by Jo Goodman
"I'll eat and discuss."
"All right." She agreed to the compromise pleasantly, humoring him. Holding out one hand, Brook asked for Phillip's letter. "I'll read," she said, slitting the envelope with a butter knife. "You eat."
Ryland helped himself to a piece of chicken but kept his eyes on Brooklyn's face. "Read it aloud," he said around a mouthful of food.
"I thought you already knew what it said."
"I suspect. I don't know. There's a very large difference. Please, read it aloud."
Brooklyn wiped her fingers on the napkin in her lap before smoothing the creased pages of Phillip's letter. His handwriting was neat, each letter carefully formed as if he had given every word a great deal of thought before committing it to paper.
"'Dear Brook,"' she began haltingly, an infinitesimal pause between words as she studied them."'I hope you are following the advice I intend to give when I hand you this letter, that is, I hope the person reading it to you is someone you trust. If you have any doubts, I would ask you to stop him or her from reading any further."' Brooklyn paused and looked at Ryland. "I don't have doubts."
Taking a small bite of chicken, she continued. "There are matters which I should have brought to your attention long ago. I told myself I would do it when you were older, yet you grew up in front of my eyes and I remained silent, assuring myself you were never old enough. Now you are threatening to leave me and I am too much of a coward to face you with these truths. I still hope that you will change your mind and stay with me. I'd like to think that we did not deal badly together.
"'I don't know what you remember of your mother. We rarely spoke of her and, if you recall, that was by your wish. Perhaps I should have forced you to talk about her, or at least talked about her myself. She was not a bad woman, Brooklyn. A broken woman, yes. A proud woman also. In the end, a very sick woman. But she was not bad. '" Brooklyn's voice broke. Phillip's letter shook in her hand. "I don't think I can read this, Ryland. Here, you take it."
Ryland's brows lifted in question. "Do you want to hear it or should I read it silently?"
"I want to hear," she said steadily.
Ryland scanned the page, picking up where she had finished."'I know your mother's story because she confided in me before she died. I confess that much of it I found difficult to believe at the time. I was certain her ramblings were part of her addiction, but I listened to her because she needed someone to listen and she trusted me. Her story is your legacy and you were too young to understand its import or act upon it.
"'Your mother became a prostitute not because she was suited to the life, but because she believed it was the only life open to her. Her husband, Michael Pendleton (your father, Brook), died before you were born in the mining camps. His death shattered Linda but she tried to keep his claim because of you. It was impossible for a lone, pregnant woman to manage a claim. Linda did not give in so much as she was forced out."' Ryland stopped as his eyes moved swiftly ahead.
"What is it, Ryland? Why have you stopped?"
He paraphrased Phillip's brutal description of what Linda Brookes had told him. If Brooklyn wanted to read it, she would have to do so herself. "There were miners who wanted her land, Brook. They took it from her."
"She was raped, wasn't she? My mother was raped."
"Yes," he said heavily. "Phillip writes that it's what led her to the brothel. You were born there." He went on reading."'Your mother told me she never tried to contact her family after what happened to her in the mining camp. She was too humiliated and afraid of her own mother's censure. But this is what is important, Brook. Your mother felt that in accepting her fate she had ultimately robbed you of the opportunity to know your family.
"'At the time of your mother's death both your grandparents were alive, as well as two of your three uncles. (I know nothing of your father's family.) As I write this, only your grandmother and two male cousins are still living. Your grandmother is Abigail Brookes, no, I forget myself, she is now Abigail Gordon because of a second marriage.'"
Brooklyn's hands pressed against her pale cheeks. "Gordon! But that's your case. That's what you meant. But that makes me... no, it can't be true." She grabbed the letter from his hands and reread what Ryland had just told her. "Oh, dear Lord," she said as she continued to read to herself. Occasionally she murmured Phillip's name sadly, and frequently she shook her head in disbelief.
