by Susan Wiggs
“I’m so glad to see you back, sir,” Mrs. O’Leary said, gratefully unwrapping the parcel of flour and putting it in a tall bin. She made no reference to the way he had left before.
“Likewise,” he said noncommittally.
“You needn’t ‘sir’ him, Mam,” Kathleen said, sounding annoyed.
“It’s just that I remember my manners, I do,” Mrs. O’Leary said. “Help me get the goods put up, and then we’ll get supper. Your father’ll be that pleased to see you, he will.”
Mrs. O’Leary and Kathleen busied themselves fixing supper. They worked together at a plank counter, talking in low tones with their heads bent close in conspiratorial fashion. Dylan wasn’t certain what they were saying, but he knew that the next time Mrs. O’Leary looked at him, she wouldn’t see the tycoon she had thought he was. Wandering outside, he found the lads stacking firewood against the side of the house. While they worked, the little ones gathered bits of charcoal in a rusty bin with a handle.
It occurred to him to help them, but he didn’t want them to get the idea that he’d always be around to help. “Laying in for the winter, are you?” he asked.
Frank, the elder by a year or so, nodded, though he didn’t pause in his work. “I thought during the fire I’d be happy if I never saw another stick of wood again. But Mam’s worried. Winter’s coming on, and we’ve lost all except the house.”
The little girl—Mary was her name, he recalled—came over and tugged at his pant leg. She wore several layers of dirt and ash over her porcelain-fine skin, but even so, he could tell she would one day be as lovely as Kathleen. She had a perfect bow of a mouth, large green eyes and a smile that warmed the day. “Mr. Dylan,” she said, “is it true you married our Kathleen ‘cause you thought she was a rich lady?”
He was unaccustomed to feeling shame, but in this case, he did. A little. “I married your Kathleen,” he said, hunkering down and grinning at the girl, “because we were caught in the middle of the fire and we didn’t know what else to do. We were just pretending, though.”
She nodded sagely. “I pretended to marry Jackie Slater, but he’s not my friend anymore ‘cause I had to punch him in the nose.”
It must be a family trait, he thought. “Why’d you have to do that?”
She glanced from side to side, then crooked her finger, motioning him to come closer. Then she cupped her small hands around his ear and said, “He tried to look up my dress, he did.”
Dylan put his hands on her bony little shoulders. “Did it hurt him, when you punched him in the nose?”
“He bled all over himself and went wailing like a scare-baby to his mam.”
“Good. You did the right thing, Mary.”
A short while later, a pair of well-dressed men showed up. One of them set a camera on a tripod and aimed the aperture at the O’Leary house. Suspicious, Dylan strode over to them. “Can I ask what you’re about?”
“Sure can, mister.” One of the men, wearing shirt-sleeves pushed back with cuff bands, pointed at the house. “Charlie Mosher’s my name. This is for the Trib. Folks’ll want a look at the fire starter’s house.”
“You don’t say.” Dylan stroked his cheek thoughtfully.
In the yard, the children eyed the strangers with wary eyes. Mary clung to one of the boys and half hid behind him.
“So you can just park your camera right here and take all the pictures you please?” he asked.
“It’s a free country.” The man in the sleeves took out a long black cloth while the other opened a box of plates and chemicals.
“How would you like a picture of Mrs. O’Leary herself?” Dylan offered.
That got their attention.
“And her cow?” he added.
Within moments they had struck a deal. They would pay Mrs. O’Leary ten dollars for the sitting. Now all that remained was to get her to agree.
“Not for all of Saint Appollonia’s teeth,” she said, shrinking fearfully from the idea of having her picture made with the camera. She stood at the window, holding aside the flour sack curtain and peering at the men from the paper.
“Shame on you for even asking,” Kathleen added.
Dylan was experienced enough at this sort of thing to know what to say next. “Very well. They’ll just get your neighbor to do it for twice the money.” He headed for the door.
“Mrs. McLaughlin? And what’s she to do with any of it?” Mrs. O’Leary demanded.
“No more than you, I imagine.” He moved slowly toward the door. “Not that it matters to the newspaper reporters.”
