TWICE A HERO

by Susan Krinard

  "And what's the catch?" she blurted out.

  "No catch at all."

  That Mac seriously doubted, but she thought better of pressing him. Play it by ear. That was all she could do, and at the moment things were going as much her way as she dared to hope.

  She and Liam stood side by side, within touching distance yet miles apart, and watched the ship glide among other steamers and great sailing vessels, lumber schooners and hay scows and swarms of smaller boats. Masts rose like a forest of small, bare trees. The wharf was chaotic with wagons and carriages and piles of crates and barrels and shouting stevedores.

  Mac's tension drained away as she took in the exotic sights and sounds. It was better than a movie, better than the best book. And she was right in the middle of it. San Francisco, greatest port city on the Pacific Coast. Born of the Gold Rush, fed by the Nevada silver strikes, made exotic by the Barbary Coast and Chinatown and over two hundred thousand souls of every race and heritage.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw the ship's captain appear, and she heard Liam consult with him about dealing with customs and baggage and other details related to his shipping business. But her attention was wholly caught up in the miracle of the past. A past that was now her present, one which she'd soon become an actual, improbable part of.

  A much bigger part than she wanted. If only she could figure out how to go about putting history back on course, maybe she could relax and enjoy it…

  "Your bag, miss." Mr. Harvey thumbed the brim of his cap and set the carpetbag down on the deck.

  It held all she owned in this time: her backpack, the spare set of Liam's oversized clothes, a pair of boots Liam had bought for her, along with the bag itself, during a brief stop in Guatemala City. Her jeans already had holes in them, obtained during the trek amid endless jungles, over mountains and through wild and largely unpopulated country. They weren't going to last much longer.

  With any luck they wouldn't have to.

  "We've arrived, Mac," Liam said, disconcertingly close to her ear. "Unless you prefer to stay on board."

  "I'm coming." She swept up her bag and followed him down the gangplank to the bustling pier. The wood under her feet was anchored on landfill, packed down over the skeletons of Gold Rush vessels abandoned by gold-hungry crews; the pier was lined with rickety wooden offices and warehouses, signed with faded paint and crusted with salt spray.

  Beyond the pier the wharf was thick with carriages and drays and wagons, sailors and passengers disembarking from vessels up and down the wharf. Pigs and dogs scurried between the legs of men shouting the names of hotels, boardinghouses, and restaurants eager for the business of new arrivals. Mac nearly tripped twice over the hem of her cloak as she tried to take it all in.

  Liam caught her elbow. "One would think you hadn't seen an American city before."

  "Not like this." Not blessed with women in gowns that brushed the cobbles and pinched the waist to an impossible circumference, men in bowlers and top hats, steaming deposits of equine leavings, and a sky that reached much too close to the ground.

  He tugged her toward a line of carriages waiting along the wharf like horse-drawn taxis. "Then pay attention," he snapped. "And pull up your hood."

  "I'd like to see you in my city."

  He grunted something both impatient and unintelligible and signaled to the carriage first in line, a boxlike affair on large wheels. The dark-coated and bowler-hatted driver, perched on a seat above and behind his two horses, looked them over with an indifferent air that became considerably more alert when Liam showed him a handful of silver coins. He grinned and jumped down, took possession of Liam's single trunk and Mac's bag, and opened the carriage door with an ostentatious flourish.

  Even with Liam's assistance Mac's cloak insisted on tangling up around her ankles. She twitched the material aside, giving the carriage driver a glimpse of jeans-clad leg as Liam half pushed, half lifted her into the carriage.

  Liam settled onto the seat beside her and rattled off an address to the driver, whose curious gaze lingered until Liam firmly shut the door in his face. Liam's features had taken on a grim cast, and there was a glint of expectation in his eyes and a tautness to his body that hinted that something significant was about to happen.

  She ran her hand along the patched leather of the seat. "What kind of carriage is this?"

  "A brougham. Surely you've ridden in a carriage before?"

  "Only the horseless kind."

  Interest sparked in his eyes, though his set expression didn't crack by so much as a hairline. "And when will these… 'horseless carriages' be invented?"

