Authors: Linda Lael Miller
Katherine smiled at this weighty observation and set a tray across Banner’s lap. “I am, indeed. And I have wonderful news.”
Banner yawned again and then began eating from the bowl of stew on her tray. There were biscuits, too, fragrant and dripping with butter. “What news? I thought you were going to lecture about suffrage—”
Katherine sat down on the foot of the bed, beaming “Today the legislature passed a bill making it legal for women to vote, Banner.”
Banner’s eyes widened and her heart leaped inside her. She had not dared to hope, despite the promises of
Francelle’s father and others like him. “That
is
wonderful news!”
“Isn’t it?”
“Have you told Adam?”
Katherine nodded. “I think he was pleased, but he did warn me to be prepared for a fight.”
“A fight? Could they overturn the decision?”
“Oh, yes,” Katherine sighed, smoothing her crisp skirts, studying the fire crackling on the hearth. “He could well be right. We had the vote once before and it was taken away. Men are frightened of surrendering any sort of control, Banner—I think they’re afraid we’ll legislate them right out of their beloved supremacy.”
“No more brothels, no more whiskey.”
“Their worst phobia, couched in six simple words,” agreed Katherine. “And how have you been, Banner? Are you happy?”
Banner’s throat ached; she was happy—she was. But now, in wakefulness, in the presence of this sensible woman, she felt foolish for accepting Adam’s vow of fidelity so readily. After all, if he didn’t have a mistress somewhere, why did he disappear every three weeks? Why did he refuse to explain the absences? And why was he always in such a wretched temper when he got back?
“Banner? What is it?”
Banner lowered her eyes to the stew. Suddenly, it didn’t seem so savory anymore. “Nothing,” she lied.
* * *
The marshal flung back the tarp, revealing the small, battered body to Adam’s gaze.
“Jesus,” he breathed. “What happened?”
Peters shrugged. “You know how it is. She probably tried to steal some sailor’s purse. . . .”
Adam turned away, sickened. After drawing a few deep breaths, though, he turned back again. “She was a prostitute?”
Marshal Peters nodded. “Yeah. She was working on
Water Street, as far as I know. That’s where they found her anyway.”
Adam assessed the flowing red hair, closed the staring green eyes that still reflected bewilderment and horror. “What was her name?”
“Dunno.”
Adam’s heart constricted within him; he covered the girl again. She’d been sixteen years old, at the most—not even as old as Melissa—and something about her made him feel a primitive, stalking sort of fear.
He went into the little room behind the marshal’s office and scoured his hands until the flesh between his fingers burned like fire. Red hair—green eyes—Banner.
Adam straightened, dried his hands with a rough towel. She’d looked a little like Banner, that girl—that was what was bothering him. But there was no connection—how could there be?
An inspiration overtook him; he drew out his watch and frowned. If he hurried, there might be time.
* * *
Banner stared at the gold band; it glistened in the light of the lamp and the fire. Adam let it fall from his fingers to his palm and reached for his wife’s hand.
He put the ring in its proper place and sanctioned it with a soft kiss. “O’Brien,” he said, “I love you.”
Banner flung her arms around him, and he held her fiercely, almost as though he expected her to disintegrate within his embrace.
“I love you,” he said again, in a low, desperate rasp. “I love you.”
She drew back, watching his wan, ravaged face tenderly. “Adam, what is it?” she whispered.
But he only drew her close, and it was a very long time before he let her go again.
* * *
In the morning, the telegraph message was delivered. Francelle brought it grudgingly into the office that
Adam and Banner now shared and snapped, “Here!”
The missive was brief: “Banner. I saw Robert in Portland a few weeks ago. He sends his love. Jeff.”
Banner frowned. Robert? She didn’t know anyone named Robert—did she?
She read the message again, and a spark of fear danced up and down her spine and then pirouetted in her throat. Banner swallowed it, only to have it sniggle under the lining of her stomach and lodge there.
Briskly, Banner crumpled the message and discarded it. She had no time for vague and fanciful fears.
* * *
That night, she dreamed that Sean was standing at the foot of the bed, watching her, hating her.
