by Susan Wiggs
“’Tis said the building is fireproof,” the priest reminded him.
Dylan had seen several fireproof buildings this night. Their steel structures had not burned, but they had melted, bringing a brimstone of rubble down, every bit as deadly as burning timber. But he said nothing. Already the temperature in the church had risen. Bull sat down on the pew and closed his eyes.
“So why are you still here, Father?” Dylan asked.
He patted the front of his robe. “I have to safeguard some of the church papers. We’ve a special place for such things.” He hastened behind the high altar, moving a grate from the stones of the presbytery. “I won’t be a minute,” he called over his shoulder.
“And how is he going to keep them from burning?” Dylan asked in a whisper. “Divine intervention?”
Kate caught her breath in outrage. By the golden light of the fire, she looked utterly magnificent. And offended by his joke. He sent her an intimate smile and touched her hand. “Surely we can make light of it.”
Propped up on a pew, Bull snored, hauling in a breath like a steam engine. Dylan could see her trying to cling to indignation, but she lost the battle and smiled up at him.
Dylan eschewed the usual rush of gratification that he felt when a mark swallowed his bait. Women like Kate weren’t used to being lied to. They never expected it. Deceiving her on this small matter was no great achievement.
“Don’t be put off by my irreverence,” he said, offering fair warning. “Maybe I’m simply trying to cover up my deeper feelings for you.”
She smacked his arm. “Stop being a tease in church.”
He gazed down at her, using that soft look women loved. “Kate, I am not teasing. All my life I’ve waited for a woman like you. I stopped believing she existed. Until tonight. When I met you, I learned to believe in miracles again.” The fact that he sat at the altar of a church, lying through his teeth, did not faze him in the least. “May the Almighty strike me dead if I lie,” he added defiantly.
When the shell over the upper choir collapsed, he got a little superstitious. Grabbing Kate’s hand, he hauled her toward the principal doorway.
Father Michael came rushing back from the presbytery. “We’re out of time,” he said, calm but clearly worried. “Help me get Mr. Bull on his feet. We’d best hurry to the courthouse.” He and Dylan grabbed the big man by the arms. Bull moaned and protested, dazed from his head wound.
“This way,” the priest said, pushing and pulling the man down the aisle to the main door. He paused at the deep stone font. “Wait,” he said. Scooping with both hands, he liberally doused Bull with holy water, soaking him from head to toe. “For the run to the courthouse,” the priest said as Dylan and Kate followed suit.
“I ain’t Catholic,” Bull said, sputtering.
“You are now, my son,” Father Michael told him with a wink.
In the churchyard, they encountered a group of men with an artillery cart. Led by a city alderman, they intended to use explosives to destroy the whole church to keep the fire from spreading to the adjacent neighborhood.
“The only wooden part of the building is the steeple, sir,” Father Michael shouted.
“And already a corner of it’s in flames,” the officer shouted back. “It’ll be a torch to ignite the rest of the neighborhood. To get the steeple down, we’ve got to dynamite the whole structure.”
“You can’t dynamite a church.” Kate regarded the priest in alarm. “It’s a desperate mortal sin, surely,” she said. “Isn’t it?”
Dylan read the genuine distress on her face, smudged with ash, yet beautiful still in the eerie, flickering firelight. He was amazed a woman like this hadn’t been spoken for. She had the sort of soft, lovely face that made a man want to promise her the moon and the stars.
“Suppose,” he said, calling himself a fool even as he spoke, “the steeple alone were to come down. Would that satisfy you?”
“It would indeed. But how—”
“Give me all the rope you have, and ten minutes. And unhitch those draft horses from your artillery.” Dylan felt disgusted with himself. It wasn’t like him to risk his life saving children and churches, yet in the past hour, he had unwittingly devoted himself to doing just that. But something in the bewhiskered man’s skepticism, and in Kate’s worshipful gaze, inspired him. With a showman’s flourish, he shed his cloak and frock coat, hefted several coils of rope, then went up the side of the building, using corbels in the masonry as handholds.
