My Heart Belongs in Galveston, Texas

by Kathleen Y'Barbo

  He found the address easily enough. The white two-story home with three columns running across the front and a balcony that spanned the upper floor was now bracketed between two smaller dwellings that had been built since Jonah’s last visit.

  Three windows marched evenly across the second floor, their tops curved and their dark green shutters open to allow the midday sun. Two more windows matched their upstairs twins along the columned porch with the third spot held by a painted wooden door of deepest black.

  Upstairs, a white lace curtain moved, but was it the breeze that caused it to shift or someone studying him as intently as he studied the stately residence?

  Jonah paused for a moment, one hand resting on the smooth metal of the iron gate. To his right and his left a black iron fence, topped at intervals with the fleur-de-lis design that also appeared in his family’s coat of arms, stretched to the edges of the property. The entrance for carriages must have been moved to the back alley when the property on each side was sold off.

  Or perhaps those who resided behind this fence had no need for carriages any longer. Again Jonah sighed. Again the still, small voice said go.

  Just as he was about to reach for the lever that opened the gate, he caught sight of a young woman walking toward him while looking down at something in her hand. Her cloak was made of fine green velvet just a shade darker than shamrocks, and her dark hair had been tucked up beneath a fashionable hat of a similar color.

  She appeared so engrossed in whatever she held that she did not notice Jonah or act as if she recognized him until she was almost upon him. Oh but he knew her.

  Even now as she appeared deep in thought, the old feelings rose. It had been the better part of a year since he’d seen her, longer than that since he trusted her.

  And yet a small part of him knew if he wasn’t careful, he could fall in love with her all over again.

  The gate swung open beneath his hand, but Jonah did not step inside. Rather, he stood his ground and prepared for the next skirmish in what had become quite a battle with the frustrating female.

  The woman walking toward him, a local journalist for the New Orleans Picayune, had ruined more than one Pinkerton investigation with her relentless snooping. She had also very nearly cost him his job and his freedom last summer.

  What he would never tell her was that she had also broken his heart.

  Though it appeared from Madeline Latour’s lack of attention to anything other than whatever was in her hand that their meeting here today was pure accident, Jonah was skeptical. With this one, he was always skeptical.

  He stepped into her path. “Hello, Madeline.”

  Madeline jolted at the use of her first name, dropping her notebook in the process. Catching herself by grabbing the iron fence, she looked up into familiar eyes.

  Regrettably familiar.

  She sighed as she pushed away those old feelings that swirled around his memory. Of all the men to see today, it would have to be Detective Jonah Cahill of the Pinkerton Agency. What was he doing in New Orleans?

  Gallant as always, the Pinkerton man reached for her notebook first. She couldn’t help noticing his dark brows rising as he obviously spied the initials engraved on the notebook’s leather cover: M.W. for Maggie Winston, the identity she had assumed in order to complete her investigation.

  Each time Madeline took on a new identity in her role as an investigative journalist, she always added a few personal touches to give that persona the image of reality. The notebook had been the perfect accessory, so perfect that it had practically secured her the job that would give her access to an eyewitness that no one else had been able to interview.

  “This can’t be yours, can it?” he said with an infuriating quirk of his dark brow.

  “Thank you,” she said as his fingertips brushed her palm. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

  “Quite,” he said as his eyes raked the length of her. From any other man, the gesture might have seemed impudent, rude even, but this was a man with whom she had some history. Good history until she ruined it.

  Had he chosen that life instead of this one, Detective Jonah Cahill might have made a daunting outlaw. He was of imposing height and build with eyes of silver gray and pitch-black hair that curled at his neck.

  Jonah wore his ability to decipher people and stop them cold with a casual air. His face was perpetually fixed with an expression that seemed to assume he had already won the war before the battle began.

  It had been almost a full year since she’d last seen the handsome Pinkerton. The last time they met, outside the courthouse after the McRee case concluded, she had made Jonah so mad he swore he’d have her arrested.

  Worse, she’d broken his heart and she knew it. What he didn’t know was he had also broken hers.

  At this very moment, his expression told her he’d lock her in jail and throw away the key if given the chance. Not that she blamed him.

  “Thank you, Jonah,” she said as she carefully tucked the notebook into her pocket. “I would ask what brings you to New Orleans but I assume you’d tell me you couldn’t answer the question.”

  His lip curled into what almost passed for a smile. “That was always your trouble, Madeline. You assumed.”

  Madeline forced herself not to allow Jonah to see that the truth of the hurtful comment had reached its mark. Instead, she nodded toward the house nearest them. “I was sorry to hear of your grandfather’s death. Yellow fever, I believe it was?”

  She could see by his expression that Jonah hadn’t known. “Oh, I am so sorry. No one told you, did they?”

  Any remnant of civility disappeared. “Goodbye, Madeline,” Jonah said as he stormed inside the fence.

  The gate slammed behind him, leaving her to decide whether to respond with a polite goodbye or just gather up the remains of her pride and walk away. Madeline chose the latter.

