"No question about it. I have a feeling--call it womanly intuition, if you like--that something big will happen there, and soon. I want to be with Owen when it does."
"But you don't even know his address, do you? And would you stay with him if you did?" Elizabeth asked with a teasing smile.
She returned the smile. "I might. But surely even Homestead has a hotel. I'll stay there and use that as my starting point. And from there, well, if I have to roam every street in the borough, I'll do it." Despite her inner excitement, she saw the humor in the notion. "Surely the superintendent has addresses of all the workers. It should be easy enough to discover Owen's address, and I wouldn't care if Mr. Potter wondered why I wanted to know. I can make up some story. I'm getting pretty good at that," she added as bitterness crept into her voice.
With calm deliberation, Lisa folded her hands in her lap. "Enough about Homestead. I can't continue with my marriage, so I intend to ask Lawrence to help me obtain a divorce. As much as it pains me, you might as well tell your husband about my empty marriage, that William has never taken me to bed. Go ahead. You have my permission. So whenever he returns from New York--"
"That may be longer than I expected," Elizabeth said. "His client has legal complications."
Affecting an attitude of serene acceptance, Lisa tried to hide her disappointment. "I'm willing to wait. Anything is worth it to be rid of this hateful marriage."
"Oh, I agree. Who can blame you for wanting to? And after what you told me about that so-called husband of yours and that . . . that orgy . . . well, for once in my life, I'm speechless."
"How could I have been so naive?" Lisa asked, her voice rising. "Why couldn't I have seen what would have been so obvious to anyone else? Of course, he's had other women! I can see that now."
"Don't be too hard on yourself. Precious little we women know about marriage and such. All we know is what our mothers or husbands tell us." She sat upright on the sofa. "So when will you leave for Homestead?"
"Tomorrow. I've already packed my trunk."
"Your housekeeper--what have you told her?"
Lisa smiled self-consciously. "I told her I'd be staying with you."
"That sounds logical." Elizabeth paused. "Dear friend, I hate to ask this question, but what if you don't find Owen?"
"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, if you'll forgive the trite expression." She brightened. "I'm sure I'll find him. And I shall go to the superintendent for his address, if all else fails."
"Good for you! My dearest wish is that you find Owen."
My wish too, Lisa thought with dreamy anticipation. She had to see Owen again, have him take her in his arms, kiss her until they both went out of their minds. As passion stirred inside her, she imagined his lips on hers, his hands on her body. How in the world could she wait!
Chapter Fourteen
Ugly. Lisa had never seen such dreariness anywhere or such grim despair among any people. Even the Carnegie Hotel was most dismal, so grimy its carpeting was imbedded with dirt. Anxious to escape its drab atmosphere, she slipped on her gray poplin dress and straw boater, then set out to explore the small borough with the faint hope that somehow, somewhere, she might find Owen. Carefully gathering her skirts, she took cautious steps along the dusty streets as she wandered through alleys that stretched aimlessly through the town . . . .
Several hours later, she returned to the hotel, where she flopped down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to cry. How in God's name would she ever find Owen? A wave of loneliness swept over her, coupled with regret for what might have been if she'd never married William.
Just the same, she sensed Owen's presence, as if he were with her now. She could hear his husky voice, could see his smile, visualize his every gesture. If he came for her now to take her to the ends of the earth, willingly would she go with him, asking no questions. His love enfolded her like a warm cloak. He was hers, and she was his, forever.
She sat up, determined to dispel her dejection. For now, she'd forget she was married, forget she lived in Shadyside, or that he lived in Homestead, a dirty steel town. If she really stretched her imagination, she could even pretend that true happiness might be theirs.
* * *
The barge, The Monongahela, drifted along on its namesake, its destination unknown to most of the passengers. John Holway narrowed his eyes in the hazy darkness as he looked across the barge's railing. Why in the world had he signed up for this job with the Pinkerton Detective Agency when he had no idea what the job entailed? I must have completely lost my senses, he agonized as he studied the other passengers, wondering what went through their minds.
