Page 24 of A Wager with the Matchmaker (A Shanahan Match #3)

24

Kiernan sat stiffly on the wagon bench. He didn’t know if any Farrell gang members were closing in, but he was prepared, his revolver in hand and at the ready on his lap.

Donahue sat beside him, driving the wagon as it jostled over the rutted lane leading to Wayfair Cemetery, a graveyard where the poorest immigrants of St. Louis were buried. Kiernan had learned Donahue’s brother’s name was Dustin, and the fellow sat in the back, holding the casket steady.

Apparently, the archbishop of St. Louis had recently authorized the expansion of the graveyard into the nearby woodland and was no longer requiring burial payments from the very poor who could instead obtain a Poor Ticket that would allow for a free burial.

Located on the outskirts of the city, Wayfair Cemetery was the best cemetery for the plan—the only plan Kiernan had been able to devise in so short a time.

The carpenter in charge of making the brick molds had been able to rapidly construct the casket from one of the stacks of lumber that had survived the burning. After loading the casket into the back of the wagon, no one had questioned their hasty departure or the explanation that they were taking Torin to the graveyard and then going to the police to report the murder.

Kiernan glanced behind him at the man-sized wooden box Dustin was sitting against. As with the half a dozen other times Kiernan had wanted to open the lid and check on Torin, he refrained and instead surveyed the shadows of the thick forest that surrounded the cemetery.

He had to stay vigilant just in case the Farrell gang was still following them.

As the wagon came to a halt, Kiernan stood and raised his lantern. A chill raced up his spine as he took in the new unmarked graves. They went on endlessly, at least a hundred, if not two hundred freshly dug sites—likely all victims of cholera.

The recent report he’d read in the Republican indicated that over one hundred had died in the past week alone. He’d supposed the number to be an exaggeration, but if each of the many cemeteries in St. Louis looked like this one, then maybe the news was true.

If he hoped to prevent Torin from adding to the death tally, then he couldn’t stand there gawking. He had to hurry.

“Look there.” Donahue pointed to a mound beside the gravediggers’ shed that bordered the older area of the cemetery.

Kiernan shifted his light and then almost recoiled at the sight that met him. The dead were stacked beside the shed, most wrapped in blankets but a few without, revealing pale, stiff corpses.

“Is this the brink of hell itself?” Kiernan whispered, unable to tear his gaze from the bodies piled so casually, as if the people hadn’t mattered and their lives hadn’t counted. Where was the dignity and respect they deserved, even in death?

“Heard the gravediggers died,” Donahue spoke solemnly. “The superintendent of the cemetery had to hire boys to bury the dead, and still they can’t keep up.”

Kiernan lowered himself to the ground, his muscles tense with the need to do something more, anything, to help the poor people of St. Louis survive the disease that was killing so many. But what else could he do?

He’d thought the brickyard and the new tenement would provide fair wages and employment along with a safe place for young men to live. But his brickyard was in shambles. All his hard work, plans, and dreams meant nothing now.

Though the loss weighed heavily upon him, he didn’t have the time to feel sorry for himself. He had to put into motion the rest of his plans for saving Torin.

Kiernan grabbed a shovel out of the wagon bed, then headed toward the graves, carrying the lantern with him and leaving the wagon shrouded in blackness. He surveyed the closest mounds, which weren’t more than a foot apart. There wasn’t enough room for a new grave nearby. They’d have to go farther out.

He didn’t want to take the time to bury the casket, but if they didn’t, they wouldn’t be able to save Torin.

Without waiting for Donahue and Dustin, Kiernan wound his way through the graveyard. When he reached the back corner near the woods, he was relieved to find a hole that had already been partially dug. He set the lantern down and set to work shoveling out more dirt.

A few minutes later, Donahue and Dustin arrived, car rying the casket between them, two more shovels lying on top. They placed the casket on the ground carefully and then helped with the digging.

Less than five minutes later, they had a space big enough. It wasn’t deep, but it would suffice. They lowered the casket, settled it into place, then shoveled the dirt back on top. Once it was completely covered and packed down, they bowed their heads for a moment of prayer. Then with shovels in hand, they returned to the wagon, Dustin sitting in the bed again and Donahue settling into place as the driver.

As the wagon rattled back down the lane, Kiernan kept his head bowed, hoping to look like a defeated man. It wasn’t hard to do since the defeat was growing heavier with every passing moment. He’d let down all the workers depending on him. He hadn’t kept them safe, certainly hadn’t kept Torin from harm.

In addition, his effort to become a prosperous businessman like his da had been unsuccessful. In fact, not only had he failed, but he’d failed miserably. With the extent of the damage tonight, he’d likely lost too much at the brickyard to be able to recover. Even if he hadn’t already been in financial difficulties from overextending his finances, the losses would be too widespread to overcome.

What would he do with a brickyard that lay in ruins? He could sell it to repay Liam for his investment in it. But who would want it? Not with so much needing to be repaired and rebuilt. And not when purchases had all but screeched to a standstill over recent days.

Was it finally time to admit he wasn’t like his da? That no matter what Kiernan did, he’d never surpass his da? Even though Da had started with less, had known fewer people, and had faced more opposition, he’d driven himself and proven himself to be a man of power, ability, and savvy.

Kiernan couldn’t begin to compare to that.

He pressed his lips together to keep from cursing himself for being such a failure. That’s what he was, a failure. He couldn’t even get the woman he loved to agree to marry him the way his da had his mam. Now that Torin was hurt—possibly even dying—his gut told him she’d be even less interested in a match.

“I think we’re still being followed,” Dustin said from the wagon bed.

Kiernan glanced behind them into the dark shadows of the night from the trees and shrubs on both sides of the road. He couldn’t see anything, but he didn’t want to take any chances. The Farrell gang had already proven they had no regard for his business, livelihood, or his workers. He wouldn’t underestimate them again.

As he peered ahead at the winking of lights that revealed the outline of the city, he braced his shoulders. He’d failed at everything else, but he couldn’t let himself fail at saving Torin.