Fair Play

by Deeanne Gist

  “Every single one of them was from the slums.”

  Her shoulders wilted. “Do you think it’s because they have no supervision during the day?”

  “That’s certainly a factor, but I also think it’s because those boys have no place to exercise their growing bodies. I can’t imagine what I’d have done with all my energy if I’d been pent up the way those children are. The only way the boys can show their prowess is by stealing, drinking, or picking pockets.”

  “They could show their prowess at Hull House’s gymnasium.”

  “They need to be outdoors, Billy. They need to be playing, not just lifting weights and throwing Indian clubs.”

  The snap of the fire drew her gaze. Smoke swirled off each end of the stack, its woodsy smell intoxicating.

  He drew a deep breath, then released it. “Do you think the women of your club might be more inclined to have their husbands help if they realized a playground in the tenements would reduce the number of delinquents in the city?”

  She considered his question, impressed not only by the investigating he’d done, but by the connection he’d made. She’d never even thought to map the locations of the delinquents’ homes and establish a correlation between them and a playground.

  “I’ll ask,” she said. “I’ll definitely ask.”

  When he didn’t respond, she turned to look at him. His head still rested against the sofa, but his attention was on her. He surveyed her hair, her cheeks, her chin, her lips, her eyes.

  She stilled. Of a sudden, it hurt to breathe.

  Seconds ticked by on the mantle clock. With slow deliberation, he reached over, encircled her waist, and slid her toward him until they sat side to side, thigh to thigh.

  He smoothed her hair from her face. “How come you hardly ever wear a hat?”

  Because a hat might give people the impression I’m a frivolous female. “They get in the way of my work.”

  He turned his index finger over and brushed her cheek. The heat from the spots he touched came from a completely different source than the heat of the fire.

  Tracing her jawline with the tip of his finger, he reached her chin, then gently lifted.

  Her pulse hammered. Her insides squeezed. If she looked away, the moment would pass. But if she didn’t . . . Head back, she tilted her face up toward his.

  He hesitated, giving her plenty of opportunity to retreat, then brought his lips to hers.

  Sweet heaven above. Euphoria sang through her veins. She wanted to throw her arms about his neck. Press herself against him. Curl up her knees. Instead, she did nothing.

  Bringing both hands to her jaw, he cupped her face as if he were drinking from a golden chalice. “So sweet.” His lips began to explore her cheeks, her nose, her eyes, her brows. He hugged her closer and kissed her again. This kiss less gentle than the one before.

  She meant only to rest her hands against his shoulders, but the moment she made contact her fingers spread and pressed into him. She gloried in the feel of his sinewy chest and massive arms.

  He broke the kiss, his eyes picking up the tumultuous light from the fire.

  “You have very nice clavicles,” she whispered.

  With a half smile, he grazed her lower lip with his thumb. “What’s a clavicle?”

  “This.” She ran her fingers along his collarbones. “And your sternocleidomastoideus is nice, too.” She stroked his neck.

  His grin widened.

  From there, she spread out her fingers, tunneled them into his hair, and brought his lips back to hers. All traces of humor fled from his face.

  Wrapping her in a giant hug, he kissed her again. He turned his head one way and then the other. Until finally, he deepened the kiss. Her body grew limp.

  How long they kissed, she wasn’t sure, but he finally pulled back, then pressed her head against his shoulder. His heart hammered against her ear.

  “Billy . . .” His voice was ragged, almost tortured.

  He pressed his mouth to her hair, his oversized hands running up and down her back, her sides, and up underneath her arms.

  It felt heavenly. It felt wanton. It felt right. She slid her eyes shut, allowing the sensations to inundate her.

  About the time she began to regain equilibrium, he cupped her chin and started all over again. Nothing she’d read, nothing she’d heard, nothing she’d studied came close to the actual experience. And she wanted more. Much more.

  The fire dwindled to a mere glow. Her blanket twisted and bound her.

