Betina Krahn (17 page)

Shoving his hands into his trouser pockets, Bear struck off down the dusty side street that led to St. Charles. For once he wouldn’t mind the long walk to the waterfront tavern where they were staying. It would give him time to
think of a way to break the news of his failure to Halt as well as a way to pay for breakfast tomorrow. And dinner.

He strolled onto St. Charles, past Vassar’s Mercantile Bank, the Oystermen’s Fraternal Building, several prosperous shops, and the elegant La Maison Restaurant without looking up from his feet. But as he strode under one of the electric street lamps he became aware of a loud hum, saw specks and dots swirling before his eyes, and jerked his head up. A thick swarm of insects of every size and description was buzzing around him. Batting them away with both hands, he bolted for the unlighted part of the street and stopped only when the hum faded.

Scowling, he looked back at the street lamp and realized the light looked as if it were alive and undulating. Thousands—hundreds of thousands—of insects had been attracted by the brightness. He glanced farther along, at the next street lamp, and witnessed a similar teeming. To avoid the swarms he would have to keep to the dark side of the streets until he was out of the electrified area.

Crossing the street toward the front of the Exeter Hotel, he spotted a man coming down the steps, waving his hands and swatting at insects that had been drawn across the street by the hotel’s carriage lamps. He might not have noticed the man if he hadn’t been battling the same menace. He glanced at the fellow and away—then instinctively looked back with attention piqued and focused. The fellow had been looking at him, too, but now turned quickly and entered a waiting cab.

Bear halted in his tracks, trying to be certain of what he had seen. Then as the cab rumbled past, he caught a brief glimpse of the man in a shaft of light from that infested street lamp. Lionel Beecher … he would stake money on it. He watched the cab racing out of sight and was hit by a cold drenching of reality.

Beecher was here, in Baltimore, and staying in the business
district. He started to walk, and as he thought of reasons for Beecher’s presence, his step quickened.

Lionel Beecher was a hired gun, a professional thug … a man whose nefarious skills and talents were available to the highest bidder. And railroad tycoon Jay Gould was always the highest bidder. Except when it came to buying land options and right-of-way through central Montana. Gould had sent Beecher to make offers to some of the ranchers around Billings, intending to get the jump on Bear and Halt’s proposed rail line. Gould wanted nothing more than to get a foothold in Jim Hill’s rail empire: the newly completed Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul line, which would soon stretch from Chicago all the way to the Pacific. But Beecher’s arrogance and heavy-handed approach offended local ranchers and they were only too pleased to accept marginally better offers from Bear and Halt.

Now Beecher was here in Baltimore.

With senses heightened, he hurried on, zigzagging to avoid the streetlights. As he left the electrified district, he heard footsteps behind him and looked over his shoulder. Seeing no one, he strode on, and the footsteps returned, growing closer … then suddenly running … straight for him. He started to run, but was hit from behind and stumbled.

An instant later, as he scrambled to his feet, fists came flying out of the dimness, connecting with his midsection and chin, knocking him back against a wall. Pain galvanized his responses. Crouching and weaving, he dodged the next blow and the one after that, buying time. Then he burst upward, connecting with his fists and sending one of his attackers sprawling back into the street. Taking advantage of their surprise, he lowered a shoulder and rammed it into the others stomach, slamming him back against that same wall. Trading blows in quick succession, he
managed to get in a lucky punch that caused the thug to double over. The first attacker was already on his feet, angry as a gored ox and charging again. They joined and wrestled, each struggling to free an arm and land a punch. Bear ended the stalemate with a well-aimed kick to his opponent’s knee, and in the split second it took for the wretch to recover, Bear drove home a blow that sent him sprawling back onto the street.

Bear’s primary urge was to finish the fight they had started. But there were times when flight was more prudent than fight. These two dock rats fought with dispassionate precision as if they were used to such encounters and were pacing themselves. Wheeling, he took off down the street at a dead run.

