Mission of Hope (10 page)

“Seems to me Miss Longstreet should well know the dangers of wandering around Dolores Park unescorted. It was a foolish thing to do.”

“Some might say helping out a stranger is always a foolish thing to do, Major Simon. I'm fixing to do something mighty foolish, but you're fixing to help anyways, aren't you?”

Simon laughed. “You've a future in politics. You lack eloquence, but you've all the other tricks required. Still, I would advise Miss Longstreet to be more prudent in her efforts. I'll not say anything when I'm at dinner tomorrow night. As you seem to be friends, I hope you'll impress upon her to show more caution when you're not around to save the day.”

Quinn evidently showed more shock than he would have liked, for the major nodded to his unspoken question.

“I've been invited to dinner at the Longstreet home tomorrow night. Mr. Longstreet seems intent on getting Miss Nora more involved in the ministries at Grace House and invited the reverend to dine. Bauers and I had a dinner planned, so he very kindly secured me an invitation as well. I must say I'm looking forward to it. Eugene Longstreet has quite the earthquake tale to tell, I hear, and I'd hardly object to a better acquaintance with Miss Nora. Can't say I wouldn't wallop a brute or two in her defense myself, Freeman. She's a fine woman, don't you think?”

Quinn said nothing and pretended to busy himself with the details of cleaning his cuts. He bristled at the idea of Simon having such access to Nora when he had to limit his visits to her the way he did.

When he turned his attention back to the table, Simon had written all over the list. “These,” he said, pointing to circled items, “I can have ready for you tonight. I'll leave them in the same place. Make sure you come well
after midnight or there'll be too many men rummaging around. These,” he went on, pointing to ones with check marks, “may take a little doing. I may have one or two of them tonight, but the rest will take a few days at least. And these—” he pointed to three or four with dashes in front of them “—are near impossible. Be less bold Quinn. I'd hate to see ‘shoot the messenger' come into play here.”

T
he evening reminded everyone that summer in San Francisco could feel far too much like winter by kicking up a stiff breeze and a good, heavy fog.
No one should shiver in July,
Quinn complained toward Heaven, flattening himself against one of the fort's walls as he waited for the last of a group to pass. Shaking off the cold, he reminded himself that one of the items he'd be delivering tonight was a blanket for a child.

The men walked into another building, the wedge of light that had spilled out into the alley disappearing behind the shut door. Quinn counted to twenty-five, just to be safe, then slipped in through the hatchway Major Simon had shown him. Following the instructions Reverend Bauers had passed down from his time working as the Bandit's accomplice, Quinn tied a dark bandanna over his sandy hair with a dark hat to obscure his face. He wore one of the Bandit's dark shirts, along with the many-pocketed trousers and the black boots left to him in the Bandit's chest. It felt ungrateful to cut off the tops of the boots, but they were too high for Quinn's liking and the silver
B
's imbedded in the calf had a nasty habit
of catching the light. They were about half a size too small, but since they lacked holes in the soles, they were still better than his everyday shoes by a mile.

Not that crawling on his hands and knees through a musty tunnel that led to the hidden spot where Simon left his “booty” was particularly heroic, but he doubted the shivering little boy would care how his blanket got delivered.

Quietly, Quinn loaded the items into his pack—a large drawstring contraption he'd devised out of an army duffel he'd darkened with ink and hot water. Slung over one shoulder, it held a lot—even bulkier things like tins of meat and such—but still gave him mobility. This time the pack was stuffed so full he had to pull it along behind him in the tunnel, making for an especially clumsy and undashing exit. No riding off into the sunset for this messenger—Quinn felt he'd spend most of his heroic efforts creeping in and out of shadows. Still, this messenger could creep mighty fast, and the entire trip into and back out of the hiding spot was accomplished in less than a quarter of an hour. Now for the more adventurous task of getting his goods into Dolores Park without notice.

All was going well until the last two blocks, when Quinn ran into a loud, drunken fellow brandishing a bottle in one hand and a gun in the other. Quinn made the mistake of thinking the fellow too far gone into his liquor to be very observant, but the man wheeled around as Quinn snuck behind him, waving the gun entirely too close to Quinn's head.

“Who're you? And what'cha got there, mister?”

“Laundry,” improvised Quinn, lowering his voice.

“You're clackin'. Laundry don't clack.” The man
narrowed an unsteady eye at Quinn. “You've got food in there, don't you?”

Technically, Quinn was redirecting relief supplies, but he hardly thought this was the kind of man to quibble over semantics. “Nah,” he said, trying to casually walk on his way.

The fellow would have none of it. “You ain't got laundry in there, so I says you've got food. Or something else worth hiding.” He cocked the gun. “How dumb do you think I am?”

