SPELLBOUND LOVERS by Sarah Raplee

            The royal witch had lied.

Cat’s breath hissed out between clenched teeth. At her sides her fingers curled until her nails pricked her palms. She fought to bring her emotions under control so Princess Hagatha’s black spell could not force The Change upon her. Rational thought would rule this night. She and Archimedes must win back her little sister from the witch as planned, as well as their own humanity.

Despite her current human form, Cat’s eyes missed nothing in the dimly-lit room. One torch placed in a wall sconce cast a pattern of flickering light and shadows on the stone walls of the chamber. No small child cowered in a corner. Where was Ivy?

“Well?” the princess said to Archimedes. She raised one delicate, dark brow like a bored courtesan, but her ample bosom rose and fell at a speed more often evidenced by a message runner.

                “Need I remind you of our bargain, Princess?” Archimedes said.

The fluting note in the nobleman’s baritone told Cat he, too, fought The Change. She caught a whiff of his familiar masculine scent. A tugging sensation deep in her belly hitched her breath.

When Hagatha snorted, he continued. “We used our cursed animal abilities to steal the Elder Wand from your sister, the queen. Reverse the joining spells and return the child as you promised. We will leave the Storm Isles forever, taking your secret with us.”

Archie pulled out the long, crooked twig that was the Elder Wand. Light sparkled on its polished surface like fairy dust. Over his muscled shoulder Cat glimpsed movement. Her attention riveted on a blue-eyed monkey perched on the sill of the single high, barred window—no doubt another shifter enthralled by the witch. Cat’s heart hiccupped. Her little sister’s eyes were the same shade of blue as the monkey’s bright orbs. Had Hagatha broken her promise not to be-spell Ivy?

The tip of Hagatha’s pink tongue circled her lips. “Give me the wand!”

Archie inclined his dark head. “First, show us the child, unharmed. Then reverse the spells joining us to beasts.”

Glowering, the witch pulled a short, straight rod from the pocket of her skirt. Cat recognized Hagatha’s wand. One quick flourish of the witch’s wand shot the Elder Wand into Hagatha’s grasp. A scowl twisted the witch’s lovely features. “I magicked that thieving brat to the Far Isles after she tried to steal my wand.”

Shivers raced through Cat’s chest like an internal earthquake. The witch had stranded her five-year-old sister alone in a foreign land. How could anyone be so heartless? She blinked back tears. Ivy must have intended to reverse the witch’s spell.

Hagatha’s voice rose an octave. “There is no way to reverse the joining spell, Archimedes. I can, however, force your human spirits to live out your days in the bodies of your chosen beasts.”

Muscles at the base of Cat’s spine twitched. Her fingertips ached as the witch raised her wand to strengthen the spell. The Change overtook her in mid-air as she sprang at Hagatha. Outstretched hands changed into orange-striped paws that clawed the magical rod from the witch’s fingers.

                Hagatha screeched like a banshee. The little monkey at the window joined in, giving off the sour smell of fear. Cat swatted the short wand into a corner and spun around, muscles in her haunches bunching for another long leap.

                Archie’s tall, dark frame had disappeared. A big barn owl attacked Hagatha’s head in a flurry of apricot, silvery blue and white feathers, his curved talons extended. The witch threw up her arms to protect her face from beak and claw. The Elder Wand flew across the room. Cat ignored an agonizing scream and a spray of what smelled like human blood. She streaked over the rough stone floor and caught the Elder Wand in her jaws.

                Hagatha screamed and screamed and screamed. Cat spotted the little monkey jumping up and down beside the door. The owl swiveled his blood-spattered head to pin Cat with his dark gaze. What looked like an eyeball dangled from his strong, sharp beak. He launched into the air, dropped his horrible souvenir and then circled the room.

The heavy oak door burst open and armored guards swarmed the chamber. The owl skimmed over their heads and down the hallway. Jaws clamped tight on her prize, Cat dodged through a forest of booted feet and followed Archie through the castle and out into the welcoming night.

An hour later, Archie glided to a landing beside the lithe orange tabby in a secluded alley near the docks. After listening for hidden heartbeats and finding none, he forced himself back into his true form. He accepted the Elder Wand from Cat and then tucked the unprepossessing instrument into his large inside coat pocket. Then he enjoyed watching Cat’s transformation into an auburn-haired young woman with big green eyes and a guarded expression. His gaze settled on the swell of her bosom. Too bad the magic returned the clothes they’d been wearing at the time of The Change.

“I must hide on a ship bound for the Far Isles,” Cat said without missing a beat.

Archie grabbed her by the elbow to detain her. He had to convince the little spitfire to listen to reason. He couldn’t let her put herself in certain peril. The thought of anyone hurting her made him want to rip something apart. Preferably something with a heartbeat. “When the sailors discover you, one of two things will happen, neither of which is pleasant, and neither of which will allow you to achieve your goal of finding Ivy.”

She set her stubborn jaw. “What do you care? I’m no lady, as you so kindly pointed out the first night of our quest. I’m a monster, remember?”

He inwardly cursed the rich, spoiled, self-centered idiot he’d been when his life had intersected Cat’s. In one short month, everything had changed. He had changed. He’d finally grown up.

He smiled and brushed her long, wild hair off her shoulder. “I was wrong.”

She scowled up at him, but hope seemed to glitter in her eyes. His keen latent owl sense of smell detected the honeyed odor of feminine desire. Archie pulled her close, so close that he heard her heart flutter like a butterfly wing. The delicate rhythm heated his blood as though it were not fall, but the mating season. I must hunt down fat mice to gift her with so that she will welcome my advances.

He blinked.

Spellbound I may be, but I’m a man, by God! A man in love with an enchanting woman. Cat deserved a gold ring on her finger and all the good things of life. Damned if he didn’t want to be the one to love and cherish her for as long as he lived.

“You are clever, Cat,” he murmured, rubbing her hair with his cheek as he savored the moment. Silky strands tugged at his stubble. His face tingled. “You are brave. You are the strongest woman I have ever known. You are good and beautiful and loving and loyal. I trust you with my life.”

She buried her face in his shirtfront and a sob shook her. Her hair was goose-down-soft under his lips. “In spite of Hagatha’s evil spell, you hold onto your humanity, while mine seems to slip through my fingers when I shift into owl form.”

He lifted her chin and peered into her glistening eyes. “You give me hope. You are not a monster. You’re a miracle.”

Her gaze fell to his chest. Her throat moved in a swallow. Then her cat’s eyes smiled up at him and he lost his breath.

“You’ll help me save Ivy, then?” she said, sounding breathless. “Because you love me and all?”

He answered with a kiss that was also a promise.


© 2012 Sarah Raplee

The Language of Flowers

by Christy Carlyle

For the third time in as many minutes Violet Taylor reminded herself that she had not accepted the invitation to Milly Wilcox’s garden party in the hope of seeing him. She didn’t even know for certain he would attend. It was true that he was nearly a member of the Wilcox family due to his longtime friendship with Milly’s brother. But that made no odds. He was a taciturn man whose behavior was unpredictable on the best of days.

With no thought to his attendance, she had come because Milly invited her, and it was the perfect opportunity to renew their friendship. Though, as she thought on it more, they had never truly developed a deep and meaningful friendship. Their families moved in different circles. Indeed, the Wilcoxes were the kind of family her mother called “the right sort.” The Taylors, on the other hand, were a few crucial steps behind. But that had never bothered Violet. It kept the penurious men away and allowed her a modicum of freedom to do as she pleased. Unfortunately, it also kept the quite well to do men away, and even one who was simply the best friend of a wealthy Wilcox.

He would certainly not attend a garden party. They were too spritely and colorful for such a dour, mirthless man. Of course, he would not have to spend time admiring the Wilcox’s flowers on this afternoon as the April weather had turned rainy and cool. The drawing room curtains were open so that the handful of guests could admire the gardens, but the glass obscured their colors, running them together like watercolor paints under a too damp brush.

