Читать книгу Rebel With A Heart - Carol Arens - Страница 10

Chapter Two

One mile outside of town, Trace opened the gate of Hanispree Mental Hospital and walked through.

Apparently neither Dr. Merlot nor Nurse Goodhew had braved the weather to come outside and lock it for the night. Good luck for Trace—it saved him having to scale the tall stone wall surrounding the place.

The grounds of the hospital looked like a winter playground. The pristine snow covering everything resembled a sparkling blanket. Now that the storm had blown away, the moon shone down to make the area glisten.

But the wind was cold as needles.

To anyone who didn’t know better, which would be nearly everyone until he finished his exposé, Hanispree was a lovely place to house the mentally ill. Benches and flowerbeds, bare at this time of year, were connected by a series of winding paths. The building itself was made of the same stone as the wall, with three stories of windows overlooking the elegant park.

To Trace’s knowledge, no inmate of the hospital had ever set foot on the paths or sat upon the benches, even when the park was at its loveliest in the spring.

A shiver took him from the inside out. One day soon he would have this place shut down. The patients would be better off away from here, housed in institutions where their well-being was important to the caregivers.

Trace walked across the grounds toward a wide front porch, leaving a trail of footprints in the snow. The verandah, lined end to end with rocking chairs, welcomed him forward.

Through the front window the glow of a fire in the hearth cast golden light into the night. Too bad the aura of comfort was a lie.

Unseen in the dark, he watched through the window for a moment. Nurse Goodhew dozed in a fireside chair with her stocking-clad feet stretched toward the flames.

To call Mrs. Goodhew a nurse was like calling a grade-schooler a professor. From what he had learned, she was there for appearances only. Well, also to keep Dr. Merlot entertained of an evening.

Ah, here came the good doctor now, tiptoeing toward the snoring Mrs. Goodhew and touching her where a gentleman shouldn’t.

Spy time was over; if Trace didn’t get inside now, he might be shivering on the porch until they finished their tawdry business.

He rapped on the door. When a few moments later Nurse Goodhew opened it, she was wearing her shoes and a sour-looking smile. Dr. Merlot was nowhere to be seen.

“Good evening, Mrs. Goodhew. I’ve come with a delivery of books.” He stepped inside, then stomped the snow from his feet. He took off his hat and thumped it against his thigh.

“Mr. Clarkly! Really, this floor was spotless. Who do you think will clean it now?”

“Why?” Trace lifted his spectacles an inch off his nose and peered at the floor through the broken glass. “I do beg your pardon, Nurse Goodhew. I didn’t mean to create a mess.”

He shook his head, adding a few more splatters to the floor.

“You must be a madman, coming out in this weather to bring books to people who can’t even understand a word on the page.”

“Yes, but I’m certain they will enjoy the pictures.” He pulled the book on top of the stack from under his arm, opened it and extended it for her to see. “Look, we’ve got animals of every kind, frolicking in water.” He turned the page. “Or nibbling grass.”

“Give them here, then.” Nurse Goodhew took the stack. “I’ll see them delivered first thing in the morning.”

She wouldn’t, of course. She never did.

“Thank you. I’m sure your patients will be grateful for your kindness.” Trace shook his shoulders, dropping more globs of melting snow on the floor. “Oh my, beg pardon again. If you’ll allow me, I’ll clean this up before I go. It’ll just take an instant.”

“See that it does. That water will leave a mark if you’re not quick about it.”

“To be sure, Mrs. Goodhew.”

“I’ll be back with cleaning rags.” She frowned at him authoritatively. “Don’t move from that spot.”

“Oh no, not an inch, I swear it.”

Half a second after she stepped out of the room, Trace slipped off his boots and coat. He hurried to the desk where the key to the back door of the inmates’ cells was kept. The second drawer down, he recalled, under a bottle of whiskey.

Tonight, there was only the bottle of whiskey.

He hurried back, stepped into his boots and put on his coat, and waited two full minutes for the nurse to return with her cleaning rags.

She shoved them at him with another frown. He made quick work of drying the floor. He’d lose some time now, having to figure a new way into the patients’ wing.

He walked toward the gate in case anyone was watching, then followed the brick wall around the back of the building.

His first stop was the woodpile. He shoved his useless glasses in his pocket. He loaded his arms with firewood, then made trip after trip to a window that he knew had a broken latch.

The trouble was, the window was eight feet off the ground. The snow was only a foot high. While scaling something seven feet tall wouldn’t be hard, scaling and opening at the same time would be impossible.

