Matthew hesitated, sensing this man wasn’t like the rest of these rumpots. He held out a quick hand. The one that wasn’t holding the blade. “The name is Matthew Joseph Milton.”
The man shoved his pistol into the leather belt attached to his hips. “I didn’t ask for your name. I told you to go.”
Matthew still held it out. “I’m trying to be friendly.”
“I don’t do friendly, and in case you haven’t noticed, no one else here does, either.”
Matthew awkwardly dropped his hand to his side. “Is there anything I can do for you? Given what you just did for me? I insist.”
“You insist?” That dark brow lifted. “Well. I could use a meal and whiskey, seeing I’m between matches.”
“Done.” Matthew paused. “Matches? You box?”
The man shrugged. “Bare-knuckle prizefighting.” He patted the leather belt and pistol. “This isn’t me being lazy. It ensures I don’t injure myself during training. An injury means I don’t box. And if I don’t box, I don’t eat.”
“Ah. Isn’t bare-knuckle prizefighting...illegal?”
The man stared him down. “I’ll have you know the bastards who publicly go about condemning my fights are usually the same ones merrily throwing big money at it. I’ve already had three politicians and two marshals try to buy me out for a win. So, no. It isn’t illegal. Not whilst they’re doing it.”
Knowing a professional boxer in these parts would be a good thing. A very good thing. “And what is your name, sir?”
The man shifted his stubbled jaw. “I have several names. Which one do you want?”
How nice. It appeared this man was involved in all sorts of illegal activities. “Give me the one that I won’t get arrested for knowing.”
“Coleman. Edward Coleman. Not to be confused with the other Edward Coleman running about these parts, who by the by, is murder waiting to happen. Stay away from that imp of Satan.”
“Uh...I will. Thank you.”
Coleman pointed at him. “I suggest you learn the rules of the ward. Especially given that you appear to be a do-gooder. ’Tis simple really—don’t overdress, and always carry a weapon.”
“I will heed that.” Matthew held out the blade weighing his hand. “Except the weapon bit. Here. I’m not about to—”
Grabbing his wrist, Coleman yanked it forcefully upward, jerking the sharp tip of that steel toward Matthew’s face.
Matthew froze, his gaze snapping to those ice-blue eyes.
The smell of leather penetrated the air between them.
Coleman smirked and let the blade playfully scrape the skin on the curve of Matthew’s chin. “You ought to keep it. You never know when you’ll need it to slice...vegetables.” He released his hold, allowing Matthew to lower the dagger. “I’ll teach you how to use a blade, how to box and do a few other fancy things in exchange for meals.”
Matthew self-consciously tightened his grip on the blade. “I know how to use a blade. One simply points and—”
Coleman jumped toward him. With a quick hard hit to the wrist and a jab and twist, the blade clanged to the pavement. Coleman kicked the blade away with his whitened leather boot and eyed him. “Lessons for food.”
Food wasn’t going to be all that useful if he was dead. “Agreed.”
* * *
ONE MOMENT MATTHEW WAS silently and miserably eating cold, mucky stew at a splinter-infested table with his father and Coleman, and the next, the left side of his world edged into piercing darkness.
Matthew’s spoon slid from his fingers and clattered past the table, dropping against the uneven wooden floorboards. Oh, God. His throat tightened as he blinked rapidly, glancing about in disbelief. His peripheral was...gone. Black!
His father lowered his wooden spoon. “What is it?”
Coleman ceased eating midchew.
“I can’t see.” Matthew scrambled out of his chair and stumbled. He fell back against the doorless cupboard behind him with a thud. “I can’t see from my left eye!” He scanned the small, barren tenement, only able to make out the uneven plastered walls to his right.
His father jumped toward him. “Matthew, look at me.” Grabbing his shoulders, his father firmly angled him closer. “Are you certain? That eye is still swollen.”
Matthew placed trembling fingertips against it. He could feel his fingers grazing and touching the lashes of his open eye, but dearest God, he couldn’t see them. “Everything to the left is black. Why? Why is it...” He dragged in uneven breaths, unable to say anything more. Nor could he think.