“Wait,” Mrs. O’Leary said just before he left.
“Mam,” Kathleen said, “it’s exploitation.”
“It’s ten dollars I don’t have,” she said.
“I’ve got to give them an answer,” Dylan prodded.
Mrs. O’Leary said nothing. He could feel the dark pressure of her disapproval, and knew Kathleen had told her mother the truth—that he was a penniless schemer who only pretended to be a wealthy tycoon. In the past, he had never paused to consider that his actions might cause trouble or hurt. He simply hadn’t cared. Damn Kathleen. Damn her for making him care.
With a quiet sort of dignity, Mrs. O’Leary walked across the yard and spoke with the men. Then she turned to Dylan and Kathleen, hands planted on her hips. “We have a deal,” she said. “But what’s this you said about a cow, you great fool?”
“A minor detail. Didn’t we spy one up the street just a short while ago?” Dylan asked Kathleen.
“It wasn’t one of ours,” she said.
“We’d just be borrowing it.”
“Fine, then go fetch it home.”
Dylan kept a poker face. He had absolutely no experience with cows. In some of his burlesque acts, he had used learned pigs and counting horses, but cows were considered too stupid to perform.
“Give me five minutes,” he said, undaunted. “Frank and Connor, how about giving me a hand?”
The boys eagerly joined in the hunt for the cow. Anything was preferable to their chores.
“There she is,” Dylan called, heading for the middle of the block. The cow stood placidly by a ditch of brackish water. She was a huge thing, bigger than he recalled. She looked considerably calmer than she had earlier. Maybe someone had managed to milk her.
When Dylan and the boys approached, she looked up from drinking out of the ditch. Long strings of moisture streamed from her bovine mouth. She blinked at them slowly.
“Catch hold of her rope, then,” Dylan said to the boys.
Connor and Frank poked each other and giggled.
“Well?” he said. “What are you waiting for?”
The boys tried to sober up. One of them circled around the back of the cow while the other caught the frayed rope attached to the halter. “Here you are,” he said, holding the end of the rope out to Dylan.
He put up his hands, palms out. “I’ll let you lead her home.”
“Aw, come on, it was your idea,” Connor said, still giggling like an idiot.
“Here, I’ll go along behind with a switch.” Frank picked up a thin stick and swatted the large, swaying rump.
Dylan shook his head, aware that time was wasting. “Very well. Give me the rope and I’ll show you the meaning of easy money.”
Easy, he soon found out, was a relative term. It had been easy enough to get the offer from the photographer, and easy enough to convince Mrs. O’Leary to agree to sit for a photograph. However, bringing the cow to the yard was much more of a challenge. When Dylan tugged one way, the stupid beast tugged the other. When he pulled, the thing balked. Then the cow surged ahead, trotting along, and Dylan was almost dragged. Only with the boys herding front and back was he able to steer the animal into position in the yard.
They had managed to find a stool, a pail and a lamp for props. Kathleen and Mrs. O’Leary were busy putting the older woman’s hair neatly under a kerchief. When they heard Dylan come into the yard with the cow, they turned.
&n
bsp; Kathleen set her hands on her hips and burst out laughing, and her mother joined her.
Dylan scowled. This was a family of lunatics, to be sure. “What’s the matter?”
“I imagine you had some bit of trouble bringing that beast here,” Kathleen said.
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
“No wonder.” She wiped at tears of mirth. “You brought us a bull, Dylan Kennedy.”
Still clutching the rope, he whirled around. The boys had disappeared without a trace, but he could hear their laughter somewhere behind the house. Dylan bent down and inspected.
“A bull, eh?” he said. “But I thought that was—”
“There is a difference,” Kathleen said.
“How the devil am I supposed to know? I’ve never seen a bull up close in my life,” he said. “Nor a cow, for that matter.” He was not used to being the butt of someone else’s amusement. “All right then, let’s get this picture made.”
“With a bull?” Mrs. O’Leary asked.
“It won’t matter. Most people don’t know the difference.” He waved to the photographers. “Gentlemen, we are ready.”
