Dawn of the Golden Promise (47 page)

At last, as if in a daze, Winston lifted a sack of sand out of the carpetbag and held it in his palm as if measuring the weight. He wheeled around and shook it in Price's face.

“What is the meaning of this?” he screamed. “Where is the girl?”

For a moment Winston looked as if he might lunge at the abductor. But Price held his ground, and the Englishman seemed to be considering his opponent's superior size and bulk. Price held him off with a steely glare.

“The girl is just where I left her. And there she will stay until I see some cash.”

“Do you mean she's still
alive
?” Winston rasped the words out with a look of raw fury.

Price straightened to his full height and fixed a withering stare on Winston. “I'm not fool enough to commit murder on the promise of an
Englishman
.” He spat out the last word. “The lass is alive—and she will stay alive until I see your good intentions, your
honor
.”

“That wasn't the arrangement.”

Price stared him down. “The
arrangement
,” he grated out in the same rough voice, “was abduction and murder. Half the job is done, mister. Now, unless you want to do the other half yourself, I'll see my money.”

“You—”

Price took a step toward Winston. The Englishman stumbled backward.

“Have you got the money or not, mister?”

“I have it! I told him—” He jabbed a finger toward Fritz. “I said when the job was finished!”

Price's eyes flashed. “And I said I'll finish the job after I'm paid. And that's the
last
time I will say it, Brit. You pay me now—me and Stump—or I gather up the little lassie and take her home.”

Fritz's heart stopped as he watched the two face off. Only when the Englishman slowly reached inside his breast pocket did he let out a ragged breath.

“Very well,” Winston muttered. “Here's your money. And his!” He scowled, then tossed a small money bag to Fritz, a larger one to Sergeant Price. “Now do what you've been paid to do!”

The sergeant's eyes glinted. “Aye, that I will, your honor. That I will.”

At that instant the room exploded. Michael crashed through the door, gun leveled on Colin Winston as Denny Price reached behind his back to pull his own pistol from his belt.

With one sharp motion, Denny jerked the gun in Winston's face and gave a nasty grin of satisfaction. “I am doing what I've been paid to do, Mr. Winston. I am placing you under arrest for conspiring to kidnap and commit murder. If you'll be so kind as to cuff the gentleman, Captain?”

Michael felt an almost dizzying sense of gratification as he watched the incredulity in Winston's eyes change to understanding, then fury.

The Englishman turned on Fritz Cochran.
“Why, you filthy, treacherous freak—”

For just an instant Michael entertained a brief but gratifying mental image of beating Colin Winston senseless. Instead, he jerked the raving Englishman around and put the cuffs on him. Denny Price, he noted, seemed to be enjoying himself immensely as he let go an entire stream of descriptive epithets at the crimson-faced Winston. Denny was not a lad given to profanity, but he still managed to express in unmistakable terms his contempt for a man who would order the murder of his own niece.

For the first time in a very long time, Michael felt good about being a policeman.

Less than half an hour later, having received the awaited message, the officer who had been posted at the Daltons' house throughout the evening delivered Kerry Dalton to the dime museum.

Sergeant Price was waiting at the back door and flung it open the moment he saw her.

Kerry rushed inside, her heart hammering. She stopped short when she saw the big policeman. For a moment she stood searching his eyes, her legs shaking beneath her.

The sergeant smiled—a wide, beaming, thoroughly Irish smile that made his eyes dance. He dipped his head in a small bow to her. “You have come to collect your wee lass, I expect, Mrs. Dalton. It will be my personal pleasure to take you to her.”

Relief poured over Kerry, threatening to leave her faint. When the sergeant offered her his arm, she quickly accepted it, releasing him only when she stepped inside Bhima's room.

Her gaze took in the entire room in one sweep, coming to rest on the group huddled in the corner. “Jess!” she cried. He turned, his face lighting up at the sight of her. He broke free of the others and strode rapidly across the room.

“Kerry—it's all right! Winston is in custody. Michael Burke and another officer have already left with him.”