He liked the rain, but disliked gardens. He adored the Wilcoxes, but loathed social gatherings that involved more than a couple guests. No, he would most definitely not attend. Indeed, if he did plan to attend, he was now unfashionably late. But it would be just like him to behave abominably.

“He’s here!” A chill trickled down Violet’s back as if she’d been stripped bare in a cool breeze. Her fingers gripped the delicate handle of her teacup so fiercely that she reached out to put it down before crushing the painted porcelain into dust. Watching her hand as she set the cup down, trying to steady it, she noticed that the dainty thing was painted with purple flowers. Were they violets? Not with those ruffles. Purple carnations. How apropos. They stood for capriciousness, whimsy, unreliability. Just like the man who was going to walk through the Wilcox’s drawing room door any moment.

Milly had taken her hand and leaned in close to whisper. “This is precisely why I invited you, Violet.” 

“Yes,” Violet heard herself speak but did not know how she had formed the word. Her mind was busy, racing through every memory of him: every tender moment, every sweet word spoken, and every tear shed. Milly tugged at her hand, scattering memories. The poor girl was beside herself.

“Oh, Violet, I needed you here in case he came. I cannot believe he accepted my invitation. Violet, what should I say to him? I simply have no notion what to say.” In the face of Milly’s high-pitched giddiness, the haze of memory continued to fade and Violet considered the young woman’s words. She could not mean him. He was a frequent, almost constant guest of the Wilcoxes. His presence might set her world off kilter but it would not be cause for Milly’s rapture.

The Wilcox’s elderly butler appeared, silent as a wraith, at Milly’s side. “Miss Wilcox, Lord Greville has arrived.”

The man himself followed the announcement, striding into the room as if he meant to plant a flag and claim it for England. “Do forgive me, Miss Wilcox. I am unforgivably late.” The assembled guests could not take their eyes off of him and his presence was such that it encompassed the entire room. Thomas, Lord Greville, was not only the handsomest man in the county, but also one of the wealthiest. He would be forgiven anything. In two giant strides, he stood before Milly and gallantly took up her hand to brush a kiss along her knuckles. Violet felt the girl’s shiver through her glove, where Milly still clung to her.

As Greville turned away to greet the other guests, Milly found her voice and rasped out a plea. “Violet, please go and fetch Will. He and Edmund are in the billiards room. Do tell them they must put down their silly game and make Thomas...Lord Greville, that is, feel welcome.”

Now it was Violet’s turn to shiver. He was here. Edmund Carrick. The most appealing and maddening man of her acquaintance. The man who’d held her heart, her very future, in his hands. Until he’d changed his mind. Without a word, an explanation, or even an excuse, their courtship had ended. But the questions in Violet’s mind never ceased. They all began with why or what if, and she never found satisfactory answers. Only he had the answers. And now she’d been tasked with fetching him like a nanny chasing after an errant schoolboy.

Violet wasn’t even certain where to find the billiard room. How long had it been since she’d last visited the Wilcoxes? As she exited the drawing room as inconspicuously as possible, she guessed that the faithful butler, Higgins, would surely appear and send her in the right direction. The dining room snagged her attention as she passed. Two maids and a footman circled the table, placing gleaming plates and sparkling crystal just so. They spied her and finished quickly, leaving the room to her in all its glory. Spring flowers spilled from silver bowls and a grand chandelier lit every surface with an amber glow. Even the name cards at each place setting were gilded around the edges. She couldn’t resist looking down the row for Edmund’s card. That’s when she saw it.

A single sprig of flowers lay on one of the plates. Forget-me-nots. Tiny, perfect five-petaled blooms stared up at her with their bright yellow center eyes. They were a stunning blue, as bright as a robin’s egg and lighter than periwinkle. She stepped closer and read her own name on the card in a looping, elaborate hand. Who would leave flowers on her plate? And not just any flowers. These flowers represented true love and constancy. Her pulse began to flutter and she felt suddenly breathless, as if she’d run all the way across the heath. Edmund? Could Edmund have left these flowers as a declaration?

“Miss Taylor, you’ve found my offering.” Violet jumped at the sound of Lord Greville’s smooth, deep voice. She turned, her skirts brushing against his legs. He stood shockingly near.

“Lord Greville. I...” Her voice came out as a squeak, laced with as much panic as Milly’s had been just moments before.

Greville grinned down at her with the most dazzling smile she had ever seen. “I missed my mark, Miss Taylor. You see, I meant to leave those on Miss Wilcox’s plate, but that butler of theirs is quite too efficient. He swept me into the drawing room before I knew what I was about.”

He reached around her and took up the pretty blooms, moving them to a plate near the head of the table. “There. My deed is done. Do keep my secret for now, Miss Taylor. Will you?”

“Of course, my lord.” Based on his status, Violet could deny him very little, but his blue eyes, a deeper shade of forget-me-not blue, were persuasive in their own right. Good for Milly. Now, if only the girl could manage a few coherent words to the man.

Just as Greville took her hand to drop a perfunctory kiss of gratitude, another voice rang through the dining room. Deeper than Greville’s, with a distinctive rasp and a complete absence of Greville’s easy joviality, it was a voice Violet could never mistake.

“Greville. Welcome. Tom will be along soon.” The man hadn’t changed a bit. If anything, the intervening months had brought more character to his face. His dark hair was longer, but it suited him. And for a man of such height and bulk, Violet couldn’t help but notice Edmund Carrick’s grace of movement. Nor could she stifle a tiny gasp as he moved toward her. Though he had spoken to Lord Greville, his eyes were on her, boring into her, looking beyond her plain chestnut hair and pale green eyes, into her essence. She had always felt that he, more than anyone she had ever known, saw her, Violet, for who she truly was. Who she wished to be.

He cut her off, positioning himself so that he faced Greville and was neatly situated between them. “Miss Wilcox must be missing your company in the drawing room.” He paused as if expecting Greville to jump at his command. “I will escort Miss Taylor back. We are old friends.” Old friends! Violet’s mouth fell open and she snapped it shut, stifling the urge to let out a very unladylike scream.

The moment Greville strode from the room, Edmund turned to face her. Before she could speak a word of her hurt, her anger, or her many questions, he cut her off. “I have missed you, Violet.” Instantly warm syrup filled her veins and she opened her mouth to speak words of affection that had been bottled up with her pain. He reached his hand up to touch her cheek and she turned her head slightly, pressing against his warmth, relishing his familiar scent. Then, ever changeable, he snatched his hand away. Her cheek burned where he had touched her.

“What on earth were you doing exchanging flowers with Greville?” His voice was as angry as she’d ever heard it and possessive, as he had no right to be.

“We weren’t exchanging flowers.” Her tone was meant to be dismissive, but she heard it waver and felt the sting of tears she’d stifled too long. “I thought they were from you!” She shouted the final word and the release felt glorious.

He moved closer and looked toward the door, as if he feared they would be overheard. When she looked up into his eyes, she saw that their brown depths were tender. “Why did you think they were from me, Violet?” His voice had lost all trace of anger.

He reached for her again and she moved away from him. “I have no idea. It was a silly notion considering what they symbolize.” All the anger of his abandonment began to simmer, threatening to bubble over into words she could never take back.

“Symbolize? What do they symbolize?” She watched his eyes as he turned to glimpse the lovely cluster of forget-me-nots. “I would guess their name tells the meaning.”

“Yes. They mean ‘stay true to me’ and ‘don’t forget me.’”

“I could never forget you, Violet.” His deep voice was soft now, seductive. But she would not give in.

“They also symbolize constancy. So you can see why I was foolish to think them from you.” She expected him to wince or retort in anger. She was certain her arrow would sting. Instead he moved closer, his voice still low.

“What flower would you have me give you, Violet?”

“I am long past wishing for posies from you, Mr. Carrick.” If she called him Edmund, she would break. She would melt into him and lose herself again. Her anger protected her like armor, and she could not let it slip.

“Come, my lady, you know the language of flowers. Tell me what flower I should give you to say...” He paused just when she needed him to continue. “To tell you what you must already know, Miss Taylor. I am a fool.”

