11 

Jamie’s rib cage constricted at the sunken shadows under his sister’s eyes, evidence of a bout of flu that had weakened and left her bedridden all week. Prone to illness since she was a little girl, Jamie wondered how much of her frail constitution could be attributed to the hip injury that prevented her from being a normal young woman. Running with other children or even simple walks in the park had resulted in so much pain the next day that Jess remained homebound except for Sundays when she’d limp across the street to St. Mary’s for church, refusing Jamie’s assistance like she did when she climbed Mrs. Tucker’s boardinghouse steps.

“For pity’s sake, James MacKenna,” she’d say, “I’m a sixteen-year-old woman with two perfectly good legs even if my hip doesn’t comply. I refuse to be coddled and carried wherever I go.” And then she’d stubbornly navigate the steps one at a time, wincing and resting after each until she’d turn and glow at the top like she’d just scaled Mount McKinley.

Of course she was always sore after, some days the pain worse than others depending on the weather. Jamie glanced out the window of the bedroom his mother and she shared, stomach cramping at the rivulets of water that slithered the glass. No doubt the dark smudges under his sister’s eyes were as much from the rain that always exacerbated her condition as from the flu, and for the thousandth time, Jamie silently cursed a God that refused to heal a young woman who worshiped him with all of her heart.

Stifling a yawn, Jess leaned against her pillow, pale cheeks framed by lustrous black curls spilling over her nightgown while she studied the chessboard with ochre eyes so like his own.

Jamie glanced at the clock on her nightstand. He needed to leave to deliver Mom’s package to Millie if he was to meet Bram at the Blue Moon in time for Logan’s birthday dinner at The Palace Hotel. He sighed. “Sorry, Peanut, but I need to go, and you need to rest.” Tugging one of her silky curls, he rose and carefully moved the chessboard to the bureau before pushing his chair against the wall. “You’ll need all the rest you can get if you have any hope of whipping me in chess tomorrow,” he said, straightening his tuxedo jacket with a firm tug and a wink.

“If?” She gave him an imp of a smile before she flinched, pain strangling her features when she attempted to shift in the bed, barely a bump under the cover. Her smile appeared strained. “Law degree or no, Jammy,” she said, teasing with the nickname she’d given him when she was two, “I think we both know who’s going to win.”

“You think so, huh?” He assessed her with a lift of brows. “Only if you don’t fall asleep like you did last night.” He bent to deposit a kiss to her cheek. “Get some rest, kiddo—love you.”

“Love you too, Jammy.” She yawned, eyelids weighting closed, pale face that of an angel’s except for the telltale fatigue that indicated a particularly grueling day. He retrieved his top hat from the dresser and headed for the door, turning at the sound of her voice. “Oh, and by the way,” she called, eyes popping open to reveal a hint of a twinkle, “you look awfully handsome tonight. Who’s the lucky girl—Patricia?”

“Nope. Miss Hamilton will not be in attendance.”

Jess slid farther beneath the thin cover with another yawn, clasping her hands on top. “Oh, too bad. You look awfully gorgeous tonight and you smell good too.” She tilted her head with a sweet smile. “Will there be any other ladies who’ve caught your eye?”

He grinned. “A Texas cousin, but she’s gun-shy ’cause some pretty boy broke her heart.” He shook his head. “Unfortunately, she thinks I’m ‘pretty,’ too, and just wants to be friends.”

Her grin matched his. “You are pretty, even if somewhat lacking in chess.”

His eyes narrowed in tease as he brandished a finger. “That remains to be seen, you little brat, so I suggest you catch up on your sleep because you’re gonna need it.” He blew her a kiss as his smile sobered. “I love you, Jess,” he said, voice hoarse.

Snatching his kiss, she placed it on her heart before blowing her own. “Me, too, Jammy.”

His throat ached while he closed her door, head bowed and hand limp on the knob. She’d looked so tired tonight, worn, barely touching the chicken he’d brought from Duffy’s—her favorite, no less. Six at night and she was already in bed. The very idea slumped his shoulders.

