Love at Any Cost (The Heart of San Francisco Book #1): A Novel

by Julie Lessman

  “Even so, Uncle Logan’s the smart one.” Blake jutted his dimpled chin. “Enjoying lots of women without the hassle of a wife, a bachelor for life and far happier for it.” Arms braced to the dock, he lifted his face to the sun. “A role model if ever there was.”

  “Yeah, if you don’t mind being lonely.” Bram’s tone was as dry as the weathered wood he commenced picking on at the edge of the dock.

  Blake’s eyes flipped open in shock. “Lonely—Uncle Logan?” He stared as if Bram had just sprouted wings. “The man has more women in his life than a convent.”

  “Yeah? Then why is he always at your house lately, weekends included?”

  Blake blinked, the question giving him pause. “Probably because Cassie’s here for the summer, and everybody knows he’s a man who loves family.”

  “Which only underscores my point,” Bram said with emphasis. “His bachelor life is lonely, hordes of women or no.”

  “Aw, you’re batty. You missed your calling to be a priest like your parents wanted, you know that?”

  Jamie gaped at Bram. “Your parents wanted you to be a priest?” His voice rose several octaves. “You never told me that. No wonder you’re the saintly one whenever we go out.”

  “The saintly one who never has any fun,” Blake pointed out.

  Bram’s smile took a tilt. “The saintly one who doesn’t wrestle with hangovers or guilt.”

  “Or women.” Jamie grinned.

  It was Bram’s turn to chuckle. “Nor will you, my friend,” he said with a douse of lake water, “once that ring goes on your finger. Marriage is for keeps, you know.”

  Marriage is for keeps. Oh, yeah, Jamie thought, chest swelling with pride despite the murky water dribbling his cheek. Cassie, a surgery for his sister, a political career, and a house on Nob Hill for his family—definitely for keeps—and everything he needed to “keep” him happy.

  “Ahoy, there!”

  All three men glanced up as Patricia swam the last few strokes to the dock. Jamie jumped up to offer a hand, and she hoisted herself up with a smile. Chestnut strands of hair trailed her neck from her fluted mob hat, accentuating the creamy line of a graceful neck Jamie’s lips had roamed more than once. Her navy swim dress fell just below the knees, sopping wet and clinging to a shapely body he couldn’t help but notice. Tearing his gaze away, he sat back down and focused on her face. The violet eyes that stared back carried a message he knew all too well. Nervous fingers toyed with the sailor tie of her swimsuit while she aimed her smile straight at him. “Hate to break up your party, but Alli’s scrounging up a game of croquet. Any takers?”

  Bram lumbered up. “I’m game.”

  “Me too,” Blake said.

  Jamie started to rise and Patricia implored him with her eyes, fidgeting with the tie as she wrapped it around her finger. “Jamie—do you mind if we talk? Just for a moment?”

  He paused halfway to his feet, then slowly dropped back. “Sure,” he said, hands loosely clasped over tented knees. This was as good a time as any to let her know about Cassie.

  “See you on the mainland,” Blake said and plunged into the water. “Hey, Hughes,” he called over his shoulder, “five bucks says I can leave you in my wake.”

  “Not in this lifetime,” Bram called, obviously confident his athletic prowess was superior to his cousin’s. He grinned and offered Jamie and Trish a salute. “As Cassie would say, see you back at the ranch.” Poised on the edge of the dock, he executed a perfect dive.

  Silence prevailed while Jamie and Trish watched Bram outswim Blake. “Cassie seems to be a popular girl,” she finally said, sliding down to sit on the dock. With blue stockinged legs bent like his, she hugged knees clad with sopping ruffled bloomers.

  “Cassie’s just unique, being from Texas and all.”

  “Do you like her?” she asked, voice timid and head cocked, hand shading her eyes.

  “Sure, she’s a great gal.” Jamie picked on a loose thread from the hem of his swim shorts, uncomfortable both with the conversation and the news he had to share.

  “I just wondered,” she said slowly, averting her eyes, “because before Cassie, I thought that you and I . . .”

  His stomach tightened at the quivering bob of her throat, making him feel like a cad.

  She looked up then, gaze vulnerable as she twirled a soggy curl around her finger with a touch of hurt in her eyes. “Well, you know . . . liked each other.”

