Susan Wiggs Great Chicago Fire Trilogy Complete Collection

by Susan Wiggs

  She surprised them both by pushing out from behind Dylan. “Don’t shoot!” she shrieked. “I beg you, don’t shoot him.” And she flung herself in front of him.

  Dylan and Costello shared a moment of pure, flabbergasted confusion. Dylan thought fast. He’d have to explain her, but how? If he admitted he’d married her, Costello would shoot him down like a dog.

  “That’s just like you,” Costello said with a sneer of contempt, “to use a woman as a shield. You haven’t changed, Kennedy.”

  Dylan kept his best smile in place and swallowed hard, trying to keep the whiskey down, even though it burned at the back of his throat. Carefully he edged away from Kathleen, disengaging her hands from his lapels. “You’ll have to excuse this poor creature,” he said reasonably. “She’s been clinging to me like a barnacle ever since the fire.”

  Costello eyed her keenly, his small sharp eyes taking in a face and figure Aphrodite would envy. “Why?” he demanded.

  “Because she’s distraught. Likely to do anything…Just a moment.” As if leading her in a dance step, Dylan took her hand and brought her over to a flatbed pump car. He held her elbow in the clamp of his hand and prayed her horror at the gun would keep her quiet. “What did you do a fool thing like that for? Don’t you know guns are dangerous?”

  “Only to cheaters like you,” she said. “That man wouldn’t have shot me. He doesn’t even know me.”

  Her naivete was stunning. “Wait here,” he said between gritted teeth. “Don’t move, and don’t say a word.”

  Kathleen made a small squeak of protest. “I’ll do nothing of the sort. I—”

  He pressed her against the edge of the car and hid his lips in her hair. “Trust me on this,” he implored her. “He means business. He’ll shoot me.”

  “And that should concern me, after what you just said—”

  He touched a finger to her full lips, wishing she wasn’t so damned pretty and soft—she bit him. Swearing, he snatched his hand away.

  “You just threw yourself in front of me,” he said peevishly, shaking out his hand. “At least part of you is concerned.”

  “A reflex, that’s all.”

  “Look, he’s a dangerous man. We’ve had our problems in the past. I have to make him believe we can make amends.”

  She crossed her arms in front of her and glared straight ahead. “You have one minute, boyo.”

  “Just promise you won’t say a word, no matter what I have to tell him. Let me sort this out on my own. I’ll make it all right, Kathleen. I will. Trust me on this.” He gave her a look that melted with sincerity, one that had worked on her in the past. He made his eyes go soft, his mouth slightly open, the way he might just before kissing her.

  It failed to thaw her, but she didn’t get angry. She did something worse. She bit her lip to keep it from trembling, and whispered, “I wish I could trust that look on your face.”

  Damn. She made him feel as if he’d just kicked a puppy. He turned quickly and went back to Vincent Costello, who had lowered the gun but kept it in his hand.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “She’s my mistress,” Dylan said on a wave of inspiration.

  “Mistress!” Costello roared.

  Dylan flinched and hoped Kathleen would hold her tongue.

  “You scum! Jackal!” the older man said. “You promised to be true to Faith—”

  “Exactly.” Dylan lowered his voice to a conspiratorial, man-to-man whisper. “That is exactly why I had to take up with a lesser woman. Your daughter is as delicate as a snowflake, Vince, you know that.”

  His whole being seemed to soften at the mention of his beloved daughter. “True enough. Never understood why she’s so smitten with you, but for once, you’re right. Delicate, she is.”

  “Fragile,” Dylan supplied.

  “Fragile, too. That’s my Faith.”

  “And as you know,” he reminded Vince, “a man, with a man’s needs, is far from delicate and gentle. In my enthusiasm for Faith, I feared she might think me too…aggressive. That is why I made the painful decision to take a mistress.”

  He sneaked a glance at Kathleen. Even from a distance, he could see her shoulders stiffen and her knuckles whiten. She was probably trying to decide whether or not to wallop him. There was nothing fragile or delicate about Kathleen.

