Thorne Brothers: With All My Heart Part 12

"Berkeley?'' Grey's voice prompted her to look at him again. "Is there no one at all you can go to?"

She shook her head and pushed back strands of hair that brushed her cheek. Being alone was usually different than being lonely. Tonight they felt very much the same. "No one," she said.

"But your lettera""

Berkeley didn't allow him to finish. "It was to a business acquaintance of my father's. I can't expect help there." She leaned back. Beneath the blankets her shoulders were slumped. She crossed her arms, hugging herself for warmth and comfort. "It no longer matters where I am; I have nowhere to go."

"Then there's no urgency for you to leave San Francisco."

"None at all," she said a little dully.

Grey wondered at her answer. "Berkeley?"

"Hmmm?"

"Were you trying to get away from your father?"

She didn't look at him, but stared straight ahead. "Yes."

"But you suspected he was dead."

"I did, but it's not the same as knowing."

And as long as she wasn't certain, Grey realized, she had her sights set on leaving. The importance she placed on seeing her father's grave was clearer to him now. He also understood why she had not been overly disturbed by her virtual confinement in the Phoenix these past four weeks. He realized why she had felt safe in the hotel. "You've been hiding from him," Grey said.

"You're supposing that he wanted to find me. He left me, not the other way around." Berkeley let her head fall back against the cus.h.i.+on and closed her eyes. "But there's truth in what you say. I was panicked at first, not knowing where he was or what I would do without him; then I managed it. More importantly, I realized I was managing it."

"By dressing in a man's clothing?" he asked. "Bathing in the bay? Sleeping in the streets? That's your idea of managing?"

"It's my idea of surviving. I did it on my own. You can't know what that meant to me."

Grey thought he did know. He said nothing for a long time. While silence filled the pa.s.sing minutes he stared at her, trying to make out the features of her upturned face. It wasn't composure that he observed in her expression, but exhaustion. Then there was the tear he saw slip from between her closed lashes. She made no effort to brash it away, almost as if she was denying its existence. Grey leaned toward her and raised his hand. His fingers hovered just above her cheek, then he brushed her face with the lightest of touches.

He wondered if she knew how often his thoughts were occupied with her, or how often his eyes strayed from any task at hand to observe her. Since her arrival he had had his men stepping lively to see to her personal needs and comfort, and what he noticed was that none of them complained. Even Sam Hartford, who had made noises about not wanting to be involved in furbelows and geegaws, took up Berkeley's standard after he saw her in one of Ivory's gowns. Donnel, Mike, Shawn, and half a dozen others were no different. The special attention that was given to Berkeley's suite was initiated by him, but fulfilled by everyone else. When Grey saw the manner in which they cheerfully carried out his instructions he realized they were all looking for excuses to spend time with her.

He was no different. He only held himself back.

Until now. His fingertips touched her cheek, and he felt the damp evidence of her tears. She didn't stir. "Berkeley?"

Her eyes opened. They glistened. Another tear fell. It didn't matter if she had his permission or not, she did not want to cry in front of him. "Can we go now, Mr. Janeway?"

His hand dropped to her throat. His fingers slipped behind the nape of her neck and his thumb brushed the underside of her chin. "Grey," he said. "I think you'd better start calling me Grey."

She didn't question him. At this moment she wasn't even curious why he should say that. "I'd like to go home."

He didn't press her. Instead he tucked her in beside him and sheltered her with one arm. He took up the reins in his free hand, and, with a flick of his wrist, the carriage began to roll forward slowly. Berkeley Shaw was asleep by the time they reached the Phoenix.

The morning was shrouded with fog. It suited Berkeley's mood and her movements. When she unbarred the gaming house's door and stepped onto the sidewalk, the whole of Portsmouth Square was swallowed by the thick, damp mist. Diffuse light from an invisible sun made it possible for her to see a few feet beyond each step she took. Behind her the fog closed like a curtain, removing every trace of her path.

