Authors: Kate Rothwell

Somebody Wonderful (3 page)

BOOK: Somebody Wonderful

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She flinched again as Mick made another stitch, then remarked, “Really, if it was money they wanted, they might have just tried for a ransom.” She gasped. “Oh. That hurt.”

Mick had pulled the thread too hard and fast. He wondered how she could remain so entirely collected. A couple of years ago, he would have trotted her straight to the police station. Or told the woman she was a daft, fanciful female who missed her calling as an authoress of penny dreadfuls. He’d seen a lot in two years.

“So you got away then?”

“Soon after that. I am afraid I hurt the larger man rather badly, which made him angry. He attempted to pick me up. I used my heels on his private parts, and my fingers in his eyes. Griffin showed me that, too. The man was screaming when I ran down the hall. I found Annie sitting in her room and she helped me. I was trying to find my way back to the pier when I came across that group of ridiculous boys. They kept asking me about which street I was from. Then I woke up and there you were.”

Pity for her twisted his gut, though she undoubtably lied about being a prostitute. He knew she was evading the truth somehow. Her unruffled manner revealed she couldn’t be an innocent—an inexperienced young girl in such circumstances would not be so calm, nor understand so much of what she’d seen. But he’d lay odds she hadn’t made up the whole of it.

Part of her story had to be lies. What were her first words when she saw him? “Not again.” A small woman wouldn’t have a chance against two large bordello hoodlums. Wishful thinking, he supposed.

“It sounds mortal dreadful, Miss Calverson. I shall make a report, of course,” he said at last. “So then. Is this the last of your cuts? Are you, ah,” he hesitated, “ripped or injured elsewhere?”

“I should think this is more than enough to go on with.”

He certainly wouldn’t press the issue. “Aye, well, I’m nearly done then. Considering all you’ve been through, I am surprised you’re so calm as you are.” Surprised was an understatement.

“Good God. I was anything but calm when I got out of there. I shook for a long while. And then I got lost. I keep telling myself it could have been worse. They didn’t steal anything but my clothing. I hadn’t brought any equipment with me. Or my compass. Oh, no.”

“Ah now, lass,” he soothed. “Done in a tick. I’ll tie this last stitch and the nightmare is over. We’ll take you back to where you belong.”

Mick made his final clip and started to bandage her up. He carefully wrapped the clean strips over the soft skin.

She groaned. “No, oh,I have just recalled the worst of it. My father will have left. He will imagine I meant to meet him ahead, because we once discussed that. Good lord, what might he do without me?”

He laughed, incredulous. “Miss Calverson. You tell me you’ve been kidnapped, imprisoned, ah, nearly raped and yet you’re most worried about your father?”

She exhaled a long breath as she slowly sat up. “I can usually take care of my self. My father is often another story. He is supposed to be going to Minnesota but heaven knows if he’ll make it there. He might end up in Montana or . . . or some other place that starts with ‘M.’ Michigan. Mongolia. Anywhere. Will you help me get back to him?”

Mick opened his mouth, then closed it again.

She gingerly pulled the dirty urchin’s blouse up over her shoulder. “No, no. I can see you’re tired, Mr. McCann. It must be late. Perhaps in the morning? You can help me then?”

“Good idea,” he said, relieved. “ ’Tis my day off tomorrow. I am busy in the afternoon, but I can help in the morning.” He put away the medical supplies, rinsed his hands in the water, and, after a moment’s hesitation, wiped them on his blue trousers.

He walked to the small stove. “A cup of tea for you, miss?”

“Yes, please.”

She lay down again. He could feel her steady gaze on him as he shook out the last few grains of tea into the pot. There was only enough for one cup. Just as well since Lex had broken his only other mug the week earlier.

“What about you, Mr. McCann? Aren’t you having any?”

“Oh, I don’t care for tea in the evening,” he lied cheerily. “I’ll add sugar, shall I? Good for you just now.”

When he held out the chipped mug she sat up and curled her legs under herself. She watched him over the rim as she sipped. He sat back in the chair and smiled encouragingly at her as she gulped down the tea. For a moment she stopped drinking, and eyed him intently. With all her hair tumbled around her and the big greeny eyes she looked like a pretty little witch about to cast a spell.

He raised his eyebrows. “Something amiss?”

“No. Not now.” She touched her head. “This already feels better. I don’t even have a headache.”