  He rested his forehead against hers. “The fair’s shutting down. We have to go.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  Kissing the tip of her nose, he placed his hands on her shoulders, then propped her up. “Tidy up your hair.”

  Yet he didn’t release her and she made no move to do his bidding.

  Reaching up, she laid her fingers against his mouth, familiarizing herself with its texture and contour and nuances. “Do you think you could ever be with a woman who was a wage earner?”

  The infinitesimal stilling of his body lasted only a second, but she felt it.

  He offered no response.

  The haze she’d been in began to dissipate. She let her hand drop. Perhaps now wasn’t the time to talk about it.

  Grasping that hand, he pulled her palm to his lips and kissed its very center, then brought it against his cheek. “It’s not something I’d ever considered. Or even imagined.”

  “Then why did you kiss me?”

  He lifted one shoulder. “Because I wanted to. Do I have to have a reason?”

  Withdrawing her hand from his grasp, she masked her disappointment and forced herself to speak in gentle tones. “You will if you ever want to do it again.”

  She rose, then returned to the infirmary to repair her hair. The brightness of the bulbs cast a sordid light onto what moments before had been a thing of beauty.

  DAVY CROCKETT’S CABIN18

  “The dirt yard, thick scrub, and backwoods hut couldn’t have been more antipodal to the ostentatious White City.”

  CHAPTER

  22

  Hunter couldn’t sleep. Leaving the barracks that housed the guards, he made his way through Government Plaza, past the Manufactures Building, across the North Canal, and then to a Paris-like bridge that led to the Wooded Island.

  The designers of the fair had included the island for the sole purpose of offering an escape from the humongous buildings and plethora of attractions bombarding the visitors. Many took advantage of the rose garden and quiet walkways through the lush pleasure grounds—particularly lovers who wanted a bit of privacy once the sun had set.

  But Hunter’s destination was even more secluded. It was a Wooded Island Key known, appropriately enough, as Hunter’s Island.

  The fair had long since closed, leaving blessed silence in its wake. The street lamps lighting the pathways still cast off a gentle glow, but it was the moon and stars that reigned in full glory.

  He gave a wave of acknowledgment to a guard on night duty, then crossed a rustic bridge and headed toward a replica of Davy Crockett’s cabin. Instead of luxurious gardens and landscaping, the Boone and Crockett Foundation had opted for more primitive surroundings. The dirt yard, thick scrub, and backwoods hut couldn’t have been more antipodal to the ostentatious White City. And with it being on its own tiny little island apart from all the others, it was as if they’d honored those men from the Alamo with a pseudocountry like the one they’d paid the ultimate sacrifice for, the great Republic of Texas.

  It was the only place on the grounds, or even in the entire city of Chicago, in which Hunter could completely relax. It was his cleft in the rock and he often came at night to simply absorb the hints of home.

  The logs that made up the one-room house still had their bark on them. The clay floor and stick chimney spoke of eras gone by, but he’d seen plenty of cabins just like it still being used in secluded parts of Texas.

  Tiny hints of moonlight crept through the cutou
t windows, illuminating Crockett’s flintlock rifle, beaver traps, and hunting gear. Grabbing a cowhide off the floor, Hunter dragged it outside, then stretched out on it. With hands interlocked behind his head, he immediately located the North Star at the tip of the Little Dipper, then sighted the Little Bear, the Big Dipper, and the Great Bear.

  These friends had greeted him countless nights on the trail. And though they rotated in the sky depending on the season, they were always there. Strange to think Billy might have been looking at the very same stars at the very same time he had, even though she’d have been clear on the other side of the country.

  Do you think you could ever be with a woman who was a wage earner?

  Covering his face with his hands, he rubbed his forehead. She might as well ask him if he’d like a bear in his hog pen. No, he didn’t want to be with a woman who was a wage earner. What man would?

