by Pam Crooks
Alex shrieked. He bolted for the Russian Army .44, plucked it from the grass, and kept running. And before Creed could stop him, before he could react to the train’s engine barreling out the other side, Alex leapt over the transom and onto the flat top of the car rumbling through beneath him.
Creed swore. Viciously. He flung aside the rifle and leapt off the tunnel’s roof after him.
Wind tore at his clothes and body. He crouched, his feet braced against the motion of the ride. Ahead of him, on the car hitched to Creed’s, Alex wobbled with legs spread and arms flailing but his hand keeping a firm grip on the revolver.
The kid was crazy enough to go looking for the president inside the railcars to shoot him down cold in his brother’s place. Creed sprinted after him.
Chuff, chuff, chuff…chuff, chuff, chuff…
The train barreled closer to the Diamond Bar Station. Creed jumped onto the next car.
“Alex, no,” he yelled.
The kid whirled. His pale face twisted in contempt. The wind whipped at his thin hair, giving him a wild, demonic look. He swung the nose of the .44 toward Creed and leveled it with both hands.
But Creed kept going and tackled him to the wooden roof. His hand banded the bony wrist; one swift yank eliminated the .44’s threat, and he tossed the revolver overboard, out of sight.
“You’re in a hell of a lot of trouble, kid, so you might as well give up right now,” Creed grated into his face.
Alex spat out a string of words, Russian blasphemies, most likely, and punctuated them all with a stream of spittle against Creed’s cheek. Creed let loose with a few choice curses of his own.
“You really think you’ll get to McKinley?” he demanded. “Even if you make it past me, this train is crawling with Secret Service agents that’ll shoot you dead on sight. Now stand up.”
He roughly jerked the kid to his feet. He lifted an arm and swiped at the saliva with his shirtsleeve. Beneath his boot soles, the train rocked and rumbled.
Chiff, chiff, hiss-ss…chiff, chiff, hiss-ss.
The train slowed in its approach toward the station. Half-crazed and desperate, Alex watched him with his teeth bared, like a trapped mongrel, ready to attack.
“You’ve done a serious thing, attempting to assassinate the president. You’re a prisoner of the United States government now. When we get off this train, you’re going to tell the authorities what you know,” Creed commanded.
“I will tell them nothing!”
“You’ll tell them how you got your information from the War Department. They’ll want to know who Karlov is, what he’s done, and why,” Creed shouted above the clackety-clack of the iron wheels over the rails. “Cooperate while you have the chance. You’re young enough to still have a life once you get out of prison.”
“I will not go into your filthy American jails!” Alex yelled.
“Yeah? Well, maybe they’ll hang you instead.”
The blood drained from the kid’s face, and he gagged. Creed braced for him to get sick right there, on top of the train.
“Your revolution isn’t going to happen, Alex,” he said, ruthless in driving his point home, even if it was a waste of his breath to try. “And especially not without Nikolai.”
Alex’s face crumpled on a strangled sob. “Nikolai, Nikolai.”
“He’s dead, Alex. He’s not here to take care of you, and he’s not going to tell you what to do anymore.”
The kid looked so distraught that pity stirred inside Creed, in spite of everything. The young Russian’s life up to now hadn’t been an easy one. From here on out, it wouldn’t get any better.
The Diamond Bar Station appeared ahead. With it, the inevitability of Alex’s arrest and time in the jails he despised so much.
As if the same realization struck him, the kid wailed in anguish. The keening sound all but curdled Creed’s blood.
Then, without warning, without giving Creed a chance to stop him, Alex hurled himself over the edge of the railcar.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Two Days Later
The sweet-faced student nurse bustled in with a bouquet of flowers almost bigger than she was. She set the arrangement on Mama’s bedside table and stepped back to admire the effect.
“What is this?” Mama exclaimed. “The flowers are for me?”
