CHAPTER 11

Marsh hadn’t dreamed in a long time. He sometimes wondered whether he’d simply willed dreams away, or whether he’d just become too empty to have them.

But when he woke at dawn the day after the ride with Catalina, he had traveled through several dreams, and he remembered every one in vivid detail.

He was back at Rosewood, the Canton plantation in Georgia, before the war. He even remembered the occasion, a Christmas ball, one of many social events given by his parents in hopes of creating opportunities for making desirable matches for their two sons and one daughter, all of whom were of, or nearing, marriageable age. Marsh had returned from law school at the University of Georgia, and his older brother had already taken up permanent residence at home, assuming more and more of the day-to-day duties of running Rosewood, which one day would be his.

Lanterns hung in the trees lining the road up to the main house, and the house itself was fragrant with the smell of pine and spices. Overnight guests had filled the rooms with talk and laughter despite the war clouds on the horizon. Marsh had taken shameless pleasure in a way of life he treasured. Love was as much a part of his life as air to breathe.

He and his mother played the piano on request, once joining in a duet while his sister, Melissa, sang in a sweet, pure voice. And then he and his mother dueled on the piano, much to the delight of the onlookers. She would play a melody, and he would elaborate on it, then they would reverse roles, each taking the other’s melody and embellishing it. The ability to hear music and then play from ear was a talent only he of the children had inherited from her. She had also taught him to read sheet music, and he knew many of the classics from memory.

He had often thought that his mother could have been a concert pianist. She’d once encouraged him in that direction, but his own interests were too varied to devote himself entirely to music. But he enjoyed it, enjoyed the rare talent he knew he had.

The ball that year had been even more gay than usual. The specter of war made it so. His mother had banished talk of a possible conflict, but it was on everyone’s mind. A current of fear and excitement ran through every conversation, every flirtation.

Even he was caught in the frenzy of expectation. He was twenty-one, and he would live forever. In the meantime, the prospect of war gave him reason to snatch forbidden kisses and fondle more than was permissible. He met any rebuke with a tragic look.…

Margaret. Annie Laurie. How many others? How many names forgotten?

And his sister Melissa had looked so pretty at sixteen. So eager and so full of life. He’d always protected her, had always relished his role as big brother.

Then the figures seemed to fade during the dream, to become little more than wisps of fog. He reached out to keep them with him, but there was only cold air where they had once laughed and danced.

Life had held promise then. Gracious and comfortable and so damn good. He had buried thoughts of it. And with them that talent his mother had nurtured. He had not touched a piano since the war, not until he’d entered the Glory Hole.

He knew exactly why. Who and what he was today had nothing to do with that former life. He didn’t even recognize that boy who’d played so well. And his mother with all her laughing kindness would have been horrified at the son she’d raised to honor the best things in life: music and books and kindness. Well, kindness had been banished from his soul long ago, replaced by cold, hard vengeance that had systematically destroyed every good thing in him.

Marsh closed his eyes and swore. He felt warm breath on his hand and opened his eyes again. Winchester sat next to his bed, apparently wakened by his companion’s fitfulness. Solemn brown eyes stared at him as a scarred ear cocked. Marsh stretched out a hand, and the dog backed away.

“Suspicious bastard, aren’t you? And rightfully so.”

Still, he was uncommonly grateful to the animal. For a moment, anyway, the dog had banished the ghosts. “Hungry, huh? I think there might be some beef.”

Gratitude was obviously not one of Winchester’s attributes. He kept on staring.

“Don’t,” Marsh warned. “This is a temporary arrangement. Two renegades hooked up temporarily. Nothing more.”

The dog seemed satisfied enough with the arrangement. He rose from his haunches, padded toward the closed door, then waited.

Marsh glared for a moment, trying to remember letting the dog in. But he didn’t. And then he remembered the almost silent ride back to the city with Cat, his accompanying Jenny on the piano last night, and finally getting drunk. He never got drunk.

