Love at Any Cost (25 page)

“Daddy's excited about your ambition for politics, as am I, and if we were to . . .” He actually heard the gulp of her throat rather than saw it, but no more than his own, the hesitation in her tone clearly as awkward as he felt. “Well, you know—end up together—he said he'd want you to be his counsel and would introduce you to his friends, which he believes would put you on the fast track for the political career of your dreams.”

His body jolted at the sudden touch of her hand to his foot, her voice as tentative as the shaky glide of her fingers. “I was meant to be a senator's wife, Jamie, born and bred to be all you need me to be. Which is why,” she said with a definite waver in her tone, “it's so hard to understand your attraction to Cassie, a woman who can't further your dreams.”

He glanced up beneath his palm, his heart in a pause. “What do you mean?”

She turned to face him then, a fragility in her eyes that confirmed just how much she cared. “A woman who's neither affluent nor a senator's daughter,” she said quietly, “although I suppose you could be wealthy in love.”

The heat on his face felt like third-degree burns. “What are you talking about, Trish? Cassie's a McClare and an oil heiress at that.”

“A McClare, yes,” she said slowly. “But an heiress whose wells have run dry.”

He couldn't blink, breathe . . . “That's not true,” he finally whispered, his voice a rasp.

Her lip trembled the slightest bit. “Maybe, but I'm sure I heard correctly, so maybe you should ask Cassie.” Her eyes were soft
with concern and an innocence he didn't quite believe. “Why do you think her fiancé broke the engagement?”

His eyes shuddered closed, shards of shock slicing through his gut.
Cassie, no, please 
. . .

“Maybe I misunderstood,” Patricia reasoned. “After all, I stumbled in on the tail end of a conversation between Alli and Cassie that I obviously wasn't meant to hear.” She paused, her voice genuinely contrite. “I'm sorry, Jamie, but I just assumed you knew.”

Sure you did.
He gouged his eyes with the ball of his hand, bile rising from the bitter disappointment that roiled in his gut. Every hope, every dream, all snuffed out by a God he had actually pursued, a God who turned a deaf ear to him just like he'd done to his mother and sister.

Foul words he didn't even think he knew spewed from his lips, defiling the summer day just like God had defiled his life, and with a rage he wasn't sure he could contain, he shot up and dove into the water, ragged air pumping in his chest like fury pumped through his veins.

“Jamie, I'm sorry . . . ,” Patricia called.

But not as sorry as he.

Sorry he was too poor to help his sick sister.

Sorry his plans had been foiled.

Sorry he loved a woman who may be poorer than him.

Thoughts of Cassie assailed his mind, and his lungs burned in his chest till he thought he would die. Because therein stabbed the sorriest sorry of all.

Having to say goodbye.

Caitlyn McClare's Packard pulled away from the curb as Jamie watched from the front porch of Mrs. Tucker's boardinghouse.
The aroma of fresh-baked apple pie wafted through the screen door, reminding him he'd bolted from Napa before the picnic lunch at Logan's estate. Just as well. His appetite had crashed along with his mood after Patricia destroyed his day.

Cassie was poor. At least compared to the San Francisco McClares, a fact alluded to by Mrs. McClare herself when Hadley drove them home after Jamie announced he needed to leave. “Something's come up,” he'd explained, and Caitlyn had jumped on it as if she were more anxious than he to escape the weekend.
Not possible
, although her mood had certainly been as edgy as his, a fact that seemed to loosen her tongue considerably on the hour-long drive. As a skilled prosecutor, he hadn't found it difficult to glean bits of information to confirm Patricia's claim about Cassie. A question here, an observation there, and Caitlyn supplied enough threads to weave a tapestry of financial doom for the Texas McClares.
And
the daughter who was jilted when her fortune went awry. A daughter who, unlike her wealthy cousins, was now forced into the workplace where women were rare and wealthy ones almost nonexistent.

Hand on the latch, he carefully slipped through the screen door, hoping Mrs. Tucker was too busy baking to note that one of her boarders was home. Nerves strung tight, he took great pains to quietly scale the squeaky wooden stairs to the second level where his mother and sister occupied the same room across the hall from his. Threadbare throw rugs and polished, albeit scarred hardwood floors indicated a boardinghouse that was clean if not plush, in a neighborhood where dirty-faced children played in patched clothing and middle-class neighbors chatted long after dark. His lips compressed.
The Celestial City compared to the Barbary Coast.

