Before I could do so, however, she reached into one of her bags and produced a portrait of her own.
The action calmed me considerably. “Ah, you’re looking for someone, too.” I took it from her and saw that it was frayed at the edges and the ink was fading. Clearly, she carried it with her wherever she went.
When my eyes adjusted to the picture, I saw that it was the same portrait I had sent in a letter to my fiancée in Ireland.
I looked up, dumbfounded, just in time to catch her. Defying all propriety, she lunged into my arms. Her cheek was hot and wet against my face and, even through all the fabric, her bosom was soft and wonderful against my chest. For a moment, my angry cynicism was gone and all I felt was the warm thrill of youthful passion and lust.
And so Maggie found us there and gave us quite a scolding for such a display in public. But even Maggie couldn’t deny that Moira had been in quite a state when I found her. She had, after all, spent days in the reeking pits of steerage by herself. Her first glimpse of America had been the mind-numbingly long queues of Ellis Island, surrounded by an immigrant horde with strange faces and stranger languages. Her English skills were severely lacking, since her only practice had been letters written to a young American fiancé. She didn’t understand the customs clerks and they didn’t understand her. But you don’t need English to work a steam-loom, and the clerks knew that. It wasn’t a terrified country girl they saw but another pair of hands for a Magnate’s assembly line. They coldly stamped her through with the same callous expression a cowboy might wear branding a cow.
It wasn’t Moira on that bench, but a scared girl far from home, a girl I had, without even realizing it, gone to protect. I had done many bad things since the war had ended, but that was the first nice one I could think of.
Now I saw that girl all over again, lost and alone, surrounded by an uncaring crowd.
Marriage is the strangest damn thing. Being right can feel just as bad as being wrong.
I thought of what Maggie told me. Moira was through drinking. But she had gotten sick the night she stayed at my place. The padre had said she cried during sermons now. What could be so goddamn moving about a psalm? I knew I wasn’t worth tears. The facts were adding up. The results were spitting into my mind like a Babbage feed.
She looked so very alone to me. People hugging and greeting one another. It was like a great cheery chasm between me and the weeping woman.
She had been emotional of late. She claimed she was off the sauce, but she was vomiting. In the morning.
Damn. I’d been raised in the tenements. There were as many kids as rats. I knew the signs.
She gave me four stitches once…was I to leave her pregnant on a cold bench with a wad of greenbacks?
We were even, I suppose. On the other hand, California was full of Mexicans and coolies, two groups who do not appreciate corned beef and cabbage.
“I bet they’ve no stouts there.” I ripped up the ticket with finality. “And I hate pilsners.”
* * * * *
About the Author
Christopher Beats has had a lifelong passion for both history and writing ever since his father first took him as a boy to see the Castillo de San Marcos in St. Augustine, Florida. He has taught American and world history at schools such as the University of Central Florida and Rollins College. An avid traveler, his current base camp is in Hollywood, Florida. He enjoys tabletop RPGs and hiking with his dog.
Where no great story goes untold.
The variety you want to read, the stories authors have always wanted to write.
With new releases every week, your next great read is just a download away!
Keep in touch with Carina Press:
Read our blog: www.CarinaPress.com/blog
Follow us on Twitter: www.twitter.com/CarinaPress
Become a fan on Facebook:
www.facebook.com/CarinaPress
ISBN: 978-14268-9608-8
Copyright © 2012 by Christopher Putchinski Beats
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
www.CarinaPress.com
Cruel Numbers Page 14