Forbidden Love

by Shirley Martin

Owen gave them both friendly smiles, then left to return to his lonely house on the hill.

  * * *

  Dabbing a linen handkerchief across her forehead and down her cheeks, Lisa ran her finger under the high collar of her silk blouse. She shaded her eyes against the sunshine as she climbed the hill to Owen's house. It's just as well I like to walk, she thought, her legs straining up the hill. Like climbing a mountain. The late morning sunlight shone from a clear blue sky, shimmering on the pavement. The ailanthus trees, no longer a dull gray since the mill had closed, sparkled with moisture after a brief shower.

  Stopping to catch her breath, she turned back to look at the empty and lifeless mill, where the brilliant sunlight glinted off the tops of the mill buildings, momentarily blinding her. She

  continued up the hill to Fourteenth Avenue, wondering how in the world the good people of Homestead made this trip in the wintertime. As Owen's white frame house came into view, she quickened her pace, oblivious to neighbors' disapproval.

  Reluctant to startle him with an abrupt entrance, she knocked on the door and waited a few seconds. She looked down the street, where she saw several children playing jump rope, but their merry chant was the only sound in this quiet neighborhood. After a minute or so, she turned the doorknob and let herself in, grateful that no one in Homestead ever locked his door.

  "Owen!" she called as she stepped into the parlor. Silence. She called up the stairs but still there was no answer. The lace curtains hung limply by the open window, the house stifling hot. A shaft of sunlight caught the dust motes that floated through the air. A glance throughout the downstairs showed her that someone--Owen, she supposed--had tried to keep the house clean but hadn't quite succeeded. She wondered where his housekeeper was.

  And where was Owen? Useless to wonder, she decided as she started to straighten the parlor, where engineering books and a jumble of magazines cluttered the room. Seeking diversion, she sang while she worked.

  In the gloaming, oh, my darling

  When the lights are dim and low

  And the quiet shadows falling

  Softly come and softly go

  Hours later, the house--upstairs and downstairs--looked clean and welcoming, magazines in a neat pile on the table, books returned to the upstairs bookcase. A stew made of vegetables from Owen's back garden simmered on the stove, its heady aroma scenting the house. But still no Owen. Lisa settled herself on the sofa and leafed through a copy of Scientific American, continually looking out the front window, certain Owen would step into the room any minute.

  As she tried to concentrate on an article about a man named Diesel and an internal combustion engine, a knock at the front door made her jump. She set the magazine down and rose to her feet, a hundred questions churning in her head. A second knock sent her rushing to the door, a calm expression fixed on her face.

  She opened the front door to see a blue-suited policeman, an envelope in his hand. "Wha--what do you want?" She ran damp hands up and down her skirt. Her heart pounded; her legs shook so much she felt sure the policeman could see the flutter of her cotton skirt.

  The policeman gave her an apologetic look. "Is this the residence of Owen Cardiff?"

  Lisa took a deep breath. "Yes, it is." Another deep breath. "I'm his wife," she said, the lie heating her face. "Please tell me what this is all about."

  He spoke with compassion. "I have a warrant for his arrest."

  No, please, no! She grasped the edge of the table for support. She would not faint.

  The policeman reached his hand out to her. "Madam, are you all right?"

  "Yes, of course," she replied, determined to remain calm. "What is the charge?"

  "Murder."

  Chapter Eighteen

  "Please, God, no!" After the policeman left, Lisa sank onto the sofa, clutching her stomach. She swallowed hard, at a loss to understand the warrant’s meaning. How in the world could Owen be charged with murder? So as soon as he arrived home--

  The door opened and Owen stepped inside, bowler in hand. "Lisa!"

  She sprang from her chair and rushed into his arms. "Owen, I had to come see you. I couldn't stay away." She looked up at him and saw all the dear features she’d missed and dreamed of for so many lonely days and nights. “You do understand, don’t you?” She stared up into his eyes, needing to hear his reassuring love words.