Violet’s throat burned with unspoken words, all of them flooding to get out, but he gave her no time to speak. Instead, he stepped forward and clasped her hand, his long, firm fingers curving into her palm. He tugged and she followed. They crossed the room and he opened the French doors along the wall. Like the drawing room, the dining room looked out onto the Wilcox’s expansive gardens.

The rain had stopped but the grass and every shrub and flower was drenched from the day’s showers. The air smelled rain-scrubbed fresh and even in the waning afternoon light, the array of colors was breathtaking.

He left her standing on the low balcony beyond the French doors and made his way into the garden. When he was knee-deep in blooms, he called back to her. “Which one, Miss Taylor? Which would you have me give you?”

The other guests in the drawing room must have heard his call as Violet saw the window slide open out of the corner of her eye. She recognized the voice of Tom, Milly’s brother, as he shouted to his friend. “Give her a rose, Carrick. All ladies love roses.”

Edmund shot her a questioning glance. “No,” she answered. She did not want a rose. Based on its color, the meaning might be lost, and the only bud visible this early was a bright pink. A rose that shade symbolized passion and desire. She wanted more than that from Edmund Carrick.

He moved onto a lovely jonquil, it’s sunny trumpet bowed by the rain. Its message was “return my affection,” but her affection for Edmund was never in question. She shook her head and he moved away, nearly tripping over a clump of poppies. Their papery petals had been battered by the rain, but a few had recovered, the bold red cup of their bloom revealing only a glimpse of their silky black center. He leaned down toward one of the tall, brazen poppies, but Violet stopped him again. Red poppies were beautiful and exotic, but they symbolized only pleasure. She wished for pleasure with Edmund, certainly, but still more.

He began to move further into the garden and nearly overlooked a neat row of graceful tulips in a variety of colors. They had held up well in the rain and stood tall, like little sentries guarding a sharply trimmed hedge of boxwood. She called out to him. “Wait. There. The tulips.” She saw his mouth shift in a momentary grin, his full lips broadening across his handsome face.

            He reached down for a yellow one and then picked another. He stood as if to return to her and she stopped him. “One of the red, too, Mr. Carrick.” Though the Wilcox’s gardener would probably be appalled at Edmund’s raid on his fine work, the assembled guests seemed to take great pleasure in the spectacle he was making. Violet glimpsed Milly leaning out the drawing room window and the girl shot her a knowing smile.

            In a moment he was before her, holding out the vibrant red and yellow tulips as an offering. “Now you must tell me what they mean, Miss Taylor. I hope they mean forgiveness. Perhaps even a second chance to put things right.”

            Violet reached for the tulips, but he would not release them. Instead he covered her hand with his own. “Will you forgive me, Violet?” His voice was so lovely, deep and strong. It rumbled through her, though he spoke softly. She felt his warm breath skittering across her cheeks and realized she was breathing as heavily as he.

            She swallowed hard, sifting the sentiments bursting the seams of her heart. “The yellow tulip symbolizes hopeless love. That is what I have been since last we met. Quite hopeless.” A hot tear slid from the corner of her eye, but she could not stop the words she needed to say. “The red tulip stands for undying love. That is what I feel for you, Edmund.” On a broken whisper, she finally said, “And what I wish from you in return.”

            When he pulled her into his arms, it was an intoxicating relief. Like lead weights, the pain, anger, and hopelessness fell away and the love she’d always felt for him could lift its head once again, as vibrant and strong as the tulips she held in her grasp. She fit with him, against him, as if his body was fashioned with spaces only she could fill.

            He pulled away enough to look down at her, wiping her tears away with the pad of his thumb. “You are named after a flower, my darling Violet. Tell me what a violet symbolizes.”

            Violet took a long breath and closed her eyes, savoring the feel of him, the scent of the rain-soaked garden and the fresh cut tulips, imprinting the moment on her mind and heart. When she opened her eyes, she saw all that she hoped for and needed reflected back in his own dark eyes.

            “Faithfulness.” She spoke the word quietly, reverently.

            His jaw tensed and she saw a flash of pain in his eyes. Then he lowered his head, his lips just inches above hers. “I should have known.” The words had barely left his mouth before he pressed his lips to hers. Her whole body reacted, tautening like a tightly drawn bow, but he gave her only a taste before pulling back. “Will you still have me, Violet? Will you be my wife?” Her eyes widened at his words and he added, “We have wasted enough time, Miss Taylor.”

            Violet pulled back and offered him the red and yellow tulips. With her eyes and the wide smile on her face, she echoed their message: hopeless and undying love.

Christy Carlyle on Facebook

The language of flowers was a means of communication, particularly popular in the Victorian-era, by which individuals sent coded messages to share secret feelings or express what could not be spoken.

Kiss of The Ghostbuster by Diana McCollum

     The damn ghost had kept Shelby wide-awake most of the night.  Its quiet litany of sing-song indistinguishable words, and the fleeting cold air that crept into her room had been tolerable, but two nights ago when vases and knickknacks started flying off the shelves, the spirit was more of a nuisance than she was willing to put up with.
     This ghost wasn’t like O’Henry, the jolly ghost that had co-habited with Aunt Maggie all those years ago.  Shelby and Cousin Anna used to set food out for him in hopes of catching a glimpse of the elusive spirit.  They never saw O’Henry, just heard his footsteps.  Aunt Maggie had always reassured them that he was a friendly old sea captain and wouldn’t harm them.
     The uniqueness of having her own singing ghost had dissolved with the shattered pottery.  Today she was calling for help.
It’s not that she was scared of the entity, she wasn’t.  She’d lived with it since moving to Bend, OR, last month and purchasing the more than one-hundred and fifty year old house.  But enough was enough already.  She had a demanding job as a nurse in the ICU at the hospital.  She needed her rest.
“Okay Misty” Shelby said.  She’d given the ghost a pet name as it had only showed itself to her in the form of mist, “The time has come that you’ve over stayed your welcome.”
She put on her bathrobe and pounded down the stairs to the kitchen.  The smell of the freshly brewed pot of coffee met her as she rounded the kitchen counter.  Sliding a mug over to the automatic coffee pot, she poured the hot, black liquid into her cup.  After several swallows, she pulled the phone book over and thumbed through the pages.
So I wonder if there is a Ghost Buster in town.  What should I look under, exterminator, ghost buster…?  Well, well this looks promising: Huntley’s Spectral Mediator.
She dialed the number and waited, counting the rings.  Two, three, four and the answering machine picked up.
“You’ve reached the voice mail for “Huntley’s Spectral Mediator”, L.C. Huntley speaking.  If you have an unwanted entity or ghost you have dialed the correct number.  We work hard at customer satisfaction.  You and your ghost both deserve a satisfying resolution.  Remember, ghosts are people too.  Leave your name, number and a brief description of your unwanted guest.  We’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”


