An Impassioned Redemption: A Defiant Hearts Novella

by Sydney Jane Baily

  Outside her window, the shouting of voices intensified; no doubt people were drawn to the spectacle, which meant the fire was serious and could be seen from all over the city. Jo was not one to panic—never had been—but she also didn’t relish the idea of roasting like a Sunday side of beef. And by God, the fire evidently raged near enough to cause her eyes to water.

  Her heart, already racing, seemed to pick up speed as she thought about her saloon and her girls. Coughing, she lit her bedside lamp before grabbing her leather traveling bag from under her bed. She darted here and there, moving quick as a minnow, as she gathered up and stuffed half a dozen things of import into the bag—including a framed photograph, her silver comb, a piece of lace that was her mother’s. With her most cherished possessions safely stowed, Jo lifted her mattress and grabbed the wads of cash she kept there for an emergency, though this wasn’t the kind she’d planned for. She put it all in her bag.

  After strapping on her ankle holster and slipping her derringer into it, she tossed on her favorite coat over her soft, cotton nightdress. Then she crossed to the door, but she didn’t even need to grasp the knob to know it was burning hot. She could feel the fire’s heat right through the painted wood.

  Damnation! That did not bode well.

  Backing away, Jo took the two steps to her window and pushed up the sash. She stuck her head out, and from this angle, she could see flames escaping through the main door below and licking up the timber exterior to her right. She could also see her ladies milling about in the street—hopefully not getting in the way of the men who had come to fight the conflagration. With gratitude, she noted they’d brought both the piston pump fire engine and the chemical pump, and of course, the hose wagon. The many horses that had pulled all the equipment filled the road in front of her business, causing chaos.

  Hoisting her bag’s strap over her shoulder, she climbed onto the trellis. Going down shouldn’t be too difficult, she thought, awfully glad she hadn’t planted thorny roses but instead the sassy yellow flowers. No doubt their solid black eyes watched with amusement as she clambered over them.

  As her feet touched solid ground and helpful hands pulled her away from the building to safety, Jo felt relief course through her veins. However, as quickly as it came, it disappeared, replaced by black despair as she looked back at her beloved establishment ablaze with orange flames. The firefighters worked in unison, trying their darnedest to stop the fire from burning its destructive path up the main staircase. However, in her eyes, clearly it was a lost cause.

  Where was Pete? At this hour, most likely tucked safely in bed with his beloved Emily at the other end of Keokuk. Most likely, he didn’t yet know about the calamity. Though there was nothing she could do, Jo was glad she’d come home and not stayed at her brother’s house in Chicago a moment longer. Better to see this for herself than come home to smoking rubble in the morning.

  Some of her girls were weeping, having lost their belongings and their place of employment in one fell swoop. However, not one tear moistened Jo’s eyes as she looked at the burgeoning inferno. Instead, a hot wave of anger rolled through her, and she felt like hitting something.

  It looked like a lot of money going up in smoke.

  It looked like the end of her tidy, profitable business.

  It looked like a huge chunk of time was going to be wasted, whether she left town to start over or rebuilt here on the banks of the Mississippi.

  She set her bag down at her feet as she watched the fire blow out her bedroom window.

  It looked like the loss of the only place that had ever felt like home.

  Damnation!

  Jameson could hear the alarm bells peeling over and over. The river allowed sounds to travel up and down her swiftly running current and to echo across her from bank to bank. He stood in his wheelhouse and looked across to Keokuk, certain that the fire wasn’t on his side in Hamilton, though he couldn’t see any flames even from his good vantage point.

  There were many wooden structures all up and down the river, and there were fires nearly every month between the two towns, mostly small blazes that were easily extinguished. As usual, he was glad his business and his home were on the water, relatively safe.

  Only briefly, he considered crossing the bridge to see whose misfortune was causing the alarm that night, but he thought better of it. There would be a crowd of gawkers. Though he would consider it more than worth the effort if he could drop in on Jo, she’d been away the night before and might be again. And he didn’t really want to find out if that was the case.