Striding down the hall, he tapped on his mother's door, easing it open when he heard her soft voice. He was met by a wash
of warm sunshine, and his heart swelled with gratitude that his family now lived in a sunny room where crisp ruffled sheers fluttered at the window, ushering in the smell of honeysuckle and roses from Mrs. Tucker's backyard.

“Jamie,” she whispered, glancing up from where she was reading in a comfy armchair in front of the window close to his sister's bed. Her face was pinched. “What are you doing here?”

He noticed the Bible in her lap, and resisted the scowl that pulled at his lips.
For all the good it will do
. His gaze flicked to where his sister lay sleeping, pale and drawn in the warm summer light, and his heart constricted.
Jess?
He carefully closed the door, ignoring his mother's question. “What's wrong?” he said, his whisper harsh as he moved to the side of her bed, stomach cramping at the dark circles under her eyes. “Why is she in bed?”

His mother rose to stand beside him, a tender arm to his waist. “She reinjured her hip,” she said, the emotion in her tone as thick as the panic in his chest. “Dr. Morrissey sedated her.”

“What?” He turned to stare at his mother, pulse sporadic. “When? How?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came as moisture welled in her eyes.

“Mom?” Jamie gripped her and gave her a little shake, heart battering his ribs. “Tell me now—what happened to Jess?”

A hand flew to his mother's mouth as a heave escaped. “S-she . . . was . . . ,” tears slipped down her cheeks when another heave broke from her throat, “attacked.”

The very word froze the blood in his veins. “Attacked?” he whispered. “How?”

Jess moaned, and his mother drew him to the window, urging him to sit in her chair.

“I don't want to sit,” he hissed. “Tell me what happened.”

“I will, Jamie, but please—sit down first. This will not be easy to hear.”

With abrupt strides, he retrieved a wooden chair on the other side of Jess's bed and placed it next to his mother's. She sat and he did the same, leaning forward. “Tell me,” he said, eyes fused to hers.

She picked at her nails, blinking hard to obviously keep the tears at bay. “Well, you know how excited she's been since feeling better lately, taking short walks outside, pestering me to let her do more and more.” His mother's eyes flicked to where Jess lay almost comatose in the bed. “Cocky almost,” she said with a tearful smile, her gaze returning to Jamie's. “So when she saw the package of clothing I'd sewn for Bess, she insisted she could take it over—”

“What?” Jamie rose up in his chair, a nerve flickering in his jaw. “Is she crazy?”

“That's what I thought, and I told her no, but you know your sister when she sets her mind to something, and she swore she'd take the trolley, insisting everything would be all right.” His mother swiped at her eyes. “Well, she delivered the package to Millie sure enough and had just left the building, not twenty feet away, when a man grabbed her . . .”

No, please . . .
Jamie's eyelids shuddered closed while a low groan cleaved to his throat.

“Of course Jess tried to get away, but he . . . he forced her to the alley and threw her down—” His mother's voice broke on a sob.

Jamie's head jerked up. “Did he—?”

She shook her head violently, the tears streaming freely now. “No. Jess was in so much pain when she tried to wrestle away that her screams brought Millie and Julie to her aid, among others. Some kind man pulled that animal off of Jess before he could . . .”
A shiver rattled her body that matched the shudder of revulsion in his soul. “But it was too late for Jess's hip. He'd slammed her to the bricks, bruising her badly.”

His mother started weeping, and Jamie handed her his handkerchief before clutching her close, his face buried in her hair while moisture pricked his own eyes. Horrendous pain wrenched in his chest at the thought of Jess—sweet, beautiful Jess—assaulted in such a manner. “Where is he?” Jamie's voice was a deadly whisper, the calm of his question belying the fury burning in his gut.
So I can kill him . . .

“He ran off, the drunken coward, and neither Julie nor Millie knew who he was. The gentleman who rescued her was kind enough to carry Jess home, while Millie, Julie, and Bess followed.” Patting his back, his mother pulled away, her gaze drifting to her daughter while a knot jerked in her throat. “That was late yesterday, and she's been in so much pain since that Dr. Morrissey doubled her laudanum.” Her hand quivered to her mouth. “He says now her pain will be worse than ever . . .”

