The Law and Miss Mary Page 3

  “Very wise of you, Miss Randolph.”

  His calm answer restored her aplomb. “And why is that, Captain?”

  “There are some rough and unsavory elements on the waterfront. We are working to clean up our city. But there is much left to do.”

  “I see.” Mary hid the tingle of apprehension that slipped along her nerves and turned toward the office door. “Thank you for the information, Captain. Now I know I need James to accompany me.”

  A frown lowered his straight, dark brown brows. “I just called to speak with your brother, Miss Randolph. He is in a meeting.”

  “But Mrs. Rawlins needs—” Mary stopped, glanced at Front Street and took a deep breath. “Would you please direct me to the grocer’s, Captain?”

  “I will do better than that, Miss Randolph. I will escort you there.”

  “You?” Mary jerked her gaze to him.

  He grinned, no doubt at her response. A slow, lopsided sort of grin that did queer things to her stomach. She took a step back, suddenly uneasy at the prospect of being in his company. The man was overwhelming. And why would he offer to escort her? “It is most kind of you to offer aid, Captain. But it would not be right for me to take you from your duties.” She glanced up and down the street to choose her direction.

  “The well-being and safety of the citizens of St. Louis is my duty, Miss Randolph. Allow me.” He reached out and took hold of the basket. “If you are ready?”

  His answer left her without argument, but did little to allay her unease. Mary glanced at him, then looked down at his hand gripping the handle. Unless she wanted to engage in a tug-of-war for the basket—a contest she was sure to lose since the man was twice her size—she had no choice. She released her grip on the basket.

  “We need to cross Market Street.” He held her elbow.

  Mary forced herself to relax. She was being ridiculous. He had not offered to help her from some nefarious motive. It was a simple politeness. A duty. Not every man had a hidden agenda like Winston Blackstone. She walked to the curb beside him, tried not to feel delicate and protected as he guided her through the carriage traffic. But it was difficult not to feel that way with his tall, lean body shielding her, and his hand holding her so protectively. She gave a quiet sigh of relief when they reached the other side and he released her arm. She glanced around as they started down the walkway.

  “Are you recovered from your journey, Miss Randolph?”

  She nodded, gave him a polite smile. “Yes. Quite recovered, thank you.”

  “You are fortunate. Steamboats are a vast improvement on other river craft, but still, long trips can be exhausting.” He smiled down at her. “If you don’t mind my asking, where are you and your brother from, Miss Randolph?”

  “Philadelphia” sprang to her tongue, but was quashed by another spurt of caution and suspicion. Why did he want to know? Did it have something to do with being a police officer? Well, she had no intention of telling him. That information might lead to her father’s identity. The Randolph shipping line was well-known in Philadelphia. She glanced up, gave a graceful little shrug. “Why ever would I mind your asking, Captain? We are from Pennsylvania.” She shifted her gaze. “Oh, look! A bookstore. How lovely.” She gave him another polite smile. “Do you enjoy reading, Captain?”

  “I do. Though I seldom have time.”

  Some subtle change in the timbre of his deep voice warned her that he was aware of her evasion. She turned her head toward the two-story brick, stone and wood frame storefronts to hide her face from him. Those blue eyes were too observant.

  A half-naked Indian, a pile of animal pelts folded over one arm, exited a leather goods store, then mingled with the people on the walkway and strode straight toward them. Mary froze, staring at the shocking sight of the Indian’s bare torso. She had heard so many stories…His eyes, black as a night sky, bored into hers. She lifted her chin and crowded closer to Captain Benton, suddenly thankful for his presence. The Indian went on by.

  “There’s no danger, Miss Randolph. We’ve been at peace with the local Indians for many years. They come into town often to conduct business.” He smiled down at her. “I know it is a shock to you Easterners at first, but their presence is a sight you will soon become accustomed to.”

  His smile and the calm in his deep voice eased her nervousness. She nodded, looked away from his disturbing, penetrating gaze. “I am certain I shall, Captain Benton.” She started walking again. He fell into step beside her.

  “The plains tribes are a different matter, of course. But you are safe in town.”

