Johanna Lindsey - Angel

Two men came out of the dining room just then, heading for the entrance to the hotel. Angel wouldn’t have noticed them, except they suddenly stopped directly in front of him, blocking his view of the front desk. He didn’t object. He’d been about to move anyway so Cassie wouldn’t see him if she happened to look in his direction. Now he didn’t have to… and to hell with that. He wasn’t going to deny himself these last few moments of being able to savor the sight of her. It would be too long before he saw her again.

He got up to move to a new vantage point, behind one of the tall Grecian columns that supported the two-story ceiling in the lobby. He had to pass behind the two men to do so, and that was as far as he got when he overheard what the pretty-faced one was saying.

“She calls herself Mrs. Angel. I barely noticed her at first, but now — I don’t know, there’s something about her that intrigues me.”

“I don’t see it,” his friend said in sincere bewilderment as they both stared at Cassie.

“Good, because I don’t intend to share this one.”

Angel reminded himself that Cassie was leaving St. Louis. He didn’t need to say anything. He felt like it anyway.

“Neither do I,” he said, causing both men to turn toward him. It was automatic for his hand to fold the yellow slicker back behind his gun.

“I beg your pardon?” Bartholomew Lawrence replied, then took a step back as he got a good look at the man who had interrupted him.

“The lady’s married,” Angel said in his slow drawl.

“Bart happens to like married women,” the friend offered with a snicker, since “Bart” had lost his tongue staring at Angel.

“He tries to like that one, and he’s a dead man.”

Bartholomew had realized, as soon as he’d taken in the gun resting on Angel’s hip, that this had to be the man Cassie had called the Angel of Death. And after that last remark, he fainted dead away.

“Aw, hell,” Angel said in disgust.

The collapse of a man on the lobby floor was sure to draw both Cassie’s and her mother’s attention, but one glance in that direction showed they’d already left the area. He turned just in time to see them pass through the entrance and out of sight.

“Do you do that just for fun,” Phineas asked at his back, “or can’t you help it?”

Angel gave one more disgusted look at the man on the floor before he turned toward the detective. “What do you want, Kirby?”

Phineas laughed. “I guess you can’t help it. But you really ought to cover that gun back up. You might not know it, but city folks get nervous when they see anyone other than the law wearing weapons.”

“I’m used to making folks nervous,” Angel replied indifferently. “So if that’s all you stopped by to tell me—”

“I might mention that you look terrible.”

“You could have kept that to yourself, too.”

Angel turned to leave. Phineas fell into step beside him. “You’re in a rotten mood, aren’t you?” Angel ignored him. “Maybe this will cheer you up.”

A piece of paper flashed in front of Angel’s face. He stopped, but he didn’t reach for the paper. Phineas drew it back when it occurred to him that Angel might not know how to read, a distinct possibility with the kind of upbringing he’d had. Phineas decided not to ask.

“You found an old newspaper?” Angel guessed.

Phineas nodded. “One that had a very conscientious reporter at the time. The story did make the front page, and damn near filled it.”

“The names?”

“Cawlin and Anna O’Rourke.”

“O’Rourke?”

“That was my reaction. I never would have guessed you were Irish. Every Irishman I’ve ever met, even second- and third-generation Americans, retains something of a Gaelic accent, but you’ve lost yours entirely.”

“O’Rourke,” Angel said, and then again, rolling it off his tongue.

He could get used to a name like that real quick. And that was all he’d wanted, he reminded himself, a name to put behind the one he had, because he was damn tired of having to tell folks, “Just Angel.” But he didn’t walk away from the detective when he started giving an account of that newspaper story.

“Anna O’Rourke came here with her son to visit a childhood friend. I’m sorry to have to tell you she’d just been widowed. Your father, Cawlin O’Rourke, was a second-generation American who was a surveyor for the railroads, which is why you probably don’t remember him. A job like that takes a man all over the country.

“Your mother had immigrated here from Ireland and married your father soon after she arrived in America. But apparently she was homesick, and when he died, she decided to take you back to the old country. Only she wanted to say good-bye to her friend first.