Berkeley's shoes tapped out a light staccato beat as she hurried along the rough wooden sidewalk. Confident that she could pa.s.s un.o.bserved because of the fog, she did not try to keep her head down or shade her face with the hat she wore. Wearing the clothes she had never returned to Grey, Berkeley knew that a pa.s.sing glance would only mark her as one of the last of the city's late-night revelers.

Venturing into Sydney Town was not something Berkeley would have done in broad daylight. Night was certainly no safer. But a San Francisco morning, with its lowering clouds from the bay as thick as cotton batting, presented itself as the perfect time. The shanties and tents, the clapboard hovels and crudely built gaming h.e.l.ls, were cl.u.s.tered near the waterfront and rose up the slope of Telegraph Hill.

It was toward the hill that Berkeley made her way. Her progress was slowed by the deeply rutted street and the occasional drunkard or brawler staggering out from one of the saloons. The area was quiet, almost eerily so. She was aware of her own breathing and the soft rustle of her clothes as her arms brushed her sides. Water splashed loudly as she stepped into a puddle, and she picked up her pace to get away from the sound.

Berkeley didn't know the precise location of Sydney Town's cemetery and doubted that it was connected to anything remotely resembling a church. She had, however, once observed an unruly group of mourners following a hea.r.s.e on the outskirts of Sydney Town, and she took that same direction now.

She came upon the cemetery literally by accident as she tripped over stones that marked the entrance. Hastily she replaced the stones in something resembling a pyramid and righted the wooden cross that had landed on its side the same time she did.

The fog that had served to cloak Berkeley's journey from the Phoenix now worked against her. There were no granite slabs to indicate where a body was buried, and the crosses were difficult to see except when she was standing beside them. Some of the graves were marked only with stones arranged in a pile similar to the one at the entrance. Crouching low, Berkeley worked her way through the rows of graves more by feel than by sight.

Sydney Town's cemetery was populated by men who bore an odd a.s.sortment of names when they had been among the living. There was Luckless Bill, English Joe, One-Chance Charlie, and Eddie Smiles. Berkeley found wooden crosses with names as plain as Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones burned into them. Seldom were dates revealed. More often she found the manner of death. Gunshot in the back. Hanged. Drowned. Demon Rum. Sometimes the crime was noted. Card cheat. Liar. Traitor.

Berkeley s.h.i.+vered and pulled her jacket more closely around her shoulders. The Sydney Ducks apparently had their own code. Murdering others could be forgiven. Betraying a fellow Duck was a death sentence. Immoral or amoral, it didn't matter. It was what they lived and died by.

Anderson Shaw. Berkeley's fingers trembled when she reached out to touch the cross. It leaned a little to the side, and she straightened it. It inclined again as soon as she let it go.

She mounded some dirt at its base and pushed it deeper in place. The cross was no better made, but no worse than any of the others. No information about the manner of his death was burned into the wood; nothing to indicate if he was sinner or saint in the eyes of the Ducks.

Around the edge of the grave the gra.s.s was wet. Berkeley sat down anyway, crossing her legs tailor-fas.h.i.+on. She plucked a piece of long gra.s.s and chewed on the end while her eyes remained riveted on the marker. It must be true, she thought, and still she could not believe what she was seeing. Berkeley would not have been surprised at all if Anderson had simply materialized out of the mist. She could imagine him standing just behind her, his hand pressing into the small of her back, his knuckle digging sharply into her spine. He would incline his head toward her and make a comment that only she could hear. Other people would remark on his solicitousness. Only she would know the truth.

When she had set out this morning Berkeley's head had been filled with things she wanted to say to Anderson; now it was curiously blank. Nothing came to mind. She wasn't angry or bitter or triumphant. Guilt and shame no longer bore down on her. There had never been any real sadness, only fear, and that, too, was receding. She was no longer prompted to speak by any thoughts of hurting or insulting him. Words that she couldn't have imagined saying to him when he was alive had occurred to her earlier. Now she remained silent.

