Song of Erin

by BJ Hoff

  Jack shoved his hands down in his pockets, watching the two. When the weather was as brutal as it was tonight, he sometimes allowed a few of the lads to sleep in the hallway downstairs or in the horse barn, which they seemed to prefer.

  The city teemed with homeless children—a fair number of whom were newsboys. They slept wherever they could, ate whatever they could beg or steal usually, and some even grew up to be respectable. But to New York’s shame, many died from exposure or hunger before they had the chance to grow up at all.

  He turned and looked around his office, small and cluttered and dark, and decided he would spend the night here, on the sagging sofa across the room. He already knew that sleep wasn’t likely to come tonight, so why brave the snowstorm to reach home?

  He went back to his desk and put out his cigar. He moved to snuff out the lamp but decided first to call down to the newsboys and tell them to come inside if they wanted. Just then he heard footsteps on the stairway. He stopped where he was, frowning. There was no one here this time of night, except for Madog Wall, and the big Irishman would not be so light footed on the stairway. The presses were shut down for the night, the workers gone.

  One of the newsboys? Not likely. They knew they weren’t allowed past the door unless Jack offered.

  As a precaution, his hand went to the top right drawer of the desk, where he kept his gun.

  The drawer was locked. He glanced across the room at the door. It was closed, but through the frosted window at the top he could make out the vague shape of someone standing outside. Quickly, his eyes still on the door, he fished in his pocket for his keys, then quietly unlocked the desk drawer and withdrew the pistol.

  He stood waiting, the gun leveled directly at the door as it opened.

  Samantha was almost certain that, in the heat of his rage, Jack would come here, rather than going home—not only because he’d been driving the newspaper wagon, but because, if she were not badly mistaken, the Vanguard was more home to Jack than the sprawling mansion on Thirty-Fourth Street. This was where he spent most of his days and, by his own admission, a good many of his nights.

  She had been to Jack’s office only once before, and then in broad daylight. The building seemed eerily quiet and dark this time of night, but a dim light could be seen through the frosted glass of his office door.

  She hesitated, her hand gripping the doorknob, realizing now that it had probably been the worst kind of foolishness to come here. Because of the snow, it had taken her more than twice as long as it should have just to get here, and she’d held her breath most of the way, praying the buggy wouldn’t hang up or overturn.

  It occurred to her that she didn’t even know what she intended to say to him. Nevertheless, she was here, so finally, with a shuddering breath, she turned the doorknob and prepared to face him.

  The door creaked open, and she stepped inside to find him standing behind his desk, pointing a gun directly at her.

  The office was dim and gloomy and reeked of cigar smoke. The light flickered in the draft, casting Jack in shadows, making him appear more a dark and menacing stranger than the man she knew.

  Or the man she had thought she knew…

  Samantha was too stunned to speak, much less cry out. She could do nothing but stand and stare at Jack and the gun in his hand.

  “Samantha!”

  In an instant, he lowered the gun and came round the desk. “What are you doing here?” He virtually shouted at her, making it more an accusation than a question.

  Samantha opened her mouth to speak, but the gun was still in his hand, albeit lowered to his side, and her mind seemed unable to get past the sight of it.

  As if he had read her thoughts, Jack glanced from her to the gun in his hand, then turned and went back to the desk, shoving the pistol inside a drawer.

  “Sorry about the gun,” he said. “I couldn’t think who might be in the building this time of night.”

  Samantha made no reply. He came around the desk again, not taking his eyes off her. This time when he spoke his voice had returned to its earlier sharpness. “I hope you didn’t come here alone.”

  Before Samantha could answer, he said, “You did, didn’t you? What on earth possessed you?” He looked thoroughly put out with her, which for some reason did nothing but anger Samantha.

  She found it incredible that he would have the presumption to show impatience with her after what he had done. “Don’t concern yourself with how I got here,” she countered. She heard the chill in her voice and realized that it was merely a weak reflection of the cold fury she felt toward him at the moment.

