Echoes of Mercy: A Novel (26 page)

His deep voice, tender in its delivery, brought the sting of tears to Caroline’s eyes. How many times had he spoken to her in just that way? Even when she resisted him, pretended to ignore him, told him to stay away, he was always kind. And eventually he’d earned her trust.

Letta sent a brief, unsmiling glance in Noble’s direction, then stepped away from his hand. “I don’t need to cry. C’mon, boys.” She fixed Caroline with a warning look. “We’re goin’ home now.”

“Oh, but—”

Noble held his hand out to Caroline, silencing her protest. “I have an idea.” He addressed the boys, wisely recognizing if he won them, Letta would follow. “Mrs. Annamarie and I rented a suite at the hotel. The suite has two large sleeping rooms as well as a lounging room with a fireplace. We would like it very much if you would join us there. You’d have your own room to be alone if you wanted, but we could also have time together in the lounging room.” He smiled, his merry eyes warm and inviting. “We’d like the opportunity to become better acquainted with you.”

Letta’s gaze narrowed. “Why?”

Noble’s smile remained intact. “Why not?”

The girl scowled, drawing back slightly.

Annamarie inserted, “Please join us, children. The suite truly is too large for just the two of us. We’d welcome your company.”

Lesley tugged at Letta’s sleeve. “Ain’t never stayed in a hotel before. I wanna go, Letta. So does Lank, don’tcha, Lank?”

Lank’s head bobbed once, ever so slightly, but his eyes glowed with longing.

“Can’t we go, Letta? Huh? Huh?”

Letta huffed. “You’re an awful pest, Lesley.”

The little boy hung his head.

Letta gazed down at her bereft brother, and a hint of remorse softened her scowl. “All right, then. If you boys wanna go—”

The boys’ freckled faces lit with joy. Lesley let out a whoop and galloped the three short paces needed to reach Annamarie. He caught the woman’s hand and beamed at her. “We’re comin’, missus! We’re comin’!”

Annamarie smoothed Lesley’s untamed hair into place, but she aimed her smile at Letta. “I’m so glad. Let’s go then, shall we?” The boys fell in step on either side of Annamarie, and Kesia commandeered Letta’s elbow, guiding her along behind the happy trio.

Noble captured Caroline’s hand and slipped it into the bend of his elbow. Maintaining a slow saunter that put them several feet behind the others, he released a long, slow sigh. “So tell me, my dear, are those dark circles under your eyes due to your responsibility at the factory, the burden of taking charge of these three orphaned youngsters, or something else entirely?”

Caroline kept her gaze ahead, afraid if she met Noble’s eyes, he’d discover her uncertainty concerning her feelings for Ollie. She forced a light laugh. “I’m tired, Noble. Working nights and not being able to sleep days …” She waved one hand toward the children, a rueful grin tugging at her lips. “Those three have completely disrupted my world.”

Noble pressed her hand to his ribs. “But they’re worth it?”

A full smile broke effortlessly across her face. “You’ve taught me well. Yes. They are worth it.”

He chuckled. “I suspected as much. But.” His smile turned to a concerned frown. He drew her to a halt several yards from the waiting carriage, where Kesia, Annamarie, and the children stood in a small circle, visiting quietly. “You can’t go without sleep, Caroline. I left word with the Labor Commission that I’d be gone at least a week. During this time Annamarie and I will assume responsibility for Letta and the boys. This will enable you to get your rest but also to complete the investigation.”

Caroline blew out a relieved breath as a weight seemed to roll from her shoulders.

Noble went on. “I was pleased to know a blueprint of the elevator exists. Have you had an opportunity to view it yet?”

She shook her head. The children’s disappearance, Mr. Holcomb’s burial, and Ollie’s concussion had sent her attention in different directions.

Noble gave her hand a pat and set them in motion once more. “Perhaps you’ll be able to do so tonight. But for now”—he raised one snow-white eyebrow and pointed his finger at her—“we shall drop you at your building, and you are to sleep the rest of the day. Don’t give a thought to the children. Annamarie and I will take good care of them. You simply rest. Agreed?”

Although she still needed to seek Noble’s advice about the children’s aunt, the thought of uninterrupted sleep proved too much of a temptation. “Agreed. And thank you.”

Caroline punched her timecard and dropped it in her slot. She then retrieved her tools from the metal locker near the break room and hurried toward her station. The hours of sleep and reprieve from worry had revived her, and she couldn’t resist giving a little hop-skip as she rounded the corner.

Immediately she plowed into a solid body and bounced backward. “Ooph!” The air whooshed from her lungs, forcing her to double over. The hammer slipped from her hand, bounced off the floor, and clunked her hard on the shin. She let out a yelp of pain.

“Serves you right,” came a caustic voice.

She lifted her head to find Gordon Hightower glaring at her. What was he doing here?

“You really need to be more careful, Miss Lang.”

His derogatory tone, coupled with the memory of slamming Ollie with the door, raised her defenses. “I couldn’t see around the wall.”

“I’m not interested in your excuses.” He bent over and scooped up her hammer by the handle, then bounced the iron head lightly against his palm. “You’re lucky you didn’t break anything, or I would have needed to extract payment.”