The sparkle in the girl’s eyes showed her delight. “Well, of course they are, Signora Briganti. Your name is on the card. Gina’s, too. The flowers are for both of you!”
“Who are they from?” Gina was as astounded as her mother. The elegant roses, exotic lilies and vibrant chrysanthemums—who would be so extravagant?
“No one seems to know, and the card doesn’t say.” The young nurse hurried toward the door with a giggle. “But does it matter?”
She was gone before Gina could declare someone had made a mistake. Gina studied the miniature card tucked in amongst the greenery and found only their names listed, just as the girl said. Bemused, she dipped her nose into the delicate petals and inhaled their fragrance.
“Something strange is happening, Gina,” her mother said, leaning back against the pillows with a sigh. “Too many surprises for us, eh?”
“Yes, Mama. One after the other.”
Yesterday had been the first, when the nurses announced that her mother would no longer be cared for on the main floor of Good Samaritan Hospital, in the dorm-like quarters where the beds were lined up in rows. Instead, they moved her upstairs, where the rooms were private. Even more amazing, she had been given the finest room of all, a suite reserved for the most important of hospital patients. All their meals were feasts prepared at their whim. Whatever they asked for, they received.
Not that they asked for much. Mama had been suspicious of the staff’s generosity. Gina, too, confused and burdened from guilt. Who would think a pair of Italian immigrant women were worthy of such luxuries? And were they expected to pay for them in the end?
The doctors and nurses waved aside her insistent questions. They strictly, gently, told her again and again not to worry over the costs, that arrangements had been made by a secret benefactor who ordered their every need be met.
No one claimed to know the benefactor’s name, but oh, everyone was curious. Many times, Gina heard the whispers, the speculations, of who he might be. And yesterday, when the Los Angeles Daily Times announced in their headlines how the Premier Shirtwaist Company factory seamstress named Gina Briganti helped to save President McKinley’s life by destroying the bombs made by the anarchists who intended to assassinate him, well…
Gina was embarrassed to be the subject of so much gossip. She’d simply done what anyone else would’ve done in the same situation.
All that mattered was Mama. To be with her again.
Gina’s gaze lingered over her, and her heart swelled with a resurgence of love. Of gratitude and relief. How beautiful she looked against the crisp, white bed linens! Her thick wavy hair, the strands of gray only beginning to peek through, flowed about her shoulders and curled against her cotton hospital nightgown. The worry was gone from her face, and she appeared rested, relaxed. But happy, most of all.
Just like in Gina’s visione.
Graham had whisked Gina away from the Santa Monica foothills after the bombs exploded and brought her straight to Good Samaritan Hospital. At first, she’d been devastated by her mother’s bruises and injuries, as well as the bandages around her hands which hid the burns and scars already beginning to form on her skin. In her frantic distress to follow Gina down to the first floor after finding her purse with their pay envelopes safe inside, Mama had hastily covered her hands with layers of shirtwaist fabric and used the wire ropes to slide down the elevator shaft. But the fabric burned through, the cable broke, and she fell. It was a blessing she lost consciousness until the brave firemen found her and rushed her to the hospital.
Many times, Gina thanked the Madonna for saving her mother from the terrible fires. But never again would her scarred fingers be nimble wi
th a needle and thread. Nor would she sit at a Singer sewing machine and maneuver the delicate fabrics of the shirtwaists. And she could never be employed in a factory again.
Gina’s teeth worried her lower lip. She’d have to work harder than ever to support them both. The dismal prospect of going back to her dreary life of factory work and living in the dingy tenements depressed her. But what choice did she have?
With a heavy sigh, she stepped to the window. Brilliant sun sprayed the lawn and warmed the profusion of flowers in the manicured gardens. A stream of elegant carriages cruised up the road leading to the hospital. Good Samaritan was located in the heart of Los Angeles. Here, everyone and everything thrived.
