Song of My Heart Read online

  Dedication

  For Miss Eleanor, who would make the most elegant Elizabeth Gentry if I were to cast this for a movie.

  I am so lucky to know you.

  Chapter One

  Boston, 1876

  “Suicide,” Michael Grant stated in a flat voice as he stared at the cold body on the warehouse floor.

  “I doubt it, Father. Look around you. Everything’s been cleared out.” Max squatted on his heels beside Jerome Smith, the family bookkeeper. Ignoring the gun that lay conveniently near Smith’s right hand, he touched a finger to the hole in the man’s shirt, then sniffed. Gunpowder residue. Whoever shot Jerome had stood very close when he fired the weapon, wanting it to look like Smith shot himself.

  Max knew better.

  A cursory glance around the warehouse proved his suspicions that whoever had done this was a real pro. A few small crates of insignificant housewares had been left behind, but the high dollar, untraceable goods—whiskey, fine cigars, perishables and textiles—had all been taken.

  He stepped aside when the local undertaker and his assistant came in with a stretcher. They lifted the lifeless body, and Max’s gaze slid again to Jerome, a mild-mannered man who had never raised his voice in all the years Max had known him. And Max did know him well. Memories flooded him. Jerome was left-handed, just like Max, and the man had helped him when others labeled him backward as a child. That was just one of the reasons Max knew Jerome hadn’t committed suicide. He pushed aside the memories to concentrate on the matters at hand.

  “Jerome was deathly afraid of guns. I had tried countless times to get him to keep one in the desk for just this kind…” His voice trailed off.

  Abruptly his father turned away. “Makes no difference now. Nothing can help him, but you can help your brother and you can find my merchandise.”

  Max didn’t care for his father’s callous attitude, but the mention of his twin, Monty, twisted his gut, and his father knew it. Monty’s name, not Jerome Smith’s, had been on the missive his father’s servant had delivered to Max’s office. While he would have come regardless, his father had known just exactly what would bring Max to his doorstep with the most speed.

  “Montgomery had become quite agitated recently,” his father said, “but I couldn’t put my finger on the problem and he wouldn’t tell me what concerned him.”

  “But—” Max prompted when his father paused. He hated the interrogation process, always had. He wanted the action of tracking and apprehending felons and murderers. He would gladly leave the questions to his superiors once they were captured.

  “I didn’t discover Smith until an hour ago when I came to the office. Montgomery never came home last night. I fear he knows something about who robbed me and killed Jerome. What if he decided to go after them?”

  “Damn,” Max swore under his breath. What had his brother been thinking to leave town in the middle of the night without notice?

  “You must go after him,” his father demanded, but Max heard the desperation in his voice. “He’s not used to life outside the city. After all, Boston is civilized. He’s never even handled a gun and has no idea of the seedy lowlifes he’ll encounter. Not like—”

  “Like me, Father?” One of the top government investigators in the country, Max spent his time tracking criminals of all manner. And he couldn’t deny he had killed his share. Buttoning his coat, he turned to leave.

  “Jessica insists on seeing you.”

  Max didn’t even turn around. “And will you allow me into your lily white, socially acceptable parlor to say hello to my stepmother?”

  “She doesn’t know what you do,” his father shouted when Max retreated toward the warehouse door. “Heaven forbid she or your sisters ever find out the travesties you’ve committed. It would break their hearts.”

  “Enough!” Max’s father didn’t think Max was much better than the scum he tracked. His father felt proper men spent their days in boardrooms and their nights at civilized social gatherings. He had always reviled what Max did for a living, which was the same as condemning Max.

  He glared at his father, a tall, lean man with piercing blue eyes and a dominating stance. The man looked exactly like Monty and himself, if not for the gray at his temples. How could they be so alike and yet so different? He clutched his fists at his sides, wanting to strike back.

  “I work for our president, and whatever he commands me to do, I will do or die trying. I’m no different than you were when the country was at war.”

