Summer Lightning (4 page)

The snarl that followed the impact sent a thrill of fear down Edith’s spine. In a voice scarcely human, she heard Maginn say, “Don’t you . . . don’t you . . .”

“Stop! You’re hurting me,” Mrs. Webb sobbed. Perhaps she stumbled, for she gave a half-scream suddenly cut off. Edith looked up and down the hall. Should she go for help? Should she break in and save Mrs. Webb?

There came some soft, confused sounds next. Edith couldn’t make out what was happening. Then she heard Mrs. Webb’s pouting voice again. “You almost broke my arm . . . brute.”

“Ah, but you’re a rare armful, m’lovely.”

“And you’re not interested in that stuck-up snip, are you?”

“Never mind about her.”

“But Ringo . . .”

“It won’t make no difference to you and me. So long as your husband is gone for good . . .”

“I can divorce him any time, and then we could make it legal.” She seemed to be offering some rare treat.

“Legal? I can’t marry any divorced woman. The Church . . .”

“Why do you care? It’s this you should be wanting.”

Ringo Maginn’s voice thickened. “I do. God, shut the door if you’re going to ... Oh, God.”

Edith fled.

It seemed only a few minutes later that she sat up in her bed, the clothing she’d never removed twisted about her body. She had no memory of lying down, only of dreaming she was on board a ship. The bed seemed to mimic the motion of a ship even now, heaving high and dipping low. She put her feet on the floor and groaned, her eyes burning.

Orpheus sang loudly, despite his covered cage. The frantic note in his song penetrated her exhausted sense. Coughing, Edith tried to stand. A haze lingered before her eyes. There had been cannons in her dream, white-hot mouths belching forth smoke and deadly iron. Was she still asleep? For she could still see the smoke.

As her little bird sang furiously, Edith realized that this choking smoke was no phantom following her from a nightmare but harsh reality. The boardinghouse was on fire.

Chapter 3

Jefferson Dane awoke to someone knocking at his hotel-room door. “What is it?”

‘‘Mr. Dane, sir? It’s Josh. The hall boy?”

Sighing, Jeff sat up, disoriented. He could distinguish the light curtains fluttering in the breeze from the opened window but that was all. It was enough, though, to lead him to the door.

He jerked it open. “If this is the way your hotel treats its guests, I’ll be pulling out in the morning.”

Seeing the hall boy blinking at him in alarm, Jeff moderated his tone. “What’s up, Josh?”

“Please, Mr. Dane, sir, Mr. Dilworthy sent me up, sir. He’s in an awful stew, sir.”

“If he’s drunk it’s no reason to wake up half the hotel. Tell him to sleep it off. Or pour a gallon of coffee down his gullet. It’s nothing to do with me.”

The image of the austere desk clerk stewed to the gills brought an impudent smile to the hall boy’s round face, as Jeff had meant it to. “I wish he was tight—I shore do. But that’s not what’s the matter. It’s this crazy girl.”

“What girl?”

“She’s down at the desk. And, boy, she’s something. Looks like she was dragged around some, and her hat’s on backwards, smuts and soot all over her, and . . . oh, yeah . . . she’s got a canary in a cage. Keeps asking for you.”

“What time is it?” Jeff yawned, glancing over the boy’s head at the flickering gas jets that illuminated the hall.

“‘Bout half-past twelve. I was just about to get some shut-eye myself. So, you going to come on down, sir? Mr. Dilworthy says . . .”

“I can guess,” Jeff answered, having taken the desk clerk’s measure when he’d checked in. Officious, nosy, and suspicious, Dilworthy would be just the fellow to take care of a drunk or a lunatic. The hour was late, and he could feel sleep tugging at him like an impatient woman.

“Tell Dilworthy to slip the gal a couple of dollars. She’ll probably take it and go. I’ll give it back to him tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Josh said with a nod. “He was getting ready to call the police but he figured maybe you knew her.”

“Doesn’t sound like it. Good night.”

“Good night, sir.” The boy, absurd in his tight waistcoat and too-long pants, headed down the hall.

“Hey, Josh? Don’t wake me up again for anything less than a war or an election, okay?”

Closing the door, Jeff stretched for a moment before padding back to bed. The talk about the Texas cattle fever had gone on since lunch, his fellow Missouri cattlemen ranting and raving about the general cussedness of the Texan in general. He himself had always run a clean herd, mostly by keeping the Texans out of whatever means necessary, even with a gun on occasion. He thanked providence and his parents once again for putting his ranch halfway between Sedalia and St. Louis. It didn’t often pay the Texas men to come that far out of their route—not yet.