Like Dylan, they didn’t seem to recognize the bull for what it was, either. With Kathleen feeding handfuls of hay to the creature, it stood placidly enough while Mrs. O’Leary took her place on the stool.
“Go ahead and milk her,” Mosher urged. “Just as you were when she kicked the lantern.”
Mrs. O’Leary shook her head. “I don’t think the poor creature’d take too well to that.” Her eyes brimmed with merriment as she rested her hand on the smooth hide.
That was the image they made with the picture. A humble woman and a cow that wasn’t really a cow against the backdrop of the weathered siding of the house, with straw strewn upon the ground. In the end they agreed that the image would make a fine picture postcard they could sell for a penny apiece, giving the O’Learys a share in the profits. Dylan did the talking, performing the transaction swiftly and easily, as it was not unlike other deals he had made on the fly. He even managed to sell them the lantern for another ten dollars, convincing them that it would fetch a much better sum as an artifact of the disaster. It never occurred to them to question whether or not this was the exact lamp that had started the fire.
Just before a supper of biscuits with bacon gravy, Patrick O’Leary arrived. Tall and well-built, with brown hair and dark eyes, he inspected Dylan with a keen stare. Dylan could see immediately that he was not a man to be trifled with.
“So you’re the one that married my daughter,” he said.
“After a fashion,” Dylan hedged.
“Without asking my permission.” Swift as lightning, O’Leary shoved him up against the wall. “You tricked my poor girl, you did,” he accused. “Took her virtue. She could be breeding already, for the love of Christ—”
The possibility of a pregnant Kathleen put the fear of God in Dylan. Or perhaps it was the meaty, drawn-back fist of her father. “Sir, it’s a long story—”
“But I’ll make short work of you, and all your fancy ways won’t save you.” He pressed the side of his forearm into Dylan’s windpipe. Dylan knew a number of ways to escape, but they all involved fighting dirty. He didn’t think kneeing Kathleen’s father in the groin was such a good idea. Red-faced from lack of air, he forced out a gurgling sound as his eyes bulged. He pushed at O’Leary’s arm, but the burly man was a rock—angry and unwilling to budge.
“Da.” Kathleen spoke quietly and put her hand on her father’s arm. “It’ll be all right, Da. You needn’t come to blows.”
Dylan was amazed—and gratified—by her timely intervention. But O’Leary only pressed harder, starving Dylan for air.
“He’s all red in the face,” Mary declared. “Look, Frank! He’s gone all red.”
“Are you going to kill him, Da?” Connor asked.
“Enough!” Mrs. O’Leary’s voice rang with the command of an experienced Irish wife. “You’ll not disrupt my peaceful house with your temper, Patrick O’Leary. Let him be. Now.”
The pressing arm relaxed by inches and finally dropped. Dylan sucked in a deep breath of air. He wondered if anything had been crushed or broken.
“By God I’ll have more words with the blighter,” O’Leary barked.
“Da—” Kathleen began, but he waved her silent.
“See here, you,” O’Leary said. “You’ll do right by my daughter.”
“Of course, sir.” Dylan cleared his throat, which still ached from the assault. He straightened his shoulders and looked O’Leary in the eye. He was experienced at this. He had faced stern, protective fathers before. They liked words of assurance. Of deference. “She’ll want for nothing. I’ll treat her like a queen.”
“Will he?” O’Leary demanded of Kathleen.
When she hesitated, Dylan said, “Didn’t I find you shelter in a Pullman car?” he asked. “Didn’t we dine on honey and champagne?”
Mrs. O’Leary’s weary face lit up. “Is that true, Kathleen?”
“Yes, Mam.” She blushed and stared at the floor.
“Honey and champagne,” Mary chanted. “Honey and champagne!”
The baby joined in, waving his grubby hands until his mother snatched him up and took him in her lap, laughing softly.
Dylan caught O’Leary’s eye. “I kept her safe through the fire,” he said. “I didn’t let her get hurt.”