Peace was unfamiliar to her, and the irony for Berkeley was that at the moment she felt it, recognized it, and tried to embrace it, she was also disquieted by it. She drew her knees up to her chest, hugged them, and rocked gently back and forth. She hummed softly, a song her mother had sung to her, and when the tears finally came they were because her own arms were small comfort when the ones she wanted were her mother's.

It was the warmth of the sun on her back that made Berkeley aware of the pa.s.sage of time. Around her the fog was thinning. She could see an entire row of crosses now, and when she squinted through the mist she could even see the listing cross at the entrance. Berkeley jumped to her feet. She tugged on the brim of her hat and walked quickly around Anderson's grave. On her way out of the cemetery she straightened the cross again before she hurried down the hill.

The citizens of Sydney Town were starting to stir. Barkeeps were shoving sleepy-eyed patrons out the doors so they could clean liquor, blood, and vomit off their floors. Half-dressed men stepped out of brothels and completed fastening then-trousers or b.u.t.toning their s.h.i.+rts on narrow stoops or in the streets. Berkeley only just managed to avoid one who relieved himself as she walked by.

Colorful names that spoke to the origins of Sydney Town were attached to the saloons. She pa.s.sed the Rum Punch and Judy, the Noggin of Ale, and the Bay of Biscay. She crossed to the other side of the street before she reached the Fierce Grizzly, a groggery she'd heard about from Shawn, so named because the owner actually kept a female bear chained beside the door. Men slept in various contorted states outside lodging houses, where signs in the curtainless windows indicated there were no rooms or beds to let. Berkeley picked her way past all of them and knew herself to be more wary now than she had been earlier.

The slowly lifting fog was revealing Sydney Town in all its tawdry and dangerous glory.

"Pssst. You. Boy. Come here."

Berkeley was halfway between two buildings. The Tam O'Shanter tavern was behind her. The red gla.s.s globe of a brothel lay ahead. The low-pitched voice came from the narrow alley on her left. She did not wait to find out what the gravel-throated stranger wanted with her. The pause in her step was only because she was surprised. It did not signal her intention to stop.

The hand that clamped over her mouth was a hard one. It fit itself so securely over her lips that Berkeley could not get any leverage to bite or scream. She sucked in air through her nose as she was dragged into the alley.

"Empty your pockets."

Berkeley was hanging on to her a.s.sailant's forearm with both hands. The grip he had on her face made her aware of how easily he could break her neck, even if it was not his intention to do so. Only the tips of her toes touched the ground. She had neither balance nor purchase, and the last thing she was able to do was show him her empty pockets.

He gave the order again, hissing this time. His breath was sour from a combination of stale spirits and rotting teeth. When she was still unable to respond he began an impatient search of her person himself.

Berkeley's hat was the first thing to go. A tidal wave of pale hair spilled over his forearm. She heard his grunt of surprise but he recovered quickly. His free hand went directly to the front of her jacket. He pawed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s through the material. Behind the hand that covered her mouth, Berkeley began to gag- "Let her go."

Relief washed through Berkeley when she heard Mike Winston's voice. The hesitating, respectful tone that she usually a.s.sociated with him was absent now. He spoke flatly, with an edge of real menace, and Berkeley realized that she was not the only one who understood it. The hand on her mouth eased enough for her to draw a gasping breath, and she was lowered so that her heels touched the ground.

Mike produced a knife and waved it close enough for Berkeley's captor to see. "Let her go," he repeated softly.

Berkeley twisted free and leaped away from her attacker. The man's hand still grazed her hip and thigh before she was free. She was breathing hard and trying not to retch.

"Get out of here," Mike told her. "Run as if your life depends on it. Because it does."

