Page 26 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

Danger was imminent.

Emil knew it deep in his gut. Had known it when Mack asked him to attend the suffrage procession just in case.

When he’d found it impossible to refuse, despite his decision to stay away from Olive ever since kissing her had tempted him into cuddling.

When that sweet, funny, distracting woman poleaxed him with her doe eyes while wearing a hat large enough to host afternoon tea for a party of five.

All of that was danger enough, but it didn’t account for the shift of energy currently taking place.

He scanned the procession with narrowed eyes.

Both the suffragists and antis were quickly dismissed.

They wouldn’t be the ones to turn the peaceful demonstration into a disaster.

Where was it? There—on the corner, a swarm of drunken sailors spilled from a saloon, drawn to the spectacle like crabs caught in a tide.

Their laughter was raucous, their steps unsteady.

As Emil watched, one careened into a delivery boy on a bicycle, sending both him and an innocent woman sprawling.

Her companion reacted instantly, his face turning crimson as he bellowed into the sailor’s face.

Those nearest edged backward, only to spill past the barricades and add to the growing disarray.

And Olive and her friends were riding a tin can straight into the thick of it.

“I don’t like this.’

“Neither do I,” Mack replied.

One shove became another, the unrest leaping from person to person like embers in the wind.

Then a bottle arced past, smashing against a storefront behind them.

A ripple of silence followed, the kind that made the hair on the back of Emil’s neck stand up.

Then the shouting resumed, sharper, wilder. Something was happening up ahead.

A man in a sailor’s hat lurched into the street, flapping his arms like a broken marionette.

The nearest automobile—Olive’s—veered sharply.

Emil watched in horror as its tires skidded forward.

A barricade splintered beneath its weight, shards of wood flying like shrapnel.

The women inside were tossed around like rag dolls, and Emil’s stomach dropped.

He surged forward, but the skittish crowd locked around him.

“Jude,” Mack shouted, “Get us through!”

Jude didn’t hesitate. Built like a goddamn locomotive, he plowed forward, shoving men aside with brutal efficiency.

Emil grabbed Mack’s sleeve and yanked him into the opening, and the three of them slid through the churned-up street.

By the time they’d arrived at the wreck, Emil’s chest was taut with—dread?

Worry? He buried the confusing emotions deep and sprang into action.

“Check on the women and I’ll secure the area.” He glanced back to find that Mack was already gone—already at the auto, arms wrapped protectively around the redhead in the front seat like he’d been there the whole time.

Jude, still standing beside him, raised an eyebrow. “Don’t think your orders were necessary, cap’n.”

“Noted,” Emil huffed. “Why don’t you help him out?”

“On it.” With a salute, Jude hurried to Miss Lewis’s side of the auto.

For a very, very brief moment, Emil debated following.

But it was better, much safer, for all involved if he took control of the scene.

His police training had prepared him for such an occasion.

And…if he discovered those doe eyes were full of tears, he might just do something foolish like pull Olive into his arms. In front of her friends.

In front of his friends, who would never let him forget it.

He banished the terrifying thought and dedicated himself to wrangling drunks and directing the remaining autos around the wreck.

Order had almost been restored when he became aware of a loud exchange at his back.

“Put me down, you mutton-fisted lumberjack!”

Emil turned to find Miss Lewis struggling in Jude’s arms, her lower half still in the automobile.

“I’m helping you,” Jude shot back. “Stop wiggling!”

“I can stand on my own!”

“Then why were you sitting there like a lump on a log?”

She groaned. “I hate your forestry puns.”

“No, you don’t,” Jude said cheerfully. “Now, here we go—” He lifted her fully, but she twisted at the same time, and he appeared to lose his grip. One hand shot forward and gripped her lower leg.

Miss Lewis yelped. Jude froze.

“Jude,” she hissed between her teeth, “if you don’t put me down this instant, I am going to pinch whatever bit of skin is under my hand right now.”

“There’s no reason to be embarrassed by—”

“Not. Another. Word.”

“Christ, Sprite.”

She leveled him with a glare that made Emil wince. Jude, to his credit, only set her down gently, then took an exaggerated step back, his hands raised in surrender.

Emil still wasn’t sure what had just happened, but the whole thing was strangely amusing.

A soft chuckle let him know he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

He swiveled, drawn to the sound like a frond caught in an eddy, and found Olive huddled on a stoop.

