Tough Prospect

by Laura Strickland

  “Who is he, Ginny?”

  The steam cannon didn’t waver. “He hasn’t said, but if I had to guess, I’d say trouble.”

  “What does he want? Are you going to keep him standing in the rain?”

  “Yes, until he explains why he’s here. He says he wants Pat.”

  “Mrs. Kelly, I’m Mitch Carter,” Mitch began and the woman recoiled. “Ginny, I’ve heard that voice before. On that day—”

  Miss Landry released the safety on the cannon. “Well, then, Mr. Carter, I expect you’d better step inside.”

  ****

  Tessa came awake slowly to thick, choking darkness. She didn’t have a clue where she was, but the blindfold remained in place and had now been accentuated by a gag, tied uncomfortably tight, which made it difficult to breathe.

  She lay on her side with her wrists bound behind her, upon a blanket that smelled of horse. Indoors, but she could hear the rain still falling at a distance, and her damp clothing had chilled enough to start her shivering. The left side of her jaw hurt like a fierce toothache.

  That man, that horrible man, had hit her. Punched her. Never before in her life had she been so much as swatted. Her father might have had his faults, but they didn’t extend to harsh discipline of his children.

  Harsh discipline. Those words made her think of Mitch. She saw again the stark ridges on his back, felt them beneath her questing fingers when they made love, when he entered her with breathless tenderness. Emotion swamped her, and tears rushed to her eyes.

  Oh, Mitch. Where was he now?

  Deprived of the sense of sight, she stretched her ears and listened. Was she alone? Hard to tell—a whole crowd of people could be standing and staring at her, but if so, she couldn’t hear them. No breathing other than her own gasps, fighting against the gag.

  The man who’d lured her into the cab hated her husband, maybe even more than she did. For surely, surely she still felt angry with Mitch. And surely she hated him.

  She’d told him so.

  And what had she seen in his eyes when she spoke those words? Best not to think about it now or she’d lose her mind.

  No, she needed to think. Think. Terror made that a difficult proposition. The man with the Irish accent had a beef with Mitch. Would he kill her, Tessa, in some terrible act of revenge? Would she die here alone, never having seen Mitch again?

  She trembled where she lay, and the tears overwhelmed her, trickling from her clenched eyes to drench the blindfold. A sob caught against the gag, and her nose filled, making it impossible to breathe.

  No, she couldn’t weep. If she did, she’d lie here and suffocate in her own tears.

  Desperate and sweating, she fought back the emotions and struggled to discipline them. Was that what Mitch always did? Was that how he’d endured the leather strap biting into his flesh, the starvation, and the loneliness?

  Ah, yes, a sharp and hungry loneliness raged inside her husband. She’d felt it, caught glimpses of it behind that wall he usually kept up.

  But why did she persist in thinking of him now? She would need all her wits, all her concentration, to survive.

  She listened again and decided she must be in a large space because the crashing rain echoed at a distance. And the air, even when she cleared her nose, tickled the back of her throat.

  She scrabbled around where she lay and flexed her wrists in an effort to loosen her bonds. Before she could succeed, her ear caught sounds other than the rain—what might be the slam of a door and footsteps. She froze.

  Someone approached the place where she lay, and he came humming. A jaunty little tune, it too seemed to echo in the space she couldn’t see, just like the footsteps. A man’s voice.

  Her stomach twisted with fear, and she thought surely she’d retch. If she did, she would choke—so she fought her emotions down once again.

  She didn’t want to die here. More than anything else, she wanted to go home.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “Explain yourself, Mr. Carter,” said the woman with the dangerous dark eyes. After admitting him to the ground floor flat, she’d backed him into a straight wooden chair, where she kept him captive by force with the steam cannon. Rose Kelly perched on a second chair, the anxiety fairly streaming from her.

  In his time on the streets, along the way to becoming the King of Prospect, Mitch had faced any number of weapons, including side arms, broken bottles, and knives of all descriptions. He didn’t think any of them rivaled a steam cannon—even a small one like this—in the hands of a defensive woman. If her finger so much as twitched, significant portions of his anatomy would cook instantly and he’d die on the spot.

