Kitabı oku: «His Substitute Bride», sayfa 4

Chapter Four

The San Francisco Chronicle, April 15, 1906

Yesterday’s fire on Folsom Street destroyed three buildings and, tragically, took one life. That the damage wasn’t worse is a tribute to San Francisco’s magnificent firefighters, who arrived in time to wet down the blaze and save the surrounding structures.

Annie glanced toward the carousel where Quint rode beside his daughter, laughing as if he didn’t have a care in the world. She should have known he’d use the fire as an excuse to escalate the fight with Josiah Rutledge. Where danger was concerned, the man had no more common sense than a fourteen-year-old schoolboy.

Her fear deepened as she read on.

Yesterday we were lucky. But imagine this scenario if you will. A small accident starts a fire. As the blaze rages, the fire crew arrives with the pumping engine. With their usual efficiency, they connect the hoses to the cistern, start the pump…and no water emerges from the nozzle.

Citizens, our beloved city is a tinderbox. A devastating fire could happen today. It could happen tomorrow. The one certainty is, if we don’t update the water system forthwith, it WILL happen.

Three months ago, at the urging of Chief Dennis Sullivan, the Board of Supervisors set aside funds to make the most urgent repairs. The work was to be completed by mid-April. Bank records show that the funds were withdrawn and paid to the contractor. But what have the people of San Francisco received for their hard-earned tax dollars? Let’s take a look.

What followed was a detailed list of the needed repairs and the work, if any, that had been completed. Quint’s research was meticulous. The conditions he described were shocking and frightening—empty cisterns, faulty valves, cracked pipes that had been dabbed with cheap cement instead of replaced.

So what happened to the money? There are two individuals who can answer that question —the contractor and the board member who arranged to hire him on “agreeable” terms. Sadly, we’ve grown so accustomed to this kind of chicanery that most of us are inclined to shrug when we hear about it. In this case, however, lives and property are at stake. When certain evidence comes to light, I wouldn’t wager a plug nickel on the necks of these two schemers, let alone their jobs and reputations.

Certain evidence…Annie shuddered as the words sank home. Quint had pushed things too far this time. He was playing a deadly game with no winning cards in his hand. Her fingers trembled as they gripped the page, blurring the print before her eyes.

It is this reporter’s fervent hope that the responsible parties will experience a reversal of conscience and put the funds to the use for which they were intended. Otherwise it may be too late for them and for their innocent vic-tims—the people of San Francisco.

Annie lowered the paper, dread congealing like cold tallow in the pit of her stomach. Josiah Rut-ledge’s flinty eyes and twisted smile glinted in her memory. The man exuded evil. Quint was tweaking the devil’s whiskers.

As she watched the children frolic on the playground, a slow anger began to simmer inside her. Quint had always been a risk-taker—the first boy to test the winter ice on the pond, the first to walk across the railroad trestle—blindfolded. The first to challenge the new bully in town or leap onto an unbroken horse. His thrill-seeking ways had cost him Hannah’s love and the right to claim Clara as his own child. But even then, he never seemed to learn his lesson.

Annie’s fingers crumpled a corner of the newspaper as she imagined seizing him by the collar and shaking him until his hair tumbled into his mocking brown eyes. Even then, she sensed, Quint would only laugh at her—as he’d been laughing in the face of common sense all his life.

The carousel music had ended. In the silence, the happy shouts of children echoed across the park. Putting the newspaper aside, Annie rose to meet Quint and Clara as they came laughing toward her, so beautiful together, their clasped hands swinging between them.

She would not be so thoughtless as to spoil the day by bracing Quint about his column now, Annie resolved. His time with Clara was too precious for that. But tonight, after the little girl was asleep, he was going to get an earful. He was twenty-eight years old. It was time he stopped behaving like Huckleberry Finn!

Quint glanced at his pocket watch. “How about some lunch? Yesterday it was Delmonico’s. Today I want to treat you to the best hot dogs west of Coney Island. The stand is about ten minutes from here.”

Annie had read about hot dogs and was eager to try one. Clara, however, hung back, looking as if she were about to cry. “I don’t want to eat a dog, Uncle Quint,” she said.

Quint chuckled. “It won’t be a real dog, sweetheart. Just a sausage on some bread. Come on, you’ll like it. I promise.”

Clara trailed them to the umbrella-shaded hotdog stand, dragging her feet all the way. When Quint handed her the bun-wrapped sausage slathered in mustard she took a cautious nibble, frowned, then took a bigger bite.

“Do you like it?” Quint asked.

The little girl nodded, her mouth stuffed too full to answer.

“And how about you?” He turned toward Annie, who was trying to maintain a ladylike demeanor while she enjoyed her hot dog. “Do you like it?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she muttered.

