Always in My Dreams

by Jo Goodman

  "I don't think I used the word 'steal.'"

  "Call it what you will, I couldn't have got it out of there on my own. It's much too big and heavy."

  "Then you've seen it." Excitement edged his voice. "It really exists?"

  She nodded. "It exists. Parnell invited me to see it." She didn't add that it had been the inventor's notion of foreplay. Skye could be frank with Jay Mac only to a certain point. "I sketched it as best I could. I thought perhaps someone here would know what to make of it."

  Jay Mac's comment was cut off by his secretary's interruption. "What is it, Wilson?"

  The secretary remained on the threshold of the office, barring entry to the two men who stood behind him. "These men are insisting Miss Dennehy wanted her trunk and valise delivered here."

  In all the years she had known him, Skye didn't think that Wilson had ever called her anything but Miss Dennehy. His formality was absurd, but she had become used to it. "I did insist, Mr. Wilson. Have them bring my things in here."

  The men lumbered in with the trunk and Skye tipped them. They were uncomfortable accepting a gratuity in front of the owner of the line until Jay Mac himself assured them it was fine. "Better it comes out of her pocket than mine," he told them. They grinned in unison, pocketed their money, and were herded out by Wilson. "That was your money, wasn't it?" Jay Mac asked.

  "Honest wages," she said, kneeling in front of the trunk. She pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. "I was paid for my few days of work." Actually, she had been overpaid. She had supposed the extra money was meant to silence her. She had considered leaving it behind, but thought of a better use for it.

  Skye opened the trunk and rooted around inside. Her hand came across Parnell's Colt first and she let it remain where it lay. Her father wouldn't necessarily thank her for telling him about it. She gave him her folded sketch instead.

  Jay Mac opened it carefully. He studied it for a long time before he said, "This is very interesting, Skye."

  * * *

  Walker Caide was tired. It was dusk by the time he reached West Point. It hadn't taken him very long to realize that he had been lied to by Mr. Pennybacker. No one working at the small station recalled any woman of Skye Dennehy's description disembarking earlier in the day. Walker found it difficult to believe that Skye's bright red hair wouldn't have aroused some notice. By the time Walker had finished asking his questions, No. 49 had already left for points north. He was forced to cool his heels for over three hours before another train arrived. He purchased a ticket back to the city, certain now that he had given up too easily.

  "You look like hell."

  Walker stirred in the stiff wooden chair he occupied and opened one eye. Logan Marshall was standing over him, holding a cup of coffee in his hands. "I don't suppose that's for me," he said.

  "Not a chance." Logan turned to his secretary. "Bring Mr. Caide a cup, please. We'll be in my office." He turned the handle on his door. "Coming?"

  Walker tipped his chair back on all four legs. "Right behind you." He stood, stretched, held back a groan. His muscles ached. There was a crick in his neck. He rubbed it as he followed the publisher into his office.

  Looking around, he was comforted to see that some things didn't change.

  Logan Marshall's inner sanctum was proof that disorganization could be planned. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases on either side of the room were stacked with folders, documents, manuals, and the occasional book. Photography equipment leaned in one corner. The surface of his desk was littered with notes and a wooden tray was overflowing with copy to read. The competition's newspapers had already been delivered and were stacked on the floor beside the door. When Walker picked up some papers that were on the chair where he intended to sit, Logan stopped him.

  "Let me see those," the publisher said.

  Walker held them up to Logan to scan.

  "They go in the bookcase on your right," he said. "Third shelf down."

  Walker put them away. He stepped over a stack of books on his way back to his chair. "I know a housekeeper who could make short work of this room."

  "Only one?" Logan asked. He held up his hand. "Don't mention any names. Simply knowing she's out there frightens me. I like this office just the way it is." He sat behind his desk as Walker's coffee arrived. He watched as it was taken gratefully. "No interruptions," he told his secretary. When Samuel Carson had left, Logan gave his full attention to Walker. "Sam says he found you waiting in the lobby when he came to work this morning."

  "It was the middle of the night when I got here," Walker admitted.

