Yesterday's Roses (21 page)

Hallie certainly did, and it sickened her. Looking up from the bandage she was rolling, she exclaimed, “How can you encourage your girls to do business with such an awful man?”

“Been harmless enough in the past.” The madame shrugged in a matter-of-fact manner. “'Sides, the gals all like him. Says he talks real cultured-like. Got the manners of a high-flutin' gentleman, too. Pearl got his clothes half off once, says he's got a fine-lookin' body, 'cept for a nasty scar.”

“Scar? Where?” Hallie's attention was fully arrested now. She shoved the last of her equipment in her bag and frowned as she waited for Coralie to reply.

The woman mulled over the question for a moment before shaking her head. “Don't recall Pearl mentionin' where. Jist said it was all red and twisted-lookin'.”

“Could I talk to Pearl?”

“Pearl run off a few weeks back. Ain't seen hide nor hair of her since. Treated the gal like a daughter, and she jist takes off without a word.”

“Would there be anyone else who could tell me about the man?”

Coralie's eyes narrowed at the urgency in Hallie's voice. “Ya seem awful interested in the fella. Care ta tell me why?”

“A friend of mine was murdered a couple of months ago, and the murderer left marks on her throat similar to those on Cissy. She was also wearing a glove like those you described.” Hallie's voice rose in desperation. “There might be a connection. You say he's always been harmless enough in the past. Why would he attack Cissy now?”

There was a muffled sob from the bed. “He couldn't git hard. So he started hittin' me and talkin' all crude. Claimed it was my fault. Made me git on my knees and beg.”

Serena's words echoed through Hallie's mind. I hate it most when he's crude. He can't take his pleasure unless I cry and beg. He blames me if his man's part can't—

“When it stayed all shrunk up, he got crazy.” Cissy's tone verged on hysteria. “He grabbed my neck and started squeezin' 'til I couldn't breathe no more. Don't remember much else.” She buried her face in the pillow, her shoulders heaving violently as she wept.

“Yep,” finished Coralie, taking the girl in her arms and stroking her back with maternal expertise. “We found poor Cissy layin' half dead on our doorstep.”

“Have you contacted the police?”

Coralie laughed raucously at that. “The police don't care about what happens to a whore.”

“Well, I do,” announced Hallie. “And I'll be back the day after tomorrow to check on Cissy. You can send for me at the mission if she gets any worse.”

Coralie looked positively stunned by Hallie's words. “Really? Ya don't mind bein' seen at a whorehouse, Doc?”

“I'm here, aren't I?”

“Yep. But, I mean, them men doctors made it clear they ain't interested in tendin' a pack of whores. Don't approve of our business, if ya take my meanin'.” Coralie's mouth twisted cynically. “'Course, the old hypocrites ain't above usin' our services.”

Hallie reached out and gave the madame's shoulder a warm squeeze. “I'll be glad to help your girls in any way I can. Sick people are the same no matter who they are or what they do. It's not my place to judge.”

Coralie's eyes were bright with gratitude. “You won't be sorry. I promise. We'll pay you real handsome-like, and if anyone says anythin' bad about you, I'll have my doorman rough 'em up good.” She slammed her right fist into her left palm to illustrate her point.

Hallie laughed. “I doubt the roughing-up part will be necessary. However, if you wish to make a donation to the Mission Infirmary, we'll be more than glad to accept it. I do have one request, though.”

“Jist ask, Doc.”

“If you hear anything else about the strange man, or find any clues as to his identity, will you let me know?”

As Hallie left the brothel, she paused on the front steps to admire the bold artistry of the rising sun. Glorious shades of pink and gold streaked the sky as dawn broke over the city. She should have been exhausted; she should have wanted nothing more than to crawl into her hard little bed and sleep the morning away. But her excitement over what she had learned from Coralie and Cissy overruled her tired body's commands.

Carefully avoiding the glass from a shattered liquor bottle, Hallie descended the stairs. She kicked a gaudy slipper out of her path and then stopped to pick up an abandoned piece of mistletoe. Staring at the crushed greenery, she pictured Jake's beautiful face, and her lips burned at the memory of his kisses.

It was December 24 and she was in love.

