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“That’s why I have.” He didn’t want to tell Father Ed how poor their new parish was. Father John was an older man who spent his days sampling the sacramental wine and waiting to go to the old priests’ home, or whatever it was called. He hadn’t been able to offer George any help at all.

  “All right, then. Tell me what’s going on.”

  Now that George was here, he wasn’t certain where to begin.

  “How is your mother?” Father Ed asked.

  “Not well. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Franklin mentioned how well she was doing when he saw her in August. I’m so sorry to hear this. I’d hoped…”

  “Me too. Dr. Choate has no idea what’s wrong. He doesn’t think she has long.” George squeezed the bridge of his nose. “We were so certain…she seemed to be getting better. I’d take her back, but we just don’t have the money.”

  “I can give you some—”

  “Thank you, Father, but I’m afraid it’s too late.” George couldn’t conceal his sorrow and distress. “When the time comes…I’d like her to be buried with Papa.”

  “Of course. I’ll follow your wishes to the letter.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Would it give her some comfort if I came to see her?”

  “You wouldn’t mind? I know we’re not part of your congregation any longer…”

  “I wouldn’t mind at all. You’ve been friends for quite some time.”

  “Thank you,” he said again. “And…and afterward, would you permit me to leave the children with you and Mrs. Thompson for a little while? Mrs. Hall would take them, but I think it would be best if they were away from the tenement.”

  Father Ed stroked his chin, and George was afraid he was going to refuse.

  “It would only be until I get together enough money to put together an outfit to travel west,” he hurried to add.

  “We’ll be more than happy to help, George. I was trying to think who we would put them in with. The girls can stay with Emmy, and Mrs. Thompson and I will take Little Thomas until he’s comfortable enough to stay with Horatio.” He squeezed George’s shoulder. “Do you want to discuss what sort of ceremony you’d like?”

  No! “I reckon. Father Ed, am I doing the right thing? I mean, maybe Mama will recover…”

  “It won’t hurt anything to be prepared. If your mama pulls through, we’ll keep this between us. It’s not something she’d need to know.” He looked up as one of Frank’s sisters entered the study.

  “Mother sent me with some refreshments, Father.”

  “Thank you, Charity.”

  She put the tray on Father Ed’s desk and left the room.

  “Now, George, sit and have a cup of coffee.” And he began to go over his plans for the service.

  George forced himself to pay attention. Later he’d worry about how he’d pay for this, where he’d find a job, what he would do to care for three young children, and most importantly of all, how he’d manage without the woman he’d called Mama for more than seven years.

  * * * *

  George let himself into their dingy apartment. As the weeks passed, Mama continued to struggle, and more and more he found himself reluctant to leave the building they shared with so many other families.

  “I’m home, Mama,” he called as he removed his jacket and hung it up. She was in such pain, he couldn’t bear it. He went to stand in the doorway to her bedroom and pasted a smile on his face.

  “You’ve been gone a while, Georgie.”

  “I’m sorry. I brought the little ones to visit with Father Ed’s kids for a while—I’ll go back to get them soon—and then I had some errands to run.” He’d been looking for work, and he’d had no luck. Even Mr. Hudson had nothing for him. It was almost as if jobs were being deliberately withheld from him.

  “Yes, that was a good idea.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “Perhaps a glass of ginger ale?”

  “Sure.” He hurried out, taking some deep breaths to keep from letting his tears fall. He’d stopped at the drugstore on the way home and had picked up a few bottles, since that was the only liquid Mama seemed able to tolerate. He filled a glass and returned to the bedroom.

  He helped her sit up and held the glass so she could sip. She’d become so fragile. While they’d been in Queens, she’d regained some of the weight she had lost during her illness. Now that weight and more was gone. The flesh clung to her skull, and he could feel the bones in her shoulders and spine.

  After a swallow, she pushed weakly at his wrist, and he set the glass down.

  “Come sit beside me.” She patted the bed.

