Her Safe Harbor: Prairie Romance (Crawford Family Book 4)

by Holly Bush

  Jennifer held her mother close to her side and looked for a way to exit the gathered crowd. One young woman asked Jennifer if there was anything she could do to help, and she sent her for her father or Jolene.

  “Clear the way,” Jeffrey said then and bent down to Jane’s face. “I will find you a place to rest. Lean on me now.”

  “Oh, yes, please,” Jane said to him and allowed him to hold her by the waist and guide her out of the crowd through a path that had magically opened.

  Jennifer followed and saw her father hurrying to them and Jolene not far behind. Jennifer turned to the door and found a servant to ask that the family carriage be brought to the door immediately.

  * * *

  Zeb wandered through Willow Tree, passing servants, all of whom asked if they could help him or get him anything, or show him to the library. He declined their assistance and instead continued walking the wide hallways until he passed a doorway that servants were coming from and going into. He opened the door and found a stairwell leading to a labyrinth of rooms, including a massive kitchen.

  Cooks, maids, and housemen all were at work, doing their assigned duties. A short, round woman approached him.

  “Are you looking for Mr. Bellings or Mrs. Gutentide, sir?” she asked.

  He smiled and shook his head. “I don’t know who I’m looking for. I wanted to speak to someone who knows the O’Briens and may be willing to introduce me to them.”

  Several people stopped what they were doing and looked at him. Others gathered around him. An older man looked at him from the top of his head to his shoes. He took a sliver of wood out from between his teeth. “Who’s asking?” he said.

  “My name is Zebidiah Moran. I’m here at the request of Senator Maximillian Shelby, to see to the safety of his wife, Mrs. Jolene Shelby, and her sister, Miss Jennifer Crawford.”

  “How do we know you’re who you say you are?” the man asked.

  “He’s telling the truth,” a brawny young man said as he leaned against a doorframe. “I took Miss Jennifer’s and Eliza’s trunks on the train to Senator Shelby’s home last month. Delivered them as I was told to do a day before they arrived. Saw this gent. The houseman said he was aide-de-camp to the senator.”

  “Why on earth would the trunks not travel with them on the day they went, Luther?” someone asked.

  Luther shrugged. “Don’t think the mistress wanted anyone to know she was going.”

  “That’s enough with the gossip,” an older, distinguished-looking woman said as she made her way down the hallway. The crowd dispersed as she came, other than the man with the sliver of wood, once again between his teeth, and Luther, now standing straight, arms crossed in front of him.

  “I didn’t say nothing out of turn,” he said.

  “May I help you, sir? I’m Mrs. Gutentide, the housekeeper here at Willow Tree.”

  “I imagine you heard my introduction, ma’am. I am interested in meeting the O’Briens.”

  “You do understand that Miss O’Brien has been injured? Most brutally.”

  “I do, ma’am. I am hoping to speak to Mr. O’Brien about it.”

  Mrs. Gutentide looked at Luther. “Have you carried over the evening meal for them yet?”

  “Clarice is packing it now.”

  She turned back to Zeb. “Walk to the stable house with Luther when he delivers their meal. He can ask Mr. O’Brien if he is willing to speak to you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Zeb followed Luther through a formal garden and a series of gates to a large horse barn and a gabled house nearby. The grounds were well-manicured and the buildings recently painted. He would have dearly loved to be talking to Mr. O’Brien about the horses he bred and tended, but that was not his mission this evening. He waited at the end of a stone walkway while Luther carried a wooden box into the house. Moments later, Luther emerged from the house, turned and pointed to Zeb, and spoke to a man in the doorway. The man walked slowly down the walk. He stopped when he was six feet away.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’d like to speak to you and your daughter, Mr. O’Brien. My name is Zebidiah Moran.”

  The man rubbed his chin, looked away out over the yard, and back at Zeb. “What are you wanting to talk about?”

  “I’d like to find Miss O’Brien’s attackers.”

  “What is my daughter to you? How do you know her?”

