A Reluctant Melody - Will she risk losing everything … including her heart?

by Ardoin, Sandra

  When Donovan struggled to rise, Kit jumped up and grabbed an arm to assist him.

  Donovan shook off his hold. “I can do it myself.”

  Kit raised his arms and backed away. He believed in the concept of “turn the other cheek,” only not to a man trained to knock him unconscious.

  “How about some breakfast?”

  Donovan wobbled on his feet. “What?”

  “There’s a restaurant down the street.” Kit clutched the fighter’s elbow to steady him as he listed sideways. “I suppose you’re penniless after last night.”

  Donovan patted his coat and reached inside the pockets of his trousers. “Guess I am.”

  “Then come on. I’ll buy you breakfast. I haven’t eaten, either.” The ache in Kit’s jaw warned against chewing, but compassion and an empty stomach overruled his good judgment.

  Kit turned the man toward the entrance of the alley. Donovan stiffened as if about to protest, but stumbled into the early-morning sunshine. He squinted at the light and grimaced. “Sure. Why not?”

  A hot meal of eggs and ham, along with strong coffee and some well-placed questions, loosened the fighter’s tongue. His story soon spilled out—a story of increasing losses, both personal and professional, and fewer fights, then none at all. All too often, Kit had heard similar tales with different settings, different circumstances.

  Donovan shoveled eggs into his mouth like he was scared someone would snatch his plate. “A man’s got nothin’ without his work.”

  True. And due to Mrs. Stewart’s unpredictability, Kit’s work in Banesville was in danger.

  He lifted a forkful of egg and eased it into his mouth, chewing with caution. These days, to atone for the mountain of havoc he’d raised in his youth, he built up men such as Donovan O’Connor, set them on a more productive path in this life, and pointed them to eternal life in the hereafter.

  How would he do that in this town without a proper place to meet their physical needs and keep them out of the local saloons?

  Later, outside the restaurant, Kit asked, “Do you have a place to stay?”

  Donovan wheezed a chuckle. “Sure. You saw my mansion.”

  “I have an extra room at the Hotel Ambrose. You can use it to get some good sleep and a, uh, bath.”

  The fighter’s brown eyes narrowed again. “Why’re you doing this?”

  “Like you said ‘a man’s got nothin’ without his work’.”

  “And what is your work, Barnes?”

  “I’ll tell you after you wake up.”

  Kit escorted Donovan to Ben’s second floor room in the hotel. Once the man was settled, he raced down the stairs again and out the front door.

  There must be another suitable property in Banesville besides Joanna Stewart’s, and he intended to find it.

  ***

  Joanna yanked what was left of the cube of ice from the tin-lined compartment of the icebox and slammed it on the counter. She grabbed a pick and stabbed the cube over and over until chunks flew off. She gathered them up and wrapped them in a towel.

  “The drinking is bad enough,” Joanna’s voice caught, “but I won’t let this happen to you again.” She led Rose to the table, urged her into a chair, and handed her the compress.

  “I’m not afraid for myself.” Tears streaked over Rose’s pale skin. “But what if he hurts Annie?”

  What if? Liam’s threats and short temper frightened the six-year-old enough without him laying a hand on her. If he ever harmed the child, Joanna would …

  “Where is Annie?”

  “After she awoke”—Rose touched the corner of her mouth—“I carried her to a bed upstairs and stayed with her.”

  “And Liam?”

  “In our quarters, sleeping it off.”

  Joanna stepped toward the door leading to the rear veranda and peered out at the wooden structure twenty feet away. It had been built in the days when the kitchens of such large homes were constructed separate from the main residence as a precaution against fire. Now it served as a cottage for the McCall family. The longer she stared at the area of the building in which Liam slept, the greater her fury.

  “I don’t know what to do, Jo.”

  Joanna turned to Rose. “You don’t have to do a thing. I should have fired him the first time.”

  Rose jumped from her seat. “Fire him? If he leaves here, he’ll take Annie and me with him.”

