“Your first love letter,” Anna whispered, her eyes brimming with tears.

  “Mama, please,” she groaned, but she couldn’t stop smiling.

  She was the type of woman who attracted men like Emil, after all. How else could his actions at the procession be explained? There was the fact that he’d noticed she was in pain before anyone else—and he’d been downright surly about it, too. Then he’d accompanied her to the doctor’s office while her wrist was treated. He could have gone anywhere, done anything else, but he’d hovered outside like he was concerned. Things got a bit blurry after that—dratted laudanum—but the way he’d made her feel had permeated the drug’s haze and stayed long after it wore off.

  Supported. Protected. Like she wasn’t alone in the world.

  She practically floated to the bathroom to wash, and she hummed while she pulled on her thick underclothing and wool skirts. The dull throb in her wrist didn’t stand a chance against the joyous skipping in her chest. Someone liked her!

  While she washed her face, she planned her own note. She would thank Emil for his kindness, of course. Perhaps even tease him back. Then she paused—had she told him that the man with the silver cane had been at the procession? She couldn’t recall. Well, better to let him know, just in case. She wasn’t sure what that meant, but maybe Emil would know. At the very least, he would be able to assure her the man’s presence had nothing to do with her. Nodding resolutely, she dried her face. She had just maneuvered her arm through the sleeve of a warm sweater when the building pipes sounded.

  Her pulse leapt—could it be Emil already?

  Tugging the sweater into place, she darted to the slim window and pressed her nose against it. Three floors down, a woman stood on the building landing. She rolled her eyes at her eagerness. Of course, it wasn’t Emil. It was a workday. He would be thoroughly occupied with his business. Not to mention their home wasn’t set up for visitors, least of all men. Then the hat tilted back, and a freckled redhead was gazing up at her.

  “It’s Winnie,” she said to her mother.

  “Goodness, she must be freezing,” Anna exclaimed. “Invite her in.”

  Olive waved at Winnie, then hurried to the front door. She paused beside the coat rack. She had some questions for Winnie about the day before. Questions better asked out of earshot of her mother. She pulled on her heavy coat, wrapped Emil’s scarf around her neck, and tucked her hair under a wool cap.

  “We’ll be up in a few minutes, Mama.”

  She descended the dark stairwell, her footsteps echoing on the wooden steps, until she reached the cramped entryway. She swung the front door open. Winnie stood on the walkway, half-facing the street. She wore a stylish coat that complemented her figure, and her hands were tucked into a white muff that matched her tam hat.

  “Is that a new coat? It looks—” Her words cut off when Winnie turned. Her friend’s lips were pinched together, her normally dancing eyes shadowed with worry. “Winnie? Are you all right?”

  “I’m all right,” Winnie said, but her serious tone was anything but reassuring. “But we have a problem.”

  “About…”

  “About yesterday.”

  Olive glanced around quickly. Mrs. Spinelli was pushing a pram down the uneven sidewalk, little Walter toddling after her. The milkman was deep in conversation with the owner of Gould’s Market, his draft horse chewing patiently on a handful of straw while he waited. Neither posed an issue. But when she glanced over her shoulder toward her own building, she stilled. The curtain on Mrs. Drake’s windowsill twitched unnaturally. The dragon was probably pressed against it, doing her best to eavesdrop.

  “Why don’t we take a walk to the park?” she asked loudly, then added in a much quieter tone, “I think my landlord is watching us.”

  Winnie caught on at once. “A morning stroll would do me good.”

  Olive leading the way, they walked in silence until they were halfway down the block. “What’s going on? Did I do something⁠—”

  “Oh no, it isn’t you. It’s Rhoda. Have you heard from her, by any chance?”

  She frowned. “No.”

  “I was afraid of that.” Winnie sighed, a quick gust billowing in the cold morning air. “Something has happened to her, but we aren’t certain what. Apparently, Rhoda was acting oddly after the accident.”

  “She hit her head. Could it have been worse than we thought?”

