by BJ Hoff
His hands shook as he locked the office door and started down the steps. He wished he had protested, but what possible good would it have done? Kane might treat him decently enough most of the time, but he was still the man’s lackey. Any objection on his part would have been futile. He would have either angered Kane or amused him; it was hard to say which.
Black Jack Kane did what he wanted and, from all accounts, almost always got what he wanted.
That being the case, Cavan could only hope Kane wouldn’t decide he wanted Samantha Harte.
Inside the cell, Samantha sat looking into the face of utter hopelessness and despair.
It was a dank, cold, squalid place. Several women—some raucous, others bitterly silent—milled about, but for the most part, they took no notice of Samantha and Maura Shanahan.
Although she wouldn’t have expected the other to welcome her visit, Samantha was still taken aback at Maura Shanahan’s air of remoteness. Her eyes, glazed and seemingly without focus, had not met Samantha’s once. Her white, taut face registered no emotion—only a number of dark, ugly bruises. One eye was red and crusted—probably not from tears, Samantha speculated, but with blood.
It took every shred of self-control she possessed to sit there, confronting the wretchedness of the woman across from her. Every glance at the other’s face made Samantha wince in pain, and the awareness of the woman’s misery caused her insides to virtually writhe in anguish. Upon entering the cell and seeing Maura Shanahan, she had wanted to turn and run. Even after the initial rush of panic, it still took a deliberate act of will to stay.
“Mrs. Shanahan? Do you remember me?” she asked softly. “I’m Samantha Harte. I came to see you last Saturday about Willie.”
Maura Shanahan made no response but simply looked at Samantha, her eyes dull and clouded.
Samantha drew in a steadying breath and tried again. “Maura—may I call you Maura? I…came to see if there’s anything I can do for you. Any way I can help you.”
Something flickered in the lusterless eyes, then quickly died.
“I wanted to tell you how sorry I am…about everything.” Samantha cringed at the inanity of her own words. “This is awful for you, I know. Would it help to talk about it?”
Finally, there was a flicker of recognition. “I shot him.” She might just as well have stated the time of day, for all the emotion the words held.
“So…you did it, then?” Samantha asked gently. “You shot your husband?”
Maura Shanahan nodded, a gesture that appeared fraught with numb exhaustion. “He’s dead.”
Samantha swallowed. She was almost certain she knew the answer to her next question, yet she felt compelled to ask. “Why, Maura? Why would you do such a thing?”
The other looked at her with an expression so devoid of feeling that Samantha felt suddenly chilled. “Because he was going to kill me,” she said flatly. “This time he meant to murder me entirely.”
Samantha gripped her hands in her lap to still their trembling. She swallowed, her throat so swollen she almost choked. “This time?” she said thickly.
Maura Shanahan’s hair had fallen over the encrusted eye, giving her the forlorn appearance of a battered child. “ ’Twas different this time. He beat me with the gun. He hadn’t never done that before.”
She lifted a thin, unsteady hand to brush the hair out of her eye. Her gaze was level, but Samantha suspected she wasn’t really seeing her, was instead recalling the terror—and the pain.
“This time he said he would murder us all. Me and the children as well.” As she spoke, Maura began to rub a hand up and down her injured arm, which she hugged tightly to her side.
The words came as little more than a whisper, but they struck horror into Samantha’s heart. “Oh, Maura…I’m so sorry…so sorry.” It was all she could say. She didn’t trust her own emotions.
“I might not have tried to take the gun away from him if he hadn’t threatened to hurt the children,” Maura Shanahan went on in the same wooden tone of voice, almost as if retelling the incident by rote. “But I could see he meant it, and something came over me.” She glanced at Samantha. “A terrible feeling, like my head would explode. A devilish rage, it was. I got the gun away from him, and when he came at me I just—I shot him. I shot Heber.”
