The Telegraph Proposal Page 6

  “Because Edgar Dunfree was touching her hair and telling her how pretty she was.”

  Mary snapped her attention back to Jakob. “I was unaware you knew about that.”

  His nostrils flared. “I was there when Luci told us about it.”

  “Then you can understand why it was a mistake to rescue a twelve-year-old girl from a man’s caresses so soon after another twelve-year-old girl was stolen from a brothel.”

  Jakob’s eyes suddenly widened and his jaw fell an inch. “Finn was helping you rescue girls, wasn’t he? He never intended to sell Emilia or her sister to you, did he?”

  “No. He did not.”

  “Is that what got him killed?”

  It was the logical conclusion. And wrong. Finn had been killed by a man Jakob loved and trusted—the same man who’d set fire to The Resale Co. She wasn’t ready to expose those truths yet, but she wouldn’t lie about the risks of her smuggling operation. Brothel owners who’d lost business had killed Sheriff Simpson fourteen months ago while he was attempting to transport a girl to the train line. Mary shivered. If those same brothel owners ever discovered she’d masterminded over thirty rescues in the past twelve years, they’d glory in torturing her to death. “This is dangerous work, Jakob. More than one person has given his life to help me.”

  Jakob rubbed his earlobe and stared across the space between them.

  “I will think no less of you should you decline to join us.” Although it would mean she’d have to put off plans to punish the man responsible for Finn’s death. She needed leverage and—this early in the game—she couldn’t bluff. She’d already planned out a rescue for Tuesday in which Jakob could take a small part. She didn’t need much from him. Just enough that her threat had teeth.

  Jakob lowered his hand. A slow grin lifted his lips. “Madam, I’m your man.”

  Chapter Four

  Saturday, May 5, 1888

  The Import Co. Grand Opening

  He was admiring a set of silver candlesticks imported from Spain when Madame Lestraude strolled up, a primal smile on her rouged lips. She held out a folded piece of parchment sealed with burgundy wax imprinted with a solitary rose.

  Furious at her bold approach, he took the letter. “I hope you’re enjoying the grand opening.”

  “Immensely. Everyone is abuzz with the grandeur of the store and Mr. Gunderson’s withdrawal from the mayoral race. I can only imagine your feelings on the matter.”

  “It came as something of a shock.”

  “Ah.” The puff of air conveyed nothing. “As for me, the announcement was . . . enlightening. A pleasure to see you as always. I trust we will meet again very soon.” With that, she bid him adieu and slipped back into the crush of people eager to touch, smell, and own pieces of the world outside Helena.

  He snapped the wax seal while checking to see how many people noticed their exchange. No one was looking at him with shock or censure—why would they, when Big Jane, Chicago Joe, and several other wealthy brothel owners were shopping and exchanging pleasantries in their midst?—but his chest remained tight. He glanced down and read:

  Why declare war? He’d done nothing to her family. Emilia McCall had escaped the fire with no damage save a bit of ash falling on her hair and shoulders.

  He crumpled the parchment between his fingers. The madam and her enigmatic message would have to wait. He weaved his way closer to the door. His lungs needed air untainted by scented candles, quarreling perfumes, and hair pomade. As he stepped into the sunshine, he saw Madame Lestraude step into her carriage. Her driver closed the door and mounted the box.

  Madame turned, her eyes on him as deliberate as her slow pull drawing down the shade.

  Did she think he would come to her now? No, their next meeting would be the time and place of his choosing.

  Only ...

  He craned his neck to look over his left shoulder and then his right. No one would think twice if he crossed the street to join husbands biding their time with cigars and conversation while their wives spent money on things they didn’t need but could afford. From there, he could stroll to the shuttered bank as if he was returning to his office and duck into the carriage when no one was looking.

  Fisk lifted a hand in greeting.

  He waved back and stepped into the street, careful to avoid the dense piles of manure testifying to the success of today’s grand opening.

