by Deeanne Gist
Sighing, Hunter looked at the woman. “I guess you’d best show me where the washtub is. Looks like I’ll be doing the honors.”
It ended up taking Hunter, Miss Weibel, and two more women to bathe him. The boy had never been submerged in water before and didn’t cotton to it at all. To get rid of the lice and any other livestock he might have picked up, they had to drench his hair in kerosene.
By the time they were done, Hunter’s hands were raw and he was wet enough to bog a snipe. But the boy was clean. Drying Nefan’s light brown hair with a towel, Hunter marveled at its color. It had been black when they’d started.
Placing a hand on the boy’s back, he propped up the bony little body and patted moisture from it. The kid was so skinny he’d have to stand up twice just to make a shadow.
His eyelids began to droop and his head bobbed like a neck-wrung rooster’s. Wrapping the towel around the boy, Hunter pulled him against his shoulder and stood. “You have anyplace he can get a little shut-eye?”
He followed Miss Weibel to a room upstairs. The smell of lye soap, the lingering remnants of kerosene, and the weight of the boy all brought a warmth to Hunter’s breast. He wondered if this was what it was like to be a father.
If he married Billy, would bathing their sons be a task they shared? Or was it one he’d do alone while she was out doctoring?
The thought didn’t set well. He simply did not like the idea of his woman being away from home. What was the point of being married if she was always gone?
On the heels of that thought came the demands of his own job. A job that had him on the trail a majority of the time. Would she feel resentment over it?
He tried to tell himself it was different. He was the man. If his job took him away, that was simply the cross they’d have to bear. But it gave him pause. More pause than he cared to admit.
Miss Weibel opened a door off the hall and led him into a dark bedroom. Without bothering to light a lantern, she pulled back some covers.
Hunter laid the boy down, then tucked the blanket about him. “Night, little fella. You stay away from the boys in those saloons now, you hear? ’Cause you can’t touch pitch and figure not to get dirty.”
But the boy was already asleep and unable to hear Hunter’s warning.
He took his time leaving the neighborhood, letting the aftermath of caring for the boy linger. It was the first time he’d done something like that. He had a little brother, but they were close in age, so Hunter had never been expected to help LeRue in those kinds of ways. Nor would he anyway. Only the womenfolk did stuff like that.
After a bit, he began to pay particular attention to the saloons and wondered which boys had dared Nefan to steal that coal. They’d better hope he never found out.
He’d just passed the O’Leary place on De Koven Street—famous for having the cow that started the Great Fire of ’71—when he caught sight of Derry trailing behind a group of older boys. They pushed through a door to a two-story shanty with the words TAVERNA ITALIANA painted on a rickety sign. Anger whooshed through Hunter. Yanking his horse to a stop, he swung out of the saddle and charged into the saloon.
Behind a roomy oak bar a man in a tidy waistcoat, thin tie, and trimmed goatee poured a beer, his gaze taking Hunter’s measure. A bearded man straightened, removing his boot from the brass foot railing and onto the floor. The easy conversation between the men at the tables wound down like a toy whose key needed to be cranked. In silence, they turned toward him.
In what little time Hunter had spent on the West Side, he’d discovered each ethnicity had staked out a certain section of the Ward, making it nothing more than a mini-European continent right in the middle of Chicago. And nobody crossed the lines.
The Irish served Irish. The Scandinavians served Scandinavians. The Germans served Germans. The Italians served Italians. The Jews served Jews. Nobody served Texans.
He scanned the occupants, zeroing in on Derry. A teener handed him a smoke. The bartender slid him a beer.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Hunter barked.
Jerking in surprise, Derry turned, then flushed at the rebuke. “I—”
“Leave that beer alone, snuff that thing out, and go wait for me by my horse.”
An older man stood up. He might have been soft around the middle, but his eyes were hard as whetstone. “You are not Italian. You leave our saloon and you leave our Italian boy alone.”
