“But what kind of Christian woman would I be to turn down such a thoughtful request?” Mrs. Hastings took the list from Nora and tucked it into her fine silk handbag. “I shall see what I can do.”
“Splendid!” said Reverend Bauers, clasping his hands. “I’ve no doubt you will indeed work wonders. Praise God for bringing you across our threshold, my dear madam. God will smile kindly on your charity.”
Major Simon sheathed his sword with narrowed eyes. “The post was a brilliant idea. I’m not sure if I should be impressed or rather worried. You’ve too much a talent at deceit for my taste.”
“Deceit?” Quinn asked, trying not to pant as he spoke. The major had just taken him through an exhausting series of exercises and Quinn was certain his arm—and lots of other parts of him—would be hurting in the morning. “I’m not trying to trick anyone. I’m keeping quiet in order to do what I think needs doing. I needed a way for folks to make their needs known that wasn’t obviously attached to me. It’s not like everyone can come tell me what they need.” He took the towel Simon offered and wiped the sweat off his brow. “Besides, I didn’t even think it up on my own. I just copied what I saw happening on the fountain downtown.”
“Smart men don’t bother rethinking good ideas. They just borrow them for their own use.” The major took a drink from one of the glasses of water that had been set on a table at the side of the room, gesturing with his hand to the bandage that still wrapped Quinn’s right forearm. “I stole that move from a particularly successful, if rather nasty general in the southern states. And I noticed you were far more thoughtful with your attacks this afternoon.”
Quinn had to admit it had worked; the fact that his arm stung every time he thrust it forward made him more deliberate in his choice of offensive moves. Was it sheer pain or a learned lesson that had reined in his impulsive nature? Mostly, it seemed as if Major Simon wasn’t out to get his goat today the way he’d been at first. Either Quinn was growing used to the major’s larger-than-life persona, or Simon wasn’t going out of his way to provoke him. It was for the best either way. “Lesson learned, Major. But I’d rather have done it without the blood, thanks.”
Simon put down the glass. “Nonsense. Blood’s a necessary part of the thing. And I imagine a clever fellow like yourself could squeeze a little sympathy out of a kind lady with that bandage…if you were so inclined.”
Quinn might, under certain circumstances, have admitted to being pleased at the attention his wound seemed to garner from Nora, but neither here nor now. “I manage,” he said with what he hoped was an enigmatic grin.
Simon grinned back. It was times like this that Quinn could almost muster an older brother kinship with the man. A tentative friendship was forming between them despite Quinn’s first impressions. “I imagine you do,” Simon said with something almost like a wink. “And you’ve remembered more of your fencing than Reverend Bauers led me to believe. We may be able to start next week.”
And start the next week they did. Major Simon had come through with flying colors. His supplies, along with some of Quinn’s old connections to dockworkers and the men in the rail yards, had produced half the list of items requested on the post. The deliveries began. It had taken most of the night to quietly ferry the items from the secret storage location to the shacks in question, but the next day Quinn knew.
It was worth every risk. The look on folks’ faces, the way they chattered around the post the next morning, the jolt of it all, was worth a month of sleepless nights. And the look Nora shot him as Sam rattled on about “the most amazin’ thing that happened”? Well, that would have kept him up a week straight with ease.
“…and Missus Barker, she got soap, and some other lady got things for her baby, and no one knows how.”
Unbidden, Quinn’s memory brought back the morning he’d been sent to socialite Georgia Waterhouse’s mansion by Reverend Bauers. He’d been assigned to fetch her back to Grace House the morning everyone discovered the Bandit’s first delivery. The Bandit—whom Quinn would later learn was both the invention of Miss Waterhouse and the surprising new alter ego of Matthew Covington (although neither knew the other’s involvement at the time)—had nailed actual dollars to the top of Grace House’s doorjamb. It was more money than anyone had seen in years in one place, and Reverend Bauers stretched those dollars as far as the eye could see. By his first gift of funds—and the many gifts of all kinds the Bandit gave after that—Quinn had watched one man spark a tidal wave of optimism and good deeds.