He made his way downstairs, pots banging in the kitchen where Mrs. Tucker prepared dinner for her boarders. He found his mother in the deserted parlour, sewing on the worn floral sofa of the Victorian-styled room where the gloom of the day peeked through burgundy tasseled curtains. She glanced up, dark circles beneath her eyes that matched those of her daughter, and his throat convulsed. At forty-two, she was still a beautiful woman, but the strain and stress of caring for Jess and working shifts at the Blue Moon were taking their toll, aging her more than Jamie liked. Jess had a particularly taxing week, which always meant his mother did too, and he was worried about her health as much as his sister’s. He released a quiet sigh. And her state of mind. With Jess in more pain lately, his mother didn’t get out as often as before, and Jamie could see the result in a mild malaise that invaded the parlour.

“You look very handsome, son,” his mother said, laying aside the sewing she took in to help meet the bills. Lines chiseling her brow, she rose and walked to where he stood as if privy to the whisperings of the demons that forever haunted his mind. She slipped her arms to his waist in a loving embrace, and with a catch of his throat, Jamie swallowed her up in a silent groan, eyes closed as he rested his head against hers. Her scent comforted him—the sweet fragrance of the lavender oil she rubbed into Jess’s joint mingling with the pungent smell of ginger tea from her cup on the coffee table, faithfully brewed to reduce the inflammation of her daughter’s hip. Too thin and too frail to suit her son, Jean MacKenna was a slip of a thing at five foot four to his six foot one, and yet she never failed to infuse him with a mother’s strength as if he were still a little boy. Her voice—as gentle and soothing as the hand now massaging his back—had a melodic lilt that was almost spiritual, calming the angst in his gut. “Things will get better for Jess,” she whispered. “God will see us through, you’ll see.”

Both his hold and his eyes squeezed tighter and he almost wished he could beseech God like his mother and sister did, begging him to deliver Jess from this life-crippling condition. Localized osteoarthritis, the doctor called it, resulting from trauma. “Expect pain with all normal movement,” Doc Morrissey had warned, “as well as limited range of motion and swelling of the joint.” All symptoms that worsened with time despite endless prayers of his mother and sister.

And his.

Patting his back, his mother returned to the sofa to resume her sewing with a proud, if tired, smile. “You’re a handsome man, James MacKenna, especially the way you look tonight.” She inclined her head, a hint of a sparkle lighting hazel eyes so like his own. “I suppose a certain senator’s daughter will be at the McClare birthday party as well?”

“Not tonight,” Jamie said with a zag of a smile, striding over to set his top hat on the mantel before adjusting his tie in the distorted mirror above.

“I see. So when do you plan to officially court her, this beauty who’s stolen your heart?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “She’s only stolen my eye, Mom, not my heart. But rest assured—the moment I decide on the girl, you and Jess’ll be the first to know.”

He turned to assess the hand-me-down dinner jacket Bram had insisted on giving him, claiming ill fit or general dislike, and as always, gratitude swelled for a best friend who was more like a brother. Exquisitely cut from the finest wool, the jacket emphasized Jamie’s broad shoulders before tapering to a slim waist where the tails cut at an angle. The straight-standing three-inch collar and white bow tie accentuated the firm cut of his clean-shaven jaw, and thanks to his friend Siu Ling at the Chinese laundry, Bram’s old white shirt was immaculate and crisp, its pearl buttons the fashion of the day. His critical gaze traveled from normally unruly ebony curls slicked back, past hazel eyes Alli had declared “deadly,” to hard-chiseled cheekbones steeled with determination, confirming he was a man of class and distinction. His full lips quirked. An image obviously more distorted than the mirror.

Swiping his top hat from the mantel—another hand-off from Bram—he turned and paused, shooting a quick glance out the window where a touch of sun was finally peeking through. “It looks like the rain stopped, Mom, and the sun’s trying to come out. Why not take a quick walk to the corner to say hello to Mrs. Lowe? Jess is probably asleep.”

She shook her head, shoulders sagging with the motion. “Not up to it tonight, Jamie. I’ll be fine, though. I have a lot of hemming to do, so you go and have a good time, you hear?” She nodded to a small paper-wrapped package on a table by the door. “Are you sure you don’t mind delivering my sewing to Millie? I don’t want you to be late.”

“Nope, it’s practically on my way.” He tucked the parcel under his arm and strode over to give her a kiss goodbye. “Good night, Mom. Love you—don’t wait up.” He shot her a wink and slipped out the door, checking his watch as he hurried to the next block to catch the trolley. He didn’t have time to walk to the Coast as usual, especially since the cable car traveled just a few streets over from the old cow-yard where they’d once lived.