His gaze went to the table, where a bottle stood nearly empty. At least he’d had enough sense to drink by himself, out of sight of anyone who might see it as a weakness. Which it was, he admitted to himself. One he had no intention of repeating.

Hell. A damn dog. Getting drunk. Dreams. He didn’t like any of it.

Damn. She was responsible.

His seduction had failed yesterday. But perhaps not entirely. She had kissed him back. She did feel something, however much she resisted that feeling. He’d just taken things too fast.

Slow and easy, he told himself. Very slow and easy. And then rip her from your mind. He was convinced that once he bedded her, he could do exactly that. A woman had never held his interest longer than a night in bed. Never.

Teddy looked down at the circular in his hands. The woman pictured there was Molly.

A thousand-dollar reward was offered for information about Mary Beth Adams, the daughter of Edwin Adams of Oakland. According to the circular, the girl had disappeared under mysterious circumstances, perhaps kidnapped.

He’d picked it up in the general store. The proprietor had said a man who claimed he was a private detective had left it there. He could be reached at the Jefferson Hotel.

The drawing was not good. He crushed the paper in his hands, wishing he knew what she was running from. A thousand dollars. That was a lot of money. Her family must care about her. But then why was she hiding?

Several explanations darted through his mind. A baby, perhaps. Even a lover who had abandoned her. Neither explained the stark fear he sometimes saw in her eyes. And if she had been with child, it would be obvious by now.

Should he show her the circular? Warn her? Or would it make her run? He felt gutshot at the thought.

Teddy decided to show the circular to Cat. Cat would know what to do. She always did. And then he paused in midstride. Or did she? She had not been herself lately. He didn’t want to bother her with something else, not now that she was fighting so hard to keep the Silver Slipper competitive.

His gaze went back down to the circular. Molly. He’d never thought that name fit her. But Mary Beth did. It had a sweet sound on his tongue. Soft. Vulnerable. Too vulnerable.

He wouldn’t bother Catalina with the circular. Perhaps he would go to Oakland himself. Make inquiries of his own about this Edwin Adams.

“Oakland?” Catalina stared at Teddy. He’d never before asked for time off, had never seemed to have any personal life other than the Silver Slipper. She’d never really thought about it before. She’d learned to take his dependability and loyalty for granted.

Now she felt a stab of guilt at doing so. Had she really closed herself off so much that she was oblivious of the feelings of those around her? She’d tried to be a good employer, to pay decent wages, but she had been reluctant to go beyond that.

She focused on Teddy. “Of course,” she said. “Is there anything I can do?”

He shook his head. “Just personal business.”

His answer hurt her, although she knew it shouldn’t. She really hadn’t invited confidences, much less given any. She nodded. “Take as long as you need.”

“I should be back before those Frenchies arrive,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

“Do you need any money?”

He shook his head and then looked toward the steps. “But keep an eye on Molly, if you will. Don’t let her out alone.”

“Is there something I should know?”

“Just that she’s afraid of something. Or someone.”

“I’ll make sure someone’s always with her,” she said. “Wilhelmina really likes her. I’ll ask her to stay with Molly. She’ll be safe here.”

He nodded. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He hesitated. “I saw you return yesterday with the owner of the Glory Hole.” He had said nothing yesterday, not after seeing the sparks in her eyes and her flushed cheeks. “He didn’t—”

“Of course not,” Cat said. “He just wanted to … to talk. I told him there was nothing to talk about.”

“You know our business has improved since he opened.…”

Her green eyes flashed fire again. “It won’t forever,” she said shortly. “You know what happened that first time someone opened the Glory Hole.”

