Read Waltzing In Ragtime Online
Authors: Eileen Charbonneau
Waltzing In Ragtime (19 page)
“I have others. Matthew, did my father really deed you the cave?”
“Yes.”
“I’m so pleased.”
She closed in deeper against his side as they walked up Russian Hill. Light blazed from every window of her father’s house, the beacon crowning it, crowning all of San Francisco tonight, Olana decided.
“I’m giving the land to the park, darlin’,” Matthew said.
“Of course you are.”
“You understand that it’s got nothing to do with how I feel about you? You understand why?”
“I’ve been up there with you, Matthew, remember? I … I was just wishing we were there tonight, snug in your bed,” she admitted.
He caught her up in an embrace that lifted her off her feet. “Stay, please,” she whispered.
“I can’t. I have to go home. My home. ’Lana —”
“Look. We’re almost there.”
He stared at the twinkling lights in the Japanese lanterns of her father’s solarium. At its edge, his hands on a windowsill, his face distorted through the glass, was Darius Moore. Olana felt the muscles in Matthew’s arms harden. Did he sense her pleasure in it?
“Don’t flirt with him. Anyone else, not him.”
“Why?”
“Because he wants you. He wants you like he wants the trees — to conquer, to enhance himself.”
“Matthew. I believe you’re jealous.”
“Of course I’m jealous. Go on and gloat, laugh with your friends about it.”
“I’d never —”
“Listen to me! Stay clear of him, ’Lana. I know his kind. Your mama don’t but I do!”
“What has my mother to do —”
“He’s been wiling his way into her grace with his manners and laudanum. But it’s you he’s after now.”
“After? You make it sound like —”
“A hunt? It is a hunt, Olana. And you are in his sights, as sure as any defenseless woman or child ever was on one of his glorious Indian War campaigns.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m trying to be your friend, damn it!”
Olana wondered if it was the moon that made his face look so free of guile. “You are my friend, Matthew,” she told him.
Inside, the band struck up another waltz. Matthew exhaled, held out his hand. “Then dance with me. Not the rest of this blasted city. Me. Then I need to go, darlin’.”
San Francisco/St. Pitias, California
WINTER 1904
The clothesline was still strung out across the hearth. Fogarassy must have used it, as he looked after the place and his animals for the month. He’d seen the sky, the snowstorm coming, and was in a hurry to get back to Three Rivers, and give Matthew back his post and his solitude. But he could have stayed for coffee. Matthew brought the last trunk into the back room, pausing to lift the lid and take up his grandmother’s book. His fingers caressed the worn cover fondly. Now it reminded him of Olana. He slammed the lid back down and kicked it deep in the recesses of the ancient sequoia’s trunk.On the mantle she’d left Seal Woman’s comb and mirror, shining clean. And what else? He lifted the hair bracelet she’d fashioned from her nightly brushings. Olana had decorated it with tiny dried seeds, berries that complimented the glints of red woven in intricate, swirling spirals. It was like Olana herself, strong and delicate at the same time. Had she left it for him? It was so different than the gift waiting for him in San Francisco after he’d taken her dancing, and to Mrs. Mack’s orphanage. He’d climbed up to the third-floor nursery to find it crowded with a camera and equipment, festooned with ribbons. With what else? A job on Sidney’s paper so he’d stay? Her father wasn’t the only
one good with the bribes. He’d been so angry he’d left it untouched, and without saying good-bye to any of them. His women wouldn’t approve of that. They’d call him rude, not worthy of them. But they didn’t have to know.
one good with the bribes. He’d been so angry he’d left it untouched, and without saying good-bye to any of them. His women wouldn’t approve of that. They’d call him rude, not worthy of them. But they didn’t have to know.
Matthew slipped the hair bracelet on his wrist. Comfort, warmth spread through his weary muscles. He fell into the narrow bed’s confines, too tired to remove either his clothes or boots.
When he awoke the fire was low, he was cold. The clothesline was gone from the hearth. A shadow moved behind him. Then something pulled taut around his neck. The clothesline. The room went out of focus.
“Damn your eyes, bring him back! I want him to feel, to plead, after what he and his fine lady put us through. Hart! You hear me?”
Matthew opened his eyes to the rotted-toothed grin of Cal Carson, then was yanked to his knees. Cal kicked his middle. Hard. Cal’s oath punctured the darkness. Then, laughter. “You lit into him with the selfsame sore foot he caused you! Sometimes I wonder which of us is truly brainless, Cal!” Ezra exclaimed.
