by BJ Hoff
Gabriel could not seem to manage a proper response to that, indeed could not seem to do anything except continue the ineffectual patting of her shoulder. “Well, now…it will all work out in the end. I’m sure.”
“Oh, it will, Gabriel! I know it will, thanks be to God—and thanks to you.”
It struck him then that there would likely be no better time than this, while they were close…and alone…to speak his heart. Gently, he took her by the shoulders and set her just far enough away from him that she could read his lips…and he could see her eyes. “Roweena—there is something else I would ask you.”
She was looking at him in absolute trust, and Gabriel knew a sudden moment of utter panic. What if he was wrong? What if Brady Kane had been wrong? What if he somehow destroyed the bond between them, the good and pure affection that had grown throughout the years? Did he really want to risk that?
“Gabriel?”
At her quiet prompt, he searched her eyes, hoping desperately for a glimpse of whatever it was that Brady Kane had claimed to see. But her gaze on him was, as always, warm and trusting, and fond, too, there was that. But love?
And then Gabriel realized that he did not exactly know what love looked like in a woman’s eyes.
“I—in truth, I am almost fearful of asking you—what I had intended to ask,” he stammered.
Her delicate brows knit in a frown. “But you can ask me anything, Gabriel. What is it?”
He took so deep a breath he almost strangled on it. He seemed to have lost both his wits and his speech, all at the same time. “Roweena—what about your feelings for me, lass? Have you ever thought…what I mean to say is, how do you…think of me?” He felt a fierce rush of color spread over his face and could have trounced himself for being such a great gommel.
He dragged his gaze back to her and saw that her cheeks, too, were flushed with color. But where he was cringing, she was smiling.
“Oh, Gabriel…are you sure you really want me to answer that?”
His hands on her shoulders were trembling like those of a palsied old fool! He hadn’t the courage to look at her, instead fastened his gaze on the candle in the middle of the table. “If you’d rather not, Roweena, I understand.”
Oh, Lord, give me the courage to hear the truth, for I know her well enough to know she will not speak anything less. Unless—out of some misplaced sense of obligation, she might try to say what she thinks I want her to say. No, not that, please, God, I would rather she despise me than be…grateful…to me…
“Gabriel?”
He glanced back at her, almost fearfully. Her enormous gray eyes seemed to have caught the firelight as she studied him. Then she moved toward him, catching him entirely unawares as she lay her head against his chest.
Gabriel hesitated, then slowly slipped his arms around her in an awkward, uncertain embrace. He was fighting for every breath, it seemed, and lost the battle entirely when she said, her words muffled against his chest so that he had to strain to hear, “I think of you with love, Gabriel. ’Tis the only way I’ve ever thought of you, the only way I know how to think of you.”
The knot in Gabriel’s throat increased by half. He cupped the back of her head and tipped her face up toward his. “What are you saying, then, lass?”
“What are you wanting me to say, Gabriel?”
He gave everything over, then: his pride, his common sense…his heart. “I expect I am wanting to hear you say that you…could love me, Roweena. As a woman loves a man. That you could love me in that way, at least a little.”
“And what if I…love you more than everything, Gabriel Vaughan? What if I always have?”
He squeezed his eyes shut for an instant, then opened them. “Is that the truth, lass?”
She smiled at him, and he could see the firelight flickering in her eyes, and he saw something else as well, and wondered how it was that he had not seen it before this moment, for it was as bright and shining as a star. He saw her love for him.
He traced the sweet line of her cheek with his fingertips, marveling at the sheer perfection God had made of her face. “As for me,” he choked out, “it seems I have loved you forever. I have loved you since you were a wee lass, holding on to my hand and trying to match my wide steps. I have loved you as a brother and as a friend. But, oh, mo chridh, mo chridh, if it pleases you, I would love you from this time forth as a husband and a lover.”
She eased back from him, only a little. “Are you asking me to marry you, Gabriel?”
“Indeed, I am, lass,” he said, finally managing to cross the vast ocean of uncertainty and go where his heart had long wanted to be.
The firelight in her eyes began to dance the instant before she came into his arms again in a rush of softness and sweetness. “Then I am saying yes,” she murmured against his heart, leaving Gabriel slightly startled…and infinitely thankful.
He might have held her forever, just as they were, had not wee Eveleen peeped out from behind the curtain, dark eyes snapping with impatience. “Gabriel? Now can we go looking for the star?”
Holding Roweena with one arm, he opened the other to the child, who immediately came bolting across the room to complete their circle. “Aye, alannah,” he said. “The three of us, we will go searching for the star together.”
42
OUT OF THE ASHES
Out of the ashes of broken trust,
The rubble of failure and dreams burned to dust,
Out of the ruins of human deceit,
The pain of betrayal, the shame of defeat,
God sifts the gold from this worthless debris,
Lifting the good only his eyes can see,
Then turns the wheel of his sovereign design
And changes the dross of life to the divine.
