for fools; it was a fact of life, and Lord knew, she of all people should be well used to it. Determined to drive the yearning from her heart, she consulted her Pictorial Railroad Guide and scanned

the bare facts about her destination. In her travels she had discovered that locals found it charming when you showed even the vaguest interest in their domicile. They loved to show off their city's neighborhoods and monuments. Isabel knew how to win their hearts. All one had to do was show her respect and admiration for a city. She might even confess to feeling a twinge of envy that they had the privilege of living in such a grand place as New York City or Georgetown or Saratoga Springs or Chicago. There was nothing a person liked more than to believe his hometown was heaven on earth. Isabel preferred the anticipation of travel and the lure of the unfamiliar. One never knew what adventures would befall her in a new place. Perhaps she would even find what she was looking for — a place to call home. She cast aside the misguided thought, letting it sail away overhead like cinders from the engine's furnace smokestack. The whistle blew and the train slowed, causing the passengers to stir and crane their necks toward the windows in hopes of a glimpse of San Francisco. But when Isabel looked out, she saw only the same dun-colored hills and tender new fields of green that had marked the journey since they'd crossed the Sierras. She reminded herself that this was America, where trains were known to stop for passengers in the middle of nowhere. There, in the distance, an elderly woman stood beside the tracks, alerting the train with the yellow and black flag prescribed by the railroad company. The woman was dressed in a voluminous black gown and a deep-brimmed poke bonnet. She held a pink knitted shawl over her shoulders, obscuring the lower half of her face. With a hiss of steam and the cold squeal of braking steel wheels, the train came to a stop. As they drew closer to the flag, a slight frown puckered Isabel's brow. There was something peculiar about the woman. She was unusually tall, and too warmly bundled up for this heat. Isabel shot to her feet. "That's not —" A burst of gunshot drowned her out. That was when she knew for certain that they were not taking on a passenger, but a gang of train robbers.

Chapter Two: A Secret Weapon Isabel silently derided herself for failing to spot the ruse immediately. A master of disguise, she ought to have seen through the outlaw's costume soon enough to warn people. She was not surprised when, a moment later, the crone shed her bonnet and wrap, and sprinted toward the locomotive, brandishing a gun in each hand. She heard a too-familiar pop, a horse's whinny and then the shriek of a woman passenger. Now Isabel realized she was as helpless as anyone else — for the time being. "What the deuce is going on?" Governor Markham demanded.

"It's a robbery, Henry," said his wife. "Stay down, for goodness' sake." The preacher circled his arms around his wife, squeezed his eyes shut and moved his lips in prayer. As everyone else dove for cover, Isabel calmly lowered the window and leaned out to see what was going on. Two mounted gunmen, their faces hidden by handkerchiefs, held their weapons aimed at the conductor. The stokers and a Pinkerton security agent were already exiting the chamber, their hands held high. The agent was wounded in the right arm. Blood dripped from his hand, and he was shaken and subdued as two other masked men dismounted and boarded the adjacent cars. Isabel had no doubt that the criminals would quickly disarm the rest of the crew and the other railroad security agent. Upon boarding in Chicago, she had assessed and dismissed them as inattentive and slow. The railroad company could learn a thing or two from her about choosing guards. But in America, as in the rest of the world, men fancied they knew everything and had no use for a woman's opinions. "Are we near a town or settlement?" Mrs. Markham demanded. "Perhaps we'll find a sheriff or civil guard." No one replied, but Isabel guessed that they all knew there would be no such luck. This was not a random attack, but a well-planned and coordinated assault. They truly were in the middle of nowhere, in a sea of grass. Just to the side of the tracks was a steep escarpment overlooking a gully. While Isabel watched, she heard another equine whinny, and a glossy black horse cleared the lip of the bank. Mounted astride was a man all in black, brandishing a long-barreled rifle in one hand and the reins in the other. The horse landed with a grunt and then pranced in the dust beside the track. The rider dismounted in a smooth, practiced movement. He stood to a prodigious height as he drew a pistol from a holster strapped to his long, lean thigh. The brim of his black hat shadowed a face obscured by a handkerchief. His shining black boots crunched on the gravel as he approached the Palace car and swung himself up. One of the governor's daughters began to weep softly and fearfully. The preacher across the aisle moved his lips more rapidly in supplication. Isabel felt no fear. The brutal terrors she'd survived in her youth had hardened her to any threat. In fact, she observed the proceedings with grudging admiration. This was clearly a trained team enacting prescribed maneuvers. The railroad company and its hapless passengers didn't stand a chance against the slick robbers. As for the outlaws, who had the railroad men lying prone in the dust, their hands tied behind their backs, they exuded confidence. Cockiness, even. Particularly the ringleader, who entered the car at the far end. His tall form blocked out the light as he stood surveying the cowering passengers with flinty eyes. Clearly, he and his men believed this was an easy job, that in mere moments, they would disappear with their fortune, leaving the train to limp home and its employees to lick their wounds in shame. What the outlaws didn't know — what no one aboard could possibly know — was that the railroad company had a secret weapon. They had Isabel Fish-Wooten, lady adventurer.

Chapter Three: Threatening Circumstances Isabel waited patiently as the outlaws stepped into the beautifully appointed car. The shorter man was a shifty-looking individual with greasy hair and bad skin. The man in black moved with an easy, long-legged grace. He maintained a casual air, as though he were a paying passenger at the start of a holiday. He was startlingly urbane, and his flashing eyes had a mesmeric effect on the governor's daughters, who shrank against their papa, yet managed to peek at the scoundrel with openmouthed fascination. "Good day, ladies and gentlemen," he said, whirling a silver-barreled revolver in his left hand. He was good, Isabel observed, and sure of himself. Too sure. "My friends and I need all your valuables, and then we'll let you be on your way." Isabel heard a Texan's drawl in his incongruously polite words — incongruous because, as he spoke, he aimed his pistol directly at the governor's chest. "Here now," said Governor Markham. "This train's coupled to a mail car. Rob that, if you must. There's no need to harass peace-loving passengers." "Sir, I love peace as well as the next man, so I do hope you'll cooperate. Now, if you please, I'll need you to empty your pockets and hand over your watch. I'll need those gold and onyx studs, too, please." With his gun, he motioned at the front of the governor's shirt. Markham's face flushed crimson as he went through the humiliating procedure of unfastening the studs. Most of the ladies looked away in mortification, but not Isabel. It wasn't every day one saw a governor's undervest. The crook's greasy confederate held out a canvas sack stenciled with the words United States Official Use. With hands that shook, the governor, his wife and his daughters all handed over their jewelry and cash. The tall man murmured his thanks and moved on, collecting cash, jewelry, tobacco, pillboxes and watches. "Just put your valuables in there, my friends," he reminded everyone, "and nothing unfortunate will happen." They were thorough and methodical as they moved through the car. The frightened passengers cooperated. Isabel remained calm and watchful, taking stock of the situation. Outwardly, she appeared to pose no threat. She was small of stature — a legacy of childhood starvation. In her navy traveling suit, fashionable hat and neat white gloves, she projected the image of a well-born lady passenger. A woman struggling to unpin a large, ugly diamond brooch in the shape of a bumblebee began to cry quietly, but she continued to work the pin free and handed it over. "Thank you," said the outlaw. "Now the ring, if you please." "It belonged to my grandmother," she protested, curling her hand into a fist. "Please, won't you let me keep it?" "I'm afraid that's not possible, ma'am. But such a pretty little piece is bound to find a new owner as

charming as yourself." She sniffled as she twisted it off her finger. Then she looked away as she dropped it into the waiting sack. The train car lurched as it was uncoupled from the adjacent mail car, and more panicked gasps and shrieks went up. Outside, a muffled explosion sounded. Smoke and flames billowed from the mail car. The preacher nearby leaned over and whispered to his wife: "I suspect they've blown the safe. Maybe now they'll leave us alone." Isabel knew better. They were criminals. This was what they did, and they wouldn't stop.