  “That’s what Clem thought at first, but it didn’t explain why Rhoda sat in silence, biting her nails. Almost like she was nervous. Or afraid.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Rhoda.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Clem tried to convince her to go to the doctor, but she wouldn’t leave the auto behind. Clem sent Jude instead, and while he was gone, Mr. Carlisle arrived. He isn’t a nice man, by all accounts, but Mack said his demeanor was stone cold. And Clem was disturbed by his grip on Rhoda’s arm when he led her away. She tried to follow them, but with her limp, she couldn’t keep up.”

  A pit gnawed in Olive’s stomach. She’d known something was wrong with Rhoda. “That’s awful.”

  “Then, late last night, a packet was delivered to Longfellow House. No note, only one of Rhoda’s hat ribbons. We threw our coats over our wrappers and piled into Judith’s auto, but no one at the Carlisle House would talk to us. The butler insisted the family was out for the evening, but I’m convinced I saw someone watching us from the upstairs window.”

  “Do you think it was Rhoda?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m not going to stop searching until I find her.”

  “I want to help.”

  Winnie came to a standstill, her expression apologetic. “I appreciate the offer, but don’t you have enough going on at the moment?”

  Olive’s skin grew tight with the effort not to show how deeply the question wounded her. It was happening again—dismissed because she couldn’t handle her own affairs, let alone others.

  “She’s my friend, too.”

  “Oh, Olive, that isn’t what I mean.” Winnie withdrew a hand from her muff and gripped hers. “I thought I was being kind. You were injured yesterday⁠—”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “And I’m so relieved to hear that. But it’s also…” She glanced away with a grimace, then back again. The hesitation was so unlike her that it set Olive on edge. “Well, I’ll just say it. I was in your apartment yesterday, and I was worried when I saw the state⁠—”

  “It could be better, but we manage,” she interrupted, dropping her gaze to the dirt patch beneath her boot.

  The urge to deny the truth was immediate, the need to put on a brave face instinctual. Of all her friends, Winnie would be the most likely to understand. She was no stranger to financial difficulties. But something held her back. Perhaps it was because she’d been pretending for so long that she no longer knew how to unmask. Perhaps it was too frightening. Too shameful. Asking for help, especially financial help, would change the nature of their friendship. She’d already learned the hard way what happened when friendships were on unequal footing, hadn’t she? And if her lack of money meant she wouldn’t be allowed to help find Rhoda, then she would rather go on pretending. She looked up and forced a smile.

  “Thank you for your concern, but it isn’t needed.”

  “That’s not⁠—”

  “Winnie, please.” The redhead snapped her mouth shut, scowling. “I will take a couple of days to recover,” she added, “but after that, I want to be included in the plans to find Rhoda.”

  “Yes. You’re right. Of course, you’re right.”

  “Thank you.”

  Winnie let go of her hand and sank onto a nearby bench. “You’ll have to forgive me. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “I could use a rest, as well,” she admitted, sitting on the cold metal with a grimace.

  “Well, go on.” Winnie nudged her side. “Tell me everything about Emil Anderson and the Case of the Suffrage Anthem Composer.”

  Olive smiled weakly. “I thought you were tired.”

  “I have plenty of energy for a sordid tale.”

  “It isn’t sordid!”

  “Not according to what I heard between you and Emil in the carriage yesterday,” Winnie said smugly.

  Olive gaped. “Did you really listen?”

  “Of course I did. Oh, that reminds me.” She dug deep into her pocket. “Clem sent along some pamphlets for you to read.”

  “But she already gave me all the pamphlets on suffrage.”

  “They’re not on suffrage. Trust me. You’ll want to read these.”

  Olive took the slim pamphlet and scanned the title curiously: Women’s Health and Sexual Congress. She smushed the pamphlet to her chest, a flush washing up her neck to her ears. Her voice, when she could speak at all, was hoarse. “Why is she giving me this?”

  “Because of Emil Anderson, you dolt.”