Hunter took stock of the fellows around him, identifying the threats in the room. Half a dozen likely comers, and big men, too, hard-eyed drinkers with hands rough from labor. They had the advantage, but he was used to being outnumbered.
“Are you Derry’s father?” Hunter asked.
The man nodded. “We are all his father. We look after all our boys as if they were our own.”
Hunter pointed at the group of teeners. “You call that looking after them? Where were you when Derry’s brother was arrested because boys just like those dared him to steal some coal? I didn’t see you going to get the boy out of jail.”
Two more men stood. They sized Hunter up, then exchanged a glance between them, as if looking forward to teaching the interloper a lesson.
He couldn’t have cared less. “You know how I know that? Because I went to get him. And he was being treated worse than an animal. So I suggest you and your friends sit down and stay out of this.” He impaled Derry with his gaze. “Get out and wait for me.”
Derry scrambled to do his bidding.
The older man grabbed the boy by the back of the collar. “Not so fast, figlio. You don’t have to do what this americano says.”
“Yes, I do,” Derry said, his voice earnest.
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, he does,” Hunter growled.
With an impatient curse, one of the larger men swept a chair aside and launched himself at Hunter. Instead of shrinking back, Hunter caught the man short, knocking him sideways with a haymaker. The man stumbled, then pitched against the bar. The impact knocked loose a mug of beer balancing on the bar’s edge, drenching the fallen man in suds before thudding against the floorboards.
The others stared at Hunter with wide-eyed surprise. A second later they moved in.
Rather than retreat, he charged forward, dodging a punch from the first man, then sinking a fist in his kidney. With a shout of outrage, a thick, powerful man drove a meaty fist toward Hunter’s jaw. He slipped the impact, then flattened the fellow’s nose. The man buckled to his knees.
Hunter knew his business. They didn’t. He was fresh for the fight. They were in their cups. As long as he could bob and weave, ducking their blows and surging back to land punches, he could keep them at bay.
After the initial fury, they regrouped, forming a semicircle around him as they touched their busted noses and lips. They shared a look among themselves. A look that didn’t bode well.
“Rush him all at once,” the older man said. “Come on now, get him!”
Nobody moved.
Hunter could see half the posse had had enough. His chest lifted and lowered from exertion. “I don’t want any trouble. All I want is the boy. In the meanwhile, the rest of you get on out of here and don’t let me catch you serving youngsters again.”
Still, no one moved. Still, the ringleader held Derry. Hunter snatched a chair and charged forward, menacing the old man with the chair’s pockmarked wooden legs. The old-timer stumbled back on his heels, and that show of weakness was enough to convince the undecided they wanted no more of what Hunter was handing out.
Focusing on the door so as not to catch the eye of those they were leaving behind, the bulk of them scurried out.
Only three remained. Releasing Derry, the ringleader stood warily on his toes, dodging the points of the chair legs. One of the others—Hunter couldn’t tell which out of the corner of his eye—took a bottle off the bar and smashed the base off. He came at Hunter, the sharp glass glistening in the dim light.
Derry screamed a warning. H
unter pretended to ignore it until the last possible moment. When the shattered bottle was nearly at his throat, he whirled and broke the chair across the man’s outstretched arm.
“Run to the door, Derry,” Hunter barked. He used one of the legs of the chair sword-like to jab at the man with the bottle, opening up a gash on the man’s cheek. Then he circled the others, keeping them at bay with a few reckless swings.
Once he’d gotten his back to the door and seen Derry safely outside, he hovered at the exit. “I’ll leave you fellas to your drinking.”
“That’s right!” the old man shot back. “You get out and stay out.”
Hunter cast the chair leg away and pulled the bridge of his hat in a wry gesture of leave-taking. Let the old man claim his hollow victory. Hunter had what he’d come for, and he was leaving the bar unscathed. There would be no need to patronize the punching bag at Hull House. He’d gotten his practice in after all.
