Love at Any Cost (12 page)

The breath hitched in her lungs at his gentle probe, catching her off-guard. Normally she was a vault with everyone but Alli and Aunt Cait, preferring to keep her secrets to herself. But there was something about his serious and vulnerable manner that completely disarmed her, as if he connected with her pain despite his teasing swagger. He reached for her hand, giving it a gentle press, and somehow she saw her own grief reflected in his eyes. “Forgive me, please,” he said quietly. “You don't have to answer that—I tend to get pushy at times.”

She shook her head, managing a tremulous smile. “No . . . no, for some reason I . . . feel like talking about it, Jamie, which is odd because I'm usually very private.”

He squeezed her hand and released it, their eyes locked as he waited for her to continue.

Inhaling deeply, she swung her legs around and folded her arms on tented knees, gaze fixed on the sky and voice as far away as the
glittering panes overhead. “You see, I've always been considered a little . . . odd.”

“Odd?”

She rested her chin on her arms, wondering why she felt compelled to allow Jamie MacKenna a glimpse into her world. Maybe because he'd given her a glimpse into his, no matter how brief or bitter. Or maybe she just really needed a friend right now. Whatever the reason, somehow deep inside Cassie felt as if she could trust him to accept her for who she was, and that felt better than anything had felt in a long, long time. Her lips curved in a bare smile. “I don't know if you've noticed, Mr. MacKenna, but I don't exactly fill the bill for high society. Back home, I prefer blue jeans to dresses, ranching to socializing, and horses to men. Which, to the upper echelon of Humble, Texas, is completely unforgivable.”

He grinned. “Horses to men? Tarnation, I never stood a chance, did I?”

She shook her head and laughed. “Nope, especially not after Mark.”

“Ah . . . Mark,” he said with a squint. “The crux of the problem, I take it.”

She closed her eyes, and instantly her smile faded. “Yes, Mark . . . ,” she whispered, her voice tapering low. Fighting a prick of tears, she continued, her thoughts traveling back to Humble. “He was quite the catch, you know, son of a wealthy sawmill owner from Houston who'd just moved to Humble to open a sawmill.” Her lips quirked. “
And
find a wife. Since the oil boom, Humble has quite an upscale society, you see. So you can imagine how the society pages painted it when the handsome Mr. Chancellor chose to court the reclusive tomboy of Mr. Quinn McClare instead of socialites who vied for his attention.”

She stretched out and leaned back to study the sky through the crystal-like panes. “From little on, I never quite fit in high society because Mama taught at the Indian reservation before she married Daddy and after, and so I spent a lot of time there, and Humble elite didn't cotton to that. They made fun of me because my friends were Indians and not the daughters of wealthy landowners or oilmen. It got so bad Mama yanked me from an exclusive girls' school in town to teach me at the reservation school instead. Of course it didn't help that I refused to attend debutante balls or society teas. That gave rise to more gossip and rude names, which I have to admit hurt at first.” Her chin jutted up. “But they weren't my friends, so I pretended it didn't matter, opting to spend time with the people I cared about most—my best friends, Morning Dove and White Deer. To me ‘coming out' meant fishing outside with Daddy at the river or riding Domino—my polka-dot mare—in the hills with Red or Merle, Daddy's loyal hands.” She glanced at Jamie out of the corner of her eye, mouth skewed in a wry smile. “Certainly not prissing up for some fancy ball, trussing up in a corset to catch a man's eye.”

He smiled that slow, languid smile with which she was rapidly becoming familiar, his scan of her legs warming both her cheeks and her belly. “Trust me, Cass, you don't need a corset to catch a man's eye.”

With a self-concious tug of her lip, she tucked her legs back under her skirt. “Well, thank you, but it's a Gibson-Girl world, which is why I said no when Mark asked me out.”

“You did?”

“Yep. It was bad enough being rejected by Humble's upper-crust—I didn't feel like giving some man a potshot at me too.” Her pulse slowed to a painful thud as her eyes trailed into a hard stare. “But Mark was . . . ,” her throat convulsed with a hard
swallow, the memory of his affection shrinking her ribs, “so . . . kind and attentive and indifferent to whether society approved of me or not, and I . . . ,” emotion jammed in her throat, “couldn't help myself—I fell in love.”