  "Oh, the next year or so, if I remember correctly."

  He adjusted his hat low over his nose. "Perhaps I should set you up as a fortune-teller."

  "I can think of worse professions." She leaned forward to get a better view out the window. "Where should I put up shop? The Barbary Coast?"

  He looked at her sharply. "What do you know of the Coast?"

  "What I've read in books. Colorful place. Wasn't it supposed to be the biggest den of iniquity on the—"

  His hand shot out to close around her wrist. "I didn't bring you this far to see you throw yourself into ruin, or worse."

  She was momentarily subdued by his vehement response. It almost did seem that he cared what became of her, which was more or less what he'd claimed on the ship. And that was something Mac still couldn't figure, though the possibility did something warm and fuzzy and unsettling to her insides.

  Liam released her with a low grunt and sank back in his seat, arms crossed. "Put thoughts like that out of your head, Mac," he said. "That's not where you're going."

  "And where exactly did you say we are going?" she asked.

  "We'll be there soon enough."

  Definitely ominous. Mac had a brief, uneasy notion and quickly dismissed it. Even Liam wouldn't be that rash—would he?

  She steadied herself and searched for street signs as the carriage lurched into motion. No smoothly curved Embarcadero here, only a stairstep succession of jutting piers. Nothing was immediately recognizable. After a few bumpy minutes the driver turned onto a wide thoroughfare, and the wharf area gave way to the city proper.

  Market Street. Mac pressed her nose to the smudged glass. In her own time Market was the central artery of San Francisco, dividing the financial and residential districts from the southern industrial area. So it was now. That was almost the only similarity.

  Questions bubbled in her mind like an overflowing pot, but she couldn't get them out. She couldn't even worry much about Liam and his secretive, contradictory attitude or what she was going to do when this ride was over. All her mind would accept was observation, a mute cataloging of everything that passed within her view.

  Buildings no higher than four or five stories, if that, square and somber and pierced with rows of identical windows. Quaint signs advertising apothecary shops and ship's chandleries and steamship lines. Telegraph offices and cigar stores and buggy companies. Carts and hacks and gigs bumping over the cobbled street, alongside horsecars and cable cars running on rails.

  And people. Barefoot urchins hawking newspapers, sober businessmen tipping hats, laborers making deliveries. As the carriage moved away from the Bay, the traffic grew heavier and more women appeared on the streets. Women in dresses that could double as cruel and unusual punishment, complete with bustles that made shelves of their posteriors.

  It looked like something out of Masterpiece Theatre. Only those were usually British productions, except for that Edith Wharton adaptation. The one about the American girls who'd gone to England to find husbands. About the right time period, too…

  "Damn it," Liam snapped. "What's taking him so bloody long?" He pounded on the side of the coach. "Come on, man!"

  The carriage moved no faster. Vehicular traffic had thickened, and Mac found herself fascinated by the aftermath of a minor mishap between a produce cart and a carriage driven by a nattily dressed man. A crowd had gathe
red in the middle of the street to witness flying curses and vegetables.

  At least in this era, caught between the "wild west" and the twentieth century, no one was likely to pull out a gun to solve the argument.

  No, this kind of confrontation would probably be more dangerous a hundred years from now, in the middle of a modern city. Or in the jungle, where no rules applied.

  Victorian San Francisco, on the surface, was civilized.

  The carriage lurched to a stop at the curb a few blocks farther down the street. Liam jumped out before the driver left his seat.

  "Wait here," Liam commanded.

  "Hold it. Where are you—"

  But he was already striding away toward a building of nondescript brick and wood, three stories high and studded with rows of plain windows. A sign on the ground floor, neatly lettered, proclaimed "Rooms and Suites Available." Was this where Liam intended to put her up?

  She didn't have long to wait. After a few minutes Liam came charging back, his expression more grim and forbidding than ever.

  "The Palace," he rapped to the driver, who was impressed into swift obedience by Liam's glare.

  "Didn't they have any rooms available?" Mac asked as he sat down beside her.