  He descended to the lower deck and poured himself a whisky.

  Jo sat in Pete’s kitchen in the early hours just after dawn. She’d stayed in front of The Pork and Swallow until the last ember died but hadn’t had the heart to sift through the ruins for anything left to salvage. She’d paid a man to guard the site and then got her horse and buggy from the nearby livery. She’d felt terrible waking Pete from a sound sleep, but he had to learn the awful truth.

  Emily, his plain but sweet wife, brewed good strong coffee and placed a plate of the previous evening’s custard tarts in the middle of the polished oak table.

  Pete sat heavily in his chair, stunned into silence by Jo’s news.

  She stared at the mug that she held firmly between her fingers but didn’t remember picking up. Her eyes flitted to Pete’s craggy face, then she sipped the coffee before putting the cup down with a clatter that betrayed her strained nerves.

  “So, partner, do we rebuild?” she asked.

  Looking at his stricken expression, Jo couldn’t be sure of his answer. They’d been in business together for four years, quite by chance, and it had worked profitably for both of them. She’d made a lot more as a saloonkeeper than she’d ever made as a seamstress, and besides the cash she had in her bag, she had a goodly sum of spoondulicks safely stowed in the bank.

  Pete had easily gone from working at a rundown rum-hole in Hamilton near the railway where she’d first encountered him to being her dependable partner. By happenchance, she’d asked him where the best saloon on either side of the river was.

  “Ain’t been built yet,” he’d said.

  “Then let’s do so,” she’d retorted, and they had.

  She’d fallen in a good puddle with Pete. Born and raised in the area, he knew everyone in both the Keokuk and Hamilton sides of the river; sometimes Jo thought he was such a well-known and well-liked man he should run for mayor of either town. But he liked bartending. And people had entered their establishment knowing Pete Carlisle was an honest pourer, and they’d stayed for Jo’s pretty ladies and fair prices.

  “There’s another building,” he said at last. “The old Sawyer place. Bit bigger than ours.”

  She knew the one, a few blocks closer to the river on 2nd Street. Lammy Sawyer had run a dry goods store before he up and died with no kin. The place had been empty for two months. Why the hell couldn’t that have burned instead?

  She nodded, trying to imagine The Pork and Swallow anywhere but where it had been. Her heart ached at the thought. She’d loved her saloon and her location. She’d had good clientele, the recent run-in with Frank notwithstanding. That had been an unfortunate aberration. And so was the fire.

  Two strokes of terribly bad luck. If she were a superstitious woman, she’d start crossing her fingers and looking over her shoulder.

  But she wasn’t. She was practical through and through.

  “We can go take a look at it, I guess.”

  “First, we’ll go see if there’s anything left,” Pete said. “But not now. You need to get some sleep. Whatever’s left at The Pork will wait a few hours.”

  Pete’s wife sat with them, and at that moment, when they were faced with going back to look at the ruins of their bar, Emily patted his big hand. She’d given birth the year before and was hoping for another baby within the next year. They would need steady income to stay afloat.

  Her small gesture of comfort unexpectedly brought a
prickling feeling to Jo’s eyes. Sitting in their kitchen, watching them together, only served as a reminder that Jo had no one to rely on but herself, and certainly no one to comfort her. In the end, she was alone. Her business partner could always work elsewhere, but his life partner, Emily, would remain by his side.

  She pushed her chair out, determined to banish the ridiculously soppy emotion and get some rest.

  “Thank you for letting me stay here,” she told them. “I promise it won’t be for long.” It couldn’t be; the spare bed was thin as a leaf, and the room didn’t even have a proper door.

  Jameson watched a young lady march up the road to his boat. She carried a bag in each hand and, as she got closer, he saw that she wore an expression as determined as a mule that had decided not to move. Dropping her bags on his dock, she crossed the wooden planks and boarded his boat without a by-your-leave. He saw Ben stop her on the lower level, and their voices drifted up to him.