He fished his memo book from his back pocket. “Since you feel better, would you mind if I asked you some questions then?

She nodded.

“Could you describe the first man?”

“American accent. Balding, large build, small brown eyes, several teeth missing, mostly in the back of his mouth.”

As he listened and jotted notes, he reflected that it was too bad he and Miss Calverson were wasting their time. From her description of the men and the house, he narrowed it down to one of two places in Satan’s Circus, the area more lately called the Tenderloin. The man could be Two-Punch Jack from the Lucky Flower. Scotch Alfie and his house fit the description, too. Both men were major contributors to the police sugar pot.

Mick had long understood that his first job was to protect the system. And its corruption. Public safety came in a distant second.

Mick survived his month as a rookie and took the required secret oath never to peach on his fellow cops. But the first time Mick tried to refuse his small share of the precinct’s “sugar,” his friends warned him he’d be pegged as a troublemaker. He’d be off the force fast, unless he pocketedthe graft.

Little chance a copper would even question the man who attacked this Calverson girl. The first time Mick tried to bust a pimp because the man had beaten a girl, he was made to understand Baboon Harris paid big money to avoid overzealous cops.

Mick assuaged his conscience by using some of his share of the graft to buy food or coffee for the off-duty—or used up and tossed out—girls. He’d give this girl some of the dollars in the drawer to at least buy herself some decent clothes.

“Thank you, miss. That’s enough to go on for now.” He flipped his book closed and stood. Mick would hand the report to his sergeant and no doubt it would get “lost.” If Mick complained, he’d likely be hauled before the loathsome Captain Johnson as a potential squealer.

She handed him the empty mug, and gave a little sigh. “Thank you. I feel like a new woman. And if you could just lend me a blanket I shall be set for the night.”

Ah. No, no. Bad idea.

“I’m thinking we should find another place for you to stay tonight.”

“Do you suppose that is wise when I am dressed so, er, peculiarly?” She looked up at him expectantly. When he didn’t say anything, she added, “Really, I only require a blanket and the floor. I have slept in worse conditions.“

Stifling a yawn, he forced himself to his feet. “I’ll get the blanket. And the floor.”

“We shall share the bed,” she said decisively. “Each wrapped in his own blanket. So there will be no impropriety. You see? It will be absolutely fine.”

He was too damned tired to argue.

He snapped his fingers and Botty scrambled out from under the bureau.

The woman stared at Botty. “Is that your dog?”

“As much as he is anyone’s,” Mick said.

“What on earth happened to him?”

“Some kids got hold of him. I was all for putting him out of his misery, but a boy from the alley wanted me to try to save him.”

“Does he belong to the boy from the alley?”

“Nah. Eddy can’t keep a dog.” Mick bent down to rub Botty’s back. “Not supposed to have a dog in here, either. So old Botham’s often got to fend for himself.”

“Bottom? You call him that because he has no bum?”

“You English say Bahth-ham.”

“Why’d you name him that?”

“That’s the name of our landlord. In Ireland. First time I picked up the dog, he bit me hard. And he’s horrible ugly, too. Aren’t you,” he murmured fondly to the mutt who’d never been a beauty. Botty’s looks weren’t improved by the fact that he was missing part of a foot, all of his tail, a chunk of his backside, and an ear, and patches of pink skin showed where the black fur had been stripped away.

Mick opened the door, signaling that he was done with conversation. He led the woman out back to the outdoor privy.

Walking carefully through the narrow dirty yard, she paused and looked up. She gasped. “It is beautiful—as if it has been decorated for a celebration.”

Above them, row upon row of laundry hung from the lines stretched between tenements. Mick glanced up for a moment at the clothing snapping in the evening breeze. Hard to see Mrs. Welty’s knickers as any sort of decoration. This Miss Calverson had an odd way of looking at things.

Mick sniffed, amused, then went back inside, Botty at his heels. He heard the woman’s light step as she tentatively made her way up the back stair and he pushed opened the door so the light in the flat would show her the way through the dark hall.

After they made do with the last of the clean, cold water for a wash up, she climbed onto the bed. She picked up the smaller gray blanket and rolled herself into it like a stuffed cabbage. Then, with her back to him, she perched her body at the far edge of the old, sagging mattress. She probably had to hang onto the edge of the thing to keep from falling into the crater.