Banner awakened with a brutal start and a cry that left her throat raw.
Adam stirred beside her, sat up. “Banner?”
“Hold me,” she whispered.
He drew her into his arms. She was safe there, warm. There was no Sean, no woman on the mountain, no monster crouching in the shadows at the foot of the bed.
“Adam?”
Her husband’s hand came to entangle itself in her hair. “Ummmm?”
“I was married before.”
“Ummmm.”
Banner sighed and snuggled closer to her husband. She would explain everything in the morning, tell the whole truth about Sean and take the consequences.
But Adam was already out of the house when Banner came downstairs the next morning, and Francelle was in a perfect dither, certain that the first patient of the day meant to give birth in the waiting room.
* * *
With money in his pockets, Sean Malloy found it easier to bide his time. He took a room on Water Street
and worked aboard the
Jonathan Lee
whenever she ran smuggle in from Canada.
He was certain now that Banner lived in Port Hastings—he could almost catch the spicy, defiant scent of her—but he’d had no glimpse of the imp, and no word, for he hadn’t dared to ask.
Of course, there had been that problem when he’d
thought
he’d found her. He’d gone into a blind rage, seeing her standing in the street like that, offering herself to every man who passed.
Sean had caught her arm and dragged her into an alleyway, meaning to exert his husbandly rights before he dealt with her past sins. But she’d stated her price and something inside him had splintered—by the time he’d realized that the trollop wasn’t Banner at all, he’d crushed in her throat.
He’d been more careful after that, avoiding trouble, taking his pleasures in the boxhouses, where there was light. There was little privacy, of course, but that didn’t bother Sean—he liked having his whiskey and his women in the same curtained booth.
On the morning of February third, however, Sean made a mistake. He drank a little too much and got mean with one of the whores on the
Silver Shadow,
and when he did, she brought a brass lamp down over the top of his head, drawing more blood than he would have thought one man could hold.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, he got himself arrested in the bargain.
* * *
Banner paced the parlor, preparing herself. She had put it off long enough, telling Adam about Sean, and out of simple stubbornness, too.
She hadn’t meant to deceive him, not really. It was just that it had taken all her stamina just to keep up during the days, and at night he had loved her so ferociously that she had neither the breath nor the courage to talk.
Now, on this snowy evening, the time had come. Maggie was away visiting her sister, Francelle had gone home for the night, and Katherine was away in Olympia. There were simply no more excuses.
But when Adam came into the parlor, he was obviously not feeling receptive to confidences from his wife. He carried his bag in one hand, and Banner’s new, fur-lined cloak was draped over his arm.
“Marshal Peters was just here,” he said. “He’s got some brawler bleeding all over his best cell. Coming?”
Banner drew a deep breath. Perhaps it would be better, safer, to tell Adam in a more public place. “Yes—of course. Is the injury serious?”
Adam shrugged; it was clear that his mind was far away. On the mountain perhaps? He helped Banner into the buggy waiting at the side door and they were off.
“Will you be leaving again soon?” she dared, as they made their way down the hill.
Beside her, Adam stiffened. “Tomorrow.”
Banner’s guilt over her own secrets was suddenly evaporating. She might have had a past, but she was faithful
now,
when it counted. She didn’t go off to visit some mysterious lover whenever the mood struck. “I want to go with you,” she announced.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it wouldn’t be safe, that’s why.”
“I’ll follow you, then.”
He turned, gave her a scorching, sidelong glance. “You do that, O’Brien, and I’ll paddle your delightful little backside!”
“Will you now?” bluffed Banner, who knew very well that he would, if pushed far enough. “I wouldn’t advise it, you pompous ass, because I would be forced to have you jailed!”
The answer was a howl of laughter. “Jailed? O’Brien, I’ll have you know that under the laws of this
territory I could hang you from a streetlamp by your thumbs if I so wished.”
“That is disgusting!”
“But, nonetheless, true. As far as the government is concerned, my cherished darling, I own you.”
Banner made a face. “The laws are changing!”
Adam arched one eyebrow, navigating the treacherous hill easily, almost as an aside. “Are they, O’Brien? All hell is breaking loose over that last amendment, and there is a movement afoot to retract it. Why do you think my mother raced off to Olympia the way she did?”