  “I don’t know her, only that she was an innocent, and badly beaten. I am here at Willow Tree to keep Senator Shelby’s wife and her sister safe.”

  “Then why are you here and not at the Randolphs’ party with Miss Jennifer and Miss Jolene?”

  Zeb smiled. “There are security men at the Randolph estate, of course, and I have hired private individuals to guard them on their way there and back to Willow Tree. I deemed the occasion a low enough risk that I could rely on others, and make inquiries elsewhere about your daughter’s attackers.”

  “And why is it of interest to you?”

  “I believe there is a connection between Jennifer Crawford and your daughter and their mutual safety.”

  O’Brien took a deep breath. “You may as well come inside. But let me be clear. I will find who did this to my Kathleen and I will kill them. Neither you nor any of your policemen or Pinkerton agents will stop me.”

  Zeb followed O’Brien inside, not doubting for a moment that the man was telling the truth. A burly, red-headed man sat in the corner of the room, a rifle across his legs. The man stood, looked Zeb up and down, and went to the door. “I’ll keep watch outside, Thomas.”

  Zeb sat where O’Brien pointed, at a long table near a roaring fire. O’Brien dropped two glasses on the table and a corked bottle. He poured them both a jigger.

  Zeb sipped the whiskey and took a good look at Thomas O’Brien. The man was unshaven, unkempt, and wearing clothes that had not been recently laundered or pressed. “How is Miss O’Brien?”

  “As good as can be expected for a girl who’s been beaten and tormented,” her father said with a sniff. “The doctor thinks her eye is healing well. One of the stab wounds became infected but it cleared up quick, and he doesn’t think there’ll be much of a scar.”

  “I am glad to hear that she is doing better.”

  Zeb heard footsteps on the stairs, and O’Brien stood up quickly. A young boy appeared.

  “What is the matter, Sean?” O’Brien asked. “Does your sister need something?”

  “She wants to know who is here,” the boy replied.

  “Go back up and tell her there is nothing to worry about. McGuire is outside with his shotgun and I am in the kitchen. She is safe.”

  “Who is in the kitchen, Father?” they heard from above stairs.

  O’Brien hurried to the steps. “You are safe, Kathleen. Go back to your room.”

  “Who is it?”

  “It is the man sent to guard Miss Jolene. He is no threat to us.”

  “Mr. Moran?” she called down the stairs.

  “Yes, Miss O’Brien?” Zeb said as he stood.

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  Zeb glanced at Thomas. “I was hoping to ask you some questions regarding your attack, Miss O’Brien. I am glad to hear your recovery has begun.”

  “There is no need, Kathleen,” O’Brien said, even as Zeb heard soft footfalls descending. “Mr. Moran was just leaving.”

  Zeb watched as the young woman took two hesitant steps into the room. Her left eye was still swollen shut, and the entire side of her face was brown and blue. There was a yellow bruise on her chin, and he could see where the split on her lip was scabbed over.

  “What questions?” she asked him.

  “Anything you can remember about the man who hurt you.”

  Kathleen O’Brien walked to the massive stove and her father and brother followed her as if she were going to crumble or faint at any moment. He watched her shoulders rise and fall when she stopped at the glass-doored cabinet holding dishes. “Does anyone
care for some tea?” she asked.

  “Is this wise, colleen?” her father asked softly.

  “I cannot be prisoner in my rooms for the rest of my life, Father. And I fear the longer I wait the more difficult it will be to ever leave.”

  Thomas wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. “Then it’s tea we’ll have. Sit down now. I’ll see to it.”

  Zeb watched as she slowly turned to the table. His first instinct was to hurry to her, pull out her chair, and help her be seated. But he was fairly certain she would have crumbled as her father and brother suspected she would if a man she didn’t know got close to her. Young Sean was at his sister’s side then, pulling out her seat and unhooking her shawl where it had caught on the chair. He patted her shoulder awkwardly.

  “I’ll stand by the door if you’d like.”

  Kathleen smiled and leaned her head against his arm. “I’d rather you sit here beside me and have some tea. McGuire is outside standing watch. Who would get past him?”

