She was still steaming as she climbed up onto the bench. Uncompromising, Mrs. Dunbar had said. Who wanted a man who compromised his values? What was wrong with having a strong moral compass? And to judge a fellow by the color of his eyes? Mrs. Dunbar was no better than Drew, coming up with reasons to refuse a man without having any idea of his character! Hart could do better.
Unfortunately, the next two ladies she visited were equally uninterested. One thought him too opinionated, the other too quiet. He certainly held strong opinions, but she generally agreed with them, except for a certain decision on whether to wed. And he wasn’t garrulous. When he spoke, he spoke with substance, imparting information, concern. Why did they see those traits as weaknesses rather than strengths?
The final lady agreed to come with her to meet Hart, but so timidly that Beth could only wonder. Perhaps he wasn’t showing himself to best effect. If these women had encountered him in the middle of some investigation, Beth could see why they might find him uncompromising. He would have been focused on doing his job. Perhaps they needed to see another side of him, a man who could show to advantage in society.
Not that she’d ever seen that side of him, come to think of it. But it had to be there. She merely had to bring it out.
As in the tale of the ugly duckling she’d read as a child, she was certain Hart McCormick had a swan inside. He just didn’t know it yet. But, with her at his side, Seattle would soon see what a fine man held the position of deputy sheriff. And then the ladies would come running.
* * *
Hart dragged his feet going to the Pastry Emporium that afternoon. He told himself he had work to do. That was why he’d been out on the docks, after all. Weinclef at Kelloggs’ had confessed to finding another newcomer beaten in the alley beside the store. Hart wasn’t about to let the gang claim another victim. Whoever recruited the poor fellows must have a pleasing disguise, because the immigrants went willingly and didn’t want to implicate their benefactor in their troubles.
So, after seeing Beth off, he returned to the top of the docks, watching as the passengers from the San Francisco run climbed up onto the planks. The first pair were grizzled sourdoughs, looking for better pickings, it seemed. Likely they’d be too savvy to run afoul of Seattle’s newest gang. Next up the ladder from the longboat was a dapper gentleman with a lady and two lads in tow. They were probably safe as well. Single fellows were easier to peel away.
The next fellow was the perfect candidate. Tailored coat and plaid trousers, big grin on his face, as if even the frontier town delighted him. Carpetbag in hand, he strutted up the pier.
A lad materialized from behind a crate, startling the fellow. Hart frowned as the pair exchanged words. Then the youth fell into step beside the newcomer, as if guiding him along the dock.
Hart met them at the top of the wharf, feet planted and stance wide. The youth blanched. He could have been as old as fourteen, though his slender build and short stature made it equally likely he was younger. He quickly tugged down on his tweed cap and lowered his gaze, but not before Hart made out thick black hair.
“Afternoon,” Hart drawled. “I’m Deputy McCormick. Where might you be going?”
The man beamed at him. “My new friend here was about to show me a suitable place for a gentleman to lodge in your fair city.”
“Wasn’t that neighborly of him?” Hart eyed the youth. “Where are you headed, son?”
He bolted.
While the newcomer called out in protest, Hart gave chase. The adolescent darted among the wagons waiting to be loaded. Horses shifted, wagons swayed, drivers shouted a complaint. Nothing stopped the youth. Nothing stopped Hart either.
His quarry wove in and out among the traffic on Commercial Street, then paused before a shop. Was he daring Hart to follow him? Hart didn’t look at the name of the proprietor before diving after him.
Three women cried out, and he managed to stop himself before plowing into them. He recognized the two Denny ladies. He couldn’t mistake the woman with them.
Mrs. Jamison drew herself up. “Really, Deputy! What is the meaning of this?”
Hart nodded to her, gaze sweeping the shop. It ought to have been easy to spot a lad among all the fripperies, yet everything looked much as it had yesterday. “Forgive the interruption, Mrs. Jamison. I followed a possible felon into this shop. Did you see where he went?”
The Denny ladies clutched their chests as if fearing for their lives.
Mrs. Jamison narrowed her eyes. “Felon? What nonsense. The only person of the male persuasion to come through those doors in the last hour was my brother.”
Mrs. Arthur Denny, wife of the railroad president, collected herself and stepped forward, blue skirts swinging. “There must be some mistake, Deputy. Mrs. Jamison and her brother are new to our shores.”
“And she is a terribly talented seamstress,” her sister, who had married the wealthy land developer David Denny, brother of Arthur, added. “She and her brother are a credit to our town.”
Hart nodded. “Good to know. I’d like to meet the fellow.”
The Denny ladies looked to their hostess. Mrs. Jamison’s bow of a mouth was pressed tight together. Then it widened to a smile. “Why, certainly, Deputy. I’ll just fetch him for you.” She passed through the curtain at the back of the shop.
The two dark-haired sisters busied themselves with the sketches they must have been perusing before he’d burst in on them. He could imagine Beth poring over the things as avidly.
He cleared his throat even though he hadn’t spoken his thoughts aloud. Both of the ladies were members of the Literary Society. No sense giving them more ideas.
Mrs. Jamison floated back in with a young man at her side. He wore no coat over his cambric shirt and wool trousers, and his black hair was parted to fall neatly on either side of his face. He acted more diffident, but Hart was certain the lad was the same one he’d chased from the wharf.
Mrs. Jamison’s long-fingered hand rested on her brother’s shoulder. “Bobby, this is Deputy McCormick. He wanted to meet you. Deputy, this is my brother, Robert Donovan.”
Hart inclined his head. The adolescent gazed back, mute.
“Donovan,” he acknowledged. “I’m glad to meet you. Tell me what you were doing down by the dock.”
Mrs. Jamison’s fingers must have tightened on his shoulder, for the cambric stretched under her hand. “You must be mistaken, Deputy. My brother knows better than to visit such a dangerous place.”
Still the lad said nothing. Hart cocked his head. “We know otherwise, don’t we?”
Donovan swallowed.
His sister’s hand slipped around his shoulders. “Oh, Bobby, you didn’t. I told you it was no good meeting the ship. None of your friends are coming north. And we don’t have the money to send you back to San Francisco.”
Donovan hung his head.
Mrs. Jamison met Hart’s gaze, tears shimmering in her violet eyes. “I’m sorry, Deputy. Bobby didn’t want to come north, but there was nothing for us in San Francisco after my husband died. Please forgive him if he caused any trouble. He just wanted to find a friend.”
As if fighting tears himself, Donovan gave a brave sniff.
Hart straightened. “No harm done. But do as your sister says, lad, and stay away from the docks. If you want to make friends, you’d do better to attend school.”
Mrs. Jamison beamed at her brother. “Of course. We’ll be enrolling him at the North School at the start of next term.”