  “You see, I didn’t want to inflict my, uh, needs on Faith. Without some avenue for relief, I might have brought those most unfortunate needs to your daughter. Sir.”

  Costello beaded his eyes. “You low-down—”

  “Ask yourself, Vince,” Dylan said calmly. “What man does without a mistress? You yourself had one even while you were married to Mrs. Costello, of sainted memory. And she thanked God on her knees every day that you took your coarse needs elsewhere.”

  “But my Faith—”

  “Is her mother’s daughter,” Dylan assured him.

  Vincent Costello’s soft spot—his daughter, and the memory of his late wife—was the only vulnerability Dylan had ever found in him. His harsh, rough face went slack at the thought of the women he loved.

  Dylan was curious about a love like that. How was it that a man as ruthless as Vincent Costello could feel such tenderness for a wife and child?

  But that was a matter to ponder later. Now was the time to press his advantage, knowing he had to make his point quickly or risk Kathleen speaking up and ruining everything. “I don’t want to hurt Faith,” he said in a very low voice. “That’s why I took off.”

  “You can start making amends by handing over the cash you made off with.”

  “I told you, Vince. It’s gone.” He thought of the moldering hulk of the boat he had been living on, a small fortune stashed in the bow. “Burned in the fire.”

  “A likely story. You—”

  “Mr. Costello! Sir, you’re needed over here.” A railroad switchman waved his arm. “Got another relief train to unload.”

  Costello squared his shoulders. Dylan frowned. “You’re working for the railroad now?”

  “For the church.” The older man smirked, the way he used to when he played the shill in the burlesque shows. “Mayor Mason’s already declared martial law. He’s been making appointments for the rebuilding, handing out policeman’s stars like sugar candy.” He tucked his thumbs in his armpits and rocked back on his heels. The gun dangled from one fingertip. “I’m in charge of the Catholic Relief Aid Fund.”

  Dylan shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

  “Someone’s got to handle all the thousands of dollars pouring in.” He squinted peevishly at Dylan. “You could probably secure some sort of post. Procurement’s your specialty.”

  Just then, Faith showed up, as pale and earnest as a plaster saint, perched on the driver’s seat of a cart full of homeless people. She wore a gray dress, lacking in all ornament except for the large crucifix around her neck. The black kerchief on her head resembled a nun’s wimple. When she spied Dylan, her eyes sparkled with the fervor of a martyr in ecstasy.

  “Mr. Kennedy!” she called, handing the reins of the cart to a boy. She climbed down with awkward haste and hurried over to him, her sturdy brogans marking the ashes on the surface of the yard. Clasping her hands in elation, she beamed at him. “Papa swore he would find you, and so he did. I’m so pleased that you’re all right.”

  Burningly aware of Kathleen’s scrutiny, he bowed from the waist. “By the grace of God, I am.”

  She didn’t question him about his disappearance. Unlike Kathleen, she had never forced him to justify anything he’d done. Faith didn’t need to be won over. She was already his. She had been for years, ever since she was a girl of thirteen, regarding him with worshipful eyes as he performed illusions for a carnival crowd.

  “Thank you, Papa,” she said, then gestured at the cart. “This is perfect timing. I need help with my relief project.”

  Faith always had a project. It was amazing that the daughter of one of America’s most artful criminals harbored nothing but pure c
harity in her heart. No matter where they traveled, she always managed to find some sort of benevolent work for the unfortunate. It was a trait Dylan admired, but not enough to give her the one thing she longed for—a firm date for their wedding.

  He longingly watched a string of train cars uncouple and head south. With all of his heart, he wanted to be on one of those cars, alone, unfettered, headed straight into the night. He wondered if Bull had hopped a train yet. If he was smart, he’d get out now.

  “You heard my daughter,” Costello said. “She needs help.” The railroad worker whistled for his attention. “As for myself, I must dedicate my efforts to the relief work.”

  “A model citizen,” Dylan muttered under his breath. Letting Costello handle donations for the refugees was like putting the fox in charge of the henhouse. Dylan only wished he’d thought of it first.

