by Tamara Allen
Charlie scowled. He was wasting his time with Belcourt when Will needed help. Leaving the man to the constable’s irons, Charlie ran for the carriage, reaching it just as Knox slid off the roof to land on two feet, seemingly unhurt. Before Charlie could grab hold of him, Knox shoved him away and staggered off toward the park. Charlie didn’t wait for the police to chase him down, but flew after, springing onto Knox’s back with a force that sent them both tumbling to the road.
Ignoring the sharp reminder from his injured shoulder, Charlie scrambled up just as a seething Knox, back on his feet, swung at him. Ducking, Charlie retreated and Knox advanced, clearly intent on carrying out every threat he’d made—until police whistles filling the night air seemed to give him pause.
Or perhaps it was the realization that Charlie had slowed him up just enough to assure his capture. Knox fled for the park gate, but the constables were upon him before he could slip through. Around the carriage, a crowd was gathering, some attending to the horse while others tried to climb up and peer inside. Charlie shoved past them and made his way to the open door. Below, in the dimness, Will lay unmoving… Just stunned by the crash. That was all. Charlie tried to lower himself in and fell instead, landing in the debris of splintered wood and broken glass. He fumbled over it heedlessly until the soft wool of Will’s coat was under his scratched palms. Will was breathing. He had to be breathing. If he’d hit his head… Was there blood? Charlie could barely see him.
“Will…” The spreading ache in his chest promised to break apart the calm he was only just maintaining. Voices compelled his attention upward, to the curious and concerned faces above him. Help might be had. “We need a doctor. An ambulance. Please…” He didn’t know if he was making himself heard. He was so frightened, he had no breath for more. He bent down and cradled Will’s face in his hands. “For God’s sake, don’t do this. Don’t you dare. Not when we’re just getting started.” He sank down, hiding his face against Will’s neck. “Not when I love you, damn it.”
A warm exhalation ruffled his hair. “I’ll make an editor of you yet.”
His own breathing reasserted itself in an agonized gasp and he drew back. Will’s brow was furrowed, his face lined with discomfort, but his gaze drank Charlie in as if he’d been as fearful of losing him. Charlie stared at him, shaken, helpless, wanting to… Wanting to swear. “You wretched, miserable, rotten—goddamn it, Smitty, you took ten years off me.”
The trace of a smile on Will’s lips swiftly became a grimace, as if it hurt to do that much. “I feel confident in my ability to restore them.”
Charlie sank back down and covered Will’s mouth with his, briefly, tenderly. When he relinquished the kiss, Will looked fondly reproving. “We seem to have an audience,” he whispered.
Lingering fear rode out of Charlie on a long, ragged breath. “I don’t care. You’re still here.”
“If you’re going to take advantage of me…” A humorous note undercut the weariness in Will’s voice. “Untie me first.”
He’d forgotten. “Damn. I’m sorry.”
The ropes came away with some work, leaving reddened skin and reawakening Charlie’s desire to go after Knox until he was as bruised—though Charlie couldn’t deny there likely wouldn’t be much left of him if he did. Will barely acknowledged the bruises, but accepted Charlie’s help in getting to his feet. Once there, he leaned his head on Charlie’s shoulder, silent for a worrisome minute. Charlie laid a gentle hand on the nape of his neck. “Respectable people don’t faint in the middle of Stuyvesant Square, you know.”
“I may have the distinction of being the first.”
It was a cautious climb out, but with a number of willing hands ready to help, Will was on the sidewalk in moments, given a sip of gin, wrapped in a stranger’s blanket, and put into a cab. If anyone had witnessed the kiss, Charlie realized they’d put some other interpretation on it; more likely the shadows had concealed it. Only concern and kindness followed them on their way from the square and when they reached home, they found Hilda on her knees, gathering broken china.
Charlie had hardly begun to apologize when she got up, revealing a tear-streaked face, and wrapped her arms around him. “Thank God.” She held on for a long minute. “Thank God… Oh, thank God. I was frightened to death.” She hugged Will as thoroughly and he put up no objection, though he looked quite ready to collapse. The instant she drew back, Hilda noticed it, too. “Off to bed with him,” she instructed Charlie. “I’ll be up in a minute.”
