Song of My Heart

by Barbara Baldwin

  “I think I would rather know you’re at home waiting for my return.”

  She shook her head. “I doubt Susan B. Anthony would agree that is where I should be.”

  “But where does Mrs. Grant think she should be?”

  Abby turned to gaze to her husband. He was the love of her life and she knew there was only one place for her. If the suffragists and independent thinkers of her time knew Max, she was sure they would agree.

  “I want to be by your side, forever, no matter where that is.”

  “And if I was a poor fisherman?”

  “Then I would be a fisherman’s wife.”

  “And if I decided to run for politics?”

  “I think I would make a delightful president’s wife,” she replied with a grin.

  “President? Wouldn’t I have to begin by being a representative?” he asked when he handed her down in front of the Palace Hotel.

  She laughed. “It’s all a matter of having the right connections.” She gifted him with a smile. “Connections, and the right wife, of course.”

  She walked ahead of him into the hotel, delighting in the masculine chuckle she heard behind her. It really didn’t matter what Max did as long as he was happy. And being a dutiful wife, she would see that he got what he deserved and more.

  * * *

  “It wasn’t difficult finding where Dillon lives,” Max remarked, holding the chair for her at supper. “It only took a few discrete inquiries at Sutro & Co., Dillon’s bank, to find he lives with his mother, who is apparently a well known matron in San Francisco.”

  He sat across from her and poured the wine. “Gustav Sutro gushed profusely when I informed him I wanted to deposit quite a large sum of money into an account, but needed to know that the money was secure. Once I told him John Dillon recommended his firm, he fell all over himself trying to assure me they were reputable.”

  Before Abby answered, she forked a huge portion of beef onto Max’s plate. “Can you trust him?”

  “Probably.” He shrugged. “He didn’t give any indication he knows the origins of Dillon’s large sums of money.”

  A knock on the door of their suite interrupted the conversation. Since they knew no one in San Francisco, Max cautioned her to silence while he went to the door. From where she sat, she tried to peer around the curtains that draped the archway between rooms, but heard only muted voices.

  Curious, she tiptoed to the curtains, reaching a hand up to move them back enough to see.

  “Squawk!”

  “Ouch!” She squealed at the same time a screech erupted from the other side of the curtains. She pulled her hand back to find her finger bleeding where something had bitten her.

  “Let me see that.” Max had stepped forward. He took her hand then dabbed it with his handkerchief.

  “Abby, meet Phoenix and Cutter.” He didn’t look up as he made the introductions. “Phoenix, this is my inquisitive little wife, Abigail.” He wrapped her finger in the handkerchief, then lifted it to his lips, giving her a gentle kiss. “Who wouldn’t have gotten her finger pecked if she’d stayed put.”

  The man gave her an apologetic smile. “Ma’am, I’m sorry that Cutter, here, nipped you. He watches my backside and does tend to be a bit protective.”

  She shouldn’t have been surprised upon seeing a man with a colorful parrot on his shoulder standing in the entrance to their hotel room. Max did have a rather strange collection of associates. She put on her brightest smile and best manners. “Good evening, Mr. Phoenix, won’t you come in?”

  His contacts tended to keep in the background for the most part, but she’d found them interesting and unique. This one had a colorful parrot on his shoulder that created a striking contrast to the man’s own dark complexion. He looked foreign; his dark hair cut short, his near-black eyes giving nothing away. He wore buff-colored pants, a white shirt and soft leather boots clear to his knees. When he turned, Abby noticed he had a knife tucked into his boot. His deep voice brought her attention back to his face.

  “Thank you, ma’am, but I only came to impart information.”

  “Thanks, Phoenix. You think we have a few days, then?” Max asked the man. As he spoke, he casually draped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to his side. She loved the possessiveness of the gesture.

  “Only a few,” the man answered. “Ship’s leaving a week from tomorrow, if you’re inclined to take the sea route back.”

