Page 24 of Written in Secret (The Art of Love and Danger)

C HAPTER 24

A brAHAM WATCHED L YDIA THROUGH A side-glance. The ride between the bank and O’Dell Publishing was hardly sufficient for her to regain her composure. Even with the carriage’s curtains pulled back, she looked wan and frightened. The fact his name was about to appear in the papers as Poe’s competition for Lydia’s hand didn’t sit well with him either. Not that the idea of being Lydia’s beau wasn’t enticing, but the announcement could escalate Poe to violence toward him—or worse, toward Lydia. Though the desire to hold and comfort her ate at him, Abraham remained anchored in place. Friendship was all he could offer. That, and his protection and determination to find and arrest Billy Poe.

When he and Lydia arrived, picketers maintained their demands for accountability. Abraham instructed the driver to find an entrance at the back of the building. The alley was free of obstructions, and nothing that indicated a threat hid in the slanted afternoon shadows. Still, tension pulled at Abraham’s shoulders as he assisted Lydia from the carriage and ushered her to the door. Not surprisingly, it was locked.

“I’ll bang on Marcus’s office window and have him let us in.” Lydia took a few steps deeper into the alley but paused when he followed. “Wait here. I’m not sure how he’ll respond if he sees you with me.”

The placating smile she offered did little to comfort him, but it was only a dozen feet. He would still be close enough if trouble occurred.

Lydia peered through Monroe’s window, then rapped.

It opened in a rush. “What are you doing here? It isn’t safe.”

Even from this distance, Abraham could see the distress pinching her face. He took a few steps toward her, but she waved a hand below the view of the window to stop him.

“I must speak with Mr. O’Dell.”

“Climb in. I’ll take you to him.” The window lifted the full height, and Monroe’s arms stretched out.

Lydia stepped out of reach, and the reprimanding tone that accompanied her words would make any mother proud. “I am a lady, Marcus. I absolutely will not climb through that window. Come open the door like a gentleman.”

There was some mild grumbling before he closed the window.

She rejoined Abraham and folded her arms. “I swear, the man thinks I’m just like the characters in my books.”

“Not to defend him, but you did steal a goat from the circus while dressed as a clown.”

A mischievous smile softened her frustration. “And I’ve walked George Street in the dead of night, pretended to be a server at a gambling den, and shot a rifle, all for research. But have no fear; a target could be three feet in front of me, and I’d probably miss.”

“That’s more worrisome than knowing you could hit a man at twenty yards. If you’re going to shoot, you should do it right.” In fact, all of it was worrisome. George Street? She was lucky she hadn’t walked away ruined or ended up dead.

“Are you volunteering to teach me?” She fluttered her lashes and clasped her hands to her chest in dramatic fashion. “You are my beau, after all.”

The door flew open.

“He’s your what ?” Surprise and outright anger burst from Monroe.

Of all Egleston’s words for her to have chosen to proclaim at that moment.

“She was jesting,” Abraham said.

“Don’t be silly. He’ll read about it in the papers soon enough.” Lydia looped her arm around Abraham’s and smiled sweetly at Marcus. “Thank you for letting us in.”

She and Abraham passed Monroe, who struggled to subdue his temper into a mask of composure. Abraham stiffened. Giving his back to Monroe opened the chance for the man to stab him with a pen. Thankfully Monroe must have left it behind.

“Is Mr. O’Dell in his office?” Lydia’s voice feigned lightness, but underneath, Abraham discerned fear.

“You had better let me announce you. He was in a foul mood this morning.” Monroe cut between them with such force, Lydia was forced apart from Abraham.

After catching her balance on the wall, she glared at Monroe. “I know you’re upset, Marcus, but really? Was that necessary?”

“It couldn’t be helped. The hall’s not wide enough for the three of us.” He stalked ahead of them and banged on O’Dell’s door before disappearing inside.

Abraham lowered his voice. “You shouldn’t antagonize him. Now we are both targets, which makes protecting you even harder.”

“Nonsense. You’re a police officer. You’ll be fine. You deal with danger all the time.”

How could a woman who wrote the stories she did and had a coroner as a father be so naive? “This isn’t a romance novel, Lydia. Officers don’t have immunity from death. Every day is a day I might not come home. Just last week, Officer Chumley was murdered inside the Ninth Street station house with three officers standing right next to him.”

Wide-eyed horror mirrored his own reaction when he’d first heard the news. He should regret his bluntness, but she needed to know this was serious.