  He took his time chatting with Fisk, Cannon, Watson, and several other important men of Helena, relishing the way it kept Madame Lestraude waiting. Her carriage remained motionless except for an occasional horse’s stamp of impatience. Anyone who had noticed her ascent was gone, and everyone else would think it empty.

  He excused himself from the men after sparking a debate sure to consume their full attention. As he drew even with the door of her carriage, he stopped, pulled out his pocket watch, and pretended to check the time while skittering his gaze left and right to see if anyone was watching him.

  No one.

  He opened the carriage door and climbed inside. “I am not your lackey to command.”

  “Yet here you are.” Madame Lestraude knocked on the wall of her carriage and it sprang to life. “Don’t worry, we shall set you down somewhere close enough for you to walk back to the grand opening, but far enough away that no one will observe your descent.”

  “What if someone had seen me?”

  “Then you should have taken even more care in your circuitous route.” She inclined her head toward the curtains. “I find it quite useful to observe without being observed myself.”

  He picked up the cane he’d tossed inside before his hasty ascent to cover his embarrassment. “What is so important it couldn’t wait until a more opportune time?”

  “Ah.” The syllable scraped across his nerve endings. “I shall enlighten you, because Helena has grown too large for one man to know all that goes on within it.”

  His pride pricked, as she’d meant it to. Once upon a time he had known everyone and everything that happened inside of Helena. Had campaigned on it, as a matter of fact. The city was too large now. He was no longer at the center of every social circle as he once had been.

  “Alfred and Martha Deal, in addition to running a second-rate boardinghouse, sell women who will not be missed into prostitution.”

  He jerked backward against the padded seat. “How long have you known this?”

  “It doesn’t matter. As long as people stay out of my business, I return the courtesy.” She paused for a moment. “Sometimes the Deals ride the trains, offering their card and a shoulder to cry on to naïve young women who, when their rosy dreams are shattered, want to disappear to wallow in self-pity. They approached Emilia on her way into town last year.”

  “I assume they did the same for Miss de Fleur.”

  She nodded.

  “Excuse my cynicism, but why do you care?”

  “Were it just Miss de Fleur, I wouldn’t. She made her bed, so she can lie in it.”

  Her callous answer didn’t surprise him, but he was hard-pressed not to reach across the seat and throw her from her own carriage. “So why the dramatic declaration of war?”

  “Because she dragged my Nico along with her.”

  “Your Nico?”

  “He’s a good boy. I’m thinking of adopting him when he gets back from his grand adventure.”

  He choked on a laugh. “Replacing Mac?”

  “Nico loves me as the mother he’s never known. Mac keeps telling me love can redeem any soul. Who knows, maybe it will.” She pierced him with her brown eyes. “Nico is family.”

  “Fine, but I’ve not hurt the boy.”

  “Oh, but this was not our agreement. You were not to even threaten my family.”

  He gritted his teeth. He didn’t see the connection and he didn’t want to ask.

  “Your fire at The Resale Company resulted in a breach of our . . . understanding. This was not your intention, but the consequences will be meted out just the same.” She co
cked her head. “I’m curious. Did you set it yourself or hire an underling?”

  He’d used one of his best employees, a man who had followed instructions to the letter before slipping out of town unnoticed. Unlike Edgar Dunfree who, against orders, used his own name to purchase the printing press, a sale recorded and preserved in a cloth-bound ledger now burned to cinders. If anyone else made the connection between a man who used to boast of their once-close working relationship, the leveling foot found in Collins’s barn, and a printing press, there was no longer any proof.

  “Are you afraid your Nico will be accused of arson given his . . . other activity?”

  Her patronizing smile mocked his mimicry of her dramatic pauses. “You refer to his vandalism at The Import Company, of course. I have chastised him and acknowledge that he played some part in the threat against him for which I blame you.”

  “Speak plainly, woman. I tire of your games.”