  “That was different. The Rebs were our enemy.”

  “And the criminals I track are not?” He turned a frosty glare on his father. “Regardless of what you think of me, it’s all right to summon me this time, isn’t it? This time they took your property, not that of some faceless citizen you don’t even know.” Disgusted with the conversation, he turned and flung open the warehouse door.

  “Will you do this?”

  Max laughed unpleasantly. “Galls the hell out of you to ask, doesn’t it?”

  Silence met his question.

  Max took a deep breath of damp, morning air. There really wasn’t any question. He would go to the ends of the earth for Monty, whether his father asked it or not. “I will find Jerome’s killer, Father, and bring Monty home. As to your precious property, I would wish it gone forever and you destitute if not for what that would mean to my sisters and Jessica.”

  * * *

  Max breathed easier as the train gently rocked him. Too much time had already elapsed since Monty left town, but Max had refused to leave until he’d talked to Jessica and Monty’s wife, Sarah. An inevitable delay. He wouldn’t have made it without his secretary making arrangements for the Pullman to be brought up from Washington on an earlier train. Barnaby had then met him with his clothes and packet of documents.

  He stared out the window into the night. Though they’d left the fog of Boston behind, the sky was overcast and neither moon nor stars shed any light on the passing countryside. He had the car to himself, but felt too restless to settle for the night on the comfortable bed. Being a federal investigator at least gave him the comfort of traveling in style, using the Pullman car whenever necessary.

  Only one lamp remained lit, its light reflecting eerily off the window. He sighed, recalling his visit with his sister-in-law, Sarah, and his stepmother earlier in the day. Sarah was distraught over Monty’s disappearance, and Jessica was distraught over Sarah, worrying about the effect all this would have on her unborn babe.

  Regardless of Max’s relationship with his father, he loved his family dearly and spent many weekends with Monty and Sarah. His stepsisters were included in his visits whenever his father left town on business, for Michael Grant thought Max a poor influence on their impressionable young minds. He shook his head to clear away the lingering remorse over what might have been.

  He smiled when he recalled his all-too-brief encounter with the four Blue Jays, his pet name for his half-sisters. Janice, Josephine, Jacqueline and Jillian, each vying for his attention, were all as pretty as their mother with blonde hair and blue eyes. Max had no trouble figuring out why his father had married Jessica. Why she had married him was the true mystery.

  No matter how hard he tried, Max couldn’t convince his father that he worked so hard to make the world a safer place, especially for his sisters. He was much older than they were and every protective instinct in his body surged whenever he thought they might be in trouble. No matter where his assignments took him, his network of associates kept him informed about the social circle in which the girls moved. The men knew without his saying that if trouble occurred, they were to rescue his sisters then fade out of sight.

  His difficulties with his father made it hard on everyone if he showed up a
t the house, so he watched over them by other means. Though he had an office in Boston, he spent most of his time in Washington among the intrigue of government and tried not to miss the things Monty had—a loving wife, children and their father’s love.

  * * *

  “Here comes the train!” Tess Maguire was always the lookout for the girls, even though the engineer had used the whistle to signal ahead.

  Abby O’Brien smoothed the white apron over her stomach and hips. After two weeks working at the Harvey House in Topeka, Kansas, she still got the jitters when a train full of hungry passengers arrived. Looking back, she wondered sometimes how she had managed, for until she’d arrived on the train, hungry and nearly out of money, she’d never worked a day in her life.

  Well, there had been those nights in Chicago dealing poker at Mr. Faro’s saloon, but she didn’t consider that a real job—one you would care for anyone to know about, that was. Besides, it had only lasted until that investigator had spotted her.

  That was another reason for her nervousness. Every train brought the worry that another investigator would step onto the platform. She had no doubt her parents wanted her home. If only her mother wasn’t so insistent that she marry right away, especially not to some high-in-the-instep, money-is-all-important, social-climbing man.