  Joanna pointed to the misshapen lip. “We’ll go to the sheriff and show him what he did.”

  “Why should he do anything when it’s my word against Liam’s?”

  “Times are changing, Rose. The authorities take these things more seriously.”

  “I won’t drag you or Annie into another scandal.” Rose winced in pain.

  Joanna rubbed her forehead. “Fine. I’ll tell Liam he’s to leave without you. If he doesn’t, I’ll threaten him with arrest.”

  “But what if he—”

  “Rose.” Joanna closed her eyes and willed her temper to settle. “Do you want to live this way the rest of your life? Do you want to be a woman terrified of her husband and raise a child who’s terrified of her father?”

  “What if he’s willing to change?”

  “Has he yet? I’m tired of the man. I’m tired of seeing him belittle you, and I’m tired of seeing Annie cower around every male she meets because of him.”

  Rose wiped her eyes with an apron. “We weren’t much good at choosing our men, were we?”

  “No.” Joanna opened the door and paused before stepping outside. “You and Annie are all the family I have. You’ve been my friend and protected me since that horrible time in Philadelphia. Let me help you now.”

  As she approached the cottage, the fire of Joanna’s wrath flickered, and uncertainty almost snuffed it. Did she have the nerve to throw Liam out? What if he refused to go? Worse yet, refused to go without his wife and the child? Joanna had only threats to stop him. And if he did leave, would Rose grow to resent her interference?

  When doubts jeopardized Joanna’s resolve, the mental vision of her friend’s swollen face strengthened it. She pounded on the door of the cottage until the side of her hand ached. She wasn’t foolish enough or courageous enough to barge inside and risk being trapped with Liam.

  Finally, the door opened and exposed Rose’s husband, half-dressed and looking like a grizzly waking from hibernation. “Rose isn’t here.”

  “I know exactly where Rose is. She’s in my kitchen, holding a cold compress to her mouth.”

  He shrugged. “Clumsy woman. Fell and hit a chair.”

  “Get your things together and get out.”

  His body stiffened. “Out? You firing me? You don’t want to do that, Miz Stewart.”

  “Why? Will you hit me, too?” Was it fear that flashed across his face? Surprise? It came and went too quickly for her to tell. “Leave my property and never come back.”

  He regained his typical swagger and leaned a shoulder against the door post. “And how do you, a slip of a thing, think you can make me go anywhere?”

  His gaze ran from her face to her toes, lingering on various spots in between and sending a chill along her spine as if a gust of mid-winter wind slid down her dress. The man disgusted her.

  Joanna swallowed the revulsion climbing her throat. How was she to make him leave? Certainly not through besting him physically.

  “Can’t think of a way, can you?” Liam bent forward until his nose was less than six inches from hers. “Bet I can think of one.”

  The stench that blew from his mouth nearly knocked her over, but she stood her ground and waited, determined not to give him the satisfaction of asking what he meant.

  He straightened. “You’re awful high and mighty.”

  “You have ten minutes.” She turned to leave.

  “Five thousand. Dollars.”

  Joanna pivoted. “What?”

  “I’ll leave for five thousand dollars.”

  Had she not been so shocked, she might have burst
into laughter. “You’ll leave because I’ve told you to.”

  “Don’t press me, Miz Stewart. I know three things you want to protect more than anything.” A smug grin shot one side of his face upward. “My wife, the girl … and your secret.”

  Joanna stepped backward and tripped over her skirt hem. She flailed her arms. Liam reached out and caught her, drawing her close. If only he’d let her fall rather than touch her.

  She stared into bloodshot hazel eyes. What did he know about her? Surely Rose never told him. Why hadn’t she thought things through, taken time to plan before approaching him, or gone straight to the sheriff? If she believed God answered the prayers of sinners, she’d ask for wisdom. But she was long past being worthy of His generosity.

  “Let go of her, Liam.”

  Joanna wriggled out of his hold and spun around. Rose stalked down the path toward the cottage, the ice pick clutched in her fist. “Rose, go back inside.”