He knew the stunt looked more dangerous than it was, particularly for him. In his varied careers, he had performed many feats of gymnastics, but when he reached the ridge of the roof some seventy feet above the ground, he began to question his own sanity. Sparks hissed at his wet clothing, and roof tiles came loose under his feet. Balancing with arms outstretched, he grimly traversed the roof. By the time he crossed to the steeple, the wooden spire roared with flames. Smoke spewed from the louvered sides, choking him and enshrouding him so that he knew he wasn’t visible to the onlookers far below. With the sting of embers raining on his back, he managed to loop the rope around each corner of the spire.
He lowered himself with the ropes, hearing a huge cheer go up when he appeared below the billows of smoke. Remembering his showman’s style, he took a bow and tried not to cough. Then he set to work quickly, securing the ropes to the base of the burning steeple. A crew of men on the ground cleared the area. The straining horses brought down the ruined steeple, its remains breaking into searing embers in the churchyard.
Dizzy from the smoke, Dylan used the last rope to rappel down the side of the building.
“Bless you,” said Father Michael, his eyes shining as he offered a jug of water. “Bless you for what you have done.”
Dylan drank greedily from the jug, battling a fit of coughing.
Like an angel of mercy, Kate used a cloth dampened in the baptismal font to wash his face.
“Save that cloth,” Dylan said with a grin. “It could become a holy relic.”
She shook her head in exasperation, then turned her attention to Father Michael. “It’s a shame altogether to lose the steeple,” she said.
“Indeed it is.”
The smoke must have addled his brain, for Dylan felt the urge to make a grand gesture. Before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “The steeple will be replaced once this is all over. If it takes the last copper penny of my fortune, I’ll see it rebuilt.” It was almost worth the insincere promise to watch the expression on Kate’s face.
“You’re one hell of a fool,” Bull muttered.
Under the arched central portal of the church, they prepared to evacuate. The lovely gardens had become a wasteland of scorched earth. The men of the explosives crew hastened away to their next target, leaving the four of them to make their way to safety. Supported by the young priest, Bull pushed at the wrought iron gate, snatching his hand back as the hot metal seared him.
“It is a vision of purgatory,” Father Michael said, kicking the gate open with his thick leather brogan. He and Bull started out, the priest reciting Psalm 23 in ringing tones: “The Lord is my shepherd…”
“Wait a moment,” Kate said with sudden urgency.
“Now what? Did you spy a cat caught in a tree or something?” Dylan had already had his fill of foolish heroics for the night.
“…maketh me to lie down in green pastures…” The priest’s voice grew fainter as he walked away.
“It’s not that. But as we were standing here I—” She clutched his arm. “A feeling came over me, and I suddenly realized that it’s now or never.”
“Now or never for what?”
“I think perhaps you should kiss me.” Her long-lashed eyes worshiped him.
Few things caught Dylan off guard, but this did. “Kiss you.”
“Yes, please.”
“I’m more than happy to oblige,” he said. Under the dripstone archway of the church, he took her in his arms, amazed that even after the night’s ordeal,
she retained an exquisite female scent that drove him mad. He slowly bent his head and kissed her.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” called Father Michael, “I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me…”
Kissing Kate was like taking a holiday from the real world. She transported him utterly, took him away from the troubles that deviled him. He had always known he loved wealthy heiresses. What surprised him was that she made that love feel like a form of adoration. She tasted like heaven and, when he drew back to gaze down at her, she looked like an angel. Perhaps he would marry this one. Yes, that would do nicely. Her fortune would see him through the hard times. If Costello found out, he would hit the roof, but her money would calm him down. Dylan would find a way to make it work.
The roar and lash of the flames reminded him that they had best be going.
“I just have one question,” he said as they plunged across the churchyard toward Courthouse Square. “Not that I’m complaining, but why did you feel the need to kiss me just then?”
She clung to his hand as they confronted a wall of flame racing in from the west. “In case it’s the ast thing I do.”
