1
St. Louis, Missouri
July 1849
She’d done it. She’d finally sold a story.
Trying to remain as composed as possible, Zaira Shanahan stepped out onto Seventh Street and closed the door of the newspaper office behind her. She only managed two strides before she clasped her hands together and released a squeal of delight.
Her dreams were coming true. She was an official author.
Well, her pseudonym, K.S. Flanders, was the author ... which didn’t bother Zaira too much. The fake name was just a technicality. All that mattered was that she was being published.
Thankfully, Mr. Knapp hadn’t pressed her to reveal more about who K.S. Flanders really was and had accepted that the fellow was a friend who wished to remain anonymous. If the newspaper owner had suspected Zaira was K.S. Flanders, he hadn’t said anything when he’d offered her a weekly column. Maybe he’d decided people would be more willing toread episodes from an unknown man than from a nineteen-year-old woman, especially the daughter of one of St. Louis’s most prominent families.
Whatever the case, Zaira wasn’t complaining.
“A weekly column.” She couldn’t keep a wide smile from blossoming. “Just think, by Sunday all of St. Louis and beyond will be reading my story.”
Oh, sweet saints. Her stomach flipped like a steamboat paddle wheel. She had four days to write and deliver the next installment. Sure, she could use some of what she’d already written. Mr. Knapp had mostly liked it. But he’d given her a short list of edits to pass along to K.S. Flanders—edits that included adding more intrigue to leave readers anticipating the next segment. He’d also requested that the feelings between the heroine and her love interest be more realistic and contain more depth.
He’d agreed to publish two chapters. After that, he would gauge the public’s response before approving more. It went without saying that if the story wasn’t well received, K.S. Flanders would have a short publishing career. But if the two segments got good reviews, then she’d be able to keep on publishing in the weekly column.
She took several more rapid steps away from theDaily Republicanoffice—which was housed in a temporary building since the old one had been destroyed in the fire that had ravaged St. Louis only a few months ago in May. As she caught her reflection in the window of the law office next door, she halted again and admired the young woman she was becoming.
She, the middle Shanahan child, who often got lost in the crowd of her five siblings, was growing up and doingsomething with her life, something she loved, something that gave her purpose.
She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. The fashionable straw bonnet with the wide brim framed her distinct, Shanahan heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and a dimple on her chin. Even though she’d done her best to tame her long, curly red hair into a chignon, the humidity of the hot July day had teased some shorter strands into escaping, so she looked less elegant than she’d hoped.
The summery green of the ribbon on her hat was the same shade of velvet trimming her gown, a romantic color that matched her eyes and also made her skin and hair come to life. Not only that, but the gown was flattering to her figure and made her appear older and more womanly.
She released a happy sigh, gave her petite frame a nod of approval, then turned away from her reflection. As she did so, she collided with a man hurrying down the boardwalk from the opposite direction.
“I beg your pardon.” The fellow reached out to steady her. As his hand circled her forearm, he froze.
She shifted and found herself facing Bellamy McKenna, the Irish matchmaker. His easy smile disappeared and was replaced by a scowl, and his dark brown eyes narrowed beneath his tweed flatcap.
It didn’t matter one iota that Bellamy was peering at her as though he’d just had a run-in with a dirty rat. With his dark hair, tanned skin, and chiseled features, he was still the most gorgeous man in St. Louis, and nothing could mar his utter beauty, not even his obvious irritation.
As her sister had always said, Bellamy was a heart-stopper and looked more Italian than Irish. While that wasan accurate description, Zaira likened Bellamy to a Celtic warrior from the old myths. He was strong and full of valor and unwilling to back down from a challenge. At the same time, he was charming and witty and savvy with a bit of enigma, a puzzle that needed solving.
Every single Irishwoman in St. Louis wanted to be the one tosolveBellamy ... including Zaira. There was no sense in denying it. Doing so would be like denying that the stars came out at night.
The trouble was that Bellamy was not attracted to her. Not even a tiny bit. In fact, he seemed to dislike her more every time he saw her.
She had a feeling his contempt was because she knew about his little—or perhaps not-so-little—secret. And he wasn’t keen on her bringing it up once in a while.
Regardless, she enjoyed teasing him and didn’t intend to stop. It made life more interesting, and she was all about making life interesting, since more drama meant more fodder for her stories.
“Well, well, well.” She gave him another once-over. Usually, he wore black trousers with a white dress shirt and black vest. But today he had on a matching suit coat that lent him the air of a gentleman. “If it isn’t Mr. W.B.M. himself.”
Bellamy glanced quickly around the nearly deserted street. For midday, the quiet was eerie without the usual carts and drays and wagons rumbling by. Only a handful of men loitered in front of a barbershop a few buildings away, talking together in hushed tones as if they were at a funeral.
Maybe they were. The city seemed to be dying more every day that the cholera epidemic lingered. The death toll last week had risen to over seven hundred people. And if her parentsknew she’d ventured downtown into the danger, they’d lock her in her room at their country home, Oakland, and never let her out.
Bellamy’s eyes turned almost black as his gaze returned to her. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Afraid I’ll tell everyone your secret?”