And now, it was Quinn’s turn. This morning, standing among the folks’ astonished buzz, Quinn felt the legend come full circle, as if he’d been there way back when just so he’d be ready to be here right now. As if God really had lined it all up in perfect harmony just the way Reverend Bauers always said He did. Quinn felt the power Matthew Covington had spoken of, the limitless energizing from knowing he’d ignited the rarest and most powerful resource known to man: hope. He knew now how Matthew Covington had forgone sleep, ignored pain, defied odds and sometimes even gravity to complete the Black Bandit’s missions. He felt it himself.
“It is extraordinary, Sam. A wonderful thing indeed.” Nora smiled. “We should all be very happy and very grateful, don’t you think?”
“Extra-extraordinary!” Sam’s small mouth could barely make its way around the large word.
There was a second, a sun-gilt moment when Nora’s eyes caught Quinn’s overtop of Sam’s continued chattering. She looked at Quinn as though he’d done something monumental. As though the world spun on his command. No one, not even his ma, had ever looked at him like that. The look she’d given him when he returned the locket had near stopped his heart, but this, this was even more stunning. It fired through his chest like a lightning bolt. A very addictive lightning bolt.
He stared at her for a moment, feeling the weight of the moment drive him to memorize its details. She had a splash of freckles starting on her cheeks, as though she’d spent too much time without her hat. He knew proper ladies weren’t supposed to sport freckles, but he found them hopelessly endearing. They lent a naturalness to her grace and breeding. He had the feeling he’d remember the slant of the sun and the particular scent on the breeze for years to come.
“Your post has done a world of good, Mr. Freeman,” she said. Her words were pleasant and ordinary, but Quinn felt the world tilt and whirl like a shiny top all around him. She smiled, inclining her head in the direction of his earlier contraption. “It’s as clever as your teeter-totter, I think. Maybe more. You’ve a talent for simple things that accomplish great feats.”
Her compliment swelled in his chest. “I just see what needs doing. Maybe clearer than most, but not by much.”
“Seeing clearly is a great gift. Papa says if there’s anything San Francisco needs right now, it’s men with clear vision.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Things have been difficult for him at the post office lately. Everyone seems to argue about everything and nothing gets done. But you, you see clearly enough to make a post and put it in the ground and look at all that gets done.”
“No one is fencing me in with a load of rules or bickering about whether or not I can be trusted. Most men would have a time of it if they had to work the way your papa has to. Everybody’s breathing down everybody else’s backs these days. It’s a wonder anything gets done at all.”
Nora leaned in a bit. “Speaking of getting things done, I’ve managed a small bit myself.” She produced a small parcel from her pocket and held it out to him. “There’s some tea in there. It’s not much, but Mama was saying there are days when her only luxury in life is a cup of tea with sugar, and I thought maybe you know someone who might need the same.”
He’d almost grown used to choking down the concoction Ma liked to pretend was coffee each morning. And as for what passed for tea, well, it stretched the imagination, that’s for sure. “Ma’s birthday is this Friday,” he said, “and she’s been missing a decent cup of tea something fierce. I’ll tell
her you sent it.”
“No, don’t,” Nora said. “Give it to her from yourself, not from me. A son should be able to give his mother a present on her birthday. If I made that happen, then that’s thanks enough for me. Unless you had a gift already planned.”
Quinn shrugged, trying to hide the surge of gratitude that was threatening to make him do something silly. “I haven’t had a moment to sleep lately, much less scour up a birthday present for Ma. She’ll feel like a queen having a real cup of tea with real sugar.” He unfolded the handkerchief to see the little cache of tea and sugar. “There’s enough here for a regular tea party I suppose.”
She laughed. The sound of it fluttered through him like the flocks of birds that swirled around Union Square, perching somewhere just above his heart. “What’s the world coming to when four spoonfuls of tea and two lumps of sugar constitute a tea party?”