Ryland was content to let her read on her own. His suspicions had been confirmed. It took virtually no imagination to realize how Phillip Sumner had eventually proceeded on the information from Linda Brookes Pendleton.
Folding the letter when she finished, Brook slid it back toward Ryland. He didn't pick it up. "I'm sorry," she said. "It was insufferably rude of me to grab it from you."
"I don't care about that."
"Don't you want to finish it yourself?"
"No. You can tell me how close I am to the mark." He poured himself a glass of wine and refilled her own. "Because Phillip thought much of what your mother told him was part of her delirium, it was years before he acted on it. Oh, he took you in—not completely heartless, our Phillip—or perhaps he was just hedging his bets."
"Couldn't he have done it simply because he liked me?" she asked poignantly.
Ryland realized he was being unnecessarily smug and hurting Brooklyn in the process. "Of course he could have. Probably did, in fact." He sipped his wine, his eyes darting over Brook's pained features. "I'm sure he did, Brooklyn. He wouldn't have cared for you so well if he hadn't liked you," he added gently.
"But he used me, too," she said. "You were right about that."
"He was desperate for money," Ryland explained, wondering why he was defending Sumner now. "He wanted a future for both of you."
"Those are almost his exact words," she said, awed. "How did you know?"
Ryland shrugged, not wanting to admit even to himself that he and Phillip Sumner might have been cut from the same cloth when it came to Brooklyn. "The Silver Rose was security for the two of you, but he required a lot of capital to buy into the establishment. That's when he set about finding your mother's family. Eventually he wrote to your grandfather, Franklin Brookes, hoping that the money would simply be sent to him at an account at the Bank of California. He asked for passage money, but I don't think he would have gone to New Orleans with it. What he didn't know then was that Franklin had died during the war and that Abby's second husband would open the letter and not mention a word to her about it.
"Perhaps Patrick Gordon confided in his step-nephews, or perhaps he answered Phillip's query himself—does Phillip say?"
"No. There are no names mentioned."
"Cautious," Ryland murmured. "No matter, we can ask him ourselves. At any rate, someone did respond and asked for tangible proof from Phillip. That's when he took you to New Orleans on his business trip. Without knowing to whom he spoke, I can only surmise what happened then. If it was either of your cousins, once they were convinced of your identity, they would have persuaded Phillip to take a great deal of money for keeping you away from Miss Abby. If it was Patrick Gordon, and if his intent was to surprise his wife with your return, it's very likely that Phillip took his money and ran with it. I don't believe Sumner ever wanted you to stay in New Orleans."
"He says as much in his letter," she confided.
"Patrick Gordon died some time that summer. Perhaps while you were there." He held up his hands. "I'm not accusing Phillip. Miss Abby said Patrick drank. He had a fall in their home. I only mention it because it's far more likely that Phillip spoke with one or both of your cousins."
Brooklyn had to agree that he was probably right, but she was too weary to examine all that it implied. But there was something else, something that Phillip had written that Ryland had a right to know. "On board the Mary Francis," she said, "when I thought I had killed you, Phillip knew differently. He said in his letter that you were still breathing when he pitched you overboard. It had been his intent all along to kill you,
just as you suspected. He knew your name, your family's connections in Frisco. He was afraid to rob you and too greedy not to try. Your death was the answer." Tears gathered in her eyes, and she wiped them away quickly. "Oh, Ryland, I'm so ashamed."
"Come here, Brooklyn." He held out his arms, and she went to them eagerly, burying her head against his shoulder. "The shame isn't yours," he said, stroking her back.
"I was a party to all that happened."
"You didn't know everything before the game was underway."
"That's no defense."
"Perhaps not in a court of law, but let me be the judge here. I ceased holding you responsible for the Mary Francis affair a long time ago. You can take Phillip to task when we see him."
Ryland didn't know why he hadn't thought things through to their logical conclusion. His regret was that he hadn't prepared Brooklyn for the possibility. Taking Phillip to task was no longer in the cards for either of them. Robert North, meeting Brook and Ryland at the train station the following afternoon, gravely informed them Phillip Sumner had been murdered ten days earlier.