Not if I have anything to say about it.
Jamie rose to move next to his sister's bed and his mother shored him up with a hand to his waist. His skin fairly crawled with fury, itching with the need to avenge, to protect, to heal . . . “I shouldn't have gone . . . ,” he whispered.

The touch of his mother's hand to his shoulder caused more tears to sting, but he blinked them back. He hadn't shed a tear in front of his mother since he went to work on the docks, the youngest stevedore Boss Tandy'd ever hired. Jamie had a hunger, a desperation about him, the freighter boss said, more than any kid he'd ever seen. “Here, catch, street rat,” an older boy had shouted with a sly smile, tossing a small crate of nails to Jamie, and he caught it with pride, never feeling the nail that impaled his flesh.
Moments later blood pooled and tendons throbbed, squeezing tears from his eyes that earned him nothing but scorn. He swore then no one would ever see him cry again. But he hadn't counted on his sister's agony over the years, nor had he counted on the guilt. Steeling his jaw, he bit back moisture that would never,
ever
fall and bent to brush back the damp curls around his sister's face. “Why didn't you call me?” he said, his voice strained.

His mother patted his back, tone fraught with worry. “I didn't want to ruin your weekend—you seldom have any time off, son, and I knew you'd be home tomorrow.” Her voice was nasal, as if she were struggling with tears. “Before this happened, we had a lovely day, tea on the back porch and all, and she was feeling so good, better than she had in years.” Her voice faltered as her fingers twitched at his waist. “She's been drifting in and out of sleep since then, which is good because the pain has been particularly . . .” He felt her fingers spasm, as if to take the place of the word she couldn't say. “Dr. Morrissey says it will take months to put this behind . . .” Her silent heave shuddered his arm. “If at all . . .”

He clenched till nails bit into his palms. “I shouldn't have gone.” His whisper was harsh.

“You have a life, Jamie, you're young—of course you should've.” She cupped his fist, her fingers as cold as the dread scaling his stomach. “You're a good brother,” she whispered.

“I could be better,” he said, his voice a hiss. His jaw ground till it ached. “I will be better,” he swore, knowing full well what he needed to do. He was running out of time and patience, and if Cooper Medical wouldn't consider pro bono surgery for his sister, then that left no alternative but to pay for it. And pay for it he would—at a price that would cost him his all.

He'd marry it.

 21 

C
aitlyn sat in her wicker love seat in the conservatory, head resting on its muted floral pillows while her arms hung limp at her sides, eyes as glazed as the steamy panes of glass overhead. Hadley had obviously misted the jungle of plants this morning and now the late-afternoon sun coaxed earthy smells of mulch and loam and flora that usually brought a sense of calm to Caitlyn, not unlike an herbal tonic.

Except for today.

She closed her eyes, and two languid tears trickled down her cheeks like the humidity on the glass, allowing the room and the woman to weep together. But the tears from the glass walls nurtured and fed the bounty of palms and ferns that thrived all around her while her own only served to bleed her soul dry. Of peace and joy and certainly hope, and for one reason alone.

Logan.

Her eyes opened as if doing so might banish his image, but all she saw was the love in his face when he'd handed her the ring, a love and gesture so potent it had weakened her at the knees. She'd seen glimmers of regret and fear and finally resignation until she'd done the unthinkable and rushed to embrace him . . .
her gratitude so strong, she'd felt compelled to give him a kiss on the cheek.

The kiss of death.
For her and certainly for him, given the desire that had flamed in his eyes, the warmth she'd felt from shallow breaths as his mouth hovered so close to hers. A proximity that had paralyzed her, unable to move or breathe or think of anything but the hypnotic skim of his thumb as it grazed at her waist, the scent of lime and wood spice that disarmed like an opiate as it had so many years ago. Her heart had pulsed like that of a doe caught in the crosshairs of the hunter, powerless to escape and stricken with fear. And something even more deadly . . .

Desire.

