handout and Mrs. McGinnis’s screams scared him off.” She liked that conclusion; it would enable her to sleep tonight.
“I had not considered that,” said Lottie. “It makes a lot of sense. You should tell Mrs. McGinnis so she is less upset.”
Sarah nodded.
Lottie’s tea remained untouched on the table. She glanced at it and sighed. “I suppose I should go.” She rested a hand on Sarah’s arm, the weight reassuring. “Tell me you shall be fine.”
“The police are on alert and Mrs. Brentwood is lending us two capable sentries. If this fellow plans to return, we’ve done what we can.” Sarah lifted her brows. “However, I wonder if maybe
I
should borrow your father’s Colt.”
“Or you could ask Mr. Cady to stand guard.” Mischief danced in Lottie’s eyes. “If he is so interested in acquiring your inheritance, he has a personal stake in keeping it safe.”
Sarah’s pulse skipped. “I would never ask that man to stand guard over me.”
Daniel closed the hotel room door behind him. Fingering the envelope from Western Union, he crossed to the room’s window and threw back the curtain. He tore through the envelope flap and extracted the telegram. Another one from his Chicago lawyer. There had been a slight delay in obtaining proper legal documentation as to Daniel’s paternity. His baptismal record had been lost in the ’71 fire, but Daniel was not to worry. There were plenty of suitable witnesses to attest to Daniel’s identity.
Daniel creased the telegram between his thumb and forefinger and glanced over at the tintype of his sisters, stiff in their light gowns, that he’d propped on the dressing table. For them, he had pursued this course. The proof would unfailingly come and Sinclair would have all he needed to proceed with the case. The wheels had been set into motion, ready to crush into oblivion a sizable portion of Miss Whittier’s carefully constructed world.
Daniel was not to worry.
He flattened his palm against the windowpane and stared down. Far below, the late afternoon hubbub of Montgomery Street reverberated off the stone and brick buildings, a jumble ofrattling carriage and wagon wheels, the warbling calls of street corner hucksters, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves on jagged cobblestones. His grandfather would jingle his coins in his pocket, grin, and call them the sounds of commerce, growth, progress.
“Energy,”
he would say, when he was still speaking to his only grandson,
“energy.”
Daniel could do with less energy and tumult right then. He longed for a bit of silence so he could put his thoughts in order. He wished he knew how to pray. Wished he still
believed
in prayer, but his belief had dwindled with each passing year until it had disappeared altogether, leaving not even a trace to mark where it might have once existed. His purpose had been so clear when he’d come to San Francisco, his mind focused on one cause, his feelings contained and controlled. It was all a jumble now.
He kept thinking of Sarah’s girls and the adoring way they looked at her. Kept recalling Miss Samuelson’s flinty determination and Sarah’s stiff-necked confidence, daring him to tell her she was unwise to continue with her plans. He shouldn’t have gone to the shop and recognized how serious her efforts were. Even though he still had more questions than answers about her, one thing was clear: Sarah’s business was no lark, which is what Sinclair apparently believed. She, her partner, and her girls may or may not succeed, but they certainly didn’t intend to fail.
Even if he succeeded in claiming Josiah’s estate.
Josiah.
Daniel dropped his hand from the window, leaving an imprint on the glass. Every day he spent here, stuck in one spot for the first time in eight months, forced him to deal with his memories of the man. Sort through the consequences of what Josiah had done since he’d left Chicago, including stoke the ambitious fires of hope in a brown-eyed woman who was as
“I had not considered that,” said Lottie. “It makes a lot of sense. You should tell Mrs. McGinnis so she is less upset.”
Sarah nodded.
Lottie’s tea remained untouched on the table. She glanced at it and sighed. “I suppose I should go.” She rested a hand on Sarah’s arm, the weight reassuring. “Tell me you shall be fine.”
“The police are on alert and Mrs. Brentwood is lending us two capable sentries. If this fellow plans to return, we’ve done what we can.” Sarah lifted her brows. “However, I wonder if maybe
I
should borrow your father’s Colt.”
“Or you could ask Mr. Cady to stand guard.” Mischief danced in Lottie’s eyes. “If he is so interested in acquiring your inheritance, he has a personal stake in keeping it safe.”
Sarah’s pulse skipped. “I would never ask that man to stand guard over me.”
Daniel closed the hotel room door behind him. Fingering the envelope from Western Union, he crossed to the room’s window and threw back the curtain. He tore through the envelope flap and extracted the telegram. Another one from his Chicago lawyer. There had been a slight delay in obtaining proper legal documentation as to Daniel’s paternity. His baptismal record had been lost in the ’71 fire, but Daniel was not to worry. There were plenty of suitable witnesses to attest to Daniel’s identity.
Daniel creased the telegram between his thumb and forefinger and glanced over at the tintype of his sisters, stiff in their light gowns, that he’d propped on the dressing table. For them, he had pursued this course. The proof would unfailingly come and Sinclair would have all he needed to proceed with the case. The wheels had been set into motion, ready to crush into oblivion a sizable portion of Miss Whittier’s carefully constructed world.
Daniel was not to worry.
He flattened his palm against the windowpane and stared down. Far below, the late afternoon hubbub of Montgomery Street reverberated off the stone and brick buildings, a jumble ofrattling carriage and wagon wheels, the warbling calls of street corner hucksters, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves on jagged cobblestones. His grandfather would jingle his coins in his pocket, grin, and call them the sounds of commerce, growth, progress.
“Energy,”
he would say, when he was still speaking to his only grandson,
“energy.”
Daniel could do with less energy and tumult right then. He longed for a bit of silence so he could put his thoughts in order. He wished he knew how to pray. Wished he still
believed
in prayer, but his belief had dwindled with each passing year until it had disappeared altogether, leaving not even a trace to mark where it might have once existed. His purpose had been so clear when he’d come to San Francisco, his mind focused on one cause, his feelings contained and controlled. It was all a jumble now.
He kept thinking of Sarah’s girls and the adoring way they looked at her. Kept recalling Miss Samuelson’s flinty determination and Sarah’s stiff-necked confidence, daring him to tell her she was unwise to continue with her plans. He shouldn’t have gone to the shop and recognized how serious her efforts were. Even though he still had more questions than answers about her, one thing was clear: Sarah’s business was no lark, which is what Sinclair apparently believed. She, her partner, and her girls may or may not succeed, but they certainly didn’t intend to fail.
Even if he succeeded in claiming Josiah’s estate.
Josiah.
Daniel dropped his hand from the window, leaving an imprint on the glass. Every day he spent here, stuck in one spot for the first time in eight months, forced him to deal with his memories of the man. Sort through the consequences of what Josiah had done since he’d left Chicago, including stoke the ambitious fires of hope in a brown-eyed woman who was as
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