by DiAnn Mills
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
About the Author
Copyright
Dedication
To Betty Barrett, my mother.
Thursday, November 2, 1911
New York City
Chapter 1
A blast of wind seized Zack Kahler’s breath and threatened to keep it captive. He tightened the scarf around his neck and pulled up the collar of his wool coat. Buttoning it before he left the newspaper office on Times Square had done little good, for the wind still whipped up inside his coat and chilled him to the bone.
Zack lowered his head and held on to his derby hat as he continued to trudge down the street toward his small apartment. He noted the huge snowflakes covering the white ground from earlier in the day. New York’s winters were entirely too cold for him. Exhaling an icy vapor, he remembered his first winter here and how the little chilled clouds appeared like magic in the frosty air. That optimistic attitude about freezing temperatures soon ended.
Three more days and he’d head home to Texas, where he’d never complain about the heat again. Although he would miss the Broadway plays and a handful of fine restaurants, he would not miss the woman who expected him to spend his entire pay on her entertainment, frowned on his interest in church, and turned her affections to a wealthier man who carried an impressive name.
Still fuming about the mannerisms of Miss Elizabeth Hanington and how she hadn’t really broken his heart, Zack realized the said young woman and the cold blowing around him had much in common. They were probably kin. Zack chuckled. He needed to get home and take over ownership of the Frontier Press before he wished dire circumstances upon Elizabeth.
An automobile horn blared a few feet behind him. Zack lost his footing on the ice and snow, sending him backwards onto the sidewalk. He despised those newfangled machines. Give him a horse any day. With his posterior smarting, his pride definitely damaged, and irritation soaring through his veins, Zack attempted to right himself.
“Mister, let me help you,” a small voice said. “You took a nasty spill.”
Zack stared up into the face of a curly-headed, freckle-faced little boy. The child held out a thin hand. “No thanks.” Zack smiled. “I’m not that old yet. But I appreciate the offer.” He dug his gloved hand into the snow for leverage and slowly stood.
“Looks like you did all right without me.” The boy shivered. No doubt his dirty and torn clothes provided little warmth. A quick glance down revealed bare toes sticking out from the ends of his shoes.
“How about a quarter for your trouble?” Zack reached into his pocket and pulled out the coin.
The boy’s eyes widened. “Thanks, mister.”
“You’re quite welcome.” Zack blinked. He must have fallen hard, because he suddenly saw two of them. But he’d fallen on his rear, not his head. “Are there two of you?”
“Yes, sir.” Two voices chorused a reply.
Zack winced at the pitiful, ragged pair and dug deep into his pocket for another quarter. He handed the other boy a coin. The two grinned. Never had he seen so much carrot-red hair and matching freckles.
“We’ll be on our way,” the first one said. “Thank you very much. Be careful and don’t slip again.”
Zack nodded and watched the two hurry down the street. Perhaps he should have offered to buy them something to eat or asked them where they lived. He patted his back side and adjusted his heavy woolen coat, feeling a bit guilty for its warmth. What kind of parents allowed children to run about the street so scantily clad? Unless they were . . . Reaching inside his coat pocket, he realized his wallet was missing.
“Hey, you two. Come back here.”
The twins raced off, leaving a trail of laughter in their wake.
Anger propelled Zack to cast aside his fear of falling again, and he took long strides after the two pint-sized troublemakers.
“You little thieves. Wait till I get my hands on you.” All the frustration of the weather and Elizabeth’s discarding him culminated in the pursuit of the two imps scurrying down the street with his wallet.
The boys crossed a busy street into the path of a horse and buggy from one direction and those dreaded automobiles from the other. Horses whinnied and car horns blared like an off-key orchestra. The boys made it across the street, and Zack was gaining ground. His dash into the street triggered the traffic to protest one more time. His left foot slipped, but he caught himself and realized the distance between him and the pair was narrowing. In the next instant, he had his hands on both of their arms.
Zack whirled the two boys around to face him. They couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old. Fright dug deep into their amber-colored eyes.
“My wallet.”
The boy on the left reached inside his tattered pants and handed it to Zack.
“Did you take anything?”
They shook their heads while he dropped his wallet into his coat pocket.
“Are you lying?” He’d throttle the two if they were his. What a conspiracy.
“No, sir,” the boy on the left said. “We didn’t have time to look through it.”
“Sir, is there a problem here?”
Zack studied the face of a square-looking policeman who had obviously seen the wild chase. “I’m not sure.” He refused to let go of the boys until he finished lecturing them on the consequences of stealing. Also, he intended to take them to their parents.
The policeman shook his finger at the pair. “Curly, Charlie—are you two pickpocketing again?”
Wide eyes stared back at the policeman and then at Zack.
“I thought as much. This time I’m personally taking you back to the orphanage. You’re too young to be living on the street. Gets much colder and I’ll be hauling your bodies to the morgue.”