Chapter Four: A Bold Step As Isabel suspected, the tall outlaw wasn't finished. Unlike the other passengers, she was not surprised to see the scoundrel calmly carrying on with his looting. The preacher and his wife had nothing save their slender silver wedding bands. The outlaw glanced at them briefly and motioned for his assistant to move on. Isabel softened toward him a tiny bit.

He moved closer to Isabel's end of the car. She waited, seemingly frozen with fear. Actually, she was carefully and methodically taking stock of his arsenal. Of necessity, she was an expert in matters that would send most ladies to a chaise lounge with a fit of the vapors. In addition to the silver-handled pistol he brandished and the obvious rifle slung over his back, he kept a smaller weapon concealed inside his waistcoat. Also, a sheathed knife had been slipped inside each boot; she could just see the tops of the handles. These Americans. They did love their weapons. Finally, he turned to her. She noticed that his trousers and coat appeared to be freshly laundered and pressed. Imagine that, she thought. The man had dressed for the occasion. "Ma'am, I'll just need your valuables, please." She aimed a large-eyed stare at him, carefully exhibiting the proper balance of fear and fascination. "Of course," she said in a soft voice. She'd spent years perfecting her aristocratic English accent, and her assailant was clearly taken with her. Keeping her gaze fastened to his, she took her time removing each glove, finger by finger. She slipped off a gold and enamel ring from Spain and a cabochon bloodstone ring from Indonesia, placing them both in the crude helper's sack. Then she stood, unscrewing the post of first one earring, then the other. All the while, she never took her eyes off the outlaw. He seemed equally intrigued. His eyes swept over her in an invisible caress, lingering at her slightly parted lips and then her breasts. In spite of herself, Isabel tingled with awareness. A peculiar warmth suffused her cheeks, and she found herself attending to the smallest detail — the intriguing curl of black hair in the vee of his open-necked shirt, the delicacy of his grip on the pistol, the tiny indentation of a single smallpox scar on his forehead.

After handing over the earrings, she took a bold step toward him, standing so close she could feel his body heat and smell the scent of his shaving soap. The hem of her skirt brushed his leg. "Now the necklace," he said in a voice so husky and low she had to step even closer to hear him. She moistened her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue. "I always have trouble with the clasp," she confessed, and gently lifted both arms, bending them at the elbows to fumble prettily with the fastening. The necklace was from Tiffany's. She had won it fair and square at a faro table in New Orleans, but she suspected the robber and his partner weren't thinking about that. The hungry expressions in their eyes indicated that she was gaining the upper hand. Her pose was utterly provocative, highlighting her breasts within the broadcloth shirtwaist. Men were such predictable creatures. Even in the midst of a dangerous crime, they were easily distracted. This knowledge of male behavior had saved her skin more than once. "Oh dear," she said with a calculated pout. "I'm afraid it's caught. Can you help?" The outlaw didn't hesitate. He holstered his heavy pistol, leaving the strap unfastened. Offering a smile, Isabel gathered her hair up away from the nape of her neck. The pimply-faced assistant was conquered; she could tell by his quickened breathing. The robber's large hands were unexpectedly deft and gentle as he unclasped the necklace and drew it away from her. She could hear his breathing hitch, could see the handkerchief blowing gently in and out. "I shall miss that necklace," she said forlornly. Ever so slowly, never breaking her provocative pose, she reached down the back of her neck and grasped the handle of her pearl-handled derringer, which she'd concealed there at the first sign of trouble.

Chapter Five: The Reluctant Passenger The train robber was grudgingly, perhaps even charmingly, cooperative as he held his hands up over his head, just as she ordered. The governor rushed forward and seized the long rifle slung over his back. Isabel had to point out the Bowie knives in his boots and the piece in his waistcoat. Then, boldly, she tugged down the handkerchief. Just as she'd suspected, he had a wonderful face, a perfectly shaped mouth and square jaw, and when the light hit him just so, she noticed a cleft in his chin. "Good heavens," she said. "You are the prettiest thief I've ever seen." "No, darlin'," he said. "That honor belongs to you." "I'm no thief," she said. Not anymore. "You've stolen my heart." "That's not amusing." Keeping the gun steady, she invited his partner to drop the bag, leave his weapon and flee, which the cowardly individual did without argument. He alerted the others that their leader had

been captured. They quarreled, apparently about whether or not to put up a fight. The argument was settled by the governor himself, who turned out to be a crack shot with the confiscated rifle. He didn't hit anyone, but created a frightful show of noise and dust with his rapid shooting. In seconds, they mounted up and galloped away with what loot they could carry, the black horse herd-bound to follow, riderless. "There's loyalty for you," the outlaw murmured. "By God, I'll see you hanged for this," blustered Governor Markham. "Now, Henry, sit down and let the security agents come and do their job," his wife warned him. "If they'd been doing their job," Isabel pointed out, "this wouldn't have happened." The preacher trotted outside to release the chief Pinkerton and his deputy, as well as the crew. The ruined mail car was reattached. Everyone was eager to reach San Francisco, so the locomotive ground forward almost immediately. The security agents were carried into the Pullman car. "They're both hurt bad," the preacher said. His wife called for water and cloth to stop the bleeding — one from a head wound, the other from his right arm. The governor's glance fidgeted between the outlaw and Isabel. "You needn't worry, sir," she said primly. "I shall ride the rest of the way, and Mr...." She paused and looked at the tall man. She couldn't bear the thought of that perfect nose being bloodied, that sensual-looking mouth swollen or torn. She was utterly infatuated with him. She was smitten. It was a rare man who could capture her fancy, and she meant to explore the tingling, forbidden feelings that prickled over her skin. "Reaves. Christian Darrow Reaves," he said. "I go by the name Kit." "Mr. Reaves will stay by my side. You may shackle him to the seat rail until we reach San Francisco."

Chapter Six: The Guardian With the exception of the railroad agents, everyone made a great fuss over Isabel for capturing the outlaw Kit Reaves. She would have preferred a word or two of quiet thanks, along with a generous reward, but everyone who witnessed the extraordinary events seemed determined to declare her a heroine. Governor Markham insisted that the moment they reached the city, he would exhort the mayor to declare a holiday, and name it Isabel Fish-Wooten Day. She found this particularly amusing, given the false origins of her name. To his credit, Reaves was a gracious enough loser, particularly since she had forbidden the railroad guards to lay a hand on him.