  “Very well. In plain terms, you pitted Isaak and Jakob Gunderson against each other by using Miss de Fleur to fuel their long-standing rivalry as a means to force Isaak from the mayoral race. As a result, in the literal heat of the moment, they humiliated the girl with dual proposals. She turned to the Deals for a solution. Nico, although he loves me, is more attached to his sister. He planned to flee with her and would have met with her same fate. My disgust for children conscripted into prostitution is well-known to you. It is for this that I will destroy you.”

  “How could I have foreseen such a convoluted turn of events?”

  “Ignorantia juris non excusat. I laid down the law, and now I will not excuse you.”

  He tapped the gold-plated top of his cane. “You’ve gone to great lengths to keep your little rescuing ring hidden from the other brothel owners, and with good cause. How do you propose to destroy me when I have the means to destroy you as I did Hendry by stirring up hatred against you?”

  Her countenance held no fear. “When one side has all the weapons, it is a slaughter. That is why, my dear Jonas, this is war.”

  * * *

  After peering through both windows of Madame Lestraude’s private carriage to confirm that the street was vacant, Jonas yanked open the door and descended before anyone could see him. Everyone knew he’d helped the woman set up her business years ago, before prostitution became illegal. If anyone questioned why he was speaking with her, he could always use their prior connection to say he was now helping her diversify her businesses with completely legal ventures. She wasn’t the only madam in town doing the same.

  People would believe him. That was one benefit of being a judge. However—if he told his lie too often—someone might check his veracity, and that would never do.

  The coachman wasted no time cracking his whip over the horses’ heads, setting them in motion. They clattered down the dusty street in the direction of the red-light district where, presumably, the madam would begin preparations for the evening entertainments at her brothel, Maison de Joie.

  If only he could set fire to her business the way he had The Resale Co.

  Jonas tucked his cane under his arm—it was just for show anyway—and hurried toward City Hall. For the sake of his finances, he needed to give up his office there, but it had taken him years to procure the space. He wouldn’t give it up easily.

  City Hall was nearly empty. Jonas greeted a few people with his most genial smile, but once inside his office, he let his mask fall away. He locked the door behind him and pulled out Madame Lestraude’s declaration of war. He ripped the note in half, then in quarters, and kept ripping until it was shredded. He tossed the pieces in the waste bin to be burned later.

  Madame Lestraude’s convoluted story about why she’d declared war between them was a sham. She didn’t care about that street urchin, Nico. No, she was angry about Finn Collins. She’d blamed herself for his death, thinking it was because he’d been caught smuggling one of the young girls she rescued from prostitution. But ever since she found out Finn died because he’d repaired Jonas’s printing press—the one churning out pages of near-perfect counterfeit money to finance his eventual bid for U.S. Senator when Montana became a state—she’d been looking for revenge.

  Jonas paced the small confines of his office. He’d once seen a caged lion, frustration seeping from every muscle of the great animal at his impotence. He felt the same way.

  His bid for senator would be costly, and his counterfeiting operation—even running nonstop—wasn’t enough. His house was still heavily mortgaged from borrowing against it to finance his mayoral bid four years ago. Lily didn’t know they’d almost gone bankrupt, and he’d do everything in his power to keep her from finding out. Nor was he putting her in danger of losing her home ever again. He’d promised her a mansion as large as Pauline Hollenbeck’s. Lily said she didn’t need more than what they had now—she was truly a ruby beyond price—but Jonas was determined to see her in the home she deserved.

  Although there was a limit to the number of people who could be eliminated while he went about fulfilling his promise.

  Joseph Hendry, the nosy reporter from the Daily Independent, had uncovered the counterfeiting operation last December. Jonas had rectified the problem, but it was only a matter of time before his lucrative scheme was exposed again.

  Madame Lestraude knew about it, and her son was the sheriff for Lewis and Clark County. Jonas had specifically warned his men to keep the counterfeit bills out of Helena and the surrounding county, but they were trickling in. It was inevitable. Sheriff McCall and Marshal Valentine weren’t fools and, unlike other law officers around the territory, were impervious to bribery.

