4 

Jamie glanced at his watch and picked up his pace, loping the final blocks to the Blue Moon where he’d told Bram to pick him up instead of the boardinghouse. But, dash it, now I’m late! He huffed out a sigh and began to sprint, hoping to make better time. Yes, they’d be late for dinner at the McClares’, but then his mother was worth it.

“Do you have time to take these clothes to Julie and Millie?” she’d asked, hesitation in her tone that belied the excitement in her eyes over clothes she’d sewn for their old neighbors.

“You bet,” he’d said without the slightest reluctance, adjusting the tie of his tuxedo in the mirror before turning to deposit a kiss to her cheek, grateful for any task he could do for his mother. Still, it always felt strange returning to the seedy cow-yard they’d lived in until his father had died, especially dressed to the nines for a welcome dinner on Nob Hill. Even so, few things gave his mother more joy than sewing clothes for the lost women and children who lived in the brothel on the first floor, many of whom had become her good friends. And his.

“Whoo-ee, Jamie MacKenna,” Julie said as she’d eyed him in the secondhand tuxedo Bram had passed down. Butting a hip to the door, she gave him a lonely smile in a faded kimono, red hair trailing one shoulder while faded bruises mottled her neckline. “Well, aren’t we dressed to kill! You sure you wanna have supper with some prissy girls on Snob Hill instead of me?”

Dressed to kill. By thunder, he hoped so. Dressed to kill all memories of a wretched past in the bowels of the Barbary Coast, not only for his family, but for women like Julie Graves. He issued a low grunt. An appropriate name for a poor soul buried alive in the deep, deep “grave” of the Barbary Coast. All the more reason for Jamie to court wealth and political influence while he courted senators’ daughters in a game where the end justified the means. Robin Hood of the Barbary Coast—taking from the rich to give to the poor.

“Regrettably, yes,” he said with a forced grin, heart wrenching over the dark smudges under her eyes that made her look fifty instead of twenty-nine. He handed her his mother’s package containing clothes for her, Millie, and Millie’s little girl Bess. “Although I’m quite certain an evening spent with you would be far more interesting, Miss Graves,” he said with a dip of his head, top hat to his chest, “I’m afraid I’m obliged to keep my commitment tonight.”

“A commitment, huh?” she said with a tease of a smile that somehow came off sad. “Sounds a bit stuffy to me.”

He smiled. “Commitments usually are, Julie—at least on Nob Hill.” But necessary if one hopes to help innocent young girls like you used to be. A nerve flickered in his cheek. And his mother—once a homeless fifteen-year-old forced to work in a depraved dance hall to even survive. He studied Julie while she tore into the tissue-wrapped package like a little girl at Christmas, tired eyes suddenly aglow, and an ache stabbed in his chest. She and the other ladies of the evening had shared a commonality with Jamie’s family that went well beyond the roof over their heads. They were misfits all, shackled to the Barbary Coast, and Jamie swore that someday, somehow, he would work to change that for as many young women as he could. To set women like Julie and Millie free from the bondage of poverty and degradation that left a slime over the Coast as vile as the sewage that slithered its streets. Just like he’d set his mother and sister free, first by moving them to a boardinghouse in a poor but decent neighborhood awhile back, and then someday soon, God willing, to a home on Nob Hill.

God willing? His jaw tightened at the mental slip of tongue. It wasn’t God who worked three jobs while going to school, no matter what his mother and sister thought, and it wasn’t God who would sacrifice love for money in a marriage of convenience. No, it was Jamie MacKenna who “willed” that things would change for those he loved. But first, he needed the wealth to buy his own boardinghouse and then the political stature to fight prostitution and dance halls, an evil blight that ate away at women’s lives like cancer. Young girls like his mother, Millie, and Julie—with no place to go, forced into slavery of their bodies. His gut cramped as he stared at the hope-ravaged soul before him because he knew his dreams would come far too late for someone like her. Grazing a gentle hand to her cheek, he offered a melancholy smile. “Get sleep tonight, Julie—alone. You need the rest.”

Her lips tipped in a sad curve. “That I do, Jamie MacKenna, that I do.”

The blare of a horn jerked him back to the present as he jogged down Montgomery Street. He slowed his gait to catch his breath, only to have it hitch again when a brand-new Flint roadster almost collided with a horse and buggy. Curses defiled the air along with the stench of raw sewage and gasoline fumes, and for the thousandth time, he realized just how lucky he was that he and his family no longer lived in the Barbary Coast.