  Max shook his head. “Sorry, but eight days on a train is infinitely better than weeks on a boat.”

  “Ship,” the man corrected.

  Max laughed, stuck out his hand to shake Phoenix’s in farewell, and saw him to the door. When he returned to the table, Abby poured them coffee.

  “You certainly have a host of unusual friends.”

  “Acquaintances and business associates,” he said. “It’s important to know people—men with eyes and ears in significant places.”

  “Are you a spy?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t believe you are, but I also don’t think you would tell me if you were.”

  He laughed. “You’re right. But I will tell you Phoenix says Dillon is currently out of town, which makes it very convenient for us.”

  “In other words, it’s time for Reverend and Mrs. Fishbone to pay a pastoral visit to the good Mrs. Dillon.”

  * * *

  Abby sent a note to Mrs. Dillon’s residence the next morning and by luncheon had been invited to afternoon tea. She nervously raised the knocker, Max’s instructions pounding in her head enough to give her a headache.

  “Don’t ask questions. Don’t try to snoop,” he’d reiterated while riding over in the carriage with her. “Get a feel for the house and try to make sure you’re invited again when I can accompany you.”

  She’d docilely acquiesced to his demands, nodding each time. Right when she stepped from the carriage, he touched her arm.

  “Abby?”

  She turned, waiting for yet another set of instructions.

  “I love you.” Then he was gone, promising to return for her in an hour.

  She smiled. Just like everything he did, once Max started loving her, he jumped in completely and now was quite open with his affections.

  “Madam?” Abby’s thoughts refocused on the task at hand when the butler opened the door, stepping back for her to enter. “Mrs. Dillon awaits you in the parlor.”

  As he led the way down the hall, Abby craned her neck to see into each room they passed, memorizing the floor plan.

  Whatever she thought John Dillon’s mother would look like, the lady quickly dispelled her preconceived notions. The petite woman who warmly greeted her was vivacious and friendly, and Abby had a hard time reconciling her with the evil image of John Dillon.

  “Mrs. Dillon, thank you for seeing me.” Abby greeted her politely then sat in the wingback chair across from a low table.

  “Call me Winifred, dear. I’m delighted to meet you. Tea?”

  “Please.” Abby let her gaze drift around the room while the older lady poured refreshments. “You have a lovely home.”

  “Thank you. My husband did well in land speculating back in the fifties and left me quite comfortable.”

  “Do you have children?” Abby asked because it would be an expected question.

  “My son, John, is away on business.” She said no more, and Abby noted a touch of sadness in her voice. Mrs. Dillon changed the subject. “Your note indicated your husband is a minister and you’re here to start an orphanage, but you look familiar. May I ask your maiden name?”

  Considering she and Max were married, her parents no longer had a say in her future. Besides, San Francisco was a continent away from Boston. “My parents are Keven and Violet O’Brien of Boston.”

  Winifred Dillon smiled. “I thought so.” At her surprised look, she added. “I had the great pleasure of hearing you play at a soiree your mother held, for your birthday I believe.” Her face lit suddenly. �
�Perhaps I can help you and your husband. I don’t believe it immodest to say I am well connected in this town. Would you consider playing for a few of my intimates? It would be a fundraiser for your orphanage. I know just the people who would pay for the privilege of hearing you play.”

  Abby was taken back. “I don’t play…anymore.” She didn’t like deceiving this lady, for regardless of her son’s behavior, she actually liked Winifred Dillon.

  “Nonsense. The way you play isn’t something you forget. And besides, think of the money.”

  “Could it be done quickly?” Abby asked, remembering that Dillon might only be gone a few days. “I don’t mean to sound greedy, but—” She hesitated, searching for a reason for her hurry.

  “Oh, yes, the children. You must be in a hurry to help those poor orphans.” Winifred supplied the answer for her. “My friends and I are always looking for entertainment and causes. I believe it could be arranged, say for Friday?”