  "Ah, darling!" He drew her into his arms and kissed her with desperation, his hands roving across her back and down her hips, easing her ever closer. "I've missed you so," he murmured in his husky voice. "I can never tell you how much."

  She looked up at him, her eyes misting. "No need to tell me. I can't get you out of my mind, even if I wanted to, which I don't.” She forced herself to act calm, to conceal her fear for him about the warrant, aware they must face this challenge together. He was bound to see it, and she couldn’t hide it from him, even if she wanted to.

  Owen tightened his embrace. He kissed her again and again, his mouth teasing hers open, tasting its exquisite pleasures. He drew back, a look of loving warmth in his eyes. His eyes caught the warrant lying on the table. "What--?" He picked it up, a puzzled look on his face.

  "Owen! Darling, there's been some dreadful mistake and--"

  Grim-faced, he tore the warrant open.

  "Oh, my God!" After scanning the paper, Owen slapped it down on the table. "I never thought it would come to this." He gave her a look full of sympathy. "And you were here alone when the policeman delivered it. I never thought . . . ," he repeated. "There's been talk among the men about this very thing. We have our spies. I told you that once, remember? Some of the other men suspected this might happen, but I . . ." He gave the table leg a vicious kick. "Damn that Frick! Damn him to hell!"

  "What are we going to do about it?" Lisa asked in a voice edged with panic. "What are we going to do?”

  He shrugged. "I'll turn myself in. What else?"

  His attempt at nonchalance didn't fool her. She could see the tense set of his shoulders, the grim line of his mouth, his deep frown, aware he was every bit as worried as she.

  "What if they find you guilty?" she persisted. "They could, you know," she pointed out with a catch in her voice. She should never have said that. Letting her hands go slack, she tried to match his pretense of indifference but realized she failed miserably. Her heart was breaking for him. Dear God! He might be hanged! Please, God, don’t let that happen.

  "But I'm not guilty." He folded his arms across his chest, his face clearing. "All right. Some of the Pinkertons were killed. I'll admit that. But I didn't do any of the killing. I didn't even have a rifle. Besides, the Pinkertons fired first. Eight of our men died." He crumpled the warrant into a tight ball and hurled it across the room, where it hit an end table and bounced back onto the floor. "Frick and the Pinkerton guards he hired should go on trial. They're the guilty ones."

  New hope burst inside her. "Do you think they will?" If they did, that would change everything.

  He scoffed. "Don't be foolish, darling. The vice chairman is too powerful. It'll never come to that."

  Her spirits sank. She should have known that the law sided with those who had power and money. What hope was there for Owen and the other steelworkers? She wanted to cry but did her best to put on a brave face.

  Owen slipped out of his coat and threw it over the back of the sofa. "Let's forget about the warrant, pretend it never happened." He reached to draw her into his arms, his voice low and tender. "I thought I told you we must stay apart." He drew her closer, and the heat of his body, the play of his muscles, aroused her like the most passionate kiss.

  "Oh, did you say that?" she asked in mock surprise. "Well, Owen, I've tried to stay away, but I find it impossible, don't you?"

  "My darling!" He covered her mouth with kisses, saying her name over and over. For now, she'd pretend that nothing could ever detract from their happiness. No threat to Owen existed, no husband hovered in the background. Just she and Owen, the world at their feet.

/>   After a long kiss, deep with meaning, they drew away from each other. She gazed up at him, projecting all her love and longing in her expression. "Owen," she whispered, "you know we must see each other, at least now and then." She sighed. "But I wish it were every day."

  He shook his head, a helpless look in his eyes. "Lisa, Lisa, can't you see what you're doing to me? Honey, you make it mighty difficult for a man," he said, a wisp of a smile on his face. "I don't know what I'm going to do about you."

  I've been so lonely without you," he whispered against her hair. He smiled down at her, a smile she'd remember for the rest of her life. “Lisa, Lisa,” he murmured as he led her to the sofa, his arm warm around her waist, never taking his gaze from her. “Every minute with you is sweet torture.”