For the first time since she'd taken Logan's engagement ring off almost twenty-six years ago, she'd
wanted
him to kiss her, to feel the throb of blood in her veins once again, the hot rush of adrenaline coursing her body—coaxing, caressing like his touch seemed to do. She should have bolted at the danger she'd seen in his eyes, fled at the leaning of her traitorous limbs, but she had not. Oh, no—she had closed her eyes and willed him to taste her lips, and he had.

Oh my …
how he had, awakening longings she'd tried so hard to ignore the last eight months, shoving them deep as if they didn't exist. But they did.
Oh, Lord help me, they did
. . . each and every one now entangled with shame.

A violent heave crumpled her body as she sagged over the arm of the love seat to weep, trembling at the thought that one safety barrier had fallen—Logan now knew she was attracted to him—but another had been erected. She had rejected him outright and wounded his pride immeasurably, to the point of unleashing his rage.
“You're attracted to me and love me, yet you turn me away because my faith isn't up to snuff?”

“Oh, Lord, what have I done?” she whispered. Not only had she damaged their friendship and family in the process, but the hopes of the Vigilance Committee as well. And all because of a single moment of lust—the very thing of which she accused him, further proof that Logan McClare was poison in the realm of love. She could not trust him and now, to her dishonor, she could no longer trust herself. The magnitude of what she'd done overwhelmed her, and a broken sob wrenched from her throat.

The gentle touch of a hand startled her and she jerked up to see Rosie studying her with misty eyes, concern deepening the soft age lines etched in her face. The nanny who was more like a mother sat beside her, and instantly Cait fell into her arms, swallowed up in the cocoon of her youth when Rosie had stepped in after Mama passed away. “Oh, Rosie,” she whispered, voice nasal and hoarse, “I miss Liam so very much.”

“Aw, darlin', sure you do.” Rosie stroked her hair while her soft brogue lulled Cait's eyes closed. She paused. “But I'm thinkin' that's not what brought you home from Napa so early, now is it?”

Cait's lashes lifted over Rosie's shoulder, her pulse slowing. Rosie's vendetta against Logan was already bone deep, and Cait didn't want to add to it. She hesitated, her words shaky. “I didn't sleep well,” she confessed, “and today I feel like I may be coming down with something . . .” Her eyelids lowered.

Terminal heartburn . . .

Rosie's pause was longer this time. “That skunk upset you, didn't he, Miss Cait?”

Her gravelly hiss actually prompted a near-smile to Cait's lips, proving conclusively that she'd never been able to hide her true feelings from her beloved nanny. “Yes, Rosie, the skunk did. But I provoked it.” She pulled away to caress Rosie's hair, her smile breaking free at the scowl on the housekeeper's face. “Now, Rosie,
you know good and well you're going to have to forgive that skunk someday, don't you?”

Rosie's face bore no humor. “Not likely when he's poised to break your heart again.”

Cait's smile dissolved. “What do you mean?” she whispered, her hands falling away.

Grief welled in Rosie's eyes. “I mean he's getting to you again, isn't he?” she said softly. “Charming the socks off you just like the first time.”

“No, of course not . . .” But it was no use. Cait could see in Rosie's face what she felt in her own—a numb awareness of the truth: she was falling in love with Logan McClare. Unwillingly, perhaps, but effectively all the same, and the fear she saw in Rosie's gaze mirrored that which thickened her throat, stifling her air. Hand to her eyes, she sagged into a sob while Rosie gathered her up in thin but sturdy arms, soothing her with a low croon.

“Shh . . . it's all right, Miss Cait. God won't let us down, now will he?” The tiny woman rocked her like when Cait was a child, whispering with the barest roll of a brogue while she rubbed Cait's back.

Cait nodded against Rosie's shoulders, reflecting on words she knew to be true. Her eyes drifted closed while she considered the God who held her in the palm of his hand every day of her life and every dark night as well. Peace suddenly welled like a river of grace, meandering through her life with its clarity and calm. Yes, Logan abandoned her for other women once and even Liam, unwittingly, had done the same through his death, but God never would, and the very thought infused her with the strength she needed to go on. The strength to know she need never fear betrayal or abandonment again—God would always be near. Drawing in a cleansing breath, she released all her fears in a whisper of a sigh.