While the preacher and his wife distributed the stolen cash and jewelry to the relieved passengers, Isabel held out a bottle of Appleton's Curative Tonic. "Thirsty?" "Indeed, I am." "Hold still, then." Isabel knew this would scandalize the other passengers, but she didn't care. That was a great advantage of being a traveler. It was quite possible to outrun people's low opinion of you. She moved to the banquette beside him and held the bottle to his lips, tipping it up to give him a drink. His sun-browned throat worked with leisurely swallows, and when he finished, he smiled at her with genuine gratitude. "Ma'am, if this is how you treat your enemies, I'd be mighty obliged to make friends with you." Isabel replaced the stopper in the bottle, but stayed on the banquette beside him. Some men, she reflected, were born wicked and bad, while others became that way through greed and necessity. She wondered which type Kit Reaves was. "I don't have enemies," she explained. "Hatred saps one's energy and causes premature aging." "Miss Fish-Wooten," he said, "I couldn't agree with you more." A man who was handsome and agreeable was a rare creature indeed. Isabel reminded herself to note that in the travelogue she kept. The quick flash of his smile gratified her. Surely he was a most interesting man, his predilection for crime notwithstanding. And he was a feast for the eyes, with his jet black hair and crystal eyes, his clean-shaven jaw and a mouth that looked nothing short of delicious. She didn't make a practice of kissing men; as a rule, she disliked it, for men had treated her badly before she learned to defend herself. But for this man, she might consider making an exception. "Tell me," he said. "Why did you let the others go free?" "Because your feckless assistant cooperated," she said. "The moment I aimed your gun at him, he dropped his weapon and fled, and the others followed." "I would have done the same," he said with an injured air. "I would have fled." "True. But there is a difference. We will never see your partner again. But you would have come back to rob other trains." "How the devil do you know that?" She turned on the seat to face him. "I know how a criminal thinks, Mr. Reaves." He lifted one eyebrow. "You sound very sure of yourself." "I am sure." She hesitated, unused to revealing so much of herself to anyone. "I was once a criminal myself."

Chapter Seven: An Unlikely Friendship "And are you still a criminal?" Kit Reaves asked. "Certainly not." Isabel felt inordinately comfortable with him. She couldn't figure out why. To the world at large, she had to present a proper facade. She had to be Miss Isabel Fish-Wooten, distinguished gentlewoman, but with this dashing outlaw, she fancied she could let down her guard, if only a little bit. "Mr. Reaves, there was a time when I had to steal in order to keep from dying. Once my survival was assured, I immediately ceased my criminal activities and embraced the ways of a law-abiding citizen." "You're mighty successful. The governor himself keeps looking at you as though he'd like to eat you alive." She whipped her head around to make sure the Markhams weren't listening. "Nonsense, he's a married man." He angled his head toward her so he could speak into her ear. "You think that matters?" His familiarity, coupled with the meaningful looks he kept giving her, caused a pleasurable heat to spread through her. She knew she ought to resist the attraction. He could not be good for her; he was like an excess of Swiss chocolate. Delicious but best taken in small doses. As she studied him, she noticed a tear in his shirt. Through the gap in the fabric, she could see his chest. "Like what you see?" he asked in a bemused voice. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." But then she noticed something else. She discerned a scar, and the wound was unmistakable — the shiny, fleshy and dented region was shadowed by the discoloration of powder burns. "You've been shot." "More than once," he admitted. "But this scar's a decade old. How is it that a fine lady like you can recognize the scar of a gunshot wound?" She didn't answer. Sometimes silence was better than a lie. "Who shot you?" "Now there," he said genially, "is a story, but we're nearly to San Francisco and there's no time to tell you." "You, sir, are a tease." "Yes ma'am." "Devil take you. I don't care how you were shot." "You're just glad I survived." She shifted over to the opposite bench.

"All right," he said, with a jaunty smile. "I'll tell you — briefly. I was a horse soldier in the 117th cavalry, stationed in Fort Carrington, Wyoming. We had a tyrant for a commanding officer. Skinner was his name. Nathaniel Skinner. He was the worst sort — mean and stupid. He sent me out on a woodcutting mission. No one gave a second thought to the tribe of Arapaho camped across the river. Skinner did a lucrative trade with the locals. He sold them any guns they wanted, and whiskey by the barrel." "I thought that was prohibited by law." He chuckled. "You've been a reformed woman for too long. We're talking about a place three hundred miles from nowhere. The law was not what you'd call a formidable presence in the vicinity. Skinner traded whiskey for furs and hides, which he shipped to San Francisco. So it's no surprise that I got shot by a liquored-up boy in the chest and in the leg. Just bad luck. Skinner ordered the fort's medical officer to take my leg — amputate — but the doc refused. He and his nurse worked a whole night to remove the bullet and then treated me for weeks after that, making sure the gangrene didn't set in. I owe that man my leg, if not my life. I always meant to thank him one day. I heard tell he lives in San Francisco now." He stared out the window with a faraway look in his eyes. "Best man I ever knew." "What is his name?" asked Isabel. In her mind's eye, she pictured a noble, selfless man laboring tirelessly to save a young soldier's limb. Such men were rare in her experience; it restored her faith in the world to know they still existed. "Calhoun," said the outlaw. "Dr. Theodore Calhoun."

Chapter Eight: A Lively Discussion At the mention of Dr. Calhoun, Isabel felt a slight stirring of recognition. Her friend Helena's sister, Abigail, was a Calhoun by marriage. It was a common enough name, she supposed, but still she wondered if there might be a connection. She shifted in her seat, her foot knocking over her valise, which she'd nearly forgotten about. Her letter to Helena and several other items spilled out. "Drat," she said between her teeth as she bent to retrieve her belongings. "I'd give you a hand, but..." Mr. Reaves indicated his shackled hands. She hastily collected her most personal possessions and tucked them away, but when she saw the expression on Kit Reaves's face, she detected a new sharpness to his interest. The color rose in her face, and she turned her gaze out the window, where long empty fields stretched out beneath a brooding sky. She had come so very far, in more ways than one. What dreams she'd sailed away with when she'd fled England. How hopeful and naive she had been back then. "Why do you travel, Isabel?" he asked softly. "What are you looking for?" Dear heaven. Was she that transparent, or was he that understanding? She leaned back against the tufted gold velour seatback. "Why must I be in search of something? That

only leads to frustration." "Don't you ever think of settling down? Perhaps getting married?" One eyebrow slashed upward in a fashion that discomfited her thoroughly. "Most women do, you know." "I am not most women." "So you're opposed to marriage? Have you espoused the principles of free love, then?" He chuckled again. "We're cut from the same cloth, you and I." What an interesting man. Beneath that villainous exterior, he actually seemed to possess a brain. A well-read outlaw. He intrigued her. But she was eager to distance herself from him. "I have nothing against marriage," she said defensively. "In fact, when I first started this journey, my chief aim was to marry." "So why didn't you?" "I found no candidate to suit my needs." "Perhaps your demands were unreasonably high." Isabel sniffed. "I had only two requirements — that he be a man in need of a wife —" "And what's the other?" "That he be a millionaire." Kit Reaves let out a low whistle. "No wonder you were disappointed." "It's not so preposterous. English noblemen marry for money all the time. Viscounts and earls regularly come to America in search of a bride. American dowries enable English nobles to pay off gambling debts and repair ancient estates. Heiresses often fit the bill, what with all the railroad and steel fortunes that have sprung up. There's even a name for them in England — Penny Princesses." She shook her head. "Long ago, I thought I could walk the same path as those men, but I was wrong." "You couldn't find a millionaire?" "Heavens, that was the easy part. I have met many men with huge fortunes. A number of them wished to marry me. The trouble was — and this is the part that confounds me still — I didn't want to marry them." Isabel watched the scenery go by to the rhythm of the soothing clack of the iron wheels on the iron road. "I wanted to keep my life my own."