“Ho, ho, ho, Jake Parrish,” Hallie laughed into the cold morning breeze. “You're about to get your Christmas wish.”

Chapter 13

The face in the mirror looked decidedly worse for wear.

Damn! That Seth Tyler had a nasty left hook.

With a grimace, Jake prodded the bruise marring the right side of his jaw. It was ugly and it hurt. Still, it was minor compared to the damage he had suffered at Seth's hands during the past few months.

Giving his reflection a lopsided grin, Jake noted with satisfaction that neither eye had been blackened. The days of his crushing defeats were definitely over, as were Seth's easy victories in the boxing ring. He'd even be willing to bet that his friend was sporting a few colorful marks himself this morning.

Of course, knowing Seth Tyler as well as he did, Jake had no doubts at all that the man had turned his battered appearance to his own roguish advantage. He was probably lying in the arms of one of his admirers at this very moment, groaning in an exaggerated manner, while the doting young lady held cold compresses to his face. Seth so enjoyed the tender ministrations of his women that he always made sure he received at least one bruise, just so he could play the wounded hero. He claimed that nothing made a woman grow all soft and loving quicker than a man in need of tending.

When Jake thought about the way Hallie had cared for him after he had been shot, he was inclined to agree. In fact, her tender attention was
all
he'd thought about during his recent voyage to Panama City.

Plagued with pain and fatigue, he had lain in his luxurious cabin desperately wishing for his Mission Lady's gentle touch. He had wanted so badly to feel her calloused little hand against his cheek as she checked him for fever and to see her forehead crease with concentration as she carefully tended his injured side. Why, he would have even welcomed her poking at the sore wound, just to have her near.

Jake had known upon leaving San Francisco, that he would miss his little doctor friend; he just hadn't realized how much. Restlessly he had tossed and turned in his spacious bed, calling himself every kind of a fool for thinking he could run away from his growing feelings for her. Every waking moment had been filled with thoughts of Hallie, and when he slept, she had haunted his dreams. By the time he had reached Aspinwall, he'd finally faced the truth: he needed his Mission Lady.

Still thinking of Hallie, Jake bent closer to the mirror and took an inventory of his injuries. Perhaps he could use some of the good doctor's loving care now? Aside from the swollen jaw, there was a small cut beneath one bloodshot eye, and another at the corner of his mouth. The dark stubble shadowing his cheeks didn't do a hell of a lot to improve his appearance either. And his head …

Jake groaned and rubbed at his temples. Damn! It felt like someone was hammering a staccato inside his brain. At this point he couldn't be quite sure if the throbbing was due to the pounding he had taken from Seth in the ring or if it was a legacy from the bottle of fine brandy they had consumed afterward. Come to think of it, the only thing he was sure of in regard to last evening was that Seth had been the victor of their contest. But if his memory served him correctly, it had been a close match. Next time he intended to win.

In the days before the war, Jake's athletic prowess, coupled with his unblemished record of victory in the ring, had made him a legendary force at the Olympic Club. No one, including Seth, had stood a chance against his raw strength and catlike agility. So formidable an opponent was he that the other members of the club were forced to acknowledge his physical superiority and consequently ceased their jests regarding his too pretty face. Jake was fiercely proud of his hard-won reputation.

But that was before the battle that robbed him of his athletic ability, leaving him a maimed left leg as a tragic souvenir.

Jake smiled bitterly at his reflection. He had heard over and over again how lucky he was to have his leg. On good days, when he merely walked with an ungainly limp, he was inclined to agree. But on bad ones, such as today, when he was virtually lame and the improperly healed wound ached unbearably, he seriously questioned his good fortune.

As he tightly grasped the edge of his ebony dressing table for support, his mood grew foul in the extreme. God, he dreaded these bad days. It wasn't the pain that made them so awful, it was the debilitating weakness. He hated feeling so helpless and frustrated.

Wavering unsteadily, Jake decided it was going to be an especially bad day, and he was damn well going to make sure everyone else shared in his misery.

“Hop Yung!” he bellowed. “Get your worthless hide in here—now!”

Where was that Chinaman when you wanted him? He was always underfoot until you needed him and then …

“Hop! Where the hell are you? Just wait until I get my hands—”

Jake was startled into speechlessness as he lurched around in a fit of fury and almost knocked Hop Yung over. The houseboy was standing behind his employer holding out a robe, his expression bland.