Will let out a weary breath. “There’s really no need to fuss—”
“Let her fuss,” Charlie said quietly, maneuvering him toward the stairs. “Lean on me, Smitty. If you don’t, I’ll carry you.”
With that threat in the offing, Will obligingly leaned until he could sit, the relief in his face so stark, it stirred new worries. When Hilda came up with tea, Charlie sent her, over Will’s objections, for a doctor. He had Will undressed and abed before the doctor arrived, and kept him awake with the details of all that had happened after Knox had gone off with him.
Will was relating his own travails when Hilda returned, hurrying along Caroline’s doctor, the elderly Mr. Westbrook. The doctor allowed that Will might sleep only if he was watched over, so Charlie took up residence at the foot of the bed and wrote his article there. When it was nearly done, he left Will in Hilda’s care and went to the police station for the information Will hadn’t been able to give him. On the streetcar down to the newspaper, he wrote up the summary for the editorial page, and taking to his desk without a greeting for anyone, spent another hour editing the article as he thought Will would have.
Turning it in to the night editor, he hopped the streetcar back to the house, to find Hilda knitting in the chair beside Will’s hearth.
“My turn again,” he said cheerfully as she rose.
Hilda’s smile could match Will’s for reproach any day. “You want some sleep, yourself.”
“He’s resting all right, isn’t he?”
“He is.” She pocketed her knitting in her voluminous apron. “When Miss Donnett comes in, I’ll tell her what’s happened so you needn’t be disturbed again tonight. You’ve had no supper, have you?”
He didn’t want to put her to the trouble. “I’m not hungry—”
She snorted. “Beg your pardon, Mr. Charlie, but I’ve known you two years now. Once you’re warm and comfortable, you’ll be hungry. I’ll bring something up for you both.”
“Hildy…” She stopped at the door and glanced around at him. Charlie swallowed back the sudden ache in his throat. “I’m awfully sorry about your dishes.”
To his surprise, she chuckled. “Now don’t fret. They’re Miss Donnett’s dishes. And more can be had.”
“More will be had.”
She went out, smiling, and Charlie did find that once he was warm again, with nothing to do but sleep, he was hungry. He listened for Hilda so he could meet her at the bottom of the stairs and take the tray, himself. She allowed it, and once up, Charlie roused Will for supper, coaxing him to take tea and soup before going back to sleep. When Caroline came home, Charlie was still awake, but as Hilda had assured him, no one came up to disturb them.
Still, he was reluctant to lock the door for the night. Instead, he stripped only to his trousers and shirt before crawling into bed beside Will. “Wait till you read the column we wrote,” he whispered. “It’s a hell of a story. And it’s ours. Nothing better in the world.”
Will murmured sleepily and rolled over, pressing up close against him before drifting back off. Charlie had to grin. “Well, maybe one thing better.”
When morning came, Will would not stay in bed, and since he looked rather better, Charlie let him up and left him to dress, eager to get a copy of the paper. He stepped out, only to find someone—probably Hilda—had left a copy on the hall table. And there it was, on the front page, a precise accounting laying bare the schemes of land agent Isaiah Knox and second-rate vaudeville actor Douglas Shaw—although pe
rhaps “second rate” was a little unfair. He’d proved a convincing aristocrat for a little while, anyway.
Will was in the middle of buttoning his waistcoat when Charlie came back upstairs. “Did you get the paper?”
“Yes.”
“Anything interesting in it?”
“One thing.”
Will heard it in his voice, Charlie knew, when he glanced up with a curious smile. “Just one?” He held out his hand and Charlie hesitated.
“You won’t mind that I went ahead, will you? It’s still our story—”
“Did we beat the Sun?”
“Surely.”
“Then I won’t mind.”
Charlie handed it over and Will sat down to read it. Tempted to sit across from him, Charlie dropped onto the bed instead and stared at the ceiling. Will made not a sound—deliberately to vex him, no doubt—until, getting up, he came to sit beside Charlie. “You edited this.”
“I wasn’t the only one.”
“No?”
Charlie grinned. “You edited it in spirit.”
Will’s smile deepened, the shine of pride in his eyes. “You edited this.”