  Which reminded Jonas of another frustration. Harold Kendrick was interceding on behalf of too many criminals, interrupting the flow of convicts Jonas was using as free labor in his copper mine. Using convicts was illegal, but it wasn’t hurting anyone. Only now Kendrick was drying up the supply.

  Fred Drum—the warden of Deer Lodge Penitentiary—was part owner of the mine because he could deliver plenty of convict labor. He was a portly man inclined to do as little as possible for the greatest amount of gain. He was worried that Kendrick knew too much, worried the mining operation would be uncovered, and worried his heart couldn’t take the strain. Jonas doubted Kendrick knew about the mine. Most likely the mayor was drying up the supply of convicts for some nefarious reason.

  But what about Madame Lestraude? Did she know about the mine? Jonas wasn’t sure. She’d threatened to shut down “every one” of his illicit businesses. He only had two: counterfeiting and the mine. Clearly, she knew about the first. She was probably just guessing he had more than the one, but he couldn’t afford to underestimate her.

  She needed to go, but she had countered his best move against her before he’d known they were playing a game. After restating her declaration of war, Jonas had countered by saying he’d tell Big Jane and Chicago Joe—the two brothel owners who’d most recently lost girls to Madame Lestraude’s smuggling operation—that she was to blame. The woman laughed in his face. “No you won’t. Not when Jakob Gunderson participated in a rescue last Tuesday night.”

  Jonas pounded his fist on his desk, the stacks of books and papers jumping in response.

  He loved his “boys.” He and Lily had never been blessed with children. Their dear friends, the Pawlikowskis, taught their twins to call him uncle and his wife aunt. Jonas and Lily had even made the boys their heirs. Years later, when Hale left home for Helena, he had truly become a son. They changed their will, making their once-distant nephew their sole heir. Though Isaak and Jakob were no longer his heirs, Jonas still loved them. If he exposed Madame Lestraude while Jakob worked for her, he might be killed along with her. Jonas wasn’t willing to take that risk.

  No. He had to come up with a different plan.

  For now, he had to make sure Hale was elected mayor so he could become a judge as soon as Montana became a state. Of Jonas’s two illicit businesses, the mining operation was the most sustainable. He needed
sheriffs and marshals to arrest criminals. He didn’t care if the men were honest—like McCall and Valentine—or corrupt, as long as they kept a steady flow of convicts heading to jail. The important cog in the process was the judges. Jonas needed men with a pronounced sense of justice who would impose maximum sentences. Hale Adams was just such a man and would be impervious to bribery by someone like Kendrick.

  But first Hale needed to win an election to prove he could do it—to himself and to the people who would vote for the first judges in the newly formed state. The same people who would vote for the first senators. Jonas needed them to see that he still had enough political clout to defeat Kendrick without going up against the man directly. Besides, if statehood came as soon as Jonas was hearing it would, he didn’t want to be stuck in the mayor’s position when he was unmistakably the best man in the territory for the job of U.S. Senator.

  Jonas inhaled and exhaled with a whoosh. He needed to collect himself and return to The Import Co.’s grand opening. Hale had announced his candidacy, but the boy was at a loss when it came to campaigning. He’d need all the help he could get. Especially from the Honorable Jonas Forsythe.

  Chapter Five

  Mrs. Hollenbeck shook Hale’s hand. “I’m delighted you’re running for mayor, Mr. Adams. You can expect my full support.” She spoke loud enough for the next five people in line to hear.

  “Thank you, ma’am. That means a great deal to me.” Hale squeezed her hand gently, his face aching from smiling and his shoulders hot from the sun.

  He moved to the next person in line. They weren’t here for him. None of the people in line were. They were waiting their turn to enter The Import Co.—the newest store in town. Emilia McCall was posted at the door, allowing a handful of people in as others left to keep the new store from overcrowding. Hale’s job was to take advantage of their wait by shaking hands and making sure everyone received “Helena Needs Hale” buttons. He’d run out of them half an hour ago, giving the basket to Miss Palmer when she stopped by to see how many were left.