A shadow of annoyance crossed Jake's face as he felt his leg give out and he was forced to steady himself against the dressing table again.

“Where have you been?” he demanded through clenched teeth, skewering the servant with a rancorous stare.

Hop looked back at him with suppressed amusement, making Jake suddenly aware of what a ridiculous picture he made, standing there stark naked and scowling with menace at a Chinaman half his size.

With a snort of irritation, he shrugged the emerald-green-and-black-striped dressing gown over his shoulders and belted it at his waist. Running his hand through his sweat-dampened hair in a gesture of ill-tempered agitation, Jake scowled at the now grinning houseboy.

“Why didn't you come when I called? And where the hell is my coffee? Damn it, Hop! You know I like my coffee first thing in the morning. And wipe that simple-minded grin off your face. I ought to replace you with an Irishman. I had one come around looking for a job just yesterday.
He
showed me proper respect. You could afford to take a lesson or two from that man!”

“Hop best houseboy. Irish houseboy no good. Got meaner head than Mister Jake. You chop-chop-kill each other!” Hop made slashing motions into the air to demonstrate his point. Smirking wickedly, he waited for his employer's outraged response.

The scenario was a familiar one, having been played out countless times over the years. Hop, used to his employer's tirades, had been threatened with the hated Irishman many times before, and the threat now failed to have any real impact. Still, mean-head or no, the little man couldn't imagine working for anyone else. Since that day eight years ago, when Jake Parrish had saved him from being lynched for a crime of which he was innocent, Hop had discovered his rescuer to be a man of fairness and good judgment—despite his tendency to rant and rave. And Hop Yung had vowed to be loyal to Mr. Jake until his dying day.

“Meaner head, Hop? I'll show you meaner head if you don't get my coffee now,” Jake threatened, though his mood was starting to lighten a bit at Hop's saucy behavior.

Hop rolled his eyes mournfully and shook his head in mock despair. With an offended air, he gestured behind his employer. “Mister Jake get mean-head, no reason. Coffee on table. Hop best houseboy.”

And sure enough, the table by the vaulted window was neatly laid out with coffee, toast points, and the morning edition of the
Golden Era
.

After accepting his cane from Hop with a curt nod, Jake limped over to the table and eased himself into a high-backed chair. The effort sent a pain radiating through his damaged leg. With a sigh, he rubbed at his thigh until the discomfort had been reduced to a dull throb.
It was a bad day indeed,
he thought, closing his eyes and leaning his head back in a resigned manner.

When he heard Hop Yung laying out his shaving implements, Jake opened his eyes and stared at the man. “‘Mean-head'? What the hell kind of language is that? Is that what they taught you at the mission school?” He paused to pour himself a cup of coffee. “You're going to have to remind me to have a word with Reverend DeYoung. I would hate to think that all the money he's managed to swindle out of me on behalf of that school has been wasted on teachers who teach phrases like ‘mean-head'.”

Jake sat back in his chair and took a sip from his cup. He immediately released a loud oath as the hot liquid burned his mouth. Slamming the delicate Limoges cup back on the table, he returned his gaze to the busy houseboy.

“Hot-tempered, Hop.”

The little man threw his employer a questioning look.

“Hot-tempered, foul-mannered, nasty-dispositioned, moody bastard. Take your pick. They're all correct terms for mean-headed.”

Hop smiled in mischievous understanding. “Mr. Jake foul-mannered bastard. O.K. Hop no forget. Mr. Jake foul-tempered, nasty bastard. Is Mr. Jake pleased with Hop?” He braced his hands on his hips and peered at the man by the window expectantly.

“‘Pleased' is hardly the word I'd use for being described as a foul-tempered, nasty bastard. However, I see you're quick to grasp the concept, and it does please me to know that I don't have a half-witted houseboy. So, fine. End of lesson.”

While Hop went to prepare his bath, Jake scanned the newspaper idly. Today, however, the
Golden Era
failed to hold his interest, and he felt himself growing impatient. He drummed his fingers on the table in bored agitation, wondering what was keeping the houseboy.