Coleman slowly rose to his booted feet. “Christ. It’s from the blows.”
Matthew turned his head to better see Coleman. “What do you mean, it’s from the blows? That doesn’t make any sense. How can a few—”
“I’ve seen it in boxing, Milton. One man I knew took so many hits in one match, he went blind within a week.”
Matthew’s breaths now came in gasps. It had been a week.
Shaking his head, Coleman grabbed his great coat from the back of the chair. “I’m hunting that prick down.”
Despite his panic of being half-blind, Matthew choked out, “Hunting him down isn’t going to change anything.”
“This isn’t about changing anything.” Coleman stalked toward him. “It’s about sending a message on what is and isn’t acceptable.”
His father pushed and guided Matthew toward the door. “If this is what you say it is, Coleman, the first thing we need is a surgeon. Now!”
“There is one over on Hudson.” Coleman wedged past them and yanked open the paneled door leading to the corridor. “Though, I really don’t know what the man will be able to do.”
* * *
THE LAST OF THEIR MONEY was gone. And so was the vision in Matthew’s left eye. He fingered the leather patch that had been tied over his unseeing eye by the surgeon who had pronounced it permanently blind. The surgeon agreed with Coleman, stating that the blows he’d sustained had something to do with it, which meant he, Matthew Joseph Milton, was going to be a one-eyed, poverty-stricken freak for the rest of his days.
Gritting his teeth, Matthew jumped up from the crate of newspapers he’d been sitting on, whipped around and slammed a knuckled fist into the wall. He kept slamming and slamming and slamming his fist until he had not only punched his way through the plaster and the wooden lattice buried beneath, but felt his knuckles getting soft.
“Matthew!” His father jumped toward him, jerking back his arm, and yanked him away from the wall.
Matthew couldn’t breathe as he met his father’s gaze.
His father rigidly held up the hand, making Matthew look at the swelling welts, scrapes and blood now slathering it. “Don’t let vile anger overtake the heart within. Don’t.”
Matthew pulled his hand away, which now throbbed in agony. He swallowed, trying to compose himself, and glanced toward Coleman, who still hadn’t said a word since he’d been pronounced blind by the surgeon.
Coleman eventually said, “I’m sorry for all of this.” Pushing away from the wall he’d been leaning against, he continued in a dark tone, “Assault, as well as murder, rape and everything else imaginable, is so commonplace here, not even the marshals can keep up with it. Which is why, even with my boxing skills, I always carry a pistol. These bastards don’t bow to anything else.”
Matthew shook his head in disbelief. “If the marshals can’t keep up with it, it means there isn’t enough muscle to go around. It’s obvious some sort of watch has to be put together using local men.”
Coleman puffed out a breath. “Most of these men don’t even know how to read, let alone think properly enough to do the right thing. It would be like inviting a herd of unbroken stallions into your stable and asking them to line up for a saddle. Believe me, I’ve tried to round up men. They only want to fend for themselves.”
“Then we will find better men.” Matthew flexed his hand, trying to push away the throbbing and angst writhing within him. “Though, I shou
ld probably invest in a pistol first. How much does a pistol cost anyway?”
“Matthew.” His father set a hand on his arm. “You cannot be taking justice into your hands like this. ’Tis an idea that will see you arrested or, worse yet, killed.”
Matthew edged toward his father. “In my opinion, I’m already in manacles. And if I die, it will be on my terms, Da, not theirs. I don’t know what the hell needs to be done here, but I’m not doing it sitting on a crate filled with whatever is left of your goddamn newspaper.”
Those taut features sagged. His father released his arm with a half nod, and quietly rounded him, leaving the room.
Realizing he’d been stupid and harsh, Matthew called out after him. “I’m sorry, Da. I didn’t mean that.”
“I deserve it,” his father called back. “I do.”
“No, you—” Matthew swiped his face and paused, his fingers grazing the leather patch. God. His life was a mess.
