Silver Dreams (10 page)

That was the part she couldn't explain. She actually did believe the old man. She didn't know why, but for some cockeyed reason, she at least believed that Dooley Blue believed in the mine. More bizarre things than this had happened throughout history, and there were plenty of rich men to prove it.

"I think there is some truth to what Dooley is saying," she conceded.

“Then what’s holding you back? Is it because you don’t want to get your hands dirty? Are you too much a debutant?”

Now he was just goading her. “You know that’s not true. When we were kids, I climbed more trees and made more mud pies than you ever did.”

“Then you must be afraid.”

She opened her mouth to refute that foolish statement, but he silenced her with a grin. “I’ll be there to protect you, Lizzie. Nothing to fear, you see?”

“It’s you protecting me that I fear the most. But here’s the truth. I think you're using this foolhardy scheme to get out of your responsibilities. You're in a lot of trouble now, Ross, in case you've forgotten."  Elizabeth certainly remembered. In just two more days, Max Cassidy's story would hit the newsstands.

"Of course I haven't forgotten," he said. "That's all the more reason to go.” He pulled her away from Dooley and spoke in a low voice. "We'll only be gone a few weeks, and when we get back, I'll have all the money I'll need for my defense. Father won't have to pay for anything. And in the meantime, my little problem at Dixie Lee's will have faded into oblivion. You know what they say, out of sight out of mind. That ought to make Father happy."

That was true. It wouldn't hurt for Ross to be out of town for a while. Trouble seemed to follow him everywhere he went in Manhattan. And it would be good for their father not to have to be reminded of his only son’s problems all the time.

"All right," she said, "I have to agree with you on these points, but what about the money?  I'm not giving you any of mine."

"Then help me get it somewhere else."

"Where?"

"From Father."

"Papa would never..."

"He might. Especially if you were on my side. In fact, I think this is just the kind of story Father would like to chew on. He was a reporter once, a damn good one, and this is the worm on a hook to a real newsman. And I can see the possibilities in your eyes, too, Lizzie. You'd love to be the one to write about Dooley Blue's Fair Day Mine."

Oh, yes, she certainly would. She thought about the tea she was covering at Mrs. Beswick's house the next afternoon, and all at once, the lure of Colorado and the silver mine was almost too much to resist. "It would be exciting..." she admitted. "And I could do it, too. I could write that story."

Ross's voice rose a notch with excitement. "You bet you could. And if you were going with me, Father would be much more inclined to give us the money. Heck, it's worth a try. Say you'll approach him with me. After all, he can't be much more upset with me than he already is."

Elizabeth looked at Dooley, who appeared to be hanging on their words, and down at the glittering ore that still rested in her palm. Both the man and the rock seemed to hold the key to something truly wonderful. What if Ross was right?  What if this was a once in a lifetime chance? What if she passed it up and never knew the pure exhilaration of finding out?  What if she missed the quest? 

Suddenly she knew for certain that she didn't want to miss it. Even if the mine proved to be no more than solid walls of what the other side of the rock looked like...just mottled, ugly granite, she wanted to see for herself. The quest was everything. "Okay, Ross," she said. "We'll talk to him."

Chapter Five

At dinner that evening, Winston listened to his son’s dream of becoming one of the richest men in Manhattan. He learned of his daughter's passion to become the most renowned woman reporter ever to blaze a trail in the lawless west.

"So that's it, Papa," Elizabeth said when she'd finished telling him how much she wanted to write about the Fair Day Mine. "Wouldn't it be a wonderful story for the
Courier News
to publish?"

"And couldn't our newspaper finance the trip out there and the reopening of the mine?" Ross added. "It would be like money in the bank for you and the board. Lizzie could write about her adventure in installments, which would keep people buying the paper to see what happens next. And I'll be so rich I'll never be a problem to you again. What do you say, Father?"

Elizabeth shuddered when Winston scraped the shallow sterling silver dish which had held his blackberry tart and licked the remains off his fork. She held her breath when he slowly set his utensil beside his plate, steepled his hands on the table and looked at Ross over his fingertips. Then, using the fewest words he'd ever spoken to reproach his offspring, Winston denounced their plan and left no room for argument.

His voice was low and chillingly calm. "First of all, Ross, it is not
our
newspaper. It is mine, and I will decide how my money is spent. Secondly, you will leave this dining room at once, and if you have even a modicum of intelligence, which I doubt, you will make certain that I do not look upon your face any more this evening. I refuse to entertain mention of this ridiculous idea again."