The doorbell jarred Shelby awake.  She sat up on the couch and rubbed the kink in her neck.  She had only meant to close her eyes for a moment.  Peeking out the window, she saw a small, boxy, neon green car, a Honda Element to be exact.  The shrink-wrap advertisement on the side read Let us put your spirit to rest.
Hopefully this isn’t a quack.  She opened the door to reveal a man about thirtyish years old, with thick, dark-brown curly hair, wearing designer sunglasses and a black t-shirt emblazoned with the company slogan Ghosts are people too!
He looked up from his clipboard and did a double take.  Sliding his glasses down his nose apparently for a better look he said “Shelby?  Shelby Sawyer?”
She noted his blue-gray eyes and the quizzical look he gave her.  “Yes…no, I mean I was Shelby Sawyer, but one marriage and divorce later I’m Shelby Stein.  You don’t look familiar, do I know you?”
He chuckled, slipped his sunglasses off and stuck them in his shirt pocket.  “You don’t remember your senior ball at Rancho Vega High School?  I invited you and you kept me hanging till the last minute and then turned me down.”
“I don’t know any L.C. Huntley.  Wait,  L.C., are you Lester Huntley?”  Oh, God, this was awkward.
“That would be me in the flesh and blood.”  He had a cocky smile plastered on his face and he winked.
Her senior year her boyfriend of three years broke up with her right before the senior ball.  Lester, the class geek, had stepped up to the plate and asked her to be his date.  She put off answering him in the hopes Bill would come to his senses, which he eventually did.  At that time in her life the last person she wanted to be seen with was the class geek, with his thick glasses and unruly curly hair.  Back then, it was all about looks and cliques.  She hated her old self for being so shallow.
“Please come in.”  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad hiring him, after all they were adults now.
As he walked through the open door, he grabbed a pen from the top of his clipboard and began writing.
“Tell me about the spirit haunting your house.  On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worse possible scenario, where does your ghost land?”
“Up until last night, I’d have said two.  Then the activity escalated to throwing vases.  I’d say eight now.”
Lester drew a graph on his paper.  “And where has it manifested itself?”
Shelby walked to the stairwell. “It’s a mist that glides down the stairs and in front of this bare wall in the hallway.  When it passes by me the temperature drops about twenty degrees.   I can’t really make out the words, but it’s singing.  I named it Misty, because it looks like mist.”
“Sounds like the ghost knows you can hear it.  Not everyone could.  That’s probably why the entity has started to escalate its behavior.  Its got unfinished business before it can rest in peace.”  His forehead puckered.  “I’ll need to set up my equipment during the time the entity is most active.  And that would be…?”  He glanced up.
“Between ten pm and two am and what kind of equipment are we talking about?”  She tilted her head to one side.  Lester had definitely changed from the shy geeky teenager she remembered.  He wasn’t handsome, but good looking in a rugged sort of way.  Same curly brown hair, growing past his ears, and his thick glasses were gone so he must have gotten contacts.
“Oh, the usual, tri-pod, lazer-grid machine, temp gauge, and an EMF and EM field output gauge and recorder.   We want to get a picture of your ghost and figure out who we’re dealing with.”  He looked directly at her with laughing eyes. “Are you available for the next few evenings?”
“Yes I am.  I just got off my shift.  I work four, ten hour days and then I’m off for three days.”  A shiver raced up her spine.  She wasn’t sure if she wanted to confront an angry ghost.  “So I’ll be your assistant?”
“More or less.  The ghost is attached to your house and therefore attached to you.  There have been cases where once attached, the spirit follows the host to another location.  The spirit knows and uses the energy from a person with mediumistic qualities.”  He tapped his pencil on the tablet.  “Most spirits have either experienced a violent death, or have unresolved issues here on earth.”
“What are you saying?  I have mediumistic qualities?”  She wasn’t even sure what that meant.
“Could be, considering the last owners never saw the ghost.”
“How do you know that?”
“I always do research before taking on a new client.”
“Then we have a deal?  You’ll get rid of the ghost?”  She couldn’t believe she was hiring Lester, the geek, the guy she stood up in high school.
“We’ll help the ghost move on.  You and me, teamwork.”  He stuck out his hand and they shook on it.


Two nights later Lester was feeling pretty good, ghost or no ghost.  Misty was a no-show, but that was fine by him.  He adjusted the tri-pod and red grid lines splayed across the wall.  When Shelbylious brought him a second cup of coffee, their hands brushed and attraction sizzled between them.  Maybe the universe was giving him a second chance with Shelby.
“Any significant other in your life right now?”  He asked.  He took a sip of coffee.
“No.  After the divorce last year I took a leave from the dating scene, not ready for that.”
      Shelby fingered a strand of hair that had escaped her pony tail.  She hadn’t changed much physically, but she wasn’t so egotistical and more down to earth.  He liked this new Shelby.  They had chatted and caught up over the last few nights.
She grabbed his arm. “Misty’s coming!”
An uncanny feeling came over him.  He set the mug down.  “Steady, be quiet.”  He aimed the EMF recorder towards the mist gliding down the stairs and sucked in his breath as it gathered at the bottom.  The sing-song voice started and the form drifted over in front of the wall.  The grid machine put the mist into a three-D image projected on the wall.
“The ghost’s a woman.”  Shelby whispered in his ear.
“This footage will be awesome!”  Lester whispered back.
The woman worked her hands in a rubbing motion, continuing in her sing-song voice, her attire was from the eighteen hundreds and her hair was pulled back in a severe bun.
The cold air engulfed them and he glanced at Shelby just in time to see her eyes roll back in her head.  He caught her before she hit the floor.
He tapped the button on the voice recorder and cradled Shelby up against him.
She started coming around and he lowered her to the wooden chair.  Another entity entered the grid lines, a man brandishing a club in a threatening manner. He whacked the woman on the head.  He yelled something at the crumpled form of the woman.  Before leaving the ghost knocked over a lamp.  With incredible speed the entity glided over to Lester and gave a soundless, open mouth scream right in Lester’s face.
Shelby jumped when the lamp hit the floor.  He reached down pulling her up gathering her into his embrace. She clutched hold of his shirt burying her face against his chest.  He breathed in the smell of her hair.  It was like a spring day, all warm and flowery. Surely she could hear the loud drumming in his heart.  His voice husky he said, “That was some show.”  Slowly he undid her hands and walked over to flip on the light switch.
“Misty died a violent death.”  He said.  “I’ll take the voice recorder back to my lab and see what she was singing.  That might give us an idea how to help her.”  He paused.  “The second entity, a poltergeist is the one with violent tendencies.”
“Two ghosts?”  Shelby’s voice went an octave higher.  “Can I go with you?  I don’t want to stay here.”  Her voice trembled.
“You can come, but I have an assignment for you.  In the morning I want you to go to the library and see what you can find out about the residents of this house in the eighteen hundreds.”


The next day Shelby waited anxiously for Lester to arrive.  She had really gotten to know Lester over the last few days, and she liked him a lot.  Last night at his lab he had reassured her that they would rid the house of the spirits, both of them.  And, gosh, he had kissed her and it felt so good.
She heard his car and ran to open the door.
He was already leaning on the door frame with a lopsided grin on his face.           “What did you find out?”
“I think the woman is Ella Frantz, a servant who after miscarrying her baby was accused of stealing, and killed.  The wife suspected the baby was her husbands and his name was…”
“Edward Coultan.”  He finished for her.
“How…”
“After you left I ran the tapes through a high density filter.  Ella was singing a song she made up.  I think by that point she was insane from heartbreak.  The song told of Edward forcing himself on her and kicking her in the stomach when she told him she was carrying his child.  When she lost the baby, Ella decided to tell Edward’s wife the truth. He murdered her.  She was buried in a prison graveyard.”
“So how do we make this right?”
“We find her grave and have it moved into the church graveyard with the respectable dead.”  He spoke as if this was an everyday occurrence.  “Edward will have no choice but to cross over to Hell without Ella here to relive the tragedy with him every night.”


Shelby felt so good.  Lester had rid the house of the ghosts!  Last night was the best sleep she had had in a couple of weeks.  He’d be here anytime for his check, payment for a job well done.  This afternoon she had baked a pan of brownies for him as a tip.  He had told her during one of their late night conversations, that brownies were his favorite dessert.
The doorbell rang and she pulled the door open. Lester stood there with a bunch of lilies tied with a purple ribbon in one arm, a bouquet of roses in the other, and a silly looking grin on his face.
“Two bouquets?”  She quizzed.
“I thought maybe you’d go with me to see Ella and put the lilies on her grave.”  He took a deep breath, and his forehead puckered.  “The roses are for you.  Will you have dinner with me?”
“Yes, but only if we can come back here for dessert.”  She accepted the roses.
“You bet!”  He pulled her close with his free arm and kissed her thoroughly.
      Shelby hoped dessert would be more than the pan of brownies sitting on the counter.


                                                       The End

© 2012 Diana McCollum

The Language of Flowers

by Christy Carlyle

For the third time in as many minutes Violet Taylor reminded herself that she had not accepted the invitation to Milly Wilcox’s garden party in the hope of seeing him. She didn’t even know for certain he would attend. It was true that he was nearly a member of the Wilcox family due to his longtime friendship with Milly’s brother. But that made no odds. He was a taciturn man whose behavior was unpredictable on the best of days.