To be sure, he'd been apprehensive, and now his suspicions were confirmed. He pressed his finger to his nose, the stench of the river making his eyes water. All around him on the narrow deck, he heard angry mutterings as others cursed the detective agency.
A fellow passenger joined him. "Have you any idea where we're going?"
"Homestead," Holway replied without hesitation. "Where else?" He peered over the railing, where clouds of fog drifted across the water. He squinted, unable to see a thing. "I suspected Homestead from the very first, when I boarded the train in Chicago."
The other man spat into the murky river. "Then why did you sign up with Pinkerton? Are you a strikebreaker?"
Holway jerked his head around, giving the man a long, level look. "Certainly not! I joined up with Pinkerton no doubt for the same reason you did--I needed the money. I'm working my way through medical school." He scanned the filthy water again, peering as far as he could see--at first, not more than ten feet. "Look!" He pointed to the bright lights that loomed ahead in the early morning darkness. "That must be Pittsburgh!"
Through the thick fog, the lights of Pittsburgh shone across the Monongahela, forming a muted intaglio on the water. The Monongahela and its twin barge, The Iron Mountain, crept stealthily through the pitch blackness. Soon tugboats joined them to tow the barges across the river toward Homestead.
* * *
As the barges approached the Smithfield Street Bridge in Pittsburgh, a union lookout strained his eyes in the murky haze, then blinked and looked again. There! No question about it. Dim red and green lights headed his way. The lookout hurried to the telegraph shack where he wired the union: "Watch the river. Steamers and barges left here." He wondered how long it would take the barges to reach Homestead. Never mind! He raced on in the same direction, not wanting to miss the action.
At the Electric Light Works in Homestead, Owen waited with Jack Crawford, another union leader, both men expecting a message from the union lookout any minute now. When the message rattled over the telegraph wires, Owen clapped Jack on the shoulder.
"That's it! The Pinkertons are almost here."
Jack yanked the steam whistle, its moaning sound indicating a river landing. The sound electrified the town. Windows slid up; front doors opened. A mounted sentry clattered across the Pemickey bridge a la Paul Revere. "The Pinkertons are coming!"
* * *
On board The Monongahela the hired men cursed and muttered profanities, pointing to the lights of Pittsburgh, aware now of their fate. A strange and unexpected sound breached the commotion on the deck. John Holway spun around to see the officers inside the barge pry crates open and hand out Winchesters and revolvers to the men. Most of the men refused the weapons. They hadn't signed on with Pinkerton to kill! The young medical student grimaced as he realized his worst fear. Homestead it was.
The tugboats brought both barges in front of the entrance to the Homestead mill and deliberately ran both scows aground with a soft, crunching sound.
Journey's end for the Pinkertons.
* * *
Lisa tossed and turned in bed, the wail of the siren disturbing her restless sleep. Fully
awake, she sat upright, brushing the long flow of hair from her shoulders. In no time, the screams and shouts swelled outside her open window, until the soun
d became one gigantic roar. No need to ask what was going on, she realized as she turned on the electric lamp beside her bed. Labor trouble at the steel mill.
What part did Owen play in all of this? Lisa slipped out of bed, then rushed to the window with only the barest hope that she might see him among the hundreds of people that crowded every street in the borough. Darkness made vision impossible, coupled with thick clouds of fog that rolled over the town. She leaned against the pane, tapping her fingers on the windowsill. Never in a million years would she find Owen, not today, not anytime.
Well, she wasn't going to stay here and mope. Far better to see what was happening in the streets below. She drew her nightgown over her head and dressed as quickly as possible, for once eschewing her corset.
Still, it took precious time to dress, time she needed to discover the meaning of the commotion below and time to find Owen, if possible. She fumbled with the buttons of her dress, then sat down to put on her shoes, fumbling with the buttons there, too. With shaky fingers, she pinned her hair up, leaving her hat and purse behind.
