Jamie propped hands to the back of his neck, absently staring down Market Street with a stiff smile. “See, Bram, that’s where you make your mistake—leaving everything up to some deity who may or may not exist. Well, not me. I’ve gotten this far on my own ingenuity, so I see no reason to depend on some fairy tale for the most important thing in my life—” his smile veered into a scowl—“marrying well so I can take care of my family because God hasn’t had the time.”
Bram peered out of the corner of his eye, a frown pinching his face despite a melancholy smile. “God has both the time and inclination, Jamie. He’s the Savior you see every week on that cross at church, remember? The One who laid down his life for you and your family?”
Jamie exhaled his frustration, triggered as always when “Padre Hughes” wandered into the realm of God, something he was prone to do. “Sorry, Bram, but the only ‘savior’ I see is yours truly, laying his life down to deliver his family from injustices your Savior allowed.”
Bram’s car crested a hill, and Jamie averted his gaze, his anger suddenly surging like the whitecaps out on the bay. Injustices, indeed, like a drunk for a father who not only beat and berated them until he took his last breath, but robbed them of a life that should have been theirs. Bitterness burned in Jamie’s gut like acid. Brian MacKenna, one of the pampered Nob Hill elite, whose sins of the flesh included siring an illegitimate son with a dance-hall girl. A man disowned by his holier-than-thou father—Jamie’s grandfather—a pillar of the church and a true “man of God.” Jamie issued a silent grunt. A grandfather now as defunct as his son’s inheritance, no qualms about turning his back on both his son and his seed.
Shaking off his dour mood, Jamie cuffed Bram’s shoulder in an effort to restore his good humor. “Besides, Padre, I have you to put in a good word for me, if God even exists, so I’ll just focus on the socialites I’m lucky to meet through you and Blake while you say your prayers.” Jamie winked. “Just make sure they include a senator’s daughter for your very poor friend—or an oil heiress from Texas.”
Leaning back, he closed his eyes, his adrenaline suddenly pumping as much from the thought of marrying a McClare as the exhilaration of sea air in his face. He could almost smell the shrimp boats on the breeze, hear the whistles of the Alaska Packer fleet shipping out on its yearly sojourns to the Bering Sea, and almost taste the succulent king salmon brimming in their holds come August. A distant horn signaled the departure of the square-rigger Star of Alaska, the fastest windjammer in the fleet, and Jamie’s pride suddenly swelled like the waves crashing the serrated shoreline of The Embarcadero. Despite being born an illegitimate child in the sewers of Barbary Coast, he adored San Francisco.
The clock tower chimed the half hour as they passed the Ferry Building, the busiest passenger terminal in the world second only to London’s, a source of civic pride to the city . . . and to Jamie. With its 660-foot-long sky-lit two-story concourse, steel-arched trusses, and Tennessee marble walls, it ushered in as many as 50 million passengers a year. Jamie drew in a deep breath scented with the tang of the bay and the distinct smell of burning wood from cable car brakes, and poor or not, he was grateful he’d been born here. He heard the blare of a distant horn from the Eureka, a side-wheel paddle steamboat with the distinction of being the largest auto and passenger ferry in the world, and pride expanded in his chest. Someday he would leave his mark on this town, making political history in Frisco.
His lips curved into a satisfied smile. Step one had been a law degree, and step two was marrying well. As far as Jamie was concerned, a Texas heiress might be just the ticket—especially one who was “pretty, bright, and no-nonsense.” He paused. No-nonsense? His eyes popped open as the Stanley Steamer rattled and strained to climb Nob Hill to the McClares’, the smell of gasoline converting water into steam pungent in the air. He squinted over at Bram. “No-nonsense, huh? What the blazes is that supposed to mean?”
The Stanley slowed to a crawl, inching along the curb in front of the McClares’ three-story pale-yellow Victorian. Bram pressed the foot brake and hookup-pedal button to ease the car to a stop. Twisting the valve off, he gave Jamie a wry smile. “It means Cassie doesn’t put on airs or act like people who do. She’s as natural and down to earth as cow patties in a field and you, my friend, won’t be able to con her, so I suggest you focus on Patricia instead.”
Gaze narrow, Jamie cocked his head, challenge lifting the corners of his mouth. “Is that a dare, because if it is, I’m game.” He swung down from the seat, landing on his feet with a thump.