With no thought to his attendance, she had come because Milly invited her, and it was the perfect opportunity to renew their friendship. Though, as she thought on it more, they had never truly developed a deep and meaningful friendship. Their families moved in different circles. Indeed, the Wilcoxes were the kind of family her mother called “the right sort.” The Taylors, on the other hand, were a few crucial steps behind. But that had never bothered Violet. It kept the penurious men away and allowed her a modicum of freedom to do as she pleased. Unfortunately, it also kept the quite well to do men away, and even one who was simply the best friend of a wealthy Wilcox.

He would certainly not attend a garden party. They were too spritely and colorful for such a dour, mirthless man. Of course, he would not have to spend time admiring the Wilcox’s flowers on this afternoon as the April weather had turned rainy and cool. The drawing room curtains were open so that the handful of guests could admire the gardens, but the glass obscured their colors, running them together like watercolor paints under a too damp brush.

He liked the rain, but disliked gardens. He adored the Wilcoxes, but loathed social gatherings that involved more than a couple guests. No, he would most definitely not attend. Indeed, if he did plan to attend, he was now unfashionably late. But it would be just like him to behave abominably.

“He’s here!” A chill trickled down Violet’s back as if she’d been stripped bare in a cool breeze. Her fingers gripped the delicate handle of her teacup so fiercely that she reached out to put it down before crushing the painted porcelain into dust. Watching her hand as she set the cup down, trying to steady it, she noticed that the dainty thing was painted with purple flowers. Were they violets? Not with those ruffles. Purple carnations. How apropos. They stood for capriciousness, whimsy, unreliability. Just like the man who was going to walk through the Wilcox’s drawing room door any moment.

Milly had taken her hand and leaned in close to whisper. “This is precisely why I invited you, Violet.” 

“Yes,” Violet heard herself speak but did not know how she had formed the word. Her mind was busy, racing through every memory of him: every tender moment, every sweet word spoken, and every tear shed. Milly tugged at her hand, scattering memories. The poor girl was beside herself.

“Oh, Violet, I needed you here in case he came. I cannot believe he accepted my invitation. Violet, what should I say to him? I simply have no notion what to say.” In the face of Milly’s high-pitched giddiness, the haze of memory continued to fade and Violet considered the young woman’s words. She could not mean him. He was a frequent, almost constant guest of the Wilcoxes. His presence might set her world off kilter but it would not be cause for Milly’s rapture.

The Wilcox’s elderly butler appeared, silent as a wraith, at Milly’s side. “Miss Wilcox, Lord Greville has arrived.”

The man himself followed the announcement, striding into the room as if he meant to plant a flag and claim it for England. “Do forgive me, Miss Wilcox. I am unforgivably late.” The assembled guests could not take their eyes off of him and his presence was such that it encompassed the entire room. Thomas, Lord Greville, was not only the handsomest man in the county, but also one of the wealthiest. He would be forgiven anything. In two giant strides, he stood before Milly and gallantly took up her hand to brush a kiss along her knuckles. Violet felt the girl’s shiver through her glove, where Milly still clung to her.

As Greville turned away to greet the other guests, Milly found her voice and rasped out a plea. “Violet, please go and fetch Will. He and Edmund are in the billiards room. Do tell them they must put down their silly game and make Thomas...Lord Greville, that is, feel welcome.”

Now it was Violet’s turn to shiver. He was here. Edmund Carrick. The most appealing and maddening man of her acquaintance. The man who’d held her heart, her very future, in his hands. Until he’d changed his mind. Without a word, an explanation, or even an excuse, their courtship had ended. But the questions in Violet’s mind never ceased. They all began with why or what if, and she never found satisfactory answers. Only he had the answers. And now she’d been tasked with fetching him like a nanny chasing after an errant schoolboy.

Violet wasn’t even certain where to find the billiard room. How long had it been since she’d last visited the Wilcoxes? As she exited the drawing room as inconspicuously as possible, she guessed that the faithful butler, Higgins, would surely appear and send her in the right direction. The dining room snagged her attention as she passed. Two maids and a footman circled the table, placing gleaming plates and sparkling crystal just so. They spied her and finished quickly, leaving the room to her in all its glory. Spring flowers spilled from silver bowls and a grand chandelier lit every surface with an amber glow. Even the name cards at each place setting were gilded around the edges. She couldn’t resist looking down the row for Edmund’s card. That’s when she saw it.

A single sprig of flowers lay on one of the plates. Forget-me-nots. Tiny, perfect five-petaled blooms stared up at her with their bright yellow center eyes. They were a stunning blue, as bright as a robin’s egg and lighter than periwinkle. She stepped closer and read her own name on the card in a looping, elaborate hand. Who would leave flowers on her plate? And not just any flowers. These flowers represented true love and constancy. Her pulse began to flutter and she felt suddenly breathless, as if she’d run all the way across the heath. Edmund? Could Edmund have left these flowers as a declaration?

“Miss Taylor, you’ve found my offering.” Violet jumped at the sound of Lord Greville’s smooth, deep voice. She turned, her skirts brushing against his legs. He stood shockingly near.

“Lord Greville. I...” Her voice came out as a squeak, laced with as much panic as Milly’s had been just moments before.

Greville grinned down at her with the most dazzling smile she had ever seen. “I missed my mark, Miss Taylor. You see, I meant to leave those on Miss Wilcox’s plate, but that butler of theirs is quite too efficient. He swept me into the drawing room before I knew what I was about.”

He reached around her and took up the pretty blooms, moving them to a plate near the head of the table. “There. My deed is done. Do keep my secret for now, Miss Taylor. Will you?”

“Of course, my lord.” Based on his status, Violet could deny him very little, but his blue eyes, a deeper shade of forget-me-not blue, were persuasive in their own right. Good for Milly. Now, if only the girl could manage a few coherent words to the man.

Just as Greville took her hand to drop a perfunctory kiss of gratitude, another voice rang through the dining room. Deeper than Greville’s, with a distinctive rasp and a complete absence of Greville’s easy joviality, it was a voice Violet could never mistake.

“Greville. Welcome. Tom will be along soon.” The man hadn’t changed a bit. If anything, the intervening months had brought more character to his face. His dark hair was longer, but it suited him. And for a man of such height and bulk, Violet couldn’t help but notice Edmund Carrick’s grace of movement. Nor could she stifle a tiny gasp as he moved toward her. Though he had spoken to Lord Greville, his eyes were on her, boring into her, looking beyond her plain chestnut hair and pale green eyes, into her essence. She had always felt that he, more than anyone she had ever known, saw her, Violet, for who she truly was. Who she wished to be.

He cut her off, positioning himself so that he faced Greville and was neatly situated between them. “Miss Wilcox must be missing your company in the drawing room.” He paused as if expecting Greville to jump at his command. “I will escort Miss Taylor back. We are old friends.” Old friends! Violet’s mouth fell open and she snapped it shut, stifling the urge to let out a very unladylike scream.

The moment Greville strode from the room, Edmund turned to face her. Before she could speak a word of her hurt, her anger, or her many questions, he cut her off. “I have missed you, Violet.” Instantly warm syrup filled her veins and she opened her mouth to speak words of affection that had been bottled up with her pain. He reached his hand up to touch her cheek and she turned her head slightly, pressing against his warmth, relishing his familiar scent. Then, ever changeable, he snatched his hand away. Her cheek burned where he had touched her.

“What on earth were you doing exchanging flowers with Greville?” His voice was as angry as she’d ever heard it and possessive, as he had no right to be.

“We weren’t exchanging flowers.” Her tone was meant to be dismissive, but she heard it waver and felt the sting of tears she’d stifled too long. “I thought they were from you!” She shouted the final word and the release felt glorious.

He moved closer and looked toward the door, as if he feared they would be overheard. When she looked up into his eyes, she saw that their brown depths were tender. “Why did you think they were from me, Violet?” His voice had lost all trace of anger.