Chapter Nine: Tempted A whistle blasted, and the metallic shriek of braking wheels heralded their arrival at the Pacific & Orient Station in America's most famous city. As the train steamed into the terminus, Isabel gathered her belongings.

"Miss Fish-Wooten," Kit Reaves said in his lazy drawl, "it's been a very strange pleasure." Isabel gaped at him, not knowing what to say — Good luck? God bless? Enjoy prison? "See you around...Isabel." He whispered her name, then held her gaze for a long moment. She felt like kissing him. She wanted to know what he tasted like. She ached to feel the shape of that broad, sensual mouth against hers. She yearned to breathe in his essence, to whisper in his ear that she would never forget him. She wondered if he realized that she felt safe with him. Absurd, she thought. Safe with an outlaw? There was no time to say another word, for the station agents closed in around him. One of them yanked him roughly to his feet, and then they whisked him out the door. It all happened so quickly that she could do no more than stand and mouth "goodbye" when he twisted around to hold her gaze with his, briefly. He looked as though he knew something she didn't. She fought the urge to cry out. He was an outlaw, she reminded herself. A thief. He belonged in jail. But with him gone, she was on her own. Again. She climbed down from the train slowly, feeling every mile of the journey in her bones. The smells of roasting coffee, sea air and coal smoke mingled in the air. Train stations were fascinating places, jammed with hurrying passengers coming and going, porters and redcaps rushing to and fro, whistling and shouting. But Isabel did not linger on the platform or watch the people around her for long. The truth was, it hurt to see families reunited, husbands and wives greeting each other with unabashed joy, friends meeting again. She was a disconnected woman, a tourist not just of cities and landmarks, but of life itself. Her isolation was never more apparent than now, when she was surrounded by cries of "welcome home" and "we're glad to see you," the sort of heart-gladness that came from a source that was simply missing in Isabel. No one welcomed her home because she didn't have a home and no one was glad to see her, because no one knew her. As her spirits plummeted into a maudlin soup, a small boy ran past, darting between people on the platform. He was a beautiful child with rosy cheeks and laughing eyes, oblivious to Isabel as he skipped past her en route to no particular destination. He giggled, confident that someone was watching and would rescue him from himself if he got into trouble. And sure enough, a tall man with the same laughing eyes and a slight limp swooped down on the child and picked him up, holding him under one arm like a bundle of laundry. "Not so fast, scamp," the man said, as the child shrieked with glee. "You'll not get away from me so easily." The man noticed Isabel watching him. He had freshly barbered hair and a jaunty "I-know-how-handsome-I-am" grin. "Pardon me, ma'am," he said in a charming drawl she was coming to recognize as Texan. "It's been a long trip and the natives are restless." "That's completely understandable, sir." She smiled at the squirming boy. "And where are you going?" she asked him.

"To see my mama," the child stated, and his face was so filled with pleasure that he looked like an artist's rendition of an angel. "That's very nice," Isabel assured him. "I'm sure she'll be thrilled to see you again." "Good day, ma'am," the man said, then retrieved his squirming bundle. He didn't say anything, but when he looked at his son, the expression on his face conveyed a piercing emotion that was so powerful Isabel felt as though she had intruded upon a private moment. Isabel wondered what it must be like to be loved in such a manner, with such intensity and devotion. Love was so important to some people, but to Isabel, it had no meaning. Falling in love was one adventure she had never experienced, because she wouldn't allow herself to. But every once in a while, she was tempted. Isabel felt a twinge as she watched the tall man walk away. The good ones, it seemed, were always taken.

Chapter Ten: Unsolicited Advice Governor Markham's arrival created a stir. Photographers with box cameras, tripods and flash pans jostled for position. Reporters in shirtsleeves and visors crowded in. "How perfect," said Mrs. Markham, bustling forward to Isabel. "Come along, my dear. You'll be instantly famous." Isabel balked. "I don't wish to be famous, instantly or otherwise." "Everyone will want to know about the brave young woman who single-handedly captured an outlaw." "Not the railroad company," Isabel said, noting that the security agents had left in great haste. "Please, I would rather find accommodations and acquaint myself with the city." The governor spoke up then. "Very well, but on one condition." Isabel was wary. She had never been fond of conditional requests. "What's that?" "Promise you'll attend tonight's gala at... Where is it, my dear?" "The Excelsior Hotel, on the hill above the harbor," said Mrs. Markham. "We'd be honored by your attendance." Isabel beamed. She usually had to lie to finagle her way into exclusive social events. This was almost too easy. "I promise I'll attend, then," she said, "but I really must be going." Eventually, she found a porter to accompany her to her hotel. The short drive through the city was a blissful respite from the days of dusty, tedious train travel. And what a city it was, its hilly streets lined with tall buildings and grand hotels, cable cars groaning and clanking iron chains. When the cab rounded a bend in the street and the waterfront came into view, Isabel caught her breath. A forest of ships' masts crowded the harbor area, and smokestacks and lighthouses spiked the horizon. In the distance, she could see the opening of the bay.