  “Oh God, was it that obvious?”

  “You did tell him you were ready to explore intimacy with him.”

  Olive sank forward on the bench with a groan, her forehead resting on her knees. “Please tell me he wasn’t horrified,” she mumbled into the coat fabric.

  “The complete opposite, I’d say.” Winnie’s laugh rang out. “Sit up, and I’ll recount what I overheard. Then, I’ll answer all your questions about what happens between a man and a woman.”

  Olive sat up slowly, keeping a firm grip on the itch to flee. As much as she’d love to escape the mortifying conversation, what she wanted even more was to know. Knowledge was power. If she was going to pursue intimacy—and she very much wanted to—she wanted to do so with a marginal dose of confidence. She drew in a deep breath.

  “Tell me everything.”

  Emil tapped his pencil against his lower lip, scowling at Leland Wingate’s latest missive spread across the dining room table:

  URGENT: Dirt needed on our common foe.

  The word dirt stuck in his craw. Wingate had officially crossed the line from gathering discreet, legal intelligence to demanding something darker. What kind of dirt? A mistress tucked away? A pistol-waving pet monkey in his attic? Whatever it was, subtlety was gone. But nothing riled him up more than admitting he’d been so eager for Wingate’s favor that he’d already gone after an innocent man.

  He shoved the note aside and bent over the plat map of the wharves again. His pencil marks charted changes over the past year, tracing Gunn’s buying pattern. The truth was plain enough: Harvey Gunn was ruthless, yes, but lawful.

  The Scotsman always started with some overlooked, shabby lot already cut off from prime water access or crippled by disrepair. That was his wedge. From there, he bought the neighbor. Then the neighbor’s neighbor. Piece by piece, he strangled the lone holdout in the middle. What was interesting was that the technique never varied. It was almost as if Gunn wanted his prey to know he was coming. Once their trade dried up and repairs stalled, Gunn swooped in with a paltry offer. And inevitably, they took it.

  It was a brilliant, if dishonorable, strategy that had garnered Gunn few friends. Emil doubted he cared. The only associate Emil could link him to was Hire Kobayashi. They’d both appeared in Seattle about the same time five years ago, but beyond that, the nature of their relationship remained a mystery.

  Still, Gunn’s method was the perfect way to gut an enemy. Especially one who held just as much land. Emil ran a finger down his notes, nodding. Gunn was moving in on Wingate. Two properties had already fallen in the last year, and a third was under siege. No wonder Wingate was panicked.

  What had the old man done to draw Gunn’s ire? The two couldn’t be more different. Wingate embodied respectability: his wealth came from a long line of ambitious forefathers, his public image was untarnished, and he was welcome at the most important tables. Gunn was new money: a disruptor who refused to follow the unspoken rules, a recent arrival who made others so uneasy that he’d sequestered himself in his mansion in Queen Anne. But those differences couldn’t be enough to cause a standoff.

  So, what else had Wingate exaggerated or lied about outright? Olive’s note that morning—he must commend her timing—had brought attention to the man’s presence at the auto procession. Welcoming an anti-suffrage preacher to town wouldn’t impress his fiancée, nor endear him to reformers. But as Emil had learned in the past year, there were plenty of powerful men who viewed the movement as a threat. So was he friend or foe?

  It was time to take a closer look at his employer. He already had half the paperwork. He’d comb through it again, backward this time. Shake out a new clue. Peel back the layers until he figured out why Wingate and Gunn were at each other’s throats. Above all, he would find a way to keep Olive safe from all of it.

  Rubbing his hands together, he bent back over the map.

  Chapter 17

  Olive scanned Emil’s latest note one more time, assured herself she was making the right decision, and knocked on the door to the floating house. It was easier than the first time she’d visited. The day was warmer, the wind less biting, and the man inside far less intimidating. Oh, some days he was still too good-looking and self-absorbed for her tastes, but he'd proven he wasn't all flash. A caring, patient man was hiding beneath the swagger.

  And for whatever reason, he liked her.