  He gave a narrow-eyed look. "I think you'll prefer the Palace Hotel. You have heard of it, haven't you?"

  She nodded. The Palace Hotel of Liam's day was an extravagant marvel in a city of extravagance. It had been home to the moneyed elite, wealthy travelers, and diplomats. It was also extremely expensive. "Is that where you live?"

  "Hardly. But it should do well enough for you—for the time being."

  It would have to. Mac turned to the window again and watched for the first sight of the Palace.

  The wait was brief. Only a few blocks away rose a building taller than any other Mac had seen—seven stories plus a mansard roof, square and imposing and lined with row upon row of bay windows. It dominated the block like an emperor among genuflecting subjects.

  She'd seen pre-earthquake photos of it, but they didn't do it justice. Nothing short of reality could.

  "It's incredible," she said.

  "I'm glad you approve. I wouldn't have wanted to disappoint you."

  His faint derision couldn't rob Mac of her wonder. She noted the sign for New Montgomery Street as the coachman drove under a great arch to the side of the building and on through a gated entrance big enough for two carriages side by side.

  The sunlight dimmed. Hoofbeats echoed in the vast space of an open court within the hotel itself, a glass-domed rotunda overlooked by seven balconied and columned galleries. A line of carriages waited in the circular drive to take on or deposit passengers; men and women and children looked down on the courtyard, their voices drifting disembodied from the heights.

  Mac angled her head for a better view of the glass dome high above. "This is—"

  "I know. Incredible." Liam jerked her hood up and fastened a button under her jaw. "Keep this up. I don't want gossipmongers prying into my business."

  She pushed the hood back. "Afraid people will wonder who you're smuggling in here?"

  He tugged the hood forward again and didn't bother to reply. Mac had a good idea what he was thinking. The Palace was a social center in the city, and it wouldn't do for people to see him bringing one woman into a hotel when he was planning to marry another.

  That was the curious part of all this, that he'd keep her around at all. But she'd play along while she could, hoping she'd learn enough in the meantime to form a better plan.

  Mac's preoccupation melted away when the carriage door swung open. The strangeness of it all came crashing down like old buildings in an earthquake. The smell of smoke and horses and perfume laced the air. Pairs and groups and crowds of people in period costume moved in stately patterns among columns and potted palms, decorative fish in a vast and antique aquarium. Muted voices became a roar as overwhelming as a storm-tossed ocean.

  This was undeniably real, and she was as alien as if she'd dropped out of the sky in a flying saucer.

  "Oh, boy," she whispered, feeling dizzy. "Oh boy, oh boy."

  At least Liam was otherwise engaged and not a witness to her distress. He spoke briefly to the coachman and turned to consult with a uniformed bellhop. The employee produced a sheet of paper, on which Liam scribbled a note, folded it, and returned it to the other man. Mac watched the figures fade in and out of focus.

  Stay on your feet, Mac. That was all she had to do. Stay upright until she could get to someplace quiet, where she could sink into a nice, peaceful faint. Or at least have a minor fit of hysterics.

  Right. Probably acceptable behavior for a Victorian female, but not for MacKenzie Sinclair. She could just imagine herself swooning artistically over a sofa or settee, handkerchief draped from languid fingers…

  "Are you all right, Mac?" Liam asked, rejoining her.

  "Fine," she said, pitching much like Liam's steamer had done on rough seas off the coast of Baja California a few days ago. She tried desperately to focus on Liam—the one familiar face, the single link between her time and his.

  He took her arm. "You're pale as a ghost. You're not about to swoon on me, are you?"

  "Me?" She chuckled weakly. "Not hardly."

  "Good. The last thing I need now is a fainting female." And a public scene, Mac added silently. But the rough disdain of his tone was belied by the firm, gentle hold he kept on her arm, lending her the support she needed to stay on her feet.