“Nothing bad. Nothing bad at all.” He held her gaze for as long as he dared, which was a lot longer than he ought to have.
After a flustered second, she reached into her pocket to produce another slip of ledger sheet and her pencil. “Well, should we make another list of what’s on the post today?” She froze for a moment, as if a thought struck her. “Goodness, who’d have thought?”
“Thought what?”
“Well, now San Francisco has two kinds of ‘post’—the kind you send and the kind you tack your needs to. Both are messages. It’s really quite witty, when you think about it. Mr. Freeman, there simply is no end to your surprises.”
Chapter Nine
You’re being a loon, Nora chided herself after making that ridiculous remark about “posts.” He must think her the most vapid creature to say such a thing. It wasn’t even close to funny, and yet he laughed and smiled as though she’d made charming conversation. He’d made far too much of her tiny gift—surely a handful of tea and some coarse sugar weren’t that handsome a present.
But oh, there was something handsome about him today. Yes, handsome was the word, even if she’d never speak it aloud to anyone. There was a confidence in him she’d not seen at Grace House. Something in the surety of his steps, even though his boots looked worse than ever. Mama would say something curt about the glint in his eye, but Nora saw it more as a spark, an energy that was so different than the weary glaze most men wore nowadays. “There’s a new one over here,” she said, pointing to a bit of shirt collar that had “hammer and nails” written on it with a name scratched alongside.
They went on for a minute or two, Quinn sorting through the messages and she recording what they found. Without ever really discussing it, they’d crafted a partnership of sorts, and she liked the feeling of camaraderie that rose up as they worked their way around the post. When she helped with the mail wagon, Nora was always aware of her “assistant” status. Always cognizant that Papa could deem it too dangerous or no longer necessary and end her involvement there and then. But here, she was an equal. They worked together, each contributing important skills to the task.
She heard Quinn’s breath catch as he squatted down to look at a little strip of blue cloth tacked down low on the far side of the post. “Isn’t that the saddest thing ever?” he said, motioning for her to peer down and look.
In an unsteady script was the heartbreaking question, “Can I have a doll again?”
Nora felt a lump in the back of her throat. The little girl had dared to ask for a doll, but put her request on a tiny slip at the very bottom of the post as if she hadn’t the right to ask for something so frivolous. But as Quinn’s teeter-totter had proven, sometimes the frivolous things were the most important for survival. Her locket had proven that. She raised an eyebrow in silent question, and he nodded. “I’ll take care of this one,” she said, not even needing to write it down.
Quinn squinted at the name. “Edwina Walters. She had a baby sister. Died three days after the fires. They had a little funeral, and her mama cried something horrible. Little Edwina just stared all quiet and numb. Broke your heart to see her blank little face with all those folks sobbing around her.”
Nora ventured a look into Quinn’s eyes as they stood over the brave request, and she saw the same compassion in his face that welled in her heart. She’d grown too old for dolls, but she’d ransack every scrap of material in the house tonight to sew up a doll for little Edwina. Even if she had to cut up her own dress to do it.
“I could say a thing or two about simple things that accomplish great feats, Miss Longstreet,” he said with a sad smile. “But I’m guessing you already know.”
Nora tore the two duplicate lists apart and handed one to Quinn. “I’m learning. I have a gifted teacher, Mr. Freeman.”
He took the paper with that thing Mama would call a glint in his eye again. “Is that so?”
“Miss Nora.” Nora heard her father’s voice call from behind her. He had been watching the two of them. “Best not to dally, your mother will be waiting.”
Quinn’s quick glance spoke volumes. Did he anticipate their daily meetings as much as she? “You’d better mind your pa,” he said. “Everyone will be sorry if you can’t come back.” Nora was almost certain there was a meaning to the way he said “everyone.” She hoped there was. Quinn tipped his hat, that breathtaking smile sweeping across his face, and said goodbye.