“Cass, I'm sorry . . . ,” Jamie said softly.

“Me too,” she whispered with a swab of her eyes. “The day Mark proposed was the happiest day of my life, making me feel normal for the first time ever.”

“What happened?” His voice was quiet.

A cold chill shivered despite the warmth of the sun. She closed her eyes, remembering with painful clarity the day Mark broke the engagement.
“I love you, Cass,”
he'd whispered, repentance heavy in his tone,
“but I can't afford to lose everything and start over.”

Translation: I love my father's money more than I love you.

How ironic . . . right after Daddy's wells went dry . . .

“Cass?”

Her eyes jolted open. “What?”

He rested his hand over hers, grazing it with his thumb. “What happened?” he repeated.

She forced a smile as stiff as her jaw. “Oh, nothing much. His daddy just threatened to disown him if he married me, that's all. Said I was too different and Mark deserved better.” A knot jerked in her throat. “So he . . . broke the engagement. A week before the wedding.”

“Aw, Cass . . .” He rose to his knees to bundle her in his arms, stroking her back with a warm, firm touch. “He was a moron who didn't deserve you,” he whispered, tucking his head to hers. He kissed the top of her hair and jumped to his feet. “Hey, what do you say I pretend I'm Mark, and you try and drown me?”

She tilted her head. “You'd let me do that?”

He tugged her up and to the water. “Sure, that's what friends
do, isn't it?” he said with a lazy grin, absently kneading the skin of her palm.

His touch unleashed a shiver of heat that forced a lump to her throat.
Maybe
, she thought with a gulp, slipping her hand from his to race him to the water. But she was dead certain there was something friends did
not
do . . . at least, not with a friend like him.

They don't fall in love.

 11 

J
amie's rib cage constricted at the sunken shadows under his sister's eyes, evidence of a bout of flu that had weakened and left her bedridden all week. Prone to illness since she was a little girl, Jamie wondered how much of her frail constitution could be attributed to the hip injury that prevented her from being a normal young woman. Running with other children or even simple walks in the park had resulted in so much pain the next day that Jess remained homebound except for Sundays when she'd limp across the street to St. Mary's for church, refusing Jamie's assistance like she did when she climbed Mrs. Tucker's boardinghouse steps.

“For pity's sake, James MacKenna,” she'd say, “I'm a sixteen-year-old woman with two perfectly good legs even if my hip doesn't comply. I refuse to be coddled and carried wherever I go.” And then she'd stubbornly navigate the steps one at a time, wincing and resting after each until she'd turn and glow at the top like she'd just scaled Mount McKinley.

Of course she was always sore after, some days the pain worse than others depending on the weather. Jamie glanced out the window of the bedroom his mother and she shared, stomach cramping at the rivulets of water that slithered the glass. No
doubt the dark smudges under his sister's eyes were as much from the rain that always exacerbated her condition as from the flu, and for the thousandth time, Jamie silently cursed a God that refused to heal a young woman who worshiped him with all of her heart.

Stifling a yawn, Jess leaned against her pillow, pale cheeks framed by lustrous black curls spilling over her nightgown while she studied the chessboard with ochre eyes so like his own.

Jamie glanced at the clock on her nightstand. He needed to leave to deliver Mom's package to Millie if he was to meet Bram at the Blue Moon in time for Logan's birthday dinner at The Palace Hotel. He sighed. “Sorry, Peanut, but I need to go, and you need to rest.” Tugging one of her silky curls, he rose and carefully moved the chessboard to the bureau before pushing his chair against the wall. “You'll need all the rest you can get if you have any hope of whipping me in chess tomorrow,” he said, straightening his tuxedo jacket with a firm tug and a wink.

“If?” She gave him an imp of a smile before she flinched, pain strangling her features when she attempted to shift in the bed, barely a bump under the cover. Her smile appeared strained. “Law degree or no, Jammy,” she said, teasing with the nickname she'd given him when she was two, “I think we both know who's going to win.”

“You think so, huh?” He assessed her with a lift of brows. “Only if you don't fall asleep like you did last night.” He bent to deposit a kiss to her cheek. “Get some rest, kiddo—love you.”

