Wings of a Dove (39 page)

    It was Sarah, for all her faults, who loved Delaney enough to sacrifice all to be with him. Allie knew Delaney saw that now, and she knew he would not forget it.

    In the distance a train whistle sounded, and a sob rose in Allie's throat. The echoing sound signaled the approach of the morning train. With a sudden, devastating insight, Allie knew it also signaled, with mournful finality, a last farewell.

    Standing on the railroad platform, Delaney looked at the distant horizon, at the streaks of gray beginning to stripe the sky with morning. His breath was visible on the chill air as he squinted against the brightening light, the pain in his head throbbing anew.

    Silently berating his own stupidity, he recalled his patient attention to that bottle of rye the night before. He gave a short, self-deprecating laugh as he remembered his surprise at the soft knock on his door when he was deeply under the influence of the whiskey an hour or so later. Certain that it was Allie, that she had relented and come to him, he had stumbled to the door, cursing his clumsiness and the stupidity that had allowed Allie to find him in such a condition. His heart had been pounding so hard that he was breathless when he opened the door. But it was not Allie.

    His sense of loss as keen as it had been at that moment the night before, Delaney closed his eyes. Furious with the caprice of fate that had brought him a woman he despised instead of the only woman he wanted, he had finally allowed Sarah inside. Delaney gave another short laugh. And he had given Sarah something to remember him by.

    Dismissing the memory, Delaney touched the corner of the note protruding from his jacket pocket. Insisting that his friend on the
Tribune
would come through, Max had slipped the note into Delaney's pocket before he said good-bye and told him to present it to his friend in person. Delaney supposed he would. He had nothing to lose.

    His gaze dropped to the suitcase at his feet. A note and a suitcase. He was traveling light, much lighter than he had hoped.

    The sound of a whistle in the distance announced the train's approach, and Delaney's heart began a nervous hammering in his chest. He would soon sever all ties with this place, but it would not be a painless separation. He would bleed. He would bleed for the rest of his life.

    A light step behind him a light, feminine touch on his arm and Delaney's heart leaped. He turned, but the joyful words that sprang to his lips went unspoken as he saw Lil's familiar smile.

    "I'm sorry, Delaney. I'm thinkin' you're a bit disappointed it's me." Lil gave a small shrug, her light eyes suspiciously bright as her smile broadened. "If I could change myself into someone else for you, darlin', I sure enough would, but we are who we are, and I suppose we have to make the best of it."

    Smoothing the shoulder of his new dark jacket, Lil appraised the open-necked white shirt beneath, the well-fitted trousers. She touched the brim of his hat with a little snap, her voice a     low purr. "You look delicious, darlin', and I don't mind sayin'
  
I wish with all my might that I was makin' this trip with you."

    Delaney smiled, stroking Lil's shoulder with friendly familiarity. "I'm happy to see you, Lil."

    Lil cocked her head, studying his face for a few short moments. "Well, maybe you are and maybe you aren't, but the fact is, I wasn't about to let you leave with nobody here to see you off. Hell, that isn't civilized and it certainly
isn't lovin'
."

    Delaney's smile dimmed. "No, I suppose it isn't."

    The train whistled into sight, and Delaney squeezed Lil's shoulder as he looked into her face. He was suddenly grateful to have known this woman who had always given more than she had received from him. He pressed a light kiss against her lips.

    "Thanks for everything, Lil."

    A tear slipped down her cheek, and Lil tossed her flaming curls with annoyance as she brushed it away. She curved her small hand around his neck with a flirtatious smile. "That isn't the proper way to say good-bye, boy. Hasn't anybody ever taught you anythin'?"

    Drawing his mouth down to hers, Lil pressed her lips against his in a deep, lingering kiss, releasing him with obvious regret as the train steamed into the station. She waited until he had picked up his suitcase before taking his hand once more.

    "I'm thinkin' you're a fella I'm never goin' to forget, Delaney Marsh, so don't you go
forgettin
' old Lil, either. And if ever you need anythin', you know where to find me. I'm not about to move very far."