  “Samantha—”

  He had come to a stop a few feet away from her, and he stood now, hands clenched into fists at his sides, looking at her. Samantha was momentarily caught off guard by how utterly drained and exhausted he appeared.

  Something tugged at her heart, but she forced herself to ignore it. “I came here because I have to know one thing,” she said, cringing at the tremor in her voice.

  He took a step toward her, repeating her name, but Samantha quickly raised a hand to stop him. “Just tell me if it’s true: Did you threaten to take Terese’s baby away from her?” She paused. “And did you really tell her you wanted the baby for me? Did you?”

  His eyes searched hers, and for a moment Samantha could see him hesitate, as if he might be trying to arrange his thoughts exactly right.

  “The truth, Jack,” she said, raising her voice. “There’s been quite enough lying.”

  She saw him expel a long breath, but he didn’t try to avoid her gaze. “I’d not be the one to argue that. All right, then, Samantha: Aye, it’s true. I did tell the girl I meant to have the child, and that I wanted it…for you.”

  Samantha tried to swallow, nearly choking on the dry knot in her throat. “How could you? That girl is supposed to be under your protection! You’re committed to helping her, and instead you terrorize her! And then try to excuse your unforgivable behavior by claiming you did it for me!”

  “But it was for you, Samantha, and that’s the truth.”

  Samantha heard the sudden thickening of his Irish accent as he visibly grew more agitated.

  “Surely you can believe that much, at least. Why else would I want the child?”

  “Don’t you dare to use me as an excuse for your bullying!” Samantha hurled the words at him with enough force that he actually blanched as if she’d struck him.

  She almost faltered, surprised at the intensity of her own anger. But she couldn’t stop what she had begun. “Did you ever once think to question how I might feel about such an insane idea?” she railed on. “But, no, of course, you wouldn’t. You decided what was best for me, and that was that, wasn’t it? You just naturally assumed that I would consent to whatever you decided. Because you’re Jack Kane! It doesn’t matter how cruel or obscene your behavior happens to be; if you want a thing done, then that’s the start and finish of it! Jack Kane takes what he wants, no matter who gets hurt or destroyed in the process. That’s just how it is with you, isn’t it, Jack?” She stopped to catch a breath. “Well, isn’t it?”

  He stood there, saying nothing, his hands now unclenched and hanging limply at his sides, his face dark—not with anger, Samantha sensed, but with pain.

  But his pain didn’t move her. Not now. She wouldn’t allow it.

  “Why?” She choked out. “Why would you do such a terrible thing to that girl? To me?”

  A hint of the old mocking smile curved his lips when he answered her. “As you said, Samantha, there was something I wanted. I simply did what needed to be done in order to get it. Aye, you’re right: That’s my way. Always has been. And what I wanted this time was you. As my wife. So I set about to make it happen.”

  Samantha gaped at him in utter astonishment. “You couldn’t possibly believe I would marry you after you did such a deplorable thing to Terese.”

  He merely lifted one dark eyebrow.

  Samantha felt ill. “You did,” she sai
d slowly, her voice trembling. “You actually thought you could…buy me! With a child.”

  A cold vise closed around Samantha’s heart as she stared at him in horrified disbelief. “I can’t believe you did this,” she said brokenly. “I thought…I knew you—”

  “And didn’t I try on more than one occasion to convince you that you didn’t know me, Samantha?” His voice cracked like a whip in the quiet of the room. “Didn’t I try to warn you I wasn’t the man you seemed bent on making me out to be? Didn’t I?”

  He had, of course. And she had blindly tried her best to ignore him, to see him as she wanted him to be instead of how he really was.

  She should have listened to him…She should have believed him…

  Slowly, he walked toward her, stopping directly in front of her, only inches away. His eyes burned into Samantha, but he made no move to touch her. She saw that he looked ravaged and drawn. But she closed her heart against him. She had to.