“Love you too, Jammy.” She yawned, eyelids weighting closed, pale face that of an angel's except for the telltale fatigue that indicated a particularly grueling day. He retrieved his top hat from the dresser and headed for the door, turning at the sound of her voice. “Oh, and by the way,” she called, eyes popping open
to reveal a hint of a twinkle, “you look awfully handsome tonight. Who's the lucky girl—Patricia?”

“Nope. Miss Hamilton will not be in attendance.”

Jess slid farther beneath the thin cover with another yawn, clasping her hands on top. “Oh, too bad. You look awfully gorgeous tonight and you smell good too.” She tilted her head with a sweet smile. “Will there be any other ladies who've caught your eye?”

He grinned. “A Texas cousin, but she's gun-shy 'cause some pretty boy broke her heart.” He shook his head. “Unfortunately, she thinks I'm ‘pretty,' too, and just wants to be friends.”

Her grin matched his. “You are pretty, even if somewhat lacking in chess.”

His eyes narrowed in tease as he brandished a finger. “That remains to be seen, you little brat, so I suggest you catch up on your sleep because you're gonna need it.” He blew her a kiss as his smile sobered. “I love you, Jess,” he said, voice hoarse.

Snatching his kiss, she placed it on her heart before blowing her own. “Me, too, Jammy.”

His throat ached while he closed her door, head bowed and hand limp on the knob. She'd looked so tired tonight, worn, barely touching the chicken he'd brought from Duffy's—her favorite, no less. Six at night and she was already in bed. The very idea slumped his shoulders.

He made his way downstairs, pots banging in the kitchen where Mrs. Tucker prepared dinner for her boarders. He found his mother in the deserted parlour, sewing on the worn floral sofa of the Victorian-styled room where the gloom of the day peeked through burgundy tasseled curtains. She glanced up, dark circles beneath her eyes that matched those of her daughter, and his throat convulsed. At forty-two, she was still a beautiful woman, but the strain and stress of caring for Jess and working shifts at
the Blue Moon were taking their toll, aging her more than Jamie liked. Jess had a particularly taxing week, which always meant his mother did too, and he was worried about her health as much as his sister's. He released a quiet sigh.
And
her state of mind. With Jess in more pain lately, his mother didn't get out as often as before, and Jamie could see the result in a mild malaise that invaded the parlour.

“You look very handsome, son,” his mother said, laying aside the sewing she took in to help meet the bills. Lines chiseling her brow, she rose and walked to where he stood as if privy to the whisperings of the demons that forever haunted his mind. She slipped her arms to his waist in a loving embrace, and with a catch of his throat, Jamie swallowed her up in a silent groan, eyes closed as he rested his head against hers. Her scent comforted him—the sweet fragrance of the lavender oil she rubbed into Jess's joint mingling with the pungent smell of ginger tea from her cup on the coffee table, faithfully brewed to reduce the inflammation of her daughter's hip. Too thin and too frail to suit her son, Jean MacKenna was a slip of a thing at five foot four to his six foot one, and yet she never failed to infuse him with a mother's strength as if he were still a little boy. Her voice—as gentle and soothing as the hand now massaging his back—had a melodic lilt that was almost spiritual, calming the angst in his gut. “Things will get better for Jess,” she whispered. “God will see us through, you'll see.”

Both his hold and his eyes squeezed tighter and he almost wished he could beseech God like his mother and sister did, begging him to deliver Jess from this life-crippling condition. Localized osteoarthritis, the doctor called it, resulting from trauma. “Expect pain with all normal movement,” Doc Morrissey had warned, “as well as limited range of motion and swelling of the
joint.” All symptoms that worsened with time despite endless prayers of his mother and sister.

And his.

Patting his back, his mother returned to the sofa to resume her sewing with a proud, if tired, smile. “You're a handsome man, James MacKenna, especially the way you look tonight.” She inclined her head, a hint of a sparkle lighting hazel eyes so like his own. “I suppose a certain senator's daughter will be at the McClare birthday party as well?”

“Not tonight,” Jamie said with a zag of a smile, striding over to set his top hat on the mantel before adjusting his tie in the distorted mirror above.