Bram chuckled and hopped out of the car, adjusting his dinner jacket and combing his hair before replacing his top hat. “Nope, more of a warning, Mac. Alli said Cass just got hurt by some pretty-boy fortune hunter that soured her pretty badly on men.” He strolled around the car to where Jamie stood and patted him on the cheek. “That’s you to a T, MacKenna, so I’d say you don’t stand a chance.” He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeve with a crooked grin. “And who said life wasn’t fair?” He flicked a curl on Jamie’s forehead. “I’d comb your hair if I were you, Mac—the Greek god has locks tumbling about his well-sculpted face.” His eyes narrowed to a squint as he tilted Jamie’s cheek. “And blood? What the blazes did you do, get in a street brawl?”
Jamie scowled. “Yeah, with a dull razor.” He rubbed his jaw, wincing at its soreness. “I’ll have to duck in the privy to wash it off.” A slow grin eased its way across his face. “Although from the sound of this Texas McClare, it sounds like she might cotton to the rough-and-tumble street type who’s not afraid of drawing a little blood.”
Bram laughed. “Not as long as it’s yours.”
Jamie stared, mouth agape in a half smile. “You don’t think I can do it, do you?”
Bram fussed with his tie, then tapped on his hat, the grin still in place. “Nope. The woman will eat you for breakfast and spit you out, buddy boy, and don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He winked. “She’s from Texas, remember? She can spot a coyote a mile away.” He handed Jamie his comb. “Here—comb your hair or even Patricia won’t give you the time of day.”
A grunt rolled from Jamie’s lips. “Humph. That one would not only give me the time of day, pal, but the family gold heirloom timepiece along with it.” He snatched the comb and gave it a pass through his hair. “Not to mention her father likes me since I worked with him on that fundraiser for Stanford Law last year.” Jamie grinned. “You might say the Senator and I have gotten closer than even his daughter and me.”
“That close, huh?” Bram pocketed his comb, baiting him with a smile.
Jamie straightened his tie. “What can I say? He likes my gumption, so when it comes to courting his daughter, I assure you, the man will give me the time of day, month, and year.”
“Well, I’d take it then, Mac, because the senator’s daughter is smitten, and your odds of marrying well are a lot better with her than a McClare.”
Jamie’s grin was almost predatory. “Wanna bet? Care to put your money where your mouth is, Bram old boy?”
Bram studied him, head cocked and wheels obviously turning in his head. A smile that was nothing but trouble slid across his face as easily as his money would slide into Jamie’s pocket once he won the bet. “You know, I believe I’d like to see you get the thrashing you deserve, MacKenna, because you’re becoming a little too big for your britches.” He jagged a brow and grinned. “Or mine, I should say. Because despite your fame and fortune as a boxing prodigy tutored by Gentleman Jim Corbett himself, I do believe this little filly will knock you out cold.” He extended a hand with a gleam of white teeth that triggered a fresh rush of adrenaline in Jamie’s veins. “You’re on, Mac—turn Cassie McClare’s head, and I’ll pay for every Dr Pepper you guzzle when we’re out, for the rest of the year.”
“You mostly do anyway since I beat you at pool every week, but at least I won’t feel obligated to pay you back.” Jamie paused, assessing Bram through narrow eyes. “And not that it matters since the possibility
is completely remote, but what do you get if you win?”
Slinging an arm to Jamie’s shoulder, Bram ushered him up the brick steps of the McClares’ painted lady. Typical for clustered Nob Hill residences, its compact but graceful columned verandas and lavish bay window seemed to welcome them “home.” “Something money can’t buy, old buddy.” His laughter echoed in the marble portico as he lifted the brass knocker on the arched burlwood door. The confidence in his tone was nothing short of smug. “Pure satisfaction at seeing Jamie MacKenna turned away by a girl.”
5
I can’t tell you how proud I am of both you and Alli,” Aunt Cait said, buttering a roll while laughter drifted from the other end of the table where Alli and Blake amused the others. Candles glowed and silverware tinkled in the rectangular dining room in which Cassie had shared many a family meal. Pastel pink, cream, and green floral wallpaper lent a coziness that belied the spacious size of the room and its high-domed ceiling resplendent with a crystal chandelier. A cherrywood chair rail circled mid-wall, a handsome match for a polished wood floor that smelled of lemon oil and shined as much as the silver on the table.