"Is that the Golden Gate, then?" she said to the driver, indicating the long arms of land reaching into the bay. "Yes, ma'am. You'll want to watch yourself down at the waterfront. Saloons and vaudevilles ain't no place for a lady." At the hotel, she requested a private room. Once there, she freed herself from the confines of her traveling garb and lay down on the bed, feeling the grit of her journey in her eyes as she closed them. She slept fitfully, her mind haunted by the memory of flinty eyes that failed to hide a pervasive sadness, and a provocative voice whispering in her ear. Kit Reaves was an outlaw, she reminded herself upon waking. A criminal. A stint in jail was a punishment he deserved. She rummaged through the canvas valise that was seldom out of her reach. It contained several items vital to her way of life: a foreign traveling visa, expertly forged by her own hand. A set of boys' clothing in case she needed to disappear in a hurry. And two items she probably should have destroyed years ago — proof positive of her true identity. The incriminating evidence could land her in big trouble if the wrong person got hold of the information. But these were the only true things about her, and that seemed important. She lived an inauthentic life; if she didn't keep a factual record of her days, she was in danger of losing herself. She kept her belongings entirely private, though. She found pen and ink and wrote in her travelogue a brief narrative of her strange adventure on the train. Then it was time to get ready for the evening. Lacking a personal maid or attendant, most ladies would stumble and fuss their way through their ablutions, but Isabel knew how to take care of herself. She'd spent years lacing up another young lady's corset, doing her hair, buttoning her shoes with a tiny steel hook. Isabel could certainly dress on her own. She laid out an evening gown of plum-colored organza, hoping the wrinkles would relax. Then, wearing a robe over her chemise and petticoat, she went down the hallway to the ladies' powder room. It was furnished with a pair of fringed chaises and a sink with running water. At the zinc basin was a woman, scrubbing the fixtures with a borax solution. "I'm sorry," Isabel said, turning toward the door. "I didn't realize —" "No, no, I am finished." The woman took the linen towel from a stack on the washstand and wiped the basin. "I'll only be a moment, then," Isabel told her. "I need to freshen up." She fought to stifle a yawn but was unable to hold it in. "I beg your pardon. I've an engagement tonight, and I fear I'll be dull company. All I want is a bit of a rest." "That is beauty's curse," said the woman. "You're not allowed to rest." Isabel smiled. "Thank you for your kindness." The woman made no move to leave. She was an intriguing little soul with snow-white hair and ebony eyes. Her olive-toned skin was marked at the temples with twin rows of dots. A tribal marking, Isabel

guessed, feeling a small stirring of interest. This was the magic of travel. You never knew who you were going to meet. "You are new to the city," the woman commented. "Indeed. I like it here already. I might pass the summer in San Francisco," she said to the woman. "That would be a mistake." Isabel wasn't certain she heard right. "I beg your pardon?" "You will find nothing but trouble here." "Heavens, that's a very odd thing to say." She smiled, even though the woman's strange words chilled her. "I am Isabel Fish-Wooten, a traveler from England." The woman busied herself polishing a mirror. "My name is Maria Nightshade. I was born to a tribe called the Arapaho. But like you, I was abandoned by my people at a young age." Isabel fought the urge to recoil. "You've obviously mistaken me for someone else, madam. I am not in the least like you. Yet even as she spoke, she took a step backward. "You know nothing about me." "I know all I need to know." Isabel's annoyance turned to pity. The poor old woman wasn't right in the head. She was probably starved for someone to talk to. "And what is it that you know, Miss Nightshade?" she asked gently. "You've been alone for too long. Find a place where your heart is at rest, where your urge to run away disappears." Isabel gave a dry laugh in spite of herself. She liked this fanciful old grandmother. "Why do you care about my heart?" "Why don't you?" Isabel was stunned. No one had ever spoken to her in such a fashion before. "It's an important question," the woman said, unfazed by Isabel's affronted glare. "The human heart cannot thrive if its needs are neglected. You are all alone in the world. One day, your heart will tell you that it is time to find something more, something deeper." That time had already come, Isabel thought with a pang. But she would never say so aloud. Bristling, she said, "There is nothing my heart needs except the adventure of travel and the delight of making new friends and meeting new people." She brushed her hair and swept it up in a set of combs. Then she rouged her cheeks and lips. She turned to offer a word of farewell to Miss Nightshade. But the room was completely empty.

Chapter Eleven: Guest of Honor

On the way to the hotel, Isabel spied a team of carpenters hurriedly building a structure of some sort. She asked her driver what it was, and he said, "That'd be the Folsom Street Jail, ma'am. They're setting up a scaffold." "Whatever for?" "A hanging." She shivered and looked the other way. She asked the driver no more questions the rest of the way. The ballroom of the Excelsior was festooned with bouquets of columbine, roses and branches of eucalyptus. Waiters in white coats offered the guests champagne from tall green bottles bearing the Dom Perignon label, and gentlemen lined up to dance with Isabel. It was precisely the sort of event she ordinarily adored. She was supposed to be having the time of her life. Wasn't that what she had vowed to do? But some ineffable element seemed to be missing. She drank too much champagne and laughed too loudly at the conversation of people who would forget her when dawn broke. That, she supposed, was the price one paid for being an adventurer. You could never stay in one place, could never settle down and form the tender bonds of genuine friendship and family. Kit Reaves had suggested that she could. And just for a flash, she was tempted. Oh, how she was tempted. As she made her way across the crowded ballroom, several more men asked her to dance, but thoughts of Mr. Reaves compelled her to decline the offers. She wondered about Kit, what it would be like to lift a cup with him at a party, to dance in his arms. A reporter from the Examiner begged an interview, but she declined. Tipsy, she made her way to the reception room, where the champagne was still flowing. There, she fell into conversation with a Mr. Leland, who said he was an agent for all the best passenger and shipping lines in the city. "I can sell you a ticket to anywhere," he boasted. "Anywhere, Mr. Leland? Suppose I wish to go to heaven?" He laughed. "I could get that ticket for you. But you don't have that kind of money." "How do you know what kind of money I have?" "One senses these things. Seriously, if you favor the wild northwest, the isthmus of Panama, the South Seas —" "I've always wanted to see the Sandwich Islands." He slipped a cream stock calling card into her hand. "You have good taste. My best clients go to Hawaii at least once a year."

"I'll keep that in mind, Mr. Leland." "Everyone's still talking about your capture of Kit Reaves," he said. "Over at the bar, they're saying as how the scoundrel won't live to see tomorrow's sunrise." Isabel was sure she'd heard wrong. "I don't understand. Is he ill? Has he been hurt?" Leland's face was grim. "Not yet." "I was told he would be tried and imprisoned." "That's not how the law works in these parts, ma'am. Especially for a man who tries to rob the governor." Suddenly Isabel understood what Kit's fate was to be. He'd known it all along, too. That was why he'd looked at her that way as they hauled him off to jail. Isabel curtsied. "It was an honor to meet you. You'll have to excuse me, but I must go, for I've business to attend to."

Chapter Twelve: The Invitation At four o'clock in the morning, Isabel roused herself and donned one of her favorite disguises — the black garb of an evangelical lady preacher — and left via the rickety wooden ladder below her window, which served as a fire escape. She dropped softly onto the street, surveying the twin rows of misty gaslight along the street. Perhaps Maria Nightshade was right. There was nothing but trouble for her here. After this morning, it would surely be true. With her carpetbag in one hand and a small silk reticule in the other, she walked toward Folsom Street. Women of society would find it appalling that she was out alone in the morning dark. Their opinions didn't matter one whit to Isabel. By the time night fell, she would be on her way. In the plaza in front of the city jail, the air smelled of seawater and the sharp odor of fresh-cut lumber. Isabel took a deep breath and stepped into the jail office. "My name is Reverend Wooten," she said. "I'm here to see the prisoner Christian Darrow Reaves." The warden shot to his feet. He poked his sleeping deputy awake. The man gave a snort, then fumbled to a standing position. "Honored to meet you, Reverend. Is something the matter?" "Not at all. I apologize for the early hour, but I understand it might take some doing to save this man's soul." "We can't allow anyone to see him. He's dangerous." "Heavens, he was far more dangerous while armed and robbing a train, yet I'm told a lone woman subdued him. Please consider your Christian duty, sir. If you and your deputy both accompany me, I'll feel perfectly safe."