The only thing to do was stack the wood under the window, climb the pile, then open the window. After that, he could go in and open the back door and bring the wood in that way, or he could avoid all those steps by tossing the wood through the open window, then climbing in after it. Tossing and climbing would take more effort, but going though the door would take more time.

Since the folks inside were probably shivering, he decided on tossing.

In all it took twenty minutes, but he didn’t fear being discovered. Inmate care was more of an afterthought here, especially at night, with only Goodhew and Merlot in attendance. From Trace’s experience, they tended to disappear from their shifts between the hours of seven and nine.

It was now seven-ten, giving Trace the time he needed.

He scooped up a load of wood and carried it to old Mrs. Murphy’s room. There was a bolt on the outside of the door to insure she did not get out.

He slid it open and stepped into her room.

“Good evening, Mrs. Murphy.” The old woman lay on her bed, curled up and shivering under a thin, dirty blanket.

Anger burned hot in him to see her treated so carelessly. Because she was frail and forgetful, her family paid Alden Hanispree a huge amount every month to keep her here. Chances were they were not aware of her meager conditions.

His research had uncovered a miserable truth. Visits by family and friends were by appointment only. An hour before the call the patient would be transferred to a luxurious suite for the duration of the visit. If a few patients did complain to a visitor, well, they were mentally ill. Who would believe their word over a doctor’s?

Lies and secrets were the shadows darkening these halls. Soon Trace would have all the evidence he needed and the truth about Hanispree would be told.

Trace lit a fire in the old woman’s fireplace, then watched to make sure it burned good and hot.

“Good night, Mrs. Murphy. I’ll see you again soon.”

The gray head nodded under her cover. “You are quite considerate for a ghost, young man. I’m sorry you passed before your time.”

He had told her many times that he wasn’t a ghost, but it was just as well that she didn’t remember. The lighting of unexplained fires and the appearance of extra food were easily blamed on the supernatural.

In under an hour he had brought warmth to every room but one. That door didn’t have a bolt. A heavy lock made it impossible to get inside.

The investigator in him wanted to know what was in there. He’d heard stories of other institutions where the inmates were actually tortured in the name of research. One of these days he’d find a way into that second-story room.

Having done everything he could for the inmates, he went outside. He stepped beside his own footprints going away, thinking that it was a good thing for the old ghost stories. A spirit would be credited with all manner of strange happenings.

* * *

Had she not been homeless, freezing and responsible for two children, Lilleth would feel quite pleased.

Dinner at the hotel could not have gone better. In the end they had been kicked out of the restaurant, but she and the children had caused a bucketload of complaints to be served up to Mr. Hotel Owner.

Mary, having been confined to Lilleth’s arms for much of the day, wanted to crawl about on the floor. She wailed and carried on because she was not allowed to do so.

Jess accidentally spilled his milk on the tablecloth three times. Naturally, Lilleth had insisted on fresh linen with each accident.

And, by the saints, why could the kitchen not prepare her steak correctly? The waiter had to return it several times before it was cooked just so.

As annoyed as the other patrons were at her little family, they were aghast when the owner, with his own hands, escorted them out into the elements with orders not to return. Surely the fellow deserved every frown cast his way.

But what to do now? It was not that Lilleth couldn’t afford a room, there simply were none to be had. Perhaps the livery would have a stall, but wouldn’t that cause a stir? It might be fodder for gossip from one end of town to another. Poor frazzled mother of two, denied rooms at both the hotel and the brothel, ending up in a pile of straw?

She had slept in worse places than a clean pile of straw before, but she couldn’t afford the attention that it would draw to her. She needed to remain in the shadows.

Oh, dear, she should have considered that during dinner.

While delivering Mr. Hotel Owner his just rewards had been deeply satisfying, the little show had drawn the attention of every diner in the hotel restaurant. She would have to be more discreet in the future.

“At least the snow has quit,” Jess said, fitting his sister into the curve of his elbow.

The poor little thing continued to squirm and fuss. She hadn’t been out of her or Jess’s arms in ever so long.

Pain cramped Lilleth’s fingers. They felt like frozen claws clutching the handles of the valises. “That’s a mercy, but the wind! Make sure to keep the blanket over Mary’s head.”

“She keeps pulling it off.”

It wouldn’t take long for her tiny ears to freeze, even covered by a hat. They needed shelter and they needed it now. The dark and the cold were swiftly becoming mortal enemies.

A church, then. Perhaps they would find sanctuary there, if only for this night. Lilleth scanned the rooftops of town, looking for a steeple. Where could it be?

