The Engagement Bargain

by Sherri Shackelford

  He touched her sleeve. “Whatever happens, meet me in the lobby of the Savoy at noon. That’s twenty minutes.”

  At his easy capitulation, Jo’s expression lost its stubborn set. “Noon.” She reached for the girl’s hand. “We’re going to find your parents. What’s your name?”

  The girl pressed her lips together, as though holding back her answer.

  She shook her head, and her two long braids whipped around her neck. “I’m not s’posed to tell strangers.”

  Jo shrugged. “That’s all right. You don’t have to tell me. My name is Jo. Can I least walk you back to the hotel?”

  The girl screwed up her face in concentration. “To mama?”

  “Yes, to your mother.”

  The girl nodded.

  Satisfied Jo had control of the situation, Caleb spun around and pushed his way through the knot of people toward the frantic voice. He broke through to the center, and his stomach dropped.

  Anna Bishop lay sprawled on her back, a growing pool of blood seeping from beneath her body. Though ashen, she blinked and took a shuddering breath. The white banner across her chest was stained crimson near the point where the chevron ends met at her hip. The gray-haired woman kneeling beside her clutched Anna’s limp hand in both of hers.

  Caleb swallowed around the lump in his throat. “She needs a surgeon.”

  The woman’s eyes filled with tears. “The streets are clogged with carriages. The hotel is closer. She’s losing so much blood. I’m not strong enough to carry her.” Her voice caught. “Help us, please.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can.”

  He knelt beside Miss Bishop and took her limp wrist in his hand, relieved by the strong pulse thumping beneath his fingers.

  Anna’s stunned blue eyes stood out starkly against her pale, almost translucent skin, providing the only color in her pallid face. Even her lips were white with shock. At the sight of such a bold woman struck down in such a cowardly fashion, raw emotion knifed through him.

  Who had such fear in their heart that they’d fight words with bullets?

  A fierce protectiveness welled in his chest. Whoever had done this might still be near.

  “Miss Bishop,” Caleb spoke quietly. “I’m going to take you back to the hotel. I’m going to help you.”

  For a dazzling moment she’d appeared invincible. The truth sent his stomach churning. She was just as fragile, just as vulnerable as any other mortal being.

  She offered him the barest hint of a nod before her eyelids fluttered closed, blotting out the luminous blue color.

  “Don’t give up,” Caleb ordered.

  Seeing her on that stage, he’d recognized a woman who didn’t shrink from a fight. If she needed a challenge, he’d give her one.

  “Don’t you dare let them win.”

  * * *

  The words drifted over Anna. She’d already lost. She was going to die for the cause.

  At least her death would not be ordinary.

  Clenching her jaw, Anna fought toward the surface of her consciousness.

  Don’t you dare let them win.

  The opposition would not have the satisfaction of her death. She’d traveled to Kansas City alone, an unusual occurrence. The speech had started well. There’d been hecklers. There were always hecklers. Anna had learned to ignore them.

  Then she’d heard the shot.

  The truth hadn’t registered until searing pain had lanced through her side.

  For a moment after the disruption, the world had gone silent. Disbelief had held her immobile. She’d looked in horror as a dark, growing stain had marred her turquoise day dress. The ground tilted. She’d staggered and her knees buckled.

  Her mother had advised her against speaking in such a small venue. Reaching a few hundred people wasn’t worth the effort when crowds of thousands awaited them back East. Grand gestures were needed for a grand cause.

  Two ladies from the Kansas chapter of the movement hovered over her, shouting for help. She’d met them this morning—Miss Margaret and the widow, Mrs. Franklin.

  A dark-haired man knelt at her side and pressed his palm against the wound, stemming the flow of blood. Anna winced. The stranger briefly released the pressure, and she glanced down, catching sight of a jagged hole marring the satin fabric of her favorite teal blue dress. She always wore blue when she needed extra courage.

  The man gently raised her hip to peer beneath her, and she sucked in a breath.

