Wild Rose. Ruth Morren Axtell
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nose, eyebrows arching like bird’s wings across her brow, stick-straight dark hair and eyes black as pitch, attesting to her half-breed status.
She broke away from his grasp and pushed herself to her feet. Taking a step away from him, she forced herself back to the situation at hand. Her heart sank as she contemplated the wreckage around her. Well, it would do no good to cry about it.
She stooped to gather her baskets, but was stopped by Captain Caleb’s firm grasp. He spoke with a tone of authority so different from the one he’d used with her, she had to look twice to make sure it was the same man speaking.
“Come here, lads, and rectify the damage you’ve inflicted on the lady.”
The boys hooted at this. “But, Cap’n Caleb, that ain’t no lady,” one of the boys protested. The others doubled over in amusement at the very thought. “That’s Ginny. Salt Fish Ginny!” Their laughter was joined by the discreet titters of the ladies and gentlemen still standing there.
Geneva wished the planks beneath her feet would widen enough to let her through so she could join her vegetables on the incoming tide. Of all the people to witness her disgraceful fall and hear that odious nickname, why did it have to be Cap’n Caleb?
“Young men—” the voice grew softer “—if I have to repeat my request, you’ll find yourselves floating alongside those lettuces down there.”
“Yessir,” the trio mumbled, shuffling forward.
“Wait,” he added. “Apologize to the lady first.”
Their eyes looked just about ready to pop out of their heads. Under other circumstances, Geneva would have laughed out loud at their amazement.
The boys bobbed their heads, each in turn. “Sorry, Ginny.” “Beg pardon, Ginny.” “No offense, Ginny.” Then, their natural exuberance restored, they bent to collect what remained on the dock. Geneva, stunned by what had just occurred, stood motionless. When she recovered from her surprise and moved to help, the captain’s grip tightened on her arm.
The boys finished quickly. Proudly, they handed her the two baskets, only half full now, the bruised and battered fruits and vegetables a jumble. Geneva took them without a word, anxious to be out of sight as quickly as possible. She’d forget her deliveries in the village today, and continue on up the coast, where no one would know of the incident.
But she wasn’t allowed such a quick retreat.
When everything was set to rights to his satisfaction, Captain Caleb turned to her and took off his cap. “Caleb Phelps, at your service, as you can see.”
He smiled, and the warmth of his smile gave her the sensation she was the only human being worth knowing on the face of the earth. Now she understood why everyone in the village thought so highly of him and had nothing but good to say about “Cap’n Caleb” whenever he came to port.
“Whom do I have the pleasure of assisting?”
He was asking her name! “Geneva Patterson,” she croaked, her throat so dry that she didn’t know how she managed the syllables.
By this time, a pretty young lady came to stand beside the captain, taking his arm as if it was her rightful place to do so.
He turned to her, his voice tender. “Arabella, may I present Miss Geneva Patterson? My fiancée, Miss Arabella Harding.”
The blond woman was dressed in a light blue suit that matched her eyes. “Pleased, I’m sure.” Her glance slid off Geneva before she turned her attention back to the captain. “Caleb, we must be on our way while the day is so pleasant.”
Geneva dodged aside before the captain could say anything more to her. But he reached out one last time, detaining her by holding the handle of one basket.
“I’d like to purchase these from you.”
Geneva stared down at the crushed raspberries staining the wilted radish tops and lettuce leaves.
“How much are the two baskets worth?” He was already reaching inside his jacket to pull out his wallet.
Geneva shook her head, horrified at the completion of her shame. She backed away, bumping against a piling just in time, before she toppled over the edge of the wharf like her produce.
“I don’t mean to offend you, Miss Patterson. I realize you won’t be able to deliver them wherever you had originally intended—”
“They’re not for sale. Thanks just the same, Cap’n.” She stumbled toward the ladder and, reaching it, scurried over the side, afraid the captain would insist further.
Geneva dropped the baskets into her boat, not caring what tumbled out now. When she climbed back up the catwalk to free her line, she saw the captain and his betrothed standing where she had left them, their backs to her.
Miss Harding’s cultivated tones reached her ears. “Caleb, sometimes your sense of chivalry goes too far. What possessed you to aid that creature? I could hardly distinguish whether it was a man or woman. She looked perfectly capable of picking up that dirty rubbish herself.” Miss Harding’s back shuddered.
Geneva watched the impeccably dressed young lady clutch the captain’s arm more closely as she propelled him back toward their friends. Miss Harding’s soft laughter floated to her. “That poor thing. She’ll probably dream of your attentions for weeks.”
Geneva didn’t wait to hear the captain’s reply, but slipped back down the catwalk, unable to bear it if she heard an answering chuckle. She jumped into the boat. Unmindful of its rocking, she set the oars in the pins, pushing one against a barnacle-encrusted piling to shove herself out into the harbor as quickly as possible.
The memory of Miss Harding’s words burned on Geneva’s heart like lye as she recognized the prophetic truth of them.
Chapter One
Haven’s End, June 1873
The door to Mr. Watson’s general store banged shut behind Geneva. She paused a few seconds at the door to give herself time to adjust to the dim light. The sweeter smells of spices, tobacco and new leather mingled with the more pungent odors of pickling barrels, hard cheeses and salted fish.
Three women leaned over one end of the long counter that ran the width of the store, examining lengths of ribbon and lace. At the sight of Geneva, they drew in their ranks, as if afraid of contagion in such close quarters. Used to such a reaction to her presence, Geneva ignored them and strode to the opposite end of the counter. She would state her business and leave as quickly as she had come.
Leaning her hands against the counter, she drummed her fingers lightly against the scarred, wooden surface.
“What can I do for you, Geneva?” Mr. Watson approached her with a smile.
Geneva didn’t smile back, lest she give the storekeeper any encouragement. Suspicious of the teasing look in his eyes, she deemed it best to keep him at a distance.
“I’ll take two dozen long nails.”
Mr. Watson slapped the counter with his palms. “Two dozen nails it’ll be.”
When he turned his back to her to rummage in the keg, Geneva could hear Mrs. Bidwell’s voice at the other end of the store.
“I hear tell he begged and pleaded with his intended to forgive him.”
Geneva glanced toward the speaker, whose bonnet nodded up and down, giving the impression she had been in the very room at the time, an eyewitness to the scene she was describing. Her listeners seemed to think so, too, the way they drank in her words.
“Poor Miss Arabella Harding must have been brokenhearted.” Young Annie Chase, who was engaged to one of Mrs. Bidwell’s boys, expressed this opinion. “Such a pretty woman. So ladylike.”
At the name, Geneva’s fingers stopped their drumbeat against the countertop. She’d never forget