With some impatience, he
dodged the men thronging the streets wearing their plaid shirts and miners’
boots. Although he had visited the emerging city only a few months ago, in his
absence, buildings had sprung up and new businesses had opened. San Francisco
had grown and changed like all living creatures. And he had, too.
He pressed his fingers
against his throbbing temples. Almost three weeks after the attack, headaches,
blurred vision, and nausea still plagued him, and his memory remained hazy. All
four ailments probably resulted from hitting his head when he fell. Other than
taking Tylenol when the pain became unbearable, the only cure was time.
Time was also his enemy.
He rode past the docks
and theaters and churches toward the Adams & Company Building on Montgomery
Street. Upon reaching his destination, he tied his horse and pack mule to the
hitching post, and glanced up toward the stylish second-story law offices of
Matthews & Phillips. Cullen would never forget his and Braham’s excitement
during their first visit to Phillips’s office. They were determined not to
leave until they had offers of employment. Not only did they get lucrative
offers, but they also received an invitation to a soiree to meet the firm’s
clients.
Cullen paused at the
first landing to steady his legs then slowly made his way to the top floor.
Underneath the Matthews & Phillips Counselors at Law sign was Braham’s full
name. Cullen winced, not at the sight of Braham’s name, but at the absence of
his own.
His hand shook as he
opened the door and walked into the well-appointed office filled with John and
Thomas Seymour chairs and sofas and straight-legged Hepplewhite tables. On
previous visits, he had reveled in the accoutrements of wealth and power, but
after weeks of listening to Kit extol the creative genius of eighteenth and
nineteenth-century furniture makers, he had a new appreciation for objects he’d
once viewed and used for their utility alone.
The heady fragrance of
China roses filled the room. The fragile petals of a yellow bloom reminded him
of Phillips’s garden where he’d stolen a kiss from Abigail. He felt ashamed of
the way he had used women. He’d even set out to seduce Kit simply for the
pleasure of enjoying her body, only to discover the true pleasure was her mind
and her heart—fragile petals of a blooming rose.
The firm’s secretary
stopped in mid-stride halfway across the room. Wide-set, intelligent eyes discreetly
perused Cullen’s dusty trousers and muddy boots. Then, he said, “Mr.
Montgomery, I wasn’t expecting you today.”
Cullen scratched his
whiskers. “I’m not here to see clients. In fact, if there are any in the
office, don’t introduce me.”
The secretary gave a
nervous laugh. “May I show you to your office?”
Culled waved him away.
“I know where it is.” Instead of opening the door bearing a brass plaque with
his name, he knocked and entered Braham’s office.
His friend looked up
from reading a large volume spread open on his desk. His jaw dropped in
surprise. “Hell, didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
Cullen met him as he
rounded the desk. They embraced, slapping each other’s back. Some of Cullen’s
tension drained away.
Braham stepped back and
searched Cullen’s face. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Where’s Kit?”
Cullen headed for the
sideboard. “I need a whiskey.”
Braham blocked his path.
“Tell me where she is and you can drink all you want.”
“She’s gone.”
Braham clenched and
unclenched his fists.
Cullen pushed against
Braham’s arm. “No need to beat it out of me, I’m going to tell you everything.
Just give me a damned drink.”
Braham splashed generous
amounts of single-malt scotch from a decanter on the mahogany sideboard into
two crystal goblets. They toasted, then emptied their glasses in a single
swallow. Cullen held out his glass for a refill. Braham raised an eyebrow, then
poured more of the golden liquid. After downing the second drink, Cullen sat in
a straight-back chair in front of the desk and helped himself to a cigar from
the oak-and-brass humidor.
Braham handed him a
match. “I thought you quit.”
“I thought you did, too.”
Braham set the whiskey
bottle on the table as he took a seat. “Tell me she’s not dead.”
“She’s not.”
“Where is she?”
“Home.”
“That’s a relief.”
Cullen sighed. “Her home.
Her time.”
Braham sank deep into
his chair. “Why?”
“She thought I was dead.”
Braham picked up the
bottle of whiskey, frowning as he swirled the liquid. “We don’t have enough to
drink, do we?”
Cullen shook his head.
“You probably haven’t
eaten either. Come on.” Braham grabbed Cullen’s arm as he rose to his feet. “I
bought a house on Rincon Hill off a banker heading back east. It came furnished
with plenty of whiskey and a decent Chinese cook. Plus, I have a right of first
refusal on his brother’s identically furnished house, if you’re interested.”
“Not now, but if it’s a
good investment, hold on to it.” Cullen allowed Braham to drag him upright.
Blood rushed from his head. He staggered and dropped his glass.
“You can hold your
whiskey better than that,” Braham said.
“It’s not the whiskey.”
“Then you need to see a
doctor.”
Cullen leaned against
the edge of the desk. “There’s nothing a doctor can do.”
“Let’s get you some
food, a bath, and a good night’s sleep. See how you feel tomorrow.”
