by Rose Lerner
James shot to his feet. “Let her pass!”
“Yes,” Park said, darkly, as if disappointed James was writing himself into his show. “Do not ruffle my songbird’s feathers.”
James sat and glanced at Delilah and Kyle. Beneath his red hair and freckles, Kyle was pale. His lips tight.
Everyone was tense.
Worse. Everyone was armed.
And plenty of the men in the room wanted some place to put all the pain that had lingered from the war. All the memories that burned like salt in old wounds. The bitterness everyone carried in the backs of their throats and the palms of their hands—they wanted to smear it across the walls of this place. They wanted to throw it at her, her mourning gown and her body that had been put up for sale.
She was not a person. Not even close.
She was the place to put pain. Anger. Hurt.
Park had been filling her with his for years. James could see it in her, like rain in a jar. She was mostly full of all that man’s anger.
“Those were the rumors, sure. That the women were selling their charms,” Charles said. “But when I was in the house, at those parties—there was nothing like that happening.”
“What did happen?” Pinkerman asked.
“The two of them, mother and daughter, worked with a web of other traitors. Freeing slaves, bankrupting plantations, betraying the faith and affection of the men they charmed and used. The secrets that she learned in her ballroom helped Sherman light fire to the South.”
The crowd was split between whooping and hissing, and Delilah came to her feet.
“Gentlemen! I think it’s time to play.” But the crowd roared over her.
“But have no fear,” Park shouted, as the crowd—his crowd—quieted, “those of you for whom the just and right cause of the South still burns brightly in your chest. In the end that Northern Spy was served her comeuppance. She was brought low by her own hubris.”
For fuck’s sake, the man was nearly foaming at the mouth now.
“What happened to her?” Pinkerman the idiot asked.
“Why, I married her mother and saw her punished for her sins against the South.”
James brought the deck of cards down sideways on the edge of the table. It resulted in a nice sharp crack.
All eyes turned to him and he smiled. Though rage roared through his blood.
“I grow bored of your speeches,” James said. “We’re here to play cards. I say we play or clear the stage.”
“I’m not bored,” Pinkerman said.
“I don’t give a shit.” It was all James could do not to growl at that man. Not to bare his teeth and spit.
“No, he’s right,” Charles said, sitting down, careful not to muss his jacket. “Let’s play.”
Delilah took a deep breath and then turned her brightest smile on the room.
Delilah and Helen were the strongest people in this room. In most rooms. He was amazed by them. Humbled.
And utterly driven to win this damn poker game.
It wasn’t a perfect science, but it was a game of probability. Of frequency and derivation.
With just enough human error to make it interesting.
James knew all about human error.
Chapter 11
* * *
The black dress was too small. It pulled across her breasts and she couldn’t take a deep breath without fearing for the seams. Her body had changed in the eighteen months since her mother’s death. Skinnier everywhere, except her bust.
She’d been a child at that graveside—in so many ways.
Corsets were for the devil. She sat very still and very quiet, despite the bead of sweat making its tickling, trickling way down her spine, despite the voice screaming in her head for her to stand up and walk and just keep walking for the door.
But no, she was supposed to sit here and trust James. Trust Delilah. Trust all these people she didn’t know.
If she could catch her breath, she’d laugh at the idea.
She watched him from the corner of her eye, trying not to make it obvious. Trying not to draw attention to him.
Maybe this was the justice she deserved for being so faithful to her mother’s cause.
Maybe this was the justice she deserved for playing any part in that terrible war. She should have just tried to survive, like so many other women left behind in that city.
But even in this whorehouse, so like every other whorehouse she’d been in in the last eighteen months, she couldn’t come to truly regret what she’d done. Every time Charles attempted to reduce her to this symbol. This black-dressed betrayer. An evil seductress.
Just. Like. Her. Mother.
She felt herself rise up against it.
Morphine or not.
Laudanum or not.
Try, she thought, her hands in fists in her lap. Try and rewrite what happened. Try to dress the part of victor. Or hapless victim. Or righteous soldier.
I know the truth.
And so did he.
Charles Park was a killer. A murderer.
And Helen—with her beautiful, brave, intelligent mother—had fought on the side of righteousness.
And that’s why this farce continued. It would never end. He could not break her.
But he would keep trying.
The card game was not the point of this night. That speech he gave was the point. The way he made every man in this room turn to look at her like she was a version of every single thing they hated and were forced to hold, or loved and were forced to walk away from.
Everyone here wanted to hurt her. Not for her perceived crimes, but for pain and memories that had nothing to do with her.
Yes, Charles had an eye for staging. And he kept the war alive in every town they went to.
And James said she should trust him. And he must, after all that, understand that trusting him was simply not an option. She’d been a spy in hostile territory. Trust had been the very first thing to go.
But she found, sitting here, that she couldn’t not hope. And hoping was very uncomfortable. Worse even than the corset.
