* * *
"Oh, no, not this!" Owen gazed at the women and children who charged toward the landing. Even if the workers could be controlled--a doubtful prospect--what about all these vengeful women or unruly children? What would happen now? Reluctant to think about it, he realized all the union leaders would have to deal with this problem.
Most of all, what about Lisa? He scanned the crowd but didn't see her. Where was she? Back at the hotel, he hoped, but knew that was a hollow wish. He felt sure she'd be here, waiting for him. He winced, worried about the violence she must have witnessed. Lisa, Lisa, he murmured. Scanning the rabble again, he wondered where she was and wondered, too, how they could ever find happiness.
Hugh came to stand beside him, clutching an incongruously small flag. "Here goes. Let's see what happens now."
Hugh eased among the workers and headed down the hill toward the barges. "There's been enough killing," he shouted to the Pinkertons. "On what terms do you wish to capitulate?"
A Pinkerton met him halfway, his face lined with exhaustion. "No violence toward my men!"
"Agreed," O'Donnell said, keeping a wary eye on the other steelworkers who crowded
beside him.
Hot, weary, and furious, steelworkers clustered by the gangplank. They motioned toward the guards who left the barges and plodded up the hill. "Move it, move it!"
As each guard emerged from below the deck, the steelworkers grabbed and pocketed their pistols. Tightlipped, they jerked the jackets from the guards and tossed them into the river. One by one, over three-hundred guards were shoved across the gangplank. They huddled in groups on the shoreline, some of the younger men crying.
After dousing the barges with oil, the workers put the torch to them. Hot, dry as dust, they blazed immediately, the process accelerated by a light northerly breeze. The smoke of the burning barges drifted along with the breeze, soon filling the air with the smell of smoke. On the shore, the women and children laughed with delight, cheering at the leaping flames and billows of smoke.
At the edge of the crowd, Lisa tasted ashes on her tongue, and cinders layered her clothes. Smoke burned her eyes, the tears streaming down her face. Faint and worried sick about Owen, she looked around for something to lean on but saw nothing to ease her exhaustion. Thirst drove her crazy. Her stomach roiled with hunger and fear.
Brushing her hand across her eyes, she looked in all directions, but she still didn't see Owen. Didn't see him anywhere! Oh, God, where could he be? Not wounded, no, please no! And please, not . . . not . . . God, she prayed, please take care of Owen.
After the longest time, Lisa saw him, all her fears forgotten. Thank you, God. Thank you for taking care of him. She opened her fists and flexed her fingers, only now aware of how tightly she'd clenched them. Observing the nail marks on her skin, she forced her body to relax as she watched Owen and the other mill workers escort the guards up the hill. He looked so tired and troubled, but so wonderful. Her heart burst with pride for her man, and she wanted to cry to the world all that he meant to her.
The smoking barges had distracted the onlookers for a while, but now they turned their hard, collective attention to the prisoners who plodded up the hill. The workers marched them around to the western edge of the mill about a half mile away, where they'd wait at the Homestead depot. Deliverance! The workers sneered and laughed at the Pinkertons. Some even threatened them. Still, as the guards stumbled up the long slope, no one attacked them.
The Pinkertons reached the halfway point up the hill.
Then--pandemonium! Screaming and snarling, the women slapped the guards across the face. One woman, her face contorted with rage, jabbed her umbrella in a guard's face, poking his eye out.
Whack! Whack! Whack! With a vicious single minded purpose, the women and children swung clubs at the prisoners and pelted them with rocks. Every blow sickened Lisa. She spun away as nausea churned in her stomach and bile rose in her throat.
"Stop it!" Rushing toward the attackers, the union men grabbed and shoved at the rabble, determined to protect the Pinkertons. "We promised them no violence!"
The women and children paid no attention. "Nobody's gonna tell us what to do!"
Lisa held her breath. She'd never seen such mean-spirited viciousness. She covered her ears against the sound of the clubbing, the screaming of the prisoners. Blood spurted onto the slaggy soil, not ten feet from her. Faintness washed over her. Taking a deep breath, she bent forward, forcing herself to remain conscious. She would not succumb to weakness.