A curious excitement gripped her as she rushed down the carpeted stairs, where she found the lobby deserted. Outside, the street lights shone pale against the early morning darkness, while people and places took on an eerie quality in the cloudy haze that swirled over the borough. Shouts, screams and an occasional firecracker greeted Lisa as she stepped onto the packed street.
Everywhere, the crowd shouted, "The Pinkertons! The Pinkertons!"
"What's going to happen now?" she asked an older man.
"Can't you tell? We're gonna get them Pinkertons. They ain't gonna take over the mill."
She caught her breath. Oh, dear God!
The crowd pushed and shoved until Lisa found herself pressed against the dingy window of O'Brien's Saloon. Her rapid heartbeat dizzied her, her head pounding. She wondered where she should go or what she should do, but before she could take make up her mind, the decision was taken from her.
The yelling, screaming rabble headed for the river toward the mill, pushing her along in its path. Lisa struggled and gasped while men, women, and children grabbed stones, boards, and baseball bats as they raced toward the mill. A few women brandished umbrellas, a malicious gleam in their eyes.
Blood pounded in her ears as Lisa considered forcing her way back to the hotel, but she quickly changed her mind. She had to see Owen, no matter how faint the possibility. She would see him, and she knew he'd need her--want her--as he never had before.
Chapter Fifteen
July 6, 1892
"Get 'em!" the townspeople cried. "Get the Pinkertons!"
Daylight penetrated the early morning darkness, dispelling dense clouds of fog. Arms folded across his chest, Owen stood with dozens of other union leaders by the fence that encircled the mill. Grim-faced, he watched the stampeding mob as it streamed toward him, their feet stirring up clouds of dust. Men, women, and children rushed forward, brandishing clubs, rocks, and baseball bats. Their eyes glinted with bloodthirsty excitement as they shouted jeers and obscenities in a dozen different languages.
"Don't let the black sheep in!" they chanted.
Owen nudged Hugh O'Donnell with his elbow as he shouted above the din. "We didn't expect this, did we?" he said, indicating the rabble. "I mean, women and children who look as if they could murder the Pinkertons . . . not that I blame them," he quickly added.
"Yeah," Hugh shouted back, "I feel the same as you, but we have to protect mill property."
* * *
Lisa hung back at the edge of the mob. Their ravings sickened her, but she refused to return to the hotel . . . not until she found Owen. Masses of people surrounded her, yet she felt desperately alone. She shuddered, her eyes searching the crowd. Surely Owen wouldn't be among the mob, but where was he? Ignoring the roar of the people and worried out of her mind about Owen, she stumbled along with the rest.
Even this early in the morning, the fierce sunlight beat down on her, its heat piercing her clothes. She’d dressed in a cotton lawn frock with a colorful print of pink roses and turquoise vines, hoping that if she did see Owen--vain hope, no doubt--her frock might cheer him. Gritty dirt settled in her hair and layered her clothes. Coughing, she brushed the soot from her dress, sending up clouds of dust.
"Don't let the black sheep in," the mob cried, screaming and waving nailed clubs.
The leader of the women, a white-haired old shrew, strode to the front, waving a billy club. "The dirty black sheep, the dirty black sheep," she shrieked. "Let me get at 'em."
Hundreds of voices screamed in answer. "Good for you, Mother Finch."
"We'll send them home on stretchers."
"Hell will be full of new pictures in the morning!"
The people fell silent as they reached the fence, save for a few mutterings here and there. Lisa strained her ears and leaned forward, but she stood too far from the mill fence to see or hear what was happening there. Scanning the area behind her, she observed a pile of scrap iron. Teetering to the top, she found she had a clear view. From her precarious perch, she regarded a steelworker addressing the mob.
Owen! Her Owen! He wore a tan cotton shirt and black trousers, his dark hair shiny in the bright sunshine. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, revealing his arm muscles. Despite the obvious exhaustion etched in every line and plane of his face, he'd never looked so wonderful.