Samantha had not known she could feel another’s misery as keenly as she felt Maura Shanahan’s right now, at this moment. It was almost as if she had taken upon herself the pain and the rage and the desperation of the tiny, worn woman sitting across from her.
“You did what you had to do, Maura, to save your own life—and perhaps the lives of your children as well.”
“He wasn’t always like that,” the other went on, her voice a low drone. “When we was first married and came across, he had such dreams. We both did. We was going to have us a house and a bit of land somewhere. But he couldn’t get a job, you see—no one wanted him. There was no work for the Irish.”
There still wasn’t, Samantha thought. She had seen the signs. They were legion. On storefronts, factory warehouses—all over the city: No Irish Need Apply.
“After a time,” Maura continued, “he got on doing jobs for Captain Rynders. That’s when he took to the drink—Heber had never been one for the drink back home, don’t you know, not until we came across—and he got mean when he drank. He just kept getting meaner and meaner, and when he was in a state, it was as if he blamed me for it all. For not being able to get a decent job, for not having money to feed the children or buy a house—”
Yes, he would have…He would have had to blame someone for his own misery and twisted mind…
Maura lifted her eyes to Samantha’s, and there was so much pain, so much regret and hopelessness in that look that Samantha felt as if she had been physically struck.
“I can’t help thinking it might have been different had he found a proper job,” said Maura Shanahan. It seemed to Samantha that there was an entire world of desolation in those few words.
“Maura,” she said, reaching across the rickety table for the other’s hand, “I must go—they’ve allowed me only a few minutes with you. But I’ll be back. In the meantime, I’m going to try to find someone to help you. Do you understand? You’re not alone in this. I know some people—perhaps I can locate an attorney for you, someone who will know what to do.”
Maura Shanahan looked at her with unmistakable distrust and confusion. “Why would you do that? Why would you be wanting to help me?”
Samantha held her gaze as she again pressed the woman’s hand. “Because…I think I understand why you did it. Perhaps I understand more than you could imagine. I only want to help you, Maura.”
Maura Shanahan stared at her with an expression of incredulity, and what Samantha recognized to be no small measure of bitterness. “Begging your pardon, Mrs. Harte—you’re a good woman, I’m sure, but you couldn’t possibly understand.”
“Oh, but I do, Maura,” Samantha said quietly, ignoring the tremor in her voice. “Believe me, I do.”
When she left Maura Shanahan, Samantha refused Officer Malloy’s offer to accompany her to the door. Instead she walked halfway down the long corridor alone, then stopped. Badly shaken and depleted, she leaned against the wall to support herself. In spite of her efforts to restrain them, the tears now came. She turned her face toward the wall as if to hide—from her surroundings and from Maura Shanahan’s despair.
And from her own.
When she finally regained control and turned to leave, she uttered a gasp of surprise. Jack Kane was standing little more than a handbreadth away, so close he could have reached out and touched her. Indeed, he did lift a hand as if to do just that, but after an instant dropped it away.
His face was a dark mask that revealed nothing. But when he spoke, the deep rumble of his voice was incredibly low and gentle. “I’ve come to take you home, Mrs. Harte. If you’ll allow me, that is.”
Samantha began to shake her head slowly, uncertainly. Her legs were
unsteady, and she even felt somewhat faint, but she knew it was because of the emotional drain she had just experienced. When Kane offered his arm she was tempted to take it. “I thought—Cavan said he would come back—”
Kane smiled at her, and there was as much kindness in his smile as in his voice. “I confess to usurping my driver’s job. I wanted to see if there was anything I could do to help. I’m fond of Willie.” He paused. “Mrs. Harte—Samantha—please, let me drive you home.”
Watching him closely, Samantha could detect no sign of insincerity. She hesitated only a moment more before drawing in a deep breath and taking his arm. It was all she could do not to lean on his strength as they started down the corridor and toward the door.
30
A PARTING WITHOUT GOOD-BYES
For the vision of hope is decayed,
Though the shadows still linger behind.