BJ HOFF
NEW YORK CITY
It was Christmas morning, and Wall Street was almost entirely deserted. The light snow that had fallen the night before glistened beneath a light glaze of ice. There was no wind, leaving the city blanketed in a white stillness.
Jack Kane stood in front of the ruins of the building that only days before had housed the Vanguard, formerly one of the largest, most influential newspapers in the state.
His newspaper. His dream. His greatest success.
His life.
Or so he had once thought.
He smiled grimly to himself, partly to relieve the pain, but more because, no matter what else he felt, there was no mistaking the irony of it all. What had taken him nearly two decades to build had been reduced to a heap of bricks and ashes in one night by a couple of homeless newsboys. Sadly, one of those boys had died in the very fire he helped to ignite.
Had Whitey, the younger of the two, not lived to tell the tale, Jack might never have known the ones responsible. But Whitey did live and was only too eager to name the man who had paid him and his now deceased cohort, Snipe Jenkins, to set the blaze. The reason for Whitey’s eagerness, of course, was Jack’s promise, in exchange for the information, to do what he could to keep the boy out of the lockup.
The man who had set the two little miscreants to their dirty work was already gone. Avery Foxworth had hotfooted it out of the city before the police—or Jack—could get to him. Most likely he was on his way back to where he’d come from.
It still made Jack’s blood boil that his former attorney would not have to pay the piper for his treachery. But it was done, and if he were altogether honest he supposed that throwing Foxworth’s black hide into a cell wouldn’t have helped much, if at all, to ease the hurt. So let the British have him then, and good riddance.
But Turner Julian and his corrupt pals who had hired Foxworth to double-cross Jack—well, now, that might be another story entirely. Granted, one frightened newsboy’s word wasn’t much. But it was a start.
Had they really thought he would quit if they burned him out? He doubted it. More than likely their main intent hadn’t been so much to ruin him—surely they knew he would be heavily insured—bu
t more to destroy whatever evidence he held against them, to foil any chances he might have against their lawsuit in the courts. By razing his building, they would also slow him down considerably, just in case he tried to retaliate in print.
Well, they might have accomplished that much at least. But they wouldn’t stop him. There would be no end to any of this until he saw Julian and the others behind bars. He still had the evidence of their dubious dealings in prostitution and other questionable “business” practices. And he would have Whitey’s testimony. If that wasn’t enough—then somehow he would just have to find more.
Meanwhile, the documents they had sought to destroy in the fire were now safely stored in his desk at home.
But that was for another day. Today was Christmas, and he still had gifts to deliver. He was going to Grace Mission later in the morning, no matter how unpleasant it might turn out to be.
That it would be unpleasant he didn’t doubt.
Still, he had taken the first step to making peace with Terese Sheridan days before. In truth, the girl had been decent enough about it—more so than Jack had a right to expect. Once she realized he was in earnest and meant to bully her no longer, that in fact he was even hoping to help her and the child, financially or otherwise, she had accepted his apologies, albeit somewhat coldly.
True to form, she had gone on to let him know that since she had a position now, she would not be needing his help. Nevertheless, Jack intended to find a way around her stubbornness. That baby she was carrying shared his blood, after all.
As for her brother—it would be a very long time, if ever, Jack suspected, before Cavan would be able to even tolerate the sight of him, much less grant him the grace of forgiveness. Jack understood, but even so, the loss of the boy’s respect and admiration grieved him more than he would have anticipated. But as Rufus had reminded him, there were always bitter consequences to a man’s sins.
The most bitter of all, of course, was the loss of Samantha. Not that she had ever been his to lose. Everything he had tried in order to win her had failed, even before the night of the fire. But what he had tried to do to Terese Sheridan had finally and irrevocably marked the end of any relationship they might have had—even their friendship.
He still thought about trying to see her at some point, though not in hopes of redeeming himself with her—he knew when he was defeated, after all. If he couldn’t convince her to marry him when he could have still offered her…everything…he certainly had no chance whatsoever now. But he wanted at least to tell her how sorry he was, how deeply he regretted what he had done.
He had made no attempt in that direction, however, at least not yet. He still needed time: time to try to make some sense of what had happened to him inside that burning building two weeks ago. What had happened—and what it meant.
All he really knew for certain at this point was that he was different. He had come out of that fire changed in a way he would have never thought possible.
Rufus had tried to help him sort through it during the days that followed, was still helping him, one step at a time. God bless the man, he had accepted Jack’s story at face value, never once questioning its veracity or its plausibility. Of course, Rufus being Rufus, he had practically been beside himself with joy for Jack and what he emotionally referred to as “finally, the answer to ten years of storming heaven for the most hardheaded man in the city!”
Jack wasn’t sure he would ever find the courage to face Samantha, no matter how much time passed. He had no reason to hope she would even agree to see him, much less believe anything he told her. Worse still, there was always the possibility she would think it just another scheme on his part to wear her down and convince her to marry him.
Unable to bear the pain that the thought of Samantha still brought to him, he shoved his hands down inside his pockets and took a last look at the remains of what had once been the most important thing in the world to him.
