"I didn't neither," he growled. "I just like to fight."
"I think you're a brave boy all the same. Your mama must be real proud of you."
"Not my mother!"
"Nonsense. All mothers are proud of their sons." She patted his cheek, but he jerked away from her.
"That shows all you know, lady. My mother thought I was garbage. When I was a baby, she dumped me in the trash bin behind the orphanage."
Sadie's eyes went real bright at that. She looked away for a minute, dragging the cuff of her sleeve across her face. She sniffed like a person catching a cold, and when she turned back, her smile was even more gentle.
"What's your name, child?"
"John Doe!" he said. That's what he told most everyone since running away from the orphanage. The matron there, being of a Biblical turn between bouts of drinking, had named him Ezekiel. But Zeke only shared his real name with his most trusted companions. And at that juncture, he had hardly known what to make of Sadie Marceone, let alone trust her.
If she smiled at the clumsiness of his lie, she managed to hide it from him. "John. That's a good strong name," was all she said.
When she had done patching his hurts, she gave him something to eat. But the extent of his trust had been stretched to the limit for that day. He snatched away the chunk of bread and meat and bolted with it, out of the soup kitchen, disappearing down one of the alleyways as he already knew so well how to do.
But after that, he had taken to hanging about the settlement house on the days when he knew she would be there. Sometimes he only drew near long enough to wrench the food from her outstretched hands. Other times he lingered long enough to talk, even let her brush the hair back from his eyes, although he always groused, "Quit that, lady." Pretending to be so tough, all the while he had been secretly pleased by the small gesture.
It couldn't have been more than a few weeks that passed in this fashion before she confessed to him, "Johnnie, I went to visit that orphanage you told me about."
He glared up at her, his whole body trembling with the pain of imagined betrayal. "You snitched on me. You told them where I am."
"No, Johnnie, of course I didn't. I only needed to find out some things about you." A troubled look came into her eyes, which quickly cleared as she beamed down at him. "You see, I want to adopt you, Johnnie. I want to bring you home with me, to be my own boy."
He did not believe her at first. But she meant it. Things seemed to happen quickly after that. His memory contained only fragmented images of standing up before a judge and being told his name was now John Marceone.
Far clearer was the day he had been taken home to the cozy warmth of an apartment, garbed in the first new clothes he had ever owned—knickers and a sailor middy. The cloth was cheap, but the stitching impeccable, set in bySadie's own clever hands. He had barely had time to take in his new surroundings when he was confronted by three girls in calico dresses, all with long, dark braids. They rose like stair steps, the youngest about his own size and age, the eldest, Caddie, at that time seeming to tower over him. All three regarded him with solemn, critical eyes.
"Girls." Sadie placed her hand on his shoulder. "This is Johnnie. He's come to live with us, the brother I promised you."
Caddie softened enough to give him a shy smile, while Agnes, the little one, let out a delighted whoop and planted a kiss on Zeke's cheek. She didn't even seem to mind when he scrubbed it away. But Tessa, the one nearest his own age, glowered with resentment, muttering low enough so that Sadie couldn't hear, "We don't need any boys around here."
If the little girl with the dark, scornful eyes had been a boy, Zeke would have socked her for making it so plain that he didn't belong here anymore than he had ever belonged anywhere else in his short life. Instead he assured himself it didn't matter. He didn't want to live in a houseful of silly girls either. First chance he found, he would get the hell out of there.
His moment came after supper when Sadie shooed the girls off to clear the table. Settled into her rocker, she appeared absorbed with darning a pair of Tessa's stockings. Zeke backed toward the door.
Without glancing up from her work, Sadie said softly, "You can run away again if you want to, Johnnie. But I hope you won't."
Somehow her giving him permission to flee dulled his desire to do so. He squared up to her, saying, "Well, I might hang out here—for a day or two. But I don't want any more mushing over me, see? And don't expect me to start calling you Mama."
Her eyes were sad, but filled with understanding. "You don't have to, Johnnie. But if the day ever comes when you want to, that'd be just fine with me."