Orphans? Twins? Zack’s ice-hard heart quickly began to thaw.
“We gave back his wallet,” one of the boys said. “We don’t like the home. It ain’t a good place to live.”
“You know better. Those sisters take good care of you with what they have. Doesn’t matter. I’m tired of chasing you. You’re thieves at the ripe old age of six. Your mother, God rest her soul, must be turning over in her grave.” The policeman turned to Zack. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll take over from here.”
“Thank you.” He glanced down at the woebegone looks on the boys’ faces. “You two need to learn what is right and wrong.”
The fear on their faces changed to rebellion. “We’re tired of being cold and hungry,” the spokesman said. “We can take care of ourselves workin’ as newsboys.”
Zack had seen children as young as these two selling newspapers. What about their schooling? What did they eat?
The policeman cleared his throat. “But you won’t freeze to death at the orphanage.” He grabbed their thin arms.
Remorse slammed into Zack’s heart. “I’m not pressing charges against them.”
“You aren’t doing them any
favors. They’re like all street kids—hard and mean. And some of those newsboys are teaching them all the wrong things.”
Zack had heard plenty of stories about newsboys and their struggle to survive on the streets of New York. “What orphanage are you taking them to?”
“Saint Vincent de Paul on Forty-second Street.”
“And they’re treated well?”
The policeman chuckled. “Better than they deserve. But yes, they’re fed, clothed, disciplined, schooled, and given religious instruction. These two have had a rough time since their mother died in the Triangle Factory fire last March.”
Zack had witnessed that tragic incident. One hundred forty-six immigrants, mostly women, had been trapped inside and killed when the factory caught fire. He was one of the reporters who had covered the inhumane treatment of the workers.
Zack bent to the twins’ eye level. “I’m real sorry about your mother.”
The spokesman’s round face hardened. “She wasn’t around much.”
Zack peered up at the policeman. The man nodded.
“Come along, you two. Sister Catherine and Sister Agatha are sure to be worried about you.”
Zack watched them disappear down the street. He should have done something more, but what?
*****
Chloe Weaver smoothed her worn dress and opened the door of Kahlerville’s finest boardinghouse. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she vowed to swallow her lack of confidence. The establishment had a new owner, who had advertised for a front-desk clerk and bookkeeper. She wondered if he needed two positions filled or one. Chloe would take either or both because she desperately needed a job.
The door creaked open. She smelled paint and listened to hammering. A man shouted and another laughed. The sounds nearly deafened her, but she refused to cower to her fears. She’d learned the new owner had also purchased the feed store. No wonder he needed help.
“Mr. Barton?” Oh, that was not assertive at all. “Mr. Barton?”
“I’ll be there in a minute. I’m up to my elbows in paint. Do you need a room?”
“No, sir. I—I want to apply for the position of desk clerk and bookkeeper.”
Silence. Her heart thumped against her chest like a cornered rabbit. “Mr. Barton, I meet your qualifications, and I’ll wait until you can talk to me.”
She’d done it—made a commitment—and now she must endure the noises, the smells, and perhaps the annoyance of a man who’d been interrupted from his work. But he couldn’t have any more of a temper than her father, and she’d tolerated his vicious tongue for eighteen years.
Mr. Barton walked through to the foyer of the boardinghouse, wiping his hands on a soiled cloth as he went. Yellow paint splattered his overalls, and a huge dollop rested on his forehead, reminding her of an egg yolk.
“We’re a little busy.” He frowned, but she expected that.
“I see, sir. I came in response to the advertisement in the Frontier Press.”
“I believe I need a man for the job. It involves work here and a combination of bookkeeping for the boardinghouse and the feed store.”
“I’m quite good with figures, and I’ve completed twelve years of schooling.”
He lifted a brow. A more pleasant expression crossed his face, and she saw the man was quite pleasing to look at, especially his large blue eyes. “I’ve seen you a few times around town. What’s your name?”
“I apologize for not introducing myself.” She stuck out her hand. “Chloe Weaver.”
“I need someone who can work long hours.” He tossed the paint cloth into a bucket.
“I can work as many hours as you need.” A tingling sensation rose from her stomach. “My penmanship is neat, which would be an asset for the duties you’ve described. Miss Scott at the school will give me a good recommendation.”
“You married?”
“No, sir.”
“Fixin’ to be?”
“No, sir.”
“Jacob, we need a hand back here,” a male voice in the back shouted above the hammering.
“I’m on my way.” He focused on Chloe. “I need someone to start at seven o’clock in the morning. No, make that six. You meet the customers, tend to their needs, show them to their rooms—that means carry their luggage if I’m not around. Also, you’ll take care of the money and the books for both businesses.”
“I understand. I’ll do a good job for you.”
