The Valiant Hearts Romance Collection

by Kristin Billerbeck

  Shaking off the awful thought, she went back to her work with renewed vigor. The sooner she finished this task, the sooner she could get back to her familiar world of columns and balances.

  “Just as I predicted.” Penney reached behind her back to untie her apron. “We’re done, and in half the time.”

  “We are, aren’t we?” Truthfully, Helen had been so immersed in her work, she’d failed to notice the passage of time.

  “I knew you would be good at this,” Penney said. “You’re good at everything you attempt.”

  Helen bit back a comment and smiled. How little her dear friend knew, and yet it felt nice to think someone found her competent. Wouldn’t Father have been surprised?

  Monday, July 2, 1860

  The first workday of July, and already the heat had him bested. Henry Hill removed his hat and stepped into the welcoming dimness of the Chandler Building’s outer lobby, then headed for the stairs, slouching off his formal jacket as he climbed the risers by twos.

  “If it were any hotter, bullets would start firing on their own,” he said with a chuckle as he touched the revolver hidden under his vest with his left hand. A man in his position had to be careful, thus the firearm, though thankfully Henry had found no reason lately to have need for the weapon.

  When he reached the second floor, he paused to find his handkerchief and mop his brow. A man less inclined to his work would have removed himself to the mountains weeks ago or at least taken a holiday someplace where an egg would not fry on the roof. Many had done just that, including his law partner, Asa Chambers, but Henry had business that precluded any vacation, now or in the future.

  How could he be about the business of making a difference, of righting wrongs in this city, if he forsook his duties to find solace in the redwoods? Henry straightened his spine and neatly folded his handkerchief back into place in his vest pocket, then pushed open his office door. No, it would not do for the future mayor of San Francisco to retreat in the face of something as minor as a little warm weather.

  A trickle of perspiration teased his forehead. Henry reached for his handkerchief again. At this rate he would need another one before noon.

  “I certainly hope it’s not this hot on Independence Day. I’ll have a time with my speech if it is.”

  His speech. Henry made a note to take another look at the speech he’d be delivering on Independence Day. Too bad Asa would not be there to witness the festivities. After all, he’d spent the better part of two days helping Henry craft the message that would provide the official launch of the mayoral race. Asa Chambers was a friend indeed.

  Casting a glance at his friend’s portrait, hanging alongside his in the foyer, Henry had to chuckle. He would have preferred the money paid to the artist to have gone to charity. Asa’s father, however, insisted on footing the bill. Asa called them masterpieces. Henry just thought they were pretentious.

  Shutting the door behind him, Henry hung his hat on the coatrack, then carefully arranged his jacket to hang beside it. Finally he removed the key from his vest pocket and unlocked the topmost desk drawer on the left, then placed his revolver beneath his Bible and slid the drawer closed. After returning the key to his pocket, he checked the time. Exactly half past nine.

  “Excellent,” he whispered.

  He always arrived precisely half an hour before his first appointment of the day, time enough to place a sizable dent in the teetering pile of papers bordering the northernmost corner of his desk. Once upon a time, Henry would never have thought of allowing such a mess in his office. But then, once upon a time, he hadn’t set his cap for the mayor’s job.

  Mayor Henry Hill.

  The phrase gave him pause each time he considered it. He’d entered the election with much prayer and still much trepidation. Dared he actually assume that God would call him to lead a city? Some days, when life bore down on him, he doubted.

  The hardscrabble way he’d come up in the world most certainly gave Henry an edge in the election, as well as empathy for the unrepresented masses who collected in the less glamorous parts of the city. No matter how long he lived, he would never forget what it was like to go to bed hungry or to wake up to a rat the size of a small dog chewing on the bedpost—or worse, on him. If the Lord allowed his victory, Henry would do his best to see that no other child had to live in such abhorrent conditions.