  “Ma’am,” Ben said politely, “may I help you?”

  “I’d like to see Mr. Carter. I need a job.”

  Jameson watched Ben look her over. Dressed as commonplace as an Indianhead penny, she had a fair face from what Jameson could tell, but nothing that would make a man sit up and howl.

  Apparently Ben thought the same thing. “We’re not hiring,” he said and started to turn away.

  “In any case, I want to see Mr. Carter.” Her voice was as resolute as her expression.

  After a pause, Ben shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He looked up at Jameson with a pained look.

  Clearly, his friend didn’t want the difficult task of telling her she wasn’t pretty enough to be one of their ladies. He couldn’t blame him. Jameson called down to them, “Send her up, Ben.”

  In a moment, the dimpled, light-haired brunette was entering the upstairs gaming room. She looked more attractive close up, and beneath her high-necked frock, she had some gentle curves and a slender waist.

  “How can I help you, Miss?”

  “My name is Lucille Strong,” she said, introducing herself, “and I need a job.”

  “I’m sure Ben told you already that we’re not hiring. We don’t need any more ladies at the moment.”

  “But I heard that you do. You’re short two of them.”

  Damn but word traveled fast. He frowned and stared at her. Could he picture her dressed for work on his boat? She gave him a thin-lipped smile that didn’t reach her brown eyes, while she batted her eyelashes, long thick ones that she clearly had no idea how to use. Josephine could give this woman some pointers; that was for certain.

  “I can start work immediately,” she added. “And I really do need employment.” Her voice trembled slightly, and he knew he was in trouble. He hated to disappoint a lady in distress.

  “What can you do?” he heard himself ask.

  “What can’t I do?” she retorted, looking more fierce than friendly.

  “I meant to ask, ma’am, can you dance?”

  “Of course, I can dance. A Virginia reel or a polka.”

  He couldn’t help the smile that broke out on his face. “Ma’am, it would be more like a gallop. You know, couples dancing close.”

  She blushed.

  “I could learn, I suppose,” she said with little enthusiasm.

  He crossed his arms. How could he get rid of her without hurting her feelings?

  “Can you sing?”

  She nodded.

  “Will you let me hear you?” His gamblers loved to hear a woman sing. It soothed them and raised their spirits when they lost. One of the ladies who’d up and married had been his best singer.

  Lucille’s face took on an air of confidence. “Yes, I’ll sing for you. May I sit?”

  In answer, he gestured toward the bar, preceded her there, and pulled out a stool. As she settled herself on the padded seat, he noted her thick woolen hose and granny boots. Nothing to entice a man there.

  She cleared her throat. “May I have a glass of water?”

  Water! He sighed. Good thing he had nothing else to do but cater to this unwelcome female. Nothing like fix the head upstairs, balance the books, order liquor. Knowing there’d be no water behind the bar—who the hell ordered water if they weren’t digging a ditch or laying railroad tracks?—he went through the swinging doors to the galley.

  “I got a live one for us, ladies,” he said to the three who were sitting at the table, eating sandwiches. He poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the table. “She’s about to sing if you want to come listen.”

  He turned heel and ambled back to Miss Strong, hearing the chairs move and the shuffling feet as his employees followed.

  Lucille was attending to something in her pocket, but left it when she saw he was followed by the ladies.

  “An audience?” she asked, frowning.

  He laughed. “If you work for me, this room will be packed with people, mostly men, and the room down below, too. Is that a problem?” He set the glass down beside her on the counter.

  She sniffed and sipped her water. “No,” she said at last. “I’ve sung for a few large congregations in my time.”

  Darla, one of his long-time ladies, snickered. “Like in a church, darlin’?”

  “Why, yes,” Lucille said.

  Jameson had had about enough.

  “Go ahead, Miss Strong. Sing.”