Even after all these years, those patient words still echoed through Zeke's mind, more bitter than any reproach that Tessa could have heaped upon him. He tried to shake off all these troubling memories and snap himself back to the reality of tossing upon the sofa in Rory's tiny parlor.
But with Rory asleep in the next room, there was little distraction, only the lonely ticking of the clock upon the mantel. Remembrance of Sadie's wistful expression continued to haunt him.
What had she seen in him anyway that had impelled her to such a rash step, taking in a half-wild street kid to be her son? It wasn't as though she were some wealthy woman given to philanthropic impulses. A poor widow, she had labored long and hard, plying her needle, already burdened with the care of three young daughters. She still had found time to do charity work, at the settlement house and for her church.
Had he been just another of her charities? She had never made Zeke feel that way. More like the son she had always wanted, but never had. But in the end, he had proved a disappointment to her.
True, with time, he had mellowed somewhat from the young savage he had been, learned to wash once a day, not to get into fights more than twice, to bow his head when grace was said, even if he was too stubborn to pray along. But the one thing he had never learned was how to show her his love. Long after he had come to think of her in his heart as his mother, he had continued to call her Lady. After all, tough fellows didn't show their feelings, didn't do anything as embarrassing as go around bleating "Mama."
And when he was finally old enough to know better, it had been too late. With a heavy sigh, Zeke struggled against the sofa pillows, levering himself into a sitting position. He would never get to sleep this way. The stillness in the flat seemed to reproach him like the silence of Sadie's grave.
It was so close in here, he could feel the sweat gathering beneath his arms. Maybe he had made a mistake staying here tonight. Sadie had never wanted anything to do with his mansion on Fifth Avenue. Her ghost rarely haunted him there.
But Rory's place was too reminiscent of that old apartment, the home Sadie had carved for her family in that concrete wasteland that was Little Italy. Zeke had had difficulty, after so many nights huddled in some alley, in sleeping there too. His temperature had always seemed to run a shade hotter than Sadie's and the girls.
Flinging off the covers, Zeke finally got to his feet. Surely Rory would have no objection if he opened a window. He approached one of the side ones and tugged at the sash. It stuck. Didn't they always? He was obliged to put a little shoulder into it before the window creaked upward. But the welcome rush of cool air was worth the struggle.
Just outside loomed the familiar metal rungs of a fire escape, making it possible to descend or mount up to the roof. A smile tugged at Zeke along with a memory, one of his few pleasant ones. On those really hot nights, Sadie had always let him sleep up on the roof. It was a good place for privacy, to get away from the chattering of Caddie and Agnes, Tessa's endless scolding.
Only him and all those stars to count. Somehow up there it had been easier to relax, to stop being so tough, to harbor a few tender dreams hidden away beneath the moon's shadows. Zeke leaned up against the window frame, a rare mood of nostalgia sweeping over him. A sudden impulse seized him, or was it the night itself that beckoned? He didn't know, but he eased himself through the window onto the fire escape
. He peered down through the grating to the street below. It was only two stories down, but Zeke felt a familiar churning in the pit of his stomach. He had always had a fear of heights, ever since he was a kid and two of the Plug Uglies had dangled him by his heels from on top of the old cotton warehouse. It had been one of the few times in his life anyone had ever gotten him to cry uncle.
After all this time, Zeke knew the fear to be irrational, but there seemed to be no ridding himself of it. He coped now as he had always done as a boy. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to look up, never down. Clambering along the metal rungs, he finally reached the flat surface of the roof.
He had been afraid he would find the experience not at all as he remembered, changed somehow, but it wasn't. The night was like velvet, the sky still as vast as he recalled, the stars just as far away and mysterious. Keeping a prudent distance from the edge, Zeke sat down, drawing up his knees. Of course it had not been that long ago that he had done this, only two years. But he hadn't noticed much of anything then, the last time he had been with Sadie. A hot July night, he helped her up above to seek some relief, but no air was stirring, not even on the rooftop. And still Sadie shivered. She was already sick then. If only he hadn't been so stupid, he would have noticed that. But he had been too caught up describing to her the wonders of his castle on Fifth Avenue.
