“I’ll need to get home and pick up some things before I go out looking. Find someone trustworthy to spread the word,” Phillip told the shorter man. “I’ll give five hundred dollars to the man who brings Shae Rowan safe to me.”
*
As she leaned gasping in the shadowed lee of a rectangular outbuilding, Shae wondered if she might have evaded her pursuers. The whole incident rushed back to her in terrifying flashes: the white horse bearing down, the men’s harsh voices in the darkness, the pressure of a hand grasping her arm.
Had those men been chasing Phillip’s sister when the accident occurred?
Something else came upon her like a thunderclap, something said by the man who smelled of bay rum. Mr. Lowell will piss vinegar when he hears. Why would this concern a member of the Lowell clan? Did this mean either Ethan or his father was involved?
She felt sick thinking of it. Could Ethan have hired men to hurt Phillip because of her? After Phillip interrupted his former friend’s attack on her, Ethan had shouted threats. But it was impossible. There’d been no time to arrange the crime.
She mustn’t forget, though, that Ethan had already betrayed his friend by then. Hadn’t he stolen Phillip’s fiancée? Had that act somehow urged him to violence?
Despite her predicament, she nearly laughed aloud to think that the two men had, in essence, swapped fiancées. She imagined Ethan’s father, who had always particularly disdained her, heartily congratulating him for coming off the better in the trade. Pompous old prig. He and that overstuffed dilettante he had married were two more reasons to be grateful she had destroyed her chance to marry into Lowell-ness.
Right now she had no way of knowing what Ethan’s part might be in these attacks. But as soon as she found Phillip, she must tell him what she’d overheard.
After recovering her breath, Shae decided she would trade all her paints and brushes for a long drink of fresh water. She hurried around the building’s other side to look for an outdoor pump. But the water that she found wasn’t what she had in mind.
Her foot sank into a cool puddle. Gleaming in the moonlight, a shallow blanket of water stretched over both this yard and several others she could see.
She’d lost her bearings as she ran. She must be closer than she thought to the peninsula’s gulf beach. The lower areas often flooded during storms.
She peered into the September sky, and foreboding rippled through her. Thousands, maybe millions, of stars sparkled around the face of the full moon. Why on earth was water standing now, when it hadn’t rained lately?
Still keeping to the shadows, she sloshed into another yard and found a pump. After slaking her thirst, she decided to find someplace to hide until it was safe to look for help.
The nearest building, elevated somewhat above the standing water, seemed a likely prospect. Judging from the large door, she decided it must be a carriage house. The windows were dark in the two-story frame home beside it, but still she peered toward them nervously. Could someone in the house be watching her, ready to grab a gun if she opened the outbuilding’s door?
She trembled, then steeled herself against that fear.
There was already enough to frighten her, without imagining more trouble.
Her skirts had quickly wicked up mud and moisture enough to make her feel as if she’d gained fifteen pounds. Gathering a wad of the soaked material in one hand, she stepped toward the large door and pulled it open.
The moon’s dim light touched on a jumble of shapes that might be old harnesses and tools hung along the right wall. The left side was stacked with bales of straw. Shae hoped the lack of a buggy meant the family that lived in the house was out of town.
Grateful for her luck, she stepped inside and closed the door, then shuffled carefully toward the row of bales. Unless they’d seen her enter, the two men who had followed her would never find her here.
She climbed atop the straw and sneezed at the chaff that she’d disturbed. Her skin prickled with the unaccustomed scratchiness, but here at least she could wait out the men who might still be in pursuit.
Her hands shook with weariness as she squeezed water from her skirts. Fatigue numbed her brain like laudanum, though her body throbbed with her exertions.
She tried in vain to picture the two men who had chased her, tried to imagine them deciding that they’d call it a night. As if her wishes might exert some influence. As if they could assure her it was safe to go to Phillip now.
Somewhere in the darkness, she heard a skittering across the wooden floor. Something gnawed at a wall not far away. Shuddering, she thought of rats. Shae drew her feet atop the bale and tucked them under her, then tried to ignore the sounds.
Eventually, she lay down on her side. Since she had to wait here, she might as well take whatever comfort she could from this rough mattress of straw. By willing her shaking body into stillness, she somewhat eased the ache of her exhaustion. Within a few short minutes, in spite of her anxiety, the gentle lapping of water against wood lulled her like one of her mother’s Irish melodies.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Nature, with equal mind,
Sees all her sons at play;
Sees man control the wind
The wind sweep man away.
Matthew Arnold
From Empedocles on Etna, Act I, Scene 1
Saturday, September 17, 1875
When Shae snapped suddenly awake, the dark inside the carriage house was relieved only by dim light seeping through the narrow spaces that surrounded the wide door. Morning. . . could she have really slept and for so long? She shivered, not so much with cold as with the realization of where she was and what had happened earlier.
So much . . . so much. She thought of Lucius’s home and of all that had occurred there. Making love with Phillip, accepting his proposal . . . She tried to fix on his face, to focus on her love, but her worries, too, woke quickly, then gnawed insistently as rats.