THOMAS DERMODY
GALWAY, IRELAND
Terese’s heart pounded with a mixture of excitement and apprehension as she mounted the steps to Brady’s flat. He had warned her about his landlady—the “starched and stuffy” Mrs. Hannafin—who without exception forbade any of her gentleman tenants to have “lasses above the stairs.” If she should happen to catch Terese sneaking in, there would be the very devil to pay.
But later today, Brady would be leaving. And although it galled Terese something fierce to swallow her pride, she knew she couldn’t let him go with things as they were. The bad feelings from last night’s quarrel still stood like a pool of tainted water between them. Pride to the wind, she had known since early dawn what she must do.
She had spent most of the night trying to convince herself that she hated him, that she never wanted to see him again, and that she certainly did not need his help to get to America. Even if she never got out of Ireland, she assured herself, she would not look to Brady Kane for assistance.
Her bitter resolve had lasted only so long. In truth, she would have let herself be keelhauled all the way across the Atlantic if it meant getting to the States, and getting there with Brady at her side. Her feelings for him had deepened far beyond what she had intended in the beginning. All her sensible plans to go her own way and avoid any attachment that would not advance her goals suddenly seemed unimportant. Ever since the night of the play, she had found it more and more difficult to think of Brady as simply a means to an end, an instrument by which she might further her dreams. To her great consternation, he seemed to have become a part of those dreams.
It was the last thing she would have wanted, to become so involved with him—with anyone—that she would consider subjugating her own needs and desires to his. Yet by allowing herself to care for Brady so deeply, she had done exactly that.
Even in his embrace, she had deluded herself, trying to pretend that she was simply using him to achieve her own ends. Perhaps that had been her design in the beginning, but everything had changed. If she had thought that by giving in to his passion she would somehow gain greater control over him, she had been sorely mistaken. To the contrary, she was beginning to fear that she was losing whatever advantage she might have held. Last night she had realized that there was as much need on her part as on his—and the realization had shaken her to the core.
As she stole down the hallway to his flat, her mind was awash with confusion and impatience—impatience with her own foolishness. She should never have allowed herself to become so entangled with any man, but especially with one like Brady, who made no pretense of being anything but what he was—a sweet-talking rover with no apparent purpose or ambitions. More than likely he would be content to spend the rest of his days trekking from one place to another, his infernal sketch pad tucked under one arm and a pretty girl on the other. He would never put down roots or own more than a pocketful of change to pay the fiddler.
Yet even knowing that, here she was, creeping down the hall like a common slattern, intent on making amends and setting things right between them.
Madness.
The argument had been folly itself, but it had taken Terese most of the night to grudgingly acknowledge that the fault was entirely her own. She was altogether careless to push Brady as she did. It was too soon—much too soon—to make any sort of demands. They had been together the night before, and the night before that, and on impulse she had suggested they could be together every night if he would but take her with him on his travels.
He was clearly taken aback by her boldness, but once into it, Terese didn’t know how to extricate herself. “If you’ve meant all the things you’ve been saying to me, I can’t think why you’d want to leave me behind. You said yourself there’s no telling how long you’ll be away.”
“Terese, I can’t take you with me,” he said, holding her at arm’s length. He looked uncomfortable but not actually dismissive. “I’m not here on holiday—I’ve work to do.” He smiled teasingly at her. “And you, my beauty, make it nearly impossible for me to concentrate on work.”
Unable to conceal her disappointment, Terese tried again. “It doesn’t seem to me that you’ve been all that concerned about your work of late.”
“That’s my point exactly,” he said, still smiling. He tried to pull her into his arms, but Terese resisted. “Oh, come on now,” he urged. “I’ll be back before you’ve even had time to miss me. It’s not like I’m leaving forever. I’m only going to Limerick.”
“And who knows where else?” Terese said petulantly. “Didn’t you tell me yourself that you’ve all number of places to visit before you go back to New York?”