He reached for her again and she moved away from him. “I have no idea. It was a silly notion considering what they symbolize.” All the anger of his abandonment began to simmer, threatening to bubble over into words she could never take back.

“Symbolize? What do they symbolize?” She watched his eyes as he turned to glimpse the lovely cluster of forget-me-nots. “I would guess their name tells the meaning.”

“Yes. They mean ‘stay true to me’ and ‘don’t forget me.’”

“I could never forget you, Violet.” His deep voice was soft now, seductive. But she would not give in.

“They also symbolize constancy. So you can see why I was foolish to think them from you.” She expected him to wince or retort in anger. She was certain her arrow would sting. Instead he moved closer, his voice still low.

“What flower would you have me give you, Violet?”

“I am long past wishing for posies from you, Mr. Carrick.” If she called him Edmund, she would break. She would melt into him and lose herself again. Her anger protected her like armor, and she could not let it slip.

“Come, my lady, you know the language of flowers. Tell me what flower I should give you to say...” He paused just when she needed him to continue. “To tell you what you must already know, Miss Taylor. I am a fool.”

Violet’s throat burned with unspoken words, all of them flooding to get out, but he gave her no time to speak. Instead, he stepped forward and clasped her hand, his long, firm fingers curving into her palm. He tugged and she followed. They crossed the room and he opened the French doors along the wall. Like the drawing room, the dining room looked out onto the Wilcox’s expansive gardens.

The rain had stopped but the grass and every shrub and flower was drenched from the day’s showers. The air smelled rain-scrubbed fresh and even in the waning afternoon light, the array of colors was breathtaking.

He left her standing on the low balcony beyond the French doors and made his way into the garden. When he was knee-deep in blooms, he called back to her. “Which one, Miss Taylor? Which would you have me give you?”

The other guests in the drawing room must have heard his call as Violet saw the window slide open out of the corner of her eye. She recognized the voice of Tom, Milly’s brother, as he shouted to his friend. “Give her a rose, Carrick. All ladies love roses.”

Edmund shot her a questioning glance. “No,” she answered. She did not want a rose. Based on its color, the meaning might be lost, and the only bud visible this early was a bright pink. A rose that shade symbolized passion and desire. She wanted more than that from Edmund Carrick.

He moved onto a lovely jonquil, it’s sunny trumpet bowed by the rain. Its message was “return my affection,” but her affection for Edmund was never in question. She shook her head and he moved away, nearly tripping over a clump of poppies. Their papery petals had been battered by the rain, but a few had recovered, the bold red cup of their bloom revealing only a glimpse of their silky black center. He leaned down toward one of the tall, brazen poppies, but Violet stopped him again. Red poppies were beautiful and exotic, but they symbolized only pleasure. She wished for pleasure with Edmund, certainly, but still more.

He began to move further into the garden and nearly overlooked a neat row of graceful tulips in a variety of colors. They had held up well in the rain and stood tall, like little sentries guarding a sharply trimmed hedge of boxwood. She called out to him. “Wait. There. The tulips.” She saw his mouth shift in a momentary grin, his full lips broadening across his handsome face.

            He reached down for a yellow one and then picked another. He stood as if to return to her and she stopped him. “One of the red, too, Mr. Carrick.” Though the Wilcox’s gardener would probably be appalled at Edmund’s raid on his fine work, the assembled guests seemed to take great pleasure in the spectacle he was making. Violet glimpsed Milly leaning out the drawing room window and the girl shot her a knowing smile.

            In a moment he was before her, holding out the vibrant red and yellow tulips as an offering. “Now you must tell me what they mean, Miss Taylor. I hope they mean forgiveness. Perhaps even a second chance to put things right.”

            Violet reached for the tulips, but he would not release them. Instead he covered her hand with his own. “Will you forgive me, Violet?” His voice was so lovely, deep and strong. It rumbled through her, though he spoke softly. She felt his warm breath skittering across her cheeks and realized she was breathing as heavily as he.

            She swallowed hard, sifting the sentiments bursting the seams of her heart. “The yellow tulip symbolizes hopeless love. That is what I have been since last we met. Quite hopeless.” A hot tear slid from the corner of her eye, but she could not stop the words she needed to say. “The red tulip stands for undying love. That is what I feel for you, Edmund.” On a broken whisper, she finally said, “And what I wish from you in return.”

            When he pulled her into his arms, it was an intoxicating relief. Like lead weights, the pain, anger, and hopelessness fell away and the love she’d always felt for him could lift its head once again, as vibrant and strong as the tulips she held in her grasp. She fit with him, against him, as if his body was fashioned with spaces only she could fill.

            He pulled away enough to look down at her, wiping her tears away with the pad of his thumb. “You are named after a flower, my darling Violet. Tell me what a violet symbolizes.”

            Violet took a long breath and closed her eyes, savoring the feel of him, the scent of the rain-soaked garden and the fresh cut tulips, imprinting the moment on her mind and heart. When she opened her eyes, she saw all that she hoped for and needed reflected back in his own dark eyes.

            “Faithfulness.” She spoke the word quietly, reverently.

            His jaw tensed and she saw a flash of pain in his eyes. Then he lowered his head, his lips just inches above hers. “I should have known.” The words had barely left his mouth before he pressed his lips to hers. Her whole body reacted, tautening like a tightly drawn bow, but he gave her only a taste before pulling back. “Will you still have me, Violet? Will you be my wife?” Her eyes widened at his words and he added, “We have wasted enough time, Miss Taylor.”

            Violet pulled back and offered him the red and yellow tulips. With her eyes and the wide smile on her face, she echoed their message: hopeless and undying love.

Christy Carlyle on Facebook

The language of flowers was a means of communication, particularly popular in the Victorian-era, by which individuals sent coded messages to share secret feelings or express what could not be spoken.

Shanghaied Heart

Shanghaied Heart

By

Paty Jager

Portland, Oregon

1878

     His head pounded and felt in motion, causing his gut to clench and heave. Finn Callaghan gingerly opened his eyes and realized the swaying wasn’t in his head. The stench, creaks, and groans brought back a past he remembered in vivid detail.

     How did he get in the hold of a ship?

     Childhood memories of traveling with his family from Ireland to find a better life in America came rushing back. They had only enough funds to travel in the steerage. Nearly a hundred bodies crammed in the hull of the boat—all looking for a better life. His family survived the weeks of travel by rationing the food they’d brought with them washed down with rain water caught in barrels on the deck and lowered down to them in buckets.

     That happened twenty years ago but all the images, scents, and sounds bombarded him and he shivered. The past ten years working for the railroad he’d shoved those hardships to the back of his mind. 

Finn stared in the darkness. How the hell did he get from a saloon to the hold of a ship? He rubbed a hand over his aching head. He didn’t even drink anything to give him a headache.

     A moan slithered through the silence.

     He wasn’t alone. 

     Holding his breath he listened intently. There it was again not as strong.

    “Hello? Who else is here?”

     A breathy gasp lingered in the air.

     He’d been around long enough to know a female sound when he heard it.

    “I won’t hurt you.  If you’re able, speak up so I can find you and we can find a way out of here.” Once the sound of his voice died out, he strained to hear a voice or movement to judge if this woman was injured.

     “Who are you?” asked a definitely feminine voice.

     He smiled. His assumption had been right. He had a feeling she was one with more backbone than most men from the gumption in her tone.

     “Finn Callaghan. And you?”

     “Why are you down here?”

     He shook his head at her question and business-like tone. Pain slashed from his forehead to his neck.  Finn pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and tried to collect his thoughts. She’d asked why he was down here. Hell if he knew.

     “Last I remember I was at the Red Dog Saloon looking for workers for the Oregon Steam and Navigation Company.” He remembered the man behind the bar handing him a cup of coffee, he drank the hot drink, and everything else was blank.

     “Oh!”

     Rustling sounds to his left registered where she was.

     “You work for Mr. Ainsworth?”

     Now he heard the breeding in her words. What was a woman of her class doing in the hold of a ship?

     “My father has used his transportation services and helped him with funding.” The rustling and the sound of her voice grew closer.