Like it did at the Sherman ranch. She was only there a short while, but she’d always remember the openness and natural beauty of the land, the kindnesses of the Sherman family, the devoted cowboys who worked for them…
And Creed. Creed, most of all.
Had she ever met anyone more exciting?
Would she ever miss anyone more?
She’d not heard from him, or seen him, since Graham spirited her away to the city. But then, on the night they infiltrated the anarchist’s meeting, Creed had told her he intended to leave America. The Sokolov brothers had only delayed his plans. Now, he’d won his fight. There was nothing to keep him in America any longer.
Not even her. Gina Briganti. The woman who’d paid the price in full for the services of his protection. She’d given him everything he wanted, hadn’t she? The pleasures of her body because of the love she had for him.
And he hadn’t even given her a chance to tell him goodbye. Would the hurt ever go away that he’d been so quick to forget her, leave her?
“Do you think of him again, Gina?” Mama asked softly.
She turned from the window. Her mother’s ordeal had been horrific. Gina refused to let her melancholy mood dampen her mother’s healing.
“Who?” Her mouth softened with her teasing. “Sebastian?”
Mama snorted. “I wish you would be this lovesick over that one.”
Gina moved to the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress. “You would like him to be my husband, yes, but you see how he flirts with the nurses when he comes to see us. We are friends, Mama. Nothing more.”
“He knows you are in love with Creed Sherman. He tells me he sees it in your eyes. In your heart.”
Gina fought a sudden sting of tears, and her mother’s tongue clucked in sympathy. She brought Gina’s head against her shoulder; her bandaged hands caressed her hair.
“What an idiota I am, Mama.”
“Maybe you do not think an Italian immigrant woman is important enough for him?”
Gina drew in a weepy breath and let it out again. Many times, she had feared that very thing.
Her mother kissed the top of her head. “You tell me he is a man of honor in this country. If he truly loves you, nothing else will matter to him.”
Before Gina could take the advice into her soul and allow herself to hope, footsteps mingled with the low murmur of voices in the hall. The sounds drew closer to their suite, and she sat up in puzzlement. By the time she regained her composure and rose from the bed, Graham appeared in the doorway, dressed in his usual dark suit and shiny shoes.
He grinned broadly. “Would you mind if we came in, Miss Briganti?”
Gina had no idea who “we” might be, but she nodded politely. “Of course not.”
He stepped aside, and another man strode in, powerful and dignified and without announcement. Silver glittered at his temples, and a cleft creased his chin, and recognition left her positively speechless.
President William McKinley took her hand and dropped a light kiss to her knuckles. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Briganti.”
She managed to find her voice. “Thank you, sir.”
“And you must be Louisa, her mother.”
Her black eyes widened at meeting one so prestigious. Mama clutched the bedsheet to her bosom. “Sì, sì. It is an honor to meet you. Oh, an honor.”
Another Secret Service agent entered the room. He stood silent and respectful beside a woman in a wheelchair.
“My wife, ladies,” the president said. “Ida Saxton McKinley.”
Though her face was thin, and her once-auburn hair now short and gray, her features were lively and kind. She held a small bouquet of flowers, a discreet refusal to shake hands in light of her frail health, and she acknowledged their introductions with a gracious smile.
“America is indebted to you for what you did to save my husband’s life, Miss Briganti,” she said.
Gina thought of Creed and the risks he’d taken again and again. Graham, too, and the rest of the Secret Service, their devotion to protect their leader.
“I do only a small part, truly,” she said.
“I will be forever grateful.” McKinley smiled and swept an arm outward. “I trust your accommodations here are acceptable?”
Gina’s glance touched on the lovely arrangement of flowers and the spaciousness of their immaculate surroundings. “Oh, yes. More than we can dream of.”
“Good, very good.” He beamed. “You are guests of the American government. It’s important to me your stay here be as comfortable as possible. A small token of my appreciation, you understand.”
Gina exchanged a stunned glance with her mother. Their mysterious benefactor was President McKinley himself?