"I'll get you away from this wretched tenement at last, lady. The kitchen is going to be bigger than your whole apartment. You'll love it."
Sadie only gave a sad shake of her head. "I don't belong in such a place, Johnnie. I wouldn't know how to go on."
"You'd learn. My friend, Mrs. Van Hallsburg, has undertaken to teach me to be a gent. I'll get her to help you become a grand lady."
Zeke flinched now at the recollection of his own crudity, his incredible ignorance. As if there had been anything that Mrs. Van H. or any woman could have taught Sadie. The mention of the wealthy widow had only served to spoil that night with his mother, his last, if he had only known it.
On parting, Sadie's eyes had been shaded with trouble. She had always looked that way, ever since he had first told her of his acquaintance with Mrs. Van Hallsburg.
"I wish you would stay away from her, Johnnie. She's not a good woman. She comes from bad blood—all those Markhams. Cold, uncaring people."
Zeke had been surprised that such a remark would come from Sadie, who ever saw only the good in people.
"But you don't know the Markhams or Mrs. Van H.," he had protested.
"I know enough," she began and then stopped. He had the feeling she had meant to say more, but she complained suddenly of dizziness, begging him to take her inside.
Although he had been disturbed, Zeke had managed to dismiss Sadie's warning. After all, she had only ever seen Mrs. Van H. once. He had pointed the elegant widow out to her during a Sunday drive through Central Park.
But remembering the incident, it now struck him as strange, especially considering that Rory had also taken a strong aversion to Mrs. Van H. on first sight. What was it Rory had said when Zeke had awoken her from that nightmare in his bed?
She had been dreaming that Mrs. Van. H. was some sort of a monster. "She's evil," Rory had insisted.
These women and their peculiar instincts. Zeke wished he could dismiss them that lightly, but the memories continued to trouble him. He was still pondering the matter when he heard the scrape of metal behind him. Someone was mounting the fire escape.
A half-formed hope seized him that Rory might have awakened, found him missing. If she had noticed the window open, perhaps she had guessed where he had gone and decided to join him. Earlier he had only wanted to be alone, lick his wounds from the scrap with Tessa. But now he welcomed the thought of Rory.
He glanced over his shoulder, but his smile froze on his lips. For the second time that night shadows fell across one of the ugliest faces he had ever seen, the man with the scarred chin.
"What the devil?" Zeke exclaimed, tensing for battle, but this time his reflexes were a shade too slow.
A heavy club swished down through the darkness, catching him hard on the side of the head. The stars above him seemed to explode, a thousand pinpoints of white hot light.
Then they vanished and there was nothing but unrelenting black.
CHAPTER TEN
Rory awoke from a deep, dreamless night with a headache niggling behind her eyes, oppressed by the feeling that something was wrong. Her mind yet fogged with sleep, she remembered that she had gone to bed troubled, but her thoughts were not collected enough to recall what that trouble had been.
Whatever it was, it had sent her to sleep hugging her pillow as she always did when beset with some worry. Even now that downy cushion was crushed close to her breasts. Thrusting it away from her, Rory rolled onto her back, rubbing the haze from her eyes. She blinked at the sunlight streaming across the oak railing at the foot of her bed.
The morning was well advanced past sunrise judging by the sounds emanating from the sidewalks below. She had left her window open a crack, allowing the clatter of passing horse carts to invade her bedchamber, the shrill voices of children marching off to school, shouting and scuffling, the milkman cursing at Finn MacCool for nipping his ankle again, Miss Flanagan hollering back it served Mr. Peaby right for forgetting her second bottle of cream.
Just the normal Monday hubbub on McCreedy Street. Why then did something seem so different? There was always enough noise on a workday to wake the dead.
Or Zeke.
Rory sat up with a start, memory flooding back to her. That's what was unusual. She was not alone in her apartment. Zeke Morrison had spent the night on her sofa and was likely still lost in slumber.
