Love at Any Cost (18 page)

Meg's heave tumbled into a giggle, easing some of the ache in Cassie's chest over anyone picking on her sweet cousin. Removing her glasses, Meg dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “Believe me, there's nothing I'd like more than to see Devin Caldwell trussed up with Cassie's rope, sporting a black eye, but the truth's more painful than his awful insults.”

“And what's that, sweetie?” Cassie asked, brushing hair from Meg's eyes.

Meg drew in a shaky breath and released it again, a cumbersome sigh sagging the shoulders of her pretty ruffled, capped blouse. “I like him. Always have from that first spelling bee in the first grade.”

“Oh, good grief, Meggie, whatever for?” Alli said in a huff. “The boy's a worm.”

“Yes, why?” Cassie said, shocked that Meg could be drawn to such a pickle-brained pest.

Meg blew on her glasses and wiped them clean, her full cheeks
circled with pink. “I don't know, he's funny, smart, and very quick-witted, all things I admire.” She chewed on her lip before sliding a sheepish glance first at Cass, then at Alli. “Of course it doesn't hurt he has gorgeous blue eyes with a bit of the devil in them and enough muscles to make a girl swoon.”

“Humph,” Alli said, “sounds like a cocky buffoon to me, and if there's anything Cass and I've learned in our dealings with men, it's to stay far away from knotheads like him.”

Meg sighed, twirling a loose strand of hair around her finger. “No problem there—Devin Caldwell doesn't even know I exist except when he takes a notion to harass me.”

A grunt rolled from Cassie's lips. “Alli's right, honey, you want to avoid pretty-boy polecats like him.” Her smile took a slant. “They're nothing but trouble, trust me.”

Meg tilted her head, offering Cassie a weak smile. “But you and Jamie are the best of friends now, Cass, and I heard you call him a pretty-boy polecat once.”

“Humph—he still is, sweetie, but I'm a glutton for punishment, apparently.” Cassie exhaled loudly, her breath fluttering more strays from Meg's disheveled chignon.

Meg followed suit, venting with a wispy release of air. “Mama says the best way to deal with someone like Devin Caldwell is to heap burning coals on his head like the Bible says.”

“Oooo, branding—I like that.” Cassie shot Alli a wink. “And cow patties are good too.”

Alli chuckled, and Meg actually grinned. “I agree, but Mama claims heaping coals means returning good to someone instead of bad like they do to you. She says in ancient times, women carried hot coals on their head to light their own home fires and keep their houses warm, so heaping hot coals on someone's head meant blessing them instead of returning evil. Which is
so
hard
to do with Devin.” A twinkle of mischief lit her green eyes as her teeth tugged at the edge of her smile. “And I do try, believe me, but I have to admit I also work really hard to beat him at all the scholastic competitions between our two schools, and that makes him so mad!” Her giggle was soft. “Don't tell Mama, but it feels wonderful and so very liberating!”

“Good girl!” Alli gave her sister an affectionate squeeze. “It's nice to know that as sweet and shy as you are, Megan McClare, there's still a bit of the dickens lurking inside.”

“I'll say,” Cassie said with a grin. “Because you're going to need it in the future when you catch the eyes of pretty boys like Devin Caldwell who want to court you.” Cassie's lip veered left. “That and a cattle prod.” She blasted out a heavy sigh. “Much as it goes against my grain, I suppose Aunt Cait is right, which means we probably should handle Devin Caldwell the same way I handled Jamie MacKenna.”

Alli leaned forward with a mischievous grin. “What, swoon at his feet?”

Cassie stared her down, eyes narrowed in warning. “So help me, Allison McClare, you are going to get your comeuppance in Napa, you mark my words.” She squeezed Meg's hand. “Nope, we probably need to pray for the knothead because God knows he needs it.”

“Don't they all?” Alli grinned, taking her sister's other hand in hers.

“Oh, yes,” Cassie said with a firm jut of her chin, “but unfortunately . . .” She deposited a kiss to Meg's cheek before her lips zagged into a droll smile. “Not near as much as us.”