  Costello assured Faith he would be close at hand. When she had appeared, he’d smoothly concealed his gun. He had a gift for doing that. Surely she must know that her father was a notorious criminal, an occasionally violent man, but she regarded him with nothing less than love and respect. “Take care, Papa,” she said as he walked toward the terminal. “I’ll find you later.” Then she turned to Dylan, beaming under her invisible halo. “My prayers are answered,” she said. “I did so want to find you again, and now I have. Everything is going to be perfect.” Grabbing his arm, she pulled him toward the cart.

  “Actually,” he said, “I was on my way to, uh, organize a soup kitchen for the hungry.”

  “Aren’t you a dear?”

  “Completely.” It was awkward as hell, having Kathleen close by, dressed like Cinderella out past her curfew. She seemed to be waiting and watching. Maybe she would keep her distance.

  Faith gestured at the wagon. “These good people must all be sent to hospitals out of town. I need help getting them to a train, for they’re all wounded.”

  The ideal situation for Faith—helping the poor and the wounded. Dylan hoped for her sake there was an afterlife; Faith sure was racking up the rewards.

  He craned his neck to see how Kathleen was taking it all in, but she was nowhere to be seen. The flatbed had been abandoned. Dylan scanned the area, and nearly swore aloud when he spied her with the cart Faith had driven by herself from the city.

  Kathleen sat on the tailgate, a man’s head in her lap, stroking his hair. She barely acknowledged Dylan as he approached.

  “This is Barry Lynch,” she said quietly, keeping her attention focused on the unconscious man.

  “I’m so grateful you know his name,” Faith said. “He was found near the courthouse.”

  At the sound of Faith’s voice, Kathleen glanced up. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Faith Costello,” she said demurely.

  Kathleen hesitated. Dylan held his breath. She sent Faith a cordial smile and said, “Kathleen O’Leary.”

  Dylan eased out a long, silent breath of relief. He pretended it was the most natural thing in the world to be in the company of the woman he’d promised to marry and the one who called herself his wife.

  “Barry’s a friend,” Kathleen said, her hand trembling as she stroked the long-bodied young man’s brow. “He was at the courthouse Sunday night.” To Dylan’s shock, heartfelt grief shimmered in her eyes. “I barely acknowledged him.”

  “There now,” Faith said soothingly. “He’ll be all right. His burns aren’t terrible, like some, but he’s had a bump on the head.”

  Kathleen took a bandana handkerchief from the pocket of the fallen man and gently dabbed at his brow. “Poor Barry.”

  “He’s a fine-looking man, isn’t he?” Faith commented.

  “I—” Kathleen glanced up, blinking slowly. “Yes, I suppose he is.”

  Barry Lynch moaned softly and moved his head on Kathleen’s soft thighs. Dylan wanted to knock him unconscious again, the blighter.

  “Quickly,” Faith said. “He needs water.” Someone passed her a flask, and she held it to his lips. His eyes fluttered open and rolled back, unfocused. Then he drank a little, the water spilling out the sides of his mouth onto Kathleen’s dress. He seemed to be staring at the crucifix on Faith’s bosom. Kathleen very carefully eased out from under him and Faith stepped in, gently supporting his head with her hand.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  “You’re at the Michigan and Illinois terminal,” Faith said.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her. “Are you sure you’re not an angel?”

  She favored him with a dewy-eyed smile. “Heavens, no.”

  “I thought I’d die in that fire.”

  “You’re going to be fine, Barry Lynch. I promise.”

  “How do you know my name?” he asked in a wavering voice. “You are an angel….”

  Kathleen caught Dylan’s eye. With a jerk of her head, she motioned him away from the wagon, heading for cover between two standing cars.

  They were arguing almost before they were out of earshot.

  “Now do you understand why I can’t stick around Chicago?” Dylan demanded.

  “Because you’re not only a swindler, but a liar as well.”

  “You’re one to talk.”

  “How dare you tell Mr. Costello I am your mistress?”

  “Would you prefer I call you my illegitimate wife? Or better yet, the trollop I abandoned in a train yard?”