Ross's face turned ghastly pale. He stood, pulled his shirt cuffs, and pushed his chair under the table. Without speaking he left the room.

Winston then turned to his daughter. "Elizabeth Nora Sheridan, if you ever hope to write for the
Courier News
again, you will attend Mrs. Beswick's tea tomorrow afternoon and never again talk to me of foolish aspirations which, as long as I draw breath, you will not be permitted to pursue."

"Yes, Papa."

"You, too, may go, Elizabeth."

She did so, gratefully. When she reached the front hallway, Ross was waiting for her. "That didn't go very well, did it?" he said with characteristic understatement.

"Our father thinks we’re complete idiots! We've got to give up on this idea, Ross. It's over."

"But I can't give up, Lizzie, and when you really think about it, can you?"

"When backed up against a wall the size of Father, I can. Promise me you will, too. Please, Ross.”

"Don't worry about me, Lizzie," he said with a maddeningly   cavalier attitude. "It's as good as forgotten."

But she knew her brother, and she very much doubted it was.

Two days later, Elizabeth came downstairs with the article she'd written on Mrs. Beswick's tea for the Duchess of Essex. She supposed it was as good a story as could be expected under the circumstances. The duchess turned out to be a snooty, uncooperative royal pain in the neck. The tea was stuffy, with the exception of a sudden shower which dampened the duchess' moiré taffeta gown and her hostess's spirits. And added a welcomed bit of tartness to Elizabeth’s account of the event.That evening, to please her father and earn the headline on the lady’s page, Elizabeth managed to add a footnote to her article which put Catherine Sutcliff in a much exaggerated good light. It was quite an accomplishment considering that for much of the time she'd written the piece she'd been fretting about the release of Max's story on the Delancey Street raid.

"I'm going to the newspaper office, Bridey," Elizabeth called as she crossed the hallway to the front door. She was just reaching for her straw boater when she heard a knock on the door. She opened it and stared into the face of the very man who had plagued her thoughts for days.

"Max Cassidy! What are you doing here? Have you come to wreck more havoc?"

He stood on her front steps with his arm propped against the door frame as casually as if he'd actually been invited. "I've come to talk to you, Betsy.”

"We have nothing to say to each other," she snapped back, and attempted to close the door.

"Yes, we do." Max's foot prevented her from slamming the door in his face. "May I come in?"

"No, you may not." Elizabeth turned away from him, but he only opened the door wider and remained on the threshold. She grabbed her hat from the hall tree, placed it on her head and busied herself with tucking loose ends of hair under the ribbon. But she carefully watched Max in the hallstand mirror.

"Stand there like a fool all evening if you like, Max Cassidy," she said with pretended self assurance. "But there is no chance that I would invite a viper into my par..."

She never finished her sentence because a strong hand grasped her wrist and pulled her onto the steps. Max shut the door behind them and gave her a determined look that said he wasn’t about to leave until she’d heard him out. "You are going to listen to me," he said.

"Take your hand off me right now, Max, or I'll scream, and we'll see how much you have to say from the back of a paddy wagon."

He apparently believed her, because he let go of her hand. Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest and faced him squarely. "All right, if you're through being a bully, you can tell me what you came to say. And hurry. I have an appointment at the
Courier News
." 

She hoped she'd said the name of her father's newspaper with just the right amount of haughtiness. It wouldn’t hurt to remind Max of the differences between her father's paper and the
True Detective Gazette
.

He gave her an infuriatingly smug grin very much like an adult would bestow upon an impertinent child. "In that case, your highness," he said, "allow me to escort you to the royal publicist myself." He bent at the waist in mock chivalry. "I'll even treat you to a cab." Then rolling his eyes at the elegant Georgian facade of the Sheridan's East Fifty-eighth street residence, he added, "Though in all fairness, you really should offer to pay."

Before Elizabeth could get out the words to express her outrage, Max took her elbow and marched her to the corner where a line of carriages waited. He hailed one of them and opened the door for Elizabeth. She gave him a stern look of warning over her shoulder and then climbed inside.

"This had better not be a waste of my time," she said when he was seated next to her and the cab was heading toward the
Courier News
building.

He took a copy of the
Gazette
out of his pocket and handed it to her. "It's today's edition. I've marked the article I want you to read."

Elizabeth forced herself to take the paper from his hand. Was this his way of gloating over his principles of truth and the news? She’d read a few words and then fling the offensive rag out the window.