“Aye,” O’Leary conceded. “But if you ever do…” He grasped Dylan’s arm, leaned forward and whispered harshly in his ear. It was one of the most creative and violent bodily threats Dylan had ever heard. He felt himself grow pale and his hand strayed protectively to the front of his trousers. O’Leary stepped away, crossing his arms over his thick chest. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Indeed,” Dylan said.
O’Leary turned to his elder daughter. “Are you sure, then, colleen?”
“Yes, Da.” Kathleen didn’t once look at Dylan. He had no idea what she was thinking. “I’m sure.”
“He said it was just pretend,” Mary piped up.
Both Dylan and Kathleen glared at her.
“Take the boys outside and wash up,” Mrs. O’Leary ordered her husband. “Ah, but it’s a curse being poor,” Mrs. O’Leary said, balancing the baby on her hip as her husband and sons trooped out.
Dylan chucked the baby under the chin. “I’ve never seen a richer child than this.”
Mrs. O’Leary’s heart melted; he could see it in her face. And the funny thing was, his comment had been sincere. He had held large fortunes in his hands, but he had never had what this family possessed in abundance.
“Sit down to supper,” Mrs. O’Leary said when her husband returned. He took his place at one end of a scarred pine trestle table, and Dylan sat down at the other. Despite the simplicity of the fare, it smelled delicious.
Dylan was about to dig in when Mrs. O’Leary clasped her hands together on the table. Her husband and children followed suit. She bowed her head and said quickly, “For what we are about to receive, may the good Lord our God make us truly thankful. Amen.”
The others echoed “Amen” around the table and fell to. Dylan was unexpectedly touched by the O’Learys. He had never had a soul to care about him, to fix him supper and say grace with over a simple meal. He was fascinated by the way the family clung together, bracing themselves in a unified front against the onslaught of hardship. It was a new way to face troubles, one he didn’t understand at all. He was used to looking out for himself and no one else.
After supper, Kathleen and Mrs. O’Leary explained about the photograph. Patrick threw a thunderous look at Dylan Kennedy, but his wife intervened. “Winter’s coming on, and we’ve lost nearly all we have. This morning we didn’t have five cents to spare. The money will help.”
“It’s as good as saying you’re guilty,” he blustered. “What’ll you say when you’re brought up to make a statement before the Board of Fire?”
She grew pale and reached for hi
s hand. “Patrick, I couldn’t.”
“You’ll have to. I had it from the West Division marshal himself.”
She made the sign of the cross and lifted her gaze to heaven. Looking discomfited, Kathleen touched her hand. “You’ll be fine, Mam. You did nothing wrong. They can’t blame a drought and a windstorm on you, for mercy’s sake.”
Mrs. O’Leary relaxed a little and forced a smile. “You’re a comfort to your Mam, so you are,” she said.
They finished eating in silence, and after the washing up, Kathleen took off her borrowed apron. “We must be going,” she said.
Going? Dylan scratched his head. He had assumed she would stay here, in the bosom of her family. Yet after he thanked her mother for supper and headed for the door, she came with him.
To Dylan’s surprise, O’Leary followed them outside. A twinkle shone in his eye. “I’m giving you a world of trouble, lad,” he said gruffly. “And she’s worth every last drop of it.”
“No doubt about that, sir.” Dylan wasn’t sure which statement he was agreeing with.
O’Leary gently pressed a kiss to Kathleen’s forehead. “Slainte, my girl,” he whispered.
“Thank you, Da,” she said, and the depth of their affection radiated between them. Its glow illuminated a hollow place inside Dylan. Had he ever known that sort of bond? If he had, his heart didn’t remember.
“Good night,” Kathleen added as her father returned to the house. O’Leary stood on the stoop, solid as a stone as he watched them go.
Dylan walked away, annoyed that she had accompanied him. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.
She bridled, tossing her head like a proud mare. “That depends. Where are you going?”
He hadn’t thought about it much. The safest plan for him would be to skip town and put together a game or two. Once he had a little money, he could start over again, clean and unencumbered. Kathleen was proving harder to shake than a flophouse flea, though.
“I’m going back to the train car. If possible, I’ll find a bottle and get roaring drunk.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.”
He started walking. “You don’t. You should stay here with your family.”