  “That is most generous of you.”

  “Nonsense. I’m delighted I found you first. You’ll be wonderful and will make me the most sought after hostess in San Francisco.”

  * * *

  “Well, it appears you’re the toast of San Francisco,” Max stated, dropping the Morning Call onto the bed beside Abby. “Mrs. Dillon didn’t waste any time letting everyone know she would be entertaining.”

  She perused the article in the “Social Gossip” column, right on the front page of the daily paper. “Max, are you sure this will work?”

  He stopped midway in pouring a cup of coffee and cocked a brow at her. “Don’t tell me you can’t play the piano, I know better. Besides, according to Mrs. Dillon, you’re the most celebrated pianist ever to grace the lowly streets of this fair city.”

  She slid from bed, pulling her robe on. She came to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Something is wrong. What is it?”

  Max set the coffee he’d just poured back onto the table. He untangled her arms, though she tried to hold on, and took her hand to lead her to the couch. He sat, pulling her onto his lap.

  He absently rubbed her arm. “I can’t guarantee Dillon won’t return before Friday. I can’t even guarantee he isn’t hiding in the city and reading the same newspaper.”

  “But you will be there.” She kissed him, sliding her hands beneath his coat to caress his chest.

  Max hesitated only a second before lifting her from the sofa to carry her to their bed without breaking contact with her soft lips. The merest thought of her sent him into a mindless frenzy where he constantly wanted to touch her. He slid her robe from her shoulders and pulled her silk gown over her head. He vowed nothing would happen to her.

  Her skin shimmered in the early morning light. She was so perfect, so soft and feminine, and all his. His gaze followed his hands as he caressed her breasts then slid down her body. She stood straight and proud, offering herself to him as she had from the very first. It was only now that Max truly appreciated the uniqueness of that gift.

  “I love you, Abby. I know my heart would stop beating if anything happened to you.”

  She gave him a smile, her hands on his cheeks forcing his gaze to meet hers. “You are my husband, my hero, my life. Do you think I would let anything happen and have you wandering around this earth without me to look after you?”

  Laughing, he picked her up and dropped her on the bed, following her down. Their lovemaking escalated quickly as she tore off his clothes. Only when he was deep inside her did she finally quiet, holding him tight in a tangle of arms and legs. He savored the throbbing feel of her sheath surrounding him.

  “I want your baby, Max. I want to feel a child of yours growing inside me. Think of it—creating a new life from the love we share.”

  Max’s passion-soaked brain took a minute to process Abby’s words. Suddenly, the seed he released into her body took on new meaning. When she hugged him to her, he escalated the rhythm, pulling back only slightly before sinking into her again and again. His climax came quickly. Together they reached the summit and soared among the clouds.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Later that afternoon, Max took Abby to Woodward’s Gardens. They walked among the extended series of conservatories and then around the ponds.

  “It’s lovely,” she said, sinking to a bench to watch a pair of sea lions on the rockwork in the center of the pond. Their noses were close together, like they were kissing. Or maybe it just seemed that love was everywhere, she thought, since she was seeing the world through different eyes.

  She looked at Max. He had forgone a disguise today, and his dark hair shone in the sunlight. One booted foot rested on the bench beside her skirts, his arms crossed on his thigh. His forehead wrinkled slightly, his gaze on the horizon.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  His startling blue gaze met hers. “I’m sorry for the hurried way we married.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I didn’t allow you any say in the matter, and now here we are, in the middle of this dilemma with Dillon, and you didn’t even get a proper honeymoon.”

  “Oh, Max.” She felt tears in her eyes. “Do you think that matters to me if I’m with you?” She reached to clasp his hand.

  “Somehow I thought you would say that,” he replied with a smile. He lowered himself to one knee in front of her. From his coat pocket, he took an emerald ring, sliding it onto her finger with her wedding band.

  “Abby, will you marry me once I can get you back to Boston?”