  San Franciscans would never know from whence Henry Hill came. His change of name and adoption at the age of seven by the wealthy and tenderhearted Anna Hill, heiress to the Hill shipping fortune, precluded any questions regarding his background. Anna’s story of taking in her late sister Violet’s son had been accepted without question, especially given her status as a childless unmarried woman with a love of children and a long list of charities to her credit.

  What Anna failed to mention was that her late sister had died destitute and estranged from the family, who had refused to accept the man who fathered her only son. Where that man was now was anyone’s guess.

  “A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favor rather than silver and gold.” His favorite verse and the words by which he lived. With the Lord’s help, Eli Barnes would never return to besmirch the name Henry had worked so hard to keep from tarnishing.

  But what if Eli Barnes did return? What if his opponent’s cronies were able to track him down? Would the voters of San Francisco still accept attorney Henry Hill as a candidate once they laid eyes on the ne’er-do-well who sired him?

  “God is in control,” he whispered.

  Bypassing a folded note and a pair of newly delivered letters that were most likely invitations to some social event, he reached for the topmost paper on the stack and dove in to the intricacies of law, both his passion and his respite from thoughts too unpleasant to bear. Every time he tackled a question of legal jurisprudence, he thanked God for choosing him to be a defender of the less fortunate. With His help, Henry would soon be in a position to provide aid and assistance on a much larger scale.

  Moments later, or so it seemed, a soft knock captured his attention. Henry rose and ushered the first of several dozen clients into his office. By the time he’d finished with the last one, darkness had long since settled over the city. As he opened the desk drawer to retrieve his revolver, he saw the Bible.

  “Where were You today, God?” he whispered as he shrugged into his coat, donned his hat, and stepped into the foyer. “Or rather, why didn’t I find time to look for You?”

  Henry made the climb down the back stairs, knowing he’d find an answer to that last question but fearing he would also make the same mistake tomorrow. Someday, when the pressures of his life were lessened a bit, maybe he would find the time to earnestly search for God’s presence. In the meantime, a hasty prayer and a promise for better days to come were the best Henry could offer. After all, he had a city to lead.

  “No, Lord, that’s not right. You’ll be doing the leading. I’ll just take the orders and do my best to follow.”

  Chapter 2

  Wednesday, July 4, 1860

  What a nice man, that Mr. Hill,” Penney said with a sigh as she and Helen strolled away from the Fourth of July festivities. “He really seems to care about people.”

  “I suppose.”

  Helen linked arms with Penney as they strolled past the darkened windows of the Gazette and turned toward home. In truth, while she’d found the man’s message both uplifting and God-honoring, the man himself was much more interesting. A strange feeling, this vague attraction to one so handsome and unapproachable, thus she reasoned it must be ignored.

  No good would come of entertaining fanciful thoughts of romance with any fellow, much less one so far beyond her in ambition. The Bible claimed it far better to live a quiet life, and Helen held this in no dispute. In fact, the verse in the fourth chapter of 1 Thessalonians was among her favorites: “And that ye study to be quiet, and to do your own business, and to work with your own hands.”

  Ah yes, quiet. Hel
en’s definition of the well-lived life.

  Imagine making one’s livelihood from public displays, such as this evening. Helen shuddered despite the lingering warmth of the day. A worse lot in life, she could not imagine.

  “Mr. Hill has such exciting plans for helping the poor,” Penney said as the pair stepped gingerly across a particularly muddy spot in the street. “He seems like someone who will give a voice to people like us.”

  “People like us?” Helen looked down into the kind face of her friend. How little Penney knew about the life Helen led before making her way to San Francisco. While she hadn’t been untruthful about her privileged past, neither had she spoken in any detail. As far as her three friends knew, Helen Morgan was an average woman with an average life, and this suited Helen just fine.

  “Yes, the common folk,” Penney said, punctuating the statement with a smile. “He did seem quite sincere.”

  “I suppose,” she repeated.