  Thomas filled two flowered cups and set them in front of his daughter and son. “Are you warm enough, Kathleen? I can add some wood to the fire or fetch a blanket for your legs.”

  “I’m fine, Father. You will have Mr. Moran thinking I’m more of an invalid than I already am.”

  “I think you are far from an invalid, Miss O’Brien. I think you are a survivor, and I think your brother and father just want you to be safe.”

  She stared at her hands for some time. “I have already told the police everything I can remember.”

  “Do you remember much of the attack?” he asked.

  Her head came up sharply. “Yes. Yes, I do. Every night when I close my eyes, it’s as if it is happening all over again.”

  “What are you able to tell me about it?”

  “It was dark. He was tall and smelled like the fish market,” she said as her hand came to her neck. “I tried to scream, I think. Maybe I did. And then it was black.”

  “You were alone?” he asked.

  “Yes. I had gone to the Robinson theatre with some friends and was walking home. I should have never walked down that street. I knew it wasn’t safe.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” her father said as he came to stand behind her.

  She looked up at him and patted his hand as he held her shoulder. “I do blame myself. I was wrong.”

  “You were at the theatre with friends and they let you walk home alone? I am surprised.” Zeb looked up at Thomas O’Brien.

  “I thought the same thing, Moran. What kind of men were they? Nothing like what I would have done when I was a young man. These young people today are lazy.”

  “I didn’t want to put them out. They were going the other direction,” she said. “I’ve told you all of this, anyway. I don’t blame them.”

  Zeb stared at her until she looked at him. He was going to take the risk of being bodily thrown out of the O’Brien home, but his concerns weren’t with this well-guarded young woman, but rather with Jennifer Crawford, whose risk he believed was greater than originally imagined.

  “Begging your pardon, Miss O’Brien, but I think you’re lying.”

  “Get out!” Thomas screamed. “Get out!”

  The door to the house flew open and the man with the shotgun charged in. “What is it, Thomas?”

  Zeb sat purposefully still and stared into Kathleen’s eyes. Tears were rolling down her face. “You are protecting someone by withholding the truth,” he said amidst more shouting and threats. “You are protecting Jennifer Crawford, and perhaps your family as well.”

  “Stop! Stop this shouting and screaming,” she said finally. The room silenced immediately. “Thank you, McGuire. I am fine but would be more comfortable if you were on the outside watching for intruders. Sean, it is nearly time to feed the horses. Perhaps you can help the stall boy.”

  Thomas sat down. “What haven’t you told me?”

  She covered her mouth with a shaking hand. “He whispered in my ear, you know. Said that Sean would have an accident and that there were ways to discredit you. That you would lose your job and we’d be living on the streets.”

  “What did he say about Jennifer Crawford?” Zeb asked.

  She looked up. “That she’d be used foully by several men and she’d be glad that Rothchild would still have her. That she would learn to like a good smacking before servicing her husband.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” her father asked. “It must be someone who knows you through your work or knows Miss Jennifer to know so much about us. We can make inquiries . . .”

  “No!” Kathleen cried as she stood abruptly, knocking her chair over behind her and pounding her fist on the table. “Don’t you see? They will get to her! You will watch out for me and for Sean, but she has no one! You must not tell anyone what I have said. There is more to this than . . .”

  “Than what? What is this about, Miss O’Brien?”

  She shook her head. “Leave it alone. You must not interfere.”

  “I can’t. I won’t leave it alone. I’m going to keep her safe. Do you know who attacked you?” Zeb asked.

  She gathered her shawl around her and walked to the steps. “I am tired and want to rest. Good day to you.”

  Thomas watched her retreating footsteps. “Contrary like her mother. Thinking she needs to keep me safe. As if I wouldn’t work in the sewers to feed my family.”

