Mary Shura - Gabrielle

Stephen nodded as he filled his own mug. "From what I heard, he was trying to talk the captain into giving him some work. I could have told him we were filled up."

"Except for a cook," Flossie corrected him.

"That guy is no cook," Stephen scoffed. "He’s just a big, blond hayseed with a yen to get out of the cowshed."

Gabrielle picked up her father’s coffee and started up on deck. Even if the coffee cooled before he came back to drink it, it gave her an excuse to get away from Stephen’s scathing talk. Except for his obvious hero worship of her father and Pud Swallow, that fellow couldn’t say a good word about anybody .

When she looked toward the beach from the Texas deck, she jumped, splashing hot coffee over the back of her hand. Her father was down on shore, standing near the end of the dock in conversation with a tall, blond young man.

David. David Wesley.

Without thinking, she pulled back into the shadow of the pilot house. Her heart pounded as if she had been running while she watched the two men. David was clearly talking a mile a minute, doing everything he could to convince her father. But her father shook his head firmly, and turned to come back on board.

As her father’s feet sounded on the gangplank, Gabrielle stepped back into the pilot’s cabin for fear David or her father would see her watching them.

For one breathless moment she got a full view of David’s face looking up after her father. She caught at the edge of the door with her free hand. How tall and solid and fair he looked, standing there with his blue shirt open against tanned skin. The sun lit his fair hair like a candle. He was more than good-looking; he was handsome. But the disappointment in his expression made something hard and painful press against her throat.

"Your coffee’s in here," she called when she heard her father’s footsteps approaching. "What was all that about?"

"Good. Thank you," he said, taking the mug with a smile. "Just a nice country kid feeling the lure of the river. These kids don’t understand there’s more to working a showboat than being big and strong and willing."

"Everybody must have started somewhere," she told him.

He nodded. "But with an act. He’s willing enough, offered to come along for nothing but bed and board. It wasn’t easy to explain to him that a man has to pull his weight in the show as well as on board."

"Flossie hoped he would be a cook," Gabrielle suggested.

"I thought of that, but his answer wasn’t satisfactory. I would guess he’s got a mama out there who’s never let him turn a hand in her kitchen."

He lifted his mug to his lips and smiled at her. "I will say he’s willing. But I had to swallow a chuckle when he said cooking looked easy enough for a child to learn."

Gabrielle knew her smile was a little weak as she left. She paused by the pilot house, hoping to see David still on shore. But he was gone and Flossie was calling her to come help with breakfast.

In the next town, in order to use the handbills that had been left over, her father planned to give the same program they had presented on the Illinois side of the river the night before. The only change was Gabrielle’s song. Without explanation, her father told her he was switching it to "Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair," which was the Stephen Foster song that Gabrielle liked the very least.

Gabrielle’s coolest dress was made of pale yellow dimity. It was cut low at the throat and had a wonderfully full skirt. The waist nipped in with a flowered cummerbund, which Flossie tied into a butterfly bow in back so that the broad ends fell clear to the hem of the dress.

The heat that made Gabrielle listless also made her hair unmanageable. After three tries she gave up and let black ringlets escape onto her forehead from under the flowered ribbon that matched the sash of her dress .

Even if the auditorium had been full, she would have seen David at once. He was taller than most of the men, for one thing, and he was all alone, sitting halfway back so she could see his face clearly. Her heart dropped when his eyes met hers, and she fumbled with the tray of magic props she was holding for her father. How could she endure this? She stiffened her back purposefully and would not let her eyes stray to that part of the audience again.

Gabrielle had never lived through a longer evening. The simplest things were suddenly difficult. She fought to remember the lines of the play she had rehearsed and performed a hundred times. The sense of waiting had changed to something more terrifying, something like dread. She felt as she did on those spring days when the skies darkened suddenly and the air grew heavy in warning of a coming storm.

If her father had thought changing the song would change the audience’s reaction to Gabrielle’s singing, he was wrong. Although she didn’t even like that song, she heard her voice turn wistful and haunting as the audience stilled to a breathless listening.

Only when she bowed to the floor in response to the roar of applause did she meet David’s eyes again. She gripped her flowers hard, suddenly dizzy for no reason.

But the three-hour performance was finally over, with the grand finale ending with a roar of applause. It was common enough for members of the audience to come forward to congratulate the players, but David was there too quickly, seizing her hand.

"We have to talk," he said quietly, that deep voice as gentle as she remembered. "I tried to get on board earlier."

"I know," she whispered. "I know."

"I can’t leave you," he said. "You know that, don’t you?"

She knew without looking that the other members of the cast were watching this little scene from the corner of their eyes as they nodded and spoke to people in the crowd.

"We can’t talk here," she whispered.

"I’m not letting you go again," he replied.

Fighting a sense of panic, she smiled past him and began to walk from the auditorium, with him following just behind her. Here and there she stopped to accept praise from people rising to leave.

When they finally reached the deck, David pulled her toward the shadow of the pilot house.

"Listen, Gabrielle," he whispered, seizing her by both shoulders, "I haven’t thought of another thing since that day. I fought with my mother and came down here to see you. I love you, that’s what. I love you and I mean to have you."

"But, David," she stammered, "you don’t know me and I don’t know you."

His voice turned almost rough. "What’s the matter with you, Gabrielle? Haven’t you ever heard of love at first sight? Tell me you haven’t been thinking about me."

His grip was so tight on her arms that she didn’t dare try to move away. "David," she implored softly. "Make sense, please try to make sense…"

"To make sense you have to have some," a voice broke in. Stephen DuBois, still wearing the scarlet tights and jerkin of his acrobatic act, was suddenly there, shoving himself in between her and David. He grabbed David roughly by the shoulder and spun him around. "Now look here, guy. There’s no fooling around with this girl. Get off this boat before I throw you off."

"Stephen," she cried, grabbing at his arm and throwing him off balance.

Pressing his advantage, David squared off and struck Stephen a hard sudden blow to the shoulder that sent him reeling backward against the door of the pilot house.

Stephen’s eyes blazed as he came back, his lean body in a half crouch. "You hayseed!" he cried, leaping at David.

"Hold up!" Gabrielle’s father shouted as Stephen lunged for David. "Back off, DuBois. You there, get off this boat. Start moving."

David, still in fighting stance, shook his head, his eyes watchful of Stephen.