  He sat, and she rested her head against his shoulder. There was so little of her he could hardly feel her there. He took her hand and held it as if it were a baby bird.

  “I feel so awful, Georgie. I hurt, nothing stays in my stomach, and I’m tired all the time. Even worse, all the family matters have fallen to you.”

  “I’m the man of the house since Papa passed on. I don’t mind doing this for you and the girls and Little Thomas.”

  She closed her fingers around his hand. “Don’t think poorly of me, please, George? I can’t deal with this anymore. And…and I want to be with your papa. Our marriage didn’t start off as a love match on my part, but it didn’t take long for me to love him very much indeed.”

  “I-I know. What can I do for you?”

  “George.” She seemed as if she couldn’t quite catch her breath. “Promise me you’ll look after your sisters and your brother.”

  “You don’t have to ask, Mama, but I promise.”

  “Get them out of New York. Your papa mentioned that valley in the Dakota Territory.”

  “He didn’t want to go. He thought the girls would be better off here in the city when it came time for them to be courted.”

  She shook her head wearily. “He didn’t realize we’d be living in a tenement. None of the men he would want for our daughters would come to call here.”

  “Then they don’t deserve them.” He wouldn’t say it aloud, but those men were assholes. His little sisters were perfect, and anyone with an ounce of intelligence would see it and want them for their wives. “As soon as you’re feeling better and Little Thomas is old enough to make the journey safely, we’ll leave here—all of us.” Too many little ones got sick and died on the trail. He wouldn’t chance that with his brother.

  “Whatever you say, George.” Her words were so soft he had to lean close to hear them. “Tell me about the valley.”

  George began to speak of it, the trees, the waterfall, the fertile land that would be perfect for raising cattle and horses and little girls and boys. And eventually their children. George could see his nieces and nephews on into the future growing up there and raising their own families.

  And he continued to talk, tears streaming down his cheeks, even after he knew she was gone.

  Chapter 37

  Sam Pickett did what most detectives he knew did when they worked a case. He leaned against a streetlamp, rolled a cigarette, and observed the scene across the way through the blue haze of cigarette smoke. It was getting late in the day—the lamplighter would be coming by soon to turn on the gas lights—but oddly enough, the street was quiet.

  Neighborhoods like this…a stranger came into them, and the people who lived there would have no qualms about questioning his presence. That was how it had been after he’d stood leaning against the lamp for a few days. A plump, rosy-cheeked little woman who reminded him of a robin redbreast stormed across the road and demanded to know what he was doing there, thumping a forefinger against his chest.

  Sam couldn’t help smiling. He hadn’t been attracted to a woman in a long time, but this one did something to him. He wanted to kiss the angry words from her mouth until she melted in his embrace, but he knew at that point it would just earn him a slap in the face. Instead, he’d set about spinning a yarn that eventually won her sympathy, although she was still closemouthed about wha
t went on in her tenement. Maybe that was why before too long he came to discover he was actually courting Josie Hall, and not for the information she could give him.

  But now…no kids were out playing, no wives were sitting on the stoops with a bowl of string beans or some other vegetables on their lap getting it ready for dinner and gossiping with their neighbors.

  The young man Lewis St. Claire had a yen for had come out of the tenement a couple of hours before to send one of the neighborhood boys on an errand. Although Sam didn’t travel that path, he could understand why St. Claire wanted the boy—he was pretty. The winter sun had shone down on his black hair.

  Years ago, Sam had known someone back in California with hair the same glossy blue-black of a raven’s wing. He’d fallen in love with Analeigh Echevarría at first sight, but a bolder fellow had swooped in and won her heart.

  Well, Tom had been a good man, and he and Analeigh had been happy.

  Sam continued to keep watch.

  A wagon bearing a coffin pulled up in front of the building, and two young men jumped down from the seat, followed by a tall, thin man in a somber suit. The three men got the pine box out of the wagon bed and carried it into the building.