  When he spoke again, his voice had gentled. “Whether you believe me or not, Samantha, I regret what I did. My actions were despicable; that’s true. For whatever it’s worth, I will tell you that I have every intention of making amends to the Sheridan girl—however I can.”

  He paused, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Something tells me, however, that there’s nothing I can do to make amends to you, and for that I am sorrier than you can possibly know.”

  Samantha looked away before she could allow herself to soften toward him. “I simply do not understand…how you could do such a thing. I never would have believed it of you, Jack. Never.”

  “Samantha? Samantha, look at me.”

  She did and instantly regretted it. Her mind insisted that he had betrayed whatever trust she had begun to hold for him, that he had done a terrible thing, and she must bury any feelings she might have ever felt for him. But her heart reminded her that he was still Jack, still the man from whom she had known great kindness and gentleness and…affection. He was still Jack—the man she loved. And something in her spirit made her hesitate to turn completely away from him.

  So she faced him, waiting.

  As he began to speak, his fingers kneaded the lapel of his coat. Samantha could not help but notice that his hand wasn’t all that steady.

  “ ’Tis not likely I can make you understand, Samantha. In truth, I’m not at all sure I understand myself. But I do know this much, wrong as I may have been: I wanted to give you something, Samantha, something to make up for what had been taken from you, so that you wouldn’t mind so much…your childlessness.”

  When Samantha would have interrupted, he lifted a hand to stop her. “You seemed so intent on not marrying me—for two reasons: the fact that you couldn’t give me a child, and also because—as you put it—I could not share your faith. Well, it seemed to me that there was little I could do about the faith. But there was something I could do about a child. And so—” he gave a light shrug—“I set about doing it.”

  Something seemed to open in Samantha, just enough that she could glimpse the truth behind Jack’s words. Oh, God, he really did do it for me, didn’t he? But it was still wrong, Lord…so very wrong!

  Samantha felt her heart squeezed nearly beyond endurance as Jack went on. “You’re absolutely right to be furious with me. I should never—never—have presumed to do such a thing and expect that somehow you would sanction it. I must have been a little mad to even conceive of it.”

  His voice had grown hoarse, deeper, the brogue even thicker. “Samantha…will you try to believe this much, if nothing else: I…love you, as I have never loved another woman.”

  As if anticipating her protest, he again raised a hand to silence her. “Even Martha, though I did love her well. Quite frankly, mavourneen, I would have done almost anything to make you mine.”

  Watching him, Samantha could see the difficulty with which he swallowed, as if trying to choke down the bitterness of his own words. “Instead, I’ve turned you away. And for that, I will never forgive myself.”

  He gave a lame attempt at a laugh. “What a fool I’ve been. I set out to be the kind of man you could love—and only managed to prove to you that I’m not.”

  O, Lord, what am I to do about this man? What?

  Samantha blinked back the unshed tears that had begun to scald her eyes while he spoke. “You’re right,” she said softly, her own voice now thick with emotion. “You have been a fool. You didn’t have to do anything to make me love you, Jack! I already did love you!”

  As she watched, he squeezed his eyes shut for an instant. When he opened them, he took a step toward her, then stopped. “Did, Samantha? And what about now?”

  Samantha saw the agony in his eyes, saw his need, his unspoken plea. Oh, God—what do I do?

  She knew that she could do nothing less than tell him the truth.

  “I do love you, Jack,” she said simply. “I wish I didn’t. But, God help me, I do.”

  He reached for her, but Samantha lifted her arms as a shield. “No—don’t. Please.”

  He held out his hands to her, turned palms-up in a gesture of supplication. “At least say you can forgive me, Samantha.”

  Could she? How could she not? Christ forgave, didn’t he, had forgiven her and so many others, would forgive Jack as well if he would only ask. How could she dare to withhold her forgiveness from the man she loved more than anyone or anything in the world?

  She supposed she could view what he had done as a measure of his love for her. But it was still wrong. Terribly wrong. And so horribly unfair to Terese.