A teenaged boy raised a club over a Pinkerton's head.
"No!" Owen yelled. "Put that down!" He moved quickly to protect the guard, raising his hand to stop the boy. Not quick enough! The club crashed down on his head and sent him staggering. Owen fell sideways to the ground with a hard thud. He lay motionless in the dirt.
"No!" Lisa screamed. "Oh, God, no!" Shoving through the crowd, she reached him in seconds. She knelt down in the dirt beside him. The crowd moved aside for her, muttering among themselves. She bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from screaming. Her hand shook as she touched him.
Lisa cradled his head in her arms. Her breath caught in her throat as she observed his pale face, his eyes closed, as if he were . . . No! She wouldn't even think about it. A wet stickiness from his head coated her hand. Tears flowed down her face, but she fought for composure, aware she must keep her faculties about her.
Each second an hour, she waited. Such a slow heartbeat!
She pressed her hand to her heart. God, please don’t let him die.
Chapter Sixteen
The bright sunlight through Owen's bedroom window revealed a slight color returning to his face, an indication of improvement. He looked so much better this afternoon than yesterday, or even this morning, Lisa thought as she stood by his bed, studying every feature. She tried to convince herself he'd be well again, that the danger had passed. Turned on his side, he slept peacefully, arms close to his chest. His breathing appeared normal. He'd spoken coherently during the night when he'd asked for water, had even smiled at her--all encouraging signs.
The sight of his bare chest with its dark, curly hairs sent her imagination soaring, her heart beating faster. She reached out a hand toward him, longing to touch his warm skin, run her fingers through his hair, cover his face with kisses. She drew her hand back and sighed, content to know that for now, he was hers.
No matter how long she lived, she'd never forget yesterday's nightmare. After the battle with the Pinkertons, several of his fellow workers had hired a carriage to take him home as he lay unconscious, a frightful swelling on his head. She'd checked out of the hotel and rushed to his house, ignoring the workers' suspicious looks, her only thought to take care of him, terrified of losing him.
Discarding painful memories, she sank into the chair beside his bed, grateful for the serene look that defined his face. A fierce burst of love erupted inside her, near painful in its intensity. How she loved this man, loved him so passionately she resolved that nothing and no one would ever come between them. A futile wish, she acknowledged, desperate to deny the truth. Yet, he was, always would be, a part of her, her love as long as she had breath in her body. But he would never be her husband.
Aware he'd slept a long time, she rose from the chair to head downstairs and brew him a cup of tea. Surely he'd wake soon and want something to ease his dry throat. On the way to the kitchen, she let her gaze drift around the parlor where the bright sunlight brought all of the room's objects into brilliant focus.
Lisa stopped by the upright piano to study a family photograph atop it, smiling at the picture of Owen's parents, his sister, and a much younger Owen--perhaps eighteen or so. Gently tracing his image with her finger, she studied his dark hair, the solemn expression on his face, those dark eyes whose look seemed to be only for her. Beside the photograph rested a sonata by Mozart, yellowed with age, the edges dog-eared. She wondered when anyone had played it last.
She'd been too worri
ed to notice these things yesterday, but now she silently admired the Belgian carpet with its jewel-like colors of deep blue, crimson, and purple, the oval tilt-top table with a Venetian vase on top, the rosewood sofa. A grandfather clock in the corner chimed the hour, a reminder of her old home on Amberson Avenue. An elegant bronze electric lamp sat on another table near the front door, and she considered it strange that Homestead had electricity when Shadyside didn't. The lace curtains hung limply at the front windows, the air remaining hot and still.
It seemed to her as if her life had been but a preparation for this incomparable time with Owen, these hours and days she'd remember until her death. Each minute with him would stand out in vivid clarity, a never ending cavalcade of precious moments, of stolen kisses, and whispered love words.