Chapter 13
Robert North hovered near Ryland, his brow deeply creased with worry. "Is she going to be all right?" he asked as Ry supported Brooklyn's head in the crook of his arm. Robert felt helpless, a state of mind he abhorred. "Perhaps I should ask someone for smelling salts." He blamed himself for Brooklyn's faint even though logic told him that he couldn't have known news of Phillip Sumner's death would cause this reaction.
"No, she'll be fine. Look, she's coming around on her own." Ryland took out a handkerchief and wiped the film of perspiration from Brook's forehead as she stirred in his arms. Her face regained a measure of color, and she moaned softly.
"Oh, God," she murmured hollowly, staring at Ryland's strained features above her. "Did I faint?"
He nodded. "I'm sorry about Phillip," he said gently. "I know how much he meant to you."
"It's true, then."
"I'm afraid so." He shifted her weight a little. "Can you stand or do you want me to carry you?"
Brooklyn was suddenly aware of Robert North's presence as well as the small crowd that had gathered around them on the boarding platform. Embarrassment drove the color out of her face again.
"I can stand," she said stiffly, unaware of how her husband was suddenly reminded of the young girl he had met on the Mary Francis. Looking down, she missed his happy smile.
Ryland helped Brook to her feet and put his arm around her waist. The crowd dispersed quickly when they realized the excitement was over. Ryland addressed his uncle. "Are we going by carriage or steamship?"
"Steamship. The Golden Lady leaves in twenty minutes. I'll take care of your luggage. You go ahead with Lyn and I'll meet you on board."
"Brooklyn," corrected Ryland.
Robert had been turning to leave, but he stopped. "What?"
"My wife's name is Brooklyn." Ryland repeated.
At her side Brook squeezed Ryland's hand. "It's all right. I don't mind."
Ry's voice was quiet but firm. "I do."
Robert interrupted when he realized his nephew and bride were about to have words. "Ry," he said pointedly, arching one brow. "The ship is waiting."
Somewhat chastened, Ryland guided Brooklyn toward the riverfront, where they would board for a smooth water journey to San Francisco.
Brook waited until Robert North was out of earshot before she spoke. "If you're going to take exception to every person who calls me Lyn, you shouldn't have married me. I told you that people would remark upon my past, and you said you didn't care. Your uncle merely called me by a name associated with the Brass Slipper and you took him to task. I don't think I've ever been so out of patience with you." She sighed as her hand swept through the air in a gesture of finality. "And that's all I'm going to say on the matter."
Ryland said nothing, knowing she did not expect a reply or even an apology. What she expected was that he would remain silent in the future when the same situation occurred. Ryland suspected he would have to do a lot of tongue biting to hold himself back.
Robert joined them at the rail of the Golden Lady a few minutes before the whistles blew, signaling departure. Ignoring the stony silence between the couple, he addressed Brooklyn. "Would you prefer to go into the dining room? You're still a little pale. Perhaps something to drink or eat will put roses back in your cheeks."
Brooklyn didn't want anything, but she was aware of Robert trying to smooth things over. His solicitousness warmed her. She accepted his escort into the dining area, glancing back once to be certain that Ryland was following. "Tell me about Phillip," she said once the waiter had taken their orders. "I'm not going to faint again." Beneath the table her hand sought out Ryland's, and she squeezed his fingers lightly, asking for his support and his strength.
Ryland returned the pressure, feeling the tightening in his chest ease just because she had reached for him, and wondered what he had ever done to deserve Brook's trust or her love. "We both need to know what happened, Uncle," he said. "Phillip Sumner was Brooklyn's guardian for years, and his death may be connected with Drew's beating."
"Very well," Robert said. "When you asked me to do some checking on Sumner I thought the name sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it. I went to the Silver Rose myself to speak with him, and that's when I learned he had been murdered. I realized then that was why I thought I recognized the name. I had read an account of the slaying in the Police Gazette."