Grunts of surprise and muffled curses reached him and he heard them coming after him. But they had obviously been hired for their fists, not their speed. After a few minutes, they gave up their pursuit, and Bear was left running alone down the narrow, ill-lit streets of the waterfront district.

Minutes later, he ducked inside the noisy waterfront tavern that was their temporary home, and spotted Halt in a far corner, brooding over the dregs of a tankard of watery ale. He made his way through the tables of sailors and longshoremen spending their hard-earned pay on marked cards and bad liquor.

“Where the hell have you been?” Halt rose irritably at the sight of him. Then his eyes widened at the blood on Bear’s lip. “What happened to ye, lad?”

“Beecher’s in town,” Bear declared, panting and wiping his damaged lip. Beckoning Halt to come with him, he swept the tavern with a wary look and headed for the rear door.

In the alley Halt turned to him. “Are ye all right, lad?”

“Nothing busted. Two of them … like what happened
to you.” Bear pushed his coat back and jammed his fists on his waist, sucking air. “Happened just after I saw Beecher, down at the hotel across from Vassar’s bank.”

“Yer certain it was him?” Halt said, disturbed.

“It was him, all right. I’d know his face anywhere. It was probably his two hounds that worked you over the other night.”

“Damn an’ blast his scurvy hide,” Halt swore softly, touching his still-swollen eye. “He’s here to see we don’t get a loan to exercise them options.” Then he looked up at Bear. “Well, he’s too late, right, lad?”

Bear straightened and took a deep breath, trying to overcome the sick, light-headed feeling caused by his run and by the bad news he had to deliver.

Reading the truth in the way Bear turned a defensive shoulder, Halt groaned. “Ye didn’ get the money?”

Bear clenched his jaw. “Her cousin came down ill and then there was a slew of people around. And then when I finally got her alone for a few minutes … it wasn’t possible to—”

“Did ye even ask her?”

They regarded each other tautly for a moment, then Halt heaved a harsh breath of resignation.

“Look, I know ye don’t want to ask the woman. It chafes a man’s pride, havin’ to toady up to a stubborn bit of skirt. But our options only run till end of summer, and with Beecher slinkin’ around again and makin’ trouble … If we haven’t laid two hundred miles of track by th’ end of September, we’re finished.”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

Bear turned away and climbed up the stairs to their rented room.

By the light of the sooty lantern, he stripped his coat, vest and shirt, preparing for sleep. Halt watched him for a moment, then reached into his bag and pulled out the
bottle of Vassar’s brandy. “Here … take a bit of th’ edge off’n yer sore head.”

Bear took a swig and held it in his mouth, against his injured jaw and lip, shuddering as it burned. Then, as usual, Halt’s spirits stubbornly began to rise.

“Well, it ain’t all bad, Bear, me lad,” he said with determination. “I found work today, down on the docks, unloadin’ cargo. The foreman’s a sentimental ol’ Paddy from County Cork. Took me on straightaway. We’ll have coin enough to keep a roof over our heads for a while. And I found a place where we can get a free meal once a day. A mission, over on Hale street.” He grinned in that indomitable Irish way of his. “All we have to do is listen to a bit o’ biblical persuasion.…”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. McQuaid,” cherub-like Mrs. Humphrey told Bear when he was shown into the drawing room of Gracemont first thing the next morning. “She and Hardwell just left. She always does volunteer work at the Eastside Settlement House on Tuesday mornings. Then she and Hardwell had business of some sort.” Her eyes twinkled. “We never know when Diamond goes out what sort of business she will find herself involved in … when she will be home … or
who
or
what
she will have with her when she returns.” She lowered her voice. “She is prone to surprising us.”

“She certainly is.” Bear smiled tightly. “I have pressing business to attend to in town, myself. I’ll call another time.”