“A good pistol costs ten to fifteen dollars,” Coleman provided. “Not including the lead you’d need.”
Matthew winced. “Gut me already. I can’t afford that.”
“I never bought mine.”
Matthew angled his head to better see him. “What do you mean? Where did you get it?”
Coleman quirked a dark brow. “Are you really that naive?”
Matthew stared and then rasped, “You mean, you stole it?”
Coleman strode toward him, set a hand on his shoulder and leaned in. “It’s only stealing, Milton, if you do it for your own gain or if you never give it back. Do you know how many people I’ve saved with this here pistol? Countless. I doubt God is going to be punishing me anytime soon. If you want a pistol, we’ll go get you one. A good one.”
Matthew held that gaze. Mad though it was, this man was on to something momentous. Something that, Matthew knew, was about to change not only his life but the lives of others.
CHAPTER ONE
The city inspector reports the death of 118 persons during this ending week. 31 men, 24 women and 63 children.
—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen
Eight years later
New York City—Squeeze Gut Alley, evening
THE SOUND OF HOOVES thudding against the dirt road in the far distance beyond the dim, gaslit street made Matthew snap up a hand to signal his men, who all quietly lurked across the street. The five he’d chosen out of his group of forty, strategically spread apart, one by one, backing into the shadows of narrow doorways.
Still watching the street, Matthew yanked out both pistols from his leather belts. Setting his jaw, he edged back into the shadows beside Coleman before whispering in riled annoyance, “Where the hell is Royce?”
Coleman leaned toward him and whispered back, “You know damn well that bastard only follows his own orders.”
“Yes, well, we’re about to show that no-name marshal how to do his job. Again.”
“Now, now, don’t get ahead of yourself, Milton. We’ve got nothing yet. We’re all standing outside a brothel that appears to be out of business, and most of our informants are worth less than shite.”
“Thank you for always pointing out the obvious, Coleman.”
They fell into silence.
A blurred movement approached and a wooden cart with two barrels rolled up to the curb, pulled by a single ragged-looking horse. A large-boned man sat on the dilapidated seat of the cart, his head covered with a wool sack whose eyes had been crudely cut out. The man hopped down from the cart, adjusting the sack on his head. Glancing around, he pulled out a butcher knife and hurried toward the back of the cart.
Justice was about to pierce Five Points. Because if this didn’t look nefarious enough to jump on, Matthew didn’t know what nefarious was anymore. Pointing both pistols at the man’s head, Matthew strode out of the shadows and into the street toward him. “You. Drop the knife. Do it. Now.”
The man froze as Coleman, Andrews, Cassidy, Kerner, Bryson and Plunkett all stepped out of the shadows and also pointed pistols, surrounding him.
The wool-masked man swung toward Matthew, tossing his knife toward the pavement with a clatter and held up both ungloved hands. “I’m delivering oats. You can’t shoot me for that.” His clipped, gruff accent reeked of all things British.
Cassidy rounded the cart, his scarred face appearing in the glow from the gaslight before disappearing into the shadows again as his giant physique stalked toward the man. “Oats, my arse. You Brits seem to always think you’re above the law. Much like the Brit who had the gall to slit me face.” Cassidy paused before the man. He yanked the wool sack off that head and whipped it aside, revealing beady eyes and a balding head. Cassidy cocked his pistol with a metal click and growled out, “I say we kill this feck and send England a message.”
Matthew bit back the need to jump forward and backhand Cassidy. This was exactly what happened when an Irishman had too much justice boiling his blood. He fought against everyone. And woe to the man who also happened to be British. If it weren’t for the fact that Cassidy was dedicated to the cause and would fight with his own teeth to the end for it, Matthew would have booted him long ago.
Veering closer to Cassidy, Matthew hardened his voice. “This has nothing to do with England or your face. So calm the hell down. We don’t need dead bodies or the marshals on our arses.”
Cassidy hissed out a breath but otherwise said nothing.
“Check the barrels,” Matthew called out to Coleman.