Jamie rammed the receiver on the hook so hard, it actually quivered for several seconds, bobbling the candlestick phone.
Crumpling the letter from Cooper Medical, he blasted out a thunderous sigh and slumped over his polished wood desk, with his head in his hands, barely noticing when the balled-up letter slipped from his grasp. An unusually oppressive heat shimmered in from the third-story window of McClare, Rupert and Byington, bringing with it the smells and sounds of rush hour on Market Street in the summer. The pungent odor of horses and manure collided with the smell of gasoline and burnt-wood from the cable-car brakes while horns, whistles, and trolley bells jockeyed for prominence on a street that was a cobblestone zoo.

Dear Mr. MacKenna, we regret to inform you . . .
Jamie hissed out a colorful word that crackled the air. “Dash it all, another blasted roadblock,” he muttered, yanking hard at the stiff, tubular collar of his white shirt, wishing he could rip off the silk tie that nearly choked him to death. He kneaded the bridge of his nose, wondering how in blazes he was going to convince Cooper Medical to consider a hip cheilotomy for his sister as part of their charitable surgery allotment. Dr. John Benjamin Murphy of Mercy Hospital in Chicago had already done the hard part, devising this blessedly simple procedure to alleviate pain in damaged hip joints, and now the rest was up to him. Jess had long ago accepted the dull ache that was a daily part of her life, resorting to laudanum when the weather was poor or she walked too much, but Jamie could not. Her limp seemed to grow worse every day, and the guilt burrowed in his stomach like a splinter beneath pus-infected skin, throbbing until he thought he'd go mad.

Dread crawled up his windpipe.
What if I can't help her? What if she has to live in pain the rest of her life?
He shoved away from the desk to sink back in his chair, eyes pinched to shut out the thought.
No!
He couldn't fail her,
wouldn't!
If Cooper Medical
refused his request each month, he'd just ask Duffy for more night hours to supplement his salary at the firm while working Sundays at the Oly along with Saturday afternoons. He'd hoped once graduated and working for Logan, he could pare back on his night and weekend jobs, saving for Jess's operation from his attorney's salary at an easy pace, possibly in the next two years. And if he married well? Well, then, even sooner. But over the last six months, his sister's pain seemed to intensify, just as Dr. Morrissey had predicted, and Jamie found his patience wearing thin. He was no longer willing to wait to alleviate his sister's suffering, and if he had to work night and day seven days a week, he vowed to get the funds. His jaw tightened. Whatever it took . . .

Even turning to God to marry a McClare?

The thought stilled the turmoil in his gut.
Yes.
Even turning to God to marry a McClare. Taut muscles slowly relaxed at the decision he'd made in the week since Cassie had turned him away at Logan's party. He needed an operation for his sister and a decent home for his family, in a boardinghouse
he
owned where he could help women like Millie and Julie. He couldn't do that on a new counselor's salary, no matter how generous Logan had been. True, his family no longer lived in the slums of the Barbary Coast, but he wanted more than two rooms in a boardinghouse mere streets away from that seedy part of town. Yes, it was clean and safe and out of the sewers, but it was not near enough for the woman who'd given him her all.

“You know, it's just a guess, but I'm pretty sure Logan would rather you slept at home.”

Jamie jerked in the chair, the sight of Bram cocked against the door bringing a scowl to his face. His eyes flicked to the mantel clock at the front of his desk before searing Bram with a thin gaze. “It's long past quitting time, Hughes, for your information.
Besides, you call
this
using your time wisely—harassing exhausted counselors?”

Chuckling, Bram strolled into Jamie's office and plopped into one of two cordovan leather chairs, fingers tapping on the arms of the seat. His smile inched uphill. “Yeah? Well, try eight hours of depositions with a cigar-smoking thug, a deaf ninety-year-old, and a mother of hyperactive twins under the age of three.” He massaged his temples with the span of forefinger and thumb. “Trust me, my prized globe wasn't the only thing spinning today—I have a doozy of a headache. Don't suppose you have any aspirin powder left that the doctor prescribed?”