"Leave the fence alone," he said, his deep voice reaching the fringe of the crowd. "This is still mill property."
"Like hell it is!" shouted one of the villagers, spitting at the fence. "Nothin' is gonna keep us from those damned black sheep." Men, women, and children pounded and tore at the wooden fence, their faces set in hatred, a hundred different curses spilling from their mouths.
A woman with a thick Slavic accent shook her hand and bellowed, "You ain't gonna keep us from them Pinkerton bastards. They ain't gonna get inside the damned mill."
Within minutes, the fence fell down, the boards tumbling over like matchsticks. The mob shoved through the openings and rushed on to the mill.
"Stay away from the landing!" Scads of workers swore and raged, unable to stop the hundreds of men, women, and children as they raced past them and on toward the mill. "Don't go near the landing!"
Swinging their clubs with loud defiance, the rabble shoved past the union leaders and on into the mill. Inside the steelworks, they banged their weapons against armor plate and ingots, wild with warlike frenzy over their easy victory at the fence.
Anxious to head them off before they reached the Monongahela landing where the Pinkertons' barges sat dead in the water, Owen turned to join the other workers. Someone at the edge of the crowd caught his eye, a lady apart from the others, about twenty yards distant. She stood still, not following the horde, then slowly stepped down from a pile of scrap iron. What was there about her? Owen wondered . . . her slim figure, the way she held her head. Lisa! How could she be here?
Owen found himself alone, except for this lady who approached him. The sway of her hips, those velvety brown eyes, her chestnut hair shining with golden flecks, left him with no doubt of the lady's identity. Lisa.
"Owen . . ."
He held his breath, taking in the sight of her. He could only stare, unable to say a word. Caught in a floodtide of fierce emotion, he finally rushed forward. That sweet voice, that lovely face--he'd thought he'd never see her again, but here she was, with him now! He wanted to hold her close and never let her go, but he couldn't permit her to remain here where danger threatened. One question nagged him relentlessly as he strode toward her. What in the world was she doing here?
All he could see, all he could think about was Lisa, she with those soulful brown eyes he could never tire of, that dear yet defiant expression on her face, as if daring him to question her presence here, of all places. Within a heartbeat, he closed the distance between them, his joy and excitement grappling with worry.
"Lisa!" He drew her into his arms and kissed her, al
l his pent-up love and longing in this glorious meeting of hearts and minds and souls, of consuming passion and bodies hungry for each other. His arms tightened around her, his passion increasing as he pressed her soft, uncorseted body closer to his masculine hardness. He caught her lilac scent and knew he’d always associate this fragrance with Lisa and with this moment.
The satiny softness of her cheek next to his, the few stray hairs that brushed across his face, the unimaginably alluring pressure of her breasts against his chest--all this and more made him realize what he'd missed for oh, so long. Much, much too long. With a reluctance that bordered on despair, he stepped back to let his hands graze her arms as he looked long and searchingly into her hazel eyes.
"Lisa, I . . . I never dreamed . . ."
Neither of them needed words to say what was in their hearts. For these few precious moments, she took in her fill of him, never wanting their time together to end. This one man meant more to her than all the world. This dear one she thought she'd never see again now held her in his arms.
Happiness consumed her, overwhelmed her. She could only stare at that rough-hewn face, tanned by the summer sun; that unruly lock of hair that refused to stay put; those gray eyes, heavy with passion, all these things that told her more than words could ever say that he loved her, too.
"I had to be here this day, darling," she declared. "Did you expect me to stay away?" She gave a slow shake of her head. "How could I stay away with all--" She spread her arms wide-- "that is happening here, with all that might affect you?"
"But how did you--?"
"My husband has gone to Denver for two weeks. I couldn't miss the chance to come here, to see you, so I checked into the Carnegie Hotel yesterday."
He gave her a harsh look. "This is no place for a lady."
Forbidden Love Page 14