“I got no opinion.” Quinn held up one hand congenially while the other slipped to the knife tucked in an outside pocket he'd rigged into the sack. “I just want to get on my way.”

The man gestured toward the sack with the point of his gun. “And what if I says no?”

Quinn drawled out his speech to match the southern twang of his opponent. “I ain't got no argument with you. I'll just be going.”

“And I says
no,
” the man growled, even as he stumbled a bit. Quinn considered that even a skilled swords-man couldn't best a drunk with a loaded gun. A fight was definitely not in his interest. Even if the scuffle didn't draw blood—which was a big if—it'd most definitely draw attention.

When the man clicked the hammer back on his gun, Quinn ran out of options. Drawing the knife, he flashed it towards the man's face, hoping to startle him just long enough to knock the gun out of his grasp. The man was big and quick, however, despite the drenching of alcohol, and things dissolved quickly into a dangerous tussle of arms, elbows, punches, and grunts. Quinn, weighted down by the pack, was seriously handicapped. After
what seemed like hours but was probably only half a minute, Quinn managed to bring the heel of his boot down on the man's shin. In the handful of seconds the brute doubled over, Quinn ducked out of his grasp and set off running.

He'd gotten perhaps twenty paces when the heart-stopping sound of gunfire exploded through the alley. Quinn tripped as a hot sting tore in his left side, accompanied by a desperate whizzing sound. I'm shot, he thought with a clarity too sharp for panic.
Lord Jesus, save me, I'm shot.
He forced in a deep breath, discovered his lungs still worked, and set off at a stumbling run toward the darker part of the alley away from the shouts gathering behind him. He'd always imagined getting shot would hurt worse, always pictured it as an instant blackness stealing his life. Yet, he could still run, still breathe. Grasping his side as he willed himself to put one foot in front of the other, he reached toward the source of the stinging pain. Quinn's fingers discovered a gaping, singed rip in his shirt but surprising little wetness. Still running, still surprised that each breath came and kept coming, he pulled his hand up in front of his face, bracing himself for a bloody sight. A small amount of blood stained his fingers, even though his side stung worse than a gallon of iodine. Had he been only grazed? Had he indeed been graced by that providence Reverend Bauers never called “luck”?

After a minute or two of more running, Quinn ducked into a dark doorway and waited for his pulse to stop slamming through his chest. You are breathing, you are alive, he found he had to tell himself over and over. He'd heard of men who never felt their mortal wounds—whose bodies numbed themselves as the blood drained
out. He looked back down the alley, scanning the bricks for a trail of blood. There was nothing. Quinn looked back down at his shirt and felt his side—which still bled a small amount—but nothing indicated the fatal shot he feared. He had, in fact, been grazed. Another handful of inches to the right, and he'd be lying in a heap in some corner of the city. It seemed bizarre to him to live through yet another close call. Perhaps it wasn't so farfetched an idea that God was saving him for a special purpose. If I were a cat, Quinn thought dryly, I'd only have seven lives left. Maybe six.

The sobering thought of his survival just made Quinn's resolve that much stronger. It felt just like when he was dueling Major Simon. He could take the fear or the anger and force it into focus, channel it into an energy that strengthened his skills rather than detracted from them. If I'm supposed to live, he reasoned, then I'd better do something good with that life.

In all the chaos, he'd managed to keep hold of the sack of goods that had been headed for camp. A quick peek inside showed that while surely jostled, the contents hadn't been harmed. If he could calm himself enough to stay smart, there was no reason not to continue his mission. In fact, Quinn had new incentives to get these goods to the folks who needed them.

With quick steps, a long prayer and several deep breaths, Quinn set out toward Dolores Park.

 

Mama and Aunt Julia were simply delighted to be playing the role of hostesses. Although no match for their previous dinner parties, it still felt extravagant and celebratory. Nora was pleased to see Reverend Bauers again, even though she'd long since suspected
her father's agenda for the evening. Papa and Mama had both made it abundantly clear that they much preferred Nora restrict her charity to the much safer confines of Grace House. Papa hadn't gone so far as to stop Nora's mail cart visits, but he was close. Of course, if Mama or Papa ever knew the full details of her scrape with Ollie, things would be much worse. Which made Nora wonder: how much worse would things get if they knew the way her heart jumped when Quinn took her hand? When she discovered Major Simon—proper, eligible and appropriate Major Simon—had been invited, Nora began to wonder if she hadn't hid her feelings as well as she thought.