Though reluctant, they took her back to a barred holding tank filled with drunks, Indians and sleeping men dressed in rags. When the inmates spied the newcomers, they set up a racket until the warden bellowed at them to pipe down. On the other end of the building was a row of individual barred cells, each furnished with a rough-hewn bench. "There's your lost soul," the warden said. She wouldn't have recognized him behind the bruises and swellings that covered his face. That is, until he looked up at her with those sad, laughing eyes. "The Lady Reverend Wooten," he said formally, "welcome to my humble abode." Aghast, she turned to the warden. "What happened to this man?" The warden elbowed his deputy. "Nothing a quick hanging can't cure." "Is that to be his fate then?" "And a kinder one than he deserves." So Mr. Leland was right, just as she'd feared. She thought to argue about the structure of the American justice system, the rights of the accused and the perils of vigilantism, but knew her protests would fall on deaf ears. She loved her travels in America, but this vast land had its dark corners. "In that case, gentlemen, I have something for you." She reached into her voluminous black cloak and took out her two guns — the derringer and the more accurate Colt — and pointed them at the men. They stared in disbelief, and the warden made a move for the door. "Please don't," she said. "I should not like to shoot you."

Chapter Thirteen: A Narrow Escape Juggling both guns and the warden's keys, Isabel unlocked the cell. Kit was too relieved to ask questions as he slipped out and waited while she locked in the warden and his deputy. The other prisoners took up their howling again, but Isabel ignored them as she took Kit's poor swollen hand and hurried with him toward the street. Twin gas lamps illuminated the front of the building, and they wasted no time slipping into the shadows. They paused in a deserted alley, where it was so quiet she could hear his labored breathing. "You don't make a convincing evangelist," he said. "The disguise worked, didn't it? People see what they want to see. Do you need a doctor?" she whispered. "No. I need to get out of town." "Can you do that on your own?" "I can do anything. Oh, honey. I could kiss you, but they beat my mouth all to hell." He closed his arms

around her, and for a few moments, she reveled in the connection. But, of course, it had to end. The sound of voices in the jail grew louder. "Go," she urged him. "Get yourself down to the waterfront. Hurry before they catch you." "Come with me," he urged her. She thought about his flashing eyes, his damaged mouth. She thought about the way he lived his life. He was a charming scoundrel, and no doubt he could show her adventures such as she had never known. He was exciting, but he took advantage of unsuspecting people and stole from hardworking innocents. Still, life with him would never be dull. "I can't," she said, her voice soft with genuine regret. An unexpected heat thickened in her throat. "It's too dangerous for us both. You must go, though. And you must hurry." "Don't stay here in San Francisco," he said. "You won't be welcome after what you did tonight." She paused, and her heart trilled with excitement. "I've already made plans to leave." "Meet me somewhere, then," he whispered. "Anywhere you want — you name the place, and I'll be there." She swallowed hard, pressed her cheek to his chest. What was he asking? Did he offer something she needed, or would he be just another fleeting adventure? She reminded herself that he stole from innocent people. He took advantage of the weak and risked his life for money. But Isabel had been known to take risks from time to time, too. She played with fire by living a make-believe life, pretending to be someone she was not. Perhaps she belonged with a man like Kit Reaves. He was a traveler, too, she thought. He wanted her to join him. He was an outlaw; she was an outcast. There was a difference — or was there? "I'm going to Honolulu," she said. "I'll find you there," he whispered. "I swear I will." "You don't —" "Hush," he said suddenly, looking over his shoulder. "I have to go." He put his hand under her chin and angled her face toward him. "Goodbye, Isabel." She studied him for three more beats of her heart, remembering the laughing eyes, the broad shoulders. Then she stepped back, giving him a gentle push to send him on his way, through the shadows and up into the concealing wild hills east of town. Then she stood for a long time in the morning quiet, watching the light on the dusty road that led down to the embarcadero. The prickle in her throat eased; she would shed no tears for this man. For certain, he had stunning good looks and an excess of unexpected charm. She had even felt a healthy, blood-warming attraction to him. But the two of them were not a match. She would never think of Kit Reaves again, nor would she give her affection to another. It was too risky, and he was not the sort of man for whom she would willingly risk her heart.

Instinct told her they were too much alike. He was just as lost as she was.

Chapter Fourteen: The Ticket Agent Even though it was nearly summer, a chill sharpened the misty air and bit at Isabel's cheeks and fingertips as she made her way down a brick lane lined with imposing residences. Against the morning sky, the sharp angles of the tall buildings disappeared into the mist as the city awakened. The smell of cattle and daisies and brine swept through the air. The neighborhood rang with the shouts of drovers and merchants starting their day. She wished she could stay and explore San Francisco. It seemed a fascinating place, a city of hills sloping down to a bay crammed with ferries and ships, neighborhoods of colorful gingerbread houses and raucous saloons, stately hilltop mansions and low waterfront dives. But thanks to her rash act of mercy, she would have to leave, and the sooner the better. Mr. Leland, the genial shipping agent, was already at work, as she had hoped, in a cramped dockside office that had an oddly temporary air. He sat on a swiveling stool with his head bent as he wrote out a bill of some sort. The printed form read "Far East Tea Company" at the top. When she cleared her throat to get his attention, he startled briefly, then swept the bill into a drawer. "Miss Fish-Wooten, what a pleasure to see you so soon." "I should like to inquire about sailings to Honolulu, and I'm afraid there's some urgency. I must leave as soon as possible." He appeared delighted to hear her plans. "An excellent choice, Miss." "Yes, indeed. It's reputed to be a magical place." Her favorite travel writer, Mr. Mark Twain, had published articles about his visits to the place, and he made it sound so balmy and beautiful that she yearned to go there. Like Mr. Twain had done, she wanted to learn to ride the surf on a long, narrow board, traveling from island to island like a native. She might even stay longer than a season, for according to reports, the season never changed there. "You've never sailed from San Francisco before?" "No, sir. I'm a complete stranger here. I don't know a soul. It would have been nice to stay, but...that's not possible. In fact, I'm in a bit of a hurry." He hesitated. Something flashed in his eyes, but before she could wonder what he was thinking, he was smiling again. "I can sell you a first-class berth aboard...the Elyssa. I'm afraid it's on the pricey side, but such a vessel would be my choice for my own daughter. It's new and safe. Makes the crossing in seven days." "It sounds perfect. Where can I apply to board?" "Well, miss, I'm afraid that's the trouble. She sails this evening." "Then I should go directly aboard."

"You certainly should." His pen scratched busily. "I'll just make this out and take care of the fare and order your things to be shipped from your hotel. Would that be agreeable?" "Absolutely." She felt lucky to have encountered this helpful man. "The ship sails from pier 14 at six o'clock, and don't be late."