Every town had a church! Hopefully, she’d find one with someone in attendance.

“Look there.” Jess pointed down the street. “There’s a lamp on in Mr. Clarkly’s library.”

“Hurry, Jess, we’ve got to get there before he puts it out and turns in for the night.”

Doing so took longer than she dreamed it would. The boardwalk had grown icy. Jess half slipped a dozen times. In the end, she abandoned the valises in front of Horton File’s Real Estate, Homes for Sale or Rent. She took Mary from Jess’s arms and steadied him.

“The lamp’s just gone off!” Her brave young nephew sounded truly alarmed.

“We’re nearly there. He’ll hear us when we knock.”

She prayed that he wouldn’t turn them away. For all that he was a stranger, Mr. Clarkly seemed a decent fellow.

It took forever, but at last they stood in front of the door of Clark Clarkly’s Private Library.

Lilleth knocked. Stabbing pain shot through her frozen hand. She bit her lip to hold in the agony and keep the tears out of her eyes.

Footsteps sounded inside, coming toward the door. Lilleth would simply faint into his arms if he attempted to turn them away, and it might not be an act.

The door opened.

“Mrs. Gordon!” Mr. Clarkly gaped at her without his spectacles on. Even in her desperation, she noticed that he had uncommonly appealing eyes, blue with green flecks. Bless the man for a saint, those eyes reflected more than a bit of concern.

He reached for Mary and tucked her in the crook of his arm. With his free hand he touched Lilleth’s shoulder and drew her inside.

“Come in, young man,” he said to Jess. “You look frozen through.”

“I’ll just go back,” Jess said with chattering teeth, “f-for th-the bags.”

“Well now, that won’t do.” Mr. Clarkly poked his head out the door and peered at the bags lying on the boardwalk a block down. “They’ll be safe enough until I get a fire going. Here, take your sister and sit on that chair. There’s a book beside it on the table. That should keep her distracted until she’s warmed through.”

Clark Clarkly knelt beside the fireplace, urging a small flame to life. He performed the chore quickly. His shoulders flexed and contracted under his shirt with his brisk movements.

Praise everything good that the man built a fire with more skill than he displayed walking.

He stood up after a moment, seeming taller than she remembered, straighter of form.

“Thank you, Mr. Clarkly.” That simple phrase didn’t begin to express her gratitude. “I can’t think of what might have happened if—”

“No thanks needed, Mrs. Gordon.” He took her cold hands in his big warm ones for an instant while he led her toward a chair by the fire. “Sit tight while I fetch your bags.”

Mr. Clarkly hurried out the door and closed it behind him before the wind could sweep away the warmth beginning to hug the room.

His gait had been quick, efficient. Judging by his swift return, he hadn’t taken a single tumble while he was fetching the bags.

He dropped them on the floor, and then instantly forgot he had put them there. His first step forward brought him stumbling across the room, where he careened off his desk and landed at her feet, with one hand caught in her skirt.

“So sorry...I beg your pardon. My glasses.” He glanced about, blinking hard. “Blind as a bat without them.”

“Mr. Clarkly.” She untangled his hand where it gripped her ankle through her skirt. “I am the one indebted to you.”

One could almost wish, however unkind it might be, that he wouldn’t find his glasses. He had eyes a woman could look into and get lost.

Silly, Lilleth, silly, she chided herself. Getting lost in a man’s eyes. What nonsense!

Clark Clarkly had come to her aid and nothing more.

Still, it was disappointing to see him find his broken spectacles. He frowned at them, tossed them aside and rooted through a desk drawer until he found another pair.

The man did need to see, after all. She’d be a silly goose to believe that staring into a man’s eyes would result in anything more than heartache, even if he did seem uncommonly kind.

Relief eased the iciness from her bones as much as the flames did.

Mr. Clarkly sat on the floor, playing with Mary and speaking to Jess in low tones. The fire crackled, sounding like music in the cozy library. A teakettle in another room began to whistle.

What she wouldn’t give to be able to sing the rest of the tension from her body. But no, that might not be wise. The chances were slim, but her voice might be recognized.

But humming, now that would be a comfort. Anyone could hum and sound the same. So she did. She hummed her favorite tune, one that had comforted her since she was a little girl.

For some reason, that made Mr. Clarkly quit talking to Jess and stare at her with the most peculiar expression on his face.

There was something almost...but not quite, familiar about it. Well, that was silly. She’d never met Mr. Clarkly until today.

* * *

“This ought to warm you.” Trace grazed Lilleth’s hand, passing her a cup of steaming tea.