     “How did you get down here?” Finn stared in the direction of her approach but he couldn’t see any better than if a sack were over his head.

     She huffed. “I followed my younger brother to the docks. My father is out or town and I promised I’d keep an eye on Georgie.”

     He caught a floral scent as her voice stopped within arm’s reach. What he wouldn’t give for a lantern.       

     The vessel lurched and her body plopped in his lap. Small hands pushed at his thighs as she righted herself. Even being groggy and hurt, he sprang to life when her hand grazed his crotch. He was, after all, a man, and when a female was this close and touching him where few touched, he couldn’t tamp the reaction.

     “I-I’m sorry.”

     The hint of embarrassment and perhaps the knowledge of what she’d touched put a smile on Finn’s lips.

     “Just don’t smack my head, it’s aching enough without more jostling.”

     “Oh! Are you hurt? Is that how they put you down here?”

     The hands that had shoved off his thighs glided up his arm, his neck, and gently ran through his hair feeling his skull.

     “Oh my! You have a rather large, hot bump on the back of your head.”

     Her fingers skimmed across the ache taking with them a bit of the pain.

     As much as he enjoyed her attention, they had to find a way out.

     “How did you end up here, and how long do you think we’ve been sailing?”

     Her hands left his hair and she sighed.

     “Like I previously said, I followed Georgie to the docks. He has been gambling a lot. I wanted to find the people and tell them to not allow him in their games.”

     Finn snorted. “If they were winning against your brother there is no way they’d quit allowing him in their games.”

      A very feminine huff puffed warm air across his cheek.

     “I discovered that knowledge when I confronted the men. Then my brother had the gall to tell them to take me to pay his debt.”

     Her tone confused Finn. She didn’t sound frightened or appalled, she sounded mad.  “Why would he tell them to take you?”

     Another huff of air teased his shaggy hair.

     “Because I’m older and have shown interest in the family business. Father threatens Georgie all the time that if he doesn’t straighten up I’ll inherit everything. If I die or disappear, Georgie would get everything.”

     The matter-of-fact statement of her brother wishing her dead stunned Finn. “You’re taking this pretty well. I don’t think I’d be as level-headed if my brother wanted me dead.”

     “I’ve grown up knowing he resented me and as we became adults, hated me.” She sighed. “He’s my only sibling, and I would change places with him if I could but it didn’t happen that way. All he has to do is quit womanizing and gambling and Father would hand the company over to Georgie, but he doesn’t want to give up the women and cards. So I believe he doesn’t want the company, only the money. And once Father learns of this stunt, he will make sure Georgie never gets another penny from the business.”

     Finn stared in the dark trying to see this woman. She must be an uncomely spinster to have such a detached outlook on her family and her life.

     “How will your father learn of this stunt if you’re sold or whatever these people had in mind?”

     Her silence was the first sign she realized how dire her situation.

     She cleared her voice, but he heard the tightness of fear as she said, “My driver will go home when I don’t return to the carriage and send a telegraph to my father that I entered the dock area and didn’t return. I’m sure he’ll get the police involved and I will be rescued.”

     “Lady—what’s your name?”

     “Prudence Hawthorne.”

     “Miss Hawthorne…” Her father loaned Ainsworth money. “Are you Archibald Hawthorne’s daughter?” If she was the daughter of one of the richest bankers in the area, he knew how much her brother had to gain by getting rid of her.

     “You know my father?”

     “I haven’t met him but I know who he is. Anyone who does business in Portland knows who Archibald Hawthorne is.” With this new information, Finn’s head started pounding anew. He had the wealthiest man in the state’s daughter sitting beside him. If he returned her to him, he’d, no doubt, be rewarded. This information doubled his determination to get both of them out of here. He enjoyed working for the OSNC but he would rather be his own boss. There was a good chance getting Miss Hawthorne back to her father would put him closer to his dream.

     “How long have we been moving?” They had to get off this ship before they were too far out to sea.

     “I would guess a couple hours. But it hasn’t been smooth. I think we’re traveling along the coast.”

     He found himself straining to see her in the darkness. He’d never met a woman who proved so knowledgeable. “How do you figure that?”

     “We’ve traveled by ship to San Francisco and the Orient several times and you can tell when the ship moves out of the river and into the open ocean. This is the movement of a coastal voyage.”

     “I hope you’re right. It will make getting you back to your father easier.” Finn pushed his back against the brace behind him and shoved to his feet.

~*~

     Prudence raised her chin, looking up even though she couldn’t see the man she was incarcerated with. But she heard his deep voice drift upward, suggesting he had stood. The swaying of the vessel would make walking around hard without something to hold onto.  She reached up clasped his tree-like legs and slowly pulled herself to her feet. She’d lost all dignity when the two men had shoved her to the floor and rolled her up in a carpet. She hadn’t let Mr. Callaghan know how much it hurt to have the last thing she saw be the gloating and greed in her brother’s eyes.

     She had always felt the animosity from her brother but until today she had not realized how deep it was etched into his being.

     “Watch where you put your hands. That’s the second time since meeting you that you’ve touched where only a prostitute or a wife should touch.”

     Heat scorched up her neck and blazed her cheeks. She couldn’t even squeak out an apology the mortification had frozen her movement.

     “Let me help.” Large hands wrapped around her upper arms, drawing her to her feet. She could feel his breath flutter across the top of her head.

    “You’re a little thing. Whatever gave you the idea you could go to the docks alone?”

     His comment fortified her with the anger she needed to get out of this predicament.  “You believe because I’m a small woman I cannot handle myself. You think I need a big strong man to help me. I’ve been in the worst parts of the city helping those less fortunate and have come across many unsavory people, but I have always kept my wits and returned home unscathed. I do not need a man to keep me safe.”

     Mr. Cavanaugh made a noise she could have sworn was a groan.

     “Miss Hawthorne, I’m not sayin’ you can’t handle yourself. I’m only offering to partner with you to get us both out of this mess. After we get away from this boat you can do whatever you please.” His hand moved up her arm to her neck and felt along the neckline.

     “What are you doing?” She pushed his hand away before he touched her inappropriately.

     “Checkin’ to see if you’re a white ribbon lady.”

     “You mean a suffragette?”

     “That sounds like the word.”

     “I do not adhere to all their principles, but I do believe a woman can hold the same job as a man when it does not involve physical strength.”

      “Then let me do what a man does best.” He grasped her hand and started moving. She realized he had his other hand on the wall of the ship.  “Did you overhear anything that might work in our favor?”

     “I believe this ship is picking up more cargo before it heads out to sea.”  The firm grip and warmth of his hand started a tingle up her arm. She’d held hands with men before but something about his man and his manner warmed her chest and settled a smile on her lips.

     “Good, there’s a better chance we can swim to shore.” He stopped and she could feel him looking down at her. “Can you swim?”

     “Yes. We have a house on the Willamette and spend our summers swimming and boating.” Hearing the pride in her voice made her sound superior. She loathed her contemporaries who acted and sounded that way. “I did not mean for that to—“

     “Sound like you’re better than me?”

     Heat blazed another path up her neck. “Yes.”

     “Don’t worry, I know my place. Growing up in the cities back east and being an Irish immigrant I learned  about the classes.”

     She stared into the darkness as he continued walking, tugging on her hand. “You don’t sound Irish.”

     A derisive laugh floated back to her.

     “That’s because I worked hard to blend in. Moved out of the city at twenty and went to work for the railroads headed west. Now I work for Ainsworth and have the honor of calling many men, and their wives, friends. Many of them, if I’d stayed in the city and clung to my roots, would only know me as the help or the Irish blacksmith or store clerk.”

     As much as she wanted to deny it, she knew it was the truth. The people her father socialized with and called friends did have the attitudes Mr. Cavanaugh spoke of.

     “I wish I could deny it but growing up and as an adult I have witnessed what you say.”

      A thin beam of light sliced through the darkness, giving her a one inch glimpse of the man holding her hand. His hair appeared a bit on the long side and black. The light caught in his blue eye and his eyelid snapped shut. He turned his head, giving her a brief glimpse of a cheek with a day’s worth of dark whiskers.