  A shiver slithered down her spine. She glanced at him, uncertain of how to respond. Up to now, hers had been a pampered life. She was not used to feeling afraid.

  “Stop, you little thief!”

  Mary jerked her gaze forward. A young boy, panic on his face, was running toward them, a large man wearing a stained white apron in hot pursuit.

  Samuel Benton leaped into the boy’s path.

  The boy tried to swerve, but the man behind him thrust out his hand, caught the boy’s shoulder and yanked him to a halt. “Got ya! Now, you’ll find out what thievin’ gets ya!” He nodded at Samuel Benton and shoved the boy forward. “Throw ’im in jail with the rest of the thievin’ jackanapes, Captain.”

  “Surely not!” Mary rushed forward, lifted her chin as both men looked her way. “He is only a boy.”

  “He’s a thief! An’ here’s yer proof.” The man grabbed the boy’s right arm and jerked it upward. There was a crushed roll in his hand. A bony hand, attached to a pitifully thin arm.

  Mary gasped. “Why, the boy’s half-starved!” She glanced up at Samuel Benton. “He is hungry, Captain. Surely you will not arrest him?”

  The captain’s blue eyes darkened. “That is my job, Miss Randolph. He broke the law. The reason does not matter.” He reached for the boy.

  Mary stepped between them. “It matters to me, Captain.” She stared up at him, at his darkened eyes, his set jaw and drew herself to her full height. “But I can see there is no room in your St. Louis law for mercy.” She pivoted to face the vendor. “Unhand the boy, sir. I will pay for his roll.”

  Hope leaped into the boy’s eyes. But the man in the apron let out a growl, tightened his grip on the boy’s skinny shoulders and looked over her head. “You do yer job an’ throw ’im in jail, Captain. There’s too many of the rapscallions roamin’ the streets an’ stealin’ from hardworkin’, decent people now. Y’ let this ’un go, an’ the rest of ’em’ll be swarmin’ around our stores like bees o’er clover.”

  “There is no theft if Miss Randolph pays for the roll, Simpson.” Samuel Benton’s deep voice rolled over her shoulder. “Release the boy.”

  “Wait!” Mary winced inwardly as the hope faded from the boy’s eyes, but he was going to run the moment he was free, she could see it on his face. And she saw something else written there, as well. Shame. And defiance. She fastened her gaze on him. “I need someone to carry my purchases home, and I thought perhaps you would do that for me, young man. In exchange for your services, I will buy you a thick slab of cheese to go with that roll. Is that agreeable to you?”

  Pride replaced the shame. The defiance gave way to caution. The boy drew himself up straight and nodded.

  “Very well.” She handed the man behind the boy a coin. “You may release him now.”

  The man scowled, lifted his hands from the boy’s shoulders and walked away, grumbling beneath his breath.

  The boy stayed.

  Mary let out a breath of relief and turned to Samuel Benton. “Thank you for your help, Captain. But I no longer require your aid.” She did not bother to hide her disgust at his treatment of the boy. “If you will please give this young man my basket and tell me where the grocer is located, we shall be on our way.”

  He stared down at her for a moment, then dipped his head. “As you wish, Miss Randolph.” He handed the basket to the boy, then returned his gaze to her and made a slight bow. “Good day
, Miss Randolph. You have no need of my direction. The boy knows the location of the store. Mr. Simpson is the grocer.” He turned and walked away.

  Mary watched his lean, broad-shouldered figure disappear into a nearby store, chiding herself for the disappointment weighting her stomach. What did it matter what sort of man Samuel Benton was? The captain was nothing to her.

  Chapter Four

  Mary looked down at the young boy clutching her basket and smiled. “And thus, we are left on our own. Where is Mr. Simpson’s store—” She shook her head and gave a little laugh. “I cannot keep calling you ‘young man.’ What is your name?”

  The boy stiffened, his nostrils pinched slightly, his eyes narrowed and his mouth firmed as he stared up at her. Had she looked that wary when Captain Benton questioned her? No wonder he knew her answer was an evasion. She kept silent as the boy studied her. After a few moments, he relaxed a little, gave a small shrug. “Name’s Ben.” He pointed a bony finger down the street. “Yonder is the grocer’s.” He lowered his hand and gripped the basket handle. Probably to hide his trembling.