  He swallowed hard, wishing this wasn’t so difficult. He liked Patricia, had from the start. She was beautiful, smart, and most important of all, a wealthy senator’s daughter—a senator who’d made it perfectly clear he wanted Jamie in the family. He had no doubt that if Cassie hadn’t happened along, he would have married her—and soon, if she had any say. He sucked in a deep breath. “I do like you, Patricia—a lot. But when Cassie arrived for the summer, I just . . .” He paused, desperate to find words that wouldn’t cut. “Well, we just sorta became good friends, you know? And now . . . well, now I want to court her.”

  His heart twisted when tears pooled in her eyes. “Court her?” she whispered. “But what about your dreams—a surgery for your sister and your political aspirations?”

  He blinked, confused by the question. “They’re still there, Trish, just like before.”

  Avoiding his gaze, she rested her chin on her knees, eyes wandering into a faraway stare. “You’ve always been honest with me, Jamie, making it clear you have aspirations to rise to the top. Politically, yes, but also to provide for your family, which is something I’ve always admired. Especially your dream to acquire a surgery for your sister.” A muscle jerked in the smooth line of her throat. “So you see—I was never foolish enough to think it was just me you wanted.”

  “Trish, please—”

  She turned to face him, twinges of sadness in her face. “Do you deny it?”

  He drew in a harsh breath and slowly released it again, his voice barely audible. “No.”

  “Thank you for being honest,” she whispered, returning her gaze to the water. “You know, Jamie, it’s a tight-knit group, the families of Nob Hill, and women do talk.” A sigh shuddered from her lips. “Especially about a man like you.”

  His eyelids weighted closed with a silent groan, his words to Bram returning to haunt. May as well fall in love with a rich girl as a poor one, right? His anger rose to battle his guilt. And why not? The cause was just and his mother and sister were worth it.

  And you? He blanched at the taunt of an inner voice.

  She continued, her words as shaky as his conscience. “Of c-course, we all found it curious you only pursued wealthy girls with strong political connections, but none of us pretended we didn’t know why.”

  “Trish . . .” His voice was a pained whisper.

  “Oh, it didn’t matter to me, I assure you, because my affection for you runs deep. Deep enough to help you achieve all your heart longs for with my money and influence.” She paused, her eyes slowly capturing his as her voice faded to soft. “Deep enough to talk to my father about his connections with Cooper Medical for your sister’s pro bono surgery.”

  The breath seized in his throat before it escaped once again in short, shallow breaths, his pulse pounding so loud in his ears, he thought he’d heard wrong. “W-what did you say?”

  Her eyes softened. “I know how much your sister means to you, Jamie, and I know you’ve worked hard to procure a surgery for her someday. My father admires that and said if it means that much to the man who courts his daughter, then it means a lot to him and he wants to help.”

  The man who courts his daughter. Blood drained from his face so fast, his vision blurred. Hand to his eyes, he swallowed hard, tongue as parched as the brittle dock bleached by the sun.

  “Daddy’s excited about your ambition for politics, as am I, and if we were to . . .” He actually heard the gulp of her throat rather than saw it, but no more than his own, the hesitation in her tone clearly as awkward as he felt. “Well, you know—end u
p together—he said he’d want you to be his counsel and would introduce you to his friends, which he believes would put you on the fast track for the political career of your dreams.”

  His body jolted at the sudden touch of her hand to his foot, her voice as tentative as the shaky glide of her fingers. “I was meant to be a senator’s wife, Jamie, born and bred to be all you need me to be. Which is why,” she said with a definite waver in her tone, “it’s so hard to understand your attraction to Cassie, a woman who can’t further your dreams.”

  He glanced up beneath his palm, his heart in a pause. “What do you mean?”

  She turned to face him then, a fragility in her eyes that confirmed just how much she cared. “A woman who’s neither affluent nor a senator’s daughter,” she said quietly, “although I suppose you could be wealthy in love.”

  The heat on his face felt like third-degree burns. “What are you talking about, Trish? Cassie’s a McClare and an oil heiress at that.”

  “A McClare, yes,” she said slowly. “But an heiress whose wells have run dry.”

  He couldn’t blink, breathe . . . “That’s not true,” he finally whispered, his voice a rasp.