“The anarchism troubling our country is not to be tolerated,” his wife added.
“Nor the despicable conditions in which many of this country’s laborers must work.” He grew somber. “The horrible ordeal you and the rest of the Premier Shirtwaist Company factory employees endured has not gone unnoticed. Those responsible will pay the price in the courts for their negligence and blatant disregard for the very people who make them profitable. I assure you Washington will work hard to make sure this tragedy won’t happen again.”
His avowal touched Gina. If anyone could bring about change, he could.
“Thank you,” she and Mama murmured together.
“One more thing, Miss Briganti.” He clasped his hands behind his back, his smile returning. “Would you honor the First Lady and me with the pleasure of your company at a private dinner tomorrow night?”
Gina’s hand flew to her breast in surprise. “What?”
His wife’s soft blue eyes sparkled. “I understand you have a talent for dress design. I’d be most pleased if you’d help me with my upcoming winter wardrobe. We’ll make time after dessert to discuss your selections.”
Her mind spun with panic, with pure elation. Never had she dreamed… how could she have ever thought… what if her sketches weren’t good enough… oh, heavenly Madonna. One of her gowns, worn by the wife of the president of the United States?
“It’s been a pleasure.” In a polite signal that it was time for him to leave, McKinley patted Mama’s bandaged hand. “My best wishes for your continued recovery, Signora Briganti.”
“Thank you, sir.” Her mother’s face glowed with pride, with complete happiness.
“Likewise, Miss Briganti.” He bent gallantly at the waist. “Until tomorrow night?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “I will be there.”
The Secret Service agent turned the First Lady’s wheelchair around and rolled her toward the door. Her husband followed, but he paused in the hall.
“Mr. Dooling. See that she has everything she needs, won’t you?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Certainly.”
The president winked and left.
Stunned at the exchange, Gina stood, her mind captive with all she must do, all she didn’t have, her precious sketches left behind at the Sherman ranch, most of all.
She peered up at Graham in utter dismay. “I have nothing to wear!”
He chuckled. “I know the perfect dress shop. Be ready in an hour, and I’ll take you there.”
Gina stood in front of Collette’s Fine Ladies Wear. She’d
never been inside, but many times she’d window-shopped with Mama, and together they had admired the breathtaking gowns artfully displayed on mannequins. Now, she would soon have one of Collette’s gowns for her very own.
Gina still couldn’t believe it. And oh, she felt guilty, too, but Graham insisted she must accept McKinley’s gift in the manner in which he intended it, another sign of his gratitude for what she’d done. To refuse him would be an insult.
Well, Gina couldn’t very well insult America’s president, could she? Because of her own stubborn pride?
“Any time you’re ready, Miss Briganti, we’ll go in,” Graham said.
She sensed he tried not to laugh at her dawdling. Perhaps it’d serve her right if he did. She was acting as naive as she felt.
She sighed. “As soon as you open the door for me, we will go in.”
He did laugh, then. “My sister is looking forward to meeting you. You’ll like her, I think.”
They entered. A tiny bell tinkled in announcement, and even the chime sounded as exclusive as the rest of the shop. Her gaze soaked in the array of colorful gowns, feathered hats, and glass cases containing a wide assortment of accessories, all more beautiful up close than they had been from outside.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stood with his back to the door while he stared intently at something through the window. He appeared to wait for his wife and young daughter while they admired several parasols near him. By the look of his fine-cut frock coat in deep chocolate brown, he could afford to shop in the establishment, but his masculinity seemed out of place amongst all the feminine contrivances.
Yet it was the woman standing at the counter who hooked Gina’s attention. Collette Dooling was strikingly gorgeous, shamelessly pampered, and completely engrossed in the sketches spread out before her.
Gina’s sketches.
The entire sheaf, right here in this shop.
Collette’s glance lifted. She appeared stunned by what she’d been studying.
“These are exquisite,” she breathed.