  She didn’t plan to marry at all, but if it happened, it would only be for love. In the meantime, the Harvey House was the best place for a girl like her to work.

  She laughed at that thought as the train passengers pushed and shoved through the restaurant door and began yelling for service. Abby reminded herself that if she ever returned to Boston, she would have more consideration for servants. Even though the trains now allowed more time for meals, some passengers were rude, and the Harvey Girls had to move quickly to make sure everyone was fed and happy before the boarding whistle blew.

  “What’s your name, lass?” A man reached for her, but Abby had become quite adept at staying out of range. She managed to set his glass on the table without getting captured by his large hand.

  “Are you Irish, sir?” she asked just to make conversation while she poured his water.

  “Aye, and that must make us soul mates, you and me, for I hear a touch of the brogue in you, too.” His smile, what she saw beneath his mustache, was quite nice, and his blue eyes twinkled with devilment. However, Irishmen with hair as red as his usually had freckles. And this one didn’t have any—not a single freckle on his face or his hands.

  “I think you’re full of blarney, sir,” she said, but with a smile, for Mr. Harvey emphasized that his waitresses were always to be polite. She turned away to fetch the dinners and heard his soft laughter behind her. He had a nice smile and a nice laugh. It was definitely a good thing he was just passing through.

  Regardless of her desire not to marry at her mother’s whim, she still liked a gentleman’s attention. In fact, while she liked her work at the Harvey House, she did miss the busy whirl of dances, teas and soirees that had comprised the social life of Boston.

  Here in Topeka, there was no social life to speak of for Harvey Girls. Oh, they were allowed a ten o’clock curfew, and there was a formal visiting parlor that was strictly chaperoned. But the type of man who usually asked permission to visit was not the type she would normally acknowledge. They were not men seeking a lasting relationship.

  Most generally she spent her evenings composing her music and studying the writings of feminists like Susan B. Anthony and Margaret Fuller. Someday she hoped to write her own book, which would surely help other young women find their place in the world.

  * * *

  The same redheaded Irishman was back the next morning, and Abby noted he chose a seat in her section. What was there about him that piqued her interest and at the same time made her leery? A shiver raised goose bumps on her arms and she hoped it was due to the brisk morning air.

  Grabbing a glass of water and silverware, she took a fortifying breath and walked his way. She couldn’t afford to let down her guard, always on the lookout for men thinking they could take her home and collect a reward from her parents. Yet this man made her want to find out more about him. Why was that?

  “Good morning, sir, welcome to Harvey House.” She would be nothing more than polite.

  “Ah, and a good morning to you, too, miss.” He boomed his greeting across the table. Abby was sure Cook heard it in the back room.

  “We don’t see most of our customers for more than one meal, since this is a train stop for the Santa Fe.” She told herself it was just conversation, not a quest for information.

  “As I said yesterday, since we’re kinsmen, I can’t leave without at least knowing your name.” His eyes twinkled, and Abby knew he teased. Still, a warning bell went off.

  “My name is Faith, sir. Would you like breakfast before you leave town?” She’d learned in Chicago not to use her real name, not after that horrid man had chased her down and practically dragged her out of the saloon before Mr. Faro had intervened.

  Instead of being insulted by her comment about his imminent departure, the man laughed, heads turned, and Miss Taylor, the manager, stomped directly toward them.

  “Oh, dear, now you’ve gone and done it,” Abby whispered while pretending to straighten the tablecloth. “If I lose this job because of you, I’ll—”

  “Don’t you have other customers, Miss O’Brien?” Miss Taylor asked, but Abby knew she didn’t mean it as a question. Back stiff, hands clasped at her waist, Miss Taylor stood with pinched lips, glaring at her. There were rules about spending too much time with any one customer. While Harvey House service was excellent, they did want the customers to eat and leave so more could be served.