Sitting up, she brushed chaff from her clothing and tried to shake the worst of it from her loose hair. As she wrapped her locks into an informal knot, something that sounded suspiciously like rain tapped a frenetic rhythm on the rooftop.
Her mind turned back to Lucius and the evidence that her father would kill to keep his secret. She remembered once more how King struck her, how he’d reacted to her accusations.
In spite of everything, she still couldn’t quite believe he’d meant to hurt her. Couldn’t quite believe he might do worse.
Still, she wondered if she’d been a fool to rush off to confront her father on her own. She had Phillip now to help her through this, just as she would help him solve his problems. Between the two of them, there should be no secrets. Alone, neither of them stood a chance in Hell.
She roused more fully, realizing that the liquid sound she heard did not fit her location. Unfolding her legs, she lowered her feet over the side of the straw bale and into cool water that reached halfway to her knees.
Her first impulse was to pull her feet out of the water. The thought of rats and others creatures swimming in the near-darkness made her hesitate to set them down again. But what else could she do here but wait and for what? For the owners to return and find her camping in their carriage house? Or the tidal overflow to reverse its course? Wading out of this was the only option that made sense.
Cautiously, she made her way toward the door’s dim outline, then tried to push it open. But instead of swinging easily, it remained as motionless as if someone had nailed it shut from the outside.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Dr. Tuttle came in carrying three glasses of white liquid on a tray. Outside, thunder boomed, and sheets of rain rattled the window. At times, the building groaned, as if strong fingers of wind strained to pry the roof off.
Though her head still ached fiercely, Lydia smiled a faint greeting. Justine squeezed her hand, possibly to reassure herself, for in her sister’s eyes, this man was still a stranger.
“Some warm milk will help you get to sleep,” the red-haire
d doctor offered.
“You heated it for me?” Lydia felt flattered, even though Hiram had been Phillip’s friend, not just a mentor.
“Not quite. One of the nuns keeps a cow for just such occasions. I’m famished, so I thought I might share some as well.” He passed each twin a glass.
Lydia sat up in her bed and sipped the creamy sweetness. The taste reminded her of another stormy morning long ago. Father had yet been away at war, but Mother sat with her and Justine in the kitchen. Mrs. Kelso brought them tea, though the cups she gave the little girls contained mostly warm milk. The memory reassured her, for that night, gulf winds had chased away the storm, and just a few days later, their papa had come home.
Though she’d taken comfort, Lydia noticed the way that Justine dropped her gaze. She wouldn’t look the doctor in the eye, even when she thanked him for his kindness.
“I could set up a cot for you. It was a long night,” Dr. Tuttle said to Justine.
“No, thank you. This chair is just fine.”
Lydia wished she would for once be her real self around outsiders. If people could only come to know Justine’s sincerity, her honest wisdom, they’d flock to drag her from her self-imposed exile.
“Quite a storm, isn’t it?” the doctor asked at a particularly loud thunderclap.
Both twins nodded nervously, and Lydia was glad when Hiram changed the subject.
“How’s the head?” His blue eyes turned toward her. She hadn’t noticed earlier, but he was fine-looking, for an older man. Not her type, perhaps, but he had good strong features and a mouth that looked as if it smiled often.
Lydia nodded carefully. “Aching, and full of worries, I’m afraid. I wish Phillip hadn’t gone out in this storm.”
He nodded. “So do I. My shift’s over, but I’m not leaving in this weather. Besides, if it gets worse, we’ll have a lot of company.”
“So you think that many people will be hurt?” Justine must have forgotten herself, to look up so sharply.
“Possibly,” Hiram answered. “And also, St. Michael’s is on high ground. We always fill up when the low sections of the city take on water. If we have injuries, I could use your brother’s help. He’s very good, you know.”
“He loved it,” Justine offered, then dropped her gaze once more.
“He’s needed here. We’d like him to come back.”
“No,” Lydia told him. “He can’t. He promised Father. On Papa’s deathbed, he agreed to run the business.”
“Is he happy . . . doing that?”
“He will be,” Lydia insisted, “because he’s a man who knows his responsibilities. Once he gets past these current difficulties, he’ll be happy. I know that he will.”
Justine’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “How long has it been since we’ve seen Phillip really smile without that sadness in his eyes? How long has it been since we last heard his laughter?”
“He laughs all the time at me.” Lydia joked, but she knew Justine was right.
The smiles and the laughter they’d seen recently were mere ghosts. Pale ghosts of their brother’s former joy.
*
John Frindly rubbed his burning eyes and tried to focus on the stack of files before him. The night had long since silvered into a rain-soaked morning, yet he couldn’t think of returning to his home to sleep. Not with Phillip out searching for this woman he’d decided to marry. Frindly had done all he could by insisting on a pair of men he trusted to accompany Payton, but still . . . Although he doubted the normal run of dock workers would be involved in something so reprehensible as murder, he had no way of knowing how many hotheads might be involved. Even if he could guess, what would it matter? One man’s bullet would be all it took to murder Phillip Payton.
And Frindly knew he couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t allow Lamar Payton’s only son to die.
You were wrong about that boy. Frindly directed his thoughts at the old man, who might even now be toasting his toenails in Hell, for all he knew. Bucking you to study medicine didn’t mean that he was weak at all.