  Logan sipped his coffee. His eyes were a cool pewter gray and their expression was shuttered now. His handsome face had a hard cast that made him look older when he was a younger man and younger now that he had reached his fortieth year. His dark hair was still highlighted by threads of copper with no sign of going to gray. "It's been... what?... two, maybe three years?"

  "Almost four."

  "God," he said feelingly. "How old were you then? Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?"

  Walker smiled. Logan had never inquired about his age. It was enough for the publisher to know that Walker came highly recommended. "I was twenty-four. But if it will make you feel any better, sir, I feel about ninety-four right now."

  Logan rolled his eyes. "What will make me feel better is if you never call me 'sir' again."

  "Very well. How is Mrs. Marshall?"

  "Katy's fine. We're expecting another child in June."

  "Congratulations."

  Logan nodded briefly in acceptance. "I doubt you've come about anything related to either Katy or myself," he said. "And you still look like hell, so what can I do for you?"

  "Actually, I've come about a housekeeper," he said.

  Logan blinked and glanced around his office. "You were serious?"

  "In a way. The woman I'm interested in says she used to work for you. I'm wondering if that's true."

  Logan's coolly colored eyes narrowed now and he leaned back in his chair. "It's against my better judgment to tell you anything, but you'll have to at least give me her name."

  "Mary Schyler Dennehy."

  The publisher's features remained unchanged. "I see," he said. "And what would your interest in her be?"

  "I'd rather not say."

  "You'll have to. I'm feeling rather protective about Miss Dennehy."

  "Then you know her."

  "Yes."

  Walker considered that. "Is she staying with you?"

  "You'll have to tell me something more than you have to get an answer to that question."

  "You're familiar with Jonathan Parnell?" Walker asked.

  "I know of him. He's an inventor, isn't he?"

  Walker knew Logan Marshall had the answer to that. For some reason the publisher was reluctant to give much away. Did he really feel that protective toward Skye, or was it something else entirely? "Do you have dealings with him?" he asked. "Business dealings?"

  Logan didn't answer immediately. Finally, reluctantly, he said, "I've considered investigating him for the paper."

  Walker swore softly. "Considered an investigation, or started one?"

  "Preliminary is under way."

  "Does she work for you?"

  For a moment Logan didn't understand. "You're referring to Miss Dennehy?"

  Walker nodded. "That's right. Does she work for you at the paper? I think you've hired women before as reporters. I know she isn't a housekeeper."

  "The Chronicle had a woman reporter," he said. "Just one."

  "Not Skye?"

  "No," he said carefully, evenly. "Not Skye."

  Walker closed his eyes and rubbed the lids, wondering what he could tell Marshall, what bargain he could strike. While he was thinking, Logan raised his own question.

  "What does Parnell have to do with Miss Dennehy?"

  That was easy to answer. "She worked for him."

  "As a housekeeper," Logan said. His tone was fla
tly disbelieving.

  "It's the truth." He paused, considering his words carefully. "He's a dangerous man, Mr. Marshall, but I'm supposing you have some sense of that already. To say he's unscrupulous is inadequate. He's amoral."

  Logan leaned forward and rested his coffee cup on the desk. Both his hands were still wrapped around it. "Jesus," he said softly. "What goes through her father's mind sometimes, I'll never understand. If I had any idea that's where she was going, I wouldn't have agreed to make the recommendation. He didn't tell me where she was taking the position. I asked. He hedged."

  "Who?" asked Walker. "Who didn't tell what?"

  "Her father." Logan sighed. "I don't suppose I can judge him too harshly. Not when I have a daughter of my own fast becoming a young woman. I tell you, Walker, men have no business having daughters."

  Walker would have laughed if Logan Marshall hadn't seemed so perfectly serious about the matter.

  Logan saw that Walker was at a loss as to how to respond. He waved any comment aside. "You can't understand until you have a little girl of your own. He has five."

  Now Walker remembered something Skye had told him. "The Marys," he said.

  "That's right. Then you do know."