He did. The owner had cut his prices down to nothing. Cat had almost lost the Silver Slipper, trying to bring back customers lured by low prices and gambling. It had been Teddy who’d discovered the gambling was crooked and hired several thugs to make a scene. The Glory Hole soon closed, but Cat had never forgotten that lesson. She’d installed her own gambling equipment, making sure, the games were honest. And she vowed then that she wouldn’t risk her future again, no matter what she had to do. No one else had had a chance. She made sure everyone remembered the old stories. Each time the Glory Hole reopened, she’d paid the police to raid the place, to refuse permits.

And now it wasn’t only business at stake, but her peace of mind. No one had ever shattered it like Taylor Canton.

Teddy’s expression was inscrutable, and yet she had the peculiar feeling that he thought she was wrong.

“Just let me know if you need anything;” she said in a voice that closed the discussion.

He left, knowing her well enough that any argument would probably only further strengthen her resolve.

San Francisco loved the cancan. So did Marsh.

He hated to admit it but booking the dance into the Silver Slipper was a brilliant stroke on the part of Miss Catalina Hilliard. He was attracted by the exuberance and the color of the dance. He admired the flashes of leg shown so frequently by the dancers.

But he couldn’t help but wonder whether Catalina’s legs would put them all to shame. He still couldn’t guess her age but, with the information he’d gathered in the last several days, knew she had to be in her late thirties. According to Quinn Devereux, she arrived in San Francisco nearly seventeen years before, not long after the Devereuxs themselves had come to the city.

He could glean few other details from either Quinn or his attorney. San Francisco apparently took great pride in ignoring pasts; too many residents had backgrounds they didn’t particularly wish examined. It was an attitude for which he was grateful, with the exception of Miss Catalina Hilliard. The mystery of Cat.

Marsh had never been in a city like this one. Whereas most towns took great pride in talking about scandals or ostracizing those who violated their mores, San Francisco honored its citizens’ privacy and treasured its characters. The more bizarre they were, the greater the collective fondness. Emperor Norton was a prime example; at every theatrical performance three front-row seats were reserved for the “emperor” and his two mongrel dogs. The self-declared emperor, whose privately printed “royal currency” was accepted throughout the city, was a bit of a madman who had once sent a telegram to President Lincoln, ordering him to marry the widowed Queen Victoria in an effort to bring peace to a nation on the brink of war. But his every undertaking in his empire of fantasy was meant for the good of mankind in general. San Franciscans therefore not only tolerated him but became his royal subjects.

On the evening of the opening of the cancan, Marsh accepted Cat’s invitation and attended in evening clothes made just for the occasion. Knowing that reporters from every newspaper in town would be present, he intended to make every bit the appearance she had. Their public feud and one-upmanship had spurred business at both saloons. And now that he felt relatively safe with the name Taylor Canton and the very long distance from his “Duel at Sunset” notoriety, he found himself taking pride in building a thriving business—and irritating Miss Hilliard.

Greeting her, he bowed elegantly, taking her hand and bringing it to his mouth. “You are very lovely tonight,” he said, meaning it.

She looked at him with suspicion, but he merely smiled complacently, though it was difficult. He had kept away from her for the past week, ever since he had handed her down in front of the Silver Slipper after their carriage ride, and she had sniffed disdainfully as she turned on her heel and disappeared inside.

He’d played the piano each night after the last customer and employee had left, when he thought no one was listening. Only Winchester was there to hear; the misbegotten mongrel would sit next to the piano with his head tipped, and his half ear cocked. Marsh was never sure whether it was his playing or the prospect of food that kept him there. But the company had been unexpectedly welcome.

Marsh had warned himself to keep away from Cat, to allow her anger to fade before he renewed his campaign. Also, if he was entirely honest, to give himself some time to rebuild his defenses. She had affected him in extraordinary ways that day on the cliff. And he had no intention of allowing that again.