The gun barrel came down on Matthew’s head, knocking him to the floor. These were murderous blows, he realized somewhere in the back of his scrambling mind. They were trying to kill him.
Ezra’s one hand grabbed his shirt, as with the other he brushed away spattered blood with an almost delicate care. “Now, Cal, don’t go damaging the ranger too bad. No bullets, no foul play, or no pay,” he reminded his brother dutifully.
“Pay?” Matthew whispered.
“That’s right, you got a price on your head, Ranger, can you beat that? Went to San Francisco to blackmail your ladylove’s people, and found ourselves a whole new line! Mr. Hopkins is paying us good money to —”
“Shut up!”
“Why, Cal? Ranger’s got a right to know he’s of value, don’t he? He had us in his sights last time, but he let his pretty lady
spare us to take advantage of this more profitable opportunity. That’s how I got it figured.”
spare us to take advantage of this more profitable opportunity. That’s how I got it figured.”
Matthew Hart struggled to keep his head up, his eyes focused. He didn’t know anyone named Hopkins. “Wasn’t our choice,” he garbled out painfully.
Ezra came closer. “What?”
“My rifle. Was broke.”
“Broke?”
“Clean —” Matthew tasted blood, swallowed it. “Clean in half.” He smiled, then fell over.
Ezra brought him back to his knees. Stay. If he could only stay upright. “No foolin’?” Ezra laughed. “You hear, Cal? Was a bluff lost us our run through his fine lady and seven toes between us! Now, you got to admire —”
“Will you shut up!”
Cal pushed his brother aside. Matthew swayed, but struggled to stay on his knees without Ezra’s support, though the cut over his eye was swelling it shut. “Your lady wouldn’t find you so appealing now.”
Ezra laughed. “He does look a touch peaked.”
Matthew realized his chance while the brothers transferred the tether of the clothesline. In his second of freedom he went for the low slung holster at Ezra’s leg. He aimed the pistol with his one seeing eye, and fired.
Cal looked surprised through the smoke, as if the ranger had somehow shot him without a weapon. The hole in his side turned red.
Matthew Hart felt his head in a vice. He fired another shot that ricocheted wildly off the hearthstone. Something clicked. It was either his neck breaking or the gun’s hammer striking an empty chamber. Damned Carsons couldn’t even load firearms properly, he thought. Ezra dropped him. He landed hard. The gun skidded out of his reach. It was all right, Matthew made a quick peace with himself. He’d gotten her out. He didn’t have to suffer her death as well.
“I … broke him. But I didn’t mean to, Cal!”
The ranger thought of his animals, who would care for them? He felt warm blood in his throat again and coughed.
“Look at him,” Cal said with disgust. “I wanted him to plead. Now he’s heaving up his insides!”
It was not his insides, Matthew realized, but blood from a dislodged tooth. He looked at his arm, still reaching for the gun. It was stretched out, the hand shaking uncontrollably, vulnerable. If he could draw it in, protect it, if he could slow down his breathing … Cal Carson’s boot heel crushed the last two fingers. It hurt. Matthew didn’t think it would have hurt if his neck was broken. Under it, he told himself. Every bone in the hand will break if you can’t get under it. He exhaled, adding to the pool of blood beside his mouth.
“Shit. He don’t even squirm.”
Cal fisted his hair, but Matthew had a dim sense of the wounded man’s grip weakening. “Come on,” his brother pleaded. “Don’t hurt yourself more. He’s dead. Let’s get you mended.”
They set fire to his bed, his charts, and journals on the table, before turning their torches close enough to singe his eyebrows. Matthew fixed his still eyes on the flame.
“Let’s watch him burn.”
Fresh adrenaline coursed through Matthew’s veins. Not burn, not that way, please, he asked a God he’d given up half his lifetime ago.
“That’d make me sick, and I wouldn’t be able to take care of you, Cal,” Ezra apologized.
“Close your fucking eyes!” The torch waved away, then dropped. Cal Carson fell on Ezra’s supporting arm. The two hobbled through the doorway, Ezra still apologizing for spoiling his brother’s good time.
The searing of his throat yanked at Matthew Hart’s fading consciousness. His lungs cried out for air. He rolled to his side, then onto his hands and knees. The room was so dense with smoke he couldn’t see the door and had to rely on memory, feel. A flaming rafter hit his back, igniting his shirttail. By the time he’d
rolled it out, he was so disoriented he crawled deeper into the sequoia’s trunk, where death waited for him. He rested his face in the cool dirt. When he heard the sound of his trapped animals’ screaming, he set out again.
rolled it out, he was so disoriented he crawled deeper into the sequoia’s trunk, where death waited for him. He rested his face in the cool dirt. When he heard the sound of his trapped animals’ screaming, he set out again.