By the time he climbed up into his rented buggy and slapped the reins, his mood was dark indeed. He had to have money soon, to make good on his land options. And of course there was the little matter of the tons of steel rail he had spent his life savings to purchase. He had to come up with the rest of the money for it soon or watch it go
elsewhere to the highest bidder. Then there was the wood for the ties, steel pins, tools of all shapes and descriptions, cranes and hoists, freight wagons and horses and mules, flatcars, tents and supplies for the workers … and of course, the workers themselves, who had to have transportation out to the middle of nowhere …

It all added up to one massive ache building between his shoulder blades. He rolled his shoulders, but instead of sliding off, the tension migrated down his arms and his legs. He flexed his arms and hands, trying in vain to relax them.

What he needed was some good, hard physical labor. Maybe Halt’s sentimental foreman would see his way clear to hire a half-Irish railroader from North Carolina. His stomach rumbled and he massaged it.

Most of all, what he needed was a good hot meal.

The Mercantile bank was busy that afternoon, when Diamond arrived with Hardwell. But Philip Vassar had issued a long-standing order that she, as one of his largest depositors, was to be shown immediately into his office whenever she arrived, and she was quickly ushered into his presence and offered a bit of refreshment. After inquiries about the dispersal of the funds she had obligated in the lottery following her quarterly board meeting and a number of other small matters, she finally came to the real purpose of her visit.

“Robbie has the chicken pox, you know,” she said toying with the clasp of her beaded purse. “He’s been quite miserable and has asked if he might have another visit from your friend—that fellow from Montana—what was his name again?”

“Barton McQuaid.” Vassar leaned forward with heightened interest. “He visited your sick cousin, did he?”

“He happened to be calling on us when we discovered Robbie’s illness. He was good enough to tell Robbie a few stories about Montana. You wouldn’t happen to know where I might contact him?”

Vassar blinked, paused for a minute, then sat back with a broad smile. “As a matter of fact, I would … or at least I will. He is scheduled to be our house guest for several days, starting—umm—tomorrow. Evelyn has been hounding me to get him to come for a visit, but he has been so busy—”

“I can imagine,” she said, trying not to do anything of the sort. In fact, she had put a total ban on imaginings of all kinds, hoping to prevent the replay of the previous evenings events in her mind. She had enough to cope with as it was; she didn’t need wild, passionate lapses of sanity visiting themselves upon her at random.

“Why don’t you join us for dinner on Saturday?” Vassar said.

“Really, I only wanted to see if he might visit Robbie and—”

“I won’t take no for an answer,” Vassar said genially. “Evelyn would be so delighted.” He must have read in her face her impending refusal, for he pulled out the lowest card in the social deck. “You know … Evelyn was just saying the other day how seldom we see you … how much Clarice misses you … how much they both miss all the excitement of the balls and parties we gave when you and Clarice made your debut.”

Guilt crept up her spine like a hunchbacked bell-ringer.

“I suppose Robbie could do without me for—” she muttered, then brightened as she remembered. “Oh, but the Charity Society Ball is Saturday night.” She smiled sweetly. “If it were anything but the Charity Ball, I would certainly beg off, but … perhaps another time.”

“I had forgotten about the charity do.” Vassar forced a
smile. “McQuaid will be attending with us, I’m sure. No doubt we’ll see you there.”

With her thoughts in turmoil, she took her leave and made her way out into the marble-pillared lobby of the bank.

Now what was she to do? It wasn’t until after Bear left her house last night that she could think clearly enough to realize what had happened. Lord, he must think her the most debauched and unprincipled female in existence … engaged to two men at the same time and indulging in wild, licentious delights with a third at the drop of a hat. She needed to explain, to assure him that she intended to clarify things with Morgan and Paine as soon as possible, and to pray he would believe her and keep her secret.

With her thoughts fully occupied, she spotted Hardwell chatting with one of his friends and started across the lobby. The lofty, polished surfaces and cathedral-like echoes of the bank made everyone who entered that vast temple of commerce feel a need to speak in reverent whispers. Everyone, that is, except a man determined to spurn the grandeur of material wealth in favor of nobler and more enduring riches.