As always, a malaise settled as he walked the final seamy block, the music of steam pianos and gramophones blasting from dance hall after dance hall where half-clad women called out lewd invitations from windows above. Names like The Living Flea, Dead Man’s Alley, and Murder Point, so-called pleasure palaces that reeked of alcohol and stale perfume and the pungent scent of opium. As usual, the street was littered with trash and people, some passed out, some fighting, and some too drunk to care.

The sound of a baby crying reminded him the Barbary Coast was no place for infants or children. Nor Jean MacKenna and her family. But, it was all his mother had been able to afford back then, her meager dance-hall salary finally giving way to seamstress work to supplement his father’s sporadic paychecks . . . if he hadn’t drunk them away first. When Brian MacKenna died, Jamie wanted to quit school altogether to work fulltime, but his mother refused.

“I don’t want you to end up poor like me,” she’d whisper whenever he’d tried to argue. “I want you to make me proud, Jamie—get an education and make something of yourself.” She’d hug him then, tears brimming, and it was all he could do to deflect moisture of his own. So he’d stayed in school and studied hard while his mother squirreled away every spare penny for his education. The very thought caused tears to sting in his nose. She’d sacrificed her life for him and Jess, so he gladly sacrificed his for them—his childhood, his friendships, his sleep. He gave his all to school and work, determined to make a better life for the woman who’d devoted hers to them.

Obscenities drifted from an open window as he mounted cracked steps, anxious to deliver his mother’s package and get out. He opened a scarred wood door that was defiled, he was certain, by everything from booze and vomit to urine and blood, eternally grateful he and his family escaped the polluted sewers of the Barbary Coast.

He entered the foul-smelling brothel on the first floor and was instantly met by shouts and sniffles. Heart squeezing, he bent down to a quivering lump of curls hunched on the first step of a staircase that once led to his family’s flat. “Bessie, what’s wrong?” Ignoring the tyke’s filthy dress and matted hair, Jamie scooped her up, scanning from pudgy bare feet and scuffed knees to a threadbare romper with numerous patched holes. The grimy face of a four-year-old cherub peeked up with fat tears in her eyes, and he placed a kiss on her cheek. “Are you hurt?”

The little waif shook her head and flung chubby arms around his neck, painful, little heaves racking his heart as well as his body. “M-mama . . . ,” she choked out, pointing a shaky finger toward her mother’s flat, “bad man . . .”

Something thudded hard against the wall, and a woman’s muffled scream iced the blood in Jamie’s veins. Temper tightly coiled, he kissed Bessie’s head and pounded on the opposite door, face grim when Julie peeked out.

“Julie, can you keep Bessie for a moment and take this package for Millie?” He handed the little girl and parcel off, nodding toward Millie’s door. “Millie has a problem.”

Julie’s gaze widened, flicking to Millie’s door and back. “Sure, Jamie,” she said, pressing a kiss to Bessie’s cheek. “Come on, sweetie—I’ve a biscuit for you, all right?”

With short, little heaves, Bessie nodded and clung to Julie while Jamie moved toward Millie’s door.

“Cecil—you don’t owe me a dime—just leave, please!” The sound of Millie’s voice was tinged with terror.

Flexing his fingers, Jamie pressed a palm to the cracked door and eased it open. “Millie? You okay?”

Swear words defiled the tiny flat along with whiskey and sweat. A grizzled drunk singed him with a glare, the smell of urine and body odor roiling Jamie’s stomach. “It’s none of your bloomin’ business, you cheeky sod. You can have her when I’m done.”

Jamie ignored him, gaze shifting to Millie huddled in a corner, tears streaking her face and blood on her cheek. A nerve twittered his jaw. “Answer me, Millie, did he hit you?” His teeth clenched so tight, he thought they might crack. Like Cecil’s face when I’m done.

“Jamie, no, he’ll hurt you!” Millie scrambled to her feet, her cheek just beginning to bruise.

Cecil grinned, revealing rotted teeth as putrid as the rest of him. “That’s right, bloke, better run afore I mess your prissy outfit along with your prissy face.”

“Or try.” Calmly removing his top hat, Jamie hooked it on a peg by the door and carefully hung his jacket as well. Without a word, he slowly rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, his gaze dispassionate. A cold smile skimmed his lips at the memory of weekends at the Oly Club, where Gentleman Jim Corbett often schooled him in the art of boxing.

