My Heart's Desire

by Jo Goodman

  Ethan coughed lightly. "I don't think I said it quite like that."

  Michael ignored her husband. "You're not still blaming him for stopping the wedding, are you?"

  Rennie's hand smoothed the downy cap of her niece's hair. "I don't want to talk about him," she said. "Tell me about you. Are you all right?"

  Michael did not want to be swayed from the topic of Jarret Sullivan and Rennie's aborted wedding, but she recognized the flat, mutinous line of her sister's mouth and realized there would be no swaying her. "I'm wonderful," she said. "Happy... and tired. More happy than tired at the moment."

  "You look," she paused, searching for the word, "radiant."

  "Do I?" Michael asked, more pleased than embarrassed.

  "Yes, you do. Doesn't she, Ethan?" When Rennie glanced at Ethan to get his support she saw Michael's husband was too overcome with emotion to speak. Rennie felt her own throat closing, clogged by the rising lump of tears as Ethan could only nod. His fingers sifted through Michael's damp auburn hair, and Michael turned her face toward him so that she was caressed by the cup of his hand. The baby stirred gently against her mother's breast.

  Rennie slipped out of the room.

  * * *

  Jarret never questioned her anxiousness to leave. He was happy to be gone from the St. Mark as well. His shoulder ached abominably, and the jostling of the carriage didn't help. He was grateful for Rennie's silence if not for her scrutiny. When they reached the house he alighted first, then, out of habit, offered his right arm to Rennie as she climbed down. The movement alone caused him to grit his teeth and some of the color to leave his face, but his wounded pride stung more as Rennie reached for his good arm and offered herself as support.

  He didn't know which of them was more surprised when he accepted it.

  "Did Scott give you anything for the pain?" she asked when they reached his room.

  Jarret shook his head. "I didn't ask for anything."

  Rennie's look told him what she thought of that. "Mama may have something around here that would help. I could—"

  "I'll let you know." He opened the door to his room and stepped inside. In the hallway, Rennie hesitated. "Yes?" he asked.

  "Will you... umm... need some help?" she asked uncertainly.

  "Help?"

  "Umm... with your clothes? Getting into your nightshirt. That sort of thing."

  "I don't wear a nightshirt." The comment did not send her running as he hoped it would. It did, however, put a hint of pink in her cheeks and caused her lips to part fractionally. To keep from reaching for her, his fingers pressed against the door and the jamb. The pressure in his right hand sent pain searing to his shoulder.

  "I think you need help," she said, her eyes darting over his face.

  Jarret let out his breath slowly and said gruffly, "The kind of help I need, you can't give me." He put enough sexual nuance into his rebuff that Rennie could not mistake his meaning. He watched her turn and walk away, her back as stiff as her pride. Jarret closed the door, leaned against it, and wished himself on the next train out of New York.

  * * *

  Dressing the following morning was awkward and slow, but Jarret felt a full measure of accomplishment when he succeeded. He resisted the urge to work his gun hand any more than necessary. His shoulder was still stiff, but it seemed to ease as he allowed himself to move more naturally.

  Breakfast was laid out for him on the dining room table, a farewell feast, he imagined. Rennie must have told Mrs. Cavanaugh that he would be leaving soon. He wondered if he could purchase train fare today. Then he wondered if Rennie had already purchased a ticket for him. It would be just what he deserved for the slap in the face he'd served her last night.

  Mary Renee Dennehy was a proper, respectable woman, and he had no right talking to her the way he had. His mother would have been shamed by his manners; his father would have taken a switch to his backside. Jarret vowed he would apologize.

  Mrs. Cavanaugh came in with fresh coffee. She was talking to herself under her breath.

  Used to the cook's breathless mutterings, Jarret smiled indulgently and fingered the morning paper. "Has Rennie come down this morning?" he asked.

  "Finished her breakfast an hour ago."

  "Then, she's gone to work," he said. "I suppose you know about Houston and Kelly. It's safe for her now."

  "Sure, and I know all about last night's piece of work." Her eyes strayed to his shoulder, and she saw the swath of bandages through his shirt. "But Rennie's not gone to the Worth Building this morning. She's taken herself off to the station."