Kerry didn't care about Winston. She could not think of anything at this moment but her little girl.

“Jess—where
is
she? Where's Amanda?”

Jess wrapped an arm about her shoulder and pulled her to his side. But before he could answer, Kerry heard the high, delighted laughter that always made her think of a bubbling fountain.

She turned from Jess, putting a hand to her mouth as she watched the group across the room part. Out of their midst, whirring toward Kerry and Jess, came Bhima, the sweet, gentle-natured boy who had no legs, on the small cart that served as his means of transport. Seated on the cart in front of him was Amanda, laughing excitedly, obviously having the time of her life.

She spied Kerry immediately and threw both arms in the air. “Mumma!”

Bhima brought them to a stop directly in front of Kerry. “What a perfectly delightful daughter you have, Mrs. Dalton,” he said. “Although after tonight, you may have to buy her a wagon. I'm afraid we've indulged her no end.”

The tears ran freely down Kerry's face as she lifted her baby girl into her arms. “How can I ever thank you…all of you?” she choked out.

Her eyes went to Sergeant Price, now leaning against the opposite wall of the room, a tired but contented smile creasing his soot-smudged face. “And especially you, Sergeant. I can never thank you enough! You risked your own life for Amanda.”

“Ah, now, Mrs. Dalton,” the sergeant said, pushing away from the wall and thrusting his hands into his pockets. “There was never really any danger at all, don't you see? Giving a blackhearted Englishman like Winston his just desserts is no more trouble than bringing a cowardly dog to heel, and that's the truth.”

He grinned at her. “Though I'll admit,” he added, “it might be a bit more satisfying.”

P
ART
T
HREE

There I will give back her vineyards,
and will make the Valley of Troubles
a Door of Hope.

HOSEA 2:15

34

The nation has a smell all its own,
a scent that drifts out upon the water
to fill the air and the senses
of those countless numbers
standing at the ship's rail
with longing eyes and yearning hearts…
It is the very breath of freedom,
borne on the wind of hope.

MORGAN FITZGERALD (1850)

Late September

B
efore leaving for the harbor, Sara made one last-minute inspection of the east wing, which had been aired and partly redecorated for the Fitzgeralds. Her grandmother followed her every step of the way, commenting or criticizing, as the condition warranted.

“I do wish there had been time to have more of the furniture replaced.” Her grandmother leaned on her cane as together they appraised the second largest bedroom in the wing. “We really haven't changed anything since you and your brother used to spend weekends with us, when your grandfather was still alive. Most of the pieces are terribly dated.”

“Oh, Grandy, the furniture is just fine. The little Fitzgerald boy is scarcely more than a baby, after all. I doubt that he'll care whether the furniture is old or new.”

Her grandmother didn't look convinced. “Still, the girl will be sharing the room with her little brother. And she's old enough to be sensitive to her surroundings.”

“That's why we moved the brass bed and Mother's desk in here. And the dolls.” Sara smiled fondly at the rag and china dolls propped randomly around the room. She had selected them from her own girlhood collection, and the sight of them brought back a stream of memories, all of them pleasant. “Annie Fitzgerald is going to love this room. I'm sure of it.” She frowned. “I only wish Tierney were coming, too. Michael is so disappointed.”

Her grandmother pursed her lips. “I know, dear. But boys that age are bound to strike out on their own—adventure, that sort of thing. I'm sure Michael understands.” Grandy paused, still considering. “Well, at least the Fitzgeralds can have a nice, large sitting room off the bedchamber. And the blue room turned out just splendidly for their servant. What's his name again? Sandemon. Yes, we've put him right next door to the Fitzgeralds.”

Sara nodded. “That's just fine, Grandy. But try to remember that Sandemon isn't a servant. I believe Morgan refers to him as ‘his man.' They're quite close, almost like family, according to Michael.”

“Well, he sounds like a veritable wonder. I find myself almost as eager to meet the amazing Sandemon as Morgan Fitzgerald himself. At any rate, my first consideration is to make sure things are comfortable and cheerful for all of them, so they'll feel at home.”