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“GUTHRIE, I’M THROUGH.” Alberto rested his hands on the edge of the man’s desk.
Guthrie ground his cigarette in his ashtray without looking up. “You weren’t followed?”
As if he were foolish enough to lead the Belardis to Guthrie’s house.
He pulled a few sheets of paper from his inner coat pocket and tossed them on the desk. Too reminiscent of the papers listing his crimes he’d set before Guthrie months earlier. “You heard what I said. There’s your information. Addresses for the speakeasies and warehouses, names of Belardi’s men, and details of Belardi’s supply chain.
Information that could’ve cost him his life. Information that had cost him his peace.
Guthrie tilted the papers into the light cast by his desk lamp and fanned through them. “Sit down. Don’t make any hasty decisions.”
“I’ll stand.”
Guthrie shrugged. “Why are you quitting and leaving the job half done?”
“Insults aren’t going to get you anywhere.” He drove his hands into his pockets. The sooner he left this house, the better. He’d catch the first train to Georgia.
He tapped the papers Guthrie held. “The job’s finished.”
Guthrie leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his stomach. As if he didn’t have a care in the world. “You’re not finished. With this information, I can plan how to take down Belardi’s entire operation. And while that’s happening, I need a man to keep track of Belardi, a man within his organization. Like it or not, you’re that man.”
“Find someone else.” Heat rushed into his face.
Guthrie breathed a curse. “Don’t you think I would’ve if I had a man available? Don’t you think I’d rather not trust a killer?” He cursed again. “Neither of us likes it, but this is the way it has to be.”
“You’ve changed your thinking since the day you hired me.” The man had thrown down every possible tactic to get him to accept the position.
Guthrie splayed his hands on the desk and pushed to his feet. “Have a drink with me. Settle your nerves. Then tell me what has you worked up.”
Liquor. All he needed.
He clenched his hands into fists within his pockets. “Hypocritical for a man in your position.”
Guthrie narrowed his eyes. “The way I see it, nothing stops me from taking a little of the surplus from our raids. Someone might as well benefit from them.”
“That Guthrie’s been known to accept a little, let’s say, monetary incentive to look the other way.”
Belardi’s accusation.
What was Guthrie doing? Keeping some of the booze for himself and selling the rest? Taking bribes from the big players such as Belardi?
He pulled his hands from his pockets and uncurled his fingers. “And nothing stops you from taking a bride offered by Belardi or someone else.”
Guthrie slammed his fist to the desk. The lamp’s glass shade rattled. “You will not accuse me of that.”
“Why not?” Alberto rounded the desk. “Because it’s true?”
Guthrie’s eyes hardened. “What gives you the right to question me?”
Belardi had been right. Guthrie was crooked, and he never should’ve trusted him.
“Belardi had no reason to lie to me.” Alberto lunged at Guthrie, gripped his collar, and lifted the little man off his feet. “You do.”
Guthrie squirmed, eyes wide, mouth gaping. “Get your ... hands ... off me.”
As if he’d do a thing the man said. “Did you take money from Belardi?”
Steel jabbed his back. “Put him down. I wouldn’t want him to get hit when I pull this trigger.”
As if this night could take a worse turn. How had he not heard the newcomer’s steps?
The gun ground into his spine. “Let him go.”
Alberto jerked his hand from Guthrie’s collar. The man staggered back, stumbled over his chair, and crashed to the ground.
Guthrie clambered to his feet and straightened his collar. “Thank you, Terrance. Take his gun. We have some things to discuss.”
Terrance reached around Alberto and jerked his weapon from his shoulder holster.
Guthrie drew a revolver, leveled it on Alberto’s chest, and stepped away from the fallen chair. “Pick up that chair and sit down. Unless you’d prefer being gunned down by a butler.”
As if he couldn’t have heard Guthrie’s butler sneaking up behind him. The butler who was supposed to be sleeping.
“Do as he says.” Terrance slammed his hand between Alberto’s shoulder blades and drove him forward.
He should’ve taken his chances with the gun in his back and smashed his elbow into Terrance’s gut. But no, he’d had to stand motionless. He’d had to let Guthrie and Terrance gain the upper hand. Now, they had him at their mercy.
He righted the chair and dropped into it.
Guthrie smiled, skirted the chair, and leaned against the desk.
Terrance took his position at Guthrie’s side and grinned. “Maybe you could use a little incentive to carry out Mr. Guthrie’s orders.”
Alberto fisted his hands. “Put down the gun and fight me like a man.”
“That’s enough. We can settle this in a civilized manner.” Guthrie glared at Alberto. “You can go back to your role with the Belardis and finish the job I’ve given you. After they’re in custody, you’ll be free to do whatever you like with your sorry life.”