  What would happen to Tessa then?

  He looked Miss Landry in the eye. “Can you please aim that weapon somewhere else? I just want to talk.”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Carter. Mrs. Kelly here says she’s heard your voice before, at an unfortunate moment in her life.”

  “Mrs. Kelly might be mistaken.” Mitch shot a look at the woman in question. The agony in her wide eyes called up an unexpected measure of sympathy.

  “Mrs. Kelly, I’m just looking for my wife. She disappeared this morning, and we’ve been unable to locate her. I very much fear she’s been abducted.”

  Mrs. Kelly trembled. “And you think Pat has her? Why would he do such a terrible thing?” She leaned forward, displaying strength beneath her anxiety. “Why, unless I’m right about hearing your voice before, and you had a hand in abducting me?”

  Why, indeed?

  Mitch said, “I had no hand in snatching you, ma’am, but I know who did.”

  “And you were there that day.”

  “I might have been brought there by the person who abducted you. If your husband’s after revenge, I’ll give him the culprit’s name, just so long as he releases my wife safely.”

  Rose Kelly gave a brittle smile. “You don’t know my husband, do you? He doesn’t believe in revenge. Mr. Carter, Pat isn’t holding your wife.”

  “How do you know? She may not be here. That doesn’t mean—”

  “You’re not listening to me. Pat would not put a woman—any woman—through what I endured. He’s a finer man than that.”

  He wasn’t a man at all, but Mitch didn’t point that out. Rose Kelly seemed utterly convinced.

  Miss Landry waggled the steam cannon at him. “Seems like you’re barking up the wrong tree, Mr. Carter. Pat didn’t snatch your wife. I suggest you concentrate on whoever did.”

  And in his mind’s ear, Mitch heard Danny Dwyer’s voice. You have a wife too, a pretty one.

  Damnation!

  “I see by your expression you may have arrived at a possibility,” said Ginny Landry dryly.

  Had Danny Dwyer grabbed her? But how? And for what reason? Kelly had the motive of revenge. Dwyer…

  Dwyer, a brute and a bully, got what he wanted out of life through thievery, cajolery, and intimidation. He might have snatched Tessa just to get back at Mitch for breaking off their deal. Men like him—and Mitch himself—always went for the weak spot.

  And no one could deny Tessa was Mitch’s weak spot, possibly his only one.

  “Mr. Carter, do you think your wife’s been snatched by the same man who abducted me?” Mrs. Kelly urged, “Give me his name. We’ll send a message to Pat, and he’ll help you hunt the villain down.”

  “His name’s Danny Dwyer. You can tell your husband so, but I’ll need no help hunting him down. I have my own boys.”

  Miss Landry’s eyes widened. “You mean to start a turf war, Mr. Carter? I don’t think Pat would approve. That’s what the police are for.”

  “Miss Landry, men like me don’t turn to the coppers for help.”

  The two women exchanged glances. Miss Landry held out her side arm. “Do you need to borrow this?”

  “No, thank you, Miss Landry. I’ve weapons of my own.”

  Mrs. Kelly leaned toward him. “Then go find your wife, Mr. Carter. Find her as quickly as you can.”


  ****

  The cheerful, hummed ditty ceased just above Tessa’s head. She could feel the man standing there, and goose bumps broke out all over her body. He might do anything to her—beat her, brutalize her, or rape her.

  And what about her child—Mitch’s child—then?

  Oh, Mitch, she cried in her mind.

  Without warning, hard hands seized her and drew her up. Fingers dug at her mouth—the horrid gag came away.

  “Don’t scream. It will echo something fierce in here and I’ll be forced to silence you.”

  Tessa sucked in a deep breath and coughed. “Where are we? What is this place?”

  His voice warmed, the Irish accent oozing charm. “You, my dear, are privileged to occupy the interior of Mr. Dart’s great invention.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not familiar with Mr. Dart? And you native to this great city. Tsk, tsk.”

  Tessa fought to keep from screaming; she believed her captor would follow through on his threat. “I don’t understand.”