“For young women to acquire a teaching degree in today’s world is impressive,” Aunt Cait continued. Lacy sheers fluttered behind her from a bank of tall windows, infusing the room with the smell of the sea and Aunt Cait’s honeysuckle vines, both scenting the air with memories of Cassie’s childhood. Her aunt’s smile turned melancholy as her gaze trailed into a soft stare. “I had hoped to teach after I married, but Blake came along so quickly, I never got the chance.” Her sigh was resolute, followed by a definite twinkle in her eye. “But that will all change when Alli and I open our Hand of Hope School next year.”
Cassie’s heart fluttered at the prospect of being part of Aunt Cait’s dream to reach out to underprivileged girls. “Oh, I am so excited about your school, Aunt Cait,” Cassie gushed, “and you will make a wonderful teacher! One of the reasons I loved spending summers here was all the fun things you taught us to do—playing the piano, embroidery, history, and the arts. I do believe my mother was almost jealous of all the adventures we had, seeing the sights of San Francisco.”
Her aunt’s eyes twinkled. “Yes, we do have some wonderful memories, and this summer I plan to make plenty more.” She blew on her spoonful of steaming chowder, her smile suddenly dimming. “Your mother wrote me about Mark, Cassie, and my heart grieves for you.”
The soup pooled in Cassie’s mouth, burning as much as the mention of Mark’s name. She gulped the chowder down and bit back a wince, unwilling for her aunt to see the devastation he’d caused. “Thanks, Aunt Cait, it’s an awful period in my life I’m hoping to put behind me, and there’s no better place to do so than here with you and my cousins.”
Her gaze flitted to where Uncle Logan entertained the others before she blew on her chowder, hoping to cool the sting of its heat as thoroughly as she hoped to cool her anger over Mark. And she needed to. Badly. She didn’t like herself very much lately—no fun, no sparkle, and nerves as tight as the noose she hankered to cinch around every pretty boy’s neck. She wrinkled her nose. No question her heart had become as hard and shriveled as the jerky Mama made at Christmas, and she was pretty sure God was disappointed too. Pray for them which despitefully use you . . . The chowder on her spoon rippled as she blew, the Scripture she’d read this morning stirring her guilt along with it. A sigh swelled in her chest. Well, she certainly hadn’t done much of that for Mark, she supposed, something that would have to change. I promise, Lord, I’ll try to do better. She paused to test her soup, nose in a scrunch. After all, everybody needed prayer, even a skunk. Taking a taste, she glanced up with a tentative smile. “As a matter of fact, Aunt Cait . . . how would you feel about me teaching at your school?”
The spoon in her aunt’s hand clinked to the bowl as she stared, turquoise eyes welling with moisture. She reached to swallow Cassie in a tight hug. “Oh, darling, nothing would give me more pleasure than having you here. You’ve always been like one of my own, Cassie, you know that.” She pulled away. “But how do your parents feel about that—you moving away?”
Cassie’s appetite suddenly cooled along with the soup. “Actually, they don’t know yet,” she whispered, gaze fixed on the half-finished bowl of clam chowder. She blinked to clear moisture from her eyes before lifting her gaze. “But they realize how painful Mark’s betrayal has been, so they’ll understand. I thought maybe, if you didn’t mind, I’d see if I could retain a teaching position here until your school is open, then teach with you and Alli for a year or so, till I feel ready to return to the ranch.”
Aunt Cait squeezed her hand. “Whatever you need, darling—you know we love you.”
Cassie nodded and quickly spooned more chowder to deflect her tears, but it was as if the soup had been tainted by the sour taste of Mark’s rejection, a rejection compounded by years of being spurned by Humble’s elite. Till Mark, she’d never let her guard down or opened her heart so completely, and the hurt was still so raw, Cassie wondered if a year or two would even suffice. Other than family and friends at the reservation or on the ranch, he’d been her only friend in Humble, the only boy who not only accepted her for who she was, but actually seemed to love her for it. With him, she could be the down-to-earth, steer-busting tomboy rather than a silk and lace debutante, and the freedom had caused her to fall hopelessly in love.