“The night editor had a go at it. But he didn’t change much.”
“It’s excellent.”
“Isn’t it?”
That provoked a laugh. “My opinion is superfluous, then.”
Charlie pulled him down, wrapping him in an unyielding embrace. “I can’t do without it.”
“Well, then… This is the finest story you’ve written. One of the best I’ve seen in the Herald. And I think Mr. Holloway will say the same.”
It was Charlie’s turn to laugh. “He hasn’t said any such thing in two years. I don’t expect he’ll start now. More likely, I’ll be flayed for walking in late while assignments are being handed ’round.”
It was a prediction destined to come true when he walked into the city department while Holloway was in the midst of relating something of seeming importance to all assembled. The quiet that fell at Charlie’s appearance was even more worrisome, and Charlie held on to Will’s coat tail to keep him from wandering away to his own desk. “We’re a little late, I know—”
“Yes.” Mr. Holloway pushed away from the desk against which he’d been leaning. “Yes, Mr. Kohlbeck, you’re late. I suppose I’ll need to begin again… From the beginning.”
A collective sigh rose, one that seemed rather more weighted on the side of amusement than annoyance. Mr. Holloway’s lips twitched. “Right. Well, it’s this…” He opened the newspaper in his hands, the one emblazoned with Charlie’s headline. Charlie braced uneasily for what might be coming. He’d checked every detail, every fact. He didn’t know what…
Holloway cleared his throat. “This, gentlemen, is the New York Herald. This—” He jabbed a forefinger at the headline. “Is a story worthy of the front page of said Herald.” “And this…” He pointed at Charlie before tossing him the paper. “Is a goddamned news reporter.” He clapped Charlie on the shoulder. “Good work, Mr. Kohlbeck. And you, Mr. Nesmith. It takes both reporter and editor to make a newspaper worth reading. You two understand that now, I assume?”
“Yes, sir,” Will said.
Charlie couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He tapped the newspaper Charlie was clutching to his chest. “Keep it up. You’re being paid by the column now.”
“I’m…” He’d misheard. “I’m…”
“Starting Monday. Now get back to work.”
With Mr. Holloway’s departure, everyone swarmed around Charlie, clapping him on the back—even a sheepish Mert. Charlie shook hands all around, trying to hide how dumbstruck he felt; and failing utterly, judging by Will’s blazing grin. When the others had moved off, Will took the paper, poked a hole above the headline with his blue pencil, climbed to the desktop, and strung the paper up by the lamp’s pull chain.
Charlie burst out laughing. “We’ve come ’round full circle, haven’t we? Paid by the column… Can you believe it?”
“How would you like to celebrate?” Will climbed down, and as Charlie perched on the desk, sat beside him. “Delmonico’s?”
Charlie snorted. “We’d better send you back to California before your tastes get any more expensive.” He leaned against Will. “How about that little place around the corner? We can walk…” He cleared his throat. “Maybe look at flats along the way.”
The quiet delight in Will’s smile was answer enough.
Chapter Nineteen
Will tarried in the doorway while Charlie prowled the close confines of the parlor. “It’s small.”
“A breadbox,” Charlie agreed.
“No garden to speak of.”
“There’ll be dandelions in the spring.”
“The furniture’s older than we are.”
Charlie swiped a sleeve along the sofa’s carved arm. “Dustier, certainly.”
The radiator gurgled—and at Will’s groan, Charlie laughed. “It’s four blocks from the paper.”
“That’s something to recommend it.”
“It’s not too expensive.”
“That, too.” Will wandered to the armchair at the hearth and settled in. It was comfortable, the footstool not too low, the standing lamp altogether suitable if he wanted to read late into the evening. The afternoon sun gave a warm cast to the old wood underfoot and fell gently on faded pale blue wallpaper and the gray tiles at the hearth. “We may as well see the rest of it.”
The two bedrooms were as small, but there was a writing desk, and the beds—according to Charlie—were quite comfortable. Apart from the occasional clank of the radiator, the apartment, being farther afield from Broadway, was decidedly quieter. Wondering how noisy it might be in summer, Will pushed up the window sash to let in the rumble of traffic—and a sharp gust of wind, besides. Charlie stepped out of range and made a face at him. “After all the work that poor old radiator’s doing—”
“It’s not as though we’re moved in yet.”