Chapter Fifteen: At Pier 14, Six O'Clock It all happened so fast. Surely this was meant to be, Isabel thought. Everything was falling into place. She didn't even mind the cost of the fare. It took all the cash she had in the world, but she wasn't worried. She would win card games and bets during the crossing, and replenish her fortune. Money was a useful commodity, and if one was clever enough, one could always find a way to acquire it. A sailing at sunset would be romantic, she decided. She had read in her pictorial guide that the embarcadero was still under construction, and the waterfront had a ragged, unfinished look about it. The driver frowned when she told him the wharf number. "It's a rough neighborhood down here," he warned her. "Ruffians and crimps —" "Crimps?" "Men who drug young greenhorns with Mickey Finns. Then they sell them to ships' captains. Many's the lad who's woken up to find himself a slave en route to China. And sometimes — a body doesn't like to think it — they help themselves to a woman." "I'll take care not to fall into their hands." Casting her a skeptical look, he stopped as instructed at a bobbing pier outfitted with iron-lined cart tracks. Isabel stepped down from the cab. An incredible stench hit her with the force of a blow, and she staggered back. "Good heavens, what is that?" she demanded, clutching her carpetbag against her. The driver held out his hand for the fare. "It's where you said you wanted to go. Pier 14." "There must be some mistake, then. I'm looking for the Elyssa." "I reckon you found it, ma'am." He pointed to the vessel docked there. Isabel stared, mute with shock. The boat's broad-beamed hull sat low in the bay, for it was burdened with a horrific cargo of rotting meat and produce, manure, spoiled fish and household middens. Flies hovered in buzzing clouds over the disgusting heap. On the side of the hull, just visible above the water line, was the name of the vessel, stenciled in crude block letters: Elyssa. "But...this is a garbage scow," she said.

"Yes, ma'am. It's where the city street cleaners bring the waste from the Barbary Coast each day. In the evening, they tow it by tugboat out to the Blackwood Channel, and she comes back for another load at dawn." Cold shock gave way to burning anger. She turned and handed the mystified driver his fare. If this wasn't such a calamity, she would laugh at the irony of it. She, who believed herself a gifted confidence artist, had just been swindled out of every penny she had.

Chapter Sixteen: Stealing From a Thief By midnight, Isabel had cut off all her hair. It was a drastic measure, but she was about to embark on a drastic mission. Using the men's straight razor that she kept in her valise, she cut off her long, dark locks before she could talk herself out of it. Like her stolen fortune, hair was renewable; there was no room for vanity when she had to reclaim what was her own. Thanks to that scoundrel Leland, she had very little to work with — only a change of clothing from her carpetbag, her weapons and her wits. But it would be enough, she vowed. Her steamer trunk was gone, no doubt already plundered and fenced. But she was prepared to fight back. She took the precaution of donning a disguise. Kit Reaves would be proud of her, for she was unrecognizable. Strolling through the murky midnight streets of San Francisco, she resembled a cocksure young man out for adventure. She wore trousers and a shirt, a plain cloth coat and a battered hat over her hacked-off hair. She concealed her derringer and Bowie knife in her boot, and in the voluminous coat pocket, her good Colt's pistol was hidden, fully loaded. The only other thing she carried was a bag containing the things that never left her side — her cache of secrets. She slipped like a shadow along the narrow streets and alleys, seeking the address of the Far East Tea Company. The plink of piano music and the roar of rough laughter and song drifted from the waterfront taverns. In one block, she passed a church with what appeared to be a heap of rags on its steps. The heap was snoring. Upon closer inspection under a mist of gaslight, she recognized the tattered uniform of a U.S. Army officer. A war veteran, she surmised. How sad to see him in this state. Two doors down, a neatly lettered shingle hung over a glass front door, marking the establishment as the Mission Rescue League. Then something else caught her eye: Dr. Theodore Calhoun, Chief of Medicine. Isabel was consumed by curiosity. Surely this was the same Dr. Calhoun mentioned by Kit Reaves. The one who saved the lives and limbs of wounded men. The best man Kit had ever known. He would have to be very good indeed, she reflected, to make such a powerful impression on an outlaw. She hesitated at the door, her hand reaching for the bellpull. From where she stood, she could see a foyer lined with benches. Then two people appeared — a woman dressed in rags and a tall, broad-shouldered man in a white coat.

Isabel's hand fell to her side as she gaped at him. He was simply extraordinary. He had blond hair and a face that made Isabel instantly forget every man she had ever met, including Kit Reaves. She studied the way his gentle hands helped the woman to a seat on a bench. The humanity in his face stirred her. He seemed to possess a curious melancholy that reached out to her and wrapped around her heart. Silly as it seemed, she felt an odd beat of recognition, and wondered how that could be. They were worlds apart — the compassionate physician and the lady adventurer. Still, she wondered what it was about the stranger that so intrigued her. When he left the lobby of the building and disappeared from her sight, she wanted to cry out, to call him back to her. A footstep sounded on the boardwalk behind her, and she spun around, her hand stealing to her concealed gun. "Boy, is there something you need?" asked a heavyset man. He was accompanied by a woman wearing a nurse's wimple. "Beg pardon?" Isabel said, trying to recover her composure. "Do you need the services of a doctor?" the woman asked. "My husband and I work here with Dr. Calhoun." "I'm fine, thank you. But..." Curiosity got the better of Isabel. "Just what sort of place is this? A rescue league? Whom do you rescue?" "Dr. Calhoun generally does the rescuing." The woman's stare probed at Isabel, and suddenly she regretted her nosiness, but she was trapped. "People can come here without fear of being judged or forced to embrace someone else's beliefs. When I first met Dr. Calhoun, I was a...saloon girl, you know?" "Are you musically inclined, then?" The woman and her husband exchanged a look. "Son, I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket." "Oh. You must have been a gifted dancer, then." She hooted with laughter. "I got two left feet. But that didn't matter when I was on my back." The realization sank in. "Oh. I see." "That life was killing me, but until Dr. Calhoun stepped in, I didn't know there was another way to live. I know that sounds dramatic, but it's true." "Do you often confess this to strangers?" Isabel had to ask it. "Only to those who seem to be in trouble," the woman said softly. "Thank you for your concern, but I'm fine," Isabel said. She hurried away. But she couldn't help but look back over her shoulder at the windows glowing in the darkness. It seemed Dr. Calhoun was as gallant as a knight of old. A rescue league, she thought. Imagine that.

If ever she needed rescuing, she knew where to turn.