  The station? Then, she was buying him a ticket west. He chuckled to himself.

  "You approve, then?" Mrs. Cavanaugh demanded tartly.

  "Approve? I don't think that's my place one way or the other. Truthfully, I suspected she might do it. I haven't precisely endeared myself to her."

  "What does that have to do with anything?" She pushed a plate of biscuits toward him. "Here, have one of these. I made them fresh this morning."

  Jarret obediently took a biscuit and drizzled it with honey.

  "It doesn't matter if she likes you or not, does it? Or the other way around, come to think of it. My understanding is that you agreed to protect her."

  Jarret bit into a warm biscuit. It was almost unnecessary to chew. It simply dissolved on his tongue. "I did protect her," he said. "But the danger's behind us. Rennie can go anywhere she pleases, and if it pleases her to go to the station, then..." Forgetting his injury, he shrugged. The movement was halting and painful. He sucked in his breath, let it out slowly, and forced a smile. "Then she can go."

  "I thought you'd object."

  Jarret frowned. "Object? If she wants to buy me a ticket home, then I think I should be grateful."

  "Buy you a ticket?" Mrs. Cavanaugh waved her coffeepot as she spoke. Dull red color crept along her neckline above her starched collar. "What sort of ticket is it that someone buys at the police station?"

  Jarret stilled. "Police station? I thought she was going to the train station."

  "Where did you come by a fool notion like that?" Mrs. Cavanaugh asked. "Mary Renee's gone to the station at Jones Street, right next to the Bowery. The same station that's harborin' Dee Kelly, I'm thinkin'." Jarret was on his feet and heading toward the entrance hall. Mrs. Cavanaugh dogged his steps. "So you don't approve," she said with satisfaction.

  "Of course I don't approve." He rummaged through the coat closet and found his duster. Ignoring the pain, he shoved his injured arm into the sleeve and shrugged into the coat. "How long ago did she leave?"

  "Just before you came down."

  "Then, I might be able to catch her before she gets there."

  "Mr. Cavanaugh has a horse ready for you in the stables."

  Jarret found he could still grin. "You were counting on me."

  The cook blushed at the good-natured scolding in his eyes. "Sure, and you had me goin' there for a moment."

  * * *

  Rennie marched up the stone steps of the Jones Street Station. She carried a covered basket under one arm and a Bible under the other. Two beat cops on their way out held the great doors open for her. Behind Rennie they exchanged appreciative glances, both for the comely figure and the mouth-watering aroma of fresh biscuits.

  Crossing the scuffed wooden floor to the high mahogany front desk, Rennie set her Bible in front of the sergeant and gave him a frank, expectant gaze.

  "Ma'am?" Sergeant Morrison's square jaw was outlined by his side-whiskers, his mouth nearly hidden by the full mustache. His eyes were kind. He looked down at the Bible. "You're from the church?"

  "I'm here to see Mrs. Kelly," she prevaricated.

  "Mrs. Kelly? Now, how would you be knowin' about Mrs. Kelly?"

  "I read the papers, Sergeant. The Chronicle reported the story in their late morning edition."

  Sergeant Morrison sighed. "Might have known they'd get the story. Kelly being mixed up with one of their reporters and all." He swiveled i
n his chair and picked up a ring of keys pegged on the wall behind him. "I don't think there's much hope of savin' her soul, ma'am," he said, handing Rennie her Bible. "She's been like a she-cat since that bounty hunter brought her in here last night. You'll have to stay on this side of the bars. There's no goin' in the cell with her."

  "I understand, Sergeant."

  He opened the door to the row of cells secluded from the public rooms and ushered Rennie in. "Those biscuits sure smell good, ma'am. Wouldn't mind havin' one myself."

  Smiling, Rennie lifted the blue-and-white-checked cover and handed him a biscuit. "I should have brought enough for all the inmates," she said.

  "None but Mrs. Kelly this morning. Let the drunks go last night when she was raising hell—if you'll pardon the expression."

  The officer led her down the hallway to the last cell. He pulled out his nightstick and struck the bars with it several times. The woman lying on the cot didn't stir. "It's a visitor you have, Mrs. Kelly."

  There was no reply.