She twisted around and beamed at him. “I have completely forgotten to thank you Mr. McCann. You are my savior, sir. Thank you. I shall always be grateful.” She turned away again, wriggled around for a minute or two and fell still.

Nonplussed, he reached for the other blanket.

Mick yawned. He’d had only six hours between shifts and last night he had made the mistake of trying to catch a nap in precinct barracks rather than walk home. That meant he spent six hours trying to ignore the stench of smoke and unwashed cops. And he had yet to figure out how to block out the shouts and howls from the jail cells and shelter in the basement below the cops’ dormitory.

And now this daft woman had stumbled into his life. He took a deep breath, and caught the faint whiff of her. Trouble, he thought vaguely, as his eyes closed. Big trouble.

Despite the facts that he was filthy from his beat, still nearly fully dressed, and lying next to an utterly desirable female when he hadn’t had a woman in half a year, he was asleep in a few minutes.

Timona was hungry. Mr. McCann probably was too, but if she mentioned food, he might talk about making her leave again. Anyway, she suspected he was already asleep.

She knew she had best keep her mind busy or she’d think about food. Or, far worse, about the horrible bordello.

First she would find out if anyone at the company knew if her father made it onto the train. With Papa traveling by himself, who knew what might happen between New York and Ohio? Mr. Blenheim, Papa’s secretary, was to meet them somewhere in Ohio. She had already asked the gentleman from the New York Calverson Company office to send a wire to Mr. Blenheim concerning their train schedule. So that
should
be all right.

If she could confirm Papa had gotten on and stayed on the train, and had met Mr. Blenheim, she would be free to spend some time in New York.

She would buy another camera and some dry plates.

She would write to her best friend, Araminta. She might eventually go to Minnesota and join her father.

And, at some point, she would marry Michael McCann.

If he wouldn’t marry her, perhaps she could hire him. Or if he wouldn’t work for a female, perhaps her father could hire him as a bodyguard. She wasn’t sure what Mr. McCann could do, other than reassure lost females and a practice a bit of useful doctoring.

Funny that her heart could travel so far in a matter of an hour, much further than she had in any of her other journeys.

At first she had thought he was a beastly huge red-haired monster. His reassuring manner had soon comforted her. She perceived the next transformation when her heartbeat increased markedly as she lay across his thighs. She had listeed to his deep, soft voice. Then she noticed his smile.

And now she understood that Araminta had been right all along. After years of wondering if she had a defective core, Timona had found a cure for herself. A large, calm, magnificent cure. No money. Irish. Gentle, deft, talented hands. He had a face that belonged to sun and wind, not the crowded streets of New York. He mentioned a farm, so perhaps he was not well educated, at least in terms of formal schooling.

What else did she know about him? He was kind, and slow to take offense. Generous enough to give his last cup of tea to a woman he thought was a runaway whore. Compassionate enough to house what had to be the ugliest dog on the face of the earth.

She knew he was attracted to her, but he was not pleased by that fact. He seemed to think she truly was a prostitute. Not an auspicious beginning.

His steady breath confirmed that he was asleep. Good, he didn’t snore. She would be able to sleep for the next fifty or so years.

Though she did not dare to climb out of his dreadful bed, she carefully sat up to look around the room. In the dim light of the candle he’d forgotten to blow out, she spotted the frock coat mostly jammed into a capacious pot and the helmet dangling from the chair.

A policeman then. She’d seen the uniform on her two other visits to New York. Did he like the work, she wondered. Would she like being married to a police officer? She hoped so, though she rather doubted it. Too much worry.

She lay down, facing him this time, wishing she could study his face. She could barely make out the vague shape of his large, sleeping form, rising like a dark, gently sloping hill beside her. The candlelight created a glowing nimbus around the edges of his soft, curling hair. Not carrot, a paler shade that she imagined turned bronze in the summer sun. The light flickered over the golden stubble of his beard.

She closed her eyes, wishing she could see him smile again, a broad smile that did more than show white teeth. A smile that brimmed with humor and warmth.

He had saved her. Now according to some tradition or another that she hazily recalled, she was his responsibility for the rest of their lives. Thank goodness. She was tired of being the responsible, solid member of her father’s entourage.

Mr. McCann seemed better at responsibility, a true professional. Though it hardly seemed fair to put all the burdens of caring on him.

Perhaps, she thought as she smiled into the darkness, they could take turns.

BOOK: Somebody Wonderful

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