Excerpt of Wilderness Courtship

Matthew 25:40
". . .Assuredly, I say to you, inasmuch as you did it to
one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me."

PROLOGUE

New York, 1853

The wooden deck of the three-masted freighter Gray Feather rose and fell, rocked by the building swells. Thorne Blackwell knew a storm was imminent, he could smell its approach in the salty air, hear the anxiety in the calls of the soaring gulls and feel the changing weather in his bones. Pacing nervously, he awaited the arrival of his half-brother Aaron and Aaron's family. Once they were safely aboard he'd relax. At least he hoped he would.

It had been over two years since Thorne had heard from Aaron, or any of the other Ashtons for that matter, and he wasn't quite sure what to expect. Would Aaron have contacted him if he hadn't been desperate? It was doubtful. Then again, Aaron had good reason for whatever misgivings he still harbored.

Thorne braced his feet apart on the pitching deck, pushed his hat down more tightly over his shoulder-length dark hair and drew up the collar of his woolen frock cloak against the impending gale. Of all the nights for anyone to decide he needed immediate passage to San Francisco, this had to be the worst. Then again, Aaron's note had contained such evident panic, perhaps the risk was warranted. Thorne hoped so since Naomi and the child would also be boarding.

Lying at anchor in the crowded New York harbor, the Gray Feather was fully loaded and awaiting final orders to embark on her third voyage around the horn. They'd hoist sail at dawn and be on their way, providing the storm didn't thwart their plans. Thorne had fought nature before. But for the grace of a benevolent God, he would have been a resident of Davy Jones' locker instead of the owner of the finest full-modeled vessel ever built in Eastport.

Why God had chosen to spare him from drowning at sea when so many of his comrades had lost their lives he didn't know. The only thing of which he was certain was his current role as his only sibling's protector.

Peering into the fog he spied a bobbing lantern in the prow of a small boat off the starboard. Shouting orders he assembled members of the crew and affected a safe, though treacherous, boarding.

Aaron handed the sleepy two-year-old he was carrying to his wife, then shook Thorne's hand with vigor and obvious relief. "Thank you. I was afraid you might not want to help us. Not after the way we last parted."

Touched, Thorne hid his emotion behind a brusque façade. "Nonsense. Let's get you all inside before the rain begins in earnest. Then you can tell me everything."

He winced as his brother placed a protective arm around Naomi's shoulders. Her head was bowed over the blanket-wrapped child in her arms, her face hidden by the brim of her burgundy velvet bonnet, yet Thorne could see her golden hair as clearly as if they were once again walking hand-in-hand through a meadow and dreaming of an idyllic life together.

He set his jaw. Whatever else happened on this voyage, he was not going to resurrect a love better left dead. He and Naomi had had their chance at happiness, or so Thorne had thought, and she had chosen to wed Aaron, instead. That was all there was to it and all there ever would be. He had long ago concluded that romantic love was highly over-rated and nothing had happened since to change his mind.

Guiding his guests into the captain's cabin he explained, "I've arranged for you to occupy these quarters until we can prepare a suitable suite elsewhere. It's not the quality you're used to, of course, but it's the best I could do on such short notice."

"It's fine," Aaron was quick to say as he ducked to guide his wife to a chair beneath a swaying lantern suspended from a beam. "I don't know how to thank you."

"All I ask is an explanation," Thorne replied. He leaned against the inside of the cabin's narrow door and crossed his arms. "What has happened to make you so insistent on leaving New York?"

Aaron's gaze darted to his wife, then rested lovingly on the small boy asleep in her lap. "It's mostly because of Jacob," he said sadly. "Father has grown more and more irrational as the years have passed. We think he may be going insane, although no doctors will agree to it and chance losing the exorbitant retainers he pays them. He's turned against us just the way he turned against you."

Thorne gave a deep-throated laugh. "I doubt that very much. At least he doesn't keep reminding you you're not really his son - or refuse to allow you to call yourself an Ashton."

"He may as well do so," his brother said. "He's made up his mind that my family is evil and has ordered me to divorce my wife and abandon my child."

"What?" Thorne's dark eyes narrowed. Unfolding his crossed arms he removed his hat and raked his fingers through his thick, almost-black hair. "Why would he do that?"

"It's evident that his mind is unhinged. Some of the threats he's made lately are dire, indeed. There is no way I would consent to remain under his roof one more day, let alone subject my family to his lunatic ravings."

"I can understand that," Thorne said. "but why leave the city?"

"Because," Aaron said with a shaky voice, "if I won't agree to a divorce he has threatened to free me by having Naomi and my son killed."