Jeff lay his long body down on the bed, his arms flung wide. Try as he might, however, he couldn’t find a comfortable spot. He’d slept better in the woods, with the owls hooting and the nightjars rattling. There’d been that time he’d awakened in the peace of a perfect, dew-moist morning, only to have a rising crow shoot a stream of foul . . .

Turning onto his side, Jeff wondered why he couldn’t stop thinking about birds. Where had he heard a canary today? A canary in a cage. He couldn’t recall, but it probably wasn’t important anyhow. Not as important as sleep.

Five minutes later, fully dressed, Jeff stepped into the small lobby. “Where’s the girl?”

“Really, Mr. Dane, I must protest. We are a respectable hotel with a high-class clientele. Asking me to pay off a . . .”

His words were cut off by a brown fist suddenly tightening his skinny tie. “Where did she go?” Jeff asked, spacing each word out.

“Over there,” the man gasped, his hands flopping like dying fish.

Dropped none too gently, Mr. Dilworthy said, rubbing his throat, “Really, Mr. Dane! Roughhousing is not admired at
this
hotel. And as for your lady ‘friend,’ she really can’t stay in the lobby all night. You’ll have to ask her to go elsewhere.”

But Jeff was already looking down the lobby. Miss Parker had her back turned, but he recognized the covered birdcage. Something had driven her out of her boardinghouse and into the night to call on a man. Jeff knew it had to be something big.

“Miss Parker?” he asked, coming up behind her. “What’s the . . .”

He almost bit his tongue. When the girl turned, he beheld a wide pair of eyes the color of twilight in a spiritual face that could haunt a hardheaded man’s dreams. As for the rest, she was pale and thin in her gray dress with the ugly pattern, her dark auburn hair pulled ruthlessly into a low tight bun. A few strands of hair had escaped and trailed in her reddened eyes. One small hand held the birdcage by the ring in the top.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, backing up. “I thought .  .  .”

“Oh, Mr. Dane!” She flung out her hand as though in supplication, her voice rough. When she closed her eyes, Jeff could tell she was struggling to regain some composure.

“Here now,” he said, catching her hand and chafing it gently. “You come over here and sit down.”

She let him lead her to a plush sofa before she pulled her hand away. “I mustn’t. My dress . . .”

“What is all that?”

“Soot, I think.”

Jeff saw that what he’d thought was a pattern on the gray stuff of her dress was in fact a scattering of tiny holes burned into the fabric.

“Never mind the damn sofa,” he said. “What’s happened to you?”

As calmly as though she were discussing ancient history, she said, “My boardinghouse has burned down. Orpheus awakened me in time. I don’t really remember how I got . . . out.”

“My Lord,” he said, shocked, urging her once more to seat herself. “Hey, Dilworthy,” he called, turning his head to glare at the desk clerk. “Bring me a shot of something strong. Whiskey, brandy, whatever you’ve got. Hurry up.”

Mr. Dilworthy pursed his lips as though quelling thoughts he dared not utter. However, he brought out a bottle from beneath the counter and poured a liberal dose into a clean glass. “Not a saloon,” he muttered as he put the tray down on the table.

“Here, now, Miss Parker. Get that down.”

“Oh, no, sir. I promised my aunt I’d never touch spirits.”

“It’ll do you good.” He held the glass out.

Edith took a taste, then licked her lips like a cat. “It’s dreadful!” she said in surprise. “I always thought it must be marvelous, so many people indulge in it to excess.”

“It’s only nasty going down. On the inside, it’s fine.”

Screwing up her face, Edith tossed back the liquid in a single, burning gulp. She strangled, coughed, and wiped her burning eyes. After a moment, she became conscious of a glow like a hot coal in her interior.

“I do feel warmer. When the fire engines came, I got sprayed and I thought I’d taken a chill.”

“Tell me what happened. How did your home burn down?”

Edith felt oddly moved by his concern. She had not even dared to hope that Mr. Dane would receive her kindly. But there had been no other place to go. “Evvie—my landlord’s sister—said it was a grease fire in the kitchen. It started so quickly she didn’t have a chance to ring the alarm bell. The firemen think everyone escaped.”

“When was this?”

“About ten o’clock.”

“Wasn’t that kind of late to be cooking?”