“The reporter claimed Anna had been here just over a week when her four-year-old son, Angel, disappeared from the front lawn of Dora Carmine’s house. One minute you were there, the next you were gone.”

“You mean she really did name me Angel?”

“Sounds like it.”

“And if I was only four at the time, that would make me twenty-five now, rather than twenty-six as I’d thought.”

Phineas grinned. “First time I ever heard of someone growing younger instead of older. At any rate, the story went on to mention that search parties were combing the city for you and rewards were posted. It was assumed at first that you’d just wandered off and were lost, which would explain why no one thought to search outside the city. I found one other mention in a paper dated a few weeks later, stating you were still missing and any information about your whereabouts would receive a substantial reward. You probably had half this city looking for you.”

“What was the name of my mother’s friend?”

“Dora Carmine.”

“Does she still live here?”

Phineas nodded. “I just came from paying her a visit, to confirm the newspaper account.”

“You didn’t tell her about me, did you?”

“No. I told her I was from the mayor’s office, compiling an official report on the increase in crime over the last twenty-five years.”

Angel looked down at the floor. “Did she say if my mother’s still living?”

“She’s still living.”

“I suppose she eventually went back to Ireland like she planned to?”

“According to Mrs. Carmine, Anna O’Rourke never left St. Louis. She refused to give up hope that you’d show up one day, alive and well. She lives about nine blocks from here in one of the older city mansions. She married a wealthy banker about eighteen years ago. He was a widower with two children. She gave him a few more, so you’ve got some half brothers and a sister. And to this day, she’s still offering a reward for information about you.”

Angel gave him a level look. “You weren’t thinking about collecting it, were you?”

“I already bent my ethics once on this case. I wasn’t planning to do so again.”

“Good.”

Phineas frowned. “That sounds like you don’t intend to pay her a visit.”

“I don’t. She’s settled in with a new family. I can’t see any reason to disturb that.”

Phineas stared at him for a moment before he shrugged. “You’re probably right. She’s just your mother, after all. What difference does it make if she never finds out what happened to her firstborn?”

“What happened to him isn’t pretty.”

“The truth is rarely as bad as what a person can imagine. She’s probably imagined worse.”

Angel scowled. “Worse than what I am? I doubt it.”

“Aren’t you being a bit hard on yourself? Compared to some of the criminals I track down, you’re a saint. You got taken west through no fault of your own, but you adapted to it. I’d say you’ve done all right for yourself.”

“So who asked you?”

Phineas gave up, handing over the sheet of paper. “The address is there if you ever change your mind. I’ll drop the agency’s bill off at your hotel. It’s been interesting — Angel O’Rourke.”

“Now can we talk about it?”

Cassie leaned her head back on the plush seat as the train pulled out of the station. She supposed she could be grateful that her mama’s private Pullman car had just arrived at the station that morning, or Catherine would have something else to complain about during the next few days. She could also be grateful that her mama had been silent this long, after coming into her room this morning and finding Cassie too tired to get up, her nightgown still on the floor, and buttons everywhere — buttons that didn’t match.

All Cassie had said was, “I want to go home today, Mama, but I need a little more sleep first.”

“Would you like to tell me why?”

Catherine was being sarcastic. She fully expected an explanation. She didn’t expect Cassie’s answer. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Amazingly, she let Cassie go back to sleep, and didn’t say anything when she finally got up, other than, “I’ve already arranged to have our new clothes shipped home when they’re completed.”

But Cassie had known she wouldn’t get through the entire day without satisfying her mother’s curiosity. She was going to avoid the truth, however, if at all possible.

“What did you want to talk about, Mama?”

“We can start with why we’re on this train today instead of next week.”

“We’d made our selections, finished all the fittings. Did you really want to wait around just so we could carry all those clothes home ourselves? With the weather so cold, it wasn’t as if we could get out and enjoy the city. You would have been bored by tomorrow, and probably suggested yourself that we go home.”

“I’m never bored in the city, warm weather or cold, and neither are you. Care to try again? Or shall we avoid taxing your store of excuses and just stick with the truth?”