Sparring with a spirited British lady is the last thing Will Keegan needs, but he isn’t about to let lovely Julie throw herself headfirst into danger. And as the urge to protect her turns into something more, Will knows he must coax Julie into trusting him, or risk losing her forever…
San Francisco, California
February 6, 1875
Will Keegan opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of his bedroom in the Silken Angel Saloon. His head ached from the pall of bluish smoke that lingered in the saloon, produced by the hundreds of cigars and cigarettes his customers smoked each night. The half bottle of brandy and the pot of coffee he’d drunk, the loud conversation, and the music from the slightly out-of-tune piano also contributed to the pounding behind his eyes.
He’d dreamed the dream again. Dreamed that he was back in Hong Kong with Mei Ling, whose features blurred, merging once again with Elizabeth’s.
Will squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth against the splintering pain in his brain. It was early. The soft light of the Saturday morning barely penetrated the heavy fog, but the clouds of moisture hanging over the city did little to muffle the noise.
Today marked the beginning of the Chinese lunar year. In a few hours Dupont Street and the streets along the waterfront would be filled with more discordant sounds—parades, fireworks, bells and horns, bamboo flutes, cymbals, drums, including the hundreds of toy bolang gu, the pellet or rattle drums sold by street vendors, as well as the squeals of live pigs that would be paraded through the narrow city streets as the residents of Chinatown welcomed another Year of the Pig.
Will hoped that a mug of the strong, scorching-hot brew that passed for coffee and a heaping spoonful of willow bark elixir would ease his head enough to allow him to grab another hour or two of sleep despite the drum banging and the cymbal crashing…and the amazingly clear mezzo-soprano voice growing closer and louder by the minute.
“Not again.” Will sat up, raked his fingers through his hair, grabbed the silk dressing gown at the foot of his bed, flipped the bedcovers aside, and stepped into his boots.
She was inside the building. Inside his saloon…
Will didn’t know who had let the crusader slip through the doors of the Silken Angel, but there would be hell to pay when he identified the culprit.
He didn’t mind religious fervor. He’d grown up with missionaries and had been surrounded by it. His father was minister of the First Presbyterian Church of Hong Kong, his mother had preached the gospel according to John Knox on her deathbed, but a little religious fervor went a long way, and Will was rapidly reaching the end of his patience.
The construction of the Silken Angel Saloon had become a clarion call for every follower of William Booth’s philosophy in San Francisco—and their numbers seemed to be multiplying daily. A year ago, you could count the San Francisco Salvationists on one hand, but the past few months had brought boatloads—all looking to save the city— particularly the Barbary Coast—from itself and eternal damnation.
Will didn’t object to the goal, but he certainly objected to the methods. Between visits from the Salvationists and the Women’s Suffrage and Temperance League, he’d had to replace three bar mirrors, two plate-glass storefronts, a case of whiskey, two tables, and half a dozen chairs. All of that in addition to the breakage caused by the usual assortment of rowdy customers.
He’d nearly reached the bottom of the stairs and was in the midst of shoving his arms into the sleeves of his dressing gown when the soprano reached the refrain.
“’Bringing in the sheaves. Bringing in the sheaves. We shall come rejoicing, bring—’”
He hurried down the remainder of the stairs and collided with the figure standing at the foot of them. The girl looked up, widening her eyes in surprise at the force of the impact. He recognized the look of astonishment and fear as her ugly black boots lost purchase on the polished oak floor and she wobbled backward.
Reacting instinctively, he reached out, grabbed the girl around the waist, and hauled her against his chest. The air left her lungs in a whoosh of warm breath.
“Oh!” came her muffled exclamation. Her hat had been knocked askew and her face was buried in the hair on his chest, revealed by his open robe.
Will held her fast until he was certain she was in no danger of falling, then set her down on the floor and released his hold.
She sucked in a breath.
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sp; “Please…” Will held up his hand. “Don’t sing anymore.”
A startled look crossed her face. “I wasn’t going to sing.”
“Thank God,” he murmured beneath his breath.
“I was going to scream.” She didn’t look up, but continued to stare at his bare chest as if mesmerized by the sight.
Staring down at the top of her head, Will pulled the silk edges of his robe together and knotted the belt. “Don’t do that either.”
“I most certainly will!” she warned, still staring at the bit of flesh left exposed by the wide lapels of his dressing gown, a frown marring the area between her eyebrows. “If the situation warrants it.”
“It won’t,” he muttered. “As long as you don’t sing.”
She looked up at him then, her gaze narrowing in a warning that matched her frown. “What’s wrong with my singing voice? I’m told it’s quite pleasant. And how dare you manhandle me this way?”