Boots Under Her Bed

by Jodi Thomas

  She gestured toward him. “Miss Porter, this is Zebulon Crow. He provides security for my father.”

  “Yes, he mentioned that,” Miss Porter said, her arms crossed as she turned to face Maeve. “He also mentioned your family is looking for you and is worried about you.”

  “I came west with my family. Well, with my uncle,” Maeve said and waved a hand. “But apparently my mother and father fear I am not being properly supervised and will therefore bring scandal or shame to the Daugherty name.”

  Miss Porter pursed her lips a moment, then asked, “Is this something you’re in the habit of doing?”

  “Shaming my family? Of course not,” she said, though Zeb caught a flash of guilt in her eyes, as if she recognized the shame in her current situation. “Or did you mean bringing scandal?” When Miss Porter gave an encompassing nod, Maeve shrugged. “I can’t recall an instance of doing so, though my mother fears that’s what will happen should I pursue the charity work I most want to do.”

  As if she wasn’t sure what to think, Miss Porter lifted a brow and turned to Zeb. “Is this true, Mr. Crow?”

  “I wouldn’t know, ma’am,” he answered, pulling off his hat again to worry the brim. “Mrs. Daugherty does quite a lot of charity work herself. I don’t know why Miss Daugherty’s causes would be of such concern.”

  Maeve came up out of her chair, sputtering. “You do know why. I told you why. That night in the library.”

  “Right,” he said, waving his hat toward her. “I’d kinda forgotten everything but the question you asked me.”

  “If you had really wanted to give me an answer, you should’ve done so that night, not left the room the way you did.”

  This woman was going to be the death of him. The very death. “You know why I left without answering, though had I known you wanted me to stay—”

  Her eyes were snapping now, her words stinging as if delivered by a whip. “I did not want you to stay. Did I say that I wanted you to stay? As Miss Porter is my witness, I said no such thing.”

  “Mr. Crow,” said Miss Porter, stepping between them like a prizefight referee, “why don’t you let Etta show you to the drawing room and get you a drink and, if you’d like, a cigar. Give me some time with Miss Daugherty, then she can join you in the dining room for supper.”

  Zeb looked from Miss Porter to Maeve, imagining the weeks ahead, the two of them on horseback, the days of bickering, the money her father was paying him for a job that had nothing to do with her. It wasn’t enough. No amount would be. But at least he would know exactly where she was and that she was safe. Because that was all that mattered.

  “As long as she does join me for supper . . .” It would be just like the little hellion to run.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” was her answer, and though the response was supposed to set him at ease, it didn’t. He knew Maeve Daugherty, and she wasn’t promising not to take advantage of his back being turned.

  She was throwing down a gauntlet.

  Chapter 2

  WHILE Maeve retrieved her carpetbag from her bedroom’s small closet and set it on the bed to pack, Fannie Porter stood at the window, which faced the brothel’s back alley, pulling aside the curtain to peer through. Maeve had never minded the lack of a view, even though her room at home had looked out over gardens sculpted into an intricate maze and accented with statues and fountains.

  In the evenings, the alley was quiet, and she was able to read, or write in her diary, before going to sleep. Her bed was narrow, and not terribly comfortable, but she slept soundly enough. She had experienced much austerity during her short time living here in a house known for extravagance. Doing so had made her more determined than ever to help those less fortunate than herself.

  In the mornings, the alley woke quickly, the noise of wagon wheels and men yelling and clattering horses’ hooves waking her for the day. Her room was rarely more than cool, and hurrying through her ablutions usually warmed her sufficiently. If not, by the time she reached the kitchen—where Miss Porter’s cook served her coffee with cream and a hearty breakfast—she no longer needed her shawl.

  She folded it now and tucked it into the bottom of her bag. She’d brought so little with her from New York, intending to send for her things once she was settled. Uncle Mick had promised her a Grand Adventure, one that would give her a sense of where she was most needed, where she could do the good she’d been unable to accomplish at home. Mick’s love for gaming tables and unfortunate choice of companions, however, had put an end to her plans. Or at least brought them to a temporary halt.

