A Candle in the Dark

For my father, Bill,

and for Kany,

who were always there for me
—

even when they didn’t think they were.

Special thanks to Kristin Hannah, for giving me back my spirit when I had lost it, and to Linda, Elizabeth, Jena, Melinda, Liz, and Sharon, for making sure it stayed there.

Light breaks where no sun shines;

Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart

Push in their tides.

—Dylan Thomas

NEW YORK CITY

MARCH 1849

The freezing draft from the open door cut through the stifling, sweaty press of Cavey Davey’s tavern, rousing Cain from his half sleep. He lifted his head, blinking until his vision cleared, and found himself staring at the woman who had just come in the door.

The sight of her almost sobered him.

She was in some kind of trouble. He wasn’t sure how he knew it, but he did. Maybe it was the way she held herself, or the subtle panic that touched her features in spite of her calm demeanor. She believed she was hiding it well, he thought, but Cain had seen that kind of panic before. Too often.

Even so, he was fascinated by the way she moved. He watched her through a haze, watched the regal way she held that slender, delicate body, the way her bearing belied the blatant sexuality of the green satin dress she wore. She was a whore, he realized, but if she’d been in any other clothes he would never have known it.

It was her grace that caught his attention. That, and her hair. She had more hair than he’d ever seen on a woman. It was the color of mahogany, heavy and thick, piled on her head in a kind of loose chignon that looked ready to fall at any moment. He found himself placing a silent bet as to whether it would fall and when, and smiled at the thought.

For the first time in what seemed like forever, Cain felt a surge of desire. It was weak, drowned by bourbon, but it was unmistakable. He toyed with the idea of going up to her, asking her price, but he abandoned the notion quickly. His last coins were gone, the bourbon he’d bought with them already coursing through his veins with the numbing mercy of a benediction. Hell, he didn’t even have enough to buy another bottle—much less a woman he probably wouldn’t even be able to perform for.

He closed his eyes, forgetting the woman, wishing for sleep or, better yet, a free drink. He’d been too long in this smoky, dreary place, but he liked Cavey Davey’s. He liked never knowing whether it would be crowded or not, and he wasn’t sure which was better: the anonymity of a crowd, or the irreverent talk he shared with Cavey Davey when there was no one around. There were too few places like this. Too few places where a man could get drunk enough to forget.

The problem was, he never forgot. These last two weeks, he’d tried everything to escape the latest incident, but he couldn’t drink enough to dull the vision of that poor girl twisting with pain beneath his unsteady hands.

She would have died anyway
. The thought winged through his mind like an elusive breeze.
Even if you had taken the leg. No one could have lived through the infection already racing through her body
. No one. That’s what he told himself, anyway, though it was probably a lie, and he knew it. The truth was, he should never have said he’d help, not once he realized he would have to amputate—and he’d known that practically from the moment her father told him the problem. But he’d been drunk when the man found him, and he’d momentarily thought he was Jesus Christ or something. Besides, he needed the money.

So he’d gone to that broken-down shanty despite his better judgment, had smelled the scent of death in the air, had tasted it. He heard her weak, pitiful cries—cries that wrenched his soul, cries that begged for salvation. His demons had stared at him from that poor girl’s eyes. Questioning him. Tormenting him.

And he had turned around and walked away.

Cain’s fingers trembled as he relived the scene again in his mind. Leaving that room was possibly the only heroic thing he’d ever done in his life, he reassured himself. She would have died under his hand if he’d tried the operation, just as…

Cain squeezed his eyes shut.
Forget it. Just forget it
.

Why the hell had he even tried? Why did he ever?

God, he needed another drink. Another drink would help. It always helped. He picked up the empty bottle, tilting his head to look at it through alcohol-bleary eyes. Nothing, not even a drop. He meant to throw it down, but before he could, it slipped from his nerveless fingers and rolled across the tabletop. He dropped his head onto his arm, watching the bottle roll back and forth, barely moving…

“I need a man.” Ana took a deep breath and plunked the small bag of gold on the rickety table. “Any man.”

