Chapter Twenty-One

Hare whistled under his breath softly as he headed for Dooley’s in the new, soft dark. He’d had a message asking him to meet one of the lads there to discuss the threat of job cuts on the docks, and he knew he should be concentrating on what steps they might take to alleviate the ensuing want. Trouble was, he had a bad want of his own, and it went by the name of Dorothea Sinclair.

All day long, as he worked at Ron’s, he’d been unable to chase her from his mind. He wished he were going to see her now, not heading for the noise and confusion at Dooley’s once again. He found a rare kind of peace in Dora’s company, an ease he couldn’t remember ever having known. Addictive as strong Irish whiskey was the fine Miss Dorothea, and she clouded his mind almost as powerfully.

How many times this day had he relived their moments together up in the haven of the filthy quarters above the old shop? Her soft words, her trusting movements… She thought she wanted to marry him, by God. And he—

The sudden scuff of a footstep on his heel caused him to pause and spin around. So distracted had he been by his thoughts of Dorothea, he’d abandoned his usual caution and taken to the shadowed side of the street, and a street nearly abandoned, at that.

Except for this man behind him. And the other moving in all too swiftly from the left. And the third whose breath he could now virtually feel on the back of his neck.

He swore in a groan, cursing his own carelessness, and tensed, realizing his danger all too late. The man directly in front of him pulled a cosh from his pocket and smiled like a shark.

“O’Hare, I presume?” he asked.

Oh, Dora, oh, Dora, his mind screamed, and he went in fighting.

****

“Miss Sinclair,” Mrs. Bennett said haughtily and with obvious disapproval, “there’s a man at the door asking to see you. He seems quite…desperate.”

Dora’s heart leaped. Could it be Timothy? She hadn’t seen him since two nights ago—or rather two mornings ago when they’d parted following their life-changing hours together.

Mrs. Bennett’s attitude toward Dorothea had been scathing since her missed curfew. Now she sniffed, “This is not the sort of person I appreciate having at my door. Irish.”

Dorothea leaped to her feet, her pen slipping from her hand. “I’ll come at once.”

Her heart sped as she followed Mrs. Bennett down the steep stairs from her room. Other girls stared as she went by; some lingered in the dining room after supper, sharing a cup of tea.

Mrs. Bennett had shut her caller outside. Dorothea hauled the door open and beheld not Hare but Terry Gallagher.

The last person she’d expected to see.

“Mr. Gallagher!” she exclaimed.

Mrs. Bennet hadn’t lied; Terry Gallagher looked frantic. Cold descended over Dorothea like a bucket of icy water; even before she asked, she knew the truth. “What’s happened?”

“It’s Hare O’Hare, miss. He was found in a gutter by some lads, not far from Dooley’s. Must have been on his way there after work. One of the lads recognized him and came to me.”

Dorothea gripped the edge of the door as her heart plummeted. “Not—he’s not…”

“He’s alive. Barely. We took him back to Ron’s shop. Ron said I should come for you.”

Dorothea’s legs threatened to fail her; no time for that now. She had to be strong.

She spoke but two words to Terry. “Take me.”

She hurried out without her coat and with all the boarders staring. Through the deepening dark, they ran till the breath seared her lungs and her steps slowed involuntarily. Only once before had she ever run like this, with such desperation.

Now a litany pounded through her mind with every step: Let him be alive; let him be alive.

At last Terry paused on a corner, nearly as out of breath as Dorothea. “There.”

Lights blazed in Ron’s shop even though the surrounding businesses stood dark. The door, half open, emitted a spear of gold, and light shone from the upstairs windows.

“Come on,” Terry Gallagher urged.

Dorothea crossed the last distance without feeling her feet touch the ground. In the shop stood three men she didn’t know; all wore workmen’s clothes and had hangdog faces, their hats in their hands. Upstairs, in the rooms where they’d so lately met together, Ron stood beside what must be his bed. Stretched on the bed…

He looked dead. In that instant, Dorothea believed she’d come too late, and her heart broke apart in her chest, a distinct, shattering pain. The blood drained from her face, and she began to fall.

Ron reached for her. “No, miss—Dorothea, he lives.”

“God, are you sure?” She’d never seen anyone—not even the dead—who looked more dead. His face had paled to stark white where it had not swelled or showed red abrasions. He’d been beaten mercilessly; blood flowed from a severe cut on his forehead, and the pillow below his head had turned crimson.

Blood flowed. Yes, he lived still.

“Oh, thank heaven.” She stumbled forward and sat on the edge of the bed before taking both Hare’s hands in hers. He felt so cold she once more doubted the evidence of her eyes.

“You say he was found near Dooley’s?” In her head, Dorothea heard again the words Jeremy Winton had spoken in his father’s office: My source says the assassin means to make a show of it… He’ll be taken out in a prominent place.

“He said nothing about heading for Dooley’s when he left here.” Ron breathed the words, horror evident in his voice.

“The lads who found him thought him dead. One of them ran for me, and I called some mates—we brought him here, since it was closer than his place, and safer.” Terry cleared his throat. “Is it true what I hear—someone’s put a price on his life?”

“Yes.” And probably believed they’d be paying out now. “You’ve called a doctor?”

“Aye—one of the lads went.” Humbly, Terry added, “But I’ve no money to pay him.”

“I’ll pay,” Ron said.