Banner was angry, not just with Adam but with all men. “And you would be pleased, wouldn’t you, to see women lose the vote?”
“Not pleased. But not surprised either.”
Banner shivered, even though she was warm in her heavy cloak. “Do you think, by chance, that my sex is inferior to yours?”
Adam grinned—there was definitely an obnoxious quality to the curve of his lips—as they rounded a corner and entered Main Street. “On the contrary. The female gender is probably superior. Close your mouth, O’Brien—it’ll be full of snow in a minute.”
Superior! What game was he playing? “You don’t really believe that!”
“Oh, but I do. Women are generally more rational than men—they have a long-range view of things. They can bear more pain, stand up under more abuse—”
“Only because they’re forced to! Women are the same as men, Adam!”
“God forbid.”
“Just what do you mean by that?”
Adam drew the buggy to a stop in front of the brick building where Banner had come to view the Chinese and sign their death certificates. He pulled the brake lever into place, wrapped the reins around it, and grinned again. “Were you sleeping in anatomy class,
O’Brien? Women and men are definitely not the same. I’ll be happy to demonstrate the theory later.”
“You wretch,” Banner hissed, leaping down to the ground before he could round the buggy and help her. “That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it!”
They were still arguing when they reached the row of sturdy cells in the courthouse basement.
“Shut up,” Adam said companionably as the marshal approached with a ring of keys.
Banner looked around, oppressed by the dark, dank misery of that place. At the end of the hallway, there was a chair, complete with leather arm restraints and a billyclub resting on the seat.
Perhaps because Banner was looking at that and wondering if the marshal used brutal methods when he questioned a prisoner, she was inside the first cell before she remembered the patient they’d come to see.
He was a burly brute of a man, too long for the cot he rested upon, and his curly, light brown hair was blood-soaked—
Banner fell back against the cold barrier of the bars.
No!
screamed something hidden deep inside her.
No!
“I need more light,” snapped Adam, oblivious to her terror, to everything but the half-conscious man lying on the cot. “O’Brien—”
Banner wanted to seep through the bars, like so much smoke, and dissipate into nothing. Her head moved back and forth, back and forth, in a fevered denial of what she knew to be true.
The marshal carried a lamp, and he struck a match to the wick. “Is it bad, Doc?”
Adam’s eyes were on Banner, puzzled and impatient. “Not necessarily—head wounds often bleed like this. Get me a basin of hot water, Peters, and some clean cloth.”
Banner was inching toward the cell door as it opened; the process was unbearably slow, and progress was gained bar by bar. Peters slammed the escapeway just before she reached it.
And Sean turned on the cot, dragged his eyes over Banner’s trembling frame, and smiled.
“Hello, darlin’,” he said.
B
ANNER’S KNUCKLES ACHED, SO TIGHT WAS HER GRASP
on the bars behind her, and her throat worked convulsively, making speech impossible.
Adam came to her, caught her forearms in his hands. At his touch, she quietly fainted.
When Banner awakened, only minutes later, the world was spinning helter-skelter through space, off its axis, out of its proper orbit. She was lying on a cot and someone was waving smelling salts under her nose.
Sputtering and sick, she bolted upright, only to be pressed down again. “You just rest, Mrs. Corbin,” enjoined the marshal gruffly. “Your husband’s busy just now, stitchin’ up that fool Irishman’s head.”
Banner closed her eyes. She could hear Sean’s voice, and Adam’s—they were close, only a cell away, and yet
their words seemed to be echoing through a long tunnel.
“Pretty piece, ain’t she now?”
“I think so,” replied Adam evenly. Banner didn’t need to see him to know that he was concentrating on the cleaning of Sean’s wound or already stitching it closed.
“She workin’ for you, or warmin’ your bed of a night?”
“Banner is my wife,” Adam responded. “And how would you like your earlobes stitched to the tip of your nose?”
“Is she your wife, now? That’s odd, that is—real odd.” There was a long silence, a silence during which Banner’s blood congealed in her veins. “Considerin’ that she’s already married to me.”