Cavey Davey frowned, rubbing his grizzled chin with a scarred hand, his eyes locked on the bulging leather sack. He said nothing, letting the silence grow in the tiny back room.

Ana clenched her jaw and waited, willing herself to ignore the increasing tension. This was Davey’s usual game, she knew from experience. The heavy consideration, the thick silence—all calculated to drive up the price. She had no fear that he would deny her request. At Cavey Davey’s, anything could be bought.

It was why she’d come.

She looked away, studying the rows of bottles sparkling in the dim lamplight, listening to the muffled sounds of the crowd outside the room. Finally her patience snapped. “Well?”

Davey smiled at her uncharacteristic discomposure. “You’d best lay low for a while, Duchess. Do somethin’ ‘bout that cut on your cheek.” His gaze touched her face, lowered to her hand. “An’ wash your ‘ands too. Blood makes a man nervous.”

Ana swallowed. The smell of spilled rotgut seemed overwhelming suddenly. “I don’t need advice, I need you to find someone to protect me.”

“I see.” He studied her thoughtfully. “Then you better tell me wot kinda trouble you got.”

Ana shook back her tumbling hair and lifted her chin. “I think I killed Benjamin Whitehall.”

Davey turned pale. “Wot?”

“The bastard whipped me,” she said coldly. Her eyes narrowed. “I hope he enjoyed it—it’s the last blow he’ll ever strike.”

Davey looked startled, Ana noted with a twinge of satisfaction. He watched her warily, as if her violence toward Whitehall would somehow transfer itself to him. She smiled wryly at the thought.

“I don’t know, Duchess.” Davey shook his head. “Whitehall’s an important bloke—almost as important as the bloody mayor.”

“I’m not sure I killed him.” She adapted quickly to his uncertainty. If she had to lie to get Davey’s help, so be it.

And it was a lie. She was almost certain Whitehall was dead. The thought brought no remorse. Unconsciously Ana touched her cheek, wincing. Too well she remembered the sadistic delight he’d taken in slashing his whip across her face. It had excited him, and he’d been rough with her—so rough she still felt the scratches on her thighs and breasts, still tasted the sharp saltiness of blood on the inside of her lip.

She’d known it was coming. Whitehall had been after her like a dog in heat for months. Until tonight, she’d managed to be busy every time he asked for her. She’d heard the screams and cries from the other girls when he was with them, but Madam Rosalie wasn’t in the habit of turning away such important customers—or their gold.

Ana clenched her hands, again feeling the gummy blood on her fingers. She would never forget the smug smile on the bastard’s face as he fastened his trousers and announced that she hadn’t satisfied him. He had no intention of paying for his abuse. Rage blazed through her at the memory, and she quashed it ruthlessly. She’d paid him back in spades. Whitehall had wanted her; well, he’d had her. If he was still alive, she doubted he’d ever forget the encounter.

Davey took a deep breath and looked at the bag of gold. “Been savin’ it long? For a rainy day, maybe? Or did you steal it from ‘im?”

Ana looked at him coldly. “It’s money, Davey. I didn’t know you were in the habit of questioning your customers.”

“Just want to know wot a man’s up against, Duchess.”

“I need to leave the city,” she said evenly. “Rosalie will be looking for me. Whitehall was the brothel’s richest client.” An ironic smile touched her lips. “It isn’t good for her reputation to have such a prominent citizen murdered in her house.”

“No, I can see that.”

“She’ll be looking for a single woman, not a couple. I need someone to pose as my husband.”

“Well—” Davey rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I got a friend in Buffalo, you can go up there for a while—”

Ana’s throat tightened. “Buffalo’s too close.”

“Wot?”

“I’m not going to Buffalo.”

“But—”

“I’m going to California.”

It was the second time she’d startled him. It had to be a new record. Davey glowered at her, but Ana continued. “Rosalie won’t follow me there.”