  “It’s the same with me!” Next to him on the sofa, she rushed into his embrace, eager for his kisses, his caresses, his every touch, her breasts pressed against him. Every part of her hungered for him, and the heat of his body, the feel of his muscles beneath her fingers reminded her of all she’d missed, all she’d yearned for in the time away from him. She eased back to give him easy access to her breast, loving the warmth and pressure of his fingers.

  “Owen!” She feathered kisses on his cheek, his forehead, her hands roving across his back. “Darling, what are we going to do?” she whispered between frantic kisses. “I want you so much!” That most secret part of her ached for him, and if he took her upstairs to his bed, she could never refuse him.

  He drew her down on the sofa and lay next to her, his arms close around her, his body pressed to hers. She felt his need and yearned to give herself to him, a pulsating, driving emotion that cried for fulfillment. If only she could! If only they were man and wife now, free to make love whenever they wanted. His kisses became more insistent, his fingers moving from her breasts to her feminine core, touching, probing, driving her to madness.

  “Lisa!”

  She had to stop this now! Soon they would reach a point where neither would want to end this sweet torment. Drawing on all her willpower, she gently eased away. “Darling, please, we can’t . . . can’t do . . .”

  “. . . what we both want,” he finished for her. He pulled away, a look of anguish on his face. He stared down at her, the rise and fall of his chest telling her of his passion more than words ever could. Helping her sit up, he opened his mouth, then closed it again, shaking his head.

  “You’re driving me out of my mind,” he said after a long moment of silence. “I don’t know how much more I can take.”

  She stared down at the carpet. “Nor I,” she whispered. They both waited long moments, the sound of their breathing all that was heard in the stillness of the room. She reached a tentative hand toward him, and his hand tightened around hers, his look warm and loving, as if to tell her how much she meant to him. They stayed that way until the grandfather clock in the corner chimed, reminding her of the time.

  She gestured toward the document that lay crumpled up on the floor. “The warrant! What are we going to do about that?” She stopped and shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. Dear God, what if he were convicted of murder? He might hang!

  "This warrant . . . nothing will come of it, I feel sure. But if I go on trial for murder--"

  "Oh, no!"

  . "Please let me finish. If I go on trial for murder, you know they'll find me innocent. There's no way on God's earth they can find me guilty. So after my release--if it comes to a trial--you must ask your husband again for a divorce."

  "Don't you think I've considered this? I've even mentioned the matter to Elizabeth, since Lawrence is a lawyer. But Owen, I told you William will never consent to a divorce. Nor an annulment.”

  He leaned over to place a light kiss on her forehead. "He must. Lisa, I want you as my wife, so very much. I love you more than I can ever say."

  "If only I'd met you first . . . if I'd never married William."

  She drew away and sighed. "I must leave soon," she murmured against his chest. "I don't want to, but I must."

  "Yes," Owen replied "God help me, I know you have to go back." He raised his finger to her face, running it along her full bottom lip, the freckles that dotted her nose and cheeks, finally threading it through her hair. Letting his hand fall, he released a deep sigh. "I'll turn myself in tomorrow."

  "What about the other strikers?” she asked. “Will they turn themselves in, too?"

  "I understand Hugh O'Donnell and John McLuckie intend to. The others have gone into hiding."

  "Gone into hiding! Why should you turn yourself in when they--"

  "Hush," he said, laying his finger over her mouth. "Never mind what some of the other strikers have done. I'll turn myself in. I'm innocent. There's nothing to run away from." He eased her close to kiss her, nuzzling his cheek against hers. "Please, honey, this warrant is just a formality. I know it's easier said than done, but try not to worry about this."

  "But what if they keep you in jail?" she asked in a trembling voice. She fought the tears that threatened to spill, the fear that drove her to despair.

  "They won't, not until the trial comes up, and who knows when that will be? I'll be released on bail."

  "Bail? How much will that be?"

  He shrugged his wide shoulders. "Probably ten-thousand or so. I'll have to--"

  "Ten thousand!" Lisa sat upright. "How in the world--?"