  “This, Queen Carter, is the interior of a grain elevator, one of many here on the waterfront. The bin you’re in happens to be empty at the moment—cleared out into canal boats earlier today. The Irish boys who work here did a good job, didn’t they? Got nearly every scrap. If not, I daresay you’d smother.”

  “Take off the blindfold so I can see.”

  He ignored the request. “Of course, Queen Carter, this bin won’t stay empty long. The lake freighters are standing by waiting to unload. As soon as this rain stops, that process will begin, and then you will smother.”

  “Take off the blindfold!”

  “Not a good idea, pretty lady.”

  “I already got a good look at you in the cab,” Tessa reminded him, perhaps unwisely.

  “Very well.” Cruel fingers tore the blindfold away, catching a handful of Tessa’s hair in the process.

  Tessa looked wildly from the man poised in front of her—dirty blond hair, narrowed blue eyes, and a twisted smile—to the space that surrounded them. Bin made a good description of the place, at least from what she could see by the light of the single lantern set on the floor at her captor’s side. Made of wood, like a giant crate, the building stretched out around her. Far overhead she could see a shuttered opening. A chute? Grain littered the broad floor.

  No hope of escape, that was the important thing, especially with the man standing so very close to her.

  With difficulty she focused on him. “What did Mitch do to you, to make you abduct me?”

  Again he ignored the question and spread his hands. “Did you know I worked here a short while? Not for long, it’s true. Moving grain is damn hard work, and I wasn’t born to work hard. In the old days, before Mr. Dart had his grand idea, all the grain that came down the lake was moved on the backs of Irish laborers. They were cheap, see. Cheaper than horses, and people cared even less what happened to them. Now they just have to break their backs shoveling. Things get better for some, not so much for others. I’ve found we make our own fortune. Point is, the grain’s moved up from the holds on a conveyer powered by steam. When you hear that big steam engine fire up, you’ll know you’re about to die.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you, your husband—the self-styled King of Prospect—needs to be taught a lesson in respect. I’ve sent him a message. We’ll see what he’s willing to trade for your safety, just how highly he values you.”

  Tessa thought of the look in Mitch’s eyes when she told him she hated him. A deep shudder wracked her body. How might a man like Mitch Carter—one who’d been through the hell that was life in the orphanage, where love never showed its face—react to a declaration of hate?

  Might he decide he was done with her? Sure, he’d whispered the words “I love you” when he held her in his arms, but did he even know what love was? Might he not wash his hands of her, leave her here in the clutches of this dire bully?

  To smother beneath a load of grain. To die.

  “Let me go,” she advised. “You don’t want to cross him. He’s a dangerous man.”

  “You think I’m afraid of fecking Mitch Carter? Ah, no.”

  “Just let me go.”

  “You mean to beg? That might be interesting. You’re awfully pretty.” He grinned. “It might be entertaining to find out just what you’d do to ransom yourself.”

  Tessa recoiled, and he laughed. “We’ll save that for later, eh? Just before you die. Meanwhile, let’s see what your husband decides to do.”

  Oh, Mitch, Tessa’s heart cried again. Please, please come.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  “A note’s been delivered, Boss. Not ten minutes ago, right here at the front door.” Tiny, who’d greeted Mitch on the steps when he arrived home, searched his face, eyes full of anxiety. “Think it’s about the missus?”

  Mitch, his instincts working overtime, felt sure of it. He only said, “Where?”

  Tiny produced a single, folded sheet of paper. Mitch fairly snatched it from his fingers. He read and the blood drained from his head. “Christ! He does have her.”

  “Who does?”

  “Danny Dwyer.”

  “Dwyer snatched your wife? But how? And why?”

  Mitch fought to breathe against the weight of dread sitting on his chest. He thought again of Mrs. Kelly—her terror when Dwyer had dragged him to the waterfront to view her.

  The boathouse. Could that be where Dwyer had Tessa now?

  Tessa.

  “I don’t know how he got hold of her. He and I had a meeting here, and he left… Damn it all, I should have let Marty drive her.” His fault. It was all his fault.