Her head shook in violent denial. “That won’t happen to you.”

Would that her proclamation could make it true. He clasped her shoulders and tilted his chin down so that she couldn’t escape his gaze. “It could, especially with a jealous madman on the loose.”

“Oh, Abraham. I’m so sorry. I …” Her eyes’ shimmering depths declared she really did care for him.

She kissed you to win a bet.

The reminder was supposed to be a warning, but it just made his attention flick lower. What she’d done couldn’t be called a kiss, and her absolute mortification had proven it done without thought. Still, the soft whisper of her lips against his had shot through him with shocking force and left a lingering desire to see what something longer might feel like.

O’Dell’s door opened, and Monroe stepped out. “You may come in.” The frost in his words matched the stabbing icicles of his glare.

Lydia stepped out of Abraham’s hold and offered Monroe a weak smile as she entered the office. Abraham followed, and Monroe shoved a shoulder against his back under the guise of standing too close while shutting them all, himself included, into the room.

O’Dell didn’t bother to rise. “You had better have that manuscript with you, Miss Pelton. Someone broke in last night and destroyed our largest press. We’re rushing the edits for both your latest romance and your newest Poe novel. I need them out while your popularity still allows for twenty-five-cent sales instead of the normal fifteen.”

The greed of that man astounded Abraham.

Lydia looked to him, and the earlier fear and insecurities she’d confessed to God showed on her face. Abraham had promised he’d stay by her side, and that was what he’d do. He stepped forward and laid an encouraging hand to her back. No words passed between them, but he felt the deep breath she took for courage. She lifted her chin and reached into her reticule.

“Actually, I’ve come to return the advance given to me for the next Billy Poe novel.” She laid the folded money on the desk and stiffened her posture. “I won’t be writing it or any future novels.”

“What?” That brought the man and his large girth out of his chair. “You cannot break your contract.”

“On the contrary, according to the penalty clause, my contract can be broken provided the advance is returned with forty percent interest.”

Forty percent? Abraham knew moneymongers who required less.

O’Dell sputtered for a moment, then regained his slimy, self-assured composure. “Without a Poe novel, I won’t publish your next contracted romance. You’ll owe me the advance plus forty percent for that one too.”

“I expected as much.” She retrieved more money and laid it on the table. “This is the full sum plus interest for breaking both contracts. There will be no future submissions from me. I will not be picking up a pen again.”

Monroe rushed forward and turned her toward him. “You can’t let them win. You must keep writing.”

Abraham forced himself to remain rooted in place. Lydia made no attempt to remove herself from Monroe’s grip, nor did she appear more uneasy than before. Unless she or Monroe gave him a legitimate reason, Abraham would not intervene, no matter how much he desired to pull her to safety.

Lydia shook her head. “I can’t.”

“What you do is more than write words. You give hope and justice to those who cannot find it any other way. Think of the letters you’ve received. This is your purpose in life. You can’t give it up.”

Her face softened with compassion and strength. “No, Marcus. I’m finished pretending I know better than God. Those men were exonerated, and whether I agreed with that decision or not, I didn’t have the right to condemn them to death. I will not be responsible for one more lost life.”

“You aren’t responsible for their deaths. They are just words. Meaningless words.”

Monroe stood as a pillar of contradictions. First, what she did was more than words, but now those words were meaningless? It was the sort of twisted logic a man like Billy Poe might believe.

Lydia folded her arms and cocked her head. “If they are so meaningless, why are five men dead, three fearing for their lives, and Cincinnati crying out for my own indictment? All words have meaning and power, Marcus. And I have wielded that power in the worst possible way. I cannot do it any longer. Please don’t ask me to.”

He stepped back from her, his face twisted in betrayal and disgust.

O’Dell rounded his desk. “You’re making a mistake. With your popularity, you could become a very rich woman.” He waved the money from his desk in the air. “This is only the start of what you will be losing.”

“Saving a man’s life is worth the cost. Good day, gentlemen. Our association is now over.” Lydia pivoted toward the door, and Abraham rejoined her side. For a brief moment, her hand clasped his, as if she were garnering the courage to walk out, then she grasped the brass knob.

Mr. O’Dell cleared his throat. “Not quite so fast, Miss Pelton. Given that your manuscript was due soon, I assume that you have a good portion of it already written. Is that true?”

Lydia remained facing the door. “It is.”

“And do you still have that unfinished manuscript?”

“I do.”