  "The union has a fund for such emergencies. I'm sure our attorney is perfectly willing--and able--to draw from that." He drew her back down and pressed her closer to give her a long, lingering kiss as he stroked her breast. "No more talk. Let's not waste our precious time together.”

  * * *

  "We're gonna beat Frick!"

  "Hell, yes!" Draining his beer mug, Owen sat at the bar of O'Brien's Saloon with several strikers. "Just look," he said, leaning forward on the stool, "the deadline Frick gave us to return to the mill or lose our jobs has long since passed. And what can he do about it? Not a damn thing! How can any scabs do our jobs when they don't know an open hearth from a blast furnace?"

  "Right, Owen," Mike Flanagan agreed. "That damned vice chairman can't do a stinkin' thing. And come to think of it, where the hell is Carnegie? Hiding in his castle in Scotland and leaving the dirty work to his chief errand boy, Henry Clay Frick!"

  One of the union men frowned, his finger tracing the circle of moisture on the counter. "But suppose the vice chairman hires these scabs and gives them enough time to learn our jobs--"

  . "Bullshit, Pete!” Hugh O'Donnell pounded his fist on the counter. “We're the skilled workers! We've spent years learning our trade. I don't know about you, but I'll be damned if I'll let another man take my job from me. . . ."

  A short while later, Owen left the saloon and headed for home, intending to finish several jobs. Unemployed and needing money, he'd taken on various carpentry projects to tide him over until he returned to his regular employment.

  A grim smile touched his face as he looked back at the Homestead mill. Although it remained deserted, stacks continued smoking, and screeching noon whistles announced a non-existent lunch break. And damn it! Work was proceeding on the frame buildings Frick planned to use for housing the scabs.

  He'd spoken with enough bravado at the saloon, but now doubts tormented him. What if Pete Marlowe was right? What if the skilled workers lost their jobs to some damn scabs? His steps slowed as he climbed the steep hill. He could lose his job! Much as he hated working in a steel mill, it was a good-paying, steady livelihood, his source of funds to finance his college education.

  Tension knotted his stomach. If he had no steady income from the mill, he could never become a civil engineer, could never support Lisa, if she were able to obtain a divorce. No matter how loyal Lisa might be--and he knew she'd stand by him--he'd never take her for his wife unless he could provide for her.

  He couldn't bear to lose Lisa.

  For now, he must face the murder charge. He intended to turn himself in to the county jail to
morrow. What in God's name would happen then?

  * * *

  Several days later, Hugh sat on the rosewood sofa in Owen's parlor, both men having just been released from the Allegheny County Jail. "Glad I'm free again," Hugh remarked. "Longest five days I ever spent."

  Owen nodded. "Never thought it'd take our attorney that long to raise bail."

  "A foreboding of things to come," Hugh said with a harsh set to his mouth. "You know Frick will never drop the charges."

  "Agreed, so to hell with him. Tell me the truth, how much longer do you think this strike is going to last?"

  "As long as we want it to, as long as we can hold out. We are not going to back down on this issue of tonnage rates, and we are not going to give in to the mill management. All the other steelworkers support us. How can we lose?”

  "But how much longer can we live on union funds? I may have to draw from my savings, much as I hate to. And what about the non-union workers? What about the Slavs? It's not going to be easy," Owen observed with a slow shake of his head.

  Hugh leaned forward, his eyes bright with feeling. "We will win. Never doubt that." Silent for a moment, he managed a brief smile. "No one's happy since Burgess McLuckie closed all the saloons yesterday."

  "Just as well he did, although I'll admit I like a mug of beer as much as the next man." Stretching his legs out, Owen locked his hands behind his head. "Can you imagine the trouble we'd have if the saloons remained open? As long as the union Advisory Committee controls the borough--and I'd say we've done a damn good job so far--we can maintain the peace. Hell, we even regulate every bit of news that leaves Homestead--even every damn telegram." He nodded with satisfaction. "I'd say we've done quite well."

  "I'd say so, too, but do you know what I heard?"

  Owen held up a hand. "Don't tell me, let me guess. Governor Pattison intends to send the National Guard to patrol the town."