“What took you so long?” Bram called from the front seat of his brand-new cherry-red Stanley Steamer, a graduation gift from his parents. Clouds of steam billowed from beneath the parked vehicle as it hissed and rumbled at the curb.

Jamie hopped into the front and released a weighty sigh, finally able to relax against the plush leather upholstery. The knots in his stomach unraveled as he angled his top hat back. “Mom asked me to deliver clothes to some old neighbors.” His smile, like his words, held an apology. “Sorry I’m late—Alli will have our heads.”

Bram’s chuckle sounded above the chug of the car. “Only because that’s all that’ll be left after Rosie gets through chewing on us.” He maneuvered the tiller to ease out into traffic, glancing both behind and ahead. “Next time let me know when your mother has a delivery, and I’ll pick you up early and drive you there.”

“No, thanks, buddy, the Blue Moon’s just fine.”

Bram shook his head, passing a buckboard and horse. “You’re crazy, Mac, you know that? So you were born in the Coast, so what? It’s not like you’re a part of the slums anymore.”

Oh, but I am, Jamie thought with a tight smile, it’s a permanent stain on my soul. “Sorry, Bram, but that’s part of my life I don’t want anyone to see.” He looked away, unwilling to give an inch, even to the best friend who saved his life on a daily basis. His “imaginary” life, that is, with fashionable hand-me-downs and ready loans that Bram insisted Jamie need never pay back. But he always did, of course, even if it meant tending bar most of the night at the Blue Moon before eight hours of classes the next day. Jamie expelled a noisy sigh lost in the chug of Bram’s car. Nope, no one knew from whence he hailed, nor would they. Ever. Especially Bram and Blake, the two most important people in his life other than his family.

He’d met them at the Olympic Club, a prestigious gentlemen’s club where Jamie worked since college. The fates had smiled on him through Logan McClare, a board member of the Oly Club who thought Jamie had “gumption” to work three jobs and still tackle higher education. So he introduced him to his two nephews, and the three men had been inseparable in law school, where Jamie had been the recipient of a merit scholarship to assist “needy and worthy students.” His jaw twitched. He was certainly that—a Barbary Coast street rat in dire need of rich buddies to give him a leg up. The edge of his mouth crooked in a smile. But in the end, they’d given him far more than that.

The Three Musketeers, they called themselves—quickly becoming the two closest friends Jamie ever had. His lips veered to the side. The only friends he’d ever had, if truth be told. Fourth cousins twice removed, Bram “Padre” Hughes, Jamie’s best friend, could have easily been a minister, and Blake “Rake” McClare was a rogue who took after his uncle Logan in his endless pursuit of women. Two friends as different as night and day, while Jamie shored up the middle—moral enough to steer clear of Blake’s reckless pursuits of the flesh, but rogue enough that his morality had little to do with Bram’s God. His jaw compressed. And poor enough to appreciate the opportunities they afforded him in his relentless pursuit to marry well.

The very thought caused his pulse to race. “So, know anything about this Texas cousin?”

“Cassie?” Bram smiled and turned the tiller to steer past a horse and buggy that was making a left turn, missing a cable car by mere yards. “Not real well, although we met once briefly a few summers ago. Seemed like a sweetheart, though. More like a sister to Alli, Meg, and Maddie than a cousin. Pretty, bright, no-nonsense—you know, real down-to-earth for an oil heiress. Her father is Logan’s brother Quinn, the maverick McClare cattle rancher turned oil man. Made a small fortune in Texas oil the last few years and looks to make more. Could be wealthier than Logan before all’s said and done, if you can imagine that.”

Jamie whistled. “An oil heiress, eh? And pretty to boot? Be still my heart.”

Bram grinned, the wind whipping wheat-colored hair against his top hat. He shot Jamie a sideways glance. “I thought you had your sights set on the senator’s daughter?”

“I do,” Jamie said with a grin that matched Bram’s, “but let’s not rush things, Padre. Haven’t decided to officially court her just yet. Besides, throw in a wealthy heiress from one of the top political families in the state?” He shook his head. “Not sure I can pass that up.”

“What happened to no mixing business with family, counselor?” Bram said, reminding Jamie of his caveat to pursue social contacts of the McClares and not the McClares themselves.

Hiking a shoe to the stainless railing of the carriage seat in front of the dash, Jamie flashed a grin, dark curls buffeted by the breeze till one tumbled over his eye. “The fine print being the McClares of San Francisco, buddy boy, not an heiress from the windswept prairies of Texas. And, yes, the McClares’ mansion has been like a second home with all the time I’ve spent there with Blake and you. Heaven knows Alli and Meg are certainly more like sisters, which is why I’ve been forced to focus on their wealthy friends instead. But . . . new McClare blood, part of a family that could help my career and my bankbook?” He wiggled his brows. “I just may have to work on my Texas drawl.”

