by Jo Goodman
"We won't," Skye said, twisting to get away from him. "I will."
The driver tipped his hat to get a better perspective on the situation. From his vantage point the woman appeared to be struggling, but the man was completely at ease in restraining her. The driver had long since stopped being surprised by what he saw on his route. The better addresses were no guarantee of better manners. "She a runaway?" he asked.
"Something like that," Walker said.
Skye glared at the driver. "Can't you see that he's abducting me?"
The driver considered that. "Seems to me like you're the one wanting to go places," he said.
Skye brought the heel of her shoe down sharply on Walker's instep. His grip loosened enough for her to pull out of it. She waved the cab away and started down the street.
"We appear to be walking." He was grinning as he tipped the driver for his trouble and followed Skye.
She set a brisk pace, but she had no hope of outdistancing him. His lithe, rolling walk brought him to her side before they'd reached the end of the block. Instead of crossing the street, she turned at the corner. Facing the wind now, she ducked her bare head. Her hair was ruffled at the temples and crown. Strands of it fell across her forehead and cheeks like leaping flames. Stopping abruptly, she pushed it back impatiently and raised her face to Walker.
"Say what you have to say," she told him. "Then leave me alone."
"I'm not sure I have anything to say to you. I thought I would give you an opportunity to apologize."
Genuinely surprised, Skye blinked. "Apologize?"
He nodded. Wind whipped through his hair. He took time now to button his coat. When he was done, he thrust his hands in his pockets. It was too cold to stand in one place. He began walking and was careful not to show his amusement when Skye followed him.
"Apologize?" she asked breathlessly. "Why ever should I do that? I didn't invite you here. That was my father's doing."
"No," he said coldly, "it wasn't. My being here has nothing to do with your father. If you doubt that, then take it up with him. Apparently he's given you reason to think the worst; I wasn't aware that I had."
"Then why were you talking to Jay Mac? Why didn't you ask directly for me?"
"I did. You weren't home when I got there, remember? I was shown to the parlor first. Your housekeeper must have mentioned my presence to your father and he invited me into his study. I wasn't in there very long before you came in. Your father and I exchanged a few pleasantries."
"Jay Mac doesn't exchange pleasantries," she told him flatly. "He sizes people up."
"I was trying to be polite about the experience."
A faint smile edged Skye's mouth. "There's no need for that. I've seen my father cut people to shreds with a single look." She glanced at him. "You don't seem the worse for it. He must have seen something he liked."
Walker shrugged. He was quite aware that Jay Mac had been judging him. He had no idea what the verdict had been. More than that, he wasn't all that concerned about it. "I didn't come here because I wanted your father's approval. Or yours."
Skye realized it was what Jay Mac would have liked best about him. Walker carried himself in a quiet, confident way. His indifference about what people thought of him wasn't feigned or a sign of arrogance. Comfortable in his own skin, he didn't care about the opinions of others.
Skye stopped in her tracks and touched Walker's elbow when he would have continued on. She searched his face. "You didn't take any money from my father, did you?"
"No." He watched her struggle with that information. She had been so certain the opposite was true. "And to set the record entirely straight, your father didn't offer any."
Skye looked away. She tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. The wind promptly nudged it out again. "I don't know what to say."
"Let's go back to your house. When the words do occur to you, I want to be sure the wind doesn't carry them out of earshot." Slipping his arm through hers, Walker led Skye back the way they'd come.
Mrs. Cavanaugh met them at the door. She took their coats. "What you were thinking, stepping outside without a hat or a scarf, I'll never know. Both of you. It's scandalous, is what it is. Don't be surprised if the neighbors talk, Mary Schyler."
"Could we have tea in the front parlor, Mrs. Cavanaugh?" asked Skye. She took the housekeeper's gentle tsking for an affirmative response and showed Walker to the parlor.
"Will the neighbors talk?" Walker asked, when they were alone. He had not had much opportunity to look around before and he did so now, studying the photographs on the mantel with particular interest.