A chill wiggled its way down Caroline’s spine. His extracted payment wouldn’t be a monetary one. Eager to escape his leering grin, she held out her hand. “I apologize, Mr. Hightower. It won’t happen again. Now, if you’ll return my hammer, I have work to do.”

“Yes, work … Odd that you would mention work.” He stepped forward, but instead of placing the hammer in her hand, he caught her wrist and yanked her hard against him. His hot, senna-scented breath washed across her cheek. “We’ve had this conversation before, Miss Lang. You seem an intelligent woman, yet you can’t seem to follow simple instructions. Let me tell you again. You were sent to third shift to do a specific job. Sealing crates. That’s
all
you’re to do. You aren’t to ask questions. You aren’t to snoop in elevators. You are to seal crates. Seal crates.
Seal crates
.” His voice grew harsher, more sinister, with each repetition. “Do you understand?”

Her heart pounded in fear. She tried to answer, but her dry tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth. She might as well have been a mouse caught in a trap, staring into the face of a hungry tomcat. Helplessness weakened her knees.

Hightower curled his hand around the back of her neck and shook her, his lips set in a snarl. “I’m waiting for an answer, Miss Lang. Do you understand?”

Too frightened to do otherwise, she squeaked, “Yes. I … I understand.”

“Good.” He released her with a slight shove.

She fell against the wall, grateful for its sturdy support.

Hightower extended the hammer to the side and let it fall. The iron head clanked resoundingly against the concrete floor. “Get to work, Miss Lang. You’re wasting time.” He tugged the lapels of his jacket into place, smoothed a finger over his mustache, then sauntered off, his head at an arrogant angle.

Caroline pressed her back securely to the wall, her trembling legs unwilling to carry her forward. Hightower knew. Somehow he knew. But how? Until tonight she’d never seen him lurking in the factory during the third shift. Someone must have tattled. And to her knowledge only one person was aware that she’d made a sketch of the elevator’s inner workings.

Nausea rolled through her gut. He wouldn’t betray her … would he?

Gordon strode around the corner, then stopped and wheeled back to peer from his hiding spot. At his last meeting with Carrie Lang, she’d seemed more annoyed and surprised than truly concerned. But he’d managed to put some fear in her this time. How gratifying to see her cowering against the wall, face as chalky white as the unpainted plaster behind her. Even from this distance he noted the tremble in her hand as she reached to retrieve her hammer. He covered his mouth, muffling his laughter when it took her three tries to hook the tool’s handle through the loop on her belt. Then she scurried up the hall toward the crating area as if pursued by a swarm of bees.

He let the laugh roll, unfettered. Finally he’d succeeded in silencing her endless questions about Bratcher. But then he felt a tinge of regret. Such fun he could have had if she’d refused to comply. Up close she smelled sweet, like lilacs. Her womanly form, warm and padded in all the right places, fit neatly against him. He wouldn’t have minded stealing a bit of pleasure from her, but there’d been too many workers milling about. Not that any would intervene. They had more sense than to risk their jobs for one foolish woman who didn’t know how to keep her curiosity to herself. But he didn’t care for voyeurs.

When he took his pleasure from Miss Lang—and he would make good on his threat if he received one more report of her putting her pretty little nose where it didn’t belong—it would be in private. Where he could enjoy her at his leisure. He tapped his lips with one finger, brow puckered. Should he have held back a bit, given a milder warning so she might be brazen enough to continue gathering information? No. Regardless of the fun he’d sacrificed, he had a greater reward waiting. Once the factory was his—completely his—he’d be free to sample whatever and whomever he liked.

He sauntered up the hallway in search of the night foreman. A quick conversation with Alden, and then he’d head home. His work here was done. For now.

Oliver caught a glimpse of his reflection in the small round mirror above his wash basin. He groaned. Over the past couple of days the colors had expanded and brightened. A veritable garden of blues, purples, and greens bloomed along the side of his face. When would the bruises fade? As much as he’d disliked lazing in his bed—even as a child, he’d fought against lying about in a sickbed—he’d cheerfully dive back under the covers if it meant avoiding the inevitable questions and teasing he’d receive from his coworkers at the factory.

He plopped his hat on his head, adjusting the brim low and to the side, an attempt to hide at least a portion of the bruises. The eye was still swollen, but thanks to Kesia’s enthusiastic application of cold, damp cloths, he could hold it open enough to see—a vast improvement from two days ago when he viewed the world through a mere slit. A dull ache remained in the back of his skull, but he was thankful the deep, throbbing pain had departed. He moved across his small bedroom, gathering his jacket, gloves, and scarf. His scarf lay on the floor beneath a straight-backed chair, and when he bent to retrieve it, no dizziness attacked. Yes, he was well enough to return to work.

Where Carrie would be waiting to view that blueprint.

Thoughts of Carrie hurried him to the door and onto the street. After delivering him to Kesia, she’d disappeared. Not that he’d expected her to visit him at his apartment—that would be highly improper—but he would have welcomed a note. Kesia could have delivered it when she came to check on him. The dear lady had visited three or four times each day of his forced rest. Didn’t Carrie worry at all about his injury? He wouldn’t have taken her to be so uncaring. But maybe she was just busy. After all, she had to supervise the Holcomb children, plan a burial, and work nights. She had plenty to do without fussing over him. Still, he wished she’d found time for at least some contact.