“You’ve got a spot that needs wiping. Look at me and hold still.” He raised his paper napkin and dabbed at her chin. His warm brown eyes gazed into hers, twinkling with mischief. “Mustard becomes you, Miss Annie,” he drawled. “You ought to wear it more often.”

Annie swallowed, struggling for composure. Quint would be well aware of his effect on her. For the space of a breath he held eye contact, one brow tilted roguishly upward, as if he could hear her thundering pulse. What an incorrigible flirt the man was! Any woman foolish enough to take him on would have her hands full.

Summoning her will, she tore herself away. “Oh, dear, Clara, you’ve spattered mustard on your pinafore,” she fussed. “I do hope it will wash out.” Crimson-faced, she scrubbed furiously at the tiny yellow spot with her napkin. Quint watched her, betraying his amusement with a deepening dimple in his cheek. What a mess she’d made of things. How could she have let down her guard last night, telling him how he’d been her white knight for years? How could she have allowed him to kiss her, taking those intimate liberties with his tongue? The wretched man had probably laughed himself to sleep afterward.

One thing was certain, Annie vowed—it wasn’t going to happen again.

They washed down their hot dogs with iced lemonade and shared a shimmering pink cone of the spun sugar treat known as Fairy Floss. Clara giggled as it dissolved into nothing on her tongue. Her lips were pink from the colored sugar.

“I want to see the ocean now,” she said.

Quint wiped a dab of mustard off her cheek. “Then we’ve got a walk ahead of us. Can you get there without whining to be carried?”

She gave him a scathing look. “I’m not a baby, Uncle Quint. Back home, I walk all around the ranch and never get lost. I can even ride my pony by myself.”

“That’s putting me in my place!” Quint grinned as he took her hand. “To the ocean, ladies!”

They followed the path toward the west end of the park, passing meadows, small lakes and stands of forest. The air was scented with pine, the grass dotted with spring wildflowers. Annie was getting footsore by the time they stopped to admire a tall Dutch windmill surrounded by a sea of scarlet, pink and yellow tulips. The scene was breathtaking.

“Tired?” Quint glanced down at Annie.

She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

“We’re almost there. Listen—you, too, Clara. You can hear the sound of the ocean.”

Annie held her breath. The sound that reached her ears was a whispered roar, still faint, but more powerful than anything she could imagine.

“I hear it!” Clara danced up and down. “Let’s go.”

They left the trail and started up a low dune with Quint holding Clara’s hand. Impatient, the little girl broke away and raced to the top. “Oh!” she cried. “Oh, look!”

Annie clambered up beside her, halted and stared in stunned silence. She had seen the bay, with its wind-rippled water and bustling ships. She had seen rivers and lakes back in Colorado. But nothing could have prepared her for the ocean. It was wild and fierce and vast beyond imagining. Waves higher than she was tall rolled toward the beach to crest and fall in crashing white foam. Beyond the breakers, the glistening water stretched farther than she could see, all the way to exotic places like China and Japan and the South Sea Islands.

Quint had come up beside her. His hand rested lightly on her shoulder. “So what do you think of it?” he asked.

“It’s…unbelievable.” Annie blinked away an unexpected tear. “Can we go down to the water?”

He laughed like a boy. “Come on! Oh—but first we’ll have to take off our shoes. The only way to walk on the beach is barefoot.”

They scrambled down to a level spot at the foot of the dune. The sea wind whipped Annie’s hair into unruly tendrils. Loose strands blew across her face as she bent to unhook the tight buttons on her high-topped shoes.

Clara was already barefoot, as was Quint. She tugged at his hand, eager to be off down the beach.

“Go on,” Annie said. “I’ll catch up.”

“No, we’ll go together.” Quint crouched in the sand and began undoing the tight buttons. “Stay with us, now, Clara, and don’t run off. The tide’s coming in, and those big waves can sneak up on you.”

As he talked, Quint’s strong fingers worked, loosening each stubborn fastener from around Annie’s ankles and easing the shoes off her feet. Turning modestly away, Annie loosened her garters, rolled her stockings down and kicked them off next to her shoes. Having grown up poor on a farm, she was tough-footed and accustomed to rocks and stickers. But walking on the fine, wet beach sand was like walking on liquid silk. It felt heavenly.

The first time a foamy wave swept up the beach to curl around her bare ankles, Annie jumped and snatched up her skirt. Quint laughed and captured her hand. His other hand caught Clara’s. “Come on!” he shouted, plunging into the shallow surf.

“We’ll get soaked!” She hung back, resisting.

“Yes we will! Don’t be so damned sensible, Annie.” He jerked her forward. “Come on!”