“’Tis only Dr. Liffey will come. ’Twill take a while for him to get here.”

Dorothea caressed Hare’s face, noted the utter stillness of the copper-brown lashes on his cheeks. “Has he regained consciousness at all?”

“No, miss. The back of his head’s a right mess. ’Tis clear they bashed it into the brick wall there before they left him.”

Ron pushed closer. “Miss Dorothea, it looks bad. You’d best be prepared to lose him.”

“I will not!”

“These bashers—they know their work, especially when they’re looking to collect. Only the fact that he’s so strong is keeping him alive now.”

Dorothea gripped Hare’s fingers more tightly. She saw his hands were a mess, all the knuckles split and splashed with blood. He’d fought back, certainly, as best he could.

“Bring me some water and cloths, if you have them,” she begged Ron. “I’m not waiting for the doctor.”

She’d often enough watched her mother patch up her brothers, who constantly got into scrapes. Nothing like this, of course—the worst they suffered was the odd laceration or broken bone. She’d also watched her mother treat her father once after he suffered a bad burn at the forge, and that had been grisly. But again, nothing like this.

Carefully, she washed the abrasions on Hare’s face and tried to persuade the deep cut at his hairline to close, even while blood from his injured skull continued to soak the pillow. She dared not touch his head. She bathed his poor hands and unbuttoned his ruined shirt to find more abrasions covering his chest. He’d have broken ribs there, at the very least.

When she’d done all she could, she covered him with a blanket and sat praying for the doctor to come. Throughout all her ministrations, Hare had not opened his eyes or stirred a muscle, and fear closed her throat.

What felt like an eternity crawled by—in truth it could not have been more than an hour. She thought about what likely would have happened had the lads who’d discovered him on the side of the street failed to do so, and anger combined with the terror in her heart.

Not fair, not fair! They’d just found one another, she’d spent but one night in his arms. And the two of them together had a whole, beautiful story to write.

She’d be damned if she’d lose him.

She could hear the men downstairs speaking in hushed voices and Ron’s harsh breathing from where he stood by the door. She thought quite clearly: If his life ends here in this room tonight, mine does also. I won’t give up. I won’t, I won’t…

The doctor came at last, with a bustle and clatter up the stairs. A younger man than Dorothea expected, he had a face like the map of Ireland and a reddened nose that argued drink might be his vice. He gave Dorothea a sharp look before focusing on his patient.

“Aye, that’s Hare O’Hare, right enough. The lad said so, but I thought him mistaken. Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph, they did a brutal job on him, didn’t they?”

“Can you save him?”

“That remains to be seen.” He gave her another look, this one scathing. “I was not aware this man’s married.”

“He’s not. I’m not…”

“Then you don’t belong here. Go off downstairs now, like a good lass, and let me do my work.”

“I’m not leaving him. So you can get on with doing your work in spite of me.”

Dr. Liffey grunted. “At least give me some elbow room.”

Dorothea shifted away, not far. Dr. Liffey barked at Ron, “Well, help me, man. We’ll have to shift him.”

The ensuing moments would have reduced Dorothea to tears had she not believed weeping would make Dr. Liffey order her from the room. The man possessed a terrible bedside manner and very little patience, but Dorothea could find no fault with his gentle hands when he set to examining Hare’s wounds. He swore in a steady stream while he worked, not quite under his breath.

By the time he finished, all three of them—he, Ron, and Dorothea—sweated. O’Hare still lay inert and cold as a corpse.

Dr. Liffey straightened and looked at both of them. “Who’s paying me? That’s the one to whom I’ll speak.”

Ron shot Dorothea a helpless look. She hauled herself together.

“Me. I am.” Did she have enough money? Cursed if she cared.

“If he makes it to morning, he may live. He has a broken cheekbone, a dislocated shoulder which I’ve put back into place, and at least three broken ribs. The angels were with him—none penetrated his lung. It’s the head injuries that worry me.”

“Injuries?” Plural.

“Skull was smashed against something hard, and repeatedly. Broke like an egg. There’ll be swelling. Merciful thing is he’ll probably go in his sleep.”

Dorothea swallowed convulsively. “There must be something we can do.”

“Stay with him.” Dr. Liffey raked her with a hard glance. “If you love him, hold onto him. He seems to have a lot of fight.”

“Doctor,” Ron got out, “what odds do you give him?”

“Of making morning? Twenty percent.”

The doctor began repacking his bag, while Ron and Dorothea stared at one another in horror.

“You can’t leave,” Dorothea squeaked then.

“I certainly can’t stay.”

“What if he takes a turn for the worse?”

“If he turns worse than that, he’ll surely be dead.” Dr. Liffey held out a red-stained hand. “My fee’s two dollars.”

“I’m sorry, I ran out without my purse. Ron—?”

Ron Murray paid the doctor in silence and saw him to the door. By the time he returned, Dorothea sat once more on the edge of the bed, wracked by sobs.

“Here, girl—he’s not gone yet. You heard what the doc said—he has a lot of fight.”

Dorothea found it impossible to speak.

“Here, you sit with him. Talk to him, like. You want me to send back to your rooming house for anything?”

Numbly, Dorothea shook her head. “I’ll pay you back for the doctor’s fee, Mr. Murray.”

“Don’t spare a thought for that. It’s only money. You just sit there and keep holding onto him, girl. Don’t let go.”

“I will.” What more could she do?