Page 25 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

Their laughter was drowned out by the whir of the engine. Olive sat back in her seat, shaking her head with relief. Maybe everything would turn out all right, after all.

By the time the enormous brick clock tower of King Street Station was within sight of the cavalcade, Olive’s nerves had been eclipsed by cautious optimism.

The two dozen autos carrying suffragists downtown had been met with a dizzying mixture of reactions that demonstrated all too clearly the city’s divide.

Support was evidenced in the smile of a young woman in her waitress uniform and the energetic clapping of the elderly man she served outside a café.

That was far better than the censorious glare one woman laid upon them as she yanked her child away, or the offensive taunt a young man yelled from the window of a streetcar as it clattered past. Still others were simply mystified, either by the sight of women in automobiles or the cause for which they fought.

And through it all, Olive’s friends never wavered.

Rhoda was a careful driver, beating a jaunty rhythm with her horn.

Winnie waved her pennant in the front seat, occasionally belting suffrage lyrics at the top of her lungs.

And then there was Clem, their leader. She waved and greeted the women from other suffrage groups in the procession by name.

Pride surged in Olive’s breast. She was lucky to know these strong women.

She was honored to be at their side as they brought the question of woman suffrage to the people.

And she was tired of being a lamb. If Emil were there, he wouldn’t be pleased by her timidity.

He wouldn’t accept it, either. He’d command her to do better.

It would annoy her, but it would spur her into action.

Before her courage could desert her, she unpinned the sheer veil from her hat and folded it across her lap. She welcomed the invigorating, cool wind against her cheeks, and met Clem’s broad—perhaps even proud?—smile with her own.

“Isn’t this exciting?”

“It is,” she admitted. “I’m very glad I came.”

“As are we.” Clem patted her hand. “Remember, Olive. No step is too small.”

Olive nodded, a lump crowding her throat.

“Look, there’s Mack,” Winnie exclaimed, pointing to the crowd lining King Street. “With Jude and Emil in tow.”

The others began waving, but Olive was frozen.

Dread crept down her spine, and she glared at the dratted veil she’d just removed.

Now, more than ever, she wanted to hide behind it.

How could she look at Emil after what they’d done?

It hurt enough to imagine his indifference.

His pity. His disgust. She didn’t need to witness it as well.

But—oh no. What if Emil wasn’t there for her at all?

Was he there to stand with them, or against them?

It occurred to her that she had no idea—he’d never shared his stance, and she’d never dared to ask.

Ninny that she was, she’d become more preoccupied with whether his kisses would make her hear music than his political opinions.

“Who is Jude?” Rhoda was asking.

“He’s the mountain on Mack’s right.”

“Jude LeBlanc, forestry professor and the only man I’ve ever seen eat a whole chicken in one sitting,” Clem added. “I’m not surprised to see him here.”

Winnie’s head whipped around. “You know Jude?”

“Of course. We’ve been on the same side of the picket line many times over the last few years. He’s a good man.”

“Ooh. How about you and me and Mack and—”

“Jude is my friend, nothing more.”

“But—”

Clem let out a peal of laughter. “Winnie, for someone who was so hesitant to fall in love, you certainly are pushing us to do the same.”

“Perhaps,” the redhead said sheepishly.

Love. What would it be like to fall in love?

As if hypnotized, Olive’s gaze rose from her lap, drawn inexorably to Emil’s just as the auto passed him by. She didn’t mean to. She didn’t want to. But it happened.

The instant their eyes met, something flickered across his face.

None of the emotions she had feared, but something entirely different.

Something she’d seen before. There was an almost imperceptible jolt, like he’d received a shock, and a strange gulping motion, as if he’d swallowed too fast. Then the auto moved on, leaving him behind, but his expression was seared into her mind. What did it mean?

“Are my eyes scary?” she blurted.

“Of course not,” Winnie said at once. “They’re a very nice shade of brown.”

Olive’s lips flattened. Clearly, there was something about her eye contact that unsettled Emil, and she needed to know what it was. If she understood it, she could control it. Use it to her advantage. Or, if necessary, ensure it never happened again.

“What I mean is, are they like Rhoda’s?”

“Are my eyes terrifying?”

“Yes,” Winnie and Olive said in unison.

Rhoda’s cackle whipped through the cold air. “I think I like knowing that.”

“Of course you do.” Clem snickered before turning back to Olive. “Why do you ask?”

“Well…” She fidgeted in her seat. She was tempted to tell them everything about Emil, but now was not the time. Not the place. And not when there was every chance she was imagining the whole thing. “There’s a—a man who—who reacts curiously when I look at him.”

“Olive Becket, do you have a secret?” Winnie shrieked.

More like she had a dozen secrets.

“Never mind,” she said in a rush. “I’m being silly.”

“They’re very pleasant,” Winnie assured her. “Large—”

“—and innocent—” added Rhoda.

“—and kind and intelligent,” Clem finished.

Pretty words, but they weren’t answers. None of that would cause the unflappable Emil Anderson to become, well, flappable. Seemed she would never know—it wasn’t as if she could ask him herself.

“You’ll have to tell us all about it later,” Rhoda said. “But right now, I need to concentrate. Something is happening.”

Clem sat forward, frowning. “There are far, far more people here than we expected.” She checked her pocket watch. “I don’t know how we’ll get through in time.”

Olive glanced around and noted with a sinking feeling that Clem was right.

The sheer volume of people pressing in on all sides was staggering.

Pedestrians streamed out of curbside businesses to see what was happening.

Overflowing sidewalks forced people into the street.

A group of men near the corner gestured heatedly, their voices sharp, their words indistinct.

“Ignore them,” Clem called. “Keep your head held high!”

“We’re at the turn,” Rhoda shouted above the crowd. “I’ve got it!”

Olive’s heart thudded against her breastbone, her gaze skittering over the masses flooding the train station drive. Her knuckles were white on the veil, but she forced herself to look ahead. To obey Clem’s command.

“Oh no, the Reverend is already on the stage,” Winnie cried.

Olive craned her neck and spotted the wooden platform in front of the train station entrance. A rotund man with an enormous handlebar mustache was arranging his materials on the pulpit, nodding his head at someone below him. Not someone.

The scary man with the silver-tipped cane.

She gasped. “What’s he doing here?”

“Who?” Clem demanded.

“The man who wants to know who wrote the suffrage anthem.” The words poured from Olive’s mouth without effort. “The man who hired Emil to find me!”

A trio of gasps alerted her to what she’d just done, but she couldn’t focus on that right now. A man who spoke with an anti-suffragist wanted her.

“You’re the anthem writer?”

“Who is after you?”

“Rhoda, look out,” Winnie shouted at that moment.

Olive barely had time to turn before a sailor danced into the street directly before them, a rapturous look on his face as he flung his arms wide.

Rhoda gasped, jerking at the wheel. Maybe they were too close, or maybe Rhoda’s panicked foot hit the wrong pedal, but the car jolted violently forward.

The barricade loomed for one brief moment, and then came the jarring impact and the sickening crunch of steel and glass.

Olive was thrown forward, her breath vanishing in a shocked gasp.

Instinct kicked in, and she flung up her arms to brace herself.

Then she cried out in pain.