  “No. This is my concern.”

  Liam laughed at his wife. “Woo-ee! You oughta be more careful, sweetheart. Looks like the chair you tripped over fought back.”

  Rose pointed the ice pick at him. It quivered in her trembling hand. “I want you out of here and away from me and Annie.”

  “Miz Stewart and me were just negotiating about that when you arrived. I told her I’d gladly leave. I’ll give her you and Annie.” He winked. “And keep my mouth shut about her indiscretion.”

  Rose’s hand opened, and the ice pick fell to the ground. “I never said anything, Jo. Believe me.”

  Joanna studied her friend’s crinkled brow. If Rose never told him, how did he find out? “You know nothing.”

  “Suit yourself. It’d be a shame if I was forced to leave here. Of course, I couldn’t think of going without my precious family.” He pointed to Rose’s face. “You can see how awkward my wife is. Probably won’t be long before the girl takes on that trait.”

  Rose shot past Joanna. “You leave Annie alone.”

  He shoved her away and glared at Joanna. “Well?”

  “You know I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “Not in cash. Not yet.” He lifted his gaze to the house.

  Joanna’s stomach clenched with the realization of what he’d say next.

  “But you know where to get it. Real fast.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  While Donovan O’Connor slept off the effects of the previous night’s binge, Kit roamed the streets of Banesville. Rows of two- and three-story brick and wood-framed buildings lined Broad Street and the first couple of blocks of side streets.

  Houses ringed the business district. The larger and more elaborate dwellings were located in a neighborhood on the east side. A development of industry and median-priced housing was planned for the area around the new Fairview Park, not far from the Stewart residence. It made the location of that particular property all the more enticing to Kit.

  Rolling hills of cotton and corn, a granite quarry, and a handful of old gold mines dotted the county. Manufacturing businesses extended the town limits to include the formation of neighborhoods with rows of small, identical houses built for the workers in the two cotton mills.

  Kit bought a peach from the stand outside the grocer’s and savored the sweetness of both the taste and fragrance as the juice dripped onto his hand. He breathed in the fresh air that lacked the constant haze from steel mill smokestacks.

  With nearly five thousand residents, it would take close to fifty Banesvilles to equal the population of Pittsburgh, but the town promised continued growth into the next century.

  During his visit with the real estate agent that morning, Kit had learned of another possible location. The Simmons Avenue house was not equal in size to the Stewart residence, and it hadn’t the yard for privacy and proper exercise, but with some additions, it would do as a start. He also worried it was too near the Moondog Saloon for the men to fight the temptation to sneak away. As he knew well, theirs was a lifetime battle with the enemy always surrounding them and too often victorious.

  Perhaps it wasn’t God’s desire for him to establish a place here. Maybe he and Ben had stumbled ahead of the Lord in accepting the offer from Lucinda Brockhurst and her temperance friends to fund a second home. Yet he couldn’t free his mind of the fact that, within a mile’s circumference of his hotel, he’d counted six brick and wooden churches to support the spiritual needs of the people. As many bars supported the physical cravings, and alcohol distilleries operated county-wide. Who knew how many stills were located within woods and rundown shacks?

  Kit stopped in front of the barber’s and glanced in the direction of Joanna Stewart’s house. From what he had been told, in spite of the necessary repairs, her house fit their requirements to near perfection. If his being here wasn’t in God’s plan, why did his fascination with her place continue to border on obsession?

  He leaned with his back against the rough boards of the building and closed his eyes. Lord, it’s out of my hands and dependent on You. Provide your guidance and wisdom.

  Kit checked his watch. Donovan might be up by now. Even if God brought him here simply to help the former fighter, he would be satisfied that the trip was worthwhile.

  He returned to the hotel, knocked on Donovan’s door, and waited until asked to enter the room. The man stood at the washstand, splashing water over his age-lined face. Even from a distance, he smelled better.

  “Rested?”