"Probably," Skye said. "When it comes to the Dennehys, they look for things to talk about."
"I suspect you and your sisters gave them reason from time to time." He picked up one gilt-edged frame containing a picture of all five Marys. Photographic portraits tended to present solemn, placid faces regarding the camera. This portrait captured a livelier group. There was wicked mischief in every pair of eyes.
Skye came to stand beside Walker. He was pointing to her oldest sister. "That's Mary Francis. She was seventeen then. You can't see it in the picture because she's standing behind Michael, but she's pulling Rennie's hair."
Walker looked closer and could imagine the smile on Rennie's face was a bit more restrained than the smiles of her sisters.
"That was taken a year before she joined the convent," Skye told him.
"Rennie?"
"No. Mary Francis."
"The hair puller."
"Yes. She always helped keep everyone in line," Skye said. "Rennie was being... well, she was being Rennie. That's a good enough reason to have her hair pulled."
"She's a twin."
Skye nodded. "She and Michael. They're fifteen there. You can see that Michael's trying to be serious, but Mary Francis made her laugh at the last moment."
"Michael's married now?"
"Mm-hmm. To a federal marshal. Ethan and Michael live in Denver now. She's a reporter for the Rocky Mountain News."
It came to him then, the connection to Logan Marshall and the Chronicle. Mary Michael had been that paper's sole female reporter. Logan could have at least told him that. He wondered what else the publisher hadn't thought was important enough for him to know. "Rennie lives here?" he asked.
"No. She and Jarret live all over. They go where Northeast Rail goes. Rennie designs bridges and decides where track is going to be laid. She's worked for the railroad since she left college."
"And this sister? The pixie?"
"That's Maggie. She was twelve. She does rather look like a pixie, doesn't she?" The chair that Maggie was sitting in was too big for her. Her feet were dangling a full inch off the floor. Michael had one hand on her knee and had probably placed it there to keep Maggie from swinging her legs. "Maggie's studying to be a doctor now. She's in Philadelphia with her husband and little girl."
Walker hardly heard. He was looking at the youngest Mary. She was standing on one foot, leaning beside Rennie's chair with her elbow resting on the arm. "What happened to your other leg?"
"I was scratching. My petticoat was new and so stiff with starch it practically cut me."
"You look like a flamingo."
"My dress was pink. I felt like one."
The sepia tones of the photograph couldn't show the contrast between Skye's pink dress and her red hair. He couldn't quite contain his grin. He wished he could have seen her then. "How old were you?"
"Ten."
He would have been sixteen. His interest would have been in Mary Francis or the twins. He would have pulled her fly-away braids if he had noticed her at all. Walker set the photograph back on the mantel. "What about your ambitions, Skye?"
"Oh, I've been careful not to cultivate any," she said.
Walker's response was interrupted as tea arrived. He waited until they were alone again and Skye had poured something for both of them. "I don't believe you don't have any ambitions," he said.
"I can't
help what you believe." She handed him his cup. "I should have asked if you wanted something stronger. Do you? It's no trouble."
"This is fine." He sat down in a large armchair. The parlor was a warm, comfortable room. The fabrics were dark gold and blue. The furniture was arranged in a way that invited conversation rather than forbade it. It crowded around the fireplace in a semicircle and the area was lighted by lamps with frosted glass globes. "Why didn't you tell me who you were?"
"You mean why didn't I tell you I was Jay Mac's daughter?" she asked. "Is it so important? You always suspected I wasn't a housekeeper. I should think you'd be gratified to know your instincts were correct."
Was it important? he wondered. Did it change anything? "It wasn't my instincts," he told her. "It was your hands."
Skye was lifting her cup. She paused and examined her hand, turning it one way, then the other. "What's wrong with them?"
"Nothing. That's the point. Look at Mrs. Cavanaugh's sometime."
She understood immediately and wondered why she hadn't seen it before. Only it wasn't her own hands she was thinking of. "Did you mention it to Mr. Parnell?"
