Natchez Flame

Galveston, Texas
July 20, 1846

Lord in heaven, what have I gotten myself into this time?
Priscilla Mae Wills stood at the rail of the steamship
Orleans
surveying the scattered wooden buildings, weathered and unpainted, and the unkempt, seedy-looking men who lined the dock of the strand.

In the distance, the dirt streets of Galveston bustled with activity, wagons heavy with bales of cotton rumbling toward the wharf, men and animals clattering along in confusion. Puddles of mud still dotted the road from a recent summer rain.

Though the rest of the passengers had already departed, Priscilla searched the long wooden dock for the hundredth time, hoping against hope that Barker Hennessey, the man sent to meet her, had discovered the
Orleans
early arrival and might yet appear.

You’re a grown woman, Priscilla. You can do this on your own.
But in all her twenty-four years she’d never traveled by herself, and even with her Aunt Madeline had never gone far from home. And she’d certainly never expected the newly formed state of Texas to be this untamed.

Bedraggled and wind-chafed and tired clear to her bones, Priscilla scanned the dock in search of anyone
who might be Barker Hennessey. Several brown-skinned Mexican men singing in Spanish strolled past, but no one that her fiancé could possibly have sent to meet her.

Forcing a stiffness into her spine, she stepped off the wharf onto the wide dirt streets. A hot, muggy breeze whipped the dark brown skirts of her serviceable cotton day dress, and with every weary step the stiff white ruffle around the neck scratched the soft white skin beneath her chin. Strands of dark brown hair had come loose from the tight chignon hidden at the back of her bonnet and whipped tauntingly in the wind.

Priscilla glanced up the street. The sign for the Galveston Hotel and Saloon gleamed red and white in the hot July sunshine beside another large painted sign advertising Samuel Levinson’s Bath House. Barker Hennessey, the man her fiancé, Stuart Egan, had sent to escort her on the final leg of her journey, would look for her at the hotel once he discovered her ship had come in.

And someone from the hotel could fetch the heavy steamer trunks that contained her trousseau: the finely crafted dresses she had carefully sewn over the past few weeks, as well as the doilies and linens and dainty embroidered tablecloths she had stitched and laid in her hope chest throughout the years.

Determined to ignore the heat and the tightly laced stays of her steel-ribbed corset, Priscilla walked the bustling dirt streets. Weathered batten-board structures crouched beside a few sturdy establishments built of pinkish-white stone.

The hotel was by far the best-looking building in
town, she thought as she drew near. At least the paint wasn’t peeling and the walk in front had been swept clean. It was a far cry from Cincinnati, with its sophisticated brownstones, elegant restaurants, and lavish opera houses. Still the thought of being inside, out of the blistering sunshine, made her quicken her pace.

That’s when she noticed the commotion out front. A crowd had gathered, grumbling among itself, then seemed to be backing away.

“Look, Jacob—ain’t that Barker Hennessey?” a slender man in a red-checkered shirt asked the small man beside him. The name registered immediately, and Priscilla glanced toward the big-boned man at the opposite end of the porch.

“That’s him, all right,” Jacob said. “Barker’s madder’n a wet hen ’cause he lost his poke to some gambler.”

Gambling
, Priscilla thought, feeling sorry for the big strapping man in the black felt hat who stood in front of the swinging double doors to the saloon,
the devil’s own sport.
But hearing his name, she also felt a wave of relief that she had found him so easily.

“Excuse me, please.” Nudging her way through the crowd, she headed for the porch, intent on catching Mr. Hennessey before he got away. With her mind on the coming introduction, it took a moment for her to realize he was speaking.

“You’re a cheat and a liar!” Hennessey called out just as she stepped on the boardwalk. “I want my money back, Trask, and I aim to get it!”

At the angry tone of his words, Priscilla swung her
gaze toward the object of his wrath, the tall, broad-shouldered man standing right beside her.

“I won that money fair, and you know it,” Trask said.

“Mr. Hennessey!” Priscilla called out, waving a white-gloved hand and starting in his direction. “Goddamn it!”

Priscilla felt the tall man’s hand on her arm, his grip so hard it made her flinch. His free hand slapped against the leather holster tied to one long leg. She saw the bluish flash of metal, heard the deafening roar of gunfire. Whipping her head toward Barker, Priscilla breathed the acrid smell of burnt powder and stared in horror at the opposite end of the porch.

Barker Hennessey’s eyes remained open, his mouth gaping wide in an expression of astonishment. He swayed on his feet while his sausage-sized fingers clutched the still-smoking pistol in his hand. Only a trickle of blood ran from the small round circle that marked the entrance of the tall man’s bullet—centered squarely between his eyes.

Watching Hennessey crumple to the porch, Priscilla wet her suddenly dry lips. Her mouth moved as she tried to say the words that hovered at the corners of her mind, but no sound would come. Her ears buzzed and her knees felt weak. The images on the porch suddenly blurred and jumbled.

Heart hammering, she swayed toward the man named Trask whose painful grip seemed the only thing holding her up. His angry blue eyes fastened on her face just seconds before her lids flickered closed, the world tumbled sideways, and Priscilla sank into darkness.

“Jesus Christ, what next?” Brendan Trask swung the slender young woman up into his arms and stepped off the boardwalk onto the street.

“Nice shootin’!” Jacob Barnes called out to him as he strode toward the shade of an oak tree that grew beside the watering trough just half a block away.

“You’d better get the sheriff,” Brendan called back without breaking his long-legged stride.

“She all right?” the little man asked, catching up and trying to keep pace without running.

“Just fainted. She’s lucky she didn’t stop a bullet.” Brendan recalled all too clearly the moment she’d started to step in front of him. He glanced down at the small round hole in the full white sleeve of his shirt.

The man followed his gaze. “Lucky ain’t the half of it.”

“Get the sheriff,” Trask reminded him.

“Sheriff got hisse’f kilt last week. I’ll see if’n his deputy’s down at Gilroy’s Saloon.” The man scurried off to find the law, though Brendan figured what little there was had probably already been summoned. Galveston might be the wildest port on the Gulf, but a shooting was a shooting, and Barker Hennessey worked for one of the most powerful men in the country.

“Damn.” Brendan said the word beneath his breath, wishing he could have avoided the killing, but Hennessey had left him no choice. He just hoped to hell there wouldn’t be trouble.