“You can take a room in the back if you need a place to live. That can be part of your pay. It’ll be ready tomorrow. We’re painting the doors, and everything is wet. Just a bed and a small dresser in there.”
“I appreciate that. And yes, I can use a place to live.”
“You can eat here as long as you’re working. I pay a dollar a day.”
“Agreed.” She hoped she didn’t sound too eager.
“I’ll see you in the morning at six. And part of the duties means helping out in the dining room or kitchen if needed.”
“Whatever you need, I can do.”
He peered at her. “If you’re late, you’re fired. A pretty face might get you a job, but I demand hard work.” He whirled around and hurried back to where he’d been working.
Chloe clenched her trembling fists and stepped out into the street. At last, she’d found a way to support herself. Life and all of its adversity would smooth out beginning tomorrow morning. Tomorrow, she’d eat. Tomorrow night, she’d have someplace to sleep other than the outdoors and be able to bathe somewhere other than the creek. Today was a blessing. Thank You, Lord. One more day and she would have been forced to knock on Brother Whitworth’s door and beg. Not that she didn’t like the preacher and his sweet wife, but she’d starve before accepting charity. Her father had no problem asking for handouts, but Chloe did.
Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since this morning. She’d found an apple tree behind the livery and selected a piece of fruit that wasn’t full of worms. After wrestling with her conscience over whether taking the apple was stealing or not, she finally bit into it and quickly devoured all the tart flesh. Right now, she needed to bathe and prepare herself for the morning. A pecan grove rested on the road to the creek. She could use a rock to break the nuts. Shaking her head, she imagined how desperate her circumstances would be if she fainted on the first day of work from lack of food.
A memory twisted in her mind that took her back many years. She was eight years old and had no lunch for school. She usually sat apart from the other children at noon because so many of them teased her. One of the older boys made his way to her side. He bent down and handed her a sandwich.
“I’m full and wondered if you wanted this.”
Chloe stared at the sandwich, thick with meat. She’d not had breakfast, either. “Are you sure?” Her mouth watered.
“Absolutely sure.” He spoke softly and smiled. His dark hair and eyes were gentle.
She glanced around him to make sure no one watched them.
“This is between you and me. It’s nobody’s business.”
Chloe reached out for the sandwich. “Thank you.” She ate half of it and saved the rest for the walk home from school. Every day until he graduated from high school, he made sure the little girl had lunch.
Chapter 2
Zack shivered in the early morning air as he dressed. His trousers felt like they were lined with ice, and shaving nearly cost him the skin from his face. The stove in the corner of his room went out during the night, and he didn’t have time to build another fire from the scant supply of coal and kindling. He’d rented the apartment because of the low rent, not considering the cost of keeping it warm in winter. Two more days, and he’d board a train that would carry him to central Texas.
As he lifted his suspenders over his shoulders and pranced across the cold wooden floor toward his socks, Zack realized that New York had been a good experience. He’d obtained his education and worked three long, hard years for the New York Times while he finished col
lege. God had been good to him. Not many young reporters were able to cover big stories, but those opportunities caused him to long for a newspaper of his own—back home.
With a grin, he laced up his shoes, thinking how grand to say he was now the proud owner of the Frontier Press—editor, reporter, typesetter, deliverer, and janitor. My, that felt real good. He sure was glad the previous owner planned to help him for a while.
And no more women. From here on out, he was married to the paper. Sure would save a lot on the old heart and the wallet.
Wallet . . . What did Curly and Charlie have for breakfast today? Did the sisters find them better shoes and clothing? Were they cold last night?
The Triangle Factory fire had shaken him to the core. Never had he seen such senseless death. He’d labored long hours to report the tragedy accurately and without bias, but he’d discovered the management had ignored basic safety measures for all those people. Low wages and deplorable working conditions still fueled anger in him. That stain in New York’s history had killed Curly and Charlie’s mother. He couldn’t shake the fire, and he couldn’t shake the memory of those incorrigible twins. Zack paused a moment. He’d been rebellious and stubborn, too, after his father had died, but he’d been redeemed. He hoped the same for them.
Yawning, Zack shook his head and considered why he hadn’t slept much the night before. The twins stayed fixed in his mind. He’d seen that mass of curly red hair and those pitiful shoes in every dream. Telling them he was sorry for their mother’s death made him feel like one of those Christians who paid homage with their mouths and did nothing to alleviate the problems of the poor. Why hadn’t he the foresight to buy them a hot meal and arrange for some decent clothes? In short, regret had taken root in his heart.
A memory crept into his mind . . . A long time ago while he was still attending school in Kahlerville, he’d noticed a little girl who never seemed to have any lunch. He got into the habit of bringing an extra sandwich. The twins reminded him of her.
I can’t leave New York without looking into the situation. After making the final rounds at the newspaper, he’d find the orphanage and check on the boys.
*****