  Besides, she had an appointment and could not be late. Her tears would wait for later when she did not have to explain them to anyone.

  Not that she could.

  Jonah stood on the porch and watched Madeline walk away. Sashay, as his mother would call it, for the infernal woman never could help looking like royalty. From her regal bearing to the way she seemed to be above it all even when she obviously did not mean to, she was nothing like any woman he’d ever known.

  And that is how he’d managed to fall in love with her. It was why he’d fallen head over boot heels for the nosy reporter who he’d imagined would be his for life.

  All he could hope as he watched her walk away was that the Lord had saved him from a pain worse than the one he felt right now. He’d trust in that and in his ability to forget Madeline Latour someday.

  One last look at the frustrating female, and Jonah turned his back on her. His anger had led him as far as the front porch, but now he wondered about the wisdom of knocking on the door.

  He hadn’t been here since his grandmother’s funeral, and now his grandfather was gone as well. Go. Yes, it was time.

  Jonah knocked twice, and someone called for him to come in. He stepped inside, allowing his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light of the two-story foyer, then heard the swish of petticoats a moment before a woman called out.

  “Who is that out there?”

  “It’s me,” he responded. “Jonah.”

  Bess’s cackling laugh reached him a moment before she did. Wrapping him in her ample arms, the woman who’d been with the Cahill family as long as Jonah could remember held him tight.

  Finally, she released him and took a step backward. “I sure am glad to see you. What brings you to New Orleans?”

  “Work.” He paused. “I didn’t know about Grandfather Cahill until today.”

  “Oh child,” she said. “No reason you would have. He was a stubborn man. Never did forgive your daddy for marrying your mama, so it isn’t surprising he didn’t leave word for her when he was sick.”

  “She will be devastated all the same.” He paused. “My mother n
ever gave up on that stubborn old man.”

  “I know. I do love your mama so.” She paused to give him an even look. “I am sorry, Jonah, but he left this home and everything in it to charity.”

  It took him a moment to realize what she was saying. “I didn’t come here to get anything from him. I just wanted to know…” He paused. “I hope you’ve been cared for, though.”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Cahill was quite generous with me, but then I always knew he would be.” She paused to give him a knowing look. “That man always did know I kept his secrets, and in return, he made sure I was rewarded. I’d say that’s an even trade.”

  “What will you do? You know you’re always welcome in Galveston. My mother could use the company.”

  “I do thank you,” she said. “And much as I love your mama, I think I’ll stay here until the charities take over. Then who knows? Maybe I’ll pay your mama a visit. Say, how is that little sister of yours?”

  “Susanna is ever the same. I wish she’d settle down, but she refuses.”

  “Now don’t you go rushing her. She’ll find someone in time and without her big brother’s help.”

  “I suppose. She’s beautiful, Bess, the image of Mama at her age from what I’ve been told, and a much better shot than I am.”

  “Either way she’ll find a man, then.” Bess laughed. “I credit your daddy for teaching the both of you to shoot well.”

  “That is true,” he said. “He would be proud of how she turned out.”

  “I reckon he would be proud how you turned out too. Look at you, a fine Pinkerton man. I am so proud of you, Jonah Cahill.” Her expression brightened. “But I can tell they don’t feed you right up in Chicago. You give me a minute and I’ll have you some shrimp gumbo on the table.”

  “That sounds mighty fine,” he said, “but I’ve got a train to catch, so I can’t stay long.”

  She shook her head. “Since when did it take you long to fill up on my cooking?”

  “You’ve got me there, Miss Bess,” he said as he hugged her once more, this time lifting her feet off the floor.

  “Put me down, Jonah Cahill,” she demanded between fits of laughter. “You might be two heads taller than me, but it wasn’t that long ago you were nothing but trouble.”

  “Some would say I still am,” he quipped as he released her to follow a step behind as she led him into the dining room.

  While Bess scurried to the outdoor kitchen to fetch his meal, Jonah settled on the chair she indicated. His grandfather’s chair.

  How many times had he seen Grandfather Cahill sit here with his spectacles on the end of his nose and a newspaper in his hands? And how many more times had he seen his father do the exact same thing in their kitchen in Galveston?

  Too many to count.

  He missed them both dearly at that moment, and that surprised him. But that was one news story the nosy reporter from the Picayune would never get.

  With only a few minutes to spare, Madeline arrived on the doorstep of McCloskey’s Restaurant at Numbers 70 and 72 on St. Charles Street and ducked inside beneath a banner proclaiming their motto: “The best the market affords with prices to suit the times.” Immediately she was ushered upstairs to a private family room.

  Her hands still shook from her encounter with Jonah. It would not do to allow her brother to see, so she shoved her hands into her pockets as she stepped into the room.

  Her brother Phil, technically Phillip Emmanuel Latour IV, had already helped himself to a meal and was dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a napkin as the door closed behind her. Where she had inherited her mother’s fair Irish coloring—and some would say temperament—Phil was the image of their olive-skinned father.

  “Sit and eat.” He reached for a bell to ring for the waiter.