SIX
Kathleen didn’t know who to thank for getting them to the courthouse intact—God, the Blessed Virgin or Dylan Kennedy. Certainly Dylan deserved much of the credit, navigating the way through a burning tunnel of fire from the church to the courthouse. They had skirted a roaring pit of debris and arrived filthy and singed, but unharmed.
She was still in awe of his climb to the steeple. When he’d disappeared into the smoke, she had refused to move or breathe until she saw him again. He was the most marvelous man she had ever met, and she never wanted to leave his side.
He seemed to possess a special gift for finding a way to escape danger. And the remarkable thing was, he seemed to enjoy a sense of mortal peril, laughing and cheering the others on when their energy flagged.
The courthouse rose like a splendid medieval castle above the rubble and ruin. The massive fortress bore a tall cupola that towered above the surrounding buildings of the business district. It was Chicago’s showpiece, a monument to civic pride and decorative excess. Its rounded windows, lacy stonework and figured wrought iron gave it a solid permanence that had attracted many refugees from the fire.
The lifeblood of the city pulsed through the heart of the marble monstrosity. It contained the offices of the mayor, the Board of Police, the chief marshal, the county courtrooms and the jail in the basement. The main fire alarm telegraph had been, for hours, drumming out warnings in every direction.
Kathleen shaded her eyes to take in the soaring spires and turrets, the fantastic bell tower. She had passed it many a time over the years, traveling from the Sinclair mansion to her parents’ rustic home.
Turning away from the courthouse, she stared adoringly at the sweaty, smudged, handsome face of Dylan Kennedy. When he kissed her, it felt like a benediction. When he smiled, she forgot who she was. When he held her close, she stopped being afraid.
Since the destruction of the gasworks, the lights had gone out. Other refugees in the courthouse carried lanterns or simply stood at the windows, staring in mute amazement at the fire that burned brighter than the sun. The iron picket fence around the yard actually glowed red in places from the heat. The ornamental maples on the lawn flamed like giant torches.
On one side of the building, men worked a hose attached to a fire plug. They stood in a line in the windy gloom, aiming the stream at the limestone walls. A marshal, in a long canvas coat pocked with black holes from falling sparks, strode through the foyer shouting orders. A few men, armed with buckets and brooms, headed to the roof to fend off the flames. A line of clerks and couriers scurried up from the basement with boxes of court and county records. They were loading them into carts at the rear of the building.
“Where do you suppose they think they’re going?” asked Kathleen. “Don’t they know there’s no way to get clear of the fire from here?”
“They’ll find out soon enough.”
“Our friend here needs to sit down,” said Father Michael, sweating and wheezing as he propped up Bull.
Kathleen wanted to tell the priest that a miracle had brought her to the church. He was a young man, new to St. Brendan’s. That was why he hadn’t recognized her as one of the parishioners. But if she survived this night, she would have quite a confession to make.
Dylan glanced around the swarming foyer. “To the courtrooms,” he suggested, leading the way to the wide marble stairs.
The largest room had been set up as a makeshift infirmary. Most of the wooden furniture had been cleared out. The sight of suffering, wounded people lying on pallets or coats or even the bare floor touched Kathleen’s heart with pity and fear. She thanked God her family was safe, but the burned and broken people in this room reminded her that not everyone had been so lucky.
“Kathleen?” A tentative voice spoke her name.
She whirled to confront a tall, lanky man whose face was smudged with soot. It was Barry Lynch, a clerk who had been trying to court her for a year. She immediately glanced around to see if Dylan had heard. He was preoccupied with helping Bull, she saw with relief. “Barry,” she said, her hands closing around the back of a witness box rail. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
His arms, long and gangling past a shirt several sizes too small, reached for her. She took a step back. “I’m glad to know you’re all right.”
“And you. But what is that you’re wearing? You look like a fine lady.”
“I, uh, I made some new friends,” she said, unable to think of a better explanation. She felt so awkward around him. He believed he was wooing her, but the courting was entirely one-sided. The sincere, hardworking dockyard clerk had admired her since they were children playing along the banks of the ditch behind the O’Learys’ cow barn. He was a decent, God-fearing man and the idea of pledging her life to him gave Kathleen a case of the shivers.