Chapter One

San Francisco, 1854


Charity Beal stood on the board walkway outside the hotel, pulled a paisley shawl around her shoulders and raised her face to bask in the sun's warming rays. A mild breeze off the ocean ruffled wisps of pale blond curls that had escaped her neatly upswept hair and her blue eyes sparkled in the brightness of the day.

Smiling, she did her best to ignore the noise of the passing horses and wagons as she sighed and breathed deeply, enjoying the sweet, salt air. Thankfully, a recent shower had washed away most of the dust and dirt, yet hadn't left the streets too muddy for normal travel.

Spring days in the city by the bay were more often foggy than clear and Charity was loathe to retreat back inside even though it was now her duty to assist Mrs. Montgomery in the kitchen. Perhaps stealing a few more precious moments of sunshine would be all right, she told herself, appreciating the balmy weather yet cognizant of her place as part of the hotel staff.

The Montgomery House Hotel had been rebuilt of brick after its damage in the earthquakes and fires of 1850 and 1851, as had many of the other commercial buildings, including the Jenny Lind Theater. Few of the thousands of immigrants who crowded the city could afford to board at Montgomery House but those folks who did were usually well satisfied, especially since the rooms now contained real beds with feather ticking instead of the narrow, hanging cots of the previous structure.

Charity and her father, Emory Beal, had begun as tenants and had quickly decided to stay on. At least Emory had. As far as Charity was concerned she knew she could be happy anywhere as long as she remained a widow.

Remembrances of her cruel husband made her shiver in spite of the warmth of the day and she drew her shawl more tightly against the inner chill. She knew it must be a terrible sin to celebrate anyone's death but she couldn't help being grateful that the Lord had seen fit to liberate her from her degrading marriage to Ramsey Tucker. Just the thought of that vile man touching her again made gall rise in her throat.

Shaking off the unpleasant memories and turning to reenter the hotel, Charity noticed a small group of people trudging up the hill from the direction of the wharf. Travelers of that class weren't often seen, yet it was the imposing gentleman in the lead who immediately caught and held her attention.

He reminded her of someone going to the gallows – or perhaps the hangman, himself – such was his aura. A short, black cape furled from the shoulders of his coat as he walked and he carried a silver-tipped cane. His Eastern-style felt hat had a narrow enough brim that she could easily discern his scowl and square jaw.

Trailing him were a man and woman holding the hands of a small child who struggled to keep up while walking between them. Their clothing was elegant and obviously expensively tailored but their countenance was as downtrodden as that of the poorest immigrant.

Charity hurriedly ducked through the doorway and had almost reached the visiting parlor when a deep, male voice behind her commanded, "Wait."

She whirled to face the dark-haired traveler she'd been surreptitiously studying. "Yes?"

Instead of approaching the desk where a young clerk awaited, the stranger removed his hat, bowed slightly and addressed her. "We require rooms. Can you vouch for the character of this establishment?"

She nodded. "Yes, sir. I certainly can."

"Have you stayed here often?"

"My father and I live here," she said. "If you choose to join us in the dining room for supper you'll meet him. The evening meal is served at seven. Dinner is at one but as you can see," she gestured toward the grandfather clock at the far end of the room, "you've missed it." She peered past him to smile at the weary child. "I can probably find a few cookies and a glass of cold milk if the little one is hungry."

"Jacob always enjoys a cookie," the pale, light-haired woman replied. "We would be obliged." She bent down to the boy's level and added, "Wouldn't we, son?"

He merely nodded, his eyes as wide and expressive as a frightened doe's.

Charity approached and offered the woman her hand. "I'm Miss Beal, please call me Charity. And you are. . .?"

"Naomi. This is my husband, Mr. Ashton." She shyly glanced toward the taller man who had proceeded to the clerk's station and was signing the register. "And that gentleman is his half-brother, Mr. Thorne Blackwell."

Charity lowered her voice to ask, "Does he always order strangers around?"

Naomi's cheeks reddened. "A bit, I'm afraid. But his heart is in the right place. We've just come from a long sea voyage around the horn and we desperately need our rest."

"Then don't let me keep you," Charity said. "As soon as you're settled in your rooms I'll bring young Master Jacob his cookies and milk."

She was taken aback when Naomi's husband clamped a hand on his wife's shoulder, shook his head and gave her a wordless look of warning.

Startled, Naomi immediately took Charity's hand and held it as if clasping a lifeline. "I spoke foolishly just now. Please, if anyone asks, you must swear you've not seen us. Promise me?"

"Of course, but. . ."

"I'll explain later."

"All right. I won't breathe a word."

The men hoisted their belongings and started up the stairs while Naomi balanced the child on her hip. Waiting until they were out of sight, Charity crossed to the desk clerk. "What names did that gentleman sign?"

The young man smirked as he spun the register book for her perusal. "Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones and family, if you choose to believe such tales."
 

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