Chapter Thirteen

“Jamie,” Cat said a bit breathlessly as they hurried along. At least she hurried; Kilter appeared to walk at an easy enough pace, but his stride made two of hers. “That’s what Mr. Murphy called you.”

Kilter slanted a look at her. The light of the clear morning proved merciless to his scarred face, exposing each shiny patch of skin, but she didn’t see that so much as the tentative expression in his eyes.

“James,” he said carefully. “Nobody but Tate calls me Jamie.”

“Tate?” she repeated in inquiry.

“Short for Tater.” He smiled. “You know, because he’s an Irishman.”

Must be nice to belong to a world where folks shared affectionate nicknames, Cat reflected. Of course, Kilter got called a lot of less affectionate names, as well.

As if suddenly realizing he forced her pace, Kilter shortened his step. “Don’t let Tate’s bluster fool you. He’s a good man.”

“I can see that. He has no reason to help me. Neither have you.”

He shrugged and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. “As I say, you’ll like his sister, Roselyn. She’s kind as Tate and twice as fierce.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“You have to be fierce if you want to survive in this city.”

Cat nodded gravely. “Perhaps I can change my identity, take a new name, and find work somewhere. I could go into service. These big houses must need staff.”

“Most of them are employing steamies now, or a combination of steamies and human servants.” He grimaced. “A steamie can work round the clock rather than just twenty hours of every twenty-four. But we’ll see, Miss Delaney. One thing at a time.”

“Please do call me Catherine,” she insisted. “Or Cat—those close to me call me Cat.”

He nodded soberly. “And you can call me—”

“Ugly! Hey lads, there’s Mr. Ugly! Out ruining this beautiful morning again are you, Mr. Ugly? Hey, boys—grab a rock. We’d better kill it before it spreads.”

Kilter’s head jerked up and a change came over him, visible anger pouring through his frame. Cat peered past him and saw a crowd of ruffians on the far side of the street, gathered on the corner like so many raggedy crows. Their leader wore a patched coat and filthy cloth cap, not unlike her own, and had a thin face, sharp as a hatchet.

“Who’s your friend, Ugly?” he called. “Surprised the boy would be seen in your hid-ee-yous company.”

“Who’s that?” Cat asked, her eyes narrowing.

“Charlie Crowter—local self-appointed bad boy,” Kilter growled. “Just ignore him.”

“He has a mouth on him, hasn’t he?” Indignation flooded Cat, bringing strength. “What does he have against you?”

“This.” Kilter gestured roughly to his face. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m too hideous to be seen in daylight.”

Cat glared at Crowter. “Talk about ugly,” she called just loud enough to be heard.

“Keep your voice down,” Kilter told her. “You sound like a girl.”

Cat never broke the glare she directed at Crowter, but she lowered her voice to a roughened pitch when she called across the street, “Have you looked in the mirror lately, cur? Who are you to go throwing stones—or names—at anyone?”

“For God’s sake,” Kilter muttered.

“Ooh,” the ruffians all hooted together.

“Big insult!” Crowter brayed. “Is that your friend, Mr. Ugly? Looks like he escaped from the bottom of a coal bin.”

“Must be blind,” one of Crowter’s cronies chortled, “to walk alongside you!”

Crowter preened himself. “I might not be the handsomest fellow in Buffalo, but I’m damn well better to look at than ol’ Melty Face!”

“Why, you little piece of filthy—!” Cat forgot at that moment who she was, as well as who she pretended to be. She sprang off the curb, every bit as full of ire as she used to be in the face of her stepfather, and launched herself across the street. Only Kilter’s grip on her arm held her back.

“Ignore them, I tell you!” he insisted under his breath. “Not worth showing who you are.”

“The pipsqueak wants a fight, boys!” Crowter and his fellows formed up into a squad. Several of them produced crude weapons from their pockets, billy clubs and metal objects through which they threaded their fingers. “Let’s give it to him.”

Kilter lifted Cat off her feet and back onto the curb. “Come on. You don’t want any of that.”

Cat did. She wanted in the worst way to bash Crowter in the mouth, bust all his teeth, and make it so he could never taunt Kilter again. But even in the face of her indignation she realized if she started a brawl here and now Kilter would be forced to wade in, and she’d endanger both of them.

“Not worth my time,” she declared loud enough for the gang to hear. “Let’s not soil our hands with them.”

“It’s a regular rooster, boys,” Crowter cried. “A fighting cock! But will you look at the size of it? We’ll have to call it ‘Bantam.’ ”

“Ugly’s got a Bantam!” they all called as Kilter dragged Cat off down the street.