  He knew things were changing. He knew some women in special circumstances needed to earn their own living. Maybe they’d married a lazy man. Or a drunkard. Or a man who beat them and they had to get away. Maybe their man was locked up in the pokey, or perhaps he didn’t earn enough money to make ends meet, like those families in the Ward. He’d even be willing to concede some widows or old maids might find themselves in need of work.

  But that’s not what she was asking about. She was asking about being a wage earner after she was married. Married to a man fully capable of taking care of his own.

  He slid his eyes closed. He may have been a long way from making any declarations, but he was honest enough with himself to admit her question was justified. There was something different between them and had been for some time now. And both of them knew it.

  Still, a wage earner? After marriage? When she’d soon have little ones to look after?

  Resting his arms up beside his head, he surveyed the night sky. The stars weren’t as bright here as they were out on the trail. Nothing, in fact, was as bright here as it was back home.

  Back home. He didn’t even want to think about what his family’s reaction would be if he brought home not only a woman who earned wages, but a woman who earned wages as a doctor. It was all fine and dandy for the occasional gal to be a schoolteacher or a typewriter girl, but Billy was crossing a line. She was stepping into a man’s shoes.

  He could just see his brother shaking his head. That makes about as much sense as horns on a mule.

  And with Pa gone, Ma would have no one to temper her tongue. You gonna let her be alone with other men? Put her hands on ’em, all in the name of an examination? It ain’t proper. It just ain’t. Why, next thing you know, she’ll be wanting to wear your trousers.

  At least he didn’t have to worry about that. She already had her own pantalets-trousers. But he sure didn’t like the idea of her doctoring other men. Not one single bit.

  He thought about that first examination she’d given him. How she’d unbuttoned him and slipped a hand right down to his hip bone without a by-your-leave. She was a bun short of a dozen if she thought he’d tolerate her doing that to other men.

  Which left him where?

  Why did you kiss me?

  Because I wanted to. Do I have to have a reason?

  You will if you ever want to do it again.

  But he didn’t have a reason. He didn’t want to marry her. No, that wasn’t quite right. He didn’t want to marry a wage-earning lady doctor. But he wanted to kiss her. He definitely wanted to kiss her.

  And she wanted to kiss him. Her response tonight had proved that ten times over. Shoot fire, but she’d been something else. He couldn’t even think about those moments in the parlor without his body responding in kind.

  But she was a stubborn woman. She didn’t do anything without a definite purpose in mind. Not even kissing.

  So if he wanted any more—which he did—then he’d have to come up with a reason. A good reason.

  There was only one reason Billy would find acceptable, though, and that would be if he stated flat out that he wanted to court her. And the goal of every courting man was to bring his gal to the altar.

  Would he be interested in courting Billy? Courting her with the intention of marrying?

  The breeze from the lake ruffled his trousers. Crickets sang their lullabies. Footfalls of a guard crossing the bridge echoed across the lagoon.

  For the first time in his life, the answer to that question was yes. He could actually picture himself growing old with Billy. He liked her smarts, her drive, her sense of adventure. All the things that made her a lady doctor. He simply didn’t like that she was a lady doctor. If he could pluck that piece out of the puzzle, he’d have no hesitation whatsoever.

  But her question tonight clearly insinuated she had no intention of giving up her doctoring after marriage. In all good conscience, could he court her knowing that?

  The answer was no. Maybe not an absolute no. Just a not-until-you-answer-some-questions no. Questions like, What about the children? Who’d raise them? A nanny? Well, what if he didn’t want a nanny raising his kids? What if he wanted his wife to raise them? Was that too much to ask?

  What would happen if she were called out in the middle of the night to treat some patient? He couldn’t let her go by herself. And what if she got summoned while he was out on a call from the Ranger Station?

  Even worse, what about her men patients? Did she plan on treating men after she was married?

  He flung his arm over his eyes. There were simply too many what-ifs. So for now, there’d be no more kissing. At least, not until she’d answered some questions and he was sure, absolutely sure, he was willing to go whole hog.