The nerve of the man. “Playing both sides, aren’t you? Taking bribes from Belardi, then turning on him to make yourself look like you’re out for justice.” Tension raked along his shoulders and into his neck. He’d been a fool to trust Guthrie. “Just how much of Belardi’s booze are you planning to keep for yourself or sell?”
Guthrie didn’t flinch, but Terrance’s smirk proved he’d guessed right.
“You’ve got me all figured out, I see, but you will be silent until I finish speaking to you.” Guthrie drew a breath and winced.
Good. He should’ve grabbed the man by his neck and forgone the collar.
Guthrie tugged at his collar. “Finish with the Belardis or go home to your wife and baby’s funeral.”
“You coward.” He lunged from the chair, fists raised to flatten Guthrie’s arrogant face, to pound Terrance into the ground.
Guthrie pulled the hammer back on the revolver. “Not another step.”
He stilled. Shaking hit him, worse than any blow. Nausea swelled in his gut, intensified by the blood rushing in his ears. Lillian and the kid, defenseless in that town ... “You so much as touch them, and you’ll beg me to kill you.”
“Really?” One side of Guthrie’s mouth rose. “You’re in a position to threaten me?”
He’d put Lillian at risk. He’d put the kid at risk. Because he’d trusted Guthrie.
“You won’t get anywhere near them.”
Guthrie blinked. “That’s all up to you, and your answer to my question. You can protect your family, and you can help me bring the Belardis to justice. All you have to do is go back until the time comes to take them down.” He lifted his free hand. “A few weeks, Moretti. What’s that compared to the lives of your wife and baby?”
Guthrie stepped away from the desk, gun still aimed at Alberto. “And don’t think you can agree to continue doing your job only to come back here tomorrow night and gun me down.” He glanced at Terrance. “That would be a fool’s errand with Terrance and the other men I’ll have here from now on.”
Heat swept over him, followed by a rush of ice. “Why? Why do you need me there so bad?”
“I told you. I need a man on the inside to keep me updated on Belardi’s schemes.” Guthrie smiled. “I’ll have a man watching your every move. Don’t think you can sneak away and get to Georgia. And don’t think you can feed me false information. If this raid goes wrong, if we don’t bring in the Belardis, your family will suffer the consequences.”
Curses ripped from him. The coward. Guthrie deserved nothing but death. Slow, painful death.
Guthrie shook his head. “Calm yourself. Make the rational choice. Protect Lillian and little Matteo.”
The man had no right to say their names. No right to threaten them. No right to live. “Shut up.”
“Give me your answer. Do you return to the Belardis or do I kill you and send a couple of my men to kill your wife and baby? Or should I say Rossi’s baby?”
“He’s mine.” In all but blood.
Guthrie brushed his hand down his coat. “Give me your answer. I haven’t got all night.”
What choice did he have? The man had given him no choice. No choice but to do whatever was necessary to protect Lillian and the kid.
Bile scorched his throat.
He had no choice. No choice but to surrender to Guthrie. “I’ll go back.”
Guthrie smiled, then his features hardened. “If I suspect in any way you’ve informed Belardi of our plans, your family will die.”
If the man said that one more time ...
“You will not contact them. I’ll have a man stationed in Georgia near them. And if you so much as send a letter or make a call to them or any of your friends down there, they’ll die. I’d send McClellan to watch your family since I know how much you hate him, but he’s too thickheaded to be included in my ... other operations.”
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.” Guthrie’s mouth thinned. “You’ll do nothing but continue working for Belardi, and you’ll continue to report to me. And you’ll be followed at all times. Am I clear?”
As if that deserved an answer. No, Guthrie deserved nothing less than a fist in his teeth. Or a bullet between his eyes.
“Answer me. You’re in no position of authority.”
“I understand.” He ground out the words as if they were curses. And they might as well have been.
“Terrance, empty his weapon and hand it to him. We can’t have Belardi thinking anything is amiss.”
The butler did as Guthrie had ordered and handed the .45 to Alberto.
He slipped the gun in his shoulder holster. “Leave them alone.” Words too much like a plea, but for Lillian and the kid, he’d beg. He’d beg from a man as low as Guthrie.
Guthrie smiled. “As long as you keep your end of the bargain, they’ll know nothing.”
**
BURNING SETTLED IN Carla’s shoulder and trailed down her arm as she fumbled with the knot of hair she’d coiled at the nape of her neck. With a sigh, she lowered her hand to her hip.
Locks of hair twisted loose, and pins scattered across the floor. At least she’d tried. Soon, the pain would fade enough to allow her to put both arms above her head, but today wasn’t that day. She smoothed a wrinkle from her blouse.
