Chapter Sixteen

“Miss Sinclair, come in.” Montgomery Winton gestured with a peremptory hand for Dorothea to enter his office.

She hesitated at the door; the chief editor wasn’t alone. Instead, his son Jeremy accompanied him. Dorothea preferred to continue avoiding the younger Winton, especially today when her feelings still felt raw following yesterday’s confrontation with O’Hare. She’d barely slept for reliving it over again and trying unsuccessfully to work through her residual anger.

And hurt. She might as well be honest and admit hurt lay uppermost. She’d thought she meant something to the man—something more than a way to fight his battle.

So she’d been wrong. She needed to pull herself up and get over it. Was she a sniveling child?

When she failed to move, Montgomery Winton gestured still more demandingly. “I hope you’ve come to hand in the final piece.”

Dorothea didn’t answer. She clutched the last story of her series in her hands, and even in her estimation it represented a tour-de-force. But now the atmosphere in the room made her feel uncertain.

Plus, she’d put words in Hare O’Hare’s mouth, and he really should see the piece before she submitted it. That, though, would mean her meeting with him. The prospect elevated her heartbeat and brought back the anger, along with the hurt. Yet surely she owed him that much?

She stepped into Montgomery Winton’s office and shut the door behind her. Something made her say, “The story is roughed out but not quite finished. There are a few facts I need to verify.”

Jeremy Winton drawled, “But it goes to press tonight.”

“I know that.” She jerked her chin. “I was going to ask for more time.”

The two men exchanged glances.

“Readers will be expecting the last installment,” Winton said.

“So,” Jeremy said surprisingly, “if it delays a day, we’ll sell more papers. And there’s the other story.”

“What other story?” Dorothea asked.

Winton ignored her. “I’m not sure I want to run that,” he told Jeremy.

“It’s front page.”

“Unquestionably. But think of the impact if he actually gets taken out.”

Jeremy’s eyes narrowed. “I hadn’t considered that. But it’s questionable, surely, to withhold such information?”

“Also problematical to run a story. I must maintain that tip was given to me anonymously.” Montgomery Winton showed his teeth in a shark’s smile.

“Excuse me, Mr. Winton—about whom are you speaking? And if who gets taken out?”

Both men looked at her, and just like that she knew. She might lack her friend Jo’s psychic ability to sense trouble, but she possessed something far more acute—intense feelings and an instinct about Hare O’Hare.

She gasped, “Someone’s put out a contract on him? Hare O’Hare?”

“The most hated man in Boston,” Jeremy pronounced. He nodded at the sheaf of paper in her hands. “Thanks to you.”

Winton Senior said, “Your series has stirred up rabid interest. What I’m trying to decide is what would create still more—an exposé of a contract on O’Hare’s head, or what will follow when he’s eliminated.”

Dorothea stared in horror. “Well, of course you have to warn him.”

“Not necessarily.” Montgomery tapped his chin.

Jeremy took it up. “This information was given to my father in the strictest confidence. Given, in fact, by someone very close to me. That means it can go no further than this room.”

“On penalty of you losing your position,” Montgomery added darkly.

“But we’re talking about a man’s life. Ethically…”

“This is the newspaper business, Miss Sinclair. Ethics don’t necessarily apply.”

“My source,” Jeremy told her, “says the assassin means to make a show of it. Everyone knows where Hare O’Hare lives and works. But Irishmen get attacked in this city every day. He’ll be taken out in a prominent place—left to make a most effective tableau. His death will be a statement on the part of those who want to keep the Irish down.” Jeremy grinned. “A bit like Jesus, really—kill their hero, and they’ll truly feel it.”

Rage overcame the sickness in Dorothea’s belly and kept her on her feet. “Except, in case you haven’t noticed, Christianity’s still flourishing, even in Boston. So are you involved in this proposed assassination? You said ‘we.’ ”

Jeremy shot his cuffs. “Not personally, of course. I wouldn’t soil my hands with that kind of trash.”

“But you’re in on it financially.”

“I’m not saying that either. But in my opinion, you’ve done this city a great disservice making a glorious hero out of that ignorant lout, even if it has sold papers.”

“An unprecedented number of papers,” Montgomery put in.

“But as all too often happens with heroes in real life, he will have to pay the price.”

Dorothea turned disbelieving eyes on Montgomery Winton. “Will you just let this happen?”

Montgomery shrugged. “O’Hare’s served his purpose, given that’s the final story you hold in your hands. I’m inclined to agree with my son; the next story’s in the assassination.”

Dorothea drew herself up. “And if I take the story of what you’ve done to the Herald or the Courier?”

“You wouldn’t want to do that, darling. We’ve indulged you far too much in this—given you fame you don’t deserve. At best, you’re a so-so writer, but you fixed it so the great hero would speak only to you.” Jeremy swept her with his gaze, up and down. “I can only guess how.”

“How dare you! And I’m not your darling.”

“No, not mine—but I’m beginning to wonder about his. The tone of your stories has turned my stomach. It’s time for the Guardian to return to its idiom. And it will, after your next story runs.”

Heat flooded Dorothea’s face. “Hate-mongering, you mean. Perhaps I truly should take my final installment elsewhere.”

“Miss Sinclair, we have an agreement.” Montgomery glared at her. “Surely you don’t intend to go back on it?”

“Of course she doesn’t, Father,” Jeremy answered for her. “She wouldn’t be so foolish as to cross us. She knows it isn’t safe to cross a man with my connections. She might find O’Hare’s not the only one with a contract out on him.”

Dorothea recoiled, the sheaf of papers clutched to her chest. For once her thoughts outdistanced her rage.

“No, Mr. Winton, I wouldn’t double-cross you. We had an agreement, and I’ll abide by it.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Miss Sinclair.”

“But I did come to tell you the final installment’s not quite ready. As I say, I still need to check a few facts.”

Winton grunted. “I’ll give you the rest of the afternoon.” He shot a look at his son. “We’ll run the final installment tomorrow. Let O’Hare take his chances.”

Jeremy nodded, his gaze never leaving Dorothea.

“Miss Sinclair, I suggest you get to work. I want that copy before you go home tonight, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dorothea left the office and returned to her desk like a woman in a trance.

She had to leave here now, get to O’Hare, and warn him of the danger in which he stood, despite the way they’d last parted and the hard feelings between them. None of that mattered now. An assassin might lurk anywhere—on a street corner, in an alley. Death might walk into Ron Murray’s shop even while Hare worked.

And if she lost Hare O’Hare, she would lose her heart.

But she couldn’t leave here immediately and go to him. Oh, agony! For Jeremy had emerged from his father’s office and now kept an eye on her.

One wrong move and he’d be on her. He might even prevent her going to Hare.

No, she had to play along, somehow come up with the discipline to work on a story already completed, knowing every moment might be the one that ended the life of the man she loved. At the finish of the workday, once she handed in her story, only then could she go to him.

“Dorothea? What’s wrong? You look terribly upset.”

Molly stood by her desk, having emerged from the typesetting room.

“I’m all right, Molly.”

“Are you sure? I saw you come out of Winton’s office. Say he never fired you.”

“He didn’t. Better go back to your job, Moll. I don’t want you to get in trouble on my account.”

“Are you in trouble?” Molly persisted.

“Dorothea glanced at Jeremy, who still watched her. Fiercely she shook her head.

And knew she lied. Her heart lay in far more peril than she’d ever imagined.