Outside, he threw Derry up into the saddle, mounted behind him, then yanked the horse to the left. “If I ever catch you inside a saloon again, I’ll slap a knot on your head, then slap it off before it has time to rise. You understand me?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.” His voice held a note of awe.
“What were you even doing in there? Why aren’t you at work?”
“I came home to feed Alcee, and on my way back to the fair, those fellas offered to buy me a beer. I hadn’t had one in a long time and I suddenly had a mighty big thirst.”
“Well, I don’t want to see you anywhere near those boys again. I’ve seen too many times what happens to their kind when they grow up, and it’s a life you don’t want.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you lie down with the dogs, Derry, you’re going to get up with fleas. You just ask Nefan.”
“You got Nefan?”
“Yeah, I got him. And that cell he was in was worse than anything you’ve ever imagined.”
Hunter’s breathing was still faster than it should be. His arms shook with anger. His knuckles bled where his skin had split. Clearly Derry was no stranger to the saloon, the drinking, or the smoking. Of a sudden, he realized just how desperate the boy’s situation was. He had no home to speak of. No place to play. No place to expend the innate energy residing in all youth.
They had to get that playground. Had to. Mr. Green had agreed to knock down the buildings on his property and donate the land for it. Hunter needed to find out when demolition was set to occur, for it couldn’t be soon enough.
“I should’ve helped ya,” Derry said. “But I forgot I had a knife until just now.” He held up a pine-handled pocketknife.
Hunter forced his anger and concern to the side and made a deliberate effort to temper his voice. “That’s a mighty fine-looking one. Where’d you get it?”
The boy stiffened. “I didn’t steal it.”
“I never thought you had.”
After a slight hesitation, Derry flicked it open. “Dr. Tate gave it to me. Somebody gave it to her for doctorin’ ’em, but she told me she already had one.”
“Well, a knife like that’s a big responsibility. You be sure to keep it clean and sharp. But remember, it’s for whittling or cutting twine or cleaning your fingernails—not for fighting. You hear?”
“What if it’s a ’mergency?”
Hunter considered the teeners in the saloon. “If you need it to defend yourself or a lady, that’s okay. Just don’t kill anybody. All right?”
“All right.”
“Yes, sir,” Hunter prompted.
“Yes, sir,” the boy repeated. Closing the knife, he slipped it into his pocket, then leaned back against Hunter’s bulk. A few minutes later he fell into the dreamless slumber of the innocent.
COLONEL RICE, COMMANDER OF COLUMBIAN GUARDS23
“After a tense moment of silence, Rice blew out a breath and rubbed a hand over his bald head.”
CHAPTER
28
Colonel Rice threw a report down onto his desk. “What is this I hear about you removing a delinquent from the city jail?”
Hunter kept his eyes on the same cactus-shaped hall tree he’d stared at every time he was in this office. “He wasn’t a delinquent, sir. He was an eight-year-old boy who’d performed a dare.”
“Did he or did he not steal coal from the Illinois Central?”
“Yes, sir. The boy had grabbed a handful of it from an unused freight train left on a siding. Just enough to keep somebody’s grandmother warm.”
Whipping off his glasses, Rice tossed them on top of the report. “I don’t care if it was for Saint Peter himself. My guards are not to interfere with anything the city of Chicago is doing. Our jurisdiction is over the World’s Columbian Exposition only. Is that clear, Scott?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, it had better be. Because the reputation of my regiment is to be pristine. Anyone who even looks like he might make so much as a speck on our record will find himself packed on a train and headed back from whence he came.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m putting you back on night duty. You’ll keep watch over the Woman’s and Children’s Buildings from ten at night to six in the morning.”
Hunter let his gaze drop to the colonel’s.
The man’s eyes blazed in anger. “You have a problem with that assignment?”
Die and be blamed. He focused again on the hall tree. “No, sir.”
“Good. Get out of my sight before I change my mind and assign you to the toilets in the Public Comfort Building.”