Tucking away both pistols, Coleman jogged over to the cart and, with a swing of his long legs, jumped up onto the back of it. Angling toward the two wooden barrels, Coleman pried each one open, tossing aside both lids with a clatter. He glanced up, his chiseled grim face dimly lit by the gas lamp beyond. “They’re both here.”
A breath escaped Matthew.
Bending over each barrel, Coleman dug his hands in and hefted out a young girl of no more than eight, gagged and roped, along with another young girl of about equal age. He set each onto bare feet. Using a razor, Coleman sliced off the ropes and removed their gags.
Choked sobs escaped the girls as they jumped toward each other, clinging. The lopsided wool gowns they wore were crudely stitched and most likely not what they had been wearing when they had been taken from the orphanage.
Matthew’s throat tightened. He knew that if not for the interference of him and his men, these two girls, who had disappeared from the orphanage all but earlier that week, would have been sold to a brothel. Shoving his pistols into his leather belt, Matthew gestured toward the balding man. “Rope this prick up before I do.”
The man shoved past Kerner and Plunkett, and darted, running down the street.
Shite! All of Matthew’s muscles instinctively reacted as he sprinted after the man, leveling his limited vision.
“I told you we should have killed him!” Cassidy boomed after him. “What good are pistols if we never use them?”
“Everyone move!” Matthew yelled back, running faster. “Spread out! Coleman, stay with the girls!”
Matthew refocused on the shadowed figure who was already halfway down the street, those thick legs splashing through muddy puddles as his cloak flapped against the wind blowing in.
Matthew pumped his legs and arms faster and sped into the darkness. Through the sparse light of the moon and passing lampposts, Matthew could see the man repeatedly glancing back, his self-assured run turning into a jogging stagger as the balding man huffed and puffed in an effort to keep moving.
The man wasn’t used to running.
The man was used to the cart.
And this was where he, Matthew, who did nothing but run for a damn living, brought an end to the bastard’s grand delusions of escape. Closing the remaining distance between them, and just before a narrow alleyway between two buildings, Matthew reached out and grabbed the man hard by the collar of his cloak.
Gritting his teeth, Matthew flung his body against that hefty frame, knocking them both
down and into the mud with a skidding halt, spraying water and thick sludge everywhere.
As they rolled, Matthew used his weight to stay on top, shoving the man back down. The bastard punched up at him, hurling frantic blows that rammed Matthew’s shoulders and chest.
Holding the man down with a rigid forearm that trembled against that resisting body, Matthew swung down a clenched fist, thwacking him in the head, sending his balding head bouncing against the mud beneath. “Stand down, you son of a bitch! Stand down before I—”
“We got him!” Bryson yelled, pushing in and setting a quick knee against the man’s throat.
In between ragged breaths, Matthew scrambled up to his booted feet. He staggered back, feeling mud sloughing off his arms and trouser-clad thighs.
Cassidy skidded in, spraying more mud and shoved aside Bryson’s knee. “I’ll bloody show you how things are done over in Ireland.”
Effortlessly jerking the man up and out of the mud, Cassidy swung a vicious arm around his throat, causing the man to gag and stagger. Bryson scrambled over with the rope.
Once the man’s arms were tightly roped against his sides, Kerner jumped forward and, with a growl, delivered a swinging fist into the man’s gut. “That’s for every girl you ever touched, you feck!” He swung back his arm and delivered another blow, causing the man to gasp and stagger against the ropes. “You think you can—” Kerner jumped forward again and punched that face, a pop resounding through the night air.
“Kerner!” Matthew boomed.
Kerner stumbled back and swung away, his chest heaving.
Matthew swallowed, trying to calm the chaotic beat of his own heart. Despite the reprimand, Matthew knew all too well that Kerner, who had lost his twelve-year-old daughter to a brutal rape and murder just down this very street six years earlier, was relatively calm given the situation.
Sadly, a deeply rooted need to right the wrongs that had been committed against them was what had brought each and every one of them together. Their grief had become his own grief. They all struggled with anger. “I know this isn’t easy for you. Breathe.”
Forever a Lady Page 2
