Galveston Between Wind and Water - By Rachel Cartwright Page 0,85

over the water with a dull rumble. Gabrielle brushed past her father, leaving him slumped and shrunken against the door, lost in the unconscionable regret of his own troubled memories.

Gabrielle rode her favorite brown stallion, Chestnut, at a steady gallop down the crushed shell streets leading to the Society hall. His hoofs splashed through the scant inches of sea water that seemed to be everywhere, covering city streets several blocks in from the beach.

Still no reason to be alarmed but people had to be more cautious when riding or walking. This had happened before and the water would recede with tide.

The first glimmering light of dawn would not be clear on the horizon for some time now. Gabrielle shuddered, her heart chilled by her father’s dark words and her growing worry about what was happening to Bret.

Father was wrong.

Bret was capable of doing many stupid things—visiting Ichabod Weems’s, throwing his money down empty oil wells, but murder was not one of them. Killing Timothy over her? No, that was impossible. Bret was too proud, too confident, even when under the influence of his bottled demons, to let himself be so fatally provoked.

Poor Timothy. God rest his soul. Something else happened to him. Robbery, business debts . . . something, but not Bret killing him in cold blood.

The men were wrong. They had to be.

Gabrielle rode past several buggies filled with families and small belongings, being pulled toward the western boundary of the city and Galveston Island. There, the longest wagon bridge in the country connected their city with the Texas mainland.

Some people never get used to the flooding. Come daybreak, the trains and hotels would be busy with nervous vacationers heading back north.

“Good boy, Chestnut.” Gabrielle gave the horse a slap on the flank and pulled at the bit a little more. “That’s it boy! Faster now! We’re almost there!”

She felt the muscles of the young stallion tense between her brown suede riding chaps. The horse picked up its pace, kicking up bits of white and pink shell, and sending the wind rushing by Gabrielle’s cheeks, streaking her tears against her skin.

CHAPTER 22

Saturday, September 8, 6:37 a.m.

Angry and sweating after arguing with her uncle, Rebecca had been unable to sleep. She rose and crossed the floor to the open window overlooking the garden.

After the brief rain shower, the oppressive humidity still clung to its muggy grasp and there was no relief in the dark, airless calm outside.

She knelt in her muslin nightgown, the thick braid of her hair across her shoulder, brushing her cheek, with her arms propped on the ledge.

How corruptible was a dream once it assumed a tangible shape. It was as if Bret’s troubled spirit had finally withered and dissolved, blown away by the rage of his own secret storm.

And her uncle had warned her of its coming.

It had been impossible to remain in the Society building after the incident with Bret. The long walk along the boardwalk allowed her to weep alone and accept the painful reality that he was lost to her forever.

On the beach she had encountered a small group of night revelers who invited her to finish up their vacation party with an early morning clam bake around their roaring bonfire.

Staring into the shifting flames, the wavering hues seemed to illuminate her thoughts, making them blaze forth with the intolerable glare of conscience.

Rebecca accepted a glass of wine, then another, hoping to find the strength to return home and finally do what she knew was right. “Please forgive me, Bret,” she said to herself between sips of her wine, “I never knew he wanted it to turn out like this.”

The rising wind from the north had unfurled Rebecca’s long red hair from the shoulders of her emerald green blouse, blowing the strands back, then forward in its curling gusts.

Low tide. That’s what the man said should be happening. But it wasn’t.

At first, everyone thought he was a policeman. Just after five o’clock in the morning, the merrymakers were approached by a Mr. Isaac Cline, who introduced himself as the chief of the city’s Weather Bureau Office.

The tide was over four feet above normal, he said.

He was advising homeowners to move to higher ground and vacationers to go home. Those who had experienced the many whims of the water begged the others to stay, laughing at Mr. Cline’s warnings and trying to assure all that this would pass within a few hours. Their drunken cajoling did not prevail and the fire was doused shortly