“Yes, sir.” He knew better than to move before being officially released.
After a tense moment of silence, Rice blew out a breath and rubbed a hand over his bald head. “You’re a good soldier, Scott. Let’s not forget your purpose here.”
“Yes, sir.”
He hooked his glasses back on. “Dismissed.”
Billy approached Mr. Green’s lot on Polk where the tenement and brothel had once stood. The structure now lay in a heap, along with several other heaps. Many more than she’d expected. He must have decided to demolish all of his buildings, for about three-quarters of an acre had been leveled.
Crawling like ants over each mound, children and teeners of all sizes and shapes cleared the land. Some pulled planks from the piles and dragged them to a boy of about sixteen who sorted the keepers from the throwaways. Others carried stones to another section and stacked them according to sizes. Others corralled rags for the ragpickers. And yet others threw trash into a wagon parked on the street. The youngsters were of all different nationalities, yet their voices rose together in excited chatter and laughter.
In the center, organizing the madness, stood Hunter. His shirt was drenched in sweat, revealing the sculpted muscles of his chest and the flatness of his stomach. Instead of suspenders, his denims sported the biggest silver belt buckle she’d ever seen, easily the size of her fist. The sun glinted off its shiny surface. She shielded her eyes with her hand.
In front of him, one of the young women from Hull House offered him a drink from a large wooden bucket she hugged against her torso. Tipping his hat back, he lifted the dipper to his lips, then drank deeply. Rivulets of water ran across his jaw, down his neck, and into the open collar of his shirt.
Swiping his mouth with his sleeve, he caught sight of Billy and smiled. Her breath hitched. How could a man covered in grime and sweat be so appealing?
Adjusting his hat, he thanked the woman, then made his way to Billy. He stepped over obstacles, circumvented piles, and ruffled a boy’s hair—all without taking his eyes off her.
The closer he came, the more her stomach bounced and flip-flopped. He’d escorted her home every night she’d worked and kissed her with such fervor she fairly floated inside afterward.
“What are you doing here?” He looked her up and down. “I’ve not seen that dress before.”
She glanced at her calico. The pink baby roses against t
heir ecru background had faded from many washings. “It’s my work dress.”
“Work dress?” He frowned. “Doesn’t look like anything you’ve worn to work before.”
“No, I mean, my outdoor work dress. The one I wear when I help my mother with her flower garden.”
He inspected her again, this time lingering on the sheer cream blouse beneath her scoop-necked bodice. The way the bodice hugged her torso from just below the breasts on down to her waist. The flare of her skirt. Her pushed-up sleeves.
“I like your work dress.” His voice had dropped to an intimate level. “Reminds me of the dresses the gals at home wear. Simple. No poufy stuff at the top of the sleeves. But plenty for a man to admire.”
Her cheeks warmed. “It’s just a work dress.”
He dragged his gaze to hers. “Can I kiss you?”
She glanced behind him. The children had all lined up for a drink, but the woman was watching Hunter.
“Um, I don’t think this is a good time.”
“I do.”
“Yes, well.” She wound her skirt with her finger. “What I meant was, I don’t think this is a private enough place.”
His eyes darkened. “You’re probably right. The way I want to kiss you would definitely require some privacy.”
Several parts of her body reacted to his words. She pressed a hand to her stomach. Such a strange phenomenon. None of these physiological responses had been written about in her medical books. Did they happen to him, too? She didn’t have the nerve to ask.
“You keep looking at me like that, Billy girl, and I’m gonna have to find us someplace private.”
“Oh!” Jumping back, she clapped her hands once. “Sorry. So, where would you like me to start?”
His look intensified.
Oh, no. He was still thinking about kisses. She waved a hand toward the lot. “With the cleanup, I mean. Where would you like me to start with the cleanup?”
After a second, he shook his head, the fog clearing from his eyes. “It’s Sunday, Miss Tate. Don’t you know folks can get arrested for working on a Sunday?”