“Doesn’t matter how I
feel. If there’s a ship leaving for Panama, I can’t miss it.”
LIGHT FROM THE gas street lamps and a full moon
filtered through the windows and added to the warm yellow glow cast by the
brass chandelier’s fourteen tiered candles. Braham and Cullen pushed away from
the drop-leaf dining table and carried cigars and brandy to the library where
bookshelves lined two walls and overflowed with richly bound volumes. Cullen
perused the titles and authors.
“This is an impressive
collection—Defoe, Pope, Swift, the entire works of Robert Burns, a complete set
of Shakespeare, plus the Greek philosophers. The previous owner was very well
read.”
Braham smirked. “Or
wanted to be.”
Cullen took in the rest
of the room with an eye toward what Kit would notice. The tall case clock had a
deep, two-inch scratch at the bottom, but was otherwise exquisite. The
Brazilian Rosewood grand piano had a cracked leg, needing extensive repair. The
Victorian reading table snuggled in the small space before the window faced
south, limiting the afternoon sun. The Persian carpet, although beautiful, hid
the wide-plank oak floor, and she’d much prefer a patterned fabric upholstery
on the leather sofas and winged chairs. God, when and how did he come to know
her so well?
He imagined her in the
room though, reading and listening to music. Regardless of what Henry had said,
she would listen to Bach and play the guitar again. Music was enmeshed with her
soul.
“This is a beautiful
house.” Kit could be happy here with the
music and the stables and gardens he’d seen earlier.
Braham sat in a wing
chair next to the fire, crossed one leg over the other, straightening his
trouser leg. “There has to be a way to get her back.”
“What do you suggest? That we write her a
letter? Dear Kit, I’m alive. Come back. Should we mail the letter to
MacKlenna—“
“Stop it. You’re acting
like an arse. Self-pity doesn’t become you.”
Cullen’s face heated. He
tipped back his brandy, then set the empty glass on the mantel. A red-gold fire
danced in the hearth. “Do you remember Kit’s vision of me selecting Thomas
MacKlenna’s gravesite?”
“The ghostly appearance
that didn’t make sense.”
“I’m going to Kentucky.”
“You think that will
bring her back?”
“I believe there’s more
to the vision than picking out a gravesite.” He poured another drink from the
bottle of brandy Braham had set on table next to his chair.
Neither man spoke for
several minutes then Cullen asked, “Have you identified the man in the
portrait?”
“His name is Donald
Shelly. He owns a fleet of ships, and he’s rarely in town. Phillips went to
Boston following Abigail’s funeral. Until he comes back, we’re not likely to
learn anything more.”
“I’ll send him a
telegram when I get to Kentucky.”
“I’m going with you. In
your condition—”
Cullen touched his
friend’s shoulder. “If you leave town while Phillips is gone, the business will
fail. This has been our dream since our early Harvard days. You’re the one who
said, ‘people who dream small dreams, live small lives.’ Don’t let our dream
die.”
CULLEN DIDN’T SLEEP well. He rolled over in the
large four-poster cherry bed in Braham’s guest room and reached for Kit. Her
taste, her scent were forever embedded in his memory, but she might never be
beside him again. Not in this world.
His splintered heart
cracked wide open, and he wept into the pillow where her head should have
rested. When the tears subsided, he reached for the half-full bottle of
painkillers. He needed to ration the Tylenol. After today, he’d only take them
at night.
He sneaked out of
Braham’s house before the sun rose, before he had to face his friend and
another round of arguments he might not have the will to win. The pain in his
head made logical thinking damned near impossible, and he needed all of his
wits to focus on what lay ahead—a sixty-day trip to MacKlenna Farm. The
difficult journey would take him across the Isthmus of Panama during the rainy
season, into the Caribbean Sea to the Gulf of Mexico, and up the Mississippi
River. Not an easy journey for a man physically fit, but if he waited until he
was well enough to travel, he wouldn’t reach the farm before Thomas MacKlenna
died in January.
He arrived at Long Wharf
and discovered the Golden Gate was
scheduled to depart for Panama with the morning tide. He booked the last
stateroom. As he trudged up the gangplank, fighting a bout of dizziness, he
wondered if he had set himself on a fool’s mission, and a very dangerous one.
Someone tapped his shoulder and he turned aside to make room on the gangplank.
When he looked behind him, his heart pounded with surprise.
Cullen was too emotional
to speak, and Henry too was silent. Finally, he said, “It’s my fault we didn’t
find you. Kit begged me to cross the river and search the other side. I didn’t
think …” His eyes glistened, and he cleared his throat. “You’re weak. You need
help, and I don’t give a damn what you say. I’m going with you.”
At one time Cullen would
have sent Henry back to Oregon, but that was before his ordinary life became
unordinary. That was before the tightness in his chest immobilized him, before
waves of grief consumed him, and before headaches temporarily blinded him.
He leaned on his friend
for support. “We’d better board. Don’t want this ship to sail without us.”
And they trudged up the
gangplank together.
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