  Donovan rubbed a towel over his skin. “I’ll admit, a soft pillow’s more comfortable than a brick wall.”

  Kit grinned. “It’s possible for you to sleep on a pillow every night, you know.”

  The towel dropped onto the marble top of the washstand. “I’m not that desperate for a good night’s sleep.”

  “You don’t desire a normal life?”

  “I don’t desire what you have in mind.”

  “I haven’t even told you yet.”

  Donovan glared at him. “Mister, I’ve heard tell of other poor sots falling for get-rich-quick schemes from men like you. I may be a drunk, but I’m an honest one.”

  The course of the conversation stymied Kit. “What is it you think I want from you?”

  The man sat on the edge of the bed. He pulled on a scuffed boot and stomped his worn heel on the floor. “You think I’m so low down I got no scruples, that I’ll jump at the chance to make money, even if it’s tainted.”

  “I’m not offering you money, and I’m not asking you to do anything dishonest.” Kit stood next to the bed. “My job is to help men defeat the enticement of alcohol.”

  Donovan paused in the midst of pulling on his other boot. He stared at Kit, then shook his head. “So you want me to snitch on my friends and tell you where the local rot gut is made? Nope.”

  One day Mrs. Brockhurst and women like her might be successful in shutting down the local saloons and stills, but that wasn’t his concern, and he doubted it would help much anyway.

  “I want to show you how to turn your life around.”

  Donovan broke eye contact and stomped the second boot heel on the wood planks. He grabbed his shirt and headed for the door. “You’re one of those do-good preachers, trying to set the world right for God? Sorry. Not interested in that either.”

  Kit had dealt with men like Donovan before. Pressing his point never achieved good results. The men they supported had to be willing to receive assistance. “I leave the preaching to my friend, Ben, but if you ever need help, Dynamite, you know where to come.”

  “Thanks for the breakfast.” Donovan dipped his head in a curt nod and walked out of the room.

  Kit watched from the window as the old boxer left the hotel. If it were God’s will that he remain in Banesville, he and Donovan would meet again.

  ***

  Joanna’s fingers skimmed the piano keyboard and created a soothing sound that opposed her muddled thoughts about Liam and the choice she must make. She closed her eyes, immersed in the music. Her body swayed with the rh
ythm of spontaneous notes.

  “That’s beautiful.”

  Her eyes popped open, and she lifted her hands from the keys. The notes evaporated in the room’s stale air.

  Rose stood in the curve of the instrument’s frame. The swelling was gone, but the bruise around her mouth was more pronounced. “What is it called?”

  “I’m not sure. I suppose I heard it somewhere once.”

  “Or you composed it. God gave you a rare talent. I’ve always thought you would do well on a concert stage.”

  Joanna turned her attention to the window and the sunshine gleaming through the glass. She forced a smile. “My music teacher told me the same thing when I was sixteen. He suggested I pursue it.”

  Rose frowned. “What did your father say?”

  Reverend Edward Cranston’s poisonous outlook on life was no secret to Joanna’s friend.

  “According to Papa, anything other than holy music was sinful.” According to Papa, living was sinful. “He canceled my lessons and ordered me to play only hymns for his Sunday services.”

  “Singing God’s praises brings joy to people.”

  “Not the songs Papa chose. They were dark and heavy with God’s judgment.”

  “What an unhappy existence your father must lead.”

  “Once I overheard Mama complain that, in Papa’s eyes, earthly pleasure had no place in the life of a person bound for heaven.”

  Whenever Joanna thought of the trials she’d been through since her mother left years ago, she resented God. Did He enjoy watching her stumble from one poor state of affairs into another?

  “If that were true, Jo, why would God have given us the ability to laugh?”

  Deep in a cave-like corner of her soul, a voice cried out that Joanna’s turmoil broke God’s heart. Oh, that it was true, and she could turn to Him for comfort. But if He cared, why did she always feel so alone? Not even Rose and Annie filled that need for something more to satisfy each day.