He peered through the darkness, flames, and red glows and found the window. One. Too high. If he got to rebuild, he’d put windows everywhere, he swore to himself. He crawled along the room’s edge until he felt the door. He pressed his face against the crack and inhaled frosty air.
He exhaled weak, helpless laughter. His good hand fumbled with the latch. He leaned against the door. It moved. Water trickled in beneath the doorway. He pushed harder. It gushed. He breathed in more air from the doorway’s crack. Once more. Harder. It opened.
He crawled outside, coughing the snow crimson, then staggered to his barn. Its roof was in flames. He laid back in a snowdrift, soaking his clothing, then entered. He led his horse, rasped for the others to follow.
The animals scattered into the woods. Matthew watched them through the steam rising from his clothes, through the snow, now falling hard, there at the base of a sequoia. He watched the blackening destruction being held in check by the storm’s fury. He thought it was a wonderful time to die.
But Lottie stood over him in her most flamboyant dressing gown, her hands planted firmly on her hips.
“Can I come with you now?” he asked her.
“Aw, Fandango Man, you’re hurtin’ too much to be dead, you know that.”
“Shit.”
“Now don’t go and get yourself froze. Think what she’d make of that, after all your grousing at her. She’d laugh herself silly.”
Darius Moore sent a roomful of flowers every day. When Olana sought to go out on her own, or with her mother or Sidney, he happened to be at the adjoining opera box, table, booth. She’d
acknowledge his presence, then retreat home early. Olana had always known Darius Moore to be a proud man, and she was sure he would look elsewhere for his strange amusement. But the next day, more flowers would come, precise in their language. He was courting her.
acknowledge his presence, then retreat home early. Olana had always known Darius Moore to be a proud man, and she was sure he would look elsewhere for his strange amusement. But the next day, more flowers would come, precise in their language. He was courting her.
“You play the game well,” her mother said.
“It’s no game. I feel like a prisoner. I shall tell Papa to make him stop.”
“You’ll do no such thing. Your poor father is quite busy enough trying to keep up with all these business expansions that Mr. Moore is engineering. Besides, imagine your father’s surprise to learn that you, after your … forest adventure, now require his assistance against a perfectly proper man’s attentions.”
Olana turned her head toward the bright spring morning past her bedroom’s curved turret windows. The scent of flowers — red carnations, bemoaning his poor neglected heart, set in canary grass speaking his perseverance, and crowned with tulips, dozens of red tulips declaring love — assaulted her.
“Olana?”
She did not turn. She felt the heat of her mother’s hand hover at her shoulder, then draw away.
“Do come this afternoon. You have not been yourself this season. We can both be fashionably late, making an entrance that will rival the tableau that horrid Mrs. Simpson has planned of ‘The Last Days of Pompeii’!”
What would Matthew Hart have thought of these grown women dressing as ancient Roman matrons and standing still as statues? Olana suppressed a smile.
“No, thank you.”
Her mother sighed. “You think we’re a pack of silly old hens, don’t you?”
“No, Mother.”
“Well, sometimes I do. But it’s a benefit for the Christian Ladies’ Ethiopian Fund, and it’s the first interest Mrs. Simpson has chosen to take in charity work of any kind, and Darius says we must indulge her.”
Patsy appeared in the doorway. “Coach is waiting, Ma’am,” she said, handing the woman her gloves and hat. Olana followed her mother to the door.
“What about the orphanage?”
Dora turned. “Orphanage?”
“It’s your only charity located here in the city. Dunstan House, remember? Why don’t we go there sometime, perhaps read to the children who have not yet been placed? They’re short of help now that Mrs. Mack —”
“Olana, the place has my generous funding.”
“Then why don’t the children have more —”
“The matron makes judgments on where the money goes, not ourselves! She had her job, we have ours! Going there. Reading. Honestly, your notions. I didn’t have the time to read to my own.”
“Better late than never.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“It might be fun.”
“Fun? That’s a coarse word, Olana. One would think —”
“Mother. You suffer through these ridiculous events for the sake of the unfortunate, why not try —”
Olana saw Darius Moore emerge from the coach below and look at his watch. Instinctively, she stepped back from the window. Her mother touched her arm.
“What are you frightened of, Olana?”
“N-nothing.”
“He’s very fond of you, you know,” her mother said quietly. “Quite determined and patient. Well. I’d best be off. Our Darius is a punctual man. That’s tedious of him, I’ll grant you.”
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