She led him to a table, aware of the sensation they both made. He seated her with a flourish as the music began. The troupe included its own small group of musicians, and its enthusiasm more than substituted for size. Marsh found his foot tapping as six very pretty women, dressed in red flounced dresses, ran on stage. The Silver Slipper itself was full of motion: clapping hands and feet and whoops of approval. The gambling apparatus had been moved out; the hostesses were dressed in costumes similar to the dancers. The audience was all male—the cancan apparently considered to risqué for the proper ladies of San Francisco.

Marsh tried to concentrate on the dancers, but Cat kept drawing his attention. Her face was flushed with triumph, and he wanted her as he’d never wanted before. Her success was suddenly his success, her excitement his.

What idiocy!

She was out for his blood.

He moved suddenly, his knee touching hers. She jerked away just as the applause died down after the dancers had run off the stage, and her hand hit her champagne glass. Champagne splashed Marsh’s shirt and dinner jacket.

Cat flushed and fumbled with her napkin.

“You should keep your knees to yourself,” she whispered.

“An accident,” Marsh said with a shrug. “And I think you owe me a new suit.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “A few drops of water should be sufficient to repair—”

“I thought you treated your customers with more consideration.”

She glared at him. “I’ll … see to it.”

“Now!” he demanded with a twisted grin. “I’m a little damp.”

“You can always leave.”

“Such hospitality,” he chided her. “Surely you wouldn’t allow a guest to leave in this condition. Not in front of everyone, not without making amends of some kind.”

“All right,” she said. “As soon as the music starts.” They had already made a spectacle of themselves. She tried to put on a concerned but pleasant smile.

“Upstairs?” His eyes were more than a little suggestive.

She bit the side of her lip, one of the few uncertain reactions he’d seen her make. He savored it.

A waiter returned with some towels, and she stiffly gave several to Marsh to soak up the champagne in his lap.

He grinned again. “I think you should do it.”

She glared at him again. “Don’t overplay it, Mr. Canton,” she warned in a low voice. “Or you might find a whole bottle in your lap.”

The music started again, and the dancers came back, drawing the attention of the audience to the stage and away from them.

Cat smiled graciously and rose. “Come with me,” she said. She swore to herself. This was to have been a night highlighting her new entertainment, not herself and the upstart from across the street.

Despite Teddy’s assurances days ago, he had not yet returned, though she had received a telegram saying he should be back tomorrow. She led her nemesis to Teddy’s room across from the kitchen, and used a match to light the oil lamp there.

She watched as Canton took stock of the room. It was plain and masculine. A bed, table, and trunk. A small bureau and mirror.

“Your watchdog’s,” Canton said pleasantly.

Catalina bristled. “Teddy is much more than that.”

Canton raised his eyebrow with a certain insinuation, and Catalina felt an unusual defensiveness. “He manages the Silver Slipper,” she said tartly. “Silver Slipper Hugh manages …” She immediately realized her slip and hoped it went unnoticed as she went back to the door. “I’ll get some water.”

But Canton caught her wrist. “‘Just as Hugh manages …’? Do finish the sentence, Miss Catalina. I didn’t realize you knew Hugh O’Connell.”

“I know a lot of people in San Francisco,” she said icily. “They come to the Silver Slipper.”

“Somehow Hugh doesn’t seem like your usual customer.”

“I don’t have a usual customer. The Silver Slipper appeals to everyone.”

“Really?” he drawled, angry that his suspicions about Hugh had been confirmed. He wasn’t angry at Cat, though; he was angry at himself. He had started to like Hugh and had been hoping he had been wrong.

She tried to shake her wrist free as she looked up at him directly, challenging him to say something more, to make an accusation. He felt the delicacy of her wrist, so slender yet strong. He didn’t want to let go.

Cat tried to break free again. “If you want me to do something about those stains before they set, you’d better let me go.”

He released her, eyeing her lazily. “Hurry back, Miss Cat.”

The door slammed behind her. The champagne had stained both his dinner jacket and his linen shirt as well as his cravat. It would be difficult, he mused for her to clean them while on his body. As for his trousers …

With a wicked grin on his face, he started to undress.