  Mary started walking, letting out a quiet sigh of relief when Ben fell into step beside her. He had looked poised to run, and if he decided to do so, she could not stop him. Her lips twitched at the idea of her raising her long skirts and darting among the shoppers on the walkway chasing after the boy.

  A puff of wind swirled up from the river, lifting a sour odor from Ben. She held her breath, waiting for the gust to cease, and glanced down. Tears filmed her eyes at the close sight of Ben’s grimy skin, the clumps of dirt and straw in his matted hair, his dirty and torn clothes. She guessed him to be nine, perhaps ten years old. So young. And so horribly thin. Had he no one to care for him?

  Thoughts of the homeless children brought to her aunt Laina’s orphanage in Philadelphia crowded into her head. The tears in her eyes threatened to overflow. Was Ben an orphan? She blinked the tears back, released her breath and focused on the situation. Ben needed help, not pity. And she needed information. It was possible he had parents—though his unkempt, half-starved condition made it seem unlikely.

  She stole another look at the silent boy. He was so easily frightened, so ready to run. How should she start? I always mask my questions with friendly conversation. Of course! How many times had she heard her aunt Laina say that? Mary smiled, looked down. “I like the name Benjamin.” She made her tone of voice light, friendly. “Is it a family name? Perhaps your father’s?”

  No answer.

  She tilted her head to get a better view of the boy’s face. His lips were pressed together and he was blinking rapidly. Her heart seized. “Ben—”

  “This is the store.” He shot across the walkway, stopped by a store’s open door and looked back at her.

  “Go away, you ragamuffin!” A woman loomed out of the darkness of the store, pausing in the doorway. “Urchins like you are not welcome around decent people! Go away, I say!” She made shooing motions with her hands, then drew her long skirts close so they wouldn’t touch Ben before she started out of the store.

  Ben cringed away from the entrance.

  If that woman makes Ben run… Mary rushed forward, placed her hand on Ben’s shoulder and pulled him to her side. She could feel his bones through his shirt. And his shaking. She straightened to her full height and gave the shorter woman her haughtiest look. “Ben is with me, madam. And he is very welcome.” She ignored the older woman’s gasp and, holding tight to Ben, brushed by her into the store.

  The interior was cool and dark. Mary halted to allow her eyes to adjust to the loss of sunlight and to get her bearings. Silence fell. She swept her gaze around the room, met varying degrees of shock or disgust on the faces of the store’s patrons and lifted her chin. “Come along, Ben.” The click of the heels of her shoes against the wide plank floor echoed through the hush as they crossed the room. She stopped in front of the grocer cutting meat on a chopping block at the far end of a long counter in front of the back wall.

  “Good day, Mr. Simpson.” She gave him a cool nod. Gave another to the waiting customer who had backed away at their approach.

  A scowl drew the grocer’s thick, black brows together. “Get that thief outta here. I don’t—”

  “Ben is here to carry my purchases, Mr. Simpson.” There were startled gasps behind her. The grocer’s scowl deepened. She ignored a flurry of whispers and stared straight into the man’s angry eyes. “And I am here to open an account. My brother and I are new in town and must establish our trade somewhere.” She watched his scowl dissolve to the level of a frown. “My brother is the new manager of the Mississippi and Missouri steamer line. Of course, if you would prefer we take our custom elsewhere…” She turned away.

  “No need fer that. My wife’ll serve ya.”

  The words were low, reluctant. Mary turned back. The grocer inclined his head at a stout woman behind the middle of the counter and went back to his work.

  Mary headed toward the woman, another spate of whispers accompanying her as customers moved out of her path. She didn’t have to urge Ben to come with her, he matched her step for step, his head bowed, his gaze darting about the room like a trapped animal.

  “Come again, Mrs. Turner.”

  Mrs. Simpson’s customer glanced at Ben, snatched up her parcel and rushed away. Mary stepped forward. “I should like to open an account, please.”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Simpson smiled at Ben, looked back to give her a welcoming smile. “And the name?” She dipped her pen and poised it over a book.