Splashing foam, they dashed along the edge of the waves. Clara shrieked with laughter. Annie’s hair fell loose to stream behind her in the wind. It was the closest she’d ever come to flying.

Out of breath at last, they collapsed on the dry beach above the waves. Annie’s lower legs and the hem of her skirt were caked with wet sand. Her wind-whipped hair fluttered in her face.

Flushed and tousled, Quint sprawled beside her. Turning, he raised himself on one elbow and cupped her chin with his free hand. “You’re a beautiful woman, Miss Annie Gustavson,” he muttered. “Any man who could see you like this, barefoot and windblown, your eyes shining like a little girl’s, would fall down and worship you. So why do you think you have to settle for Frank Robinson?”

Because I can’t have you. Annie bit back the words. He was playing with her, giving her tantalizing glimpses of what could never be hers. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone?

“What makes you think I’m settling?” she countered. “Maybe I love him.”

The sound he made in response was somewhere between a snort and a growl. But then, after the way she’d kissed him last night, Annie could hardly blame him for being contemptuous. She was bracing herself for more questions when Clara came scampering up.

“Look what I found!” She was cradling a shell in her two hands. The shell was as perfect as a baby’s ear, pink and rounded like the conch shells Annie had seen in books, only this one was smaller. It was exquisite.

“Can I keep it, Uncle Quint?”

Quint smiled. “Of course you can. It’s your own gift from the ocean. Let me show you something.”

Taking the shell from her, he cupped it to her ear. “Can you hear anything?”

She listened intently, brown eyes wide with wonder. “A sound. Like whispering.”

“It’s the sound of the ocean,” Quint said. “Wherever you are, even back on the ranch, you can hold that shell to your ear and hear it.”

“Really?” Her eyes grew bigger.

“Really. Try it when you get back to my place. You’ll see.”

She pushed the shell into the pocket of her pinafore. “I’m going to keep it forever.”

By the time they were ready to leave the beach they’d filled their pockets with shells and built an enormous sand castle at the edge of the incoming tide. The late afternoon sun hovered low, casting fiery glints across the waves as they trudged up the dune. Quint caught a horse cab for the ride back to his apartment, and Annie was grateful. They were worn out and far too dirty to walk back through the park and catch the trolley.

Clara sat between them on the leather seat. Within minutes she’d nodded off to sleep, her curly head sagging against Quint’s arm. Annie glanced down at her with a tired smile. It had been a wonderful day—perhaps the most wonderful day of her life. What a shame it had to end.

Her spirit sank as she thought about Quint’s column. For the past few hours she’d managed to put the matter aside. It would be tempting to pretend she hadn’t seen it. But Quint had put himself in danger. Somehow she had to convince him to leave town and protect himself. Knowing Quint, he would resist her logic all the way. She was not looking forward to the clash of wills.

Quint sat on the leather sofa before the fireplace, a clipboard propped on his knees. From the bathroom came the faint sound of splashing as Annie took her turn in the bath. Outside, gaslit lamps glowed along the main streets. From the crowded tenements of Chinatown, the aromas of roast duck and burning joss sticks drifted on the evening breeze.

They had arrived home at dusk, tired, damp and hungry. Chao had greeted them with hot noodle soup and fresh biscuits. By the time they’d finished eating, it was Clara’s bath and bedtime.

Annie had been unusually quiet on the ride home and at supper. Quint sensed a storm brewing, and he knew the cause of it. His eyes hadn’t missed the newspaper she’d left on the park bench. She’d read his column and she wasn’t happy about it.

At least she hadn’t made a scene in front of Clara. But Quint knew what she was holding back. Now that Clara was in bed and Chao had gone home, the storm was bound to break.

Quint sighed. It was touching that Annie cared enough to worry about him. But she needed to understand that he couldn’t turn tail and run from the battle with Rutledge. This was his chosen fight, a matter of honor and duty. There was far more at stake here than his own life.

From the bathroom, he heard the gurgle of water running down the drain and the light creak of a floorboard as she stepped out onto the mat. He willed himself to erase the picture that had formed in his mind—damp ivory skin, rose-tipped nipples, droplets gleaming on the soft curls of her—

Damn!

Chewing on the stub of his pencil, Quint struggled to focus on the task at hand—jotting down new ideas for his next column. But his tired brain refused to obey. It was far easier to remember how Annie had looked on the beach today, her face flushed and happy, her glorious hair streaming in the wind. If they’d been alone, he’d have been tempted to take her in his arms, wrestle her to the sand and show her exactly what she’d be missing if she married Frank Robinson.

He heard the creak of the bathroom door and the patter of her footsteps crossing the hall to the guest room. A few minutes later she appeared, covered to the throat in her high-necked nightgown and plaid flannel wrapper. Her wet hair was loosely braided down her back.