A further perusal of the room revealed simple and pleasing furnishings, but nothing compared to the elegant decor of her mansion in Shadyside. A trace of uneasiness nagged her. Could she be happy in a such a modest home, with no servants? How could she, after the luxury she was used to?
Only think of all the dirt and dust from the mill! Unless she had an army of servants--and she suspected Owen couldn't afford many--it would be a constant battle waged against the persistent dirt and grime in a mill town. The lace curtains alone would need daily laundering and ironing, not to mention the frequent cleaning the carpet would demand.
And what about Owen's neighbors, all the others who lived in this depressing mill town? No doubt they were fine and decent folk, but she wondered what she'd have in common with them, or if they would accept her. Even now, she could imagine them saying "snooty rich lady" behind her back. Yes, she admitted, she was being snobbish, but she couldn't change her attitudes so easily. She straightened her shoulders and headed for the kitchen, knowing these thoughts would lead nowhere, for she and Owen had no future together. Tears filled her eyes but she brushed them away, trying to forget she and Owen had only the past and the present.
As she reached into the kitchen cabinet for a cup and saucer, a low moan from upstairs startled her. Her hand shook, the cup rattling. At first too shocked to move, she slammed the cabinet door and bounded upstairs, clutching the skirt of her gray muslin dress. She rushed into Owen's bedroom, dismayed to see Owen tossing in bed, a sweat-soaked sheet pushed down to his waist.
With trembling fingers, she bent over him and placed a hand on his forehead, finding him hot with fever, his pillow wet with perspiration.
"Owen, sweetheart!"
"Lisa, Lisa." His glazed eyes stared up at her. "Don't leave me," he whispered. "I need you."
"Oh, no, I won't leave you," she soothed in a wavery voice. "I won't leave you," she repeated, voicing the dearest wish of her life. Unable to take her eyes from him, she clasped his hand. How hot and dry it was! Without another word, she hurried from the room to fetch a pan of cold water.
Hours later, after she'd sponged him with cold water and dosed him with salicin, Owen slept peacefully again, his temperature restored to normal.
Lisa hustled about the kitchen, putting dishes away and straightening up the room while she hummed a tune to herself. Owen appeared to be out of danger, thank God! Perhaps he was too well, she mused with a reminiscent smile. His loving looks, the touch of his hand when she'd brought him an omelet this evening, told her all she'd ever need to know of his love.
Flashes of far-distant lightning and rumblings of thunder heralded a storm that brewed east of the Allegheny Mountains. Lisa clutched a chair back, breathing fast. Thunderstorms had always frightened her, ever since her dear grandfather had died of a ruptured appendix on such a summer night as this.
The wind picked up, fluttering the chintz curtain above the kitchen sink as the temperature dropped precipitously. Lightning lit the night sky, then the room plunged into darkness. Finished putting dishes away, Lisa rushed into the parlor, where the lace curtains whipped frantically in a stiff wind. With only flashes of lightning to guide her, she hurried to close the windows. After grasping pieces of furniture along the way, she dashed up the stairs.
Approaching the spare bedroom she’d taken as her own, she passed Owen's room . . . and hesitated. How she wanted to run to him now, get in bed with him. And then what? Oh, there would be no stopping them. She'd never be able to resist him, to deny her love. Go to him, her heart advised. Leave him alone, her mind told her.
For now, she'd follow her mind. Later, oh, later! she didn't dare think of what might happen. Waves of passion engulfed her, and she had to lean against the wall for support. She finally pushed herself away from the wall and trudged to her bedroom on unsteady legs. In the darkness, she unbuttoned her dress. She let the frock fall about her feet and stepped out of it, all the while thinking of Owen, wishing he were with her now. The image sent a rush of heat throughout her body, prompting her to stop and take a deep breath.
She'd go see him, she promised herself, but only for a minute, only to see how he was. No longer than a minute. If he awoke . . . oh, dear, if he awoke . . . she couldn't trust herself.
Another flash of lightning jolted her from her passionate fantasies. With jittery fingers, she jerked the pins from her hair and tossed them into a china dish on the dresser. Finished disrobing, she fished her cotton nightgown from a chest of drawers, then slipped it over her head. Free of the confining pins, the silky locks rippled past her shoulders and fell down her back.