  “I apologize for monopolizing Miss O’Brien’s time, but I must confess with two of the loveliest ladies in all of Kansas now standing before me, this is truly becoming a beauteous day.” The man stood and bowed. “The name’s Donal O’Flagherty, ma’am.” He had the audacity to wink, smiling clear up to his eyeballs.

  Miss Taylor simpered.

  Abby rolled her eyes.

  “Very well, then. Carry on.” Waving a hand at Abby, Miss Taylor returned to her station near the door.

  “You are so full of blarney,” Abby hissed when Miss Taylor moved away.

  “Aye, that may be, but it served a purpose, did it not? When is your workday through? Will you take a walk with me this afternoon?”

  She stepped back, cautious. This man seemed entirely too interested in her. Was he another investigator sent by her mother to spirit her back to Boston?

  “I think not, Mr. O’Flagherty.”

  “Call me Donal.”

  “As I said, Mr. O’Flagherty, I think not.” She left to get the breakfast plates, determined to put the handsome Irishman out of her mind.

  * * *

  Monty’s trail had led Max from Boston to Topeka, then dead-ended. Now he had to wait for his contacts to report. When he returned to the Pullman car after breakfast, he carefully removed the disguise of Donal O’Flagherty. He didn’t intend to go anywhere the rest of the day, and the red wig was hot and the mustache tickled his nose. He wondered how men…actually he wondered how women liked kissing a man with a mustache.

  He looked at his reflection and grinned, thinking perhaps he should try it out on Faith O’Brien. She was a feisty young woman, and if Max had time to linger in Topeka, he might even consider pursuing her.

  He’d heard that Fred Harvey’s “Harvey House girls” were well-bred, had curfews and stayed in dormitories that not even the most lovesick cowboy was allowed to breech.

  Apparently the girls were so well-bred and so well thought of, they had proposals coming at them faster than lunch orders. Just that morning at breakfast, a cowboy had been spouting the most horrendous poetry and a proposal to one of the petite waitresses.

  But he didn’t have time to linger. Whenever he received word, he would be traveling again. He just didn’t know in which direction.

  He stripp
ed off the ugly plaid jacket, one of several he wore when disguised as the rogue Irishman and tossed it to a chair then removed his tie and loosened the buttons on his shirt. Donal O’Flagherty was just one of the disguises Max wore when on a case. Until he knew exactly who he pursued and what he was up against, he rarely went without a disguise.

  In this case, it was a necessary precaution since he didn’t know what the killer looked like, but the killer might very well know Monty. Given that he and his brother were identical twins, someone intent on killing possible witnesses wouldn’t notice the nuances that distinguished them.

  He lay on the bed, letting the breeze from an open window cool him. Spring in Kansas already proved hotter than Washington, yet it wasn’t the weather that had him on edge. Waiting for information always drove him mad, but he needed to let his men do their jobs.

  That’s why he paid them top dollar, and it got him results. He tracked better than most men who worked with him for the government but his contacts knew a particular region of the country and that cut a lot of time when on the trail of a felon.

  So here he lingered, thinking about a cinnamon-haired minx hiding behind a Harvey House menu. Drowsy, he closed his eyes, recalling her sassy attitude and ready smile, and wondered what it would be like to kiss her pink lips.

  * * *

  “Well, I think he’s handsome, and I know he likes you.” Tess continued the argument they’d been having since leaving their shift at the Harvey House.

  Abby only half listened, lifting her face to the sun, closing her eyes briefly and letting the warmth soak in. She missed Boston, but the warm rays of the prairie sun soothed her in a way the sea breeze never had. And she’d much rather think of the weather than Mr. Donal O’Flagherty.

  Tess slipped her arm through Abby’s, making her shift her purchase. After work, they’d stopped at the mercantile where Abby bought more paper. Counting pennies of her tip money, she wondered if she would ever get ahead. At the same time, she needed the paper if she wanted to complete her composition.