  “It’s not bad.” The man’s forest-green eyes sparked with sympathy. “The bullet has gone through your side. Doesn’t look like it struck anything vital.”

  Her throat worked. “Are you a doctor?”

  “A veterinarian.”

  Perhaps her death would not be quite so ordinary after all.

  The absurdity of the situation lent Anna an unexpected burst of energy. “Will you be checking me for hoof rot?”

  “I’ll do whatever is necessary.” The man glanced at the two women hovering over them. “If the hotel is our only option, we must leave. At once. You keep fighting, Miss Bishop.”

  She was weary of fighting. Each day brought a new battle, a new skirmish in the war for women’s rights. Each day the parlor of her mother’s house in St. Louis filled with women begging her for help. Though each problem was only a single drop in the oceans of people swirling around the world, she felt as though she was drowning. She’d given all her fight to the cause, to the casualties subjugated by an unfair and biased system. She didn’t have any fight left for herself.

  Mrs. Franklin lifted her gaze to the nearby buildings, then jerked her head in a curt nod. “It isn’t safe for her here. I’ve sent two others to fetch a surgeon and notify the police. Someone else may be hurt.”

  “I’ll see to Miss Bishop,” the man said, “if you want to check for additional injuries.”

  “Maggie will stay here and coordinate with the authorities,” she said, her expression stalwart. “I’ll remain with Miss Bishop.”

  Anna nearly wept with gratitude. Despite his reassuring words, the man kneeling at her side was a stranger, and she’d never been comfortable around men. Her encounters were rare, often tied with opposition to the cause, and those men mostly looked at her with thinly veiled contempt. Or, worse yet, speculation. As though her call for independence invited liberties they would never dream of taking with a “proper” woman.

  The man ripped Anna’s sash and tied it around her waist as a makeshift bandage. All thoughts of men and their rude propositions and knowing leers fled. The pain in her side was like a fire spreading through her body. It consumed her thoughts and kept her attention focused on the source of her agony.

  The stranger easily lifted her into his arms, and her head spun. Her eyelids fluttered, and he tucked her more tightly against his chest.

  A wave of nausea rose in the back of her throat, and her head lolled against his shoulder. What reason did she have for trusting this man? Someone wanted her dead. For all she knew, he’d fired the shot. With only the elderly Mrs. Franklin as her sentry, there was little either of them could do if his intentions were illicit. Yet she was too weak to refuse. Too weak to fight.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  He picked his way over the debris left by the fleeing crowd. “I’m Caleb McCoy. I’m JoBeth Cain’s brother.”

  Her eyes widened. “Is Jo here?”

  He nodded. “We’re staying at the Savoy Hotel, same as you. Jo was hoping to see you.”

  Over the past year, Jo’s letters had been a lifeline for Anna. Her glimpse into Jo’s world had been strange and fascinating. Anna had been raised with an entirely different set of values. Husbands were for women who lived a mediocre existence. As her mother so often reminded her, Anna had been groomed for the extraordinary.

 
The cause was her purpose for existing.

  Her mother had been fighting for women’s rights since before Anna was born. There were moments when Anna wondered if her birth had been just another chance for her mother to draw attention to the suffragist movement. Women didn’t need men to raise children. They didn’t need men to earn money. They didn’t need men for much of anything, other than to prove their point. Her mother certainly hadn’t been forthcoming about the details of Anna’s father.

  He doesn’t matter to me, why should he matter to you?

  Why, indeed.

  The pain wasn’t quite so bad anymore, and Anna felt as though she was separating from her body, floating away and looking at herself from a great distance.

  Mr. McCoy adjusted his hold, and her side burned.

  She must have made a noise because he glanced down, his gaze anguished. “Not much farther, Miss Bishop.”

  An appropriate response eluded her. She should have answered Jo’s telegram. When Jo had discovered Anna was speaking in Kansas, she’d requested they meet. Anna had never replied. She couldn’t afford to be distracted, and Jo’s world held an undeniable fascination.