Chapter Seventeen: In Harm's Way The clatter of a passing carriage stirred Isabel from her dreamy observation. Heavens, what had come over her? She didn't need rescuing. She could take care of herself, just as she always had. Her task now was to reclaim her fortune and her belongings, and then find a legitimate passage to the South Seas. She walked away from the Mission Rescue League. In passing, she noticed that the drunken army veteran was gone from the church steps. When she found the address of the Far East Tea Company, she squared her shoulders and headed across the plaza. If she was lucky, she could simply rob the place of its cash. If someone was there, she'd demand reparation at gunpoint. She never made it that far. A top-heavy, swaying carriage careened through the street, its driver whipping the horses into a lather. Isabel shrank into a garbage-strewn alley, her skin prickling with a vague sense of danger. A shrill whistle pierced the air, and shots rang out. She recognized a uniformed policeman running across the rubble-strewn area, his weapon drawn. She was impressed by the man's determination, his intent to carry out his duties. From her vantage point, she saw something the policeman could not possibly see. The muzzle of a large, old-fashioned pistol protruded from the carriage window. Isabel didn't think. She simply reacted, leaping out from the shadows and running into the plaza toward the policeman. "Take cover," she yelled at the top of her lungs. She nearly tripped over a drunken man sleeping on the ground, avoiding him with a well-timed leap. "Sir, look out!" Another shot rang out. The policeman threw up his arms, then dropped to the ground, clutching his head. No, dear God, no, thought Isabel, running toward him. She prayed he had heard her warning in time, and had dived for cover. To distract the unseen shooter, she whipped out her Colt's and fired into the air. The diversion worked well — too well. She drew the enemy's fire to herself. The first couple of shots missed as she ran for her life. She would be no help to the policeman now. She raced away from the plaza, daring to believe she would escape. Then she heard a hiss, followed by a wet slapping sound. A powerful blow lifted her off her feet and slammed her to the ground. The impact pushed every bit of breath from her lungs. She was drowning in plain air, unable to breathe, to speak or even to know for certain whether she was dead or alive.

Chapter Eighteen: Dire Straits

Even as she fell, Isabel managed to shove her pistol back into her coat pocket. If she survived this, she might be needing it. The heat of its recently fired barrel was the only warmth she felt. She thought about the valise still dangling from her shoulder, and wondered what would become of it. After she was dead, would someone find it and understand that she couldn't help who she was, that she did the best she could to survive on her own? All these thoughts rushed through her mind as she toppled slowly, almost gracefully, to the brickwork roadway. She saw a flicker of light, the yellow square of a glass window, and thought perhaps that was the Mission Rescue League she'd passed earlier. Perhaps, for the first time in her life, she really did need rescuing. But she couldn't cry out or make a sound. Her lungs weren't working. She could not even blink her eyes. Hurrying footsteps approached. "Leave that one," said an incongruously cultured voice. "I'll have Pisco and Punch dispose of the body." "Will they agree to that?" Heavens, thought Isabel. Dispose of the body? Did they think her already dead? And when they learned otherwise, would they finish her off? "They're crimps. They'll do anything for money." Oh, no, thought Isabel. She'd been warned about crimps. Someone scooped up her valise, and footfalls sounded on the pavement. She could not protest or cry out, and then she realized she was better off playing dead. It was not difficult; she was probably dying anyway. Time passed. Minutes bled into hours, or so it seemed. She drifted in and out of consciousness. Blackness became whiteness and then went black again. She wondered what had become of the brave policeman. She wondered what would become of her.

Chapter Nineteen: A Slender Thread of Hope Two pairs of strong arms gripped Isabel and hauled her up. Agony exploded through her, but she could not make a sound. She nearly fainted from the rough treatment. She felt herself being dragged between them toward an uncertain fate. "We could weight the body and dump it in the water near the Elyssa," one of the men suggested. "Too risky with the tide out," said another.

Isabel guessed she was in the hands of Pisco and Punch, the crimps. "We could wait for the tide. Let's —" "Hang on," said his partner. "Here comes trouble." "Well now, Dr. Calhoun," said the other crimp in a voice that rang with false cheer. "Fancy meeting you here." Isabel's senses reeled. She thought she could see shapes and shadows beyond the misty globe of light cast by a street lamp on the corner. Her head lolled back, and beneath the brim of her battered hat, she could see a shadowy figure in an open carriage. "Looks like your friend's in a bad way, Mr. Pisco," said a new voice. Dr. Calhoun, she thought, feeling her consciousness drain away as blood slipped down her back. "Aye, that's a fact," said Pisco. "We're just helping him out, is all." Isabel tried to speak, to alert the doctor to her distress. But all she could manage was something between a whistle and a snort. "I'm in no hurry. I could give him a lift," Calhoun offered. "That won't be necessary, sir. We're nearly there." "Nearly where?" asked Calhoun. "What are you fellows up to?" "Doc, you don't want to interfere with our business," said the other crimp. "We stay out of your territory, and we ask the same courtesy of you." "The boy's too young to raise a beard," said Calhoun. "Old enough to run up a tab he can't pay at the Sailor's Home." Sailor's Home? She'd done nothing of the sort. Isabel tried again, but could produce no more than a gurgle of protest. "Nice try, Doc, but the fact is, a sailor's life'll be a step up for this one. He's a little too fond of the Shanghai smoke." "So you're in the business of curing addicts now?" the doctor asked. One of the crimps laughed as though Calhoun had made a joke. Then he said, "Good day to ye, sir. We must be going."

Chapter Twenty

Isabel's boots scraped along the uneven pavement as the men hurried out of range of the gaslight. The terrible flicker of hope born when they'd encountered Dr. Calhoun was gone now, a cold ember. So here was the end of her adventures — an unscheduled swim in the frigid dark waters of San Francisco Bay. She had lived a solitary life, and she would die a solitary death. Finally, too late, she felt the searing pain of regret. Why hadn't she lived better, more deeply, just as Kit Reaves had suggested. She had never risked her heart, had never known the wild agony of passion or the deep contentment of love. That had never seemed important to her before, but now she felt an almost panicked welling of desperation. "Please," she whispered to her captors. "I must not die tonight." They either ignored or didn't hear her. Then a sharp whistle split the air. The crimps stopped walking. Isabel's hat dipped down over her forehead, but she sensed they were on a street corner near the wharf area. She heard the clop of hooves trotting toward them. Now what? she wondered. "How much?" demanded a brusque voice. Dear God, it was Dr. Calhoun. He'd come back. "Please..." she said again, but no one seemed to hear. "Well, now, Doc, we're looking at a strong youngster here." Isabel's shoulder was jostled so hard that she felt herself starting to faint from the pain. "He's a hard worker. I imagine he'll fetch at least eighty dollars." "That's twice what the unfortunate boy would fetch, and you know it." Coins clinked in the hollow morning quiet. "I'm offering you a bird in the hand," he said. "Right here, right now. Take it or leave it." Isabel didn't dare to move or even to breathe. She didn't want to upset the tense balance between the crimps and the doctor. She prayed they would take the offer. They had already collected from the mysterious man who had ordered them to get rid of her. Here was an unforeseen opportunity. Through sheer luck and the compassion of a good man, they managed to collect two fees tonight. "It's a deal then," said one of the crimps. She moaned in agony as they deposited her roughly in the bottom of the doctor's conveyance. She could feel the hot blood from her wound soaking her shirt and jacket. The cart lurched forward to an unknown destination. Isabel had no idea what was next for her. She could only hope that her chances were better with her new captor than with Pisco and Punch. It was all too hard to think about now, as she lay bleeding and in darkness, in the care of a stranger. Her thoughts floated, her heart drummed in a fast and shallow rhythm, and she felt herself slipping away.

Before surrendering to unconsciousness, she slipped her hand into her pocket and felt for the pistol. The good doctor was in for a surprise. Finis