She started forward, hesitated, then began to run. When she turned the corner she saw two men approaching the alley from across the street. She shouted a warning to Mike and kept on running. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the men halt and turn in her direction. For a moment she thought she had diverted their attention from the alley, but then they went on. The last thing she saw before she turned another corner was Mike emerging from the alley only to be dragged back into its shadowy interior.

Berkeley sprinted down the street, hurdling over refuse and dodging hungover stragglers. She was winded by the time she reached Portsmouth Square, but she didn't slow perceptibly until she was standing in the Phoenix's grand gaming hall.

Sam was polis.h.i.+ng the bar. Shawn was leaning against the banister, whittling. Donnel Kincaid and three other workers were eating their breakfast at one of the gaming tables. Everyone looked up when Berkeley came cras.h.i.+ng through the entrance, but no one moved. Astonishment held them still until Grey Janeway appeared at the top of the stairs and began barking orders.

"Sam. Donnel. Get your guns. The rest of you take a weapon from my case." He was down the steps in the time it took him to finish rapping out the commands. He threw Shawn a key and pointed to the storeroom at the back of the hall. "You know where I keep them." Grey was carrying a pistol in his right hand. The cast of the barrel was the same shade as his eyes.

Berkeley flinched when both were turned in her direction, but she didn't back away. "It's Mike," she said.

Grey already knew that. He had been standing on his balcony when Berkeley made her wild dash across Portsmouth Square, her hair trailing like an unfurled flag behind her. Until he saw her he hadn't known she was gone. That was Mike's a.s.signment. Expecting to see that it was Mike chasing her, Grey had permitted himself a small smile. It vanished when Mike didn't appear, and Berkeley's face betrayed the depth of her fear as she approached the Phoenix.

He knew then that it was Berkeley's protector who was in trouble. "Did you leave him in Sydney Town?"

She felt the question as an accusation but she didn't attempt to defend herself or explain. "Yes. The Ducks. Theya""

"Where?'' he asked abruptly. Behind him Shawn, Sam, Donnel, and the others had gathered.

"I'll show you." Berkeley turned swiftly only to be hauled back hard before she had taken a single step. She winced as Grey's fingers tangled in her hair and pulled on her scalp. "The Tarn O'Shanter. On the waterfront. There's an alley thata""

Shawn brushed past Grey. "I know the place," he said. "Let's go."

Grey let the others leave before he released Berkeley. She staggered away from him but didn't cry out. "You shouldn't have gone there," he said tersely.

She didn't respond to the reprimand. "Please," she said instead. "You have to find him quickly. I'm afraid for him."

"You should be."

Berkeley shook her head. "You don't understand at all. His palma when I touched his palma" She couldn't say any more. She turned and fled in the direction of the storeroom. When she came back carrying a shotgun, Grey was already gone.

Except for a few broken bottles, a pile of rags, and Berkeley's battered hat, the alley beside the Tam O'Shanter was empty when Grey and his men arrived. Sam found a fresh blood trail near the wall of the tavern, and there was evidence of a stampede of men in the swirl of footprints marking the ground.

"You don't suppose they pitched him in the drink already?" Sam asked. He scratched his head while he looked warily at the small gathering of Ducks across the street. He thrust his chin in that direction. "Looks like we got a few of the flock cackling over yonder."

Donnel's dark red brows drew together. "I don't think we'd do well to be trapped in this alley. Seems to be a dead end from what I can tell."

Grey scooped up the hat and motioned them all onto the street. "Keep your weapons in plain sight but don't draw on any of them."

A husky, though unmistakably feminine voice called to them. "You boys looking for something special this morning?" Amelia Flowers stood in the doorway of her brothel and gave the men on both sides of the street a full view of her ample bosom. "Or are you just looking for a fight?"

"You got something special, Amelia?" one of the Ducks called. "Or is it the same thing you've been giving everyone on the waterfront? Namely the clap." His friends laughed at his humor, slapped him on the back, and started walking away.

