A Girl Like That Read online

  “I wonder if you could tell me where Wiley’s Feed and Grain is.”

  The man pointed his thumb behind his head. “About three blocks back that way to Quincy then turn west. But they ain’t open this time of night.”

  “Thank you.” Sam elbowed his way through the crowd, having to steady more than one staggering patron before he got to the door.

  Relieved to be out of the place, Sam loosened his horse’s reins and mounted. He rode down another block and then stopped. Pulling one of the matches from the block, he used his thumbnail to strike it, holding his head back from the sulphurous fumes. The match head sputtered and flamed up with plenty of light to see his watch. Eleven thirty. Still enough time.

  He rode down the street, turning at the corner, and headed in the direction the tavern keeper had indicated. His heart pounded in his chest as he rode the three blocks then turned onto Quincy.

  Wiley’s, which looked like a ramshackle barn, stood dark and forbidding, one of three buildings on the block. The other two appeared just as deserted.

  Sam hesitated then urged his horse around the side of the feed store. About six feet behind the building, a small shed leaned to one side, its door hanging open.

  Sam hesitated again. He could be walking into a trap. Something snapped, and he caught his breath. Careful, so his saddle wouldn’t squeak, he looked around. Nothing was in sight. Maybe an animal.

  He dismounted and stepped forward, leading his horse until he reached a clump of bushes where he tied the reins firmly. With nerves taut and senses heightened, Sam crept toward the shed. The rigid muscles in his throat ached, and he relaxed them, scoffing silently at his fear.

  He kicked open the door and paused, ready to jump back at the slightest threat. His chest pounding, he stepped inside.

  The first blow glanced off his shoulder, but before he could turn, a fist hit his head sending pain through his skull. A blow to his stomach sent him to his knees. But they kept coming. His strength ebbed. His heart raced then slowed. Dizziness threatened to rob his consciousness. Then he fell forward, his face hitting the rough slab floor. Unable to move, he awaited the next blow and cried out when a foot to his side sent spasms through his ribs and back.

  “Okay, that’s enough!” A rough voice yelled, but not soon enough to stop one last blow from landing on his head.

  “I said that’s enough! We’re not supposed to kill the guy. Remember?” Sam looked in the direction of the voice, but his eyes refused to open. He heard a grunt then the sound of something hitting the wall. Someone cursed. At least he wasn’t the one who’d been thrown.

  “Ouch. What’d you do that far? I wuz just havin’ some fun.”

  “We ain’t here to have fun. Come on.”

  Sam heard the door being flung open. Good. Maybe they were leaving.

  He tried to push himself up, but his arm refused to move. He lay still as the voices of the two men grew fainter. . . .

  He woke to an iron fist crushing his body. Pain shot through his head and behind his eyes from a constant jolting. He gasped. His eyes could only open a crack, but that was enough to see he lay in a wagon bed.

  The wagon stopped. He lay still, afraid even to breathe. Hands grabbed him, one on his shoulder, the other by his belt, and heaved. Air gushed from between his burning lips as he hit the iron-hard ground. Then darkness came once more.

  ❧

  “Mr. Nelson. Wake up.”

  Gentle fingers patted Sam’s hands and then his face.

  He groaned and tried to open his eyes. Through slits of light, he made out a man’s shape.

  “Sarah, hold the light closer.”

  Sam willed his eyes to open wider. Flannigan.

  “Mr. Nelson, it’s Chauncey Flannigan. We found you unconscious in front of the house. Do you know who did this to you?”

  He groaned again, but words refused to pass through his dry, cracked lips.

  “Never mind. We’ve sent word to your father. He should be here soon. Try to stay awake.”

  Sam drifted in and out of consciousness. Senseless words floated around him. Sometimes the straw mattress rustled beneath him. Other times someone gently lifted his head and poured cold water between his throbbing lips then laid his head down again.

  “I need to let Katie know.”

  Sam started. He knew that voice. Even whispered. Bridget?

  “You’ll do nothing of the kind, young lady. There’s not a thing she could do tonight. In the morning will be soon enough to be taking word to her.” The voice, although quiet, was firm.

