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No Safe Harbor

By Elizabeth Ludwig

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Chapter 1
Ellis Island, 1897

A mischievous wind lifted the tips of Cara’s hair and tossed them into her eyes. She brushed the strands away then blew on her shaking fingers to warm them. The day was overcast, like every one before it for the past two weeks, but thankfully the snow had stopped and the sea had settled into something less than raging. She stood against the rail with no fear of being tossed over.
Few passengers crowded the rails of the ship, Servia. Most were kept below deck by the frigid February temperatures and the choppy Atlantic Ocean, but not Cara. Bad weather had lengthened the crossing, made her longing for her first glimpse of America sharper.
America. And Eoghan.
Just thinking of her twin brother brought a wash of hot tears to her cheeks. Eoghan was alive. After two years of bowing under the villagers’ whispered condemnation, of bearing in silence the brand given her family name. . .finally. . .the chance to uncover the truth behind his disappearance. His letter in hand, she’d scrambled aboard the first ship to America she could find.
Her fingers crept inside her coat to press the precious scrap of paper against her chest.
Soon, my sweet lad. I’ll be at your side! And then we’ll prove you were no traitor to your church or your country.
Gently, she caressed the twisted leather bracelet encircling her wrist. Eoghan wore one identical to it—a gift from their father on their sixteenth birthday.
“Ah, Miss Hamilton. You made it on deck, I see.”
Cara tucked the bracelet into her sleeve then turned toward the boisterous voice. Douglas Healy was a kind man. A bit loud for her liking. Nonetheless, his generosity had rescued her from steerage—a fact for which she would be forever grateful, and his good-humored jokes had made the trip across the Atlantic bearable. His presence had also kept some of the more amorous lads at bay, since they’d assumed mistakenly that he was her father.
She greeted him with a smile. “And you, as well, Mr. Healy. Here to catch your first glimpse of America?”
He snorted, his full moustache stirred by the force. “I’ve seen it before. This is my fourth crossing. Business, you know.”
His gray eyebrows bunched as he claimed the spot next to her at the rail. Teased by the wind, the fedora on his head lifted slightly. He caught it with a gloved hand and jammed it firmly back in place. “You, however, have yet to reveal your reasons for making the journey. Still no hope of finagling the information?”
Her heart thrumming, she smiled and turned her face to the waves. Always the same question. Every night, at dinner, she was forced to hide the answer, even when he tempted her with treats he’d bribed from the steward.
“Ah, my coy Irish lass, that winsome grin will get you far in the New World.” He leaned forward to rest his thick forearms on the rail. “I only hope you do not undertake those challenges alone?”
Cara shook her head, though in truth, she did not know what awaited her in New York. Her plan, like Eoghan’s letter, was vague—find her brother, force him to tell her what he’d done, then convince him to return home. “I. . .have kin in America. I hope to reunite with them when I arrive.”
He clucked his tongue and dipped his head to peer at her over his spectacles. “The city is quite a large place for a mere hope.”
“But ’tis more than I had a few weeks ago,” she whispered, pressing her hand against the letter at her chest. A stiff breeze tore at her words and carried them away.
“I’m sorry?” Mr. Healy bent his ear toward her, out of the wind.
She cupped her hand around her mouth. “I said I’ll be fine. Do not worry yourself, Mr. Healy.”
He gave a satisfied nod and straightened. “All right, then. Still, you might be able to use this.” He removed a piece of paper from a pocket of his woolen overcoat. “An old friend of mine runs a boarding house near Battery Park on Ashberry Street. Amelia Matheson is her name. I’ve listed the address there in case you need a place to stay.” When she lifted her brows, he added, “Until your relatives arrive, or until I can check on you—see how you be faring.”
Cara accepted the piece of paper and studied the unfamiliar handwriting. When she looked up, Mr. Healy watched her, his kind gaze dark with concern. She patted his hand, warmed by the compassion on the elderly gentleman’s face.
A bright sheen filmed his pale blue eyes. “I had a daughter once, not quite your age. Did I tell you?”
She shook her head, surprised by the waver in his voice. Not since stepping foot on board the Servia in Liverpool had she seen Mr. Healy without a smile creasing his wrinkled face. “What happened to her?”
A deep sigh seemed to rumble from the depths of his soul. He cast his gaze upon the sea, a vacant look in his eyes that said his thoughts, too, had gone adrift.
“She was only seventeen, and oh, so beautiful. She had red hair like her mother. . .and you.”
The wind snatched Cara’s hair again, sending coiled strands spiraling into the air. She caught them with one hand and jammed the tangled curls into the collar of her coat.
Mr. Healy watched, a sad smile curving his lips. “Olivia used to do that same thing, just so.”
A flock of seagulls circled overhead, their mournful cries providing a fitting backdrop to the sorrow with which he spoke.
She slid her hands into the pockets of her coat. “Olivia. That was her name?”
He nodded. “After her mother.”
A lump formed in Cara’s throat. She, too, had been named after her mother, and she felt a strange affinity for this lass whose story mirrored hers. “How did she die?”
Surprise flitted across Mr. Healy’s face and as quickly disappeared. “Ah, ’tis a tragic tale, that. One I’ll not trouble you with today.” He mimicked her brogue in a gentle way that inspired no ire and turned toward the rail, his finger jutting out over the edge of the ship. “Look, there. Do you see?”
Her hand shading her eyes, Cara squinted toward the horizon, where a strange gray haze dipped in and out of the waves. “What is it?”
“Wait,” Mr. Healy said, patting her back.
Salt spray washed high on the side of the ship, but Cara remained welded to the deck, excitement building inside her chest as the haze thickened and took shape. “Is that. . ?”
“It’s what you’ve been watching for, me dear girl, the reason you made this voyage.”
Cara tipped her head back and searched his face. He smiled in the way her father used to when bestowing a gift. Faster and faster her heart raced, until the pulse pounding in her ears drowned out the roar of the ship’s steam engines.
His broad mustache twitched then parted to reveal even teeth and his hand swept over the rail. “Miss Hamilton, welcome to America.”

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