Two days later, Nora clutched the handmade doll to her chest as she scanned the rows of shacks for Edwina’s. Papa had been called into an important meeting this afternoon, forcing a last-minute schedule change to the mail run, and she’d barely finished Edwina’s little doll in time. She’d stayed up half the night sewing the crude doll, finding yarn for hair and embroidering a simple face. It was no masterpiece by any standards, but she was proud of it and prayed it would be sufficient to cheer young Edwina.
Which was, despite the dozens of reasons why she shouldn’t, why Nora found herself not at Grace House as she’d told her mother, but several blocks away, wandering alone into the unofficial camp. She was looking for Edwina’s family shelter. As it was well before two, Quinn was not there to meet her. Papa wasn’t even sure he’d make a mail run at all today, given this meeting he was attending, so Nora had asked to be driven to Grace House, thinking it would be easy to make it to Dolores Park and back without incident while her father was otherwise occupied. She could have waited until two for Quinn, or try to find him now, but it seemed presumptuous to assume he had nothing better to do with his time than escort her around on missions of mercy. He had devoted a great deal to accompanying her as it was—it would be both improper and inconsiderate to demand yet more.
Then again, it wasn’t particularly prudent to be wandering Dolores Park alone, either. Yes, one little girl could easily wait for a doll she didn’t even know was coming, but something about this entire process pulled at Nora so strongly that she couldn’t rest until Edwina had her doll. And there had to be something behind that sense of urgency, didn’t there?
Lord, Nora prayed as she walked down what she hoped was the final aisle, I believe that urgency is from You. Am I wrong? Is this just me being willful? Please, don’t let me regret this kindness. Guide my steps and don’t give Papa reason to be angry with my foolishness. A few minutes later, she found the shelter someone had described. “Hello, I’m looking for Edwina,” she called, knocking on the broken shutter that served as an entrance.
“Why?” The sharpness of the male voice from inside the shack caught Nora off guard. It still astounded her how suspicion had become the order of the day all over the city.
“I…have a gift for her.”
A thin old man—too old to be Edwina’s father, Nora guessed—slid aside the shutter. He peered suspiciously at Nora. “It ain’t Christmas.”
“No, it isn’t. But I’d still like to give her this.” Nora held up the doll. “Is she here?”
The man’s countenance softened. “Edwina’s asleep over by her cousin’s. We put the little ones all together so they can nap. Her daddy’s in the work lines and my daughter�
�her mama—well, she ain’t been right since the little one passed.”
“I’m sorry about your granddaughter,” Nora said. “Edwina put up a little note on the message post that she’d like another doll.”
The old man shook his head. “And here I was thinkin’ that was just plain foolishness to let her put that up.”
Nora held out the doll. “I’m afraid it’s not much, but I hope this will do.”
His eyes moved from the doll to Nora’s face as he took the toy with careful hands. “And who’re you?”
Nora shrugged her shoulders. “Just someone who could help. I got back something I lost, so I thought I’d do the same when I saw Edwina’s note.”
“Edie misses her baby sister,” he said wistfully. “This’ll help for sure. That’s mighty kind of you. Thank you. I bet Edie’ll want to thank you, too—how will she find you?”
Nora wasn’t sure why, but she liked the idea of staying anonymous. Perhaps some part of her thought the mystery would make the doll’s appearance more wondrous for the girl. On impulse, she said, “Do you know Quinn Freeman?”
“Shamus’s son? Tall, sandy-haired, built that thing for the young’uns over on the other side of camp?”
“That’s him. Tell Edwina she can thank Mr. Freeman if she wants to thank someone. He made the post that let Edwina ask for what she wanted.”
He squinted at Nora as the sun pierced the afternoon clouds. He had the appearance of a once-strong man who had fallen on hard times. A weary, unshaven look that hung uncomfortably on his straight frame. “That don’t make sense. She ought to thank you.”
“I don’t need it. Perhaps it will help your daughter to know that people care about what’s happened to your family. I’m sorry for the terrible loss.” Nora felt her hand stray to the locket around her neck. “I lost my cousin. And her mama, my aunt? Well, she hasn’t been right since, either. It feels good just to know I helped, you understand?”
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