  “Sam. Sam, wake up.”

  Sam opened his eyes.

  His father towered over him. “I’ve brought Dr. Tyler.”

  Firm hands probed and prodded until Sam yearned for darkness to take him once more.

  “A concussion’s almost certain. Four broken ribs. Left ankle may be broken.” The man paused. “If this gash had been a half inch to the left, he’d have lost his sight in that eye.”

  Relief washed through Sam. Dr. Tyler had treated him all his life. He was in good hands. With that thought, he closed his eyes, and the next thing he knew, someone had lifted him. Fear washed over him. “What?”

  “It’s all right, Sam. Mr. Flannigan is taking you to the coach. We’re going home.”

  “But Katie. . .”

  “Katie? Who is Katie?”

  “Never mind.”

  The jostling ride home was agony as bolt after bolt of pain stabbed through Sam’s body, and he yearned even for Flannigan’s straw mattress.

  Finally they stopped. Sam winced as Fred, the coachman, lifted him. Every inch of his body screamed as he was carried inside.

  “Oh, Sam.” The distressed voice of his mother cut through the pain. “Be careful, Fred. Eugene, are you sure he should be carried up the stairs? I could have a bed made up in the back sitting room.”

  “Amy, he’ll be fine. Stop fidgeting, and let us get him to bed.”

  Sam’s back touched his mattress, and he sank into the downy softness. He sighed. Nothing compared to a body’s own bed.

  “Come in, Nancy. Put the basin on the table. I’ll take care of him.” His mother’s gentle fingers touched his forehead, smoothing back his hair. The swish of the maid’s skirt filled the air before the door clicked shut.

  Sam’s eyes closed, and he surrendered to the comforting warmth of the wet cloth on his face.

  “Was he able to tell you who did this?” his mother whispered. She must think him asleep.

  “No.” His father sounded grim. “But I have a pretty good idea who is behind it. And if I’m right. . .”

  Sam struggled to push through the fog. He had to get out of bed and stop his father from going after Howard.

  Fifteen

  Katie buried her head in her fluffy pillow to try to drown out the pounding. There, that was better. Oh no. There it was again. Arrgghh. What was that awful banging?

  “Katie, wake up.”

  Bridget? What on earth?

  “Katie!” Bridget’s insistent voice was followed by more loud knocking.

  Katie grabbed a wrapper and stumbled over to the door. She yanked it open, and Bridget tumbled in, almost losing her balance.

  The girl gasped and fell onto the bed where she sat breathing hard. “Mr. Nelson’s been hurt.”

  “What?” Katie blinked and tried to make sense of Bridget’s words through her sleep-induced fog. “What did you say?”

  Bridget took a deep breath and grabbed Katie’s hand. “Mr. Nelson was attacked last night. Someone beat him up real bad and dumped him in front of Mr. Flannigan’s house.”

  “Oh. . .” Fear shot through Katie. “He isn’t. . .”

  “Oh no. No.” Bridget shook her head. “He’s alive, and the doctor says he’ll be a
ll right.”

  “Where is he?” Katie grabbed her dress from the closet and threw her robe across the bed. “I must go to him.”

  “His father took him home.” Awe crossed Bridget’s face. “You should have seen it, Katie. Old Mr. Nelson drove into the Patch in this big black coach. Just like a fairy tale. Then he came marchin’ in like a king, bringin’ this fancy doctor with him.”

  “Oh.” Despair crashed over her at this giant wall that rose before her. A wall that separated her from Sam. She dropped down onto the bed, the dress on her lap. “I can’t go to his house.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ve not met his folks yet. That’s why not.” She bit her lip and blinked at the tears that welled in her eyes. “I don’t know if they’re even aware of my existence.”

  “Oh, Katie,” Bridget murmured. “I’m so sorry. I forgot.”

  “Oh well.” Katie forced a smile. “I’m sure he’ll get word to me. . .somehow.”

  “Of course he will,” Bridget said, patting Katie on the shoulder.