    Lil drew back as the conductor called, "All aboard." She smiled as Delaney looked down at the neat roll of bills she had pressed into his hand.

    "I can't take this from you, Lil."

    "Yes, you can, and you will. Consider it a loan, and if you ever get rich enough, you can even pay me back with interest. Now get on that train and wave good-bye to me proper, Delaney Marsh."

    Delaney took the few short steps up to the train. He stood on the platform between the cars as the train whistled once more and lurched forward.

    Lil was waving vigorously, tears streaming down her face, but Delaney's last frantic glance searched the platform, the train yard, the street beyond. He swallowed at the realization that the petite, pale-haired figure he sought would not come racing around the corner of the station at the last moment, wanting to be scooped up into his arms and carried away with him. Her slender arms would not cling to his neck. Her dark eyes would not look up into his with love.

    Lil's smiling face was no longer distinguishable in the distance, but she was still waving. Delaney waved back, then turned abruptly and entered the car. He found a seat and sat down, determined not to look back. He made himself a promise: From this moment on, he would only look forward.

    There was very little behind him worth remembering.

    Unable to run any longer, Allie dropped to her knees in the rapidly brightening field. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she struggled to catch her breath, but she gave little thought to her physical discomfort.

    The shrill echoes of the train whistle were fading into the distance, and she strained to hear the last, plaintive cry. The medal Delaney had placed around her neck slipped outside her dress to hang in her line of vision, and a small sob escaped Allie's throat. Sitting back on the ground, she clutched the pendant in her hand as tightly as the pain clutched her heart.

    When her breathing returned to normal, Allie rose to her feet. She was so empty without Delaney. There was a void inside her she knew would never be filled by anyone else. So she would wait. As long as it took, she'd wait.

    That thought affording her little consolation, Allie turned back to the house. In the meantime, Mother Case needed her.

Chapter Thirteen

    "I tell you, aside from being the longest telegraphic dispatch ever carried in a newspaper in the Northwest and a real milestone, it's great news! Do you realize what it means? This victory offsets Burnside's December defeat at Fredericksburg. It also means a Federal flanking movement in the West is in progress!"

    Delaney considered Peter Mulrooney's statement as he faced him across the desk in his small, cluttered office. In the three months he had been working at the
Tribune
under the wing of this veteran newspaperman to whom Max had directed him, he had witnessed the highs and lows typical of his personality and of his boundless enthusiasm for his work. Pete Mulrooney was a staunch Federalist who would defend the cause with his mouth or his fists if it came to a showdown, despite his being past the prime of youth and having a bad leg.

    Delaney looked down at the four-column report of the Battle of Stones
Riveror
Murfreesboro, as it was known to some. It was a masterful piece by one of the
Tribune's
best correspondents, Albert Holmes Bodman, describing Rosecrans's victory over Bragg in vivid detail. But Delaney felt little emotion other than admiration for a job well done.

    He glanced up into Pete Mulrooney's flushed face. "It's an excellent job of reporting."

    Pete Mulrooney's lined, jowled face, remarkably similar to Max's with its drooping lines and air of seedy dissipation, sagged with disappointment. As with Max, appearances were deceiving. Mulrooney was a top-notch newspaperman and he missed very little with those bleary, bloodshot eyes. His only problem was that he expected everyone to share his enthusiasm. Delaney did not.

    "Dammit, boy, what do you have in your veins? Ice? You act like a newspaperman when it comes to putting words on paper, but that's where it all ends."

    Delaney frowned. "Do you have some complaints about my work?"