  Walker wasn't certain what he knew. He started to say as much, but Logan had put aside his coffee cup and was picking up yesterday's afternoon edition of the Chronicle. He wet his thumb and quickly flicked through the pages until he found what he wanted.

  "Here it is," Logan said. He snapped open the paper and folded it quickly to highlight what he thought would be of interest to Walker Caide. He passed the paper over. "The drawing."

  Walker looked at it then back at Logan. "I don't think I understand."

  "Only because you don't want to."

  * * *

  Her first morning back, Skye had breakfast in bed. "Don't get used to it," Mrs. Cavanaugh said briskly. "This wasn't my idea. Your mother, God bless her, thinks you've been through a terrible ordeal. Sure, and what does she think I do around here, is what I should be asking her. You were that man's housekeeper all of a week. I've been doing it forty years."

  Skye was sympathetic. "Sit here, then," she said. "You can have my breakfast and you can have it in my bed. This wasn't my idea either."

  The housekeeper pretended to consider it. Finally she shook her head. "I already had my breakfast." Although she huffed on her way out of the room, Skye's gesture had mollified her.

  After eating, Skye luxuriated in a hot bath. Her hair was piled high on her head and the steamy fragrance of lavender salts perfumed her skin. She let her head rest against a folded towel on the rim of the tub and enjoyed the solitude. After yesterday's revelations, her father's questions, her mother's fretting upon her arrival at home, it seemed to Skye that she deserved this time alone.

  Until now, she'd had little time to think about Walker Caide. At this moment she could think of no one else.

  Skye believed her thoughts would have taken a more pleasant turn if he hadn't followed her from Baileyboro. It was only chance that she had been given the opportunity to see him. At the last possible second she had decided to tell Walker about taking Parnell's gun. Leaving her seat, Skye had gone to the rail car's exit and looked up and down the platform for Walker. She'd seen him at the carriage, talking to Hank. He was carrying a valise.

  At first Skye thought the valise must be hers and that she had forgotten it. She had almost called out to him. It was the slightest hesitation on her part that permitted her to learn the truth. Walker turned, valise in hand, and instead of approaching her car, disappeared into one closer to the front of the train. Skye waited to see if he would get off again, but he never did.

  Skye considered it was her great good fortune to be riding Northeast Rail. No other line would have accommodated her questions and her requests. Once she knew about Walker, it hadn't taken her long to find out that he was riding in the mail car or that his destination was the city. She almost felt sorry for him because he didn't understand her advantage in his cat-and-mouse game.

  "But not sorry enough to give myself away," she said, thinking aloud. The sound of her own voice startled her. Skye sat up in the tub and laughed a little uneasily, looking around to make certain no one had heard her. When she saw that she was still quite alone, Skye relaxed. She picked up the sponge and squeezed water onto her shoulders and between her breasts. She let her head fall back and dripped water along the curve of her throat. Closing her eyes again, she thought of Walker.

  She wondered if he would always be so easy to bring to mind or if the image of him would fade in time or blur at the edges. The picture she had of him now was so clear he could have been standing beside her. There would be a slightly wicked smile on his face and perhaps a hint of his single dimple at the corner. His brown-and-gold-flecked eyes would be darkening in the center, but the look would still be intense. He would watch her with frank appreciation, unashamed that he enjoyed looking. His glance was like a physical touch and Skye could feel it on her mouth, her shoulders, then on her breasts. His smile would deepen because she would flush and try to blame it on the steam rising from the water. Walker would know better. He always did.

  He'd probably drop down beside the tub. His thick, tawny hair would fall forward across his brow. He would rake it back with his fingers in an absent gesture. One of his hands would touch the rim of the tub. His fingertips would flick at the water, creating ripples on the surface that expanded in ever widening circles. A droplet of water would glisten on her breast. He would touch it. They would both watch the path his fingertip took on her skin, following it as it dipped below the water until it disappeared under the curve of her breast. His thumb would pass across her nipple.