“Why, you blasted upstart . . .” Cecil lumbered forward with fists raised, and the sting of Jamie’s well-aimed punch slammed the man’s jaw to the side before he crumpled to the wooden floor in a heap, out cold and blood trailing his lip.

With a rock-steady hold that belied the angst in his gut, Jamie dragged him to the door and tossed him in the hall to a round of applause from several scantily clad women. “Jamie, you’re our hero,” Julie shouted, Bessie wide-eyed in her arms.

He grinned. “Wouldn’t take much if this is the riffraff you’re comparing me to, Julie.” He unrolled the sleeves of his shirt and prodded Cecil with the toe of his black oxford shoe, prompting a low groan. “Cecil, I suggest you take your business elsewhere from now on, because if these ladies tell me you’ve been around, I’ll be obliged to break your arm along with your jaw—is that clear?”

Cecil didn’t answer, and Jamie jerked the scruff of his neck, his tone composed even if his nerves were not. “I said, is that clear?” A garbled grunt escaped Cecil’s bloody mouth, and Jamie released him, head dropping with a thud on the filthy floor. “Good, because these ladies are my friends. Now, I’m going to wash your blood off my hands, get my hat and coat, and if you’re still here when I get back, I’m going to finish you off, understood?”

Lumbering to his feet, Cecil stumbled out with a glazed look while Jamie cleaned up in Millie’s water basin, then returned to the hall, hat in hand and coat over his arm.

“Oh, Jamie, you’re a lifesaver, ye are,” Millie said with a quivering smile. “And Julie is right—you’re our hero.” She reached up to kiss him on his cheek before her eyes went wide. “Aw, the dirty bum has gone and bloodied your shirt.”

“You got another fancy doings tonight, Jamie Boy?” Julie said with a wink, auburn curls dangling over one bare shoulder of a faded dressing gown. “Because ye look good enough to eat, Mr. MacKenna, make no mistake.”

Jamie glanced at the blood on the sleeve of his shirt. “As long as I keep my coat on, that is.” He tapped the top hat on his head and slipped into his jacket. “And yes, Julie—I have a dinner at The Palace.”

A blonde from the next flat sighed, her stained kimono heaving with regret as she peeked out her door. “I’ll tell you what, mister, in that fancy suit, you’re every woman’s dream.”

Julie winked. “Hope you reel in a rich one, Jamie, ’cause nobody deserves it more.”

Extending first one arm and then the other, he buttoned his cuffs with an easy smile. “I’ll do my level best, ladies, so wish me luck.”

“You won’t be needing any luck, James MacKenna, and I’ll bet me mother’s eyeteeth on that.” Millie repositioned his top hat with an affectionate smile. “Thanks again, Jamie, and if there’s aught I can do to repay ye, ye just let me know, you hear?” Her smile was radiant for a woman with a black-and-blue face. “Now, you go and have a grand time.”

He bent to kiss her good cheek. “You might want to love up on Bess a while, Mil, she was shaking pretty hard.” He tweaked her chin. “Mom sent clothes and books too. Julie has them, okay?”

The light in Millie’s eyes dimmed while her gaze drifted to where Julie was playing snuggle monster with Bessie, giggles ringing out with every kiss. “Och, I’d give anything to get her out of this place,” she whispered.

Jamie swallowed hard, not sure what to say. He kneaded her shoulder. For him and his mother and sister, freedom was a reality, but to Millie and the others who called Barbary Coast their home—with no money, no education, no skills—hope was as empty as their pockets. He placed a coin into her hands, giving her a squeeze. “Put this in a safe place for Bess, and promise you’ll add to it every week, no matter how small. Someday soon there will be enough to buy a new dress and shoes so you can look for decent work, where you and Bess won’t be in danger.” He bent to connect his gaze with hers. “Promise me, Millie.”

She nodded, the motion dislodging a tear from her eye, and then she lunged into his arms to hug him so fiercely, the muscles constricted in his throat. “You’re a rare find, Jamie MacKenna. I pray God showers you with all the blessings you so richly deserve, including a wealthy wife and a fancy house on Nob Hill.”

He laughed, and the sound echoed in the dingy hall spidered with cracks. “I’m not sure how many ‘blessings’ I deserve, Mil,” he said with a wink at her and the ladies, “but the rich wife and fancy house on Nob Hill?” Ambling to the front door, he tossed a rogue’s grin over his shoulder. “I’m hoping it’s only a matter of time.”