On the contrary, Phillip Payton was in some ways far stronger than his father. Though Lamar had been known as tough and uncompromising, Frindly had never seen him hold to a difficult course on the strength of his beliefs. He might have worked for the old man for more than twenty years, but he couldn’t say with any certainty whatif anything Lamar believed in. Profit maybe and the importance of tradition, of having a son to increase what he had built. Lamar had been furious when Phillip had refused him. He had even gone so far to cut off the boy from funds. But when his wife’s father had died, Phillip’s grandfather’s bequest had made it possible for the young man to independently pursue his education.
Frindly remembered his shock the day that Phillip had at last shown up for work in the wake of his father’s funeral. Phillip came because he’d promised, he’d explained, and at that moment, John had known there was something different about this Payton. Something both strong and honorable. Too honorable, it turned out, to turn a blind eye to a wrong. Even when his actions could destroy Payton Enterprises.
Frindly shook his head to clear it. He couldn’t allow himself to be seduced by old memories cloaked in the hiss of rain against his window. He had to concentrate, God damn it. He had to try to find this Ross fellow before anything happened to the young woman Payton was so taken with. For Frindly knew as well as he knew himself that if an innocent girl were hurt, Phillip would walk away from Payton Enterprises forever. And even worse, he would do so a shattered man.
There. Yes, the name was on the older payroll logs, just as he’d suspected. Ross Dawson. Sure enough, there was a note from the foreman to ban the fellow from Payton crews because he’d started several fights. The fights, according to the notes, weren’t with black workers or even foremen. Dawson had fought instead with the men of his own crew. “Drunk and loud can’t use him,” Aaron Farley had scrawled in his usual terse shorthand.
Now that Frindly had a name, he could try to track down this troublemaker. By using a couple of his best men, he had a chance to find this Ross before a few overzealous black dockworkers went out and provoked a riot.
*
Shae had long ago ceased to care who heard her. Once again, she called for help and banged the door with the shovel she had found against one wall.
She didn’t hold out much hope of someone hearing. Already, she’d pounded for what she judged to be hours, to no avail.
As near as she could figure, a swift stream of floodwater was pinning the door shut. The carriage house must be in a fairly low spot. Not only did she have the current pushing against the door, but the water’s weight as well. Though some had managed to seep inside the outbuilding, it must be higher still outside.
In the time since she’d awakened, the water in the building had risen above her knees, though it was hard to judge its height for certain. Her dress, scarcely dry, once again had soaked up moisture like a sponge.
She decided to try again to find some boards to knock loose, but this time, she felt her way into the darkness that led to the back wall. Though water was seeping in through cracks between the wood planks, at least she wouldn’t have to fight the current too.
She used the shovel like a walking stick to help her find her way. After crossing the building’s empty center, she bumped up against what felt like barrels of some sort. They were too heavy to move, so she decided to climb up on them and then try for a loose board along the wall.
Something hard bumped the back of her left leg, and she screeched in alarm. Whirling around, she put a hand out to fend off what felt to be a length of board that was now floating inside the building.
With a nervous laugh, she hoisted herself up on the barrel, though the soaked dress weighed her down like an anchor. She gripped the shovel firmly and started pounding at the boards with all her might. As the impact jarred her shoulders, she roundly cursed the men who'd built this damned place. One might have thought they’d meant it
as a fine home and not a storage building!
Wood cracked, and she distinctly heard the squeak of a nail pulled from its berth. Shae shifted her feet, and one punched through the barrel’s top. Yanking it free, she fell backward into the dark water.
*
God damn the girl, swore King. She was nearly as much trouble as Glennis had been. And her behavior was proving just as painful. Shaking off harsh memories, he unlocked the door to Lucius’s house with the key he had collected after the old man died.
“Mary Shae!”
The only sound that answered was the rumbling growl of Oliver’s damned cur. It stood before him, white fangs bared and at the ready.
Once more, he regretted telling his daughter she could keep the terrier. There could be no peaceful coexistence with such a vicious animal. Why, it might even attack Mary or his sister!
The last thought provoked a chuckle, as he imagined Alberta shaking the little dog in her own teeth. Still amused by the image, he pulled an ivory-handled derringer from his vest pocket and calmly shot the animal between the eyes.
Stepping over the still-twitching body, King strode into the master bedroom. Still in the doorway, he spotted an open box lying on the bed. On the box’s side, the words “Rowan Household Records” felt like a trio of cold blades plunged into his gut. Had Shae found it? But how? Lucius had long ago assured him he’d hidden it where no one would ever again see it.
With a cry of despair, King nearly flew across the room. Peering into the mass of gold and silver, he tried to reach into the opening as if to assure himself the jewelry was Hers. But his arms, his entire body, refused him, and at last he stood, impotent and trembling above the gleaming tributes he’d once crafted with such care.
With a groan, he finally sank onto the bed and jerked his outstretched hand away. He could no more touch his dead wife’s jewelry than he could leap headfirst into molten metal. Too many reminders of the time that he had loved Her. Too many memories of the day that She had died, the same day he’d asked Lucius to hide this hastily packed box.
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