“She said her brother liked to eat fried potatoes in bed.” Edith shuddered delicately.

Jeff saw her reaction and hid a grin. “But you’re not hurt. You must be born lucky, Miss Parker.”

“I don’t feel lucky,” she said, catching back a hiccup that was nearly a sob. Pressing her fingers to her lips, she looked at him in alarm. “I beg your pardon,” she murmured.

“Never mind. I guess most of your stuff is ... gone?”

To her shame, tears came into her eyes. All the letters, everything she had of her aunt’s, even her attempts to write down her daydreams, all gone in the roaring inferno that carelessness had made of a decrepit building.

Edith thrust her chin out and said resolutely, “If your offer is still open, Mr. Dane, I’d like to accept that job.”

“That’s very good of you. But we’ll talk it over in the morning.” He stood up. His legs seemed to go on forever, the tall boots he wore extending almost to his knees.

Edith didn’t move. After one quick glimpse up the length of his body, she looked down at her clasped hands. “I’d prefer to discuss our business now.”

“It’s late, and you’ve been through a year’s worth of trouble. I’ll get you a room and. . . .”

It would be so easy to let him be masterful, to give all her troubles over to him. But she couldn’t possibly allow him to take on her as a responsibility. She must stand for her own.

“I don’t wish to be stubborn, Mr. Dane. But I would prefer to discuss our business now.”

Jeff smiled, though she didn’t see. The little thing was as nervous as a bird at a convention of cats on reducing diets. She was pretty, far prettier and much younger than he’d guessed at their first meeting. Her thickly lashed eyes were slightly slanted, wider at the edge than near her nose, giving her a startled look.

He studied her. Surprising himself, he found a gradual anger washing over him, getting worse by the second. What had the girl been doing to herself?

She was not naturally this thin. Her skin was stretched too tightly over her cheekbones, and he’d seen wrist bones that stuck out like hers before. She couldn’t be more than twenty. The desiccation he’d assumed to be the natural look of a dried-up spinster was plain ordinary starvation. If Miss Parker had eaten a square meal within the last week, he would breakfast tomorrow on his plainsman’s hat, without gravy.

“All right,” he said gently. “You’re going to come to Richey with me. I reckon we’ll say you’re my distant cousin, come out to look after the girls.”

“I don’t care for subterfuge,” she began. When he started to explain it was to save her reputation, she said, “I appreciate that. In this instance, I will agree to mislead people.”

“Good. ‘Course, once I ask the girl to marry me, you can head on back here. I’ll pay your fare both ways, naturally.”

“That seems acceptable,” she said, surprising him by not arguing the point. Jeff saw her sway, worn to the bone no doubt. He wanted to pick her up—she plainly weighed less than an orphan calf—and carry her away to a place of safety and comfort. His hands fairly twitched with the yearning.

Then she seemed to snap to attention, driving exhaustion back by an effort of will. He had to admire her, even while he deplored her stubbornness. Any other woman would have fallen apart by now. He almost wished she would crumble. It would be much easier to sweep up the pieces than tiptoe around the cracks.

“I wonder . . .” She hesitated, and flicked her eyes up to glance at his face. “It is a great imposition, Mr. Dane, and I apologize for the necessity. Might I have an advance on my compensation, do you think? I have no clothes now.”

“My pleasure, Miss Parker. But that’ll have to wait ‘til the bank opens.”

“Oh, dear, I didn’t think of that. And tomorrow’s Sunday.” She glanced down at her spoiled dress, and Jeff leaned forward, certain her tears were about to flow at last. Instead she glanced up with something like bravery and said, “What cannot be cured must be endured, eh, Mr. Dane?”

She swayed again and blinked rapidly. “Alcohol is very curious. I’m glad I had the chance . . .” Without changing expression Edith slid slowly off the sofa.

* * * *

The sun was on the wrong side. Edith wondered if she had somehow turned herself completely around so that her head now lay at the foot of her narrow bed. But how she could have managed it without falling off and waking herself up was a mystery that she could not solve.

Orpheus sang in the sunny window with a merry abandon that Edith did not recall ever hearing from him before. She turned her head to see him. The pillowcase beneath her cheek did not scratch, or smell like the raw yellow soap Evvie Maginn used for the tenants’ laundry. In the window was a rosy red lamp, the edge of the shade alive with hanging prisms that sent rainbows dancing and dodging around the cheerfully papered walls.