by Beth Ciotta
Still, it was a devil of a thing to see his little brothers’ names dragged through the mud.
He cursed I. M. Wilde.
He could spend the morning concocting ways to bring down the dime novelist who catapulted his brothers to fame then compromised their careers in the space of a year. But he dropped the article to his desk and returned his attention to the telegram. He’d received the wire yesterday. MISSION IN PROGRESS. He’d read the one line countless times, trying to accept that he’d set a future in motion that he could not change. His future with Emily, not Kaila.
It didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel right. Yet he couldn’t retract the proposal. He couldn’t, wouldn’t do that to Emily. At the same time, she deserved better than a husband who spent every hour of his existence aching for another woman.
Mission in progress. Seth couldn’t have been more specific? Obviously, Emily hadn’t jumped at the chance to become Mrs. Athens Garrett. Of course, in her mind he was the wrong Mr. Garrett. He’d known her infatuation with Rome would be a barrier, but he’d expected Seth to find a way around it. He took the message to mean he was doing just that. Explaining the advantages of a practical, amiable marriage. Persuading her to marry a man she didn’t love. A man who didn’t love her.
He should’ve hired another nanny, or a live-in housekeeper who cooked and cleaned every day, but, unlike Maria, did not go home every night. He should’ve just been more selective in his hiring. Someone Zach and Zoe could not run off. But, deep down, he didn’t want someone too tough or rough. After all, their mother had been sweet and fun loving. Was it so wrong to want them to be raised with that similar care? Kaila flashed in his mind. Her white bloomers flashing from a tree on Washington Street.
He shook his head and instead thought of Emily. They loved Emily.
It was then that Athens acknowledged the sick truth. The union he’d claimed to be mutually beneficial was mostly beneficial to him. He wanted not only a mother for his children but also someone to ease his guilt so he could focus on PMA.
He dropped his head in his hands. “You are an ass.”
“If you say so, sir.”
Parker.
Athens straightened and focused on the newspaper on his desk. “I thought you had business at the general store.”
“I did. Got back a minute ago. You were absorbed in the newspaper. Probably why you didn’t hear me come in.”
“Uh, huh. I think you like practicing your stealth skills on me.”
The man’s lip twitched.
The door slammed open and Sammy Kirk burst in, wide-eyed and winded, for the second time in less than a week. “Mr. Garrett, come quick!”
Parker groaned.
Athens stood, realizing he did not feel his usual frustration at the interruption. It occurred to him that it was time to care for his children himself. Not just keeping them in line and providing food, clothes, and shelter. But offering the affection of a parent, which he had not since Jocelyn’s death. He’d pulled away from Zach and Zoe, and no doubt they were confused and angry. It made him angry at himself. He’d been throwing up barriers between himself and his children for too long. Afraid to get too close again. Afraid what he might do if he lost someone else he loved.
PMA allowed him to protect them without getting close.
He’d been fooling himself. He couldn’t protect his heart. It was too late for that. He’d already lost his heart to them long ago.
He’d also, more recently, lost it to Kaila.
He could admit it now, which gave him a sense of relief. He was growing tired of holding up the dam against his emotions. Still, he had no idea how to untangle this web he had spun and that left him more than a little miserable.
He shrugged into his frock coat. “Where are my children?”
Kaila hesitated when Zach and Zoe pounded on her front door, asking to come inside. She and Athens had agreed to keep their distance. Visiting with his children, delightful as they were, seemed ill advised.
Then she saw the boy’s swollen eye. Someone had socked him good.
She studied Zach’s disheveled clothes, his hair sticking up every which way, his freckled face, and the chipped tooth when he spoke. “Zoe says you make good cookies.”
“The best!” Unlike her brother, the little girl didn’t bear markings of a tussle. She looked sunny and cute as the dickens in her yellow gingham dress. Instead of wearing her bonnet, she carried it. Hence the wind-blown curls and sunburned cheeks.