So she stared into space and unearthed memories of her mother, like fossils from clay. The smell of her hair. The trill of her laugh across the dining room table, a sign that all was going according to plan. The way Helen would press her head to her mother’s back while she sang and feel the notes. Her mother’s heart beat a bass drum. As a young girl Helen would close her eyes and fall asleep that way.
At some point Agnes nudged her foot, and Helen was forced to open her eyes. Agnes dipped her head just slightly toward the game, and Helen glanced over before she could stop.
The only players left were Charles, the odious Mr. Pinkerman, who she could just tell wanted to carve his name into the flesh of her stomach…
And James.
No. She shook her head before she could stop herself. She had a reaction before she could stop herself. A wild leap of her heart betrayed her dumb hope. Followed quickly by her liquid, quaking fear.
No. She turned her face as far away as she could. Until her neck hurt and she could feel her pulse in her throat. There was no allowing herself to get invested. No allowing herself to entertain the notion that James might actually win. That his friends might actually come to her aid.
Do not hope. Do not dream. You will only be hurt.
His concern for her the last three days had provided her some strange cushion. An alarming and sudden softness in a world that was all edges and blades.
But it was false. The world was sharp. The world was awful.
Beside her, Charles fidgeted and that was enough to make her glance back over. Charles did not fidget. He didn’t sweat or swear. He barley glanced at his cards.
He sat in these games smiling his bland smile.
It’s a game of will, he liked to tell her. And my will is superior.
He was nearly a perfect bluffer. His face a slick surface that no opponent could get a grip on.
But now he was fidgeting
.
Pinkerman was out and it was just him and James, staring at each other across the felt.
“Well?” Charles asked in a tone that suggested extreme frustration.
“Call,” James said, and the crowd made a noise and Helen wasn’t sure what it was. She’d taken the shot of laudanum so she wouldn’t sit down here and vomit. Or pass out. And she couldn’t parse the emotions filling the high rafters of this room.
But she could feel that Charles was not happy, and that made her scared.
Very scared.
And deliriously happy at the same time.
And that made her heart stop.
James laid down his cards. “Jacks over tens.”
A Dead Man’s Hand.
“How did you do it?” Charles asked, without putting his cards down.
“Show me your cards,” James insisted, his handsome face sharpened to a blade.
“You cheated!” Charles said and his rage, barely constrained, forced Helen to her feet. Her head swam at the sudden movement and she put her hand against the table, keeping herself on her feet.
Agnes stood too. Kyle and Delilah, as well.
“Show us your cards,” James said. He leaned back in his chair, that sardonic grin on his face, as if what was happening was a strange delight to him.
What do I do? she wondered, feeling as if picking up her skirts and getting the hell out of this room was undoubtedly the best thing.
Charles stood and tossed down his cards. James calmly leaned over and flipped them up. “Will you look at that.”
“You cheated,” Charles sneered.
“Oh, but I didn’t.”
“I didn’t see him cheat,” Delilah said.
“Neither did I,” said Kyle, who had bowed out fairly early in the game.
Charles heaved a breath out of his nose that made him look like a bull. In one sharp, startling movement he turned and grabbed Helen’s elbow, hauling her up close to his body. Closer than she’d ever been, and her skin crawled at his touch. At the sensation of his breath on her face.
“This changes nothing,” he hissed in her ear. “You are still mine. Mine. Just like your mother was. And I will decide what happens to you. Guy will come for you, and if the doctor does not give you up, he will die.”
He let go of her so hard and so fast she stumbled back. Honestly, she could not make sense of what was happening.
James had won.
The entire room seemed to be confused. No roar of victory. No screams of denial.
Everyone stared at her, gape-faced and silent.
“Helen?” James said. He was on his feet, across the table from her. Miles away, it seemed.
Her legs shook with the need to run.
Say something, she thought. Say… something. She licked her lips and tasted salt.
She was weeping.
“You won.”
“Helen.” He stepped closer, concern making a deep knot between his eyes.
She tried to step back, but she didn’t have any breath. Or strength.
The world was far from solid.
James had won.
Her brain buzzed, and oblivion waited with its dark embrace—and she decided not to fight it. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she collapsed onto the ground.
Chapter 12
* * *
If someone lit a match, this room would go up in flames.
James was not sure what he’d expected, but this was not it. Charles apoplectic, the crowd silent and seething. And Helen a crumpled black heap on the floor.
Guy reached for Helen, but James got there first.
“Touch her and I will cut off your hands,” he yelled at Guy while pulling her up into his arms, against his chest. She was no heavier than a wet cat.
Guy nodded and stepped back, hands up as if surrendering.
“Enjoy, my songbird whore,” Park said with a sneering awfulness that made James want to do more than just beat him with a pair of jacks.
But he was not going to make Helen spend one more second near this man.
“Go to Annie’s,” Delilah said, coming to his shoulder.
