Knowing she still had an audience, she gave a weak smile. “Radcliffe got the bullet out and kept my secret. Beau is a villain, but it seems even he has his limits—executing a young girl being one of them. He kept me close as I recovered, and I told him about my mother, made him see why he needed to keep me around. I’d always been a hard worker, willing to do anything, the most menial task or the most dangerous. I think he saw I would just walk straight to the next gangster down the road for work, so he kept me. I became his errand boy, cleaned the offices, organized papers, and eventually rode the trucks as his personal rifleman. A few times a week, Beau took me home, and his wife, Martha, scrubbed me clean and fed me a decent meal before I scampered back to whatever hole I was living in that month.
“When no one was looking, he taught me to read, how to keep the books. Beau is the closest thing I ever had to a father. And he did right by me in his way—made it so I could still take care of my mama. I kept her fed and tended when the rest of the city was starving.”
Eli asked, “What happened to the boy?”
“The boy?” Charlie looked confused.
“The one you were sweet on.”
She gave a breathy laugh and took a swig. “You met him the other night. Tommy Kennedy, Beau’s current right-hand man.”
* * *
At her side, Matthew grumbled and chewed his cigar, glaring at the fire as he thought of the pretty boy who’d kissed Charlie’s hand. He fumed about it so long he’d failed to notice that Nathaniel had passed out, dead drunk, Eli snoring softly beside him. Even Charlotte was lying with her head on her arm, fast asleep.
Tossing the stump of his cigar into the fire, he stared openly at her face for what felt like hours. She shivered.
Slipping off his jacket, Matthew placed it over her before laying down, his head near hers so he might look a bit longer.
When Matthew woke, he found his coat had been returned, draped across him, and the golden girl was gone. Snoring louder than a sawmill, Nathaniel leaned against a crate, hea
d tipped back at what seemed an uncomfortable angle. Beside him, Eli was curled up like a dog, slumbering peacefully as well.
Pulling on his jacket, Matthew walked out to see where on earth Charlotte had got to so early. It didn’t take long to find her, splashing as she was in the stream. Her face and hair wet from the rinse she’d given them.
Spying from a distance, Matthew watched her butcher the doe, wrapping up hearty cuts in paper from her pack.
Unable to resist, he grumbled, “Radcliffe’s going to try to keep you in Chicago.”
Head darting up, Charlie turned her pretty head to find Matthew leaning against a tree. “I suspect he might. I suppose dinner and dancing at the Drake are part of the enticement. Though once he sees my sorry way of dancing, I might just embarrass him enough to have him wash his hands of me.” Charlie turned back to her work and chuckled. “Should be pretty interesting either way.”
His breath steaming in the cold air, Matthew offered, “You danced just fine at the Willard’s barn a few months back.”
Pausing mid slice, Charlie lost all traces of bluster. “I never could figure out why you were glaring at me that night. Especially if you didn’t know who I was.”
“I wasn’t glarin’ at you.”
Turning her attention from the doe, she met his eyes and looked… hurt. “Every time I looked up you were staring straight at me, Matthew—scowling something awful.”
He shifted his weight against the tree, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “New woman in town shouldn’t be dancing with strangers.”
“If I didn’t dance with strangers, I wouldn’t have danced at all. That’s the point of barn dances—to socialize. And if you were so concerned for a strange woman’s public image, then you should have asked me to dance yourself.”
“I don’t dance.”
Sitting back on her heels, somewhat annoyed, she gave him a long look. “If after a lifetime of pretending to be a man I can learn to wear a dress, walk in heels, and dance badly with strangers, then you have no excuse. Coward.”
Grumbling about obstinate, moody men, Charlie finished the last slice of hindquarter. Once it was wrapped, Matthew took her elbow, pulling her to stand.
“What are you doing?”
Setting a hand at her waist, drawing her a little closer, he said, “I’m gonna dance with you.”
Stupidly, she stared. Then, in a very unladylike fashion, wiped her bloody hands down the front of her shirt. A rich blush creeping into her cheeks, Charlie set one dirty hand on his shoulder and the other in a rough palm.
The fallen autumn leaves, slippery under their boots, made her stumble, but before she could make an apology, Matthew lifted his arm and gave her a spin, catching her as she giggled instead.
All silly grins, a breathless golden girl said, “You’re a liar, Matthew Emerson. You can dance just fine.”