  Mary stared, taken aback by the cheerful attitude. She returned the woman’s friendly smile and let the hauteur slide from her voice. “James Randolph.” She placed the list Ivy had given her on the counter. “These are the items I need today. And also—” she took her basket from Ben, placed it beside the list and indicated the crushed bun in the bottom “—this bun and a thick slab of cheese.” She glanced down, caught Ben eyeing a large barrel, and looked up. “And two pickles from your brine barrel.”

  Mrs. Simpson nodded, turned and began selecting the items on the list from the shelves on the wall. Mary took the opportunity to look around the store. She caught the customers staring at her and Ben and gave them each a sweet smile. There was a sudden bustle of activity as they returned to their business.

  “Will there be anything more, Miss Randolph?”

  Mary turned, looked down at the filled basket and shook her head. “Not today, Mrs. Simpson.”

  The woman glanced toward her husband—who was wrapping a cut of beef in paper—then looked down at Ben, slipped her hand into a crock to pull out a piece of taffy. “I heard you tell Mr. Simpson that you and your brother are new in town, Miss Randolph. Welcome to St. Louis.” She dropped the piece of candy beside the roll and the piece of cheese and slid the basket across the counter. “I look forward to serving you again.”

  “And so you shall, Mrs. Simpson. Thank you for the welcome, and for…everything.” Mary smiled, met the woman’s gaze in silent understanding, then handed the basket to Ben and headed for the door.

  Sam turned the key in the lock, pulled the door open and stepped back. So did the man beside him.

  “C’mon, Captain. It was only a little scrap.”

  Sam shook his head. “You pulled a knife, Hogan.” He jabbed his thumb through the air in the direction of the cell.

  “Yeah, but—”

  “No buts. You know the rules here in St. Louis. You pull a weapon during a fight, you go to jail.” Sam placed his hand on the laborer’s beefy shoulder and applied enough pressure to move the man into the cell. He swung the door shut and shoved the key into the lock.

  Hogan grabbed the bars. “C’mon, Captain. My boat leaves tonight. I gotta get to the levee and load cargo or Captain Rolls’ll have my job.”

  “You should have thought of that before you pulled that knife.” Sam turned the key, yanked it from the lock and started for the outer room.

  “How about we make a deal?”
/>
  “No deal, Hogan.”

  “Not even to find out what happened to the Swift Water?”

  Sam stopped, turned and stared into the bloodshot eyes in the scrubby, whiskered face pressed against the bars. “What do you know about the Swift Water?”

  Hogan grinned. “You gonna let me outta here?”

  Sam walked to the cell. “That depends on what you know and how reliable your information is.”

  “I know one of the crew was paid to blow her up.”

  “Sorry. Everyone has heard that rumor.” He turned toward the door.

  “But they don’t know who.”

  There was certainty behind the words. Sam looked back. “Who?”

  Thick lips pushed a curved line through the grizzled beard.

  Sam nodded. “All right, fair enough. How do you know? I’m not interested in rumors.”

  “It ain’t no rumor. I seen him flashin’ money and braggin’ about it in a tavern. Tellin’ around what a big man he was an’ all.”

  “Who paid him?”

  Hogan scowled. “Don’t know. You’ll have to ask him that yerself.”

  Sam nodded. The story had the ring of truth. “Do you know anything about the other destroyed M and M line boats? The Clear Water or the Mississippi Princess?”

  “The Princess was an accident. Sawyer got her. Don’t know about the Clear Water.”

  “All right.” He stuck the key in the lock, paused. “But the deal is this—if you ever pull a knife in a fight again, you’ll do double time for it. Understood?”

  Hogan nodded. “Yeah.” He glanced down at the ring of keys. “The name’s Duffy. He’s a stoker.”

  “I know him. Do you know what boat he’s working?”

  “Last I knew he was up the Missouri on the Adventure.”

  Sam twisted the key and opened the cell door. “All right, Hogan. Get back to the levee. And don’t forget—no more knives or I’ll put you back in here and throw away the key.”