  Making such an impetuous trip had been foolish, she supposed, but she’d been at her wits’ end and unaccountably desperate. She had no interest in the suitors drawn more to her family’s name and her father’s station than to her viability as a wife. And embracing a cause without getting her hands dirty was not her idea of charity beginning at home, though it seemed to fit her mother’s circle well.

  The thing of it was, she respected her parents and understood their wanting the best for her. Wanting to keep her safe. Wanting to ensure she stayed within the bounds of propriety, a thought that had her shuddering at the idea of them seeing her now. She was their only child, that was the duty with which they were charged, and she couldn’t abide disappointing them.

  She loved them dearly. Truly she did. They’d worked hard to secure their position in New York society, their families coming from Ireland before either was born, both fighting their way out of a poverty similar to that which Maeve was determined to see abolished.

  But she wished with all of her heart that they understood her desire to make her own life equally meaningful. Unlike them, she’d been born into fortunate circumstances, yet at every turn, and for no reason that made sense, she felt undeserving. Why should she be so privileged when hosts of others were not?

  She could hardly enjoy her fine cotton sheets and down pillows, her morning croissants with butter and jam, not to mention the society balls her father insisted she attend, the emeralds he begged her to wear in her upswept hair, the gowns of exquisite satin and silk he ordered for her from seamstresses with impeccable craftsmanship.

  Enjoying any of those things had become especially difficult after reading Jacob Riis’s essay in the copy of Scribner’s Magazine she’d found in her father’s library. It was several years old, so why he still had it . . . And then seeing the conditions in Mulberry Bend and Bone Alley for herself . . .

  Her parents could not fathom her dissatisfaction with her situation in life. Honestly, she found herself baffled by it as well; she was, quite literally, an heiress. But something had happened three years before, when her father had hired Zebulon Crow, and she hated that she could time her malcontent to his arrival.

  He unnerved her, the way he walked through the rooms of their home, always on guard, never accepting what he saw at face value, questioning everything, causing her to question things, too, when never before had she been compelled toward suspicion.

  He had seen tragedy the likes of which she never would. He hadn’t spoken of the events, or acknowledged their existence, but it was impossible not to sense the hardship he carried. It weighed heavily, creasing his temples, darkening his eyes.

  She’d wanted to take away his pain, but she didn’t know how. Or why she was drawn to do so. They came from different worlds. They led different lives. Because of that, she’d turned to what she did know, helping those she could. Until her parents had put a stop to her endeavors.

  Seeing Zeb walk through her office door earlier had actually come as a relief. She would never admit that to him. She didn’t like admitting it to herself. But Zeb would never leave her as Mick had done, even if doing so hadn’t been of Mick’s choosing. Zeb was solid and sure, not swayed by societal whims or opinions. He did the job he’d been given. He let nothing get in his way.

  Those were the only reasons she wasn’t going to fight his taking her out of Miss Porter’s house. And she would accompany him for now. Bu
t she’d meant what she’d told him. She was not going back to New York.

  “You understand why I can’t keep you here.”

  Returning to the task at hand, Maeve nodded at Miss Porter’s words, picking up the riding breeches the other woman had brought her. “Yes. Of course. Your enterprise cannot afford unnecessary attention from the wrong quarter.” And Zeb could very well cause that sort of trouble to get what he wanted.

  Miss Porter stepped away from the window and sat at an angle on the foot of the bed. “You’ve done a good job for me, Maeve. I wish circumstances were different from what they are. I’m not sure I’ll be able to find anyone else who will be as favorable an employee.”

  “I’ve enjoyed working here, and I am ever so grateful to you for taking me in. I don’t wish to consider where I could have ended up without your charity.”

  Frowning, the other woman shook her head. “It wasn’t charity. You did honest work for an honest wage.”