He nodded. "He didn't think it was important. He was willing to overlook quite a bit where you were concerned."
"That doesn't make sense to me."
The gold flecks in Walker's eyes sharpened. "What happened in that workroom didn't convince you? He wanted you. He still does. In the face of that, nothing else matters to him."
Skye's cup rattled a little in her saucer as she set it down. "Don't you think that's laying it on a bit thick? He sent me away."
"I know." Walker's hooded glance shaded his eyes and concealed his thoughts. What should he tell her, and when?
"Did he send you here?" she asked.
"Yes."
Skye had suspected it. Having it confirmed was more disappointing than she'd thought it would be. "I see."
But Walker knew that she didn't begin to suspect Parnell's motives or his own. "Did you know I was on the train?" he asked.
"I saw you get on at Baileyboro."
"Then you deliberately hid from me."
"It wasn't very hard."
Walker's smile was wry. "I didn't fully appreciate the advantage you had until I learned who your father was. I take it you knew that conductor."
"Mr. Pennybacker."
That answered Walker's question. "Northeast Rail," he said softly, still not quite believing it. "I couldn't have known that."
"I don't see how," she agreed. It was more interesting to Skye that Walker seemed to think he should have known. "And I don't see that it matters. Not when you found me anyway."
It mattered because he wasn't supposed to make mistakes like the one he'd made. Even with Skye's advantage, he shouldn't have lost her at the station. He wondered now if it was such a good idea to come here. He could have kept his distance, bided his time, and planned what he was going to say to Parnell when he returned alone. But when he saw the house and watched Jay Mac Worth alight from the carriage and take the walk to the front door, when he saw the door open and the great man himself disappear inside, Walker was drawn to the same path. He wanted to meet the man who had sent his daughter to Baileyboro, the man who had placed a higher value on an investment than on his daughter's safety.
Walker put his tea aside. The brew was cold and bitter now. He got to his feet suddenly. "I should be going."
That surprised Skye. "I thought Jay Mac invited you to dinner."
"He did, but I never accepted. Your father assumes a lot."
"He does. He's used to people falling in with his suggestions, doing things his way."
"That's not who I am."
"I know." She drew in a breath and let it out slowly. "I'm sorry."
Walker looked at her sharply. "Sorry? Because I don't kowtow to your father?"
Skye stood. At her sides her fingers nervously pleated and unpleated the fabric of her gown. "No," she said quickly, anxiously. "That's not what I meant. I'm sorry that I misunderstood what I saw earlier. I thought you were reporting to him, telling him I was none the worse for my experiences at the Granville mansion. When you have a father as interfering and protective as Jay Mac..." Shrugging, she let her voice trail away. When he didn't respond even after she let a few moments pass, Skye added, "That was an apology."
"I know what it was. I'm trying to take it in."
His dry humor touched her. Skye's mouth pursed to one side as she snorted derisively. The look certainly didn't flatter her. The last thing she'd expected in that moment was for Walker to pull her against him and kiss her hard. Her hands rose, touched his shoulders, retracted, then touched him again, this time holding on dearly. She arched into him and felt his arm across the small of her back. The kiss lingered, deepened. Her breasts swelled against the tight bodice of her gown as she was pulled closer. He supported her body with the hard, unyielding length of his.
Jay Mac and Moira paused on the threshold of the room. They exchanged glances. Moira would have discreetly stepped back into the hallway. Jay Mac elected to loudly and pointedly clear his throat. Moira scolded him, saying his name softly.
Walker heard the throat clearing. Skye heard her mother's admonishment. It was Skye who pulled back, at once relieved and uncomfortable when Walker wouldn't release her completely.
"Just how well are you acquainted with my daughter?" Jay Mac asked.
"Papa, please," Skye said. She spoke to her father, but her eyes beseeched her mother.
