Stealing Mercy by Kristy Tate

bed, Steele scooted the jewels to sit down amongst them, and dangled the bottle between his legs. Cocking his head, he appeared to be listening to the sounds Mercy heard in the next room: a bed creaking, footsteps, a murmur and a laugh. Steele’s face flushed hot.
    He answered a knock on the door with a clipped, “Yes?”
    “Just checkin’, gov’nor,” a voice replied.
    “Hey, Lector,” Steele called.
    Lector poked his head through the door. “Sir?”
    “Last night someone broke into my safe.”
    Lector blanched.
    Steele stood and paced towards the door and loomed over Lector. “Where were you when someone was in my room? Were you hiding in fear, or perhaps, standing their guard?”
    Lector pulled at the collar of his shirt and twitched. “No one came in or out of this room, sir, I assure you.”
    “I’ll need to speak to Calhoun. This arrangement isn’t working.”
    Lector’s mouth turned down as he glanced into the open safe. The jewels on the bed sheets glistened in the early sun. “Don’t look to me like anything’s missing.”
    “There’s a great deal missing!” Steele flung the bottle against the wall and watched it break into a shower of glass and whiskey. He bent over, picked up a large shard and came to stand at Lector’s side. Side by side, Mercy could see that Lector outweighed Steele by at least fifty pounds, but that didn’t stop Steele from pressing the glass shard against Lector’s neck. The big man didn’t flinch.
    Mercy swallowed hard. She had to say something, she had to get help. She couldn’t witness a murder. When the door swung open and Steele dropped the glass shard, Mercy let out a long breath.
    “Is there a problem, sir?” Orson asked. Mercy immediately realized Orson had the brains of the two party henchmen.
    Steele contemplated Orson’s black eye and swollen lip and fear flashed across his face. He turned his back on his babysitters and stomped over to his cloak. “Get my guns,” he said, filling his voice with a commandeering strength that sounded false. “We’re going to Lucky Island.”
    Mercy slumped against the wall when the men left the room. Now what? She was stuck on the balcony. While she’d watched Steele and his goons, the sun had risen. Dim morning light was preferable to bright early sun for trellis climbing. She waited a few more minutes, crept along a ledge and then climbed into the empty room.
    After that, it was a short walk down the deserted hall and eventually up Lily hill. She met only an occasional squirrel and a few cats. She wondered what had caused Steele to wake so early. Sleep eludes the guilty, she supposed, sweet is the peace of the pure in heart.
    Then she practically snorted, remembering her own insomnia. She paused at the gate and watched her aunt’s house for signs of life. The windows were dark. She hated lying to her aunt. When she thought about how her aunt had welcomed her into her home, gave her work, sewed her clothes, no questions asked, Mercy’s heart welled with gratitude and affection.
    Tilly had left New York years before to follow a seafaring husband, a handsome man with schooner called Running Ruby and a home in Seattle. Bradley Malcolm had brought Tilly gold from Alaska, two Chinamen from San Francisco, and cocoa beans from South America. But one day, the Ruby didn’t return from a voyage and neither had Bradley. Tilly had used the gold to buy sewing machines. The Asians, Lee and Young Lee, helped set up a dry goods store. The cocoa beans, wrapped in gunny sack bags, sat in the store’s basement.
    Mercy slipped through the front door. Tilly’s snores rumbled through the house like a noisy wind. Mercy gently closed the front door, clicked the lock and stole up the stairs. A snore started and then stopped. And then resumed again. Mercy stopped shy of her bedroom door. The skin pricking sensation of being watched tickled the back of her neck. Her heart skipped a beat; she could feel her pulse skittering. Slowly, she