  Pain slashed through her side. “Will you tell Jo that I’m sorry for not answering sooner?”

  “You can tell her yourself.”

  Jo was intelligent and independent, and absolutely adored her husband. She had children, yet still worked several hours a week as a telegraph operator.

  Anna had never considered the possibility of such a life because she’d never seen such a remarkable example. Marriages of equality were extremely rare, and if Anna let her attention stray toward such an elusive goal, she lost sight of her true purpose. Besides, for every one example of a decent husband, her mother would reply with a hundred instances of drunkenness, infidelities and cruelty. Unless women obtained a modicum of power over their own fates, they’d forever be at the mercy of their husbands.

  Mr. McCoy kicked aside a crushed picnic basket, and Anna’s stomach plummeted. Discarded blankets and the remnants of fried chicken and an apple pie had been crushed underfoot. “Was anyone else hurt?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Disjointed thoughts bobbed through her head. This was the first time her mother had trusted her with a speech alone. Always before, Victoria Bishop had picked and pecked over every last word. This was the first time Anna had been trusted on her own.

  The concession was more from necessity than conviction in Anna’s abilities. Her mother had been urgently needed in Boston for a critical task. The Massachusetts chapter had grossly underestimated the opposition to their most current state amendment vote, and the campaign required immediate reinforcement. More than ever, Anna must prove her usefulness.

  Maybe then she’d feel worthy of her role as the daughter of the Great Victoria Bishop. The St. Louis chapter was meeting on Friday. Anna had to represent her mother. She’d arranged to leave for St. Louis tomorrow.

  She’d never make the depot at this rate. “I have to change my train ticket.”

  Mr. McCoy frowned. “It’ll wait.”

  “You don’t waste words, do you, Mr. McCoy?”

  A half grin lifted the corner of his mouth. “Nope.”

  The sheer helplessness of the situation threatened to overwhelm her. She wasn’t used to being dependent on another person. She’d certainly never been carried by anyone in the whole of her adult life. She felt the warmth of his chest against her cheek, the strength of his arms beneath her bent knees. She was vulnerable and helpless, the sensations humbling.

  Upon their arrival in the hotel lobby, Jo rushed toward them. “Oh, dear. What can I do?”

  Though they’d only met in person the one time, the sight of Jo filled Anna with relief. Jo’s letters were lively and personal, and she was the closest person Anna had to a friend in Kansas City.

  “She’s been shot.” Caleb stated the obvious, keeping his voice low.

  Only a few gazes flicked in their direction. The people jamming the lobby were too busy, either frantically reuniting with their missing loved ones or nursing their own bumps and bruises, to pay the three of them much notice.

  Mr. McCoy brushed past his sister and crossed to the stairs. “They’ve sent for a surgeon, but we’re running out of time. Fetch my bag and meet me in your room.”

  “Why not mine?” Anna replied anxiously. Moving to another room was another change, another slip away from the familiar.

  “Because we still don’t know who shot you,” Mr. McCoy said. “Or if they’ll try to finish what they started.”

  Jo gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Caleb will take care of you. My room isn’t locked. I’ll let them know where to send the doctor, and I’ll be there in a tick.”

  Panic welled in the back of Anna’s throat. All of the choices were being ripped away from her. She’d always been independent. As a child, her mother had insisted Anna take charge of her own decisions. The idea of putting her life in the hands of this stranger terrified her.

  Caleb took the stairs two at a time. Though she sensed his care in ensuring she wasn’t jostled, each tiny movement sent waves of agony coursing through her, silencing any protests or avowals of independence she might have made. Upon reaching Jo’s room, he pushed open the door and rested her on the quilted blanket covering the bed.

  The afternoon sun filtered through the windows, showcasing a cloudless sky. The sight blurred around the edges as her vision tunneled. Her breath strangled in her throat. Her heartbeat slowed and grew sluggish.