  “Oh, my, how romantic.”

  Abby heard the whisper and twittering from two old ladies who walked by.

  The devil in her came out. “I will, sir, and I only hope our baby doesn’t arrive before the minister.”

  Identical gasps from the eavesdropping old women had Abby near to bursting with giggles. She watched them hurry away on the gravel path.

  Max’s head came up, eyes alight with laughter. “You are an imp,” he chuckled.

  “They shouldn’t have been listening to a private conversation.”

  He looked from side to side. “Hardly that, being in the middle of Woodward’s Gardens where the entirety of San Francisco appears to be having an outing today.”

  “Well, it’s not like we will ever see them again. San Francisco is entirely too large a city for that encounter.”

  * * *

  On Friday, Abby carried her own sheet music with her, secured in a small leather portfolio. Max would have liked something larger in case he found incriminating papers. She insisted they must not appear as though they were thieves ready to cart off the family sterling. She reminded him that Phoenix would be posted outside and would be able to pass off the information to him if necessary.

  He found Winifred Dillon likeable, for she reminded him of Aunt Elizabeth. That fleeting thought almost made him stop snooping, until he reminded himself that parents didn’t necessarily control the way their children turned out. Just look at him.

  While Abby and Mrs. Dillon conversed prior to the arrival of the other guests, he politely requested a look through the late Mr. Dillon’s library. He gave Mrs. Dillon his most charming smile. She could hardly refuse, especially since his smile was directly above his cleric’s collar.

  He’d just located the safe behind a picture in the library when the front knocker announced the arrival of guests. He knew he would have to make an appearance and would not be able to investigate further until the recital began. Abby hadn’t said much about playing before a large group of people. In fact, she hadn’t said much about her musical ability at all except that her mother had tried to use it to make her more marriageable.

  Funny, but he hadn’t needed to know whether Abby was versed in any of the womanly arts before he married her. He did count among her attributes handling a knife and dealing a mean hand of poker. He quit the room, chuckling. Their marriage would definitely not be dull.

  When he entered the salon, the look on Abby’s face should have warned him something was amiss. Instead, he was thinking of
how quickly he would be able to open the safe.

  “Ladies, my husband, Reverend Jonas Fishbone.”

  He started to bow, but their gasps brought his head back up.

  “Oh, my word, a man of the cloth no less!”

  “Why, I never!”

  He found Abby’s gaze, his question clear when he narrowed his eyes.

  “I was just trying to explain to Mrs. Greenleaf and Miss Marsley about yesterday.”

  He shrugged helplessly.

  “In the park,” she prompted.

  Ah, it made sense now. These must be the ladies from Woodward’s Gardens. He should let Abby stew in her own juices, but from the embarrassed look on her face, he knew he would have to rescue her yet again.

  He graced the ladies with a smile. “My wife is a prankster. I’d already married her in haste in Denver, but then solely to make a train schedule. That is why I was proposing again in the Gardens.”

  Mrs. Greenleaf gave a sigh. “That is so very romantic, Reverend Fishbone.”

  He was saved from having to reply when Mrs. Dillon called her guests to be seated. All the ladies fluttered to the arranged chairs and settees, reminding him of a field of butterflies. Pastel dresses swirled and flowers bobbed atop stylish spring hats. He glanced at Abby, modestly attired in a pale blue dress with a high neck and long sleeves. There were no frills and lace, and she wore no jewelry except his ring. And yet he thought her more beautiful than any other woman in the room—or in San Francisco, he was sure.

  He decided he would usher her to the piano before taking a stand in the back of the room. It would not seem inappropriate of him and it would allow him to slip away to search the house.

  “Ready?” He took her elbow and walked her to the front. He heard Mrs. Dillon drone on about discovering Abby, but paid little heed. He felt a small shudder course through her.

  “You would think I’d be used to this. Mother constantly put me on display.”

  “Don’t you like to play?”