“Oh, you look lovely.” Mama smoothed a wayward lock of hair as Nora came down the stairs. “How good it feels to have guests on the way. It's such a simple dinner, one I'd be embarrassed to serve back…before…but still it is a pleasure just to set a decent table again.”

“Major Simon is accustomed to army rations,” Papa reasoned, “I'm sure he'll appreciate whatever you set before him. And Reverend Bauers's ample middle tells me the man simply likes to eat, so you've no worries about your meal. I admit,” he sighed, letting Mama straighten his tie, “it is refreshing to do something simply for the pleasure of it again.”

When the approach of the visitors was announced, Nora went to the front window to find a most amusing scene—Major Simon in full uniform, next to a humbly dressed Reverend Bauers on the bench of a dilapidated cart.

“Good evening and good welcome!” Uncle Lawrence greeted. “It feels wonderful to open our doors to guests.”

Nora asked as many questions as she could devise about the ministries at Grace House. Not only did it provide for an entertaining conversation—for the reverend was always quick with an amusing or poignant story—but it pleased Mama and Papa. Still, for every story Bauers told about God meeting needs at Grace House, Nora recalled four similar notes up on the post. She admired Reverend Bauers, but to her his work didn't convey the affirming connection that she felt to the struggling residents of Dolores Park.

That she felt while with Quinn.

“I hear you are as brave as the good reverend in many respects,” came the major's voice, pulling her from her thoughts as Reverend Bauers finished up yet another story of derring-do in the name of Christian charity. It came as no surprise that Nora found herself seated next to the major. “Tell me,” he inquired, “do you think the Good Lord sends such adventures to Bauers, or does he simply go looking for them? I find I can't decide.”

Nora had to chuckle, for in truth, she'd wondered the same herself. “God does seem to indulge his appetite for the unusual. He's only begun to tell me of his missionary adventures, and already he's described so many exotic places.”

“The way I hear it, one does not have to travel far with Reverend Bauers to find adventure. Did you know he claims to have been an accomplice of the famous Black Bandit?”

“I had not heard that, for I've only just met him, but I must say it doesn't come as much of a surprise. He is very resourceful and not at all…shall we say…conventional?”

Now it was Simon's turn to laugh. “Not at all
conventional. I like that. Mind if I borrow your astute description?”

“After calling me both brave and astute, how could I refuse?”

He looked at Nora for a long moment. “You shouldn't.” Up until tonight, Nora had seen the major's interest in her family as being purely the product of her father's position. They were, after all, partners in the logistical quagmire that getting goods in and out of San Francisco had become. And she had assumed that tonight's invitation had been at her father's instigation. Now, aware of the major's gaze, Nora began to suspect Simon had done a little instigation of his own. He was considerably older than her, but he possessed many of the qualities Mama would find “appropriate” if not downright “desirable” in a suitor. He was very formal—almost stiff—but managed an agreeable smile now and then. He was a steady, stable fellow, not dashing or charming, but friendly enough. He was fit but stocky, a barrel-chested, solid build that spoke of more strength than grace. Had the events of the last months not happened, Nora would probably have been open to the major's attentions.

The trouble was, the events of the last months
had
happened, and none of the ways in which Nora measured life—and men—survived the upheaval. Nothing in the major's interest ignited that deep, highly charged captivation every thought of Quinn produced.

Quinn.
She used his first name with startling ease. Her mind played back to the power in the way he walked. The effortless grace of the way he moved, the corded muscles of his arms that showed when he rolled his sleeves up to work. He was an exceedingly handsome man, Quinn. She did not even know Major Simon's first name.

“What do you know of this post set up in Dolores Park?” Simon asked her, pulling her yet again from her distraction. Did he think her flighty, that he had to keep fetching back her attention? If he did, it didn't show in his eyes.

“It is the most amazing thing, Major. Brilliant, when you think of it. At first it was only to serve as a message board of sorts…”

“Like the fountain downtown,” he said.

“Yes, but then someone posted a need—something small, I think, like nails, and someone saw that need and filled it. When all you see is need all around you, it's such a powerful thing to see a need being met.”

“Hope is a very powerful weapon, Miss Longstreet. Even the army has nothing to match it.”

He actually seemed to understand what she saw in the post. “I think hope may be the very best weapon we have.”

“I'm sure Bauers would agree with you there. Even the army could take a few lessons in the hope-wielding department from him. We're good with logistics, and the whole business of keeping order, but we need some help in the morale department now and then.”

Everyone simply expected the army to sweep in and take charge. Yet, it had to be frustrating and difficult for them as well—no one thought about that. They were, after all, men far from home living amid such destruction for months on end. “Has it been overwhelming?” she asked, turning toward him. “All the wreckage and supervision and sheer enormity of it all?”