  Mr. McCoy studied her wound, keeping his expression carefully blank. A shiver wracked her body. His rigidly guarded reactions frightened her more than the dark blood staining his clothing.

  “Am I going to die?” Anna asked.

  And how would God react to her presence? She’d had Corinthians quoted to her enough over her lifetime that the words were an anathema.

  Let your women keep silent in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak.

  And since women were not allowed to speak in church, they should not be allowed to speak on civic matters. Were they permitted to speak in heaven?

  Mr. McCoy’s lips tightened. “You’re not going to die. But I have to stitch you up. We have to stop the bleeding, and I can’t wait for the surgeon. It won’t be easy for you.”

  She adjusted her position and winced. “I appreciate your candor.”

  He must have mistaken her words as a censure because he sighed and knelt beside the bed, then gently removed her crushed velvet hat and smoothed her damp hair from her forehead. His vivid green eyes were filled with sympathy.

  A suffragist shouldn’t notice such things, and this certainly wasn’t the time or place for frivolous observations, but he really was quite handsome with his dark hair and warm, green eyes. Handsome in a swarthy kind of way. Anna exhaled a ragged breath. Her situation was obviously dire if that was the drift of her thoughts.

  “Miss Bishop,” he said. “Anna. It’s your choice. I’m not a surgeon. We can wait. But it’s my educated opinion that we need to stop the bleeding.”

  Every living thing died eventually—every blade of prairie grass, every mosquito, every redwood tree. She’d been wrong before—death, no matter how extraordinary a life one lived on earth, was the most ordinary thing in the world.

  Feeling as though she’d regained a measure of control, Anna met his steady gaze. “Are you a very good veterinarian?”

  “The best.”

  He exuded an air of confidence that put her at ease. “Then, do what needs to be done.”

  She barely managed to whisper the words before blackness swirled around her. She hoped he had enough fight left for both of them.

  Chapter Two

  She’d trusted him. She’d trusted Caleb with her life. He prayed her trust wa
sn’t misplaced because the coming task filled him with dread.

  After tightening the bandage on Anna’s wound, Caleb shrugged out of his coat and rolled up his sleeves. The door swung open, revealing Jo who clutched his bag to her chest. The suffragist from the rally appeared behind his sister. He’d lost sight of her earlier; his attention had been focused elsewhere, but she’d obviously been nearby.

  The older woman glanced at the bed. “Where is the surgeon? Hasn’t he arrived yet?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Caleb lifted a corner of the blood-soaked bandage and checked the wound before motioning for his sister. “Keep pressure on this.” He searched through his bag and began arranging his equipment on the clean towel draped over the side table. “Unless the doctor arrives in the next few minutes, I’m stitching her up myself.”

  He’d brought along his case because that’s the way he always packed. When his services were needed on an extended call, he threw a change of clothing over his instruments so he wasn’t hampered by an extra bag. He’d packed for this trip the same way by rote.

  Swiping the back of his hand across the perspiration beading on his forehead, he sighed. Perhaps Jo was partially right, perhaps he was growing too set in his ways.

  The suffragist clenched and unclenched her hands. “You’re the veterinarian, aren’t you?”

  Caleb straightened his instruments and set his jaw. Anna didn’t have time for debate. “It appears I’m the best choice you’ve got right now.”

  “I’m Mrs. Franklin.” The suffragist stuck out her hand and gave his a fierce shake. “I briefly served as a nurse in the war. I can assist you.”

  “Excellent.” A wave of relief flooded through him. “I’ve got alcohol, bandages and tools in my bag. There’s no ether, but I have a dose of laudanum.” He met the woman’s steady gaze. “I’m Caleb McCoy. This is my sister, JoBeth Cain.”

  Mrs. Franklin tilted her head. “I thought you must be related. Those green eyes and that dark hair are quite striking.” The woman’s eyes filled with tears. “Anna is tough. She’ll do well.” She pressed both hands against her papery cheeks. “I requested her appearance. I had no idea something like this would happen.”