  And if she’d had the chance to work longer, that honest wage would have amounted to more of a savings, leaving her less at Zeb’s mercy as they traveled. But at least she wasn’t penniless. Or destitute, begging in Bone Alley for food scraps. “Yes, but I’m sure you could’ve hired a man with more experience.”

  “I could have. I chose not to. I prefer to take money from the men who come here, not the other way around.”

  That brought a smile to Maeve’s mouth. “You are quite accomplished at handling men.”

  The other woman waved a hand. “They are simple beings. Their needs are easily met, and very rarely with much ado.”

  Maeve slowed in the act of folding the unfamiliar garment. “Traveling with Mr. Crow on horseback is going to be much different from using the railroad with my uncle.”

  “But you’ve known Mr. Crow long enough to feel safe in his company?”

  Safe, yes, though her history of being alone with him would no doubt make the days ahead uncomfortable. “I’ll be fine. My father trusts him.”

  “Your father is not the one accompanying him on this trip.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she repeated, but her hands were trembling.

  Miss Porter reached for them, held them in her own. “If this Mr. Crow frightens you, I won’t let him take you. I can help you find other employment here in San Antonio and see you well settled in a boardinghouse with a more . . . appropriate reputation. Or I can hire someone to act as chaperone and make the trip with you.”

  The idea of Zeb traveling with two women was almost enough for Maeve to accept. But she shook her head, refusing to closely examine the reason why. “Thank you, but I don’t think you would be able to stop him, or get him to agree to increasing the number in our party. Zebulon is very good at getting his way.”

  “What does your father do that he requires a hired gun for security?” Miss Porter asked, letting her go.

  “My father is in banking. Zebulon makes sure our home is secure and that my father is, as well, when he travels for business.”

  “I’m not sure I would’ve guessed that. Your Mr. Crow seems much more civilized than the men I know who deal in personal protection.”

  “I imagine the dangers from which one might need protecting here are a great deal more . . . savage.”

  “Does Mr. Crow also live in New York?”

  “He does now,” she said, realizing how little she actually knew about Zeb, including how he had entered her father’s employ. “I believe he originally came from South Carolina. His family owned land there and grew tobacco.”

  “What about this uncle of yours?” Miss Porter asked, smoothing the turquoise satin of her skirt. “When you applied for the position you said he’d been called away on business, but from what you told Mr. Crow, it sounds like that may not be the case.”

  “It’s not, and I apologize for the deception. My uncle’s situation could have brought you the same unwanted attention as Mr. Crow’s insistence that I accompany him. I thought it best not to mention the trouble he was in.”

  “Gambling?”

  Maeve nodded, shook out the riding breeches, and refolded them. “I’m not sure how it happened. Uncle Mick is not the businessman my father is, but taking such a chance with our fixed amount of traveling money seemed unnecessarily foolhardy, even for him.”

  At that, Miss Porter smiled. “Here’s what I’ve learned as a woman in a business catering to men. There are those who work for what they want, those who take it from others, those who hope to have it but do nothing toward that goal, and those who cheat to get it. Until put under pressure, some of these men may not show their true colors. It’s very possible your uncle was never a cautious man at all.”

  Maeve quietly let that sink in, thinking about Zebulon Crow as she did. He was not a cheat. She would swear to that. Neither did he take from others. He worked fairly for what he had, and in that way was much like her father. Except . . . he wasn’t like her father at all. He seemed to be his complete opposite—reserved where her father was effusive, wary where her father appeared to have no care for the things he said, to whom he said them.

  Perhaps those differences were the reason her father depended so completely on Zeb. Or why Zeb watched over their family as if their lives depended on his sticking close.

  “I have one more thing I’d like to give you.” Miss Porter’s words broke into Maeve’s musings. She held Maeve’s gaze as she reached into a pocket in her skirt. Maeve glanced down to see a tiny derringer in the palm of the other woman’s hand. “Take this,” she said, then lifted her skirt and removed a band from around her thigh that held additional ammunition. “And this,” she added, forcing both items into Maeve’s grasp.