  Sam drew in another lungful of smoke, then removed a flake of tobacco from his lower lip. Life was precarious at best in these rundown buildings.

  * * * *

  Earlier in the month, he’d received a message at his office instructing him to meet a wealthy man in the Eight Ten Tavern in the Bowery. Sam knew it was because the man had no desire to have Sam seen going into his fancy house by his fancy neighbors.

  The tavern wasn’t very crowded at that time of day, and the few men who stood at the bar were dressed in work clothes. In the corner, however, sat two men who were obviously as out of place here as Sam would have been in their mansions in Gramercy or Park Avenue.

  The tavern’s patrons studiously ignored them.

  The older man glared at him when Sam sauntered up to their table, then turned his glare on his companion, whose resemblance to him was striking. “Is this the man who’s supposed to get your sister back?” he snarled. “I hope he’s better than the last one you had me hire. Time and money wasted.”

  Lewis St. Claire ignored him and rose, extending his hand. “It’s good to see you again, Pickett.”

  “St. Claire.” Sam had done some jobs for him before, and while he didn’t particularly like the man, he did like the fact he paid on time.

  St. Claire gave him a condescending smile. “Father, this is Sam Pickett, the detective I told you about.”

  It didn’t escape Sam’s notice St. Claire junior didn’t introduce him to his father, not that he cared. He did an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay, and fuck what anyone thought of him.

  “Have a seat.”

  Sam pulled out a chair, sat down, and crossed his legs, resting his right ankle on his left knee.

  “Whiskey is your preferred poison, if I recall correctly.” He didn’t give Sam the chance to correct him, not that he would have. Joe knew what he drank. St. Claire signaled the barkeep. “Whiskey,” he ordered. “And two glasses of champagne.”

  “Ain’t got no champagne,” Joe said. He poured whiskey into a shot glass and brought it and a glass of beer to the table. He nodded to Sam, and Sam nodded back. They weren’t friends, more like business acquaintances, but Joe had given him plenty of tips that had paid off. “Got some wine.”

  “What year?” St. Claire senior asked.

  Joe looked at him like he was touched in the head. “Don’t you know what year this is?”

  It was all Sam could do not to choke on the mouthful of beer he’d taken, while the elder St. Claire ground his teeth.

  “Never mind,” Junior said hastily. “Give us coffee.”

  “This ain’t a restaurant, y’know.”

  “I’m quite aware of that, my good man.” Julius St. Claire peered down his nose at Joe, an interesting feat, since he was sitting and Joe was standing.

  “I’ll have to charge you what I would for whiskey.”

  “Fine.”

  Joe stared at him for a second, then rolled his eyes and shook his head.

  Sam took out the makings and rolled himself a cigarette. By the time he was done, Joe was back with two cups of coffee, which he put on the table with a snap, indicating his resentment. He tossed Sam a box of matches and stomped back behind the bar.

  “Thanks.” Sam called after him. He took out a match, struck it on his boot heel, and touched the flame to the tip of his cigarette. He drew in a lungful of smoke and blew out a series of smoke rings. Only then did he ask, “What can I do for you?”

  St. Claire senior answered before his son could. “I want my daughter and her children back under my roof.”

  “What about her husband?”

  He frowned at Sam. “What about him?”

  “I need to know if I’m gonna be facing a gun. I don’t reckon he’d appreciate having his wife and kids taken away from him.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that.” St. Claire slid a self-satisfied smirk toward his son. “He’s been taken care of.”

  “Okay.” Sam figured they paid the man off to disappear. He’d been the go-between for transactions like that a few times. “But if he turns up and I have to shoot him, it’ll cost you extra.”

  “I assure you, Pickett, that won’t be a problem.”

  Sam shrugged. “So what information can you give me about your daughter?”

  “She’s petite. Blonde hair and blue eyes.”

  “That describes pretty much half the female population of New York City. Do you happen to have a tintype of her?”

  “No, but I have a miniature portrait I’d planned to give her husband—the one I chose for her, not that ruffian she ran off with.”