On impulse, he walked around the rubble to see if he might spot anything worthwhile, anything that might still be usable. He was stooped over, sifting through the ashes surrounding a ruined piece of metal from one of the old presses, when the sound of a buggy coming to a stop made him turn and look toward the street.
What he saw brought him to his feet, heart pounding.
Samantha, in David Leslie’s buggy, was pulling up in front of the building—the little that was left of the building, that was. Too stunned to move, Jack stood watching as she stepped out of the buggy and began to walk toward him.
She had never looked lovelier, her face rosy from the cold and framed in the black velvet hood of her cape. A touch of lace could be seen at her neck, above the fastenings of her wrap, and as she picked her way carefully toward him, he caught a glimpse of highly polished black boots.
The sight of her struck him like a blow, taking his breath.
She slowed her pace when she saw him watching her, as if she might be reluctant to reach him. But she didn’t stop until she came to stand in front of him, only inches away.
“Samantha.” He heard the strangled sound of his own voice, as if the cold air had snatched the word up and blown it out across the debris of the building.
“Hello, Jack.”
He was somewhat surprised that she would meet his gaze so directly. When he thought about seeing her again, he almost always figured she would turn away from him—if not run away from him.
Instead, she stood there, searching his face as if she were looking for something.
Jack forced himself to meet her gaze, making no attempt to conceal his feelings as he did so.
She had not seen him since the night of the fire, and as she faced him, Samantha was shocked to see how he had seemed to age in so brief a time. She was almost certain there had not been so much silver along his temples before, nor had his deep-set eyes ever looked so shadowed. Those were new lines bracketing his mouth, and his face looked even leaner than she remembered.
The softness in his eyes was new, also, as was the utter lack of defiance, and even the old, bristling arrogance seemed to have disappeared. But it was more than that. Even though he definitely looked rather the worse for wear, he seemed to have acquired a kind of…stillness about him that had never been there before.
He glanced at the street, at the buggy parked there, and his mouth quirked a little. “Have you stolen the good doctor’s buggy for good, then, Samantha?”
Samantha smiled. “No, but he does tend to be excessively generous with it. I promised not to take advantage of his good nature any more after today. It’s just that I…wanted to see you, to tell you how sorry I am about—everything.” She inclined her head toward the ruins behind him, her heart aching for all he had lost.
She was relieved to see that he didn’t seem nearly as devastated—or as angry—as she would have expected him to be. “How are you, Jack?” she finally asked, somewhat lamely.
“Well enough.”
“Have you thought about what you’re going to do? About the paper?”
He glanced over his shoulder, then back to her.
“Rebuild, of course. Right here.”
She almost smiled at the decisiveness that was so much a part of his nature. “Yes, I thought you would.”
“I’m glad you came, Samantha. I’ve—wanted to see you. Just hadn’t worked up the courage as yet.”
His faint smile was somewhat shaky, Samantha thought.
Suddenly, she couldn’t remember anything she’d come here to say. Only that she had to see him, had to see for herself that he was all right. It was Christmas, after all, and he had lost so much.
More than anything else, however, she had to see for herself if it was true, what Rufus had told her.
And it was. She saw it in his eyes now, and for the first time in a long time, the stone lying heavy on her heart began to lift.
“You said you wanted to see me,” she ventured. “Was there—something special?”
Jack wished he could simply blurt ou
t the truth: Because I’m dying without you in my life! Because I need you more than I need anything else in the world! Because I love you beyond all telling!
Instead, he merely stood there gaping at her like a colossal fool. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am—for what I did,” he finally managed. “For all of it.”
She was looking at him with a peculiar expression. “Actually, you did tell me. The night of the fire.”
“Yes, well, there’s—something else, something that happened later, that I wanted you to know.” He pulled in a deep breath, and the cold air burned his lungs.
“I do know.”
Jack stared at her. “You know—what?”
“I’ve talked with Rufus,” she said, not quite meeting his gaze. “He told me…everything. I hope you don’t mind. He thought you might want me to know, but he wasn’t sure you’d tell me; he was afraid you might be too—”
“Hardheaded?” Jack offered.
“I believe that was the word he used, yes,” she said, turning back to him with a faint smile. She stood there, as if she wanted to say more but wasn’t sure she ought to.
“Well, for once, Rufus is wrong. I would have told you—if I’d thought you’d see me, that is—but I wanted to wait until I’d thought it through more carefully. I had to know it was—real.”
“And?”
“Well—I don’t pretend to understand it, not all of it. But it seems to me that it’s real.” Jack paused. “And I’m fairly certain you had a hand in it.”
She gave him a questioning look, but something told Jack she knew exactly what he was talking about.
“That night, when I was still inside the building, you were praying for me the entire time. Weren’t you?”
Her look was guarded, but he could see the flare of curiosity in her eyes as she nodded. “How did you know?”
Jack thought about how to answer her, decided there was no answer. Not really. “I didn’t, at least not then. Not until later. What I did know was that I didn’t get myself or the boy out of that building on my own. I was—well, Rufus says I was delivered out of the fire.”