When Hop finally returned, Jake opened his mouth to vent his displeasure. But before he could say a word, the little man announced, “Lady to see Mr. Jake. Say it urgent.”

A sardonic smile wreathed Jake's lips as he raised his brow in mock wonder. “Urgent? Then by all means send the lady up.”

Hop looked horrified as he rushed to correct his employer. “No! Not that kind of lady. Kind Mr. Jake sees with clothes on. Lady from mission.”

“Appetizing thought,” groaned Jake, grimacing with distaste. It had to be Lavinia Donahue. Not only was the venerable Mrs. Donahue the most prune-faced of the mission crows, she also had the indisputable distinction of being the town's biggest gossip. She had threatened to pay him a visit this morning. She was probably going to try and shove that pasty-faced daughter of hers down his throat. He groaned again. “Tell her I'm indisposed—tell her anything. But for God's sake, get rid of her! My head aches enough without some self-righteous harpy yammering at me!”

“Hop try. She no go. Say it 'portant. Stubborn lady.” Hop wrung his hands in visible distress.

“Fine!” Jake snorted. “If she wants to wait, then let her wait. You may finish preparing my bath now. And Hop? Make sure the water's hot. I'm in the mood for a good, long soak.”

Whatever could be keeping Jake?
Hallie wondered, shifting uncomfortably on the overstuffed blue-and-white-patterned loveseat. It had been well over an hour and a half since Hop Yung had ushered her into the formal parlor, and she was beginning to wonder if the rude little man had alerted his employer of her presence at all.

Hallie sighed with frustration. Wouldn't it be just like the houseboy to conveniently forget about her? After all, he hadn't looked exactly pleased to see her. She knew she hadn't been in the man's good graces since the morning Jake had been shot and she had refused to let him treat the wound with some suspicious-looking powder. Undoubtedly she was now paying the price for pricking his ego.

Just when Hallie had decided she'd waited long enough and was about to conduct a search of her own, the door flew open. There stood Jake Parrish. Clad in a dark gray morning suit that emphasized the magnificence of his build, he looked every inch the man they called the Young Midas. His cheeks had a slight blush, as if freshly shaven, and his still damp hair was neatly brushed off his face. She also noticed, with a surge of compassion, that he appeared to be leaning heavily upon his cane. His handsome face was set in lines of brooding ill-humor … until he caught sight of her.

Then he smiled. It was a beautiful, genuine smile, the kind that made the dimple crease his lean cheek and never failed to send Hallie's heart turning cartwheels in her chest. Suddenly she felt all her agitation over being kept waiting melt away, and she smiled back.

As Jake limped toward her, flinching with every step, Hallie had to battle her urge to rush to his side and assist him as if he were an invalid. Such treatment, she knew, would be shameful in his eyes. For though she had heard him joke about his clumsy state on several occasions, there had been a dark edge of bitterness shadowing his lighthearted words. And when he had smiled in acknowledgment of the laughter drawn by his quips, she'd seen the bleakness that had momentarily flared in the otherwise indifferent gleam of his eyes.

It was during such a moment that Hallie had silently vowed never to add to his humiliation by treating him as a cripple, or as anything less than what he was: a man of incredible strength and capabilities.

By sheer force of will she managed to continue smiling, ignoring the way his expression of obvious pain made her ache with sympathy. When he stumbled at the edge of the carpet and had to struggle to retain his balance, she pretended to be preoccupied with the removal of her bonnet.

Jake uttered a curse beneath his breath. Another move like that and he would find himself face down on the floor. He shot Hallie a furtive glance as he steadied himself. He had expected to find her staring at him, her face awash with pity. But she seemed completely oblivious to his plight as she busily fussed with her hat.
Good.
At least he'd been spared the indignity of having her witness his near tumble.

Resolutely bracing himself against his cane, Jake mentally measured the distance between them. With a little luck, he might make it to one of the chairs without disgracing himself. Lady Luck was smiling on him, and when he finally came to a stop in front of Hallie, he warmly clasped her hand in his. “I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. I thought you were Lavinia Donahue, and I was hoping if I stalled long enough she would leave.” He lifted her palm to his lips and gave it a lingering kiss, his eyes never wavering from hers. “You, however, I'm glad to see.”