Wings of a Dove (47 page)

    Selecting a blue serge suit that he knew complemented his dark coloring and minimized the breadth of his impressive physique, Delaney withdrew it and threw it onto the rumpled bed.

    In a few hours he would interview Otis Davidson II, one of Chicago's wealthiest men and head of the city's most powerful family. Today he wanted to deemphasize his physical stature and to impress with his intelligence and shrewdness. The fact that Davidson was also Sybil's father was of little consequence. It would be a difficult interview at best, since the Davidson family concern owned a major part of the slums known as Conley's Patch and Healy Slough. A sector of ramshackle wooden buildings that comprised a neighborhood of cheap saloons, pawn shops, brothels, and disreputable boardinghouses that were no more than tinderboxes during rainless months, these slums were a disgrace to the city, a point he had been hammering home to the readers of the
Tribune
during the past few weeks.

    But in truth, his interest in the slums was twofold. His articles on Otis Davidson's properties provided an excellent opportunity for a covert investigation into a prostitution ring rumored to have formed in that area of the city, one that held young immigrant women slaves in the establishments where they worked. The death of three such women had already been reported, but the payment of bribes to men in high places had slowed police investigation to a halt.

    A familiar anger tightened Delaney's handsome features as hard memories invaded his mind. As a child he had become all too familiar with the corrupting power of money. He would not stand silently by while defenseless people suffered at the hands of evil men.

    Delaney took a shirt from the wardrobe. The expensive fabric slipped across the rippling muscles of his back as he pulled it on, but he was used to the caress of fine material against his skin. A brief twinge in his chest tightened his frown and he unconsciously touched a ragged white scar marking his taut flesh. He was scarred in many ways by his past, but he supposed he should be grateful for this mark. It had been the catalyst of change.

    Delaney automatically continued the motions of dressing, his mind moving far from the opulent room in which he stood. He remembered his earliest personal experience with war and the strange coldness with which he had viewed the death and misery surrounding him during the first six months of his apprenticeship under Al Bodman. At the outset, Bodman had respected his analytical ability to report the progress of the conflict between     the states, but he had also realized that the tragedies unfolding daily before Delaney's eyes rarely touched him. Bodman was puzzled by his reaction, and, in truth, Delaney was puzzled as well. But the numbness, the distance between his inner self and the chaos of war, had come to an abrupt end the instant a Confederate shell struck his chest.

    Closing his light eyes briefly, Delaney relived the pain and shock of that moment, as well as his startling realization, in the brief second before he drifted into unconsciousness, that he might not survive.

    He remembered clearly the tricks his mind had played as he floated in the netherworld between life and death. The vision of Allie's face hovering above him as he struggled for each painful breath was still amazingly vivid after all this time. He remembered the concern in her face, the love in her eyes, the sweet sound of her voice as she spoke words of consolation he could not quite understand. He remembered her expression as she clutched the medal of the Lady in her hand.

    And he remembered his rage. He had not wanted Allie to pray for him! He had wanted only to forget her!

    Driving Allie's persistent pale-haired image from his mind during the weeks of inactivity while he recuperate had been a slow process. Now, in retrospect, he was only too aware it was that vision and the anger and perverse longing it had stirred in him that had given him the strength to survive.

    In the end, the long weeks in a hospital bed, surrounded by men who were similarly wounded, had effected a change that made him the man he was today. Several years later he had finally admitted to himself that he owed this change, the empathy he eventually developed for suffering people, to Allie. For in his desperate attempt to oust her from his thoughts, to expunge the mental anguish that made his physical distress acute, he had finally lowered the barriers between himself and the wounded men around him. No longer aloof, he had become one of them, able to see the world through their eyes as he never had before. The view added a new dimension to his life.

    Delaney's frown darkened as he fastened his trousers and reached for his vest. His outlook on the tragedy of war from that point on was no longer dispassionate. The difference in him was immediately discernible in his reporting, and a short time after    his return to the western front, the
Tribune
gave him full status as an independent correspondent.

    But that promotion did not come about until he had learned well all the lessons Al Bodman had to teach him; and he was the first to admit that he owed his present success as much to Bodman's financial genius as to the man's superior talent as a correspondent.

    A hard smile returned to Delaney's lips as he tied his cravat with a practiced hand. The war had been over for five years. In those years he had amassed a considerable sum in the bank, enough to make him financially secure beyond his most ambitious expectations. He would become wealthier still through his investments, but wealth in itself was not the source of his greatest satisfaction.

    Delaney slipped his jacket on and adjusted it across his shoulders. He turned, scrutinizing his appearance in the dresser mirror. Financial independence was a luxury his father had neither known nor sought, but if his father had realized its importance, he would not have suffered a wealthy man's revenge.

    Delaney's smile turned into a grimace. He had not yet achieved the status his father had once enjoyed in their profession, but he was already acknowledged as one of the best newspapermen in Chicago. He would continue to do his job as well as he could but there was one major difference between his father and himself. Delaney had secured for himself a financial position that would allow no man the power to bring him to his knees.

    Picking up his brush, Delaney gave his dark hair a few strokes that put it neatly into place. His final appraisal was not meant to take into account the changes years and seasoning had made in his appearance. For that reason he paid scant attention to the lines of maturity at the outside corners of his peculiarly light eyes lines that intensified the power of their acute perusal and made his potent, knowing gaze a formidable weapon whenever he confronted an opponent. He neither realized nor cared that the impressive firmness of his jaw was a weapon of silent intimidation or that the smile that touched his mature, handsome face was often his most effective weapon, for all its rarity.