  Her lip trembled the slightest bit. “Maybe, but I’m sure I heard correctly, so maybe you should ask Cassie.” Her eyes were soft with concern and an innocence he didn’t quite believe. “Why do you think her fiancé broke the engagement?”

  His eyes shuddered closed, shards of shock slicing through his gut. Cassie, no, please . . .

  “Maybe I misunderstood,” Patricia reasoned. “After all, I stumbled in on the tail end of a conversation between Alli and Cassie that I obviously wasn’t meant to hear.” She paused, her voice genuinely contrite. “I’m sorry, Jamie, but I just assumed you knew.”

  Sure you did. He gouged his eyes with the ball of his hand, bile rising from the bitter disappointment that roiled in his gut. Every hope, every dream, all snuffed out by a God he had actually pursued, a God who turned a deaf ear to him just like he’d done to his mother and sister.

  Foul words he didn’t even think he knew spewed from his lips, defiling the summer day just like God had defiled his life, and with a rage he wasn’t sure he could contain, he shot up and dove into the water, ragged air pumping in his chest like fury pumped through his veins.

  “Jamie, I’m sorry . . . ,” Patricia called.

  But not as sorry as he.

  Sorry he was too poor to help his sick sister.

  Sorry his plans had been foiled.

  Sorry he loved a woman who may be poorer than him.

  Thoughts of Cassie assailed his mind, and his lungs burned in his chest till he thought he would die. Because therein stabbed the sorriest sorry of all.

  Having to say goodbye.

  Caitlyn McClare’s Packard pulled away from the curb as Jamie watched from the front porch of Mrs. Tucker’s boardinghouse. The aroma of fresh-baked apple pie wafted through the screen door, reminding him he’d bolted from Napa before the picnic lunch at Logan’s estate. Just as well. His appetite had crashed along with his mood after Patricia destroyed his day.

  Cassie was poor. At least compared to the San Francisco McClares, a fact alluded to by Mrs. McClare herself when Hadley drove them home after Jamie announced he needed to leave. “Something’s come up,” he’d explained, and Caitlyn had jumped on it as if she were more anxious than he to escape the weekend. Not possible, although her mood had certainly been as edgy as his, a fact that seemed to loosen her tongue considerably on the hour-long drive. As a skilled prosecutor, he hadn’t found it difficult to glean bits of information to confirm Patricia’s claim about Cassie. A question here, an observation there, and Caitlyn supplied enough threads to weave a tapestry of financial doom for the Texas McClares. And the daughter who was jilted when her fortune went awry. A daughter who, unlike her wealthy cousins, was now forced into the workplace where women were rare and wealthy ones almost nonexistent.

  Hand on the latch, he carefully slipped through the screen door, hoping Mrs. Tucker was too busy baking to note that one of her boarders was home. Nerves strung tight, he took great pains to quietly scale the squeaky wooden stairs to the second level where his mother and sister occupied the same room across the hall from his. Threadbare throw rugs and polished, albeit scarred hardwood floors indicated a boardinghouse that was clean if not plush, in a neighborhood where dirty-faced children played in patched clothing and middle-class neighbors chatted long after dark. His lips compressed. The Celestial City compared to the Barbary Coast.

  Striding down the hall, he tapped on his mother’s door, easing it open when he heard her soft voice. He was met by a wash of warm sunshine, and his heart swelled with gratitude that his family now lived in a sunny room where crisp ruffled sheers fluttered at the window, ushering in the smell of honeysuckle and roses from Mrs. Tucker’s backyard.

  “Jamie,” she whispered, glancing up from where she was reading in a comfy armchair in front of the window close to his sister’s bed. Her face was pinched. “What are you doing here?”

  He noticed the Bible in her lap, and resisted the scowl that pulled at his lips. For all the good it will do. His gaze flicked to where his sister lay sleeping, pale and drawn in the warm summer light, and his heart constricted. Jess? He carefully closed the door, ignoring his mother’s question. “What’s wrong?” he said, his whisper harsh as he moved to the side of her bed, stomach cramping at the dark circles under her eyes. “Why is she in bed?”

  His mother rose to stand beside him, a tender arm to his waist. “She reinjured her hip,” she said, the emotion in her tone as thick as the panic in his chest. “Dr. Morrissey sedated her.”