“How’s Clara?” he asked as she settled herself at the far end of the sofa.

“Fast asleep with her shell tucked under the pillow. She was worn out, poor little thing. But it was a wonderful day. Thank you.”

“Nobody enjoyed it more than I did.”

She shifted against the cushions. “I think Clara and I should leave tomorrow,” she said.

Quint gazed into the fireplace where the wood had burned down to crumbling coals. He’d expected a lecture, punctuated, perhaps, by tears and angry demands. He hadn’t expected this. “So soon?” he asked, feeling as if he’d been cut adrift.

Annie didn’t answer.

“You could at least tell me why,” he said.

“You shouldn’t have to ask. I read your piece in the paper.”

He exhaled wearily. “I didn’t plan this, Annie. It just happened.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t walk away.”

He shook his head. “I have to see this through. A good woman’s dead because she tried to help me. If I don’t finish what I started, she’ll have died in vain. And what if there’s a bad fire later on? What if people lose their lives because of what I failed to do?”

Annie sat silent, firelight casting her pensive face in rose gold. At last she turned toward him, her eyes soft and sad. “Well, then, if you won’t leave, the best thing we can do is get out of your way. Having us here is one distraction you don’t need.”

Quint felt a sudden sinking. “What about the opera tomorrow night? I was looking forward to it.”

“I’m sure you can find someone else to go with you. We had a wonderful day. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Fine.” Quint stared into the fire, feeling drained. He’d been looking forward to this visit for weeks. Now, too soon, it was about to end. But Annie was right. This business with Rutledge had escalated to the danger point. The days ahead were going to demand his undivided attention.

“Oh, damn it, Annie…” Impulsively he reached out and pulled her to his side. She came, warm and unresisting, to sag against his shoulder. Her hair was damp through his shirt. The scent of the soap he kept in his bathroom mingled with her womanly fragrance. Only now did Quint realize how much he would miss Hannah’s little sister. Next time he saw her, she could be a married woman. The very thought made him want to grind his teeth.

“Do you have a gun?” Annie’s question came out of nowhere, catching him off guard. “You really need to carry some kind of protection.”

“There’s a pistol locked in my desk. But I really don’t think—”

“Be sensible, Quint. Thanks to your column, Rutledge will think you have the letter. He’s already killed for it once. What’s to stop him from doing it again?”

“Believe me, I’ve thought of that. But Rutledge is no fool. He’d know I wouldn’t have the letter on me. It stands to reason that I’d keep it somewhere safe, most likely with instructions for somebody to publish it if I came to harm.”

“But you don’t even have the letter!”

“As long as Rutledge thinks I do, that doesn’t matter. It’s called a bluff, Annie. Poker players do it all the time.”

She turned on him, eyes blazing. “This isn’t a poker game, Quint. I’ve known you all my life, and you never change. It’s as if you believe you’re wearing some kind of invisible armor that will keep you safe. Well, you’re not. You can get hurt, just like anybody else.”

“I know that, Annie,” he said quietly.

“And you can hurt other people, too,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “You can’t imagine what Hannah went through all those months you were gone, not knowing if you were dead or alive.”

“I’d say my brother did a pretty good job of consoling her.” Quint could have bitten off his tongue. He’d long since gotten past what had happened between Hannah and Judd. But that wasn’t how he’d made it sound.

“And you’ve never forgiven them for it, have you?” Annie retorted. “Are you still in love with Hannah? Is that why you have this death wish?”

Quint groaned inwardly. Now they’d both said too much, and things were spiraling out of control. There was just one way to answer Annie’s accusation, and it wasn’t with words.

Catching her shoulders he jerked her close and kissed her.

For the first few seconds she fought him, fists pummeling his chest as she twisted in his arms. Then, as he persisted, her lips went molten. She softened against him with a little moan. Her hands clutched the back of his head, fingers clawing at his hair. Heat slammed through Quint’s body, pounding into his loins. Aroused and hungry, he battled for self-control. Would she stop him if he swept her up in his arms and carried her to his bed? Would he want her to?

His hands found the curves of her body through the soft flannel of her gown—her hips, her breasts. Lord, this was crazy. This was Annie, the little pigtailed girl he’d known forever.

But she didn’t feel like a little girl now. She was all woman, warm and sweet and sensual. He deepened the kiss, thrusting with his tongue, wanting more…

“Aunt Annie…” Clara’s voice quivered down the hallway. As Annie broke away from him, Quint turned to see his daughter standing in the hallway. Below the tangle of damp curls, her small face was as pale as bread dough.

“Aunt Annie,” she whispered, “I think I’m going to…”

Clamping her hand over her mouth, she rushed toward the bathroom.