Winnie sat beside her, busily tending to any angry goose egg on Miss Carlisle’s forehead.

But he only had eyes for Olive.

She was pale, a smudge of dirt streaked across one cheek.

That ridiculous hat still perched on her head, though one side was crushed beyond saving.

And somehow the daft woman was smiling like her life hadn’t just been in peril.

As if a common drunk hadn’t derailed their grand plans.

She replied to something Winnie said in a light tone, but it didn’t feel right.

He took two steps closer and openly studied her.

Her smile wasn’t quite natural. Her posture was a fraction too stiff.

Both hands rested neatly in her lap, the epitome of respectability.

But Emil didn’t miss how she subtly cradled one wrist, as if she thought no one would notice if she looked relaxed enough.

And so far, no one had. Because the sweet fool hated drawing attention to herself.

It really, really bothered him that no one else had noticed.

Discarding his detachment like yesterday’s news, he crouched beside her. “You can stop pretending now.”

Her gaze flew to his, her smile faltering. “What?”

“You’re hurt.”

Winnie paused in her ministrations and looked over. “What?”

He reached for Olive’s wrist before she could protest, his touch careful, yet unyielding. She sucked in a sharp breath. “Thought so,” he muttered.

“Thought wh—?”

“No more whats,” he interrupted. “Olive’s hurt her wrist.”

“Oh, Olive, no,” Miss Carlisle’s voice broke through, full of concern. Emil glanced up to see the ashen-cheeked beauty on the verge of tears. She brushed Winnie’s hands aside and struggled to her feet. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Olive reassured her quickly.

She was too good for this world.

Emil continued to examine her wrist, resolutely tuning out the women’s chatter, including Miss Lewis, who had appeared at his shoulder and was hovering a little too possessively. He didn’t give a damn what she thought. He wasn’t moving until he was finished. Finally, he sat back on his haunches.

“I don’t think it’s broken, but we need to get you to the doctor.”

“We’ll take her,” Winnie said. When he glared at her, she added hastily, “You may escort us. If that’s what Olive wants.”

“It is,” Olive said softly, a soft flush warming her pale cheeks.

“Good.” He stood. “But I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.”

Her mouth opened in a silent oh.

“I have to stay with the auto,” Miss Carlisle said, her tone low and flat.

“Jude and I will stay with you,” Miss Lewis said, reaching out to squeeze her friend’s arm.

“And Mack,” Jude added. “As good as I am with two women—”

“Yes, yes, you’re so manly.” Miss Lewis rolled her eyes. “We know.”

“What I meant was that I can’t bend a warped hood back into place and keep an eye on the two of you.”

“Do you think you can?” Miss Carlisle asked.

“I’ll give it a try. How else will Sprite forgive me?”

“You could start by using my name, lumberjack.”

“Psh. Where’s the fun in that?”

Emil and Winnie exchanged a quick look, and by tacit agreement, they urged Olive to her feet and began to lead her away.

“Let’s get out of here before David skewers Goliath,” he murmured in Olive’s ear.

She smiled up at him, and Emil decided he didn’t care who saw.

Emil hated waiting.

It gave too much time for the adrenaline of action to fade away and be replaced by thoughts. Distressing thoughts. Thoughts like: what if Olive had broken her wrist after all? What if she couldn’t perform for a long time? What if she couldn’t afford food to eat? What if—

What if, what if, what if.

Christ, he was even starting to sound like Olive.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw. It was torture enough sitting with these thoughts for half an hour.

He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to live with undoubtedly more worries every single day.

Obviously, he had troubles. Everyone did.

And his—a lack of success, an over-involved father, and a distracting woman—were particularly bothersome at the moment.

But he didn’t have to worry about having enough to eat.

Or a brother who struggled in school. A mother with some sort of illness that prevented her from leaving the home.

His thoughts flitted back to that day on the floor of his floating house.

He was not in the habit of providing a woman’s first kiss, nor in caring whether he’d fulfilled a woman’s desires beyond the physical.

But there was something about this wallflower that had him acting all kinds of strange.

Hell, he’d tried his damnedest to make her hear angels’ harps, or whatever the hell she wanted.

And as they’d lain tangled together, perilously close to the act of cuddling, he’d felt… content. Peaceful.

It had scared the hell out of him.