  She’d spent the three days since the accident analyzing their every interaction. Somehow, during their game of cat and mouse, they’d become friends. More than friends, really, but she didn’t have the experience or the courage to put a name to it. Besides, wasn’t that why she was there? To see what else they could be?

  She hesitated, then knocked again. She was early. Emil wouldn’t know her last lesson had been cut short. Was she being a bother? She glanced around the quiet boardwalk, biting her lip, her confidence rapidly fraying. No. She wouldn’t leave. He’d invited her. She had every right to be there. She would simply wait outside until he showed up at the appointed time. Although…hadn’t she once glimpsed a couple of chairs on the front deck through the boxy bay window?

  Before she could change her mind, she rounded the corner of the house and strode down the narrow perimeter deck. Trailing her good hand on the wooden railing, she peered into the shallow water and admired the abundance of ferns and trees. It would be beautiful here in summer—not that she would be there to see it, of course, but still. It wasn’t hard to imagine sun-soaked days, carefree splashing, and lazy naps. She sighed and shook her head. It would be foolish to get ahead of herself. To believe that life could be for her. She would focus on the here and now, where she stood a chance to experience something she never had before.

  Then, on the far side of the house, she heard a faint, rhythmic plunk, like something dipping into the water. She rounded the corner to the front deck and came to a halt.

  Out in the lake, Emil sat low in a long, narrow boat, rowing toward her in steady, powerful strokes. His shirt, damp with sweat, clung to the hard lines of his shoulders and arms. She stared, dry-mouthed, as the sleek boat glided alongside the dock with one final pull. He tossed the oars aside and hopped onto the deck with a fluid, practiced grace. Then he reached up, his muscles bunching and shifting, to run a hand through his glistening black hair. Her palms began to sweat, her mouth went dry, and desire pooled between her thighs.

  She wanted him. She wanted him badly.

  “Hi,” she croaked.

  He yelped, then whirled to stare at her in astonishment. “Jesus Christ, you scared me.”

  “Thought I’d turn the tables.”

  His mouth twisted into that lovely lopsided grin, and they stood for an interminable amount of time, smiling at each other like simpletons.

  “I thought⁠—”

  “I’m early⁠—”

  They both stopped, then laughed.

  “You first,” he said.

  “I’m early.” She lifted one shoulder. “That’s it. Now you.”

  “I thought I had time for a quick row.” His smile turned wolfish. “Wanted to work off a bit of excess energy before you arrived.”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  He sauntered forward to tower over her, his body heat exuding into the cool air. His salty musk, laced with the faint scent of sun-warmed wood and lake water, curled around her. Her breath hitched and her pulse hammered, but she met his gaze with all the strength she could muster.

  “Because someone kept begging for my kisses the last time I saw her, and I am a man all too eager to please.”

  His arm looped around her waist, pulling her in close. She was already tilting her face upward when the memory rose, unbidden, of how he’d gone cold after their first kiss. How his terrible smile had hollowed her out and made her feel foolish. She couldn’t bear that again. Not when her lips fairly tingled with the desire to kiss him. When her body begged to melt against his. And her heart—the dratted thing—yearned for more than she dared say.

  “Wait,” she blurted.

  He stilled. “What’s wrong? Is it a bug?”

  A startled laugh tore from her throat. “Not a bug, no. Is that really the only reason you can think of why I may hesitate?”

  “Considering the number of times you puckered up in the carriage? Yes.”

  “That was the laudanum’s fault!”

  “I know.” His hand stroked up and down her back. “But I also know it gave you the courage to express things you’d usually keep to yourself. The only thing I don’t know is what’s causing you to think twice now. So why don’t you tell me?”

  She searched his expression and found no judgment there, only patience. He really did want her to tell him. Besides, what was the point in dodging the hard questions? If she wanted that kiss—and she did—she needed reassuring first.

  “You…you won’t give me that terrible smile after we kiss, will you?”

  “What terrible smile?”

 

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