    He accepted without vanity the awareness that the promise of youth had been totally fulfilled in the impressive stature of the man he had become and that the age of thirty would find his erect, broad frame well muscled and lean, fit, and free of the excess weight that afflicted so many of the members of his profession.

    ''Formidable" and "intimidating" were the words most frequently used to describe him by men who opposed the reforms that were the aim of his work on the
Tribune
. "Breathtaking" was the word most commonly used by women. Aware of all three descriptions, he gave little heed to them, except to the extent that they allowed him to accomplish the objectives he had set for himself.

    Turning from the mirror, Delaney left his bedroom. He was strikingly handsome and well dressed, the epitome of the respectable, successful Chicago businessman. It was only the flash of relentlessness in those clear, penetrating eyes, the frequent frigidity there, that hinted at the last remains of the prison boy hidden beneath.

    When he reached the foot of the staircase a few moments later, Delaney turned to the short, gray-haired woman rounding the corner of the hallway.

    "I won't bother with breakfast today, Olga. I expect to be home at the usual time."

    Not waiting for his housekeeper's response, Delaney pulled open the front door and descended the steps to the quiet tree-lined street. Oblivious to the spring sun that warmed his shoulders as he walked rapidly toward the intersection, he raised his hand, hailing a passing hack. He gave an elegant Terrace Row address to the heavily mustached driver and settled onto the velour seat.

    Relaxing for the first time since awakening, Delaney reached into his pocket and retrieved the slender article he had dropped into it a few minutes before. He stared at the gleaming hairpin, a smile moving across his lips. The Davidson family was one of Chicago's wealthiest. It was socially prominent and extremely influential. Otis Davidson II, if he had known the truth, would not have approved of his daughter's liaison with a man of common origins, and Delaney sometimes wondered how big a part that fact played in the attraction Sybil held for him. Sybil was a challenge, and challenge was the major impetus of his existence.

    Delaney's smile faded. He was victorious in meeting most    challenges these days. He made certain of it. He had determined long ago that he had lost often enough.

    Allie withdrew a shirt from the laundry basket at her feet. She raised her face to the cloudless blue of the sky as she clipped the garment to the clothesline, luxuriating in the bright morning sunlight that warmed her skin. A brisk spring breeze pressed the soft cotton of her dress against her body, outlining a slenderness unaltered by womanhood and whipping free a few locks from the pale, shimmering mass of hair so carefully secured atop her head. Experiencing a familiar annoyance, she brushed the errant strands back from a face refined to incredible delicacy by maturity, and from deep, dark eyes and small features set to perfection there.

    Abandoning the futile attempt to confine the wayward locks, Allie returned to the business at hand. Her chore almost complete, she paused again, breathing deeply, taking in the sweet scent of freshly turned earth and budding trees. The familiar fragrance brought to mind the morning after she had arrived at the Case farm as a child, when she had stepped out of the house almost disbelieving the beauty and redolence that abounded in the raw, unspoiled beauty of her new home.

    Allowing her eyes to wander over the sun-washed, rolling land, the farmhouse that had welcomed her home, the cows that moved leisurely in the corral behind the barn, and the chicken coops on the small rise in the rear, she was aware that nothing, and everything, had changed since that morning.

    A flicker of movement on the porch behind her alerted Allie to the advance of a small striped cat. Bittersweet memories swept her mind as the purring feline continued its approach. Whiskers was several generations removed from Mischief, who had been gone for a few years. She had never known the stroking caress of the little girl Allie had once been, or the surprisingly gentle touch of the silent prison boy who had also been her friend.

    Allie withdrew the last garment from the laundry basket, her fingers moving quickly to pin it to the line. Those times were long gone, and she had come to terms with the past and with life's natural, sometimes painful progression.

    Papa Case was gone. Life had held little joy for him after Mother Case's death, and Allie was certain that he had held on only long enough to help James take a firm hold on the farm. When it was financially secure and he felt his work was done, Papa Case had left them silently, without pain, to join his beloved Margaret.

    Allie was glad he had not lingered to witness the poor run of luck that had plunged the farm heavily into debt shortly there-after. She was also glad he was not present to see the pleasure Sarah seemed to take in her brother's dire financial status. But then, Sarah had never quite forgiven Allie for bearing Delaney's child, or James for accepting that child as his own.

    And then there was Sarah's son, Jeremy. He was a truly handsome boy, with the dark hair and sturdy build of his father. Allie had often thought that it was fortunate for Bobbie's sake that the boy's resemblance to Delaney stopped there, that the boy's green eyes and handsome features were young replicas of Sarah's, for there had never been a hint of suspicion in the mind of the townsfolk that Jeremy Clark was other than Bobbie's son. But for all the care Sarah took in guarding the secret of Jeremy's paternity from others, she took great pleasure in flaunting the true circumstances of his conception to Allie.

    For that reason, James had limited contact with Sarah and Bobbie over the years, and for all the affection Allie felt for her brother-in-law and her beautiful, guiltless nephew, she had to admit to relief.

    And then there was little Margaret. A fierce, protective love flared to life within Allie at the thought of her darling child. She would be forever grateful that James had been strong and loving enough to completely accept another man's child as his own. Allie's throat tightened, and she swallowed against a warm rush of emotion. She supposed James's capacity for giving love was the reason her own love for him had grown steadily over the years. Totally different in character and scope from the compelling, all-consuming love she had felt for Delaney, it was nonetheless powerful and true.

    Turning at the sound of a step behind her, Allie met James's sober expression with a smile. His sandy hair was now lightly touched with gray, and his freckled face was faintly lined, but he had the sinewy build of a hardworking farmer in his prime. He was a good, kind, loving man, and Allie was proud to be    his wife. She knew she would never regret or betray the vows she had spoken to him.