  “I…don’t know. You’ll have to give me time, Jack.”

  “Woman,” he said, his voice raw, his gaze steady upon her, “I would give you anything you asked of me. I would give you the very world, if I could. Don’t you know that by now?”

  His words struck Samantha like a blow. She realized then that she did know it, had known it for some time. And she also knew in that moment that whether she could trust anything else about Jack or not, she could trust the fact that he loved her.

  But somehow, it wasn’t enough.

  She looked at him, saw his eyes, bruised by fatigue, his features, world-weary and dispirited. She wanted to touch him, to reach out to him and comfort him.

  She wanted to change him, and she knew she was on dangerous ground. No one was going to change Jack. She could not hope for such a thing. Nor could he change himself. Only God held it in his power to change a heart, to heal a soul.

  Please, God…I know you love him enough to help him…Please, somehow…make him the man you want him to be…the man he seems to believe he never can be. Not for my sake, Lord, but for his good…and for your glory…change him.

  He was watching her with an expression of such tenderness…and such sadness… that Samantha thought he would break her heart.

  “Samantha, I can’t—”

  He broke off as the quiet of the room was shattered by a long, screeching wail.

  They both froze in stunned confusion. Samantha saw Jack tense, a frown crossing his face.

  “Jack?”

  He closed the distance between them in one long stride, grasping her arm and pulling her to his side as the blood-chilling screech again pierced the night.

  He spun around, dragging her with him toward the door.

  “Jack, what is it?”

  “The Vanguard’s fire whistle,” he said, his eyes reflecting Samantha’s bewilderment and sudden surge of fear.

  38

  IN THE CRUCIBLE

  When you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.

  ISAIAH 43:2

  Before they even reached the door, he heard Madog Wall come roaring up the steps. “Mr. Kane! Fire! There’s a fire in the pressroom!”

  The moment they reached the open door, Jack smelled it—the acrid, scorching odor his cigar smoke must have earlier masked.

  He and Samantha almost collided with Madog at the top of the stairway.

  “Ho
w bad?” Jack saw the fear in Samantha’s eyes, the spark of panic in Madog Wall’s, and deliberately kept his voice calm and all business.

  “ ’Tis bad, Mr. Kane! Blowin’ up fast, it is. You and Mrs. Harte have to get out of here! Now!”

  Jack’s mind went into a spin. He glanced from Madog to Samantha, then handed her off to him. “Take Mrs. Harte out. You see her safely outside, and don’t come back into the building! I have to see what I can do.”

  “Oh, Jack—no! You have to come with us!” Samantha cried out.

  Already the smell of smoke had sharpened. Jack tightened his grip on her arm. “I won’t be long. I have to see if there’s any way I can save the presses, Samantha! Go on now—go with Madog! I need to know you’re safe outside!”

  To his amazement, she pulled back, clutching at his arm. “No, I’m not leaving you in here alone!”

  Jack looked at her, then glanced over her head to Madog with a look the big Irishman quickly grasped. As Jack freed himself from Samantha, he set her carefully but firmly back, away from him and into Madog’s sturdy arms.

  “Is there anyone else in the building?” Jack shouted as Madog led Samantha to the top of the stairway.

  “No one but yourself, sir, so look lively! Will the fire station hear the whistle, do you think?”

  “We can hope. More likely one of the fire spotters will sound the alarm. As soon as you get outside, start pumping. Use the buckets from the horse barn.” Jack stopped, then added, “And yell for help!”

  Jack watched them go partway, Madog holding on to Samantha, trying his best to reassure her as they went. “It will be all right now, Mrs. Harte. Mr. Kane, he’ll be out directly. For now, though, it’s for me to get you out of the building.”

  Back inside his office, Jack fumbled with the combination on the safe until the door sprang open. His hand was shaking a little as he retrieved the envelopes that held the evidence for the exposé, along with a couple of other packets he couldn’t afford to lose.