A knock came at the door.
“Come in.”
She lowered herself to the edge of the bed and ran quick fingers through her mussed hair.
Mrs. Ashton bustled in and hung two dresses in the wardrobe. “Morning, dear. How’re you feeling?”
“Better.” Because of what this family had done for her. They’d saved her life. They’d given her a home when she’d had none. “Thank you ... for everything.”
Mrs. Ashton shook her head. “Don’t start thanking me again. We’ve been through that time and time again. We were glad to do it, and you’d have done the same for one of us if you could’ve.”
She crossed the room and rested her hand on Carla’s shoulder. “If you’ll stand up, I’ll help you with your hair. Got to be a bother having it down all the time.”
Just like Mamma, Mrs. Ashton had an uncanny ability to know when a person needed help but was too proud to ask for it. Mamma. Would a day come when the pain didn’t carve out a gaping hole in her chest?
Carla stood and turned to face the bed. “I tried, but I couldn’t manage.”
“Seeing you’ve only got one good arm, I’m not surprised. Stay there. I’m going to get some pins to hold that hair up.” Her footsteps thudded across the floor as she crossed to the chest of drawers.
“Thank you.”
Mrs. Ashton laughed and stepped behind Carla. “Don’t be thanking me yet. I haven’t even started.” Her hands slipped into Carla’s hair and gathered it.
“Is there anything I can do to help around the house?” Surely she could be of some good to these people who’d given her so much. Not that she’d had experience with housekeeping in any form other than observing Mrs. Pasetti at work.
A pin settled cold against her scalp. “You’re healing. Give it time. And before you start thinking you’ve done me no good, you’ve made my boy smile. He’s not one to do that too often, and it does me good to see him something other than sad.”
Frank. “He’s—he’s been good to me.” He’d gone onto the porch with her despite his reluctance. He’d sat with her for all those days, talking to her, reading Scripture to her.
A pin slipped into her hair, then another. Mrs. Ashton rested her hand on Carla’s left shoulder. “I hope so. And I hope he won’t be foolish enough to let you go.”
Heat crept to her cheeks.
“If I thought it’d do any good, I’d encourage him to talk to you. Young people these days need all the help they can get.”
The heat increased. “Mrs. Ashton ...”
Mrs. Ashton laughed. “I’m just having a bit of fun with you.” She eased Carla around. “Go look in the mirror and see if I’ve made a mess of your hair.”
With slow steps, Carla made her way to the chest of drawers and the mirror above it. Her reddened face stared back at her, but she patted the bun Mrs. Ashton had formed. “Much better than anything I can do. Thank you.”
Mrs. Ashton beamed. “Now go find Frank. I left him in the parlor.” With a wink, she stepped from the room.
Mothers and their matchmaking. Mamma had been the same way, always stating Carla’s suitors’ finer points.
Yet she needed no urging to make her careful way to the parlor.
Frank lifted his head and closed the thick volume he’d been reading. “Ma helped you with your hair?”
She nodded and settled on the sofa. The temperature had fallen last night, and cold wrapped around her.
He dropped the book beside his chair. “It looks good like that.”
The heat returned to her face.
He rested his hand on his knee. “The sheriff came out earlier. He said he’s done as much on the investigation pertaining to your ... to you as possible.” He glanced down. “He said there’s nothing else he can do.”
Air froze in her lungs, but she forced it out. “I expected no less.”
The crack of the shots ...
A tremor swept through her and ignited fire in her chest.
“You’re remembering?” Lines traced his forehead.
“How long ...?” How long until memories of that night came and didn’t torment her? How long until she could walk from the safety of four walls and not search the area for men trying to kill her?
He moved his hand to the armrest of his chair. “I think it’s different for everyone.”
“For you?” Had he found a way to tame the memories?
His face went blank.
She shouldn’t have asked, should’ve respected his need to forget, should’ve changed the subject to something lighter.
His shoulders rose, then fell. “I still remember. Sometimes, it’s as if it happened to someone else, and I was only a witness. Other times, it wakes me up in the night, and I find myself covered in sweat.”
His gaze turned distant. “I don’t talk about it. As if by not speaking of it, it’ll make it so it didn’t happen.” He focused on her. “I suppose that makes me foolish.”
“No. Not at all.”
“You’re wondering what happened?” He rolled the chair forward until only a couple of feet separated his knees from hers. “It’s strange. I’ve never wanted to tell anyone else. Maybe I thought they wouldn’t understand, but you’d understand. You’ve been there. Maybe not in the same way, but you understand.”
He trusted her.