  SWEATSHOP19

  “A mother and her children sat in a semicircle of chairs sewing buttons and pulling threads.”

  CHAPTER

  23

  The unwitting landlord of the brothel rolled to the front of Hull House in a black and purple Coupe Rockaway edged with gold. Hunter didn’t know a whole lot about carriages, but the man’s horseflesh was of superior quality.

  A uniformed driver jumped down and opened the door.

  A tall, lanky man with heavy eyelids and a fancy frock emerged. He tucked a cane beneath his arm, tipped his hat at Billy, then turned to Hunter. “Are you Dr. Tate?”

  “I’m Dr. Tate,” Billy replied.

  “You’re Dr. Tate?” He looked her up and down. “You wrote that article in the paper?”

  “That’s correct.”

  He glanced at Hunter for clarification.

  “And this is Mr. Scott,” she said, once again cutting off Hunter’s response. “He’s a Columbian Guard at the fair.”

  Eyes brightening, the man offered his hand to Hunter. “Warren Green. What do you think of the fair?”

  Hunter accepted his hand. And though the man’s flagrant dismissal of Billy raised Hunter’s hackles a bit, he’d learned through his work that honey attracted more flies than vinegar. “I’ve been to two goat ropings and a county fair, and I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Mr. Green chuckled. “Where are you from?”

  “Houston, Texas.”

  “Well, welcome to our ‘fair’ city.” He laughed at his own joke, then looked up and down the street. “Now where’s this property that has Miss Tate in such an uproar?”

  “Dr. Tate,” Hunter corrected. “She graduated cum laude from the University of Michigan and has been practicing medicine for seven years.”

  “Is that so?” He gave Billy an assessing look. “Where’s your practice located?”

  Her cheeks filled with a spot of pink. “I’ve taken my shingle down temporarily in order to work in an infirmary at the fair.”

  He gave Hunter a smug look, for only a doctor struggling to make ends meet would have closed down his practice and all of them knew it. Still, the man’s presumption irritated Hunter.

  “You don’t know where your own property is?” Hunter asked, giving up any pretense of being diplomatic.

  But Mr. Green merely waved his hand
in dismissal. “I’ve much more important properties in other parts of town that require my attention. The rents from these here are more trouble than they’re worth. I’d never seen much reason to inspect them until I saw Miss Tate’s article.”

  “I see.” Hunter gave Billy a slight bow. “Dr. Tate, why don’t you show Mr. Green the way to his property.”

  Rather than taking him through Hull House, she led him down slimy streets and horrific alleyways. The man picked his way through the filth, pressing a handkerchief to his nose and hopping over refuse. When they reached the brothel, the ladies were all atwitter over seeing a man of such obvious wealth.

  His face flamed at their attentions.

  Placing a hand on the building, Hunter gave it a good shove. “This is your property, sir.”

  It gave a fairly decent wobble, but not like it had before. The women didn’t grab the windowsill. None of the occupants evacuated.

  “Why don’t I take you on a tour?” Billy stepped up to the door.

  “No!” the man shouted, right as Hunter barked the same.

  Raising an eyebrow, she placed her hands on her hips. “Families with women and children are living inside.”

  “Yes, come on in,” one of the women cooed. “Come see Marquita. I’ll give you a fine tour.”

  A young man upstairs threw his arms around the necks of two girls and stuck his head out the window, bringing the women with him. “Thaz right. Come up and we’ll have us a grand time.”

  Hunter narrowed his eyes. It was the same young man who’d spoken disrespectfully to Billy the last time they were here. A fellow by the name of Kruse, if he wasn’t mistaken. So the boy was either associated with the business going on upstairs or a frequent visitor.

  Hunter glanced at Mr. Green, glad for once Billy was a doc. The man’s mottled face had turned so red, Hunter worried he might collapse in shock from the prospect of being shown around a brothel by a proper lady.

  “Maybe I better be the one to take you in,” Hunter offered.