  No need in telling her perpetually optimistic friend that in all likelihood Henry Hill was just like all politicians, as blustery as the wind and just as difficult to find in times of need. An opinion poorly timed and quickly given bore no good return. Words of wisdom from Father that had served Helen well through the years.

  Helen smiled. Perhaps someday when she met him in heaven, she would tell Father she’d listened to each and every speech he’d delivered, albeit discreetly and selectively. Wouldn’t he be surprised?

  “Oh my.” Penney stopped short and gave Helen a stricken look. “My reticule. I must have left it back at the celebration.”

  “Are you sure?” she called to Penney’s retreating form. “Maybe you just forgot to bring it.”

  “No, I’m sure I had it when we were sitting beside the stage, and then I …” Penney’s voice trailed off as she turned the corner. Helen rushed to catch up, nearly bowling down a well-dressed matron and her slightly younger escort.

  “Forgive me,” Helen said as she rushed past the pair. “It seems as though my friend has lost her—”

  “Handbag?”

  The question brought her to a halt. Helen whirled about to face the speaker. There he stood, the politician himself, so close she could practically read the swirling initial on his gold signet ring and count the buttons on his expensively tailored formal coat.

  Center stage, the man—what was his name?—appeared quite dashing, but here, so near, dashing was but a pale version of his true description.

  The gentleman in question thrust a dark object toward Helen. “I believe this is what your friend is seeking.”

  Helen nodded, thankfully rendered mute, and forced her fingers to close around the item. What was it? Something soft, made of velvet, with a fringe that tickled her palm. She stole a glance at her still-outstretched hand. Ah, yes, Penney’s reticule.

  Helen lifted her gaze and found the politician and the woman staring expectantly. She should speak, should say something—anything. But about what? Ah, yes, the handbag.

  The moment she made the determination, her fingers rebelled and released their grip. Helen watched as Penney’s handbag slipped out of her reach and landed with a thud in the muck.

  “Dear,” the woman said, “are you ill?”

  “I—i—ill?” Helen forced her lips closed and swallowed hard, then took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. With concentration, she managed to focus on the politician’s companion. “Thank you. No, I’m fine.”

  Dark eyes smiled back from a kind face, slightly weathered by a sum of years that seemed to have treated her most kindly. “Perhaps we could see you home then?” She gave the politician an almost imperceptible nudge in the rib with her elbow.

  “Yes,” he said quickly as he once again retrieved the velvet bag and thrust it into her hand. “Yes, do accompany us, Miss …”

  “Morgan.” She tightened her fingers around the reticule and tried not to jump with joy that the single word hadn’t come out as a string of unintelligible gibberish.

  The woman offered her gloved hand. “How do you do, Miss Morgan? I’m Anna Hill.”

  Helen somehow completed the exchange of pleasantries without further embarrassment, then took a step backward. “Thank you, but I—I—I really must go.” She tested her footing on the uneven thoroughfare and found it lacking. Her ankle turned, and a sharp pain preceded a humiliating stumble forward. The politician immediately came to her aid.

  “Dear, do assist the young lady to the buggy. I shan’t imagine she will be going home on her own.”

  Ignoring the urge to flee, Helen called upon the manners she’d learned at her mother’s knee and prayed her faulty phrasing could enunciate the words she needed to say. “Thank you, but it isn’t necessary t—t—to—”

  “Nonsense,” argued the matron as she bustled toward a rather elegant carriage parked just ahead.

  Somehow Helen felt herself moving forward, placing one foot ahead of the other and progressing toward the selfsame coach. Had she gathered any senses, she might have resisted. Rather, Helen fell into step beside the gentleman and stared at his hand on her arm, the signet ring with the swirling double H on his hand, and finally, into the eyes of her escort.

  As her gaze locked with the politician’s, she froze. What’s come over me?

  Helen cleared her throat and enunciated slowly. “Do unhand me, sir.”

  The gentleman removed his hand and frowned. “Forgive me,” he said, although the apologetic sentiment did not quite match his amused expression.