“Jesus.” Davey let out a long, low whistle. “That gold country ain’t civilized, gel.”

Ana smiled. “Then it’s perfect. I’m one of Rosalie’s highest-paid girls. What do you suppose a lonely miner would pay for a woman like me?”

His eyes lit with admiration. ” ‘Ow’re you gettin’ there?”

“I’ve got enough money for a steamer ticket to Panama. They’re leaving every day now. The papers say it’s the quickest way.”

“I ‘eard the same.” Davey crossed his arms. “Okay, Duchess. You got a deal. I can find someone for you. Just give me a couple o’ days.”

A couple of days? Ana licked her lips. God, a couple of days was much too long. Rosalie was ruthless. There was no telling what the woman would do, and Ana was too young to spend the rest of her life penned up in jail like a common criminal.

Even though that’s what you are.

No. She was no common criminal, only a woman doing the best she could to survive. Hadn’t she always done that?

Just as she’d do whatever she had to now. Ana smiled coldly. With careful calculation, she curled her fingers around the bag of gold—one of the three she’d stolen from Whitehall. Davey’s hiss of protest sent a surge of satisfaction racing through her.

“It’ll take time to find someone willin’ to go so far,” he argued.

“I can’t wait,” she said steadily, not releasing her hold on the money. “Either you help me, or I find someone else. But I have to go tomorrow.”

His gaze slipped to her bloody fingers. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I guess you do.”

She looked up at him. “Then you’ll find someone?”

“There’s one man,” he said, his eyes never leaving the gold clenched in her hand. “I wouldn’t ‘ave picked ‘im before, but seein’ as you’re desperate…” He shrugged. ” ‘E’s used to travelin’, an’ ‘e’s strong enough, an’ ‘e knows ‘ow to keep alive.”

A brief warning fled through her mind, chased by a growing eagerness. “What else?”

Davey smiled. ” ‘E speaks Spanish—you’ll need that where you’re goin’.”

“He speaks Spanish,” she repeated. It was too good to be true—this unknown man was a godsend. “Take me to him.”

Davey motioned to a small peephole in the door. “Maybe you better look at ‘im first.”

Obediently she bent and squinted. The bar had grown more crowded in the last few minutes. There were people everywhere, more men than she could count. Ana sighed impatiently. “Which one, Davey?”

“See the table in the corner?”

Ana looked. The corner table held one occupant. He was passed out, his dark head rolling on an outstretched arm. An empty bottle sat beside him. “The one with the drunkard?”

“That’s the one.”

“I see it.”

“That’s ‘im.”

Ana snapped up. “Don’t joke with me, Davey. Which one is he really?”

“That
is
‘im.” Davey frowned.

Her heart dropped, hope fled. “You’d send me to California with a drunkard?” she asked tensely. “Do all your customers get such special treatment—or am I just lucky?”

“I trust ‘im.”

“That’s hardly a recommendation,” she said sharply.

Davey shrugged. “You’re the one in a ‘urry, Duchess. Besides, ‘e’s got one thing goin’ for ‘im that no one else ‘ere does: ‘E’ll go.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “He’ll go, you say. Why?”

Davey grinned. “Because, gel, ‘e needs the cash.”

“What for?”

” ‘Is next bottle, o’ course.”

His next bottle. Ana’s lips thinned. Any hope she’d had that this man’s drunkenness was a one-time thing disappeared with Davey’s words. God, this entire evening had been a nightmare.

A drunk
. Despair went through her at the thought. What was she supposed to do now? She couldn’t very well journey all the way to California lugging a man too drunk to take care of himself. Could she?

She glanced at Davey. His arms were crossed over his chest, he was watching her confidently. Her choices were growing fewer as the moments passed, her chances of capture greater. She had no other choice.

Or, truthfully, there was one other choice. She could stay in the city, hiding and waiting until Rosalie found her and either had her killed or brought her to trial. She had no doubt how that would end—with her neck in a hangman’s noose.