  Rosie stuck her head in the door and gave Katie a scrutinizing look. “Are you all right?”

  “Sure I am. I’m just fine.” But the forced smile on her face wouldn’t have fooled anyone.

  “Ma sent me up to get you girls. Breakfast is on the table.” She wheeled and headed for the stairs, the bottom of her skirt twirling around her ankles.

  Katie stood. “Why don’t you go on down and get your breakfast while it’s hot? I’ll be down as soon as I’m dressed.”

  “Oh, I have to get back to Ma’s. I promised to go to church with her.” She darted a glance at Katie. “Wouldn’t you like to go with us?”

  Katie sighed. Bridget knew she liked to rest on Sundays. “Not this time.”

  “All right.” Her voice was soft with disappointment. “I’ll be seeing you tonight then.”

  Katie watched her friend leave and sank back onto the bed. Nausea rose in her stomach at the thought of food.

  The day dragged by as Katie dawdled around the parlor and out on the porch and waited for word about Sam. Perhaps Bridget would have news for her tonight. Although, she wasn’t sure just how she thought Bridget would hear anything.

  “Daughter.”

  As her father stepped out onto the porch, Katie looked up from the embroidery she’d been stabbing at aimlessly.

  “You haven’t eaten a bite all day.” His forehead wrinkled with worry.

  “I had some soup awhile ago, Pa. Remember?”

  “Well now, I do recall you twirlin’ a spoon around in your bowl. But I don’t remember you putting anything in your mouth.”

  Katie swallowed past the knot in her throat. “I’m sorry.”

  He sat beside her on the wicker sofa and put his arm around her shoulders. “Now, now. And it’s sorry I am to be fretting you. I know you’re worried about young Sam.”

  Katie laid her head on her father’s sturdy shoulder and let the tears flow. “If only I knew he was all right.”

  ❧

  The aroma of coffee and ham drifted to Sam’s nostrils. He stirred and opened his eyes. He moaned and raised his hand to shield them from the bright light streaming into the room, stabbing at his eyes like a thousand knives.

  “Sorry, son. Let me close the curtains.” His father stood up from the wingbacked chair pulled up next to Sam’s bed. Stepping to the window, he yanked the heavy curtains shut, blocking out the light.

  “Thanks.” The pain was milder now. Bearable. Sam took a deep breath. At least he could open his eyes a little more than a slit this morning.

  “Well, you’re a sight, son.”

  “I’ll bet.” He tried to grin, but his cracked lips protested. He ran his tongue over them and immediately regretted it as fire blazed across them.

  “Could I have some water, please?”

  His father held a glass to his lips, and he gulped the cool liquid.

  “Here, your mother brought some salve for your lips.”

  He held out a flat jar, and Sam dipped a finger in the aromatic gel and rubbed it onto his sore lips. Ah. The soothing balm felt cool and soft.

  His father replaced the lid and put the jar on the table.

  Sam felt around his face, his hand touching several bandages. “Maybe I’d better see a mirror.”

  “Hmm. Let me save you the trouble.” His father eyed him and shook his head. “Both eyes are black. You have a gash running from your mouth to the bottom of your chin and another from the left side of your forehead almost to your right eye. That was a close one. You also have numerous visible bruises, as well as many that aren’t.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate your candor.”

  His father’s hearty laugh landed like a sledgehammer against Sam’s temples.

  “Sorry, I forgot you have a headache. Probably will for a while.”

  “Probably. Father, you haven’t tried to see Howard, have you?” Sam held his breath while he waited for his father’s answer.

  “I’m smarter than that, son.” He sat on the edge of Sam’s bed and nodded. “Much smarter. But it seems fairly obvious to me he was involved in this and maybe with Eddy’s death. But knowing it and proving it are two different things. I have some people on it. In the meantime, I plan to have a talk with Howard. In my office.”

  “Be careful, Father. I don’t know what sort of racket he has going, but if he’ll kill for it and take a chance on having me ambushed when he surely should have known we’d suspect him, well, he’s not playing games.”