“We’d been fighting off and on all night. I was exhausted, but I’d been selected to stand guard while some of the other men got some sleep. It was about mid-morning, I guess.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “My colonel came up to say something to me. Funny thing is, I can’t remember what it was. That bothers me for some reason.”
The distance returned to his gaze, transporting him to some war-torn country. He was wrong. She couldn’t understand this. She’d never fought a battle. She’d never seen men fall on either side of her.
“I saw a flash of light reflect off something. Somehow, I knew it was the barrel of a gun. Probably a sniper’s rifle. I didn’t think much. I just slammed into the colonel. It wasn’t courage that made me do it. I’m not—not a hero like they say. It was only a reaction.”
His voice dulled. “I wasn’t quick enough. I remember the gunshot. Felt like someone drove a sledgehammer into my lower back. We both hit the ground, and I—I rolled away from the colonel. And ...” He lowered his head, and a shudder ran through him. “He ... died anyway.”
Words weren’t enough compared to that kind of grief. No eloquent language could erase the horrors he’d endured.
“Frank ...?”
He extended his hand, almost as if he were reaching for her.
She pushed from the sofa and took his hand. His shaking vibrated against her palm.
He lifted his head, and red rimmed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
He had nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all. “Don’t be.”
He slipped his hand from hers.
She eased back, took her place on the sofa, and ducked her head. Had she said the wrong thing? Offended him?
“Carla.” He eased the chair forward until his knees skimmed her skirt, and his hand brushed hers.
She raised her head.
He lifted his hand and brushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. A ghost of a smile claimed his lips. “I wanted to do that the other day on the porch, but I thought you’d mind.”
“I don’t mind.”
He slipped his hand into hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’m glad to hear that.”
**
WHAT HAD HE DONE?
Moonlight filtering through the window tinged the ceiling above him a dull gray.
The warmth of her hand in his. The gentle affection in her eyes.
As if she believed him to be someone she could see herself loving. As if she believed him more than a burden.
He dug his fingers into his lifeless legs. He was a burden, nothing more than an invalid requiring constant attention. Not a man who could consider courting a girl and marrying her. Not a man who had the right to dream of a future.
She deserved a man who could provide for her. A man who could protect her should her relatives threaten her life. A man she could raise a family with.
Not a man unable to move on his own power. Not a man with a mind as paralyzed as his legs.
Yet she cared for him. She, in her kind, gentle, beautiful way, cared for him.
And he had to hurt her. But better for her to be hurt for a little while than to have to live the rest of her life regretting the man she’d chosen to love, than for her to one day see him for what he truly was and look at him with revulsion.
She’d been wrong. He was nothing more than a selfish wretch. She’d already lost too much. She’d been hurt enough. And he would hurt her again, hurt her when he never should’ve let his emotions get carried away.
Tomorrow, he’d have to talk to her and convince her nothing could come of her feelings, of his feelings.
Or he could let this continue. He could let himself forget for a few minutes what he was.
Yet he couldn’t. To do so would be the most selfish of decisions. Because someday, she would see him for who he was—a gaunt, weak, miserable, broken man—instead of whomever she believed him to be.
If only he could swing his legs over the side of this prison of a bed and stand. If only he could be the man she saw him as.
Why had he jumped in front of the colonel? The man had died anyway. Why had both he and Wilmont had to suffer?
Yet could he have stood there and watched as the colonel fell to the ground, as he writhed in pain from the damage caused by the sniper’s bullet? Could he have lived with the knowledge that a man had died because he’d stood by and done nothing when he could’ve tried to save him?
That would’ve made him a coward, even more of a coward than Pa declared him to be.
He pushed onto his elbows, and the quilt slid from his shoulders to his chest. Cold brushed his bare skin.
He’d done what he had to. Not because of some conscious decision but because of a reflex. Maybe he’d been a coward then too. Maybe he’d always been a coward. Maybe all his stunts as a kid had been a way to prove he was brave when he was the opposite.
What did Carla see in him?
Carla, unconscious in that bed, shadows underscoring her eyes. Carla, next to him on the porch, sunlight burnishing her hair. Carla, before him on the sofa, her eyes full of feelings he never should’ve encouraged.
Carla. Somehow, she’d gone from an injured girl to a woman he cared for.
A woman he could care for no longer.
Tomorrow, he’d make her see nothing could ever develop between them. Maybe she’d see him for who he was instead of what she’d made him out to be.
Yet in telling her, he’d lose a friend. He’d lose the one who shortened those long afternoons, who interrupted him when he was reading about distant battles.
Yes, he was selfish. Rotten to the core. In no way worthy of her.
He dropped to the mattress and tugged the quilt to his chin. He’d find no sleep tonight, no escape in oblivion.
No escape from tomorrow.