Mission of Hope (11 page)

His brow furrowed. “My men are exhausted. Some days I am astounded at what we are able to do. Other days, I find myself having trouble believing it will ever
be enough. I've served several places, and this is by far the most devastation I've ever encountered. Were it not for the kindness of San Francisco's good people, I would surely lose heart.” His smile hinted that perhaps he meant it in a more particular way than the mass support of the city's people.

“
Everyone
is grateful for what you do.” It was better to keep such conversations out of particulars.

“Actually, some are decidedly ungrateful. But that is not a story for a young lady's ears. Tonight should be about hope and other pleasant things.” With that, the major stood and offered a most eloquent toast to Nora's father, to Reverend Bauers, and the “many hopes for a pleasant future.”

Mama looked pleased indeed.

Q
uinn showed up early for the mail cart, taking his place across the street long before anyone else gathered. He told himself that it was to discreetly take down requests from today's messages at the post, to see if word of last night's deliveries had traveled around camp, but it wasn't that. Those things were necessary reasons to be there ahead of time, but Quinn's eagerness had far more to do with Nora's recent dining companion than any missions of mercy.

It irked him to think of Major Simon enjoying all the pleasantries of dinner with the Longstreets. Not that fine dining was ever a part of his life, but just to think of her chatting and laughing with Simon over dinner made him lose his own appetite. His imagination toyed mercilessly with him all evening. No doubt Mr. Longstreet offered Simon encouraging smiles instead of the stern glares he reserved for Quinn. How instantly, violently jealous Quinn was of the major's ability to waltz through the Longstreets' front door invited; his own appearance at that door would hardly meet with such a welcome. Simon had access to a world Quinn had never cared
much about before. Now, Quinn felt his exclusion from it all too keenly.

Still, he knew that's not how Nora saw it. She saw
him,
his worth, his abilities. Not his status or his education or what he knew folks of that sort would call “prospects.” In a perfect world, that'd be all the connection they'd need. Pity that these days, San Francisco was about as far from a perfect world as a soul could get.

And then again, were it not for the quake and all the destruction, would they have met at all? Could he be thankful for that course of events despite all everyone had lost? Reverend Bauers would probably have some wise remark about God turning evil to good, or as he put it, “turning the world upside down.” He must be right, for Quinn could find no other explanation for his recent ability to feel on top of the world and at the bottom of it at the same time. “Upside down” surely was a good description of how he felt.

He felt a whole host of other things as the cart rolled into view, even though he caught a heavy exchange of glances between Nora and her father as they arrived. He hadn't seen her since the incident with that louse Ollie, and he worried that Mr. Longstreet would banish her from the mail run once he knew. Admittedly, things looked strained between Nora and her father, and it was clear her presence wasn't sitting well with Mr. Longstreet, but she'd either hidden the worst of what happened or managed to convince her father not to let it stop her from helping. Either way, Quinn found himself breathing out a relieved prayer of thanksgiving when the cart pulled to a stop and she caught his eye.

He squeezed his hand more tightly around the small object in his pocket. He was glad he had it to give to
her today, even if it served his own selfish motives. Too wound up from the events of last night's close call, he'd spent the time he should have been sleeping managing the promised repairs to the tiny locket. And, in an act even his own mother would have called hopelessly romantic, he'd found a pair of tiny blue flowers and pressed them to fit where the photos had been. The locket looked so sad emptied of its images that he had to do
something.
At least it felt less foolish to think of it that way.

“You look worn-out today,” Nora said when he finally crossed the street. “Was the weather awful last night?”

He slept in a shack. She slept in a house. Everything felt like a reminder of their different worlds. “I'll be fine.” He changed the subject. “Edwina was running around the camp showing off her doll yesterday. You'd think the thing came from the finest store in the city to hear her tell it. I haven't seen a face that happy since…well, quite a spell.”

“She liked it then?” Nora fairly beamed despite her efforts to keep her speech casual.

“She loved it. And why is it, by the way, that she came straight to me?” He scratched his head, mocking deep thought. “I can't recall making any dolls.”

Nora reached to accept a sack-wrapped package from a family waiting beside them. “Ah,” she said after the family had left, “but
you
made the message post. And no request for a doll could have been made without a certain post.” She nodded at him. “So the credit belongs to you.”

