Read Online Galveston: Between Wind And Water (A Historical Literary Fiction Novel Filled with Romance and Drama) by Rachel Cartwright - Free Book Online
Authors: Rachel Cartwright
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. what life has to offer.”
“Without a doubt, sir, but—” Ichabod paused, filling his glass to the brim with bootleg whiskey. “I find it somewhat unusual not to be involved with a client on a first-name basis.” He downed a swift gulp of the liquor, then another. “It’s only fitting that gentlemen establish a . . . a certain rapport at the beginning, based on trust, as it were, or one of them might start to think the other had certain designs that weren’t quite—”
“Then for the purposes of our rapport , Mr. Weems, you can address me as sir , as it were.”
Ichabod nodded and rubbed the white stubble on his jaw. “Of course, sir. The gentleman is always right.” Ichabod opened the top drawer of his desk and glanced at his new pearl-handled Smith & Wesson .32. Imposing strangers who preferred to remain nameless required extra scrutiny . . . and money. “After all, I am getting on. So many families have moved away from here over the years since the war. I have trouble remembering all their names.”
As an oil lamp cast its wavering light, the stranger seemed to bear his gaze down on the gnarled stick of the old man in coveralls and spectacles hunched over his desk. “I’ve only recently arrived.”
Ichabod chuckled. “Ah, well, of course.” He closed the drawer. “So many fine gentlemen pass through our splendid city. Some more private than others.”
The stranger reached into a deep pocket of his coat.
At that moment Ichabod regretted closing the top drawer. “That’s a fact,” he said, smiling. “Impossible to remember all of their names and I suppose that’s for the best.”
A folded money clip landed on the desk in front of Ichabod’s glass of whiskey. “You suppose correctly, Mr. Weems, and hopefully this will provide a satisfactory answer to any more idiotic questions from you.”
Relieved, Ichabod removed the brass clip. He thumbed through the fives and tens without looking up. “Goodness, yes, I should say so. Absolutely, sir,” the dry goods merchant answered, rubbing the fingers of his right hand together. He drew himself closer to his desk.
“Now.” The stranger rose from the chair. “Where is this woman you’ve promised?”
Ichabod made two sharp claps with his bony hands. The handle of the door leading to the front of the store creaked and turned. Ichabod cocked his head and sat in silence observing the man’s reaction to the woman walking through the open door.
The white robed whore paraded around the stranger, spinning around on her toes as instructed, and flashing him her most practiced smile of sincere invitation.
“Well, sir?” Ichabod asked with a pleasant smile. “Is she to your liking, sir?”
Not a word came from beneath the dark hood, not a gesture from beneath the heavy coat.
“Perhaps the color of her hair is not the right shade? From only a photograph and your description, it’s impossible to tell. She can dye it though, make it richer, or—”
“No.” The stranger suddenly reached out and grabbed the woman by the shoulders. “The color is ideal. Her features . . . perfect.” He pressed down on Louisa’s shoulders, lowering her to the floor until she rested on her knees in front of him. He stroked her long, glistening hair, seeming to pull her closer toward his knees with each caress of his hand.
Louisa glanced over at Ichabod. He grinned and gave her a slow nod of reassurance. Before the meeting, he had instructed her not to speak. If the money was good, he knew she wouldn’t protest.
“Now.” The stranger lifted a few loose, delicate tendrils of Louisa’s hair and let them fall again on her head. “Please turn your back, Mr. Weems.”
“Excuse me, sir? If you wish privacy I’ll—”
“Just do as I say.” The man stamped his boot down hard on the floor. He assumed a wider stance. “Everything has to be perfect. Can’t you see?”
He yanked Louisa by the hair, pushing her face into the folds of his coat hanging between
“Without a doubt, sir, but—” Ichabod paused, filling his glass to the brim with bootleg whiskey. “I find it somewhat unusual not to be involved with a client on a first-name basis.” He downed a swift gulp of the liquor, then another. “It’s only fitting that gentlemen establish a . . . a certain rapport at the beginning, based on trust, as it were, or one of them might start to think the other had certain designs that weren’t quite—”
“Then for the purposes of our rapport , Mr. Weems, you can address me as sir , as it were.”
Ichabod nodded and rubbed the white stubble on his jaw. “Of course, sir. The gentleman is always right.” Ichabod opened the top drawer of his desk and glanced at his new pearl-handled Smith & Wesson .32. Imposing strangers who preferred to remain nameless required extra scrutiny . . . and money. “After all, I am getting on. So many families have moved away from here over the years since the war. I have trouble remembering all their names.”
As an oil lamp cast its wavering light, the stranger seemed to bear his gaze down on the gnarled stick of the old man in coveralls and spectacles hunched over his desk. “I’ve only recently arrived.”
Ichabod chuckled. “Ah, well, of course.” He closed the drawer. “So many fine gentlemen pass through our splendid city. Some more private than others.”
The stranger reached into a deep pocket of his coat.
At that moment Ichabod regretted closing the top drawer. “That’s a fact,” he said, smiling. “Impossible to remember all of their names and I suppose that’s for the best.”
A folded money clip landed on the desk in front of Ichabod’s glass of whiskey. “You suppose correctly, Mr. Weems, and hopefully this will provide a satisfactory answer to any more idiotic questions from you.”
Relieved, Ichabod removed the brass clip. He thumbed through the fives and tens without looking up. “Goodness, yes, I should say so. Absolutely, sir,” the dry goods merchant answered, rubbing the fingers of his right hand together. He drew himself closer to his desk.
“Now.” The stranger rose from the chair. “Where is this woman you’ve promised?”
Ichabod made two sharp claps with his bony hands. The handle of the door leading to the front of the store creaked and turned. Ichabod cocked his head and sat in silence observing the man’s reaction to the woman walking through the open door.
The white robed whore paraded around the stranger, spinning around on her toes as instructed, and flashing him her most practiced smile of sincere invitation.
“Well, sir?” Ichabod asked with a pleasant smile. “Is she to your liking, sir?”
Not a word came from beneath the dark hood, not a gesture from beneath the heavy coat.
“Perhaps the color of her hair is not the right shade? From only a photograph and your description, it’s impossible to tell. She can dye it though, make it richer, or—”
“No.” The stranger suddenly reached out and grabbed the woman by the shoulders. “The color is ideal. Her features . . . perfect.” He pressed down on Louisa’s shoulders, lowering her to the floor until she rested on her knees in front of him. He stroked her long, glistening hair, seeming to pull her closer toward his knees with each caress of his hand.
Louisa glanced over at Ichabod. He grinned and gave her a slow nod of reassurance. Before the meeting, he had instructed her not to speak. If the money was good, he knew she wouldn’t protest.
“Now.” The stranger lifted a few loose, delicate tendrils of Louisa’s hair and let them fall again on her head. “Please turn your back, Mr. Weems.”
“Excuse me, sir? If you wish privacy I’ll—”
“Just do as I say.” The man stamped his boot down hard on the floor. He assumed a wider stance. “Everything has to be perfect. Can’t you see?”
He yanked Louisa by the hair, pushing her face into the folds of his coat hanging between
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