  “What?” He turned to stare at his mother, pulse sporadic. “When? How?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came as moisture welled in her eyes.

  “Mom?” Jamie gripped her and gave her a little shake, heart battering his ribs. “Tell me now—what happened to Jess?”

  A hand flew to his mother’s mouth as a heave escaped. “S-she . . . was . . . ,” tears slipped down her cheeks when another heave broke from her throat, “attacked.”

  The very word froze the blood in his veins. “Attacked?” he whispered. “How?”

  Jess moaned, and his mother drew him to the window, urging him to sit in her chair.

  “I don’t want to sit,” he hissed. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I will, Jamie, but please—sit down first. This will not be easy to hear.”

  With abrupt strides, he retrieved a wooden chair on the other side of Jess’s bed and placed it next to his mother’s. She sat and he did the same, leaning forward. “Tell me,” he said, eyes fused to hers.

  She picked at her nails, blinking hard to obviously keep the tears at bay. “Well, you know how excited she’s been since feeling better lately, taking short walks outside, pestering me to let her do more and more.” His mother’s eyes flicked to where Jess lay almost comatose in the bed. “Cocky almost,” she said with a tearful smile, her gaze returning to Jamie’s. “So when she saw the package of clothing I’d sewn for Bess, she insisted she could take it over—”

  “What?” Jamie rose up in his chair, a nerve flickering in his jaw. “Is she crazy?”

  “That’s what I thought, and I told her no, but you know your sister when she sets her mind to something, and she swore she’d take the trolley, insisting everything would be all right.” His mother swiped at her eyes. “Well, she delivered the package to Millie sure enough and had just left the building, not twenty feet away, when a man grabbed her . . .”

  No, please . . . Jamie’s eyelids shuddered closed while a low groan cleaved to his throat.

  “Of course Jess tried to get away, but he . . . he forced her to the alley and threw her down—” His mother’s voice broke on a sob.

  Jamie’s head jerked up. “Did he—?”

  She shook her head violently, the tears streaming freely now. “No. Jess was in so much pain when she tried to wres
tle away that her screams brought Millie and Julie to her aid, among others. Some kind man pulled that animal off of Jess before he could . . .” A shiver rattled her body that matched the shudder of revulsion in his soul. “But it was too late for Jess’s hip. He’d slammed her to the bricks, bruising her badly.”

  His mother started weeping, and Jamie handed her his handkerchief before clutching her close, his face buried in her hair while moisture pricked his own eyes. Horrendous pain wrenched in his chest at the thought of Jess—sweet, beautiful Jess—assaulted in such a manner. “Where is he?” Jamie’s voice was a deadly whisper, the calm of his question belying the fury burning in his gut. So I can kill him . . .

  “He ran off, the drunken coward, and neither Julie nor Millie knew who he was. The gentleman who rescued her was kind enough to carry Jess home, while Millie, Julie, and Bess followed.” Patting his back, his mother pulled away, her gaze drifting to her daughter while a knot jerked in her throat. “That was late yesterday, and she’s been in so much pain since that Dr. Morrissey doubled her laudanum.” Her hand quivered to her mouth. “He says now her pain will be worse than ever . . .”

  Not if I have anything to say about it. Jamie rose to move next to his sister’s bed and his mother shored him up with a hand to his waist. His skin fairly crawled with fury, itching with the need to avenge, to protect, to heal . . . “I shouldn’t have gone . . . ,” he whispered.

  The touch of his mother’s hand to his shoulder caused more tears to sting, but he blinked them back. He hadn’t shed a tear in front of his mother since he went to work on the docks, the youngest stevedore Boss Tandy’d ever hired. Jamie had a hunger, a desperation about him, the freighter boss said, more than any kid he’d ever seen. “Here, catch, street rat,” an older boy had shouted with a sly smile, tossing a small crate of nails to Jamie, and he caught it with pride, never feeling the nail that impaled his flesh. Moments later blood pooled and tendons throbbed, squeezing tears from his eyes that earned him nothing but scorn. He swore then no one would ever see him cry again. But he hadn’t counted on his sister’s agony over the years, nor had he counted on the guilt. Steeling his jaw, he bit back moisture that would never, ever fall and bent to brush back the damp curls around his sister’s face. “Why didn’t you call me?” he said, his voice strained.