  She took one more sip and put the glass down. If she was generously endowed and had a heart-shaped face, he knew the men who came to play cards and drink would appreciate her even if she had a voice like a cat in heat. But she didn’t have the luxury of a splendid bosom.

  She opened her mouth, and as the first pure note came out, he caught his breath. A minute went by, then another. Her voice was like an angel’s, and she sang with no music yet kept him enraptured all the same. And it was a popular song, too, not, as he’d feared, a hymn.

  As she drew a final breath and ended the song, he applauded and was joined by his ladies who’d taken seats to listen. Lucille stayed silent.

  “Your singing is exquisite,” he said, “But you’re going to have to dance, too. There’s a lot of close holding and swaying,” he told her. “You’re probably light on your feet. That’s good. But most likely you’ll have men treading on yours.”

  “Will they?” Lucille asked. “That sounds as though I have a job.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” Jameson rubbed a hand across the back of his neck and thought for another moment. “I reckon you do.”

  She smiled and this time, a glimmer of pleasure flickered in her brown eyes.

  “The dancing’s not so bad,” another of his ladies said. “And you’ll get slipped a few dollars or even silver coins if you let them hold you close.”

  Jameson watched a mask of disapproval slip over Lucille’s face, but as quickly as it came, it disappeared.

  “I’ll get used to it, I’m sure,” she offered, starting to climb down off the stool. As she did so, she hooked her boot heel in the footrest and came stumbling toward him. He caught hold of her and suddenly found her in his arms.

  As he looked over her shoulder, he noticed Josephine had entered the gaming room unannounced. At the sight of her, his body seemed lighter and energy sizzled through him. He smiled and, without thinking, winked at her.

  Probably the wrong thing to do, he realized almost immediately, given the compromising position he appeared to be in. Sure enough, Jo pursed her beautiful, red-painted lips and gave Lucille the once-over with her intense green gaze. Then she just stood there, arching a shapely eyebrow and silently waiting.

  “All right, Miss Strong,” Jameson said, righting her on her feet and releasing her, “you have yourself a job.”

  For an instant, a look of repulsion flitted across her features. Or was it mortification at being clumsy? Then she found her voice.

  “And a place to live?” she asked, before glancing over her shoulder as she realized they were being observed.

  “This is a friend of mine. Miss Holland,�
� Jameson said, stepping even farther away from Lucille. He would have sworn she flinched as if she knew Jo, but when Jo gave a slight nod, cool as a spring stream, Lucille introduced herself.

  “I’m Miss Strong.”

  Jo said nothing in return, so Lucille turned back to him. “I just arrived in Hamilton and have no place to live. I heard you have rooms for some of your girls.”

  He wasn’t at all sure he wanted this peculiar woman living on his boat, at least not until he knew more about her. However, he had a cabin free, and she would discover that soon enough once she started working there.

  “Yes, I can give you a room; it’ll come out of your pay though, 75 cents a week, including meals,” Jameson told her, still distracted by Jo’s forbidding presence.

  “I thank you kindly,” Lucille said, sounding as if she were gritting her teeth on the last word, but she smiled. “I’ll go get my things.”

  “I hope not too many things,” Jameson warned. “Rooms on boats are tiny by nature.”

  Lucille nodded and brushed past Jo, who looked about as welcoming as a stick of dynamite in a blacksmith’s shop.

  After his new hire left, Jameson gave Jo his most winning smile, but she didn’t soften her expression at all.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked.

  “Business, simple as that,” she said. “That is, if you’re done dallying.”

  Pretending to be wounded, he placed a hand on his heart. “I never dally with my employees.”

  “What do you call having your employee in your arms and making silly eyes at her?”

  “Why, Miss Holland. You sound as if you care?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She swept the statement away with a wave of her hand. “I have a legitimate business offer to discuss. Interested or not?”

  “Interested,” he said, and he was. Plus, he didn’t want Jo to leave anytime soon. He’d talk to her about knitting if it would get her to stick around.