Grey watched them go. He stepped on the brothel's small porch. "Thank you, Missa""

"Mrs.," she corrected. "Mrs. Flowers. Your friend's in here. Leastways I a.s.sume he belongs to you." She stepped aside to allow Grey in. She motioned to the others, and most of them followed. Donnel and Sam took up sentinel positions on either side of the door.

They found Mike in the dining room, lying on the table. Two of Amelia's girls were hovering over him. They didn't move aside even when it was clear that Grey wanted a closer look at his man.

Mike was bruised and cut, but he was alive and he was conscious. He turned his head when he heard Grey's voice. Only one of his eyes opened. He looked at Grey through the narrow slit. "Is she all right?" he rasped. "It happened so fasta the foga I couldn'ta""

"You have nothing to apologize for," Grey said. He placed his hand lightly on Mike's shoulder. "Do you think we can move you?"

Mike nodded. "I can walk." He started to sit up, but Grey pushed him back. The pressure was enough to cause him to groan.

"We can make a litter," one of the girls suggested. "You can carry him that way."

In the end they used two sheets to make a sling. Mike pa.s.sed out when they lifted him, and that was just fine with Grey and the others. It took four of them to hoist Mike, but it was manageable, even with weapons in their free hands. Grey drew a handful of gold coins from his jacket pocket and gave one to each of the girls and the rest to Amelia Flowers.

"Anytime," the madam said softly in response to Grey's thanks.

Grey caught up with his men just as Berkeley reached them from the other direction. She was limping slightly but trudging along gamely, the shotgun raised over her shoulder. Her relief in finding them with Mike in tow was short-lived. Grey tore the shotgun out of her hands and gave it to Sam. "You must have the sense of a slug," he said. He swore under his breath when the look she gave him showed neither fear nor regret. She only appeared hurt. "Sam?" Grey said. "What has less sense than a slug?"

"Not rightly sure." He grinned a little as his boss thrust the hat he'd been carrying into Berkeley's hands and told her to put it on. She jammed it on her head so forcefully that it almost swallowed her eyes. "Reckon it might be one of those jackaroos you tell about from time to time."

Donnel spoke up. "A bag of hair."

Grey had a firm grip on Berkeley's upper arm and was pulling her along. "How's that again?" he asked.

Donnel shrugged. "A bag of hair's got less sense than a slug or a jackaroo."

Shawn nodded. "A bag of hair's got as much sense as a brick. I'd say Miss Shaw's got about that much sense."

Berkeley tried to pull away, but Grey held her fast and drew her close. He made her keep pace with him in spite of her limp. "A brick it is," he told Berkeley. His voice lowered so that only she could hear him. "When Mike comes around he might come up with something even less flattering about your intelligence."

Berkeley let the comment pa.s.s. She twisted around far enough to glimpse Mike. "Is he going to be all right?"

Grey didn't know the answer to that. "Shawn will get a doctor as soon as we're back at the Phoenix."

"I want to take care of him," Berkeley said. "You can put him in my suite."

He didn't answer her. Grey was aware of the attention they were drawing as their armed group crossed Portsmouth Square.

He saw Berkeley glancing around and lowering her head as she realized the same thing. Giving her a little shake, he brought her head up again. "We could have a parade of Ducks following us," he said. "Remember that. Mike took a beating for you. By all rights it should be you in that sheet."

Berkeley lost her footing as she shuddered. "Don't you think I know how fortunate I am that Mike came along?''

"Fortunate? Luck had nothing to do with it. Mike was there because I asked him to watch after you."

"You what?"

Grey didn't understand her astonishment. "I hoped you'd prove me wrong and not venture into Sydney Town," he said. "Mike took up the watch last night in the event I was right."

Berkeley's raised face was pale as salt. Her eyes held enormous pain. "Then I've killed him," she said on a thread of sound. "It will be my fault when he dies."