Kaila wanted to hug them, instead, she invited them in and ushered them into her kitchen. After serving them iced tea and a plate of cookies she asked why they weren’t in school.
They spewed their story at the same time, stepping on each other’s’ sentences, but she got the gist.
“I don’t understand why you didn’t defend yourself,” she said after Zach described the pummeling.
“Papa said words are more powerful than fists. Said I should use my head and reason my way outta fixes.”
“Yes, well, one should avoid violence when possible. I agree. But if the other boy failed to see reason--”
“He called our uncles graces,” Zoe piped in. “Disgraces,” Zach corrected. Kaila handed the boy a used tea bag. “Press this to your eye and hold it there.”
“Why?”
“It will ease the swelling.”
“Papa just slaps a piece of raw beef on it.”
She frowned. “How many black eyes have you had?”
“Lots,” said Zoe.
“It occurs to me that your reasoning skills are not up to par, Zach.”
Zoe swiped crumbs from her mouth. “His fightin’ stinks worse.”
Kaila handed her a napkin. “Perhaps you should ask your father for some tips,” she said to the boy, “for defense purposes only.”
He snorted. “Like he’d know how to throw a punch.” He gulped the remnants of his iced tea, bit into another cookie. “Now, if my uncles were here, they’d show me how to fight. They’re heroes.”
She understood why he admired Rome and Boston Garrett, but not at the expense of his own father. “There are all kinds of heroes. Teachers. Lawyers.”
“Papa’s a lawyer,” Zoe said.
Kaila nodded. “As such he defends people’s rights. When he was a state senator, he helped create laws, also for the good of the common man. He’s fought many battles, and won.”
Zoe scrunched her nose. “So, he’s like a soldier?”
She smiled. “In a manner of speaking.”
Zach looked unimpressed. “You don’t know my uncles.”
“Not personally, no, but I’ve read about their adventures.”
“You have?”
“Yes, well . . .” She hurried into the living room and brought back three dime novels, each featuring a tale about the Garrett brothers.
“I can’t believe it,” Zach said, fingering the pages. “Zoe was right. You are a pistol.”
She didn’t know if that was a compliment. A knock on the door kept her from asking. “I’ll be right back.”
She smoothed her skirt as she left the kitchen, anticipation and dread coursing through her veins. She opened the door, not surprised that Athens Garrett looked unhappy, wishing she could kiss away his frown.
“Someone saw my kids knocking on your door.”
She motioned him inside. “They’re in the kitchen.” Belatedly she remembered the dime novels. Oh, no.
He saw the children leafing through the pages but didn’t comment. “How’d you get the shiner, son?”
Zach glanced up, tossed the tea bag on the table.
“Trying to reason with a bully.”
“Miss Kaila says he shoulda used his fists,” Zoe said.
Her cheeks flushed. “Not exactly.”
He hitched back his coat, slid his hands in his pockets. “Thank Mrs. Dillingham for the refreshments and go on home. We’ll talk about this later.”
“Talk, talk, talk,” Zach complained as he scooted back his chair.
Kaila bit her tongue.
“Come on, Zoe.” The sullen boy took his sister’s hand.
“Aren’t you coming, Papa?” the girl asked.
“Later. I want to have a word with Mrs. Dillingham.”
She looked up at Kaila, her brow scrunched. “Uh oh.”
Her thought exactly.
The children moved into the living room.
“Hey,” Athens called over his shoulder.
“Thank you for the cookies,” they droned in unison then hurried outside.
Her kitchen suddenly seemed quite small, and warm. “I can explain the dime novels.”
“Explain the tea bag.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
He turned and faced her. “Why was my son holding a tea bag over his eye?”
“To reduce the swelling.”
“That actually helps?”
“It certainly doesn’t hurt.” She bristled. She didn’t have children, but she’d been young once. She’d experienced bumps and bruises and she distinctly remembered the tea leaf remedy.
He rocked back on his heels, narrowed his eyes. “Why do you suppose, after getting into a scrape, Zach and Zoe sought refuge here?”