  The bellhop already had her pathetically small carpetbag. "The room is ready, sir," he said. "If you'll follow me…"

  Liam swept Mac into motion, muffling her against his chest so thoroughly that virtually all she could see was the cloth of her hood and his coat. She was uninterested in offering the faintest protest. His strong, masculine scent was almost soothing. She closed her eyes and let herself be carried along, past knots and eddies of chattering guests and out of the echoing space of the Grand Court.

  When Mac risked another glimpse of their surroundings, they were in a pillared hallway punctuated by gaslights and potted palms. The bellhop led them through a door and into a richly upholstered, windowless room. The room lurched and began to move, and Mac realized they were in an elevator. The thing was carpeted, mirrored, ornate, and empty of other passengers except for the bellhop with her bag and the operator in the corner.

  It was certainly no modern express elevator, but at length they reached whatever floor Liam had requested. He hustled her out and into another hall with a gallery along one side, undoubtedly one of those Mac had seen overlooking the rotunda. She heard the bellhop's low-voiced comment, and there was the sound of a key turning in a lock.

  Liam got rid of the bellhop with a jingle of coins and a terse dismissal. The door slammed. Mac felt herself set down on a bed—a large one, from the feel of it. A heavy weight pulled the mattress down beside her; she could feel the heat of Liam's body through her cloak.

  He pushed the hood away from her face, calloused fingers brushing her cheek. "How are you feeling now, Mac?"

  She propped herself up on her elbows, testing her dizziness. It was fading rapidly. Liam's arm supported the small of her back, warm and strong.

  "A lot better, thanks," she said. "I guess it was the strangeness hitting me all at once."

  "Too much grandeur for you?" he asked, tucking layers of pillows around her until she could hardly move. "I warned you that civilization could be dangerous." He vanished for a moment and returned with a crystal glass of water, which she was glad enough to have. Her mouth had gone dry as a bone.

  The place was a showpiece of Victorian excess, replete with richly polished woods, sumptuous fabrics and lavish decoration. It was big, high-ceilinged, and worthy of royalty. Mac knew she didn't belong here.

  The walls were painted a delicate peach, with wallpaper ticked in tiny flowers. That was the single concession to subtlety. The floor was sleek-grained wood, covered by an Oriental carpet that looked too expensive to wal
k on. The bed on which she sat was a carved mahogany Eastlake half-tester, made up with a quilted satin bedcover and piled with gaudy fringed pillows, more than enough to suffocate under.

  Against one of the two plainer walls stood a mahogany wardrobe and matching dressing table complete with a gilt mirror and a delicate cushioned chair. A rolltop desk was positioned at the other wall, and an additional cheval mirror stood in the corner. Two more overstuffed chairs upholstered in burgundy and brown were arranged in front of a marble fireplace, already occupied by a crackling fire. Heavy drapes swept down in graceful arcs from wide bay windows.

  There was even an electric clock on the mantel. Mac had almost forgotten how to tell time, she'd been so long without her watch. The clock was comfortingly ordinary.

  "I don't suppose," she said, "that there's a bathroom in here too. Er—a water closet?"

  Liam pointed toward the rear of the room.

  Sure enough, there was a half-open door she hadn't noticed. They had toilets by 1884, didn't they? She hadn't seen any in Guatemala, but then again Liam hadn't paused in any populated area long enough for her to find out. And there would surely be a bathtub—good Lord, a soak would be paradise after weeks on shipboard and traveling through the wilderness, snatching quick and modest baths in rivers or settling for a hasty sponging.

  "I trust you find the accommodations satisfactory?" Liam asked.

  "It's beautiful. Thank you."

  "Then I must go."

  She was startled into full attention. This was happening too fast. If he was planning to leave her already…

  "Where?" she demanded, pushing forward on the bed. "I thought you said—" She broke off at the look on his face.

  Whatever gentleness he'd shown her a few moments ago was gone. He was all grim determination again, from the stony bleakness of his gray eyes to the hard set of his jaw. "I have business that's been awaiting my attention since we left Tikal."

  And she knew, then. She knew what business was so important that he wouldn't wait one minute longer than necessary to see to it. The business he'd never forgotten during their journey, no matter how little he'd revealed his preoccupation to his unwanted companion.