  “She’s a very brave young woman. She feels she needs to protect Miss Crawford. Please pass on to her that I will be seeing to Miss Crawford’s safety personally,” Zeb said as he let himself out. He had much to think about. But he was unable to sort out his thoughts sufficiently to begin to plan. All he could hear repeating through his head was “she would learn to like a good smacking.” It made him want to puke in the trimmed hedges as he made his way back to the main house of Willow Tree.

  Chapter Ten

  Jennifer waved to her friend Ruth Edgewood Mullens across the dining room of the Parker House Hotel dining room. She’d left Eliza in the lobby with enough coins to find a suitable establishment for her luncheon and instructions to return in an hour. Her father’s insistence over the years that she have a maid accompany her in public seemed silly for a modern young woman near the turn of the century, but Jennifer did not resist the company any longer. After O’Brien’s beating she was hesitant to move about the city alone even during daylight hours as she had been doing for years.

  “How glad I was to receive your note, Ruth!” she said as she kissed her friend’s cheek.

  Ruth squeezed her hands. “It is so good to see you. Our sporadic luncheons and brief moments spent together at a tea or a dinner just don’t do.”

  “I agree.” After they had perused the menu and gave their orders to the waiter, Jennifer said, “So tell me about Harry, Mr. Mullens, that is. How is married life?”

  Ruth smiled. “It is wonderful. I am very happy and contented. Of course, Harry is so gentle and kind and considerate of me, I could hardly be otherwise!”

  “I am so very glad for you,” Jennifer said, and listened as her friend described the excitement of her recent wedding trip and Harry’s business success.

  Jennifer wasn’t sure when, but she had given up on having the kind of closeness and adoration Ruth felt for Harry for any partner she might have. It was increasingly mentioned how fortunate she was to be engaged to Jeffrey Rothchild. It was as if because it had been said at the Randolph party it was now real and true. She didn’t know what to say when an acquaintance said something about it. If she denied it, she would embarrass the speaker and herself, and she didn’t really know how to explain it away. She’d told a friend of her father’s that she and Jeffrey were not engaged, and the fellow commiserated with her over having to break off something as formal as a marriage engagement in such a public way. She hadn’t the heart or the stomach to tell him there’d never been an engagement to begin with.

  “I’ve been asked by several people if you and Mr. Rothchild were
engaged, and I told them absolutely not as you would never become engaged to be married and fail to mention it to me,” Ruth said and smiled. “Unless of course there is some happy news you would like to share now?”

  Jennifer shook her head. “No. I am not engaged. I will never marry Mr. Rothchild.”

  “Oh. That is rather final. I am sorry to hear that things did not turn out as you anticipated. I remember speaking to you this past summer and you seemed quite taken with him. I was so hoping you’d found your special someone as I have.”

  “He is not special. Nor is he anything like I’d thought he would be. It is strange, though, that he seemed to be a perfect fit for me, and knew so many of the same people, and just, well, looked like he would be the perfect husband. How silly of me to think that what a person looks like would be indicative of their character.”

  “It sounds as though your opinion is quite set, but just a few days ago someone mentioned your relationship with Mr. Rothchild to me. Yet it appears that there never was much of a relationship to begin with. Gossip about your family doesn’t ever seem to end,” Ruth replied.

  “About my family? Have you heard something other than Jeffrey and me?”

  Ruth’s face reddened. “That was poorly said. I didn’t mean to imply . . .”

  “I think you have heard something else. Please tell me.”

  “It is nothing, I am sure,” Ruth said and shrugged.

  “Then why won’t you tell me?”

  “It’s just that my mother heard that your mother was unwell at the Randolph dinner. Mother was unable to attend as my sister Lydia had just presented her husband with their first child and Mother had not yet traveled back from Ohio. But she was at one of her committee meetings last week and someone there, well, several ladies there, remarked that your mother became ill at the dinner party. I’m hoping she is feeling better.”

  “Ruth. We have known each other since we were girls at Ramsey. There is something you are not telling me. I can see it in your face.”

  Ruth looked down at her plate and put down her silverware. She looked up at Jennifer. “It was said that your mother was acting strangely. That is all. I’m sure it was just because she was feeling unwell.”