Quinn shook his head. “That note could have stayed there a hundred days and never gotten an answer if it
weren't for a pretty lady with a very big heart.
You
made her happy.”

“That's nice to hear. It makes it easier to forget about what happened…afterward.”

It was as if a cloud passed right over her face—the glow left that quickly and that completely. It made Quinn want to go after Ollie again this very minute. “I can do better than that,” he said, reaching into his pocket. For a moment he was ashamed of the coarse piece of string that held the locket instead of the fine chain that had broken, but the look on her face wiped that away. “It's not perfect, but it'll close now like before.”

She took it with delight. Without his prompting, she somehow knew to open it, and he could tell when she caught sight of the two tiny flowers. If he'd been afraid that she'd find the arrangement crude—the flattened blooms were held in place with a tiny crisscross of wires because there was no way to replace the glass—he was wrong. The wonder in her eyes sunk deep into his heart.

Again, neither one of them seemed to have words big enough to fit the moment. A whole host of things passed between them in a silent exchange. She knew how he felt. He knew he had no reason to be jealous of Major Simon's access. He'd just gained an access of his own that no one could ever take away from him. While it made no sense and it offered no prospects and only a fool's chance of going any further, Quinn felt as if he'd gained the world in the space of seconds. God had given him the chance to give her some happiness, to restore the tiniest sliver of her world to rights, and it felt better inside his chest than the dozens of shiny medals Major Simon boasted on his.

“Mr. Freeman,” she managed, and he wondered if anyone else could hear the tears lingering on the edge of her voice, “how is it you are always managing the most astounding things with lockets?”

“I'm clever that way.” It delighted him to twist her words back on themselves.

“You are, indeed. And most kind.” She looked as if she would have said a dozen other things if they were alone, and that hummed in his chest. “Whatever should I do without you?”

He managed a wink, sure he would overstep his bounds if he stayed a moment longer. He was dead tired, and she looked so breathtakingly beautiful. “Don't find out.”

Tipping his hat, Quinn whistled as he walked back across the street, pretty sure his world had turned upside down yet again and not minding one bit.

 

“A gun?”

Quinn held up the shirt with the singed stripe just to the left of where his heart ought to be. It was only the grace of God, Quinn thought, that his heart was still around to keep beating. “I'm thankful to be alive this afternoon.” He briefly recounted the details of his scrape the other night.

“Most of San Francisco could say they are grateful to be alive, Freeman.”

“I'm telling you, that was too close a call. You said it yourself, I'm of no help to anyone if I'm dead.” He pointed to the swords. “If these are all I've got to work with, it won't take long.”

The major looked at him with an expression Quinn
couldn't quite read. “The Bandit didn't carry a gun that I know of.”

“I'm not the Bandit.” It was as if the concept, which had been vaguely bumping around in his head for days, had finally crystalized into clear thought. Quinn knew, somehow, that he wasn't going to be a second Bandit. A sort of bone-deep instinct that the Bandit wasn't what God had in mind. What God did have in mind, Quinn couldn't say. He'd be something else, he just didn't know what quite yet. In truth, he didn't like not knowing. Having only an insistent discomfort with the idea of stepping into the Bandit's boots wasn't nearly enough to go on. Certainly not enough to get killed over. He would rather God send a thunderbolt of clear suggestion down on him—and soon.

“I can't say I'm that surprised you want to be armed.” He motioned to the swords. “These are fine weapons, but you're right—they won't be enough to accomplish your, shall we say,
unique
objective.”

“So you agree?” Quinn suspected the major would object to arming him. Before last night, he'd have done his best to steer clear of adding a pistol to his weapons. But last night had been a harsh awakening. If armed assailants could take his cache, then he needed to be the right kind of man to stop them. To defend himself. “I want to stay alive, not to blast around the city taking down anyone in my way. I want to be able to shoot someone in the foot or leg. To wound him but not kill him. I want you to train me.”