  “And neither am I.” The steel that Sam saw in his father’s eyes confirmed the statement. “But I’m not sure he knows we’re on to him or that Eddy was working for us. I think he just decided Eddy was getting too close. And the same about you. And now, that’s enough unpleasantness for now.” He slapped his hand on the bed. “What can I do for you while you’re recovering? You must have unfinished business at the office I can help you with.”

  Sam looked thoughtfully at his father. Was this the right time? Well, if not, it would have to be. Bridget was sure to have told Katie about the attack. She’d be worried sick. He had to let her know that he was alive and doing well.

  “Actually, I’m caught up at the office. But I do need to speak to you about something.”

  “Anything. What do you need?”

  Sam’s head pounded, and his neck hurt. He forced himself to relax. How hard could this be? His father was a reasonable man.

  “I’ve fallen in love with someone.” He paused, weighing what his next words should be.

  His father’s mouth flew open, and he beamed. “Why, that’s wonderful, son. Your mother will be ecstatic. She’s wanted a daughter for years.”

  Sam smiled. “Yes, I know. I hope she’ll be happy. I hope you both will.”

  “And why wouldn’t we be? Who is this young woman you’ve been keeping from—” He stopped, and a wary look crossed his face. “Who is the young lady? Please don’t tell me it’s that actress at Harrigan’s.”

  Sam stiffened. “If by ‘that actress’ you’re referring to Miss Katherine O’Shannon, then yes, Father.”

  The bed rocked as Sam’s father jumped up, his face red and twisted. “No. I won’t see you ruin your life and career for a shanty Irish showgirl.”

  Sam clenched his teeth, ignoring the pain. He knew if he spoke now he’d say something he’d regret. He watched as his father paced the floor, ranting about showgirls in general and Irish ones in particular. He’d calm down in a minute.

  Finally, the older man flung himself into the wingbacked chair and mopped his face with a handkerchief. “Sam,” he said, his voice quieter than before, “surely you aren’t thinking clearly.”

  Picking up the glass from the bedside table, Sam took a long drink. “Father, contrary to wha
t you think, Katie isn’t from shantytown, but even if she were, it wouldn’t change anything. She’s a wonderful girl. Kind, gentle, and a lady in both manner and action.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure she is. I’m sorry if I was hasty. I know you wouldn’t fall in love with someone trashy. But there is also a question of social station. And whether we like it or not, that does matter.”

  “Not to me it doesn’t. If our friends and acquaintances don’t respect my choice for a wife, they aren’t my friends.”

  “You say that now. But you may have cause to change your mind later.”

  “Won’t you at least meet her?” A last ditch appeal, but maybe, just maybe, he’d agree.

  “Not a good idea. It would only encourage her. That’s not really fair to the girl.”

  He’d hoped his father would understand. But of course, it wouldn’t be that easy.

  “I won’t give her up, Father. As much as it will hurt me to go against your wishes, I intend to marry Katie O’Shannon.” He watched, with a tight chest, as his father stood and stalked from the room, letting the door slam.

  Now what? He tried to sit up, but the pain in his ribs and head took his breath away. He had to find a way to send word to Katie.

  Struggling, he stretched his arm toward the bell cord hanging by the bed. Agony pierced his entire body, but he finally grabbed it and pulled.

  Within a minute, the door opened and Nancy stood there. She curtsied. “Yes, sir? What can I do for you?”

  “Nancy, would you write a letter for me and have it delivered?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “You’ll find writing material in the top drawer of my desk.” He gasped as pain stabbed his ankle. How many more injuries did he have?

  Nancy wrote as he dictated, and then with a promise to send the letter by one of the house servants right away, she left.

  He leaned back on the bed and tried to sleep, but thoughts of Katie ran through his mind. Her soft curls, her wide blue eyes, the dimple on her cheek that dipped when she smiled. He didn’t want to be estranged from the parents he loved. He had to somehow make them understand.

  An hour passed. She should have his letter by now. He pictured her opening it. Saw the relief on her sweet face as she read that he was safe.