Her throat contracted, trapping the liquid until she thought she might choke. She’d been fine pretending she didn’t care until she’d seen Aunt Cait, and then all the warmth and love that spilled from this woman suddenly flushed out the pain inside, along with renegade tears she couldn’t control. Napkin to her mouth, she quickly rose, grateful Uncle Logan had captured the others’ attention with a colorful tale. She swabbed the cloth to her face with a shaky smile. “Goodness, please excuse me, Aunt Cait, I believe I have something in my eye . . .”
Like heartbreak. She battled a heave as she slipped out behind her aunt to hurry down the hall to the bathroom. Closing the door, she collapsed against the vanity with a broken sob. “Oh, Lord, please get me through this without any more tears. I’m so tired of weeping.” A sigh shuddered from her lips as she dabbed her eyes with wadded toilet paper, finally blowing her nose. She blinked in the mirror, almost smiling at the pitiful sight she presented—eyes rimmed red and face all blotchy. Sucking in a deep swallow of air, she blasted it out again, shoulders in a slump. “Just how much water are you going to shed over this low-down skunk, Cassidy McClare?” she whispered.
With another heavy exhale, she turned on the faucet and cupped water to her face, enjoying the cold sting on her skin. “Till I drown my sorrows, I suppose,” she muttered, wishing she could drown that skunk instead. She patted her face dry with the hand towel monogrammed with a gold M, guilt welling now instead of her tears. “I’m sorry, Lord. Mark’s not a skunk, exactly—just a man who chose his father’s money over me.” Her eyelids fluttered closed as she gripped the edge of the sink. “And a man who truly doesn’t know you the way that he should. Please, Lord, help me to forgive him and help him be the man you want him to be.” Her eyes flipped open. “And the man I want him to be too . . .” Her lips quirked. “Gone—forever.”
Refolding the hand towel, she carefully replaced it over the brass hook that hung on the wall, then squared her shoulders to scowl in the mirror. “Straighten up, Cassie McClare, you’re not one of those silly-frilly socialites who swoon over a man with a bat of her eyes, so you have no business blubbering over one either. You’re a Texas McClare and tough as cowhide, so get on with your life doing something that matters—helping Aunt Cait and Alli teach young girls to survive in the world—with or without a man.” She adjusted her skirt with a firm lift of her chin, mouth in a wry bent. “And preferably without—both a corset and a man.”
Head high, she opened the door and plowed straight into a rock wall, caught off-guard when she ricocheted off a crisp white shirt that smelled of soap and starch an
d a hint of spice.
Wobbling on her heels, she emitted a high-pitched squeak as she lost her balance, arms flailing until a hand gripped her firmly at the waist. “Pardon me, I—” Hazel eyes blinked wide, the shock on the man’s face equal to hers until a slow, easy grin finally stole it away. “Well, I’ll be,” he whispered, “so you’re the Texas McClare?”
She shoved him away and slapped at the back of her waist, as if his touch had scorched her dress like it scorched her body. “Great balls of fire, you are just not happy unless you are mowing me down, are you, Mister . . . ?”
He grinned and offered a bow, annoying her further with a blaze of white teeth that made him more handsome than she remembered. “Jamie MacKenna at your service, Miss McClare.” He had the audacity to relax a palm to the wall, stance casual as he grinned, caging her in. “And, yes, it would appear I have a knack for bowling you over—Cassie, is it?”
She groaned and put a hand to her eyes, the sudden urge to throttle Allison itching her fingers. Venting with a noisy exhale, she peered up, pulse stuttering at his close proximity. “Miss McClare to you,” she said with a fold of arms, “and didn’t your mother teach you to knock?”
The dimples flashed. “Actually, my fist was poised to do so, but you barreled out like a Texas tornado before knuckles could even tap wood.” He actually winked. “Either that, or I missed the day my mama taught that lesson, along with the one not to mow pretty girls down.”
“Apparently.” She attempted to pass without success and arched a brow. “Do you mind?”
He snapped to attention, offering his arm. “Not at all, Miss McClare. May I escort you?”
“No thank you.” She swept past with a regal lift of her chin, her smile as stiff as her tone. “Alli tells me you and Miss Hamilton have been quite cozy lately, so I doubt she’d approve.”
Love at Any Cost (The Heart of San Francisco Book #1): A Novel Page 5