He put his arms around her and held her close. "Listen to me. I'm going to help you. All right? Now calm down. You aren't making any sense." He couldn't quite contain his exasperation when he added, "You don't have any children."
"Yes, yes, I do," she cried out. "I have two babies. He's taken them away. My sister… she's dead now and I'm, oh, God, please trust me. I'll tell you everything once we're on our way. I know he's going to run away. We can't take the chance."
She was tearing at his shirt while she pleaded with him. He finally caught her urgency. He didn't waste any more time trying to get the straight story out of her. He collected his weapons, checked each to make certain the chambers were fully loaded, then strapped the gunbelt around his waist. He knew his jacket wouldn't cover the guns, and so he went to his wardrobe and put on his black rain duster. The length of the coat, well below his knees, would conceal his weapons from anyone watching as they passed through the lobby of the hotel.
Taylor ran after him carrying his shoes. He put them on at the door, then took hold of her hand and started down the corridor.
"You better start making sense once we're on our way, Taylor."
He sounded as menacing as he looked. The somber black coat echoed his mood. The collar was up around the lower part of his face.
He suddenly looked very much like a gunfighter. Taylor began to have a glimmer of hope. The coldness in his eyes and the mean expression on his face comforted her.
And all because he was on her side. She needed cold and mean now. Lucas, willingly or not, had just become her avenger.
"Please walk faster," she begged.
She was already running to keep up with him. She was still too terrified to realize what she was saying. She was so shaken, she didn't even realize she was crying until he told her to stop it.
He didn't say another word until they were outside the hotel. Taylor gave the address to the cabbie waiting at the entrance.
"Fort Hill? I ain't taking no fare to that part of town," the driver announced. "Too dangerous," he added with a nervous nod toward Lucas.
The muscle in her husband's jaw flinched when the driver denied the request a second time. Taylor promised to triple the fare, but it was Lucas who finally gained the driver's cooperation. He reached up, grabbed hold of the man's jacket, and almost tore him off his perch.
"You drive or I will. Either way we'll all be leaving in ten seconds flat. Taylor, get inside."
The driver was quick to recognize his tenuous position. "I'll take you," he stammered out. "But once I get you there, I ain't waiting around."
Lucas didn't debate the point. He didn't waste any more time on the man. He got inside and took his seat across from his wife.
Taylor had her gun out. It was a Colt, he noticed, and as shining and unblemished as a new one in a showcase. He concluded she'd only just purchased the weapon.
The bullets were in her lap. While he watched, she deftly flipped the cylinder to the side, loaded the chambers, and then flipped the cylinder closed again. Then she put the gun back in her pocket and folded her hands together.
Lucas was astounded. The fact that she even owned a gun surprised him, but it was the way she handled the weapon that stunned him. She had the gun loaded and ready in less than half a minute… and with hands that were almost violently shaking.
"You know how to shoot?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Your uncle Andrew taught you, didn't he? You weren't jesting when you said he taught you how to shoot and how to play the piano. I remember now."
"No, I wasn't jesting. He's a gun collector. He takes them apart and puts them back together. I'm awkward and slow with six shooters, but I-"
He didn't let her finish. She was going to tell him she was extremely accurate, and that certainly made up for speed in her mind. Her uncle told her she had the eye of an eagle, and it really didn't matter how long it took her to get ready. Men, he'd instructed, needed to be quick, for they liked to engage one another in gunfights. Women only needed to be accurate.
"Give me the gun, Taylor. You'll end up killing yourself by accident. You don't have any business carrying a loaded gun around."
"Can't you get the driver to go any faster?"
Lucas leaned out the window, shouted the order, then leaned back in his seat again. He stretched his long legs out, crossed one foot over the other, and folded his arms across his chest.
He looked relaxed, but she wasn't fooled. The anger was there in his voice and his eyes when he spoke to her.
"I take it you were in Fort Hill instead of Victoria's room tonight."
"Yes."
Even though he knew she was going to admit to the atrocity, he was still infuriated by her answer.
"Who went with you?"
"I went alone."
He'd already guessed that answer, too, and now he suddenly wanted to throttle her. He tried to block the image of her strolling around in the city's most threatening area. Picturing her in Sodom and Gomorrah would have been easier to accept.
"Do you have any idea of the danger you were in?"
He hadn't raised his voice. For as long as she'd known him, Lucas had never shouted. He didn't need to, she realized. The razor edge in his voice was just as effective as a good bellow. She almost flinched in reaction. She caught herself in time.
"Start explaining, Taylor," he ordered. "Don't leave anything out."
She didn't know where to begin or how much to tell him. She was still in such a panic inside she could barely think straight.
She gripped her hands together, implored him to be patient with her, and then told him almost everything.
"I went to visit my sister's children," she began. "Marian died eighteen months ago. She'd been plagued by consumption for several years, and a sudden cold spell that swept through Boston…"
"Yes?" he prodded after a moment of waiting for her to continue.
"Marian wasn't very strong. She caught cold, and it settled in her chest. She died after a month of illness. George, her husband, has been raising his daughters."
"And?" he prodded again after another minute of waiting.
"George took ill several weeks ago. Since there was another outbreak of cholera in the area, we believe that is what he died of, but we can't be certain. Mrs. Bartlesmith wrote us with the news."
"And who is Mrs. Bartlesmith?"
"The babies' nanny. She promised to stay with the little ones until I could get to Boston."
"Go on," he told her when she paused again.
"I went to the address I'd been writing to, but Mrs. Bartlesmith wasn't there. The woman who answered the door was very sympathetic and tried to be helpful. She didn't know what had happened to the nanny or the babies. She made me a cup of tea and then spent a good hour digging through her papers until she found the name and address of a couple named Henry and Pearl Westley. They had worked for my brother-in-law. The wife cooked and the husband did odd chores around the house. The Westleys had hoped the new tenants would hire them on, but the woman told me she didn't want them around. She said she could smell the whiskey on both of them. She told them she wasn't in need of their services, but Pearl Westley insisted she keep her name and address in the event she changed her mind."
"And so you went to the Westleys looking for the children," he supplied.
She nodded. "I didn't expect to find them there. I just hoped the Westleys might know where Mrs. Bartlesmith took them."
"So you went to Fort Hill?"
"Yes. It was clear across town, and by the time I got to the address, it was dark. I thank God the driver didn't leave me stranded. He warned me to be quick and promised to wait for me. Henry Westley opened the door. He told me Mrs. Bartlesmith had died. He wouldn't say how or when. His wife was there. She hid in the other room. She kept yelling at her husband to get rid of me. Both of them were drunk. Pearl Westley's voice was terribly slurred. She sounded scared. He wasn't scared though. He was… insolent, hateful. He shouted back to his wife that there wasn't anything I could do, that it was too late. He acted extremely defiant."