  "She heard me, ma'am, but that's about all the response you'll get from her."

  Rennie nodded. "It's all right, Sergeant. You can leave us. I'm not afraid of Mrs. Kelly."

  The sergeant was already turning to go as Dee Kelly sat up. The sound of the voice on the other side of the bars drew her attention as nothing the officer said could have. Struck dumb by what she saw, she stared at the woman beyond her reach.

  Rennie had never given any thought to Detra Kelly's looks. On the few occasions Michael had spoken of Dee, Rennie had never inquired. In part it was the reason she had come to Jones Street. She had to see for herself the kind of woman who would try to poison her sister and take scissors to a deputy marshal.

  Detra Kelly was petite, diminutive in the manner of some dainty figurine. Her curves were lush, though, and in the sea green gown she wore, they were shown in taut relief. When she stood and approached the bars Rennie could see that walking was hardly the correct term for what Dee Kelly did. She swayed and enticed with every step she took. It was a performance that was not lost on Rennie. She could not imagine how Michael had spent any time in this woman's company and remained in command of her wits.

  Detra's hair was as black as the jet beads dangling from her ears. There was something sensual inherent in the untidiness of her chignon. Curls tumbled across her neck and swept her shoulder. Only her eyes hinted at the coldness within the woman. They were twin chips of blue ice.

  Rennie held her ground as those coldly remote eyes examined her at length.

  "So you've come," Dee said, her voice softly melodious. "I'm not surprised. Not really. I've lost Houston, but then you've lost your baby." She glanced at the Bible and smiled without humor. "Perhaps it's been an eye for an eye after all."

  "I'm not who you think I am," Rennie said calmly. "So you may feel cheated."

  Detra frowned. Her fingers slid around the bars on either side of her waist. She stared harder at Rennie. "Who are you?"

  "Mary Renee Dennehy," she said. "Michael's my sister." She saw Dee grip the bars more tightly, almost as if her legs had given out from under her. "Michael gave birth to a beautiful baby girl last night. Do you feel cheated?"

  Quick as lightning Dee's hand struck out through the bars. She managed to knock the Bible from Rennie's hand. Her fingers curled like talons, groping for Rennie even as she jumped out of the way.

  Rennie uncovered the basket she clutched under her arm. The biscuits and jam jars were discarded on the floor. The nickel-plated derringer was not. She let the basket drop and raised the small handgun. She saw then that Dee Kelly's cold eyes were capable of registering fear.

  "My sister and I are very close, Mrs. Kelly, but she would never think of doing this. I've not thought of much else since I learned you were taken alive."

  Detra opened her mouth to scream.

  Rennie pulled back the hammer on her pistol.

  Both women jumped as Jarret's voice thundered in the narrow passage. "For God's sake, Rennie, put that thing down!"

  Detra screamed.

  Rennie swore.

  Jarret had to use his injured arm to block the sergeant from barreling down the hallway after Rennie. "It's all right, Sergeant," he said, catching his breath. "I'll handle it."

  Sergeant Morrison hesitated, his eyes darting back and forth between the two women. "She didn't say she was the reporter's sister," he said. "I wouldn't have let her in if I'd known that." He backed off slowly, retreating as far as the door.

  "Rennie," Jarret said quietly. "Put down the gun. There's nothing to be gained by killing Dee."

  Backed against the wall, Rennie held her stance. The derringer was aimed at Dee's heart.

  "Get her away from me, Sullivan!" Dee yelled. "You want your reward, don't you?"

  "Forget it, Dee. I got it last night, and you were good to me dead or alive. I don't give a damn what happens to you." He turned his attention back to Rennie. "You're not thinking, Rennie. If you kill Dee, you'll take her place in the cell. Jay Mac himself won't be able to get you out."

  Rennie lowered the gun, pivoted on one foot, and stared at Jarret, her mouth flattened in disgust. "You have completely spoiled my concentration," she said. She glanced at Dee, and her smile was rich with insincerity. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Kelly, did I frighten you?" She opened the chamber of the derringer and showed it was empty. "Then it was worth the time making your acquaintance."

