George was mesmerized. As she continued with her story I inched toward the pistol.
I found the woman’s voice inviting so I risked sneaking a glance at her. She was dressed for a daytime outing in a starched white ruffled shirt over a full navy skirt. A thick belt accented her narrow waist and her chestnut hair was piled under a curved-brimmed hat she wore tilted forward.
“So I understand not wanting to lose someone you love, George. Please let us help you,” she ended.
His arm went slack. I surged forward, grabbed the muzzle of the gun, and pulled it from his hand. Tears slid down the boy’s cheeks as he took what I offered from my billfold then returned the stolen handbag. Before we could ask any more questions, he rushed from the alley with his head lowered.
Expecting the delicate beauty to swoon and collapse in my arms, I steadied myself. Instead she turned to me with her hands planted on her hips and said, “Rouge? You think a woman would chase a bandit for a tin of rouge?”
In my shock I stammered, “I … don’t know. I … didn’t think a woman would chase a bandit.”
She raised her hand to cover a devious smile. “I’m not sure why I did it. There isn’t any money in there, or a hair comb for that matter. It was just instinct.”
Though a bit stunned and more than a bit intrigued, I removed my Derby. “Thomas Gadwell. It’s very nice to meet you.”
She curtsied as if we were back at the grand ballroom. “I’m Mary Harting,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to match a name with the shoe print on my gown.” When I began to apologize again, she waved her hands and tilted her head back so I could see her light-blue eyes under the slant of her hat. She accented the playfulness in her voice with a wide grin. “I believe now we’re even, though you were right in the middle of the walkway when I nudged you.”
“And you had a bandit to catch. I completely understand.”
We chuckled until shouting from the street drew our attention and we decided it safer to relocate. Before escorting Miss Harting from the scene, I unloaded the pistol, slid the gun into my overcoat pocket, and threw the bullets down the alley. As we emerged, I realized no one had responded to her scream. The gambling and frolic continued as if nothing had happened. I also noticed my companion was still grinning.
She accepted my arm as we made our way among blustering drunks and “steerers” paid to lure patrons. Miss Harting tried to stroll with an air of ease but soon she was like a sightseer at the zoo. She stopped in front of an overfilled chophouse and gaped at men using shards of broken glass as darts. When a fiddler passed by, plucking two strings and belting a song heard only in public baths, her eyes followed him until she turned in a full circle.
“It’s like something in a dime novel. I thought everyone was exaggerating,” she said.
“Unfortunately …” I let the sentiment speak for itself and asked the question pressing at my lips.
She explained a simple curiosity about the area and saw no impropriety in a short visit, especially since her parents were occupied for the evening. And, she said, if gentlemen, such as me, were allowed to travel unaccompanied she felt it fair to be granted the same privilege. “Do you agree, Mr. Gadwell?” She peered at me with raised eyebrows. “Or are you among those who believe women faint from reading newspaper headlines and medical journals.”
I laughed. “I thought dashing young men caused woman to faint.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret, Mr. Gadwell. Fainting is a great way to escape dashing young men.” She had a relaxed, genuine manner I found refreshing.
“So, Miss Harting,” I began, when I made the connection. “Harting? As in the railroad?”
Her shoulders tensed but she spoke with refined gentleness as she admitted her father was Charlton Harting of Harting Railways. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors about his temper. Lies and gross exaggerations. My father’s been a bit irritable this trip, but normally he’s wonderful and caring.”
A chill ran down my spine. As you know, not all of the rumors about Charlton Harting are about his temper.
I wanted to change the subject when a thought left me numb. “What would your father say if he knew you were here?”
“My father,” she mumbled.
“Yes, your father. I can only imagine —”
“No, my father ...” Miss Harting pointed to a round man in a velvet-trimmed frock coat and top hat. He was charging toward us on the other side of the street, the tails of his coat flapping in his own wake.
Miss Harting froze so I seized her hand and pulled her through an open doorway. The sound of clanging bottles and a tuneless piano filled my ears and I knew where we were even before she whispered, “Unbelievable.”
The hot saloon smelled of sour ale and unshaven men. Our entrance met with a few raised heads, but the men seemed more interested in their drinks. We dashed across the tavern to the table farthest from the door and sunk into chairs tucked in the shadowed corner.
“What in the world is my father doing here? He doesn’t frequent places like this.” She paused then asked, “Does he?”
I was about to offer my ignorance when Mr. Harting stepped into the saloon. Miss Harting gasped.
Mr. Harting marched to a table near the bar and sat across from a man in a straw boater and a russet knee-length cloak. They exchanged a brief greeting before Mr. Harting pulled an envelope from his jacket and set it in the center of the table. A waiter approached but Mr. Harting waved him away without a glance. The men sat staring at each other. Even from our distance the intensity made me uncomfortable.
At last the man in the cloak reached for the envelope, looked inside, and then nodded before sliding the envelope into a satchel beside him on the floor. Both men rose and the stranger held out his hand. Instead of a handshake, Mr. Harting lunged forward, grabbed the man’s collar and yanked him across the table until his face was but inches from his own. Sweat beaded at each man's temple, but only Mr. Harting’s brow twitched with anger.
We were too far away to hear anything, but it was obvious whatever was said was most vital. The man’s straw hat wobbled like a stereoscope viewer until Mr. Harting released him with a shove and the man fell backward. To his credit, the stranger adjusted his lapel before retaking his seat. Mr. Harting straightened his own jacket and appeared ready to leave when he paused and turned in our direction.
My companion pressed against the wall and clenched her fingers as if to pray. This is not to say I stayed relaxed. A whiskey might have helped. Whatever caught his attention was fleeting, and Mr. Harting left without looking back.
Wanting to sound gallant, I assured her we were not seen. As she slumped forward on the table, the other man stood up, swung the satchel on his arm, and left. Miss Harting agreed to my suggestion we get back to the hotel; however, she wanted to know if I recognized the man. I did not, but suggested he looked like a business acquaintance.
“I don’t think so. Father’s workmen are thick from years of swinging spike drivers, and the desk men are usually scrawny. My father likes to be the biggest one in the office. He says small men are easier to control.”
There was no time for a response even if I had one. Three dancing girls emerged from behind a crimson velvet curtain. I scrambled to my feet to block Miss Harting’s view then offered her my arm. As we moved to leave, however, a tall chap in a dark overcoat stepped in front of us. For a moment I thought Mr. Harting had indeed spotted us. I straightened. Then I saw the rifle.
“Seems like you two have lost your way.”
I reached for the gun in my pocket, but Miss Harting put her hand on my arm. “Thank you, Sheriff, we were just leaving.”
I sighed when I saw his badge. The sheriff tipped his hat to the lady. As I passed he growled, “You’re a lucky ninny.”
“You have no idea,” I replied. I pulled out the pistol by the muzzle and dropped it on the table.
After checking the street for fathers, we found our way out of the quarter and hailed a coach. We were silent, though qualms over what a powerful man would hand-deliver in a tawdry saloon bobbled around us in the rocking carriage. To change the mood, I praised her bravery and compassion. She again surprised me.