She must have been crazy, insisting that he stay. Yet when she recalled that hollow look in his eyes, she realized she could have done no differently.
In truth, part of her regretted she had not led him to the warmth of her bed, cradled him in her arms and offered him comfort.
Comfort, Aurora Rose Kavanaugh? A stern voice echoed in her head, sounding like the old nun who had taught her her catechism. Are you sure that was all you wished to offer him?
Rory refused to answer that question, even to herself. She scrambled out of bed and pulled a dressing gown over the white muslin of her nightgown. She shouldn't even be thinking about such things as having Zeke in her bed. Hadn't she come close enough to being a sinner last night? Recollection of what had nearly happened with Zeke upon the sofa should have shamed her. She should have been grateful Tony arrived when he did, interrupting Zeke's lovemaking.
Instead she felt curiously bereft. It was like hearing the opening notes of some lilting melody, only to have it cut off and being left yearning, wondering whether she would ever hear the rest of that haunting refrain.
What romantic nonsense. Rory tried to give herself a swift mental shake as she reached for the comb on her nightstand, tugging it through her tangle of curls, Nonsense it might be, but she still felt angry at Tony for his intrusion, dragging Zeke's sister to Rory's flat, setting off that confrontation.
Zeke Morrison is a bad man.
How childish and how spiteful Tessa Marceone's words had sounded. Yet no matter how it was worded, the woman's warning was not so different from those that Rory had repeated to herself. Hadn't she tried to run away from Zeke, determined never to see him again? Tessa's accusations should have reinforced Rory's own qualms about the man.
Instead they had had the opposite effect. Rory had wanted to spring to Zeke's defense. She sensed that Zeke had been brutalized enough in his life without his stepsister pouring acid into old wounds. Strange that someone like Zeke, so street-toughened, so ready with his fists, should have stood so helpless against the mere cut and thrust of a woman's tongue. Stranger still that Rory should feel so tenderly protective of a man large enough to crush her slender frame with one blow.
But the thought of being alone with him in her flat no longer frightened her. It disturbed her in an odd shivery kind
of way, but it didn't frighten her. She caught her heart racing as she contemplated slipping into the parlor, rousing him from sleep.
They had never eaten supper last night. She bet he'd be hungry. She derived immense satisfaction from the thought of leading him into her tiny kitchen, bustling about getting the coffee ready, setting before him a plateful of eggs and toast.
She pictured him sitting opposite her, his hair mussed, his jaw shadowed with dark beard. He would regard her over the rim of his cup with that languid manner of appraisal that set all her skin a-tingle. Maybe their hands would meet. Maybe, just maybe, he would feel like talking, opening that locked vault that was his heart.
This domestic scene in her imagination grew so strong that Rory slipped eagerly into a pair of carpet slippers. She was still forcing her heel into one as she limped through the bedroom door and down the short hallway.
She tiptoed beneath the arch that led into the parlor. “Zeke?" she called softly.
Her gaze tracked to the couch, and she frowned to see the coverlet tossed upon the floor. The pillow bore the indentation made by his head, his coat was flung over the chair, but the tiny parlor was empty.
Somehow Rory knew there was no use searching for Zeke in the kitchen or tapping upon the door of the narrow closet that comprised her bathroom.
He was gone.
Disappointment washed over her, and for a minute, she just stood, staring at the vacant sofa as though if she looked long and hard, she could conjure out of thin air the solid frame of muscle that was Zeke.
Eventually she was roused from this gloomy contemplation by a clacking sound. The side window had been left flung wide open, and the brisk morning breeze was causing the curtains to billow out, knocking against the etagere, threatening to dislodge some of the knickknacks.
Rory moved to close the window. As she struggled to do so, she glanced into the street below. Perhaps he had only stepped out for a moment to- to what? Pet Finn McCool? Pass the time of day with Miss Flanagan? Foolish thoughts. There was no one down there except a mother pushing a perambulator, some clerkish-looking male sprinting past her, obviously late in catching the horsecar uptown.