  Marty, climbing from the car, joined them on the steps. Others of Mitch’s boys filtered from various points around the house. It reminded him of the old days at Carter’s when they would gather—a ragged and desperate band just looking for some way to fill their bellies.

  A family.

  Family, for those who’d never had one, consisted of those you favored closely, those whom you’d never abandon. That had always been enough for Mitch, till he laid eyes on Tessa Verdun. Then, for the first time ever, he’d wanted something solely for himself.

  And now Tessa was paying the price. King of Prospect? He was a damned slave, lying at her feet.

  “Boss?” said one of the boys. “You all right? Only, you don’t look so hot.”

  Mitch didn’t feel very well. There were moments, he’d found, when his life ground to an ugly halt—just like that last time Morton Fink beat him—and started up again, spinning in a new direction.

  Such as now.

  “We need to find her.” If he couldn’t find her, he might as well slit his own throat. Because even though she hated him, he couldn’t live without her.

  “What’s Dwyer say?” Tiny demanded and nodded at the note in Mitch’s hand.

  Mitch’s lips twisted. “He requests another meeting.”

  “Here?”

  “No.” Mitch glanced at the laborious printing on the paper, which blurred before his eyes. “He says he requests the honor of the King’s presence down on Commercial Avenue. Some freight office there.”

  “Now?”

  “Six p.m.”

  Tiny spoke. “Dwyer used to work shifting grain on the docks before he took to buying up properties. You think he has a bolt hole there, Boss?”

  “I think he has half a dozen of them. Rats usually do.”

  “We’ll get some weapons,” Lou said, “and all go together. If he wants a war—”

  “Don’t you get it? He has my wife—and that’s every weapon that matters. He can name his terms, and he knows it.”

  The boys exchanged uneasy glances, there in the pouring rain.

  “What do you think Dwyer’s gonna ask for?” Tiny wondered aloud.

  And Mitch, his stomach clenching inside him, said, “Don’t know. I suppose I’d better meet up with him and find out.”

  ****

  After her captor
left, Tessa lay on her side and tried to think about her odds for survival. The Irishman with the dangerous voice and deadly eyes had neglected to replace the blindfold. But he’d planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek before tying on the detested gag, drawing the fabric far too tight. When he touched her, Tessa had, indeed, feared she’d gag.

  “I promise you, bonny lass, I won’t leave you alone too long. If your husband decides he can’t be bothered to ransom you, maybe I’ll take out another sort of payment before you die, eh?”

  An idle threat, or a credible one? Impossible to tell. Tessa lay aching inside and out, trying to decide what her fate would be.

  From outside she could still hear the echo of the rain, which she figured meant she’d be kept from death another short while.

  Until the rain stopped.

  She’d already had a taste of what it would be like to smother—every time tears gathered in her eyes and her nose clogged, she had to fight all over again for discipline. And every time she thought of Mitch Carter, she wanted to cry.

  Would he come for her? Even though she’d told him she hated him? Who could tell?

  Did she hate him?

  No, no, no.

  His image rose in her mind’s eye, complete with supporting sensations. The way he looked at her when he was aroused, with such protective, possessive hunger. How safe she felt in his arms. Oh, if only she could be there now.

  But…but she should still be angry with him. He’d gone behind her back and warned Richard off.

  Just, part of her brain argued, as you went behind his back in meeting Richard. Did he condemn you for that? Did he say he hated you?

  What else should a man do, to keep the woman he loved?

  At least Mitch Carter had once loved her. He’d told her so, in the heated throes of passion, while he set her body alight and touched her soul. Maybe she’d killed that feeling for him, she didn’t know. Couldn’t tell.

  She’d tossed his love back in his face. Lying there half choked by tears, it seemed clear that was exactly what she’d done.

  And, every instinct told her, Mitch Carter’s love wasn’t an easy thing to win. She didn’t suppose, knowing what she did about him, he gave his heart easily. Oh, he felt deep loyalty for his “boys” and had gone to great lengths to win them free of their shared hell. But the yearning she sometimes glimpsed in his eyes argued love had not found him.