“I’m not in the military and you cannot command me.”
And I don’t need a lecture from you where my wife is concerned. I’m very calm around my her.”
“Like two badgers going at it.” Jimmy crossed his arms, leaned against the wall, watching him like a hawk. He protected Rachel from Lucas. Lucas counted to ten. There were bigger stakes at play. Andrews was dead. His blood turned cold.
It might have been Rachel.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her attention drawn farther down the street. She darted from her hiding spot and took off, no doubt following Bowman.
Dammit. She wasn’t going to get away from him this time. Lucas broke into a run.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The thought of Lucas dead scared Rachel to death. The guards posted on him were not enough. Thank providence she had the foresight to have him tailed by Jimmy O’Hara and his band. When the thugs surrounded Lucas and his two lieutenants, and shots were fired, her heart stopped. The smoke cleared, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Lucas talking to Jimmy. Her stomach pitched.
Lucas might have been killed.
The ever-resourceful Jimmy O’Hara rose as a true hero in her regard. She and the lad had become fast friends, bound by what they heard at the Elm Street house and his adoration of her as the Saint.
She congratulated herself that she had Jimmy protecting Lucas. For other than those two guards, Lucas seemed not to care a whit for his safety.
Rachel pressed her fingers to her temple. Earlier, she had seen Lieutenant Bowman emerge with Lucas from the Willard Hotel. A familiarity nagged her. This week, she had danced with him at balls. He’d sought her out. Oh, the man possessed an underlying cleverness, and her suspicions grew like fire snapping in dry pine.
How odd when Bowman surfaced from the alley, not staying behind to help Lucas. With her kepi cap pulled down to conceal her hair, she followed him. On occasion, she hid behind barrels when he paused to light a cheroot or stopped to ogle ladies of the evening behind gaudily draped windows.
In the shadow of an oddly located Jewish temple, Rachel stood on tiptoes to peer in a window of a three-story brick structure, namedGwendolyn’s Glamourous Delights. Expensive Brussels carpets, china vases, feather pillows, marble-topped tables and scantily-clad ladies reclined on plush furniture.
Rachel blinked. Harnessed in a corset stood a woman possessing mammoth breasts. Must have taken two days for her to be wired in. If released, her bosom might flow over Washington and smother all inhabitants. The laughing woman caught her eye and pointed to an illustrated sign,Soldier’s Choice,listing various erotic services. Heat rose from Rachel’s toes to the roots of her hair. Were such things possible?
In the distance, the bells of St. Patrick’s chimed well past eleven. She rubbed her back where it ached, looked up the street. Damn. Bowman had slipped away.
She balled her fists and forged onward through the churning, sordid world. A rush of piano music filled the street with the clomping of horses and men’s ribald laughter, far from wifely dictates and spousal reprimands. Rachel climbed up on a barrel to take another look. Barely discernible in the darkness, she caught sight of Bowman.
Standing Bear’s lessons on the fine art of tracking game proved a useful skill, following a deer for miles before finding an opportunity to let their arrows fly. The Illini had taught her well, but this was riskier.
Thankfully, the information she had gleaned from the Elm Street house had been delivered up the chain of command and the location was now being raided by the Federals. She had assigned Simon to watch in case any of the Copperheads had returned and to tail them. More likely, the Rebels had scattered, maybe even changed their grand scheme once they knew they had been overheard. Yet her instincts warned her that Bowman was involved as a shadowy leader.
Shivering, Rachel pulled her coat around her. Bowman gazed inside a lighted tavern and she melted in a shallow door entrance, counting to ten.
She darted from her hiding spot, passing several clapboard buildings built expediently to house new businesses—saloons, brothels, seamstresses, laundresses and occasional stable and apothecary. Bowman turned another corner. Can’t lose him. She quickened her pace.
The night grew cold. Noisy soldiers milled around saloons, and a group of drunkards spilled out of a doorway, catching her off guard.
“What do we have here, but a wee laddie,” said a ponderous, drunken sergeant picking her up underneath her arms and holding her high.
“Put me down!” she commanded. He laughed in her face. She gagged from his rotten teeth and fetid breath. Bowman was well ahead.
“Let’s have a little fun, boys,” he shouted to his fellow soldiers. “Strip him down and take him up to Lovin’ Lucy. She’ll make a man out of the boy.”
The blood drained from her face. She kicked hard, catching the toe of her boot in the man’s Adam’s apple. Severely winded, he sputtered and dropped her in the mud. Before she could crawl away, several hands were upon her, tearing off her coat. She kicked and scratched and clawed at her assailants, fighting for her life.
“Attention!” boomed an authoritative voice. The soldiers dropped her. Her breath whooshed out of her. On her hands and knees, Rachel scrambled across the street, tugged on her jacket before any of them realized she was a woman. Unable to see the man who commanded their attention, she thanked the Lord in heaven he’d intervened and used the momentary distraction to break into a dead run.
Entering a well-to-do neighborhood, she slowed her pace to catch her breath. Bowman vanished. She bit her lip, sickened by the prospect of losing her quarry. Luxurious mansions backed up against the pitch-black sky, smoke curling from chimneys.
Then, farther down, Bowman strolled as if he had all the time in the world. He stopped then disappeared again. She approached the place where he had turned, a driveway of sorts with an ivy-clung wall running along one side and a stable along the other, bordered with a wrought iron fence.
She kept to the shadows. Two hundred yards down the lane, Bowman threaded his hand through foliage, slipping through an aperture in the wall. A wood door clapped shut.