She hadn’t the slightest idea. “Because Zoe likes my cookies?”
“Because Zoe likes you. She talked about you all day yesterday.” He indicated the dime novels. “And now you’ve won over my son.”
She scraped her teeth over her lower lip. “I know you don’t approve of I. M. Wilde.”
“Because of him, my brothers are on suspension.”
“I know. I read the article. As did the boy who hassled Zach. Or perhaps he heard about it from his father. I don’t know, but that brute of a child called Zach’s uncles a disgrace. Your son was trying to defend their honor.”
“I know.”
Agitated, she started to pace. “You can’t blame him for that.”
“I don’t.”
“He tried to reason with that bully even after the boy knocked him to the ground. I don’t encourage violence, but really, Athens, a boy should know how to defend himself.”
“I agree.”
“Sometimes action is the best course. Take your best shot and consequences be damned!”
“You’re sexy when you’re fired up, English.” He snagged her wrist and yanked her flush against him.
“What are you doing?” she squeaked.
“Taking action.” He caressed her cheeks and ravished her mouth.
She melted against him, matched his ardor. Her brain screamed, He’s promised to another, while her body strained against him asking for more. Asking for everything.
They groped, kneaded, and stroked, their actions frantic. He hiked her skirt and dropped his pants.
She wrapped her legs around him, guided him in and . . . “Yes!”
He backed her against the wall, slammed inside of her, hard, deep. She would have cried More, but her tongue was tangled with his. He sensed her needs, met her demands, again and again, until she cried her release.
He was right behind her. His body shuddered, and long after they continued to kiss.
She was certain she’d died and gone to heaven. Or maybe this was hell.
He eased her to her feet and they quietly dressed, each deep in thought.
“This is insane,” she said, tears pricking at her eyes.
“I know.” He dragged his fingers through his hair, studied her a long, torturous minute then headed for her front door.
Her heart burst with affection and need. “Where are you going?”
“To take my best shot.”
CHAPTER 25
San Francisco, California
For the first time in a long time, Emily was glad for Mr. Bellamont’s company. She’d been surprised when he sat next to her on the train. Shame and guilt reared, but this time she immediately slew those demons. Pinkerton was right. She was not to blame for her father’s death.
Neither was Mr. Bellamont. He’s not the enemy, she thought, forcing herself to relax. Indeed, this moment he was a blessing. He was traveling to San Francisco on business, and, unlike her, he’d taken the train and ferry many times. When he inquired as to why she was traveling to the city, she’d answered, “Library business.” Thankfully, he hadn’t commented other than to say Mrs. Frisbie was fortunate to have her as a liaison.
Over the hours, the winemaker told her about areas of interest in the booming city and attempted casual conversation. Though polite, Emily proved lousy company. She kept imagining Mrs. Frisbie and Mrs. Dunlap sick with worry. And what about Pinkerton? By now he knew her secrets. Would he leave her to face her fate alone or join her for the showdown?
She’d asked Chet to get word to the poet and to her boss that she’d been summoned to San Francisco. Mrs. Frisbie would be at a loss, but Pinkerton would know she’d gone to confront the blackmailer.
Part of her wanted his help. Part of her needed to handle this alone. Another part worried that if he was with her, he might get hurt. She couldn’t bear that. She loved him deeply. As a friend. As the man she could never have. Putting him at risk was beyond her limits. So she’d left the decision to fate. Or, rather, Pinkerton.
Admit it, Emily. You want him to follow you. You want him by your side when you face down the man who’s terrorizing you.
It was true. She’d made a big stink about wanting to handle her own trouble, but she wasn’t an idiot. Clearly, she was in over her head. Pinkerton was right. Her Savior was a criminal. A scalawag with no conscience. In addition to threatening to expose her alias, he was now threatening the life of a helpless bookseller.
At least she had the Derringer. She wouldn’t hesitate pulling the revolver in defense, but, if need be, would she be able to fire? Big difference between shooting a bottle and shooting a man.
Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.
She had no idea what was in store, only that Mr. Beeslow was in danger. She couldn’t allow another person to suffer because of I. M. Wilde.
She thought about Rome and Boston. She’d meant to come clean with them tonight. To admit she was I. M. Wilde, to apologize, and to make amends in whatever way they saw fit. Now it would have to wait until tomorrow. Her double life weighed heavily on her conscience. It would be easier to write them a letter, but she needed to tell them face to face. She owed them that. The new Emily demanded nothing less.
Honesty and courage.
She prayed the Garretts would forgive her, just as she prayed she hadn’t alienated Pinkerton with her erotic interests and double life. She closed her eyes and prayed that, when she opened them, she’d see the poet racing Streak alongside the train.
She realized, as she drifted off, that it was the most she’d prayed in a long time.
They arrived in San Francisco late that evening. Emily was overwhelmed by the enormity of the city, the silhouetted buildings, the endless gas street lamps, the burgeoning traffic of humanity--even at this late hour. Were she here for any other reason, she would have delighted in the chaos. This was not the adventure for which she’d hoped.
As if sensing her trepidation, Mr. Bellamont grasped her elbow and guided her though the crush of travelers. “How is it you’re traveling with no luggage, my dear?”
“I won’t be staying long.”
“But surely you’ll be staying overnight. It’s late.”
“I . . . um . . .”
“I assume you are going straight to your hotel and handling business tomorrow?”
Hotel? Good Lord, she hadn’t thought about staying overnight. But, of course, she must. This was her first trip outside of Napa Valley. Except for the nights she spent with Paris at the Garrett estate, she’d never slept anywhere but in her own bed. Her pulse raced and her breath quickened. Get a grip, Emily. You can do this.
She licked dry lips. “Those are my plans, yes.”
“I’d be happy to escort you to your hotel.”
“Thank you, but that’s not
necessary.”
“As you can see, this is a big city. It isn’t safe for a young woman to mill about alone after dark.”
“I’ll be okay.” Frantic to be on her way, she looked around for a mode of transportation. “You mentioned something about cabs for hire?”
“Hansom cabs. I’ll acquire one for you if you’re sure--”
“I’m sure.” She forced a confident smile. The letter with the address and time of the meeting burned a hole in her reticule.
“Very well.” He raised his hand and, with a flick of his wrist, a fancy horse-drawn coach approached.
She noted with interest that the driver sat on a high seat behind the cab. She wondered if he’d wait for her until after her meeting and at what cost. Her funds were limited and God only knew what the blackmailer wanted from her.
Mr. Bellamont cleared his throat, reclaiming her attention. He took off his bowler, fingered the brim. “May I speak frankly?”
After his hours of kindness, it seemed rude to say no. She nodded.
“I know you declined my offer of marriage, Emily. I respect your decision. But I want you to know, should you ever change your mind . . . I want you to know you can rely on me. For anything. Protection. Money. I will not lie. I am quite fond of you.”
She swallowed hard, willed herself not to back away. “I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Bellamont.”
“I wish you’d do me the favor of calling me Claude.” He smiled kindly, pulled a note from his pocket and pressed it into her hand. “I’ll be in San Francisco for the next two days. I’ve written down the name of my hotel. Should you be in need, please do not hesitate.”
“Thank you.” She placed the note in her reticule alongside the blackmailer’s letter, allowed Mr. Bellamont to help her into the cab.
After he walked away, no doubt stopping in the shadows to make sure she got off all right, she provided the driver with the address.
“You sure about that, miss?”
Unsettled by his skeptical tone, she double checked the letter. “I’m sure.”
Heart pounding, she leaned forward and scanned the crowd for one particular face. If this were one of her stories, the crowd would part and Pinkerton would be standing there in one of his stylish suits, holster slung low on his hip, Stetson set at a rakish tilt. Spurs would jangle as he strode toward her, a smile tugging at his lips.