He didn’t think her fingers looked as blue as they had.

What wouldn’t he give to be the man with the right to hold them to his heart and warm them thoroughly.

After half an hour beside the fire she had only now quit shivering.

Her husband couldn’t be worth much, allowing his family to become wandering icicles.

“I can’t think of how to thank you, Mr. Clarkly.” She closed her fingers about the teacup and shut her eyes for an instant. “I thought I’d never be warm again.”

Trace crouched beside her chair. He had a mind to stroke the ringlets that strayed from under her hat. He’d give up a lot to be able to loop his thumb through one of those red curls, to touch it in the familiar way a man would touch his woman’s hair.

In any event, she wasn’t his woman. Even if she were free, he wouldn’t risk his assignment by revealing his identity. He couldn’t. The patients at Hanispree depended on him.

His family was counting on him to deliver an exposé by the New Year. Being employed by one’s parents added extra pressure to deliver. Not only that, there was sibling rivalry to be taken into account.

All his brothers and his sister worked for the Chicago Gazette. Although, since his sister had become a mother, she had quit the investigative side of the business. On occasion the job became dangerous.

That was one of the reasons that the Ballentines sometimes worked in disguise.

The other reason was that several of their investigations were sufficiently well known that the Ballentines were often recognized. When a case involved secrecy, as this one did, a disguise was called for.

He had picked Clarkly because the character was as unlike his real self as could be. No one could possibly recognize him.

It wasn’t easy living in the skin of someone who wasn’t real. It was lonely, not being able to let anyone close.

Still, his job was deeply rewarding and made the temporary isolation worthwhile. Over the years his investigations had improved the lots of many people. They’d put swindlers out of business and criminals behind bars.

He couldn’t imagine doing anything else for a living.

Trace watched Lilleth sipping from the teacup. He’d always found her mouth to be pretty, but now, as a woman full grown, her lips were a man’s fantasy. Moist with hot tea, they glistened in the glow of the fire.

“Mrs. Gordon.” Crouched down as he was, his eyes met hers over the rim of the cup. Her mouth stilled over a porcelain rose. “There’s something troubling me. I hope you don’t consider this forward of me to ask, but Mr. Gordon...oughtn’t he be—”

Her pretty lips puckered, as though they had tasted something sour...or needed to be kissed.

For the hundredth time since he had run Lilleth down at the train station, he cursed the decision to become Clarkly. He ought to have adopted his favorite identity, Johnny Kaid, fastest cowboy with a rope or a gun.

Curse it! Johnny was daring, but Clark was safer, and safe was all-important at this moment.

“Here? By my side, you mean?” Lilleth set the cup on her lap and stared down at it. “My husband ran off. I don’t know where he is.”

“It was nearly a year back,” Jess said, hugging his sister close. “Mary was only a newborn.”

Poor, brave Lils! On her own with two young children.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” He couldn’t help it; he reached over and held her fingers where they gripped the cup.

“No need to fret, Mr. Clarkly.” Lilleth shrugged. She sighed and looked into his eyes. “It’s been a while now, and to tell you the truth, my husband was a worldly man. In many ways life is easier without him.”

“Pa liked his spirits.” Jess covered Mary’s ears. “More than most.”

Trace’s world bucked and shifted beneath him. Having Lilleth within touching distance had been temptation enough, with a loving husband standing between them. Without him things had become complicated.

He let go of Lilleth’s hands. The man was gone, and no good, but that didn’t make her any less legally wed.

“If I can help you, all you need to do is ask.”

“You’ve been kindness itself already. You did no less than save our lives tonight.” She set the cup aside. “Please, won’t you call me Lilly.”

He forced a smile when he wanted to frown. She hated that name. What had happened to make her use it?

“I’d be pleased if you would call me Clark.” He pursed his lips, about to offer something improper, given that she was someone else’s wife. But he couldn’t see any help for it. “I’ve a room upstairs. I’d be pleased if you and the children would sleep there tonight.”

She took off her hat. Whorls and curls reflecting the fire’s glow broke free of a bun that would never be able to confine them.

“You are our very own angel, Clark, sent straight down from heaven.”

That comment evidently pleased young Jess. He suddenly grinned so widely that the freckles on his cheeks appeared to dance.

Trace was no angel. Not by a yard. An angel wouldn’t be glad that her worthless husband had run away.

A heavenly being wouldn’t fidget in his chair all through this long, blustery night, wondering if the virtueless rogue was dead so that he could kiss his wife. A woman he had no business kissing even if she were free.