For a woman who had gone out of her way to orchestrate this actual event, Delilah looked panicked. The tension in the room was high, and these boys with the guns and the memories and the blood lust were looking for a reason to spill blood.
“She’s expecting you.”
He outpaced Delilah, but before he got to the door he saw Park grab Delilah’s elbow, whirl her around to face him, and James stopped.
“You think you have gotten away with something, don’t you,” Park said to Delilah. “Tricked me?”
Delilah glanced over at James, perhaps making sure he had Helen and was heading out the door before she smacked Park hard across the face. Belted him. Park turned red and backhanded her.
The entire room went silent at the sound.
In a heartbeat Kyle was there. Silent and vicious, his face a snarl. He shoved Park back and then punched him. Again and again until Park hit the ground.
Deputy Jefferies jumped in to try and stop it, but still Kyle didn’t stop.
“What are you waiting for?” A voice spat in his ear. “Get her out of here before there’s a damn riot!”
It was Guy, pushing him out the door.
“What…?” James asked, stunned and stupid from adrenaline.
“Go!” Guy shoved him and James, Helen in his arms, ran out the back door, through the courtyard and then the alley. With the cats and the moonlight.
Jesus. God.
Behind him he heard the sound of breaking glass. A brawl was breaking out.
He started to run.
Helen stirred, moaning against his throat. The cold—bitter and brilliant—reviving her.
“Shhhh,” he whispered, trying to quiet her. “It’s okay. It’s… I’ve got you.”
“Stop,” she moaned. “I can’t…I can’t breathe.”
James swung her feet down onto the ground but held onto her because she wobbled. He didn’t even have a coat for her. Her skin under his hands was cold. They needed to keep moving, for dozens of reasons. They needed to run.
“What’s happening?” she whispered. Her hand over her face.
“I’m taking you someplace safe.”
She took a deep breath and looked up at him, her shoulders back. Her eyes hard and blue.
“You won.”
“I did.”
“Thank you.”
“Come on,” he whispered.
He took off his coat and slipped it over her shoulders. She stiffened at the touch of his hand against her arm and he didn’t know what he could do to change that.
They made it to the edge of town, the big house on the left shadowed in the night.
“Where are we?” she asked, pulling his jacket tighter around her shoulders. He imagined the lingering remains of his body heat around hers. The frayed edge of the wool against the silk lining touching the back of her neck.
“That’s…a difficult question,” he said, and then without giving himself a chance to think twice or doubt the wisdom of this move, or perhaps contemplate the taste of humble pie, he knocked on the door.
It was nearly midnight, but the door opened quickly. Steven stood there in his shirtsleeves, a rifle in his hand.
“Surprise,” James said into the deep silence in the doorway.
Steven waved them in, swearing under his breath.
“Steven? Is it them?” Annie’s voice came from the parlor off the hallway. There was a fire gleaming; he saw its reflection against the hard wood floor.
“It seems so,” Steven said.
Annie arrived behind Steven. “You’re all right?” she asked.
“We’re fine.”
“Davey came earlier with a note from Delilah, explaining that you might be coming,” Annie said.
Helen stood in the corner, dark and tiny, taking up as little space as possible. She had perfected this calm face. This inexpressive distance between
her and everything happening around her.
He felt utterly torn in half by her. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and protect her as best he could. And at the same time he was painfully aware of how she’d spent the last few years with every choice ripped away from her.
Worry about her independence later, he scolded himself. She’s about to be disastrously sick.
“I should leave.” Helen spoke up for the first time. “I have nothing to pay you, but I would need a horse. Food. Suitable clothing,” she said, lifting her black silk skirts as if she would walk out into the night this moment.
“It’s not wise,” James said.
“He’ll come looking for me,” Helen said.
“And if he comes looking for you and you are not here, you think…what?” James asked. “He’ll tip his hat and wish me good day? You are going to be sick. Allow me…us…to take care of you.”
On a sob, Helen bent nearly in half, and he reached for her before she fell to the ground, but she pulled herself up, one vertebra at a time. Every muscle taut. Her entire body quivering with the effort it took to keep herself upright.
Steven cleared his throat and looked away. Annie as well. It was painfully intimate watching this woman pull herself up from the bottom. Keep herself standing despite the forces that would knock her down and keep her down.
“Can…I perhaps…” She swallowed. “Is there a room I could use? For a moment?”
“Of course,” Annie said, stepping into the silence, ushering her around James and up the stairs.
James began to follow, his mind thinking of what he would need for the next few days. Liquids. Towels. Fresh clothes-
“No,” Helen said from the staircase. He glanced up and caught her eye. “I don’t need you to come with me. Not yet. Just…give me a moment.”
“Of course,” he said. “Whatever you need.”
He watched them go up the steps, feeling as if his heart was being pulled out of his chest.
“Come,” Steven said. “Bring your sad face into the den and explain to me what we will be up against with this Park asshole.”