Rain pounded on the roof. Thick drops pelted the windows and ran down the pane, obscuring everything outside except the ailanthus tree whose branches scraped against her bedroom window. How could Owen sleep in this storm? Stumbling around in the dark, she nearly knocked over a porcelain vase, exclaiming at her clumsiness.
Owen’s voice reached her from down the hall. “Lisa, is that you?”
What should she do now? If she were in bed with him, he’d hold her close, kiss all her fears away. But where would their kisses end? No need to ask.
“Lisa?”
Her heart won the struggle. She padded barefoot down the hall, her sheer nightgown brushing against her legs. Taking a deep breath, she stood in his doorway while streaks of lightning and crashes of thunder tore across the blackened sky. With only a brief hesitation, she slowly approached his bed, where he lay bare-chested, the sheet pulled up to his waist.
“Owen . . . I . . .” She raised a hand to brush a strand of hair from her shoulders, her breasts shaking with the movement.
* * *
Owen eased himself up in bed. His breath caught, his pulse quickening. He’d lain awake for quite some time, his eyes now accustomed to the dark. Stunned by her loveliness in her white nightgown, her long hair falling down her back, he could only stare. No words came.
“Lisa, are you all right?” he asked after a long pause, full of meaning. How lovely she looks, he thought, frantic with desire. He wanted her as he never had before. He throbbed with longing, aching to hold her in his arms, never let her go.
Lisa inched closer to his bed, her dark eyes unfathomable in the blackness; then she stopped a few feet from him. “I’m quite well,” she whispered. “And you?”
He motioned to her. “Closer.” As she edged nearer, he saw the expression in her eyes, her hands clenched at her sides. He knew she wanted him, too, and the knowledge aroused him until he could think of nothing, no one but her, and how he wanted her beyond reason.
Another clap of thunder shook the house. Lightning flashed across the sky. “Oh!” She jumped, pressing her hand to her heart.
“A thunderstorm, darling, moving west, away from us. There’s a longer interval between the lightning and the thunder, haven’t you noticed? Means it’s letting up.” He clasped her hand, running his thumb sensuously over the palm. “And as for me, I’m feeling better now. Much better.” He increased the slow, tantalizing pressure of his thumb.
Afraid of where his actions might lead, he released her hand and eased down in bed. “Better go back to your room,” he said brusquely, “before I forget you’re a married lady.” H
is look swept over her, and he saw all the features that sent his pulse racing, that urged him to reach out, draw her into bed with him.
He gazed at her in silent yearning, at her lustrous hair shimmering in the dark, the strands brushing across her bosom. He observed the drape of the sheer nightgown across her breasts, and even in the darkness, he saw the outline of her nipples, could tell they were erect with desire.
“Go back to your room, Lisa,” he said in a voice thick with emotion. “I won’t be responsible for my actions if you stay here with me.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “No, I’m not going back to my room. It’s time we discussed a few things, seeing that you’re so much better now. I want to tell you about my marriage–“
He slammed his fist on the mattress. “I don’t want to hear about it!”
“Well, you’re going to hear about it, whether you want to or not!”
“No, damn it!” Clad only in his pajama bottoms, he sprang from the bed and grabbed her, pinning her arms to her sides. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?” he said, shaking her. “Have you any idea of what I’ve been through these past months?” The pressure of his hands increased. “Do you? Do you?” He stared down at her, his chest heaving.
She jerked away from him. “Stop it, Owen! You’re hurting me.” She rubbed her arms, her body trembling.
“Lisa, I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you.” He gathered her into his embrace as she raised her head for his kiss. He burned for her, his heart and soul crying for her, and he knew she felt the same. He could tell, ah, yes, he could tell. This woman meant more to him than life, she, who was married to another man. Covering her face with frantic kisses, he refused to think about her marriage, could think only of how much he loved her, how he’d yearned for her these long, lonely months.
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