  She hit him then. It was no ladylike slap but a decent right jab to the jaw that made him see stars. He didn’t trust himself to speak, but held his jaw, working it from side to side to make sure she hadn’t broken it. It knocked aside the last comforting effects of the whiskey. Fuming, he stalked away, scanning the train cars for a likely hideaway. He saw none, but remembered with searing clarity the Pullman car where he and Kathleen had celebrated their marriage. Whether or not the union was legal, the days they had spent between the sheets had been real, as vivid as a brand in his mind. How was it that this redheaded virago had been so sweet, so pliant, so passionate, only a day ago?

  “It’s no more than you deserve, Dylan Kennedy,” she called, catching up with him. Her voice was calmer now, as if she had spent the tension of her anger in the punch.

  “And less than I’ve endured before,” he said, discovering his jaw to be in good working order, although it throbbed badly. “I wish you’d quit hitting me. I can’t abide a woman who hits.”

  “I wouldn’t have to hit you if you’d face up to your responsibilities.”

  “I’ve already told you,” he said with exaggerated patience. “Our marriage was as real as a shell game. Smoke and mirrors, sleight of hand. I’m not responsible for you or your family.”

  “What about the other promises you made?”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, you promised to help Mr. Fraser with his grain shipment.”

  Dylan scratched his head. “Mr. who?”

  “Mr. David Fraser. You promised him you would find a way to get his grain to market.”

  He finally remembered the earnest, desperate man out on the eastern shore. “There is no possible way I could concern myself less with him,” he said stonily. “Or anyone else for that matter. Besides, there is no business to be done in the city. What does it matter, anyway?”

  “It’ll create a false shortage and the price will go through the roof,” she explained. “Then it will plummet when that barge shows up.”

  “Correction. I could concern myself less than I did a moment ago,” he said in a bored voice. “Besides, no barge can show up until a tug is dispatched. And no tug will depart because the port is still in a state of chaos and there are no wires getting through.”

  “The Board of Trade’s burned and all records are gone,” she said thoughtfully. “All the performance bonds and price discoveries. It will be a fine mess. Unscrupulous deals will abound.”

  Dylan gave a mock shudder. “I can’t stand unscrupulous men. Scoundrels, all of them.”

  “There’s no need for sarcasm. But I suppose I can’t mak
e you care about a promise you made if you won’t even care about me.”

  Her temper had the odd, unsettling effect of making her more attractive than ever. He had to drag out a sarcastic remark. “Now you’re catching on.”

  “Except,” she said with a subtle lift of her eyebrow, “I think you do care about me.”

  “You’re dreaming,” he snapped, and started to pace. Why was she so damned hard to dismiss?

  On a platform a short distance away, Vincent ordered workmen about, setting up a desk with a ledger and strongbox. Dylan felt a hint of reluctant admiration. Leave it to Costello to get himself a post receiving money.

  “How do you know Mr. Costello and his daughter?” she asked, following his gaze.

  “He’s a…commission merchant of some sort.” Dylan didn’t elaborate.

  “Well, he is certainly doing his part for the city.”

  “Indeed,” he said wryly.

  “You should consider joining the effort. Mayor Mason doesn’t know you’re a cad. He’d probably give you a job.”

  “I don’t take jobs. Not that sort, anyway.”

  “All right. Then you must come this way,” Kathleen said, grabbing his sleeve and giving it a tug. They climbed over the coupling between two cars and hurried down a rocky bank. There was, he discovered, at least one advantage to her true identity. She knew the streets of Chicago even with the landmarks burned away, and within a few minutes, she had led him from the terminal to the financial district.

  But he knew her better now. She was up to something.

  “Wait a minute,” he said, stopping in his tracks. “Why am I following you?”

  She poked her nose in the air. “You have no choice.”

  He laughed. “Just try holding on to me,” he challenged her.

  “I believe I could enlist Mr. Costello to help. He seems very good at…holding on to things.”

  Dylan spread his arms in frustration. “Why would you want to? I’m no good, Kathleen. You don’t want a liar and a con artist for a husband—”