Walking over, she touched the woman’s shoulder. “Excuse me!”
The woman turned. Upon closer viewing, her features, though not beautiful, were arresting, and she exuded an air of authority. Her makeup was smudged, revealing lines caused by years of hard living, but her eyes were sharp and alert.
After looking Hattie up and down, she frowned. “Can’t you see we’re busy? We sure as hell don’t need some temperance lecturer underfoot!”
Hattie stood her ground. “I’m Hattie Longren, and those girls”—she pointed—“are Charlotte Walker, my sister, and her maid, Tabitha. We’re here to help.”
The woman ignored her outstretched hand. “So?”
Hattie hesitated, then turned toward the crowd on the beach. “Ladies!” she shouted. “Form a line between the bay and the saloon. Two at the shore, handing full buckets up the line, and two at the front, emptying them. We can pass the empties back down the same line.”
The prostitutes stayed where they were, afraid to follow her instructions until the woman jerked her head and said grudgingly, “Do as she says.”
In no time, they were tossing water on the flames now pouring from the front door of the saloon. But they might as well have been pouring it on a teaspoon at a time—the fire devoured the water without so much as a hiss.
The woman stood next to Hattie at the front of the line, sweat creating dark patches on their dresses as they worked. After the third time Hattie’s hands brushed against the woman’s, she turned to give Hattie an assessing look. “I’m Mona Starr, proprietress of the Green Light.”
Hattie’s eyes widened. Port Chatham’s most notorious madam. Hattie had heard it whispered that without the philanthropic efforts of the woman standing next to her, the town couldn’t boast about its grand opera hall, or even its new courthouse. Rumor was that Mona Starr also stood between her girls and any man who would abuse them—that prostitutes lined up to work under her patronage.
“I don’t imagine hoity-toity types like you should be touching my kind,” Mona observed.
“I’m not worried.” Hattie took an overflowing bucket from her, slopping some of it down the front of her dress.
Mona looked surprised, then pursed her lips. “You must be Charles Longren’s widow.”
“Yes.” Hattie noticed men hauling crates of liquor down the block. “Where are they taking those?” she asked, pointing.
“The tunnels.”
Intrigued, she followed their progress. Before his death, Charles had related stories of sailors imprisoned in underground caverns until shanghaiers could negotiate their passage on the next ship leaving port, and of young girls, kidnapped and sold into prostitution.
Shivering, she turned to search for Charlotte and Tabitha, relieved when she located them farther down the bucket line, near the beach. The chief of police—a somber, intimidating man named John Greeley who had been outside City Hall when they’d arrived—now stood next to Charlotte, his expression watchful and …proprietary, Hattie realized. She frowned.
Mona glanced in the direction of her gaze. “Don’t you worry about your girls—Greeley will keep them safe from harm.”
“Charlotte is so young.”
“Many of my girls are younger.”
Hattie shook her head.
“Your husband was a customer at the Green Light for a time.” At her stunned look, Mona laughed. “Honey, you’d be surprised who visits my girls. I train ’em good, and the men can’t resist. They just don’t get the same kind of attention at home.”
“You must be mistaken,” Hattie said firmly.
Mona studied her for a moment before handing over an empty bucket. “Charles Longren wasn’t a nice man.”
Hattie stiffened. “I beg your pardon? My husband was well regarded.”
Mona hesitated, then shrugged. “My mistake.”
Hattie would have pressed the point, but a man who stood observing her across the street on the beach caught her eye. Tall and slender, he wore his evening clothes with a casual elegance at odds with his surroundings. Two burly, rough-looking men stood on either side of him, their expressions watchful. The man dipped his head in acknowledgment, staring steadily at her, a slight smile curving his lips.
“Who is that?” she asked, suddenly uneasy.
Mona spared him no more than a glance as she tossed the next bucket of water. “He owns a hotel and some boardinghouses down here.”
Hattie tried to place him. “I think I’ve seen him before—perhaps at a dinner at someone’s house.”
Mona shook her head. “If you do run across him, you’d best steer clear, you hear?”
Two prostitutes burst from the front door of a brothel on the far side of the saloon, falling to their knees and coughing. Hattie ran over to pull them to safety. She heard a scream and looked up. A woman stood in the second-story window, frantically jerking at the iron bars trapping her. Her eyes pleading, she slid from sight. Impulsively, lifting an arm to protect her face, Hattie darted inside.
Lung-searing heat and thick black smoke instantly enveloped her. Pulling her cloak over her head, she worked her way up the stairs, holding her skirts away from flames licking at the risers. She found the woman in the front room, crumpled below the window. When she shook the woman’s shoulder, she stirred and moaned, then coughed.
“Come with me!” Hattie shouted, helping her to her feet.
They crept back along the wall to the stairs, Hattie’s arm around the woman’s waist for support. Chunks of burning roof crashed around them as they stumbled down the steps and outside. The woman collapsed on the front porch, her eyes rolling up into her head.
“Hattie!” Charlotte cried, starting forward, but Greeley grabbed her arms.
Hattie doubled over, coughing and slapping at the flames eating the hem of her dress. She tried to drag the unconscious woman away from the flames, but the woman was heavyset and limp, a deadweight.
“Help me move her,” Hattie rasped to the other prostitutes.
All three of them tugged, but at best, they moved her a few feet at a time. Fire exploded above them, hot glass raining down, and the women screamed and ran. Hattie locked her hands around the woman’s wrists. Using her own weight to drag the woman backward, she stumbled and fell into the mud, only to rise and try again.
Large hands gripped her waist, picking her up effortlessly and setting her down several yards away. The man she’d seen across the street stood facing her. His fingers radiated warmth through the fabric of her dress, but his eyes were as pale and cold as the water in the harbor on a cloudy day. “She’s not worth it,” he said. “Come away, before you get hurt.”
“I’m not leaving her!”
He studied Hattie for a moment. “Remy, Max.” He jerked his head at the woman. “Carry her over to the beach.”
The two bodyguards picked up and carried the woman, dumping her none too gently on the sand twenty yards away. Hattie glared at the man still holding her. “Tell your men to have a care, sir!”
He merely shrugged as if her response amused him.
She stepped away, but before she could reach the woman, a large man wearing a work shirt and overalls walked over and knelt down to examine her.
“I’ll take care of her,” he said quietly. Smoothing the woman’s hair out of her face, he placed gentle fingers against her neck, feeling for a pulse.
The man in evening attire seized Hattie’s arm and led her several yards down the street, his bodyguards flanking them. Then he stopped to face her.
“You shouldn’t be down here, Mrs. Longren. This is no place for a woman as fine as yourself.”