“Yet?” Charlie pulled out the desk chair and sat. “So you like it?”
“It has a certain forsaken charm.”
In the street below, a brougham passed at a good clip. Will stepped back involuntarily—then wanted to laugh at himself. Knox and Shaw were locked up. He was no one’s prisoner, except for perhaps his own imagination’s. The bad dreams of the night before had made the whole business larger in his mind, but they were only dreams. He wasn’t locked in a trunk in the baggage car on his way to California…
“Will?” Charlie kicked him lightly in the shin. “You still have a headache?”
“Not one worth speaking of.” He tried to rouse himself thoroughly to the present. “I’m sorry…”
“It’s all right. If you’re having second thoughts, well, we don’t need to go along so quick. I’m willing to wait.”
“Second thoughts?” Will looked at him blankly. “Second thoughts about—”
“Sharing rooms.” Charlie stood, his gaze straying from Will’s as if he were embarrassed. “I thought—well, of course I want you to be sure—”
“Charlie.” He’d been more wrapped up in his thoughts than he’d realized. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake.”
Charlie seemed to catch the self-deprecating note. He tilted his head, a smile easing the pensive lines in his face. “Something else, then?”
Will took hold of his lapels, pulled him close, and kissed him. “Sharing this dusty little breadbox with you… I want it. So very much.” He rested his aching head on Charlie’s shoulder, and as a soothing hand moved up and down the nape of his neck, closed his eyes. “I’ve been thinking rather too much about last night. I would quite like to stop thinking about it… But I can’t seem to.”
“I’m still marveling at how foolish we were to go down to the carriage. When they took you…” Charlie drew back, his troubled gaze a dark blue in a face gone a little too pale. “I was well on my way to chasing down every damned carriage on Broadway. If
not for the merest luck, I’d be stumbling along yet, half-mad most likely.” He looked only more somber. “What you were going through, I can’t stand to think.”
Charlie wasn’t pressing him to talk it over; only encouraging him. “I honestly imagined I could get away. But Knox had a bottle of chloroform in his coat—and warned me he wouldn’t hesitate to use it if I tried to escape. He told me they intended to engage a private car and take me west as far as Chicago before contacting the Nesmiths. It seemed inevitable they’d resort to the chloroform…”
Fear rose in his throat, the same fear that had kept his mind in turmoil all through the carriage ride. Charlie had an arm around him in an instant, turning him toward the bed. Once he was sitting, he found it easier to catch his breath. “That wasn’t the worst of it.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
Will sagged against him. “I didn’t think you were coming after me, Charlie.” The horror of that realization, just after he’d climbed into the carriage, came back full force, and saying the rest of it aloud was impossible.
“You thought the son of a bitch killed me.”
Hearing it in shocked, low tones from Charlie’s lips was no less painful. “Mr. Shaw tried to explain himself to me—or justify his actions, rather—though Knox kept telling him to keep his mouth shut. From what he let slip, I gathered they had intended to collect as much from investors as they could and leave town with the money. When they couldn’t trick anyone into investing, Shaw asked Rose to marry him, thinking there was money to be had that way. Knox made it very clear to me that he blamed you for upsetting his plans. I think he wanted me to believe you were dead the moment we drove away. I couldn’t…”
His head throbbed and he closed his eyes. “Once I knew I was destined to be drugged and stuffed into a trunk…” He swallowed. “I was set on trying to jump from the carriage. We turned onto 14th and I saw you—” That moment would remain in his memory for as long as he lived. “I saw you. Out of nowhere, hanging on for dear life. It was madness—and oh, God…” He couldn’t go on. His eyes burned and he buried his face in Charlie’s coat collar. Charlie’s arms came around him and a stream of one-sided conversation washed over him, words he could barely follow; but the tone of Charlie’s voice, briefly anxious before turning comforting and even cajoling, lifted him away from the memories and back into a bright, chilly bedroom and a welcome caress against his cheek. “It’s late,” he ventured after a moment, reluctant to move.