  Ignoring Dee's outraged cry at the trick she was played, ignoring the biscuits, basket, and Bible, Rennie swept her skirts to one side and blithely walked down the hallway past Jarret's stormy countenance, past the sergeant's slack jaw and bulging eyes, and past the two beat cops as they reentered the building.

  Jarret caught up with her as she was crossing Jones Street in search of a hack. "I rode here on one of your horses."

  Rennie kept walking. Her heart was hammering with the residual rush of her adventure. "So?"

  "I'll take you back."

  She stopped long enough to give him a patently horrified look. "I'm not riding the same horse as you. That's not done here."

  He grabbed her elbow and drew her up short. "You are the most maddening person, male or female, I've met in my entire life!" He realized he was shouting and lowered his voice so that she had to strain to hear him. "You just waltzed into a police station, leveled a derringer at Dee Kelly, and now you're worried what people may say if we share a horse?"

  "I thought we had already established that where I go I walk. I don't waltz." She smiled.

  He stared at her. "You're just so full of yourself, aren't you? I've seen cats lickin' stolen cream off their whiskers that weren't half so pleased with themselves as you."

  If anything, her smile became broader. She just couldn't seem to help herself.

  Neither could Jarret. His hand snaked from her elbow to the small of her back, and he hauled her flush to his body. Bending his head, his mouth slanted across hers. Hard.

  There was only a hint of resistance before Rennie gave herself up to the touch and taste of him. Her arms circled his neck, and she felt herself raised on tiptoe. His mouth moved over hers hungrily, and she reciprocated in kind, oblivious to the small crowd that had surrounded them. She pressed herself against him, her eyes closed, her lips warmly searching. She breathed in his heady male scent, the leather duster, the lingering fragrance of his shaving cream.

  The kiss was sweet and tart. The kiss was pure Rennie. Jarret wanted all of her and knew he could have none of her.

  Not on Jones Street. Not anywhere.

  He set her away from him as the gathered crowd applauded lightly. Rennie took refuge in the absurdity of her situation, brazening it out by making an elaborate curtsy to her admirers. Her composure shattered as she recognized one face among many.

  Jarret felt her stiffen beside him. He glared at the gathering and then cut a path through them, Rennie in tow, when they failed to disperse. "What's wrong?" he asked. "There's no color in your face."

  What
was there to be gained, she wondered, by telling Jarret the truth? She had seen one of Hollis's good friends in the crowd. Not only was James Taddy a friend, but he had served as one of the ushers at St. Gregory's. He had recognized her and he had recognized Jarret, and Hollis would hear of it before she made it uptown.

  "Rennie?" Jarret said, prompting her as she drifted away.

  She fought for a smile that would ease his mind but could find little humor in what had just happened. "You mean what's wrong besides the fact that I've made a public spectacle of myself?" she asked. "I'd say that about sums it up, Mr. Sullivan. I'm generally not at the center of some public stunt. That's the sort of thing we like to leave to Skye. She excels at it."

  "Then, you've done credit to her tradition," Jarret said dryly. He could still taste her on his lips and feel the outline of her body against him. Beside him, she was no longer giving him the slightest encouragement. He raised his hand as a hack turned the corner from Lafayette. The hansom cab stopped, and Rennie climbed aboard, this time eschewing Jarret's help. He looked at her oddly, but she avoided his eyes. Jarret knew then that he had completely overstepped his bounds and overstayed his welcome.

  During the hour, he made arrangements to leave New York.

  * * *

  The station was crowded and noisy. Most of the benches were taken by women with wide skirts and trunks the size of small armoires. Husbands stood directly behind their wives, stoic in the face of boredom, their eyes darting occasionally to an unaccompanied female. Their interest waned in direct proportion to the number of bags, valises, and trunks the porters pushed behind her.

  Jarret found it fascinating. He leaned against a pillar, resting on his good shoulder, his lone valise at his feet. His sweat-banded felt hat was out of place among the derbies and bonnets, his leather duster not at all fashionable among the tailored jackets and capes. He smiled ruefully as he considered he would be out of place until he reached Kansas City, perhaps even as far as Denver. Thanks to men like Jay Mac laying rails down wherever there was an open space, train travel simply moved people from one civilized settlement to the next, and the settlements were very nearly all the same.