“And didn’t I also tell you I’d be coming back to Galway in a few weeks, before going on?”
“You’ve been playing loose with me entirely, haven’t you? I’m nothing at all to you, no more than any of your other women.”
Gripping her shoulders, he forced her to look at him. “That’s not so, and you know it. I’ve never been with any girl I care for as much as you. Come on now, T’reesie, let’s go upstairs. Don’t you want to be alone with me on our last night?”
Aching with disillusionment and at the same time infuriated that he could treat her so casually, Terese wrenched away from him. “I don’t want to be anywhere with you tonight! You’ve been dallying with me all along, and I’ll not cheapen myself for you again! And you needn’t think I’ll be here waiting for you when you get around to looking me up again.”
“You knew I was leaving, Terese,” he fired back at her. “I never told you anything else but what I’d be going, come tomorrow. I also told you I’d be back, didn’t I?”
“And wouldn’t you promise me anything I wanted to hear, to get what you wanted?”
She was completely unprepared for his sudden transformation. His eyes went hard, his mouth even harder, as he stepped back from her. “I don’t recall taking anything you weren’t eager to give,” he bit out. “Now do you want to be with me tonight or not? I’m not going to coax you. If you’d rather go back to Crazy Jane, then go on. It’s getting late.”
Oh, he was cold! Those dark eyes of his were like polished marbles, registering not a hint of feeling as he made his challenge.
Dumbstruck by this uncharacteristic display of indifference, Terese whipped around as if to go. But he caught her, yanking her around and forcing a hard, bruising kiss on her as if she were nothing more to him than a common strumpet.
Furious, Terese drew back a hand as if to slap his insolent face, but he caught her, trapping her against him. “That temper of yours is going to be your downfall one day, you little alley cat. I swear, sometimes I think you might be a bit mad. What do you expect of a man, Terese? You spend the entire evening playing the cozy kitten, stringing me along—and then you fly into a rage just because I won’t destroy your reputation by making a scandal of you. You can’t just go rambling around the country with me, you foolish girl—you’d be ruined!”
“Not if I were your wife!”
Her comeback was born strictly of impulse. The instant the words were out of he
r mouth, Terese knew she had made a mistake. And the worst part was that she didn’t even mean them.
Did she?
He stared at her, then drew back. “Whoa, my beauty. I never said anything about marriage. That is one subject I religiously avoid, as you might have noticed.”
“I’m good enough to bed, just not good enough to wed, is that it?”
His jaw tightened, and his eyes again went cold. “Don’t do this, Terese,” he said, his tone a warning in itself.
Regret surged through Terese. Miserable in the growing awareness of her mistake, stung by his coldness, she allowed anger to cover her distress. Turning her back on him, she tried to think what to say, what to do.
“Did I ever once mention marriage to you, Terese?” he asked quietly behind her. Not trusting herself to speak, she shook her head.
“That’s not what I’m about, Terese. It has nothing to do with you—I’m wild for you, surely you know that by now. But marriage isn’t for me. Not now, maybe not ever.” He paused. “It’s up to you, Terese. What’s it to be?”
In the end her humiliation and self-disgust fueled her earlier rage, and she turned on him. “It’s to be nothing with you, Brady Kane! Go on to Limerick, then. Go tonight for all I care! You’ll not be seeing me again before you go—and I’ll not be caring if you ever come back!”
She hurled the words at him blindly, scarcely spitting the last of them out before taking off down the lane at a near run without looking back.
It had been a lie, of course. She did care. He had to come back! It was no good trying to convince herself that he was important to her only inasmuch as he could make a difference in her future. Even as her mind insisted, her heart cried out in denial.
Perhaps the real truth was hidden somewhere between what she needed to believe and what was actually so. In any event, here she was, skulking down the hall toward his flat like any cheap girl of the streets, set on making things right, whatever it took.