“I will. But as far as I'm concerned, you had to ask the right way first. I wasn't about to hand you a gun so you could…how'd you put it? ‘Blast around the city taking down everyone in your way'? I make it a policy
never to arm an impulsive man.” Major Simon went to a shelf and flipped open the lid of a box to reveal a silver-colored Colt .45 pistol. “Here, take a look.”

It wasn't that Quinn had never seen a gun before. It was just that it was a very sobering sensation to be looking at
his
gun. He glanced up at Simon, hoping he didn't look as taken aback as he felt.

“That's good,” Simon remarked in low tones. “Honestly, I'd have worried if you snatched it up.”

Slowly, Quinn lifted the firearm from its place in the box. He expected it to feel foreign and foreboding in his hand. Quinn flexed his fingers in a half dozen different configurations until they settled themselves around the handle.

“You know, it is easier to be careful with a gun than with something so dramatic as a sword. But a man has to come to that conclusion on his own.”

Quinn eyed Simon, not quite sure what to make of such a remark.

“Can you shoot? Have you ever shot a gun?”

For a moment, Quinn second-guessed his impulse to tell the truth. He'd never needed one. He'd managed just fine by out-thinking anyone looking to harm him. “I know how.”

“It's not that hard a concept. But knowing and doing are a mile apart. “Let's go outside to the firing range and find out just how clever a messenger you can be.”

 

“I can't explain it,” Quinn admitted as he put his shirt back on that evening after Reverend Bauers had mended both shirt and side. He'd come to Grace House not only because he couldn't safely explain the singe burn in his side or hole in his shirt to Ma, but because his thoughts
were in tangles. “It was like the pistol was just there, waiting for me. But it's a gun. I own a gun.”

“There's a difference between a gunslinging outlaw and a deliberate marksman.” The reverend put away his bandages and mending supplies, shelving them in his study-now-pantry between a large book and a tin of beans. “After all, no one would compare the swordplay of the Black Bandit with that of a pirate. You're using it as a deliberate defense, not an impulsive act of aggression. You'll need to defend yourself if you're going to do…what you're going to do.” The old man heaved himself down on to a crate. “Glory, but I think I'm getting too old for all this. Such drama is best left to younger hearts. Speaking of which…”

Quinn shot the old man a look. He'd seen this coming a mile off. Expected it yesterday, as a matter of fact. “Don't start.”

“And here I was thinking I'd jumped to conclusions.”

“You have.”

“I don't think so.” He held Quinn's eyes for a long moment, his expression so neutral Quinn couldn't say if he was about to be chastised or encouraged. Or both. “Miss Longstreet is an admirable woman, Quinn. Any man in the county would look at her twice. And you two seem to have much in common.” There was an unspoken “but” in his tone. Bauers raised one eyebrow in silent invitation of a reply but didn't expound on what he was thinking.

Quinn was glad for that. Maybe. He fiddled with the box of noodles at his feet. “I can't stop thinking about her. No one else seems to see the things about her that I
do. People dismiss her. Why doesn't anyone understand what's important to her?”

“And by that you mean her father?” It should have sounded judgmental, but it didn't.

“I know he's a friend of yours.” On one level, Quinn knew Mr. Longstreet wasn't acting any different than most fathers. But he didn't seem to understand that Nora wasn't most daughters. She was so different…so amazingly, wonderfully different…that Mr. Longstreet's ordinary, protective behavior didn't sit well with Quinn.

“And he's a good man. He is a good father, too, even if that might be hard for you to see at the moment. After all, if something precious to you survived the earthquake, wouldn't you feel all the more protective of it? Isn't her locket—the one you found—even more valuable for surviving the fire?”

Bauers wasn't being helpful. Quinn needed no reminding of the mile-high wall between him and Nora. He thumped a tin of beans down on a nearby shelf with more force than necessary.

Reverend Bauers shook his head. “Your problem, Quinn, is as old as time. I find it rather encouraging to know some things will go on as they did despite all this. You and Nora come from different worlds. And while they may have come crashing down side by side, the distinction between those worlds hasn't altogether disappeared. You'd best remember that. But you'd also do well to remember,” the reverend continued, turning away from Quinn and busying himself with a small stack of books, “that the truly extraordinary matches often make no sense whatsoever. If you're asking me, I'd take a reckless heart over a sensible one any day.”