Still angry and indignant even as the cries died away behind, Cat wrestled with her emotions. She glanced into Kilter’s face but failed to discern what he felt. He caught her eye and one corner of his mouth twitched.

“Meant to take them all on, did you?”

“They deserve battering.”

“No question. Why is it you say folks call you ‘Cat’? Because you’re all claws and teeth, is it?”

“I don’t like bullies. And whatever you say about—about your appearance, they have no right to treat you that way.”

“It’s just words,” he said stonily.

“But they hurt.” She challenged, “You mean to tell me that doesn’t bother you?”

“I’ve learned to deal with it, haven’t I?”

Liar, Cat thought, though she didn’t say it. She could feel distress streaming from him as clearly as if he expressed it. But she’d stepped into his world now, and if he wanted to play the stoic, she would respect that.

She frowned. “Well, they need taking down a few pegs.”

“Much as I appreciate you leaping to my defense,” he said dryly, “that could only have ended badly when your hat fell off.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Forgive me?”

The look he shot her this time was startled. “Nothing to forgive, Miss Catherine.”

“Cat,” she stipulated. “After that, you had better call me Cat.”

****

The boarding house proved to be a tall, narrow building in a busy neighborhood that pulsed with the life of the city. A group of children played hopscotch out front. Given what had just happened, Cat half expected them to scatter at Kilter’s approach, but these must be used to his appearance, for they gave Cat curious looks and kept playing.

At the curb stood a horse-drawn dray loaded with an assortment of items from brooms to clothing. And when they climbed the steps to the front door, Cat saw a man just inside wearing a cloth cap, speaking to a woman who could only be Tate Murphy’s sister.

Big and rawboned, she wore a brown dress and pinafore, both crisp and clean, and towered over the tradesman. The broad, plain countenance that looked so ordinary on Murphy lent her little beauty, but the look she shot Cat and Kilter over the visitor’s head seemed kind.

Kilter caught Cat’s arm, and they paused just outside the door.

“You bring me a copper pot and three yards of linen next Tuesday,” the woman told the tradesman, her voice a rich roll of Irish. “And the jars next week, mind.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The tradesman tipped his cap, turned about, and caught sight of them behind him. He gave Kilter a startled look before he scuttled out the door and down the stairs to the dray.

Cat flinched again on Kilter’s behalf. He met with the same reaction everywhere he turned.

Yet the woman’s plain face lit when she turned to him. “Morning, James. What brings you down this way?”

“Morning, Roselyn. Tate sent me to ask you a favor.”

“And what’s my big lug of a brother after wanting from me now?” Roselyn turned lively eyes on Cat. “Who’s this…lad?”

“This is the favor, actually,” Kilter told her ruefully. “Mind if we come in?”

“I’d be hurt if you didn’t. The kettle’s on, and you’ll take a cup of tea. I’ve been up since dawn, and I’ve earned a break.”

Swiftly, she turned and led them down a long hallway, past a dining room, and into a large kitchen. A kettle sang on a coal-fired stove, and a young girl bustled about putting plates into a cavernous sink. The back door stood open, admitting air and the sounds of activity from the next street. Beside the door, in a box, Cat saw a dog with a number of puppies.

“How’s the litter?” Kilter asked, going immediately to hunker down beside the animals. The mother dog, a brown mutt of obviously mixed ancestry, abandoned her offspring to press forward eagerly and greet him.

“Fine, now,” Roselyn replied, “though they’ll be underfoot in a few days, and that will never do. You’re going to have to find another place for them, James, lad.”

“I know.” Kilter’s big hands caressed the bitch’s head with careful gentleness. Already Cat knew that touch and didn’t blame the bitch for wagging her tail and pressing against his knee.

Roselyn cast Cat a look. “James has a way of gathering strays, hasn’t he? And foisting them on anyone who’ll help him look after them. Found this little dog floating in the river, he did, more dead than alive and ready to whelp. Asked if he could leave her here just till her pups came into the world.”

“Looks like she’s grateful,” Cat murmured around the sudden lump in her throat. The bitch, her tail a blur of motion, now licked Kilter’s wrist, and her pups tumbled toward him.

Roselyn shot her another look. “And I suppose you’d be yet another stray?”

Kilter got to his feet. “We’re in a bit of a pickle, Roselyn. Tate thought you might offer some shelter for a while.”

Roselyn heaved a sigh. “Best sit down and tell me all about it.”