  “No time,” Madeline replied as she removed her cloak and then snatched a piece of bread from the basket in the center of the table. “I’m due back in half an hour,” she said as she liberally applied butter and jam before taking a bite.

  “Ah, the secret project,” Phil said as he lifted one brow. “Ironic, don’t you think, given our family’s choice of occupation?”

  Madeline chuckled. “You act as if we had any choice in the matter of our occupation.”

  Truly, choice was never given in regard to the family business. The Latour family had dealt in secrets for three generations, possibly longer, and with the birth of Phil’s two sons the business was likely to continue on for at least another generation.

  When anyone in New Orleans possessed a great need for discretion, a desire to find something or someone, and a vast amount of money with which to pay, the Latour family was always the first to be consulted on the matter.

  Such was their reputation that there was no need to advertise the family’s services. Rather, clients came recommended to them by others. Father sent son and mother sent daughter for over a century, most coming from families of bankers, men of commerce, politicians, and several, noble birth.

  “I worry about you, Maddie,” he said as he sat back to regard her with a measuring look. “What need have you to hide anything? It is just a newspaper article, isn’t it?”

  It wasn’t, but still she ought to have shared the details with Phil. Something held her back, likely the fact that he would either dissuade her or beat her to the answer.

  “Patience,” she told him. “I promise I will tell you everything just as soon as my research is complete. But I will say that it may turn out to be more than just an article. I just don’t know yet. It could be nothing.”

  Madeline punctuated the statement with a smile that she hoped would convince her nosy older brother that she was sincere. Depending on where the facts led in this investigation, the family might not like the notoriety it would bring.

  Maybe she would write the story under a pseudonym. That would be a good discussion to have with Papa when the time came, for proving that Jean Lafitte not only lived after reports of his demise but also married again and survived to an old age would definitely catapult her, and by result the Latours, into the spotlight.

  Borrowing a sentiment from Mother, she would cross that bridge when she came to it. She pasted on a smile and took a seat beside Phil within reach of the bread basket.

  “All right,” he said with a nod. “Then our discussion of your secret project is tabled in favor of the reason we’re here, and that’s for you to tell me what you’ve learned about our current client’s request.”

  She waited until Phil retrieved his paper and ink from his case and then began. “It is amazing what men will say to one another when they believe the women are not listening,” she told him after she’d given him the facts he needed to respond to railroad heiress Violet Chastain’s request to investigate her fiancé’s questionable business dealings.

  With what she’d found, Mademoiselle Chastain would likely be ending her engagement. It always felt good to be part of something that actually helped someone, in this case seeing that an impressionable young lady did not ruin her life by marrying a man who was obviously only looking to increase his financial worth without telling her he had several other wealthy wives already.

  Per their custom, the papers associated with this case were secured in a safe-deposit box. She handed Phil the key and rose just as the door opened and her father stepped inside.

  “Papa?” she said as she crossed the distance between them to give him a hug. “I didn’t expect you to be here. What a nice surprise.”

  “Madeline, Latours do not like surprises. It’s the nature of our business, yes?” At her frown, the stoic Phillip Latour III actually grinned. “I am teasing you, my darling. Of course I am pleased to see you, although you are mistaken if you believe seeing you here was a surprise to me.”

  Her father extricated himself from her grasp to nod toward Phil. “I believe you were just leaving, weren’t you, son?”

  Phil gave Madeline a look, pocketed the key, and then shrugged. “Yes, of course.” He winked at Madeline a
nd then said his farewells to them both.

  When they were alone, Papa nodded toward the table. “Do sit.” She complied, and then he continued. “You know I have been patient with you in regard to your work for the newspaper. Your role as reporter serves the family well. However, do you have anything you wish to tell me?”

  Her father never asked that question unless he already knew the response. Madeline paused. Now to decide exactly what her father must have discovered about the real purpose of her investigation into the elusive pirate.

  “I just handed over the key for the Chastain documents to Phil, so that assignment is complete. Perhaps you could be more specific?”

  Still he looked skeptical. “This widow, Madame Smith, she has no idea you are my daughter?”

  Madeline pushed a strand of hair away from her face. “If she does, I would think she might have asked why I was using a different name. So no, I do not believe she knows. Why? Have you heard something in that regard?”

  “I have not.” Papa shifted positions. “Madeline, I am rarely comfortable when you misrepresent who you are, although I understand your work as a journalist requires it.”

  “My work with Madame is not only an assignment assisting with her memoirs, but it is also a kindness I hope is someday extended to me.”

  His thick brows rose. “I certainly hope not. Can you imagine what sort of things would have to be written about you should your memories be recorded?” He chuckled softly. “No, my darling, you are a Latour, and Latours keep their memories and their secrets to themselves. It is something we take very seriously. You know that, yes?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I know that.”

  “Good. I only wish you had offered the true identity of the woman for whom you are working.”

  “I didn’t think it would be important,” she said, knowing that this was only part of the reason. In fact, she’d feared that had she offered a name, Papa would have researched her and found what Madeline hoped to find—the link to the pirate Lafitte—before she did.