“Is everything all right, Kate?” Dylan asked, coming to her side. With a nonchalance she found slightly thrilling, he slid his hand around her waist in proprietary fashion.
Barry scowled. “Who are you?”
“Barry, over here! Give me a hand with these buckets,” someone shouted.
Still scowling, he stalked away.
“Who was that?” Dylan asked negligently.
“Oh, just some clerk or other, I imagine,” she replied. Then, as Barry and his companion went to rejoin the firefighting, she felt appalled at herself. Just because she didn’t want him as a suitor did not mean she should dismiss his very existence like Peter denying Jesus. She made a vow to add that to her ever-lengthening confession next Friday.
An agitated man stood in the marble hall, shouting incoherently. Kathleen and Dylan exchanged a glance. If he had lost his mind, he would not be the first this night. But this particular man, gesticulating at the parade of records clerks, looked familiar. She thought she had seen him somewhere before.
“Good God,” she said to Dylan as recognition dawned on her. “That is the mayor of Chicago.”
“Your Honor,” Dylan said with the same steely calm he had shown at the church. “Please, come and rest in the courtroom. I’ll find you something to drink.”
“I cannot leave my post, sir,” Mayor Mason insisted.
“You’re needed in there, by the citizens who elected you, Your Honor.” Dylan shepherded him to the door.
The dazed mayor wandered in and sat on the jury bench, holding his head in his hands. But only for a moment. He seemed to draw strength from the worried people gathered there. He drank water from a jar someone handed him, then stood. “I must go to the bell tower to check the progress of the fire.”
“We’ll go with you,” Kathleen declared.
“We will?” Dylan asked.
“Of course. We mustn’t let him go alone.” Judging by all her escapades this night, she should be bone weary, but instead she felt curiously m
anic, invigorated, her nerves tingling. Without looking to see if Dylan followed, she and the mayor went out into the marble hall and hurried to the top storey, where they climbed a narrow, winding utility stair. The bell, being rung in alarm, filled the narrow shaft with earsplitting noise.
Between the bongs of the bell, the mayor and Dylan spoke like old cronies. And they probably were, she reflected. What a wondrous thing, to be so important that you were on a first-name basis with the mayor himself. Dylan inhabited an exclusive world and tonight, for the briefest of times, she belonged to that world. The trouble was, she wanted to stay, and she knew that would be impossible.
They emerged from the stair into the smoky air high above the city. The soaring cupola, the four-faced clock and the massive bell overwhelmed Kathleen with their huge proportions. She felt like a tiny doll on the fire watchman’s platform, clinging to a rail as a horrific wind whipped over her.
The tall flagpole made an eerie swishing sound as the storm wind bent it like a bow. The watchmen stationed on the tower signaled to acknowledge the mayor. Kathleen gripped the rail and looked down.
“Mother Mary and Joseph,” she said under her breath. From this vantage point, she could see the fire and all the devastation in its wake. Streets paved in glowing coals. A blackened swatch of scorched earth. A hellish roil of smoke. At the leading edge of the band of destruction blazed the long hungry tongues of the wind-driven flames, lapping up everything in their path. She faced the West Division, trying to make out her parents’ neighborhood, but the area lay in distant blackness. The river, regarded as an unbreachable barrier earlier in the evening, formed an insignificant ditch crammed with flaming vessels, burning bridges, tugs screaming to get the spans to rotate. Explosions blinded her. Every store of gunpowder and kerosene in the city fell victim to the devouring flames.
A few blocks from the courthouse, a blazing raft of shingles dropped into an open tar tank on the roof of another gasworks substation. A large gasholder flared up, roaring like the breath of a monster. Kathleen shrank against Dylan, grateful for the solid feel of his arms around her. When she dared to look again, the firelight played over the mayor’s face, which seemed frozen in unspeaking dread.