Bram shook his head, easing past a peddler on a bicycle. “You’re something else, MacKenna, you know that? One of the nicest guys I know, hard-working, smart, give the shirt off your back—” He smiled. “That is, if it didn’t belong to me first. Yet under that heart of gold is a fortune hunter with the glint of gold in his eyes. Doesn’t make a lot of sense, you know?”

“Sure it does.” Jamie grinned. And why not? His dreams were worth it—from his hopes to provide a surgery that could heal his sister someday, to his drive to be the youngest senator from the state of California and effect change in the Barbary Coast. He gave Bram a wink. “May as well fall in love with a rich girl as a poor one.”

“So you say,” Bram said with a shift of gears, “but it’s been my experience that life doesn’t always comply. You fall in love with whom God chooses, Mac, and sometimes a fortune doesn’t come along with it.”

Jamie propped hands to the back of his neck, absently staring down Market Street with a stiff smile. “See, Bram, that’s where you make your mistake—leaving everything up to some deity who may or may not exist. Well, not me. I’ve gotten this far on my own ingenuity, so I see no reason to depend on some fairy tale for the most important thing in my life—” his smile veered into a scowl—“marrying well so I can take care of my family because God hasn’t had the time.”

Bram peered out of the corner of his eye, a frown pinching his face despite a melancholy smile. “God has both the time and inclination, Jamie. He’s the Savior you see every week on that cross at church, remember? The One who laid down his life for you and your family?”

Jamie exhaled his frustration, triggered as always when “Padre Hughes” wandered into the realm of God, something he was prone to do. “Sorry, Bram, but the only ‘savior’ I see is yours truly, laying his life down to deliver his family from injustices your Savior allowed.”

Bram’s car crested a hill, and Jamie averted his gaze, his anger suddenly surging like the whitecaps out on the bay. Injustices, indeed, like a drunk for a father who not only beat and berated them until he took his last breath, but robbed them of a life that should have been theirs. Bitterness burned in Jamie’s gut like acid. Brian MacKenna, one of the pampered Nob Hill elite, whose sins of the flesh included siring an illegitimate son with a dance-hall girl. A man disowned by his holier-than-thou father—Jamie’s grandfather—a pillar of the church and a true “man of God.” Jamie issued a silent grunt. A grandfather now as defunct as his son’s inheritance, no qualms about turning his back on both his son and his seed.

Shaking off his dour mood, Jamie cuffed Bram’s shoulder in an effort to restore his good humor. “Besides, Padre, I have you to put in a good word for me, if God even exists, so I’ll just focus on the socialites I’m lucky to meet through you and Blake while you say your prayers.” Jamie winked. “Just make sure they include a senator’s daughter for your very poor friend—or an oil heiress from Texas.”

Leaning back, he closed his eyes, his adrenaline suddenly pumping as much from the thought of marrying a McClare as the exhilaration of sea air in his face. He could almost smell the shrimp boats on the breeze, hear the whistles of the Alaska Packer fleet shipping out on its yearly sojourns to the Bering Sea, and almost taste the succulent king salmon brimming in their holds come August. A distant horn signaled the departure of the square-rigger Star of Alaska, the fastest windjammer in the fleet, and Jamie’s pride suddenly swelled like the waves crashing the serrated shoreline of The Embarcadero. Despite being born an illegitimate child in the sewers of Barbary Coast, he adored San Francisco.

The clock tower chimed the half hour as they passed the Ferry Building, the busiest passenger terminal in the world second only to London’s, a source of civic pride to the city . . . and to Jamie. With its 660-foot-long sky-lit two-story concourse, steel-arched trusses, and Tennessee marble walls, it ushered in as many as 50 million passengers a year. Jamie drew in a deep breath scented with the tang of the bay and the distinct smell of burning wood from cable car brakes, and poor or not, he was grateful he’d been born here. He heard the blare of a distant horn from the Eureka, a side-wheel paddle steamboat with the distinction of being the largest auto and passenger ferry in the world, and pride expanded in his chest. Someday he would leave his mark on this town, making political history in Frisco.

His lips curved into a satisfied smile. Step one had been a law degree, and step two was marrying well. As far as Jamie was concerned, a Texas heiress might be just the ticket—especially one who was “pretty, bright, and no-nonsense.” He paused. No-nonsense? His eyes popped open as the Stanley Steamer rattled and strained to climb Nob Hill to the McClares’, the smell of gasoline converting water into steam pungent in the air. He squinted over at Bram. “No-nonsense, huh? What the blazes is that supposed to mean?”