  “I can’t—”

  “You can. I insist. Even if you trust Mr. Crow, you don’t know who or what you’ll come across during your travels. And no smart woman puts her safety at the mercy of a man. Even a man she knows. Or loves.”

  A burst of heat sucked away her breath, and she gasped when she said, “I don’t love Mr. Crow.”

  A corner of Miss Porter’s mouth lifted. “I wasn’t referring to you necessarily.”

  Maeve nodded and swallowed, then packed the gun beneath the riding breeches.

  “Before you leave in the morning, you put that in your pocket. I’ll show you then how to load it. It won’t do you any good if you come upon a band of outlaws and it’s tucked away in the bottom of your bag.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “I’m always right,” she said with a twist of her mouth. “And, Maeve: If you ever need anything, anything at all, you come to me, or send a telegraph. Don’t forget I’m here.”

  “Miss Porter—”

  “Fannie.”

  “Thank you, Fannie.” Maeve squeezed the other woman’s hands. “I’m quite certain you saved my life. Literally.”

  Chapter 3

  IT seemed strange to be sharing a meal with a man in Miss Porter’s dining room. Her girls did so often, engaging in private tête-à-têtes with their callers, or their callers gathering in groups around a table with their steaks and bourbon and cigars as if the boardinghouse were a gentlemen’s club, offering an escape from work too cumbersome to speak of to their families but not for like-minded men.

  Maeve felt as if she were eavesdropping on the very world in which her father circulated, the very world about which she was supposed to hold no opinions or thoughts. And she didn’t, except insomuch as these men set rules that governed the lives of others, rules by which they themselves never had to abide. Rules that made it impossible for women and children living in poverty to find their way out.

  “You’re not eating.”

  She sighed heavily. “I’m not particularly hungry.”

  “You should eat anyway,” Zeb said and gestured with his fork. “It’ll be a long time before you get another meal like this one.”

  The quality of the meals in her immediate future was not what concerned her, but she picked up her fork to appease him. “First you kidnap me
, then you starve me?”

  “I’m not kidnapping you,” he said, bracing his wrists against the table, a fork in one hand, a knife in the other, the glint of his eyes causing her to drop her gaze. “And I’m not going to starve you. We’ll have plenty to eat, and I’m sure it will be just as edible as what Mick fed you. It just won’t be baked chicken and creamed peas and corn bread and apple pie.”

  She didn’t want to talk about Mick. She didn’t want to think about Mick. Why she’d ever believed anything with him would be an adventure instead of the disaster it was . . . She looked back up so Zeb would know she was unaffected by his words—or his expression. “How are my parents?”

  A vein ticked at his temple. “Worried about you, but otherwise fine.”

  “Worried about me?” She set down her fork, broke off the corner of her corn bread square. “Are you sure they’re not more worried about what their friends are whispering behind their backs?”

  “Your father told me they were worried,” he said, though he frowned down at his plate as he did so. “That’s all I know.”

  “And he asked you to come after me?” she asked. Notes from the piano in the grand parlor drifted into the room.

  He shrugged, studying the motion of his fork and his knife as he cut into his chicken. “He knows me. He trusts me. You know me, too. Who better to make the trip?”

  “I can’t imagine why you would’ve wanted to.” Unless her father was paying him handsomely, which was doubtless the truth of it. “Who is seeing to Father’s security while you’re away?”

  “I arranged for a man I know to be available. As to why I wanted to make the trip . . .” He forked up a bite and held it, along with her gaze, the twitch at the corner of his mouth a fair warning. “I told you. I came to answer your question.”

  She’d steeled herself in advance of his words, but still they stirred her blood. Was that single moment of indiscretion going to haunt her for the rest of her days? “Can you please not bring up that question? You know I was . . . under the weather.”