Rosie held her at arm's length, the semblance of a smile curling on weathered lips. “Now that's a good girl,” she said with a gentle pat of Cait's cheek. “Even a scalawag like Logan Beware can't get past the defenses of prayer, now can he?” She fished a hankie from the pocket of her apron and tenderly wiped the tears from Cait's eyes. “Because first that no-good scoundrel has to get past the Almighty, don't you know.” She lifted her chin, giving Caitlyn a sassy smile that quickly slid into a battle mode. “And then, God have mercy on his sorry soul—past me.”

Cassie's eyes flitted to the clock for the umpteenth time, her stomach a scurry of nerves.

“Uh . . . it's your turn, Cass.
Again.
” Alli leaned in, a touch of the imp in her eyes. “Mmm . . . a little preoccupied, are we?”

Heat broiled Cassie's cheeks, making her grateful it was almost eight—the time Jamie arrived for book study. “Not at all,” she said with a jut of her chin, her faint smile belying the truth. She feigned a yawn. “Just bored silly beating you at dominoes.
Again
.”

Alli chuckled. “Not as interesting as
Pilgrim's Progress
, I suppose,” she said with a wink, “
or
a handsome ‘pilgrim' who's undoubtedly made great ‘progress.' ”

Face blazing like a furnace, Cassie shot a nervous glance at Aunt Cait who read a book instead of playing cribbage with Uncle Logan while he played Go Fish with Maddie and Meg. Maddie won for the third time, and her uncle swooped her up in a mock threat, spinning her till giggles bounced off the walls. Cassie's gaze flicked back to Alli, her words sharp with warning. “Will you hush, please? No one's supposed to know.”

“Ha!” Alli said with a wicked grin. “Everybody knows how he feels about you—the man couldn't be more obvious.” She jiggled
her brows. “Nor you, dear Cuz, with that pretty blush in your face, a sure-fire indicator you prefer games of midnight to dominoes.”

That did it. Cassie lunged across the table to threaten Alli with a tickle—something she knew her cousin deplored. “So help me, Allison McClare, I am going to tickle you senseless, which shouldn't be too hard since you're already ninety percent there—”

“Ahem.” Hadley interrupted Alli's wild shriek, his stoic figure impeccable as always in black tails and tie, and his manner and tone as starched as his crisp white shirt. “Mr. James MacKenna to see Miss Cassidy. May I show him in, miss?”

Cassie shot up as if coil-sprung from her chair. “Yes, Hadley, please,” she said, near breathless, “but in the conservatory, if you will—for our book study.”

“Very good, miss—in the study. Would you care for refreshments?”

Chewing the edge of her lip, Cassie pushed in her chair and raised her voice several levels. “Lemonade would be lovely, Hadley, thank you, but in the conservatory, if you will.”

“Ah, very good, miss.”

The butler disappeared, and Cassie nervously patted her hair, avoiding all eyes as she hurried to retrieve a Hershey bar—Jamie's favorite—from a small chest Rosie kept filled on the coffee table. Striving for nonchalance that didn't exist, she straightened her shoulders and slowed to a leisurely stroll in a sad attempt at exiting with decorum.

Aunt Cait's voice followed. “Cass, will you ask Jamie how his sister is doing, please? I've been quite worried since Blake said she took a fall.”

“Certainly, Aunt Cait,” Cassie said over her shoulder. Once across the threshold, she bolted for the powder room, locking the door to assess herself in the gilded mirror, stomach twirling more
than Maddie in Uncle Logan's arms. Her pale-green eyes blinked back, registering a heady mix of excitement and anticipation that made her woozy and just a wee bit scared at what lay ahead in a courtship with Jamie MacKenna. Pinching her cheeks to heighten her color, she smoothed her loose updo one more time and adjusted the lavender gossamer dress Jamie complimented once before. “Lord, help me not to faint,” she muttered before making her way to the conservatory at the back of the house. She paused at the door to catch her breath, her nerves doing cartwheels at the sight of his broad back and narrow hips in a charcoal business suit while he stared out the open French doors. The pink and purple hues of dusk filtered through the glass panes overhead to bathe the room in an ethereal glow, while a briny breeze fluttered a stray curl of his ebony hair. She attempted to calm herself with a deep draw of air, infusing her senses with the tang of the harbor, the earthy scent of moss . . . and Jamie.