  When he looked away, Helen turned and fled without so much as a proper farewell.

  “Helen?” Penney asked as Helen approached. “You found my reticule. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost it.”

  “Actually, I didn’t find it.” She paused to gesture toward the politician now walking toward them. “He did.”

  “Why, isn’t that the fellow from this afternoon?” She waved her reticule in his direction. “Mr. Hill? I’m ever so grateful for you—”

  “Don’t give it another thought,” he said, approaching with one hand hidden beneath his coat. As he strode past, barely sparing a glance toward her and Penney, Helen noticed a glint of silver under the politician’s formal coat.

  A revolver.

  Nothing particularly out of order about that. San Francisco could be a dangerous town, and one would assume a man of Mr. Hill’s caliber would deem protection necessary. Of course, one could also assume that a man who practically raced away from his companion with his hand atop his revolver might be heading for trouble rather than protecting himself from it.

  “Well, he certainly seemed to be in a rush,” Penney said as she linked arms with Helen.

  “Indeed he did.”

  Chapter 3

  Thursday, July 5, 1860

  Miss Morgan, there’s been some late-breaking news, and I’d like very much if you would edit the copy then help the typesetter in working this article into the front page.” Mr. Madison thrust a hastily scribbled paper in her direction, and she caught it just before it floated to the floor. “Facts are sketchy, so work with what we know. I’m meeting with the chief in a few minutes, but I don’t expect he’ll have anything new to say until the arrest is made public. In the meantime, I know it’s late, but I expect you girls to get this edition in print posthaste. Can’t let the other papers beat us to the story.”

  Helen rose and watched Mr. Madison rush toward the door. “I’ve left the headline to you,” he called as he donned his hat. “Make it a good one.”

  “Yes, sir.” She lowered her gaze to the paper in her hand and began to read.

  “What is it?” Penney called from her spot at the typesetting table.

  “Big news,” Helen said, imitating Mr. Madison’s distinctive voice. “We’re to get the edition out as soon as possible in his absence.” She shrugged and glanced around the empty newsroom. “Looks like I’m your only help.”

  Penney smiled. “Then let’s get to it. What do we have that’s so important?”

/>   Helen laid the paper in front of Penney. “A murder. Someone named Frank Bynum was killed last night. They found his body this afternoon hidden behind the livery.”

  “Frank Bynum? That name sounds familiar,” Penney said.

  “Well, I’ve never heard of him, but that doesn’t mean a thing.” Helen paused. “Oh my. Is this the fellow who found your handbag? The one who’s running for mayor?”

  Penney leaned closer. “No, his name was Henry Hill. The fellow who’s going to be arrested for the crime is named Henry Hall. See?”

  “Well, that’s a relief. He did seem like a nice fellow.” Even if he is a politician.

  Helen reached for a handful of letters and began assembling the headline while Penney deftly pieced together the body of the text. In short order, the changes had been made to the front page, the sensational news taking the place of a less important story. Helen wiped her hands on her apron and smiled. “That certainly went quickly, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, it did.” Penney smiled. “Two heads are always better than one.”

  “I’m just glad I could help.” Penney had no idea how very much Helen meant the sentiment. Her days of incompetence seemed destined to be over, and the successful completion of tasks such as this gave her hope that someday she might feel capable to take on larger ones.

  Friday, July 6, 1860

  Henry Hill pounded his fist on the table and nearly upset his adoptive mother’s favorite Wedgwood coffee service. He had certainly upset her.

  True to her nature, the dear woman said nothing in anticipation of the explanation she demanded with the lift of a dark brow. On another day, he might have taken heed of her warning look, might have voiced the apology she silently demanded, but not today.

  Not with his career and his campaign lying in tatters. Not after having his evening ruined by a cryptic note handed to Asa during the speech and the possibility of meeting with his long-lost father that thankfully had never taken place.