  “Father.” There was a warning in Lewis’s voice, but the old man ignored it.

  “The miniature was done shortly before she was to be presented to society.” He scowled and muttered, “Not that that did much good.” His scowl deepened. “I’ll send a boy around to your rooms.”

  Sam could feel the heat of the burning tobacco against his fingertips, so he crushed out his cigarette against his boot heel. He took out a notebook and pencil, turned to a blank page, and licked the pencil point. “Small. Blonde, blue eyes.” He looked up. “What’s her married name?”

  “She isn’t married. I never gave her permission to marry that…that cab driver.”

  “You’re not making my job any easier.”

  “That’s hardly my concern. You’re supposed to be a detective. Detect!”

  Sam sighed. He’d walk away from this job, but the rent on his office was coming due.

  “Don’t be difficult, Father.” Lewis took a sip of coffee, grimaced, and set the cup away from him. “Her man’s name was Pettigrew.”

  Sam went still. Pettigrew wasn’t a very common name, and as a matter of fact, he only knew one man…“Tom Pettigrew?”

  Lewis beamed. “You see, Father? I told you Sam Pickett was an even better detective than the last one.”

  St. Claire scowled—that seemed to be the expression he favored most. “That wouldn’t have been hard to accomplish. That first idiot you recommended was good for nothing but collecting his fee.”

  Sam decided to interrupt St. Claire’s diatribe. “You said your daughter has children? How many?”

  “She has two girls and a boy. The girls are as fair as she is, and I suppose the boy is as well.”

  Sam kept his mouth shut. He’d learn more simply by listening.

  “There’s also an older boy she’s been raising in the wake of her husband’s death,” Lewis said.

  Sam felt hollow. Tom was dead? And it sounded as if these rich bastards had something to do with it.

  Sam ignored the old man and fixed his attention on Lewis. “You didn’t say anything about your sister’s husband being dead.”

  “The war, you know,” Lewis said breezily, w
aving aside the loss of all those men as if they didn’t matter. Yeah, his kind wouldn’t care much about someone they saw as being below them on the social ladder.

  Sam would definitely look into that.

  Meanwhile, the elder St. Claire snarled at his son. “Shut up. I’ve told you I won’t have that boy living with us.”

  “That’s fine.” Lewis examined his fingernails. “I’ll take him in.”

  “As long as I don’t have to see him.”

  Sam paused in his note-taking. Lewis was trying to appear casual about it, but Sam could hear the lust in his voice. How in hell couldn’t his father? He shook his head and made a note about it in Spanish.

  “You could have told me that to begin with and saved me a lot of worry.”

  St. Claire huffed his annoyance, which Sam made a point of ignoring. The war had been over not quite two years, and St. Claire was just now getting around to searching for his daughter? Well, Sam would find her, even if she didn’t want to be found. And if she was Tom’s wife, he’d do what he could to help her, and to hell with the St. Claires, father and son.

  “Can you tell me where your daughter is living?”

  “Unfortunately, no. She had been living in Chelsea, but for some reason she…uh…moved away. There’s no point in giving you the address—the cottage was torn down earlier this summer. Look, Pickett. She’s a delicate child who was seduced by a scoundrel. However, all is forgiven, and I want her home.”

  “You haven’t given me much to go on.” He raised his beer to his mouth and took a healthy swallow, then wiped the foam mustache from his upper lip. “Tell me about the boy.”

  “We haven’t seen the child yet—”

  Sam sighed. Rich people gave him a pain. “The older one.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t—”

  “I can,” Lewis said. “Black hair, blue eyes, average height, I’d say, although he was on horseback the only time I saw him. Sculpted jaw, high cheekbones, winged eyebrows, lips—”

  “That’s enough, Lewis.” The senior St. Claire huffed again. “One would think you were describing a woman. Will there be anything else, Pickett?” He didn’t wait for Sam to answer. “I must be going. I have things to do.”