    Mulrooney paused, slowly drawing himself to his feet behind his paper-strewn desk. It occurred to Delaney, not for the first time, that all resemblance to Max Marshall came to an end as soon as Mulrooney stood up, for Pete Mulrooney was massive. Well over six feet, he stood eye-to-eye with Delaney only because his carriage was careless and stooped. His excess in height was carried to weight as well, and Delaney figured he weighed close to three hundred pounds. But little remained of what had undoubtedly been an impressive physique at one time. Instead, once broad shoulders were now rounded in a clerical-worker's curve, and a well-muscled chest had deteriorated into a paunch, the result of too many days behind a desk and, as Mulrooney was the first to admit, too many nights at Murphy's Bar.

    But the brown eyes that pinned him from beneath bushy gray brows were astute and piercing, holding him fast.

    "About your work? No, I guess I can't complain about your professionalism. You're all Max claimed you to be in his letters, and I'm damned glad I hired you, especially with the shortage of help we've had here since the war." Mulrooney's eyes narrowed into slits, and Delaney felt his hackles rise.

    "If it still bothers you that I'm not wearing a uniform and lying in a ditch somewhere fighting for the Union, that's your problem, Mulrooney. When you hired me, I explained the goals I've set for myself. Nothing has changed since then, and my reasons for feeling the way I do are nobody's business but my own."

    "And I told you when I hired you that this paper is staunchly pro-Union and pro-Lincoln, that we won't harbor any Confederate sympathizers in our midst."

    Delaney paused, then gave a short laugh. "Is that what you're thinking?" He laughed again. "You couldn't be more wrong. If I were to get personally involved in this conflict, I'd be wearing Union blue, not Confederate gray. I don't approve of slavery. I think every man should have the right to control his own destiny. That's what I intend to do, control my own destiny." Delaney held Mulrooney's gaze fast with his. "But if you're uncomfortable with my outlook, I can look for another position."

    Refraining from an immediate response, Mulrooney considered Delaney in silence, his wild brows meeting over his hawk like nose. He shook his head. "You're a cold bastard, aren't you?"

    "What are you trying to say?"

    "I'm trying to figure you out. I want to be honest with you, Marsh. You've got something special to bring to this kind of work. I sensed it the first time I saw you, and I saw it in the first article you wrote for me. You haven't let me down with anything you've done in the past three months, but the fact is, there's something missing. It's as if you have no feeling, as if nothing touches you."

    "That's my business."

    "Not when it's carried over into your work."

    "I thought you said you were satisfied with my work."

    "As far as it goes."

    "Meaning?"

    "Meaning there's more to reporting than stating the facts. A good reporter brings a sense of the moment to his readers. He goes farther, searches deeper. He gets to the heart of things instead of being satisfied with straight-line reporting. You're intelligent and perceptive, Marsh, so I know you know what I'm trying to say."

    "You're trying to tell me I have no heart."

    Mulrooney considered Delaney's statement. He nodded. "I suppose you're right."

    Delaney gave a shrug. "It took you three months to realize it?" His lips twisted in a hard smile. "I've heard that before. But the truth is, I don't see why my personality should have any bearing on my work. I'm not a columnist. I'm a reporter, and I report events as I see them."

    "I suppose that's the problem your viewpoint. It's frigid. I get the feeling you'd be just as comfortable writing for the
Times
as for the
Tribune
."

    Delaney gave a short laugh. "You're saying that I would have no problem working for the pro-Confederate
Times
when I just told you how I feel about slavery?"

    "I'd say you're capable of subjugating your personal feelings to that extent."

    Delaney shrugged. "Maybe you're right."

    "That's a hell of a note!"

    "But the fact is, I'd rather be working on a paper where that wouldn't be necessary."

    "You have some saving grace, anyway."

    Delaney's small smile faded. "What's the point of all this, Mulrooney?"

    Taking a deep breath, Mulrooney shook his head. "I don't really know, Marsh. I suppose I'm just feeling you out, in a way. You've been working here three months, and I don't feel that I know you any better now than I did when you first walked in that door. You keep to yourself and don't say much, except for things that pertain to your work. From what I've been hearing, you don't even have much of an eye for the ladies, judging from the way you've been ignoring the ones who have taken to frequenting the post office downstairs when you're due to pass by."