    “Mr. Cavanaugh, will you be able to function in the sunlight?” 

     “Finn. Call me Finn, after all, you’ve already fondled me rather intimately.”

     “Why you—”

     A hand cupped her mouth.

     “Shhhh,” he hissed in her ear.

     “What’re we going to do with that lady?” a rough voice asked as the light grew and the door hatch above opened revealing bright light.

     Finn pulled her into the shadows at the side of the ship.

     “Captain says we can use her how we want and sell her when we get to China. Heard them Chiney like our women.”

     Prudence inhaled sucking in the stench of the hole they were being held in and the muskiness of the man still holding his hand over her mouth.

     “Don’t worry. They won’t lay a hand on you and we’ll get out of here,” Finn whispered in her ear.

     His words eased her fears and her anger. Between the two of them they’d get off this ship. And when she returned home, she’d make sure Finn was compensated for his help. She nodded.

     He removed his hand. His warm breath moistened the nape of her neck. “When they both get down here, I’m going to knock them out. You hightail it up the ladder, but don’t pop your head out. Check to see if anyone is looking. I’ll be right behind you as soon as they’re both on the ground.”

     She nodded and he slipped away from her, deeper into the shadows.

     The first man stepped off the ladder. He turned in a circle as if looking for her. She realized Finn couldn’t take this man out until the second one was down the ladder or he could scurry back up and warn the rest of the ship.

     She stepped out from the shadow so the man could see her. A tug on her skirt told her Finn was behind her and wasn’t happy with her move.

~*~

     Finn wanted to grab the woman around the waist and pull her into the shadows with him, when she stepped into the light of the hatch. Her copper curls shimmered in the sunlight. She held her small head tall on a long slender neck. Even though she was a good head shorter than both the men, she appeared to peer down her nose at them. She was one feisty lady.  And as her head moved for her to get a better look at the man coming down the ladder, Finn realized she was drawing both men closer to him.

     “I wish to speak to the captain of this ship,” she said in a regal tone.

     Both men now stood only ten feet from her. Finn’s heart raced, hoping he could knock out both men before one of them shouted and the whole ship came down the ladder. He should have used the light from the hatch to scan the area for weapons instead of using it to study the woman standing in front of him. He’d thought her no bigger than a child when he held her in his arms, but watching her stand up to the men she looked as formidable as any man he’d had a set-to with.

     “The captain gave us orders to do what we want with you.” The smaller of the two men said. His eyes widened as he scanned the length of Prudence.

      Finn’s anger flared at the leering gaze. He’d only known the woman a short time but she held many qualities he admired, and she didn’t deserve someone the likes of this man ogling her.

     “If you want us to bring you food and water, you’ll do everything we say.” The other man took a step toward Prudence.

     She took two steps back, drawing them away from the ladder and closer to the shadows where he hid.

Finn slowed his breathing and slid his feet sideways to get to a position more to the side of the men as they advanced on Prudence.

     “Now you can’t hide from us down here. It’s small and there’s two of us,” the smaller man said, lunging at Prudence. He caught her skirt as she stepped into the shadow.  The garment ripped. The sound excited the second man.  He giggled and leaped into the shadow where Prudence disappeared.

     Anger and chivalry shot Finn into the light. He smashed his fist into the smaller man’s face, knocking him backward into a post.

     “Hey!” The other man shot out of the darkness. Finn turned in time to take a punch in the gut. He folded from the impact and shot forward, butting the man in the mid-section with his head. The sailor folded with a startled cry.

     “Whack!” the sound of wood meeting a skull rang through the hold. Finn spun and found his first victim on the floor with blood trickling down his face and Prudence standing over him holding a board. Her skirt hung crookedly where it had been ripped at the waist.

     Fin pivoted back as the man in front of him started to scramble into the shadows. He grabbed the man’s boot and slammed his fist into the sailor’s face. He moaned and slumped to the floor.

     “Go!” Finn said and waved to the ladder.

     Prudence held up her skirt and ran to their only means of getting out of the hold. He followed right behind. She stopped as he’d instructed and peeked over the edge, looking in all directions. She backed down a rung, and he stared up into her big wide eyes.

     “I saw a man straight ahead standing at the railing and one up on something higher to my right. Behind me I only saw the side of the ship. I can’t see behind the door.”

     He mulled over the information.  “Can you peek again and try to see which side of the ship the land is on?” He hated having to make her do this but she was smaller and less likely to be seen than he and they would lose precious time climbing back down the ladder so he could go first.

     She peered back down at him. “I couldn’t see for sure, but I think it’s the direction there isn’t anyone standing.”

     “You said you can swim. How do you feel about jumping off a ship into the sea?”

     Her eyes squeezed shut and her chest expanded as she drew in a deep breath. “If it’s the only way to get off this boat alive and not become a man’s possession, I can do it.”

     His admiration for this woman blossomed every time she showed her strength. He squeezed her foot.     “Then climb the ladder and run for the side of the ship. I’ll be right behind you.”

     Her eyes glistened. “We’ll swim to shore together?”

     “Yes.”

     She scurried up the last few rungs. Finn followed close behind, his head reaching the opening as she stood and ran for the side. 

     A shout pushed him to his feet. He sprinted to the side as he saw Prudence’s feet disappearing over the edge. The boom of a gun sent him hurling over the ship’s side.

     His body speared the water feet first and carried him downward. He fought to the surface and scanned the surface. The water tossed him up and down.

     “Prudence! Prudence!” Where was she? She said she could swim.

     His heart raced as he moved his feet and searched the surface for a sign of Prudence. Something red popped in and out of his view. He swam toward it, hoping he found Prudence conscious. It seemed like an eternity when he finally caught up to the red and discovered it was her rust colored skirt and red petticoat floating on the top of the water.

     “Prudence!” He dove, trying to search the murky depths for her. His eyes stung and his heart beat so hard his chest ached. He bobbed to the surface and noted the ship wasn’t stopping to get them. Resignation and loss for such a strong woman set heavy in his heart as he swam toward the shore. His only conciliation—she’d drowned and not been violated.

     Deep in his thoughts it took a moment before he registered a sound other than the waves. He stopped swimming and bobbed along the surface.

     “Finn! Finn!”

     His heart sped up and he spun in the water again scanning the surface.  Prudence rode to the top of a wave and then back down. She was alive!

     He set off in the direction he last saw her.

     “Finn! Over here!”

     The excitement in her voice gave his arms a new surge of energy.

     He found her clinging to a piece of drift wood. Finn embraced her and hugged. She let go of the log and wrapped her arms around his neck. Nothing had ever felt so wonderful as this woman clinging to him.

     “Don’t let go of the log, we’ll need it to get to shore.” He draped his arm over the log and rubbed a hand up and down her back as a wave carried them up toward the sky. “Hang on tight!”

     Finn clung to the log as Prudence wrapped her arms and legs around him.

     The wave crashed down and they went under water but popped back up closer to land.  They continued this cycle until Finn released the log and they swam side by side to a rock outcropping. The waves banged against the rock, spraying ten feet in the air. It wasn’t a safe place, but they both had to rest before they could swim any farther.

     Finn helped Prudence drag her tried body onto the rock.

     They stretched out side by side, staring up at the sky and sucking in long breaths of air.

     When he finally caught his breath and felt strong enough to sit up, Finn raised up and stared out at the ocean. The ship was a tiny speck on the horizon.

     Prudence placed a hand on his arm. “Thank you, for getting me off that ship.”

    Finn took his time studying her narrow face, large eyes, small nose, and bow-shaped lips. She was pleasing to look at, but even if she wasn’t she’d captured his interest when he didn’t know whether she was comely or uncomely.

     He placed a hand under her chin. “When I get you back to your father, may I ask permission to court you?”

     Her lips curved into a beautiful smile and her eyes glistened. “If you don’t I’ll be deeply disappointed.”

     Finn smiled and knew he’d met a woman that was his equal.

~*~

The End

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