The waiter returned with their drinks. Robert sipped from his bourbon and water while his gaze rested on Brooklyn's pure profile. "He was shot in the back of the head in his own room at the Rose after being... tortured." Robert heard Brooklyn's small gasp but he pressed on, covering the information quickly. "The Gazette account was graphic, though I see no need to—"
"Tell me," Brook said, chilling Robert with her winter-storm eyes. "I want to know what those animals did to Phillip."
"The account mentioned cigar burns on his person," Robert said reluctantly. "And there were several broken fingers. There were no witnesses to the beating or the killing, but several employees say they heard Phillip arguing with at least two different people when they went to his rooms earlier on some matter of business. No one interrupted or even stayed in the hallway long enough to learn the nature of the argument. And no one heard the shot. Sumner was found by one of his employees the morning after the murder."
"What are the authorities doing?" asked Ryland. Brooklyn's hand was like ice in his.
Robert shook his head. "Nothing now. It's just one more unsolved murder in San Francisco. The law believes the motive was greed; someone wanted Phillip's money. The room was ransacked, but no one knows if anything was taken."
Brooklyn removed her hand from Ryland's and warmed her palms around her cup of hot chocolate. "Phillip was never any good with a gun," she said softly. "That's why he needed me to protect his back." A small shudder swept through her. "Where is he buried?"
Robert told her. "Would you like to go there on our way home?"
"No, not today." She glanced at Ryland. "You'll come with me later, won't you?"
Ryland nodded, then turned to his uncle. "I don't believe Sumner's killers were after his money. It's more likely Phillip was beaten for information and later killed because his use was over. I don't doubt that both Jordan and Kittridge had a hand in it. They worked together."
"They're the men you killed, aren't they?" asked Robert.
"Yes."
"Your wire was vague. You said Andrew was beaten because of Brooklyn. Could that be true?"
It was Brooklyn who answered. "It's true. And Phillip was killed because of me. Jordan and Kittridge were hired to locate and... and murder me. They were probably directed to seek out Phillip first, perhaps believing that I was still with him."
"When she wasn't," Ryland continued, "they had to beat the information out of Sumner. I suspect Phillip kept close tabs on Brooklyn and was finally forced to tell the bounty hunters
where she worked. Someone at the Brass Slipper led them to Andrew, and he in turn was forced to tell them about the house in Virginia City."
"But why? Why would anyone want to harm Brooklyn?"
Ryland explained everything about the Gordon investigation to his uncle. "Until I can talk to Drew and be certain what Jordan and Kittridge wanted from him it's still supposition."
"You could speak with Bill Maine," Brooklyn reminded him.
Robert cleared his throat, and his glance darted worriedly from his nephew to Brooklyn. "I'm afraid that's not possible. I was going to tell you later because I knew you worked for Mr. Maine. I had no idea it could somehow be related to the things we've been discussing."
Brooklyn knew what was coming before Robert North screwed up the courage to tell her that William Maine had been murdered in the alleyway behind his hotel. She held herself rigid, staring sightlessly at the cup in her hands, unwittingly applying pressure to it until it shattered in her palms. Color stained her cheeks as she quickly mopped up the chocolate with a napkin and assured both men that she had not hurt herself.
Ryland signaled for a waiter to come and clear the mess. When the man was gone he spoke to his uncle, though he continued to watch Brooklyn. "You said at the station that Drew was doing better. What did you mean?"
"He's healing. The bruises are fading and his ribs are knitting. There's still no sign that he knows what's going on around him. Louise stays with him for hours on end, chatting as if he understands every word. The doctors say we must be patient, but you know how well that settles with me."
"I want to see him," Brook said quietly. "Please, will you let me see him?"
Robert patted her hand. "Of course you can see him. I told Ry I thought it was a good idea. It may be just the medicine Andrew needs. I can't help but think that if he knows you're alive his own recovery will be swift."