  He would chuckle then, a low, deep, raspy sound that would rise from the back of his throat. His hands would move to the collar of his own shirt. Skye could feel herself staring in astonishment as he unfastened the buttons and removed it. He stood up long enough to remove the rest of his clothes and when he was splendidly, gloriously naked, he dropped into the tub with her.

  Water sloshed over the edges and puddled on the braided rug. "There isn't room for you in here," she said.

  "Who are you talking to?" Moira called from Skye's bedchamber. "Did you say something to me?" She poked her head around the corner of Skye's dressing room. "I came in to show you some scarves I bought yesterday. I could use your opinion." Seeing Skye's flushed face, she frowned. "Are you certain you're all right, Skye? Perhaps I should send Mr. Cavanaugh for Dr. Turner."

  "I'm fine, Mama. I was just talking to myself. I didn't hear you come in." Skye sighed as her mother accepted her explanation and ducked out of the doorway again. It was a timely interruption anyway, she told herself. The erotic drama that had been playing in her mind was certain to have left her unsatisfied. She looked down at herself, her raised knees, her elbows barely contained by the tub. "There wasn't room for both of us in here anyway," she muttered.

  "You're going to have to speak up," Moira called.

  "Sorry." Skye picked up a towel and stood up, wrapping it around her. She dried quickly and slipped into her robe. Padding barefoot into the other room, Skye cinched the belt. Her mother had placed a half-dozen scarves lengthwise on the bed and was standing back, examining the bright array with a critical eye. "You bought all these yesterday?"

  Moira nodded. Her smile was a trifle guilty. "I didn't know what to do with myself. Your father was at work and you were gone and nothing seemed to interest me. So I went to A. T. Stewart's and shopped. I think I'm relieved that it didn't make me feel any better. It could have been quite expensive for your father."

  "Papa enjoys spending money on you," Skye said.

  "That may be true, but six scarves seems excessive to me. At least, today it does. Help me decide which to keep and we'll take the others back to the store."

  "I have a better idea. Let's take them all to Mary Francis and then we'll pick out a special new one at Stewart's."

  Moira was a
little doubtful. "Give them all away?"

  "Mama, don't be mean-spirited. Mary Francis's charity can use them more."

  Moira sighed, understanding. "You don't like any of them, do you?"

  It was difficult to be diplomatic when your mother pinned you right to the wall. "They're beautiful," Skye said, "but I don't think they flatter your hair."

  Moira considered this, picking up one of the scarves and laying it across her neck. She studied her reflection in the mirror. "I believe you're right."

  "Then we'll go see Mary Francis?"

  "We'll take her to lunch."

  * * *

  Little Sisters of the Poor was charged with the care of the indigent and needy in Queens. Moira and Skye found Mary Francis working in the hospital kitchen, preparing trays for the patients. They pitched right in, slicing warm loaves of bread and dipping chicken broth into small soup bowls.

  "So housekeeping wasn't to your liking?" Mary Francis asked drily. Her beautiful features were framed by the stark black and white of her cornet and wimple. The stiff material didn't prevent her from getting her tongue firmly in her cheek.

  "Actually, I discovered I had a flair for it," Skye answered. "What I didn't like was my employer's groping. And don't bother threatening to break his knees for me. I already took care of him."

  "Really? How?"

  Skye told her.

  "That's quite impressive."

  Moira clucked her tongue in admonishment as all three of the nuns who were working with Mary Francis had stopped to listen. She sensed, rather than saw, their keen interest. "You shouldn't encourage her, Mary. It's not seemly, and I'm not listening to another word." She pushed the cart loaded with trays toward the kitchen door. "I'll take this around to the rooms."

  "Poor Mama," Mary Francis said. "She doesn't know what to make of us sometimes." She looked pointedly at her fellow Sisters of Charity, who quickly went back to their work. Mary Francis touched Skye's elbow. "Come on, there's a little room in the back where we can talk privately." She took off her apron and hung it on a peg by the door. The room where she led Skye only had one chair and a table littered with papers. Mary Francis let Skye have the chair and swept aside the papers so she could sit on the tabletop. "Menus," she said, explaining the papers. "And butcher and greengrocer bills. There never seems to be enough money."