The Stanley slowed to a crawl, inching along the curb in front of the McClares’ three-story pale-yellow Victorian. Bram pressed the foot brake and hookup-pedal button to ease the car to a stop. Twisting the valve off, he gave Jamie a wry smile. “It means Cassie doesn’t put on airs or act like people who do. She’s as natural and down to earth as cow patties in a field and you, my friend, won’t be able to con her, so I suggest you focus on Patricia instead.”

Gaze narrow, Jamie cocked his head, challenge lifting the corners of his mouth. “Is that a dare, because if it is, I’m game.” He swung down from the seat, landing on his feet with a thump.

Bram chuckled and hopped out of the car, adjusting his dinner jacket and combing his hair before replacing his top hat. “Nope, more of a warning, Mac. Alli said Cass just got hurt by some pretty-boy fortune hunter that soured her pretty badly on men.” He strolled around the car to where Jamie stood and patted him on the cheek. “That’s you to a T, MacKenna, so I’d say you don’t stand a chance.” He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeve with a crooked grin. “And who said life wasn’t fair?” He flicked a curl on Jamie’s forehead. “I’d comb your hair if I were you, Mac—the Greek god has locks tumbling about his well-sculpted face.” His eyes narrowed to a squint as he tilted Jamie’s cheek. “And blood? What the blazes did you do, get in a street brawl?”

Jamie scowled. “Yeah, with a dull razor.” He rubbed his jaw, wincing at its soreness. “I’ll have to duck in the privy to wash it off.” A slow grin eased its way across his face. “Although from the sound of this Texas McClare, it sounds like she might cotton to the rough-and-tumble street type who’s not afraid of drawing a little blood.”

Bram laughed. “Not as long as it’s yours.”

Jamie stared, mouth agape in a half smile. “You don’t think I can do it, do you?”

Bram fussed with his tie, then tapped on his hat, the grin still in place. “Nope. The woman will eat you for breakfast and spit you out, buddy boy, and don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He winked. “She’s from Texas, remember? She can spot a coyote a mile away.” He handed Jamie his comb. “Here—comb your hair or even Patricia won’t give you the time of day.”

A grunt rolled from Jamie’s lips. “Humph. That one would not only give me the time of day, pal, but the family gold heirloom timepiece along with it.” He snatched the comb and gave it a pass through his hair. “Not to mention her father likes me since I worked with him on that fundraiser for Stanford Law last year.” Jamie grinned. “You might say the Senator and I have gotten closer than even his daughter and me.”

“That close, huh?” Bram pocketed his comb, baiting him with a smile.

Jamie straightened his tie. “What can I say? He likes my gumption, so when it comes to courting his daughter, I assure you, the man will give me the time of day, month, and year.”

“Well, I’d take it then, Mac, because the senator’s daughter is smitten, and your odds of marrying well are a lot better with her than a McClare.”

Jamie’s grin was almost predatory. “Wanna bet? Care to put your money where your mouth is, Bram old boy?”

Bram studied him, head cocked and wheels obviously turning in his head. A smile that was nothing but trouble slid across his face as easily as his money would slide into Jamie’s pocket once he won the bet. “You know, I believe I’d like to see you get the thrashing you deserve, MacKenna, because you’re becoming a little too big for your britches.” He jagged a brow and grinned. “Or mine, I should say. Because despite your fame and fortune as a boxing prodigy tutored by Gentleman Jim Corbett himself, I do believe this little filly will knock you out cold.” He extended a hand with a gleam of white teeth that triggered a fresh rush of adrenaline in Jamie’s veins. “You’re on, Mac—turn Cassie McClare’s head, and I’ll pay for every Dr Pepper you guzzle when we’re out, for the rest of the year.”

“You mostly do anyway since I beat you at pool every week, but at least I won’t feel obligated to pay you back.” Jamie paused, assessing Bram through narrow eyes. “And not that it matters since the possibility is completely remote, but what do you get if you win?”

Slinging an arm to Jamie’s shoulder, Bram ushered him up the brick steps of the McClares’ painted lady. Typical for clustered Nob Hill residences, its compact but graceful columned verandas and lavish bay window seemed to welcome them “home.” “Something money can’t buy, old buddy.” His laughter echoed in the marble portico as he lifted the brass knocker on the arched burlwood door. The confidence in his tone was nothing short of smug. “Pure satisfaction at seeing Jamie MacKenna turned away by a girl.”