“You kidding?” Jamie scrounged in his drawer for the tin of aspirin powder he kept for days like this. “Here, a pinch is all you need,” he said, tossing it to his best friend while shoving his half cup of cold coffee across the desk. He grabbed his Phillips' Milk of Magnesia as well and uncapped the bottle. “Don't know what I guzzle more—the aspirin or the milk of magnesia.”

He tipped it straight up, throat muscles glugging while Bram gave a low whistle. “Take it easy, Mac—that's not ten-year-old scotch, you know.”

Jamie replaced the lid with a scrunch of his nose. “You're telling me.” He dropped the bottle into the bottom drawer before slamming it closed with his shoe.

Bram's eyes flicked from the crumpled paper to his friend's face. “Another rejection?”

“Yep.” Jamie expended another weary breath and sank back in his chair. “Their caseload is full and there's nothing they can do.” He snatched the letter and sailed it into the waste can. “The deuce it is,” he growled, resting his head on the back of his chair. He closed his eyes. “It's full all right—with Nob Hill favors.”

“So . . . why don't you call in your own?”

“What?” Jamie peered at Bram through leaden lids. “The only medicine man I'm on favorable terms with is Dr Pepper, and I doubt that'll get me too far with the bigwigs on the Cooper Medical Board.” His lips pursed in thought. “Although come to think of it, I did meet a Dr. Winterberger at The Palace a few weeks ago.”

“Who says it has to be a doctor?” Bram stretched in his chair, hands propped to his neck.

One eyelid peeled up. “Last time I looked the Cooper Medical Board were all physicians.”

“Yeah, but the funding committee is not.”

Bram's words oozed through Jamie's tired brain like warm milk of magnesia, coating his nerves as well as his stomach. With a sharp catch of his breath, he shot up, jaw sagging into a smile. “You are a genius, Hughes, you know that? Why the devil didn't I think of that? Who do we know on the funding committee?”

Bram's lips veered sideways. “It's not who we know, Mac, it's who Logan knows.”

Jamie's heart commenced to a slow thud. “Who?” he said, his voice hushed with hope.

A grin split Bram's handsome face. “Andrew Turner—the committee's president.”

Jamie gaped, a slow smile curving the corners of his mouth. “The D.A.? No kidding?”

“No kidding—fraternity brother. Want me to talk to Logan for you?”

“No, it needs to come from me, Bram, but thanks.” Jamie rubbed the scruff of his jaw, his thoughts back on his sister.

“So, you ready?” Bram lumbered to his feet, tugging on the sleeves of his gray sack suit.

Jamie's gaze flicked up. “For what?”

“Dinner at the McClares' . . .” He paused, one sandy brow cocked high. “You know . . . the pre-Napa dinner? To discuss all the details?”

Jamie groaned, thoughts of his sister eclipsing everything else. “That's tonight?”

“Yes, but I can extend your regrets.” Bram buttoned his jacket, eyeing him with concern.

Jamie huffed out a sigh. “No, I'll be there—not for dinner, of course, because I promised Jess chicken from The Corner Bar, but after.” He rose to his feet. “Will you let them know?”

“Sure.” Bram pushed in his chair and ambled toward the door, delivering a knowing smile over his shoulder. “Them? Or her?”

A chuckle rumbled in Jamie's throat as he cranked at his tie some more, loosening it to cool the sweat ringing his collar. He rounded his desk. “Them. I'll take care of her.”

“So far, it looks like you'll be buying your own Dr Peppers for the rest of the year, Mac.” Bram flashed some teeth. “The wager was ‘love' as I recall, not friendship, so I'm not sure how you're going to pull that rabbit out of your hat.”

A smug smile slid across Jamie's lips as he followed his friend into the reception area. “It's called the old MacKenna magic, old buddy, so I suggest you keep your pockets full.” He opened the outer door, allowing Bram to go first. “Because first it's friendship where I woo . . .” He slapped him on the back and shot him a wide grin. “Then it's lovestruck and I do.”