"Jay Mac," Moira said gently. "Perhaps we should—"
"I will not be shooed or shushed," he said flatly. "I want an answer, Mr. Caide. What are your intentions concerning my daughter?"
"Papa!"
"Jay Mac!"
Over both objections, Walker said simply, "I intend to marry her."
Skye stepped out of the circle of his arms. She was finding it difficult to breathe. There was a tightness in her chest and a knot in her stomach. "You don't have to say that just because he saw us kissing. Jay Mac's not that old-fashioned."
"I am so," Jay Mac insisted. "Tell them, Moira."
Walker raked his hair with his fingers. "I'm not saying it because of what your father saw, but because of what he asked. Those are my intentions."
"Were you going to tell me?" she demanded. An uncomfortable pressure was building at the back of her throat. It was easy for Skye to imagine disgracing herself by being sick in front of everyone.
"I am telling you."
"Then let me tell you my intentions, Mr. Caide. I have no plans to marry anyone. Not ever." Having said that, Skye hurried out of the room. Her parents parted long enough to let her through then closed ranks again.
"I can't send you after her this time," Jay Mac told Walker. "She's gone to her room."
"That wouldn't stop me if I wanted to follow her."
Jay Mac considered that. This young man wasn't afraid of him at all. Jay Mac wasn't certain that Walker Caide even respected him. It was an unusual situation for Jay Mac. It didn't make him angry, however. It made him curious. "Mrs. Worth and I came to tell you that dinner is being served. Are you going to join us?"
It was a question now, not an assumption. It changed Walker's mind. "I believe I will, thank you."
Moira threw up her hands. She had been certain until just a moment ago that Walker was going to leave. "I'm sure I don't understand either one of you."
* * *
Skye was brushing her hair with hard, punishing strokes when her mother entered her room. "Has he gone?"
"Soon, I think. Your father and Walker are having a drink in the library. I didn't want to be part of that."
She noticed her mother had referred to Walker by his Christian name. That suggested a certain familiarity, at the very least a warming to him that Skye didn't find particularly comforting. "I won't have them planning my life for me," she said. "I watched Jay Mac do it with my sisters. I won't have him do it to me."
"You give your father too much credit," Moira
said. "All of you do. He couldn't stop Mary Francis from joining an order. He couldn't keep Michael from working at the Chronicle. Rennie worked at Northeast in spite of Jay Mac's wishes, and Maggie's going to be a doctor. Those were not your father's plans for them. They did those things in spite of Jay Mac."
"They did those things to spite him." Skye couldn't believe her own temerity. She put down her brush. Her hand was shaking and her throat ached again. She had never felt so much like crying and she was certain her mother had never felt so much like slapping her. "I'm sorry, Mama, but I didn't want it to be such a fight with him. I thought he would make an exception for me. I haven't ever wanted to be anything important."
"Oh, Skye," Moira said sadly. She stood behind her daughter at the vanity and studied Skye's reflection. Her fingers sifted through Skye's hair, absently stroking and braiding. "Is that really what you think?"
Skye's shrug was uncertain. "I can't be like my sisters."
"I know."
"I have my own ideas about what I want to do with my life."
Moira nodded. Her smile was as gentle as her fingers in Skye's hair.
"No one asked what I thought about getting married," she said.
"I think your father and Walker know the answer to that now."
Her mother's dry tone gave Skye pause. "Did I make a scene? I hadn't meant to do that. Sometimes I simply can't think clearly around him."
"Are you talking about your father or Mr. Caide?"
"I was talking about Walker, but sometimes it's the same with Jay Mac. I'm so busy anticipating what he'll say or do that I hardly know what I'm saying myself."
Moira's fingers hesitated. "Have you ever considered that perhaps what you're really not doing is listening to him?"
"What are you saying, Mama?"
"I'm saying that sometimes when you girls are doing things to spite your father, you're only spiting yourselves." Moira's hands dropped away from Skye's hair. She patted her daughter's shoulder. "It's just something to think about."
Skye stared at her own reflection, her expression doubtful.