“I see. So when do you plan to officially court her, this beauty who's stolen your heart?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “She's only stolen my eye, Mom, not my heart. But rest assured—the moment I decide on
the
girl, you and Jess'll be the first to know.”

He turned to assess the hand-me-down dinner jacket Bram had insisted on giving him, claiming ill fit or general dislike, and as always, gratitude swelled for a best friend who was more like a brother. Exquisitely cut from the finest wool, the jacket emphasized Jamie's broad shoulders before tapering to a slim waist where the tails cut at an angle. The straight-standing three-inch collar and white bow tie accentuated the firm cut of his clean-shaven jaw, and thanks to his friend Siu Ling at the Chinese laundry, Bram's old white shirt was immaculate and crisp, its pearl buttons the fashion of the day. His critical gaze traveled from normally unruly ebony curls slicked back, past hazel eyes Alli had declared “deadly,” to hard-chiseled cheekbones steeled with determination, confirming he was a man of class and distinction. His full lips quirked. An image obviously more distorted than the mirror.

Swiping his top hat from the mantel—another hand-off from Bram—he turned and paused, shooting a quick glance out the window where a touch of sun was finally peeking through. “It looks like the rain stopped, Mom, and the sun's trying to come out. Why not take a quick walk to the corner to say hello to Mrs. Lowe? Jess is probably asleep.”

She shook her head, shoulders sagging with the motion. “Not up to it tonight, Jamie. I'll be fine, though. I have a lot of hemming to do, so you go and have a good time, you hear?” She nodded to a small paper-wrapped package on a table by the door. “Are you sure you don't mind delivering my sewing to Millie? I don't want you to be late.”

“Nope, it's practically on my way.” He tucked the parcel under his arm and strode over to give her a kiss goodbye. “Good night, Mom. Love you—don't wait up.” He shot her a wink and slipped out the door, checking his watch as he hurried to the next block to catch the trolley. He didn't have time to walk to the Coast as usual, especially since the cable car traveled just a few streets over from the old cow-yard where they'd once lived.

As always, a malaise settled as he walked the final seamy block, the music of steam pianos and gramophones blasting from dance hall after dance hall where half-clad women called out lewd invitations from windows above. Names like The Living Flea, Dead Man's Alley, and Murder Point, so-called pleasure palaces that reeked of alcohol and stale perfume and the pungent scent of opium. As usual, the street was littered with trash and people, some passed out, some fighting, and some too drunk to care.

The sound of a baby crying reminded him the Barbary Coast was no place for infants or children. Nor Jean MacKenna and her family. But, it was all his mother had been able to afford back then, her meager dance-hall salary finally giving way to
seamstress work to supplement his father's sporadic paychecks . . . if he hadn't drunk them away first. When Brian MacKenna died, Jamie wanted to quit school altogether to work fulltime, but his mother refused.

“I don't want you to end up poor like me,” she'd whisper whenever he'd tried to argue. “I want you to make me proud, Jamie—get an education and make something of yourself.” She'd hug him then, tears brimming, and it was all he could do to deflect moisture of his own. So he'd stayed in school and studied hard while his mother squirreled away every spare penny for his education. The very thought caused tears to sting in his nose. She'd sacrificed her life for him and Jess, so he gladly sacrificed his for them—his childhood, his friendships, his sleep. He gave his all to school and work, determined to make a better life for the woman who'd devoted hers to them.

Obscenities drifted from an open window as he mounted cracked steps, anxious to deliver his mother's package and get out. He opened a scarred wood door that was defiled, he was certain, by everything from booze and vomit to urine and blood, eternally grateful he and his family escaped the polluted sewers of the Barbary Coast.

He entered the foul-smelling brothel on the first floor and was instantly met by shouts and sniffles. Heart squeezing, he bent down to a quivering lump of curls hunched on the first step of a staircase that once led to his family's flat. “Bessie, what's wrong?” Ignoring the tyke's filthy dress and matted hair, Jamie scooped her up, scanning from pudgy bare feet and scuffed knees to a threadbare romper with numerous patched holes. The grimy face of a four-year-old cherub peeked up with fat tears in her eyes, and he placed a kiss on her cheek. “Are you hurt?”