“I will purchase your unfinished manuscript for the price of your Billy Poe advance, minus the interest. Marcus is familiar enough with your writing. He can finish it.”

She glanced at Abraham, then slowly turned around.

No. She couldn’t be considering that offer. Her savings might have suffered from her choice, but if her bank statement were any indication, she could well leave that money behind and still have plenty to buy whatever baubles she desired.

Abraham whispered, “Don’t be tempted. Remember what’s at stake.”

She took a step closer to O’Dell. “You do know if you were to publish it, a man might die?”

“The police will catch him long before that. This book has the potential to give him a second chance at life. Just think. He’ll have escaped a jury and a vigilante. It might very well be the thing that turns him into a model citizen.”

The slithering snake. Given the man was Clemens’s uncle, it must run in the family.

A glimmer of hope sparked in Lydia’s eyes before a frown dug its furrows in her forehead. The war of uncertainty showed her as susceptible as Eve to Lucifer’s tongue. O’Dell knew the lengths Lydia had gone to be published, had heard her arguments for quitting, and now, instead of releasing her, he sought to entrap her by her desires.

That might have worked if she were alone, but Abraham would not stand idly by. Ultimately the decision was hers, but he would fight for her even when she battled against herself.

He slipped his arm around Lydia’s and leaned in. “Why are you debating? You know what you came here to do and why. Nothing has changed.”

Her head snapped toward his, and their noses brushed. The painful reminder of her victorious bet shot straight through and made him flinch.

Lydia angled away and offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry, and thank you.” The next response she directed at O’Dell. “As tempting as your offer is, I cannot accept. Good day.”

“Both advances, then.”

She shook her head and turned her back, Abraham gladly following her lead.

“Both advances with the interest returned.”

She stilled, and Abraham could feel the battle resuming.

O’Dell sensed it as well and jumped on her indecision. “Three hundred and forty dollars is more than I’ve ever paid for a manuscript, and you don’t even have to finish it. You’ll get the money and potentially save a man’s soul.”

Abraham closed his eyes and waited for the battle to be lost. Change was too hard. The temptation too great. Greed always won out, leaving someone to be hurt in the end.

“No.” The single, confident word left no room for more argument. Lydia released Abraham’s arm and exited without a backward glance.

In that moment, Abraham could honestly say he’d never been prouder of another person. He grinned as he trailed her into the hall and closed the door on O’Dell’s attempts to offer a more enticing bribe.

O’Dell’s muffled voice rose, but Lydia kept marching.

By the time she reached the corner, Abraham had caught up. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you. I don’t know that I could have walked away without you there.” Her steps slowed, and a heaviness seeped into her tone. “The money didn’t tempt me so much as the thought that maybe there was still a purpose for my writing. What if he was right and this last story didn’t bring judgment but restoration?” As they reached the door, her eyes found Abraham’s. “What if my stories actually made a positive difference?”

The desperate, broken wistfulness pleaded with him to understand, and made his chest ache with compassion for her. “God may not be calling you away from writing forever. He may choose to restore that part of your life some day in the future.”

“Not after what my stories have done. There is no hope of restoration for my writing.”

He cupped her cheek and prayed she heard his next words down to her very soul. “With Christ, there is always hope. After all, He’s the Author of life.”

“And I have been the author of death.” She pulled away and walked into the alley.

“You give yourself too much power, Lydia. Remember, it’s sin, not literature, that corrupts a man’s heart.”

Her eyes shimmered with sadness as she stopped at the hack’s step. “You can’t use my words against me when you don’t even believe them yourself.”

“Maybe I didn’t at first, but I do now.” He grasped her hand under the guise of aiding her, but he didn’t let go as he joined her inside. The need to be physically connected to her as he spoke was too strong. “You and this case have challenged my thinking. I still disagree with the existence of your Billy Poe novels, but the deaths of these men are not your responsibility. Stop writing for now, but be open to the possibility that, after a time, God may call you back to it.” He reluctantly released her hand to sit across from her.

The tender way she regarded him made him reconsider his declaration that they forget about her kiss.

Monroe burst out of the building’s rear exit. “Lydia, don’t leave!”

Curse that man. Abraham closed the carriage door before Monroe could reach them, but Lydia leaned out the window.

“I’m sorry, Marcus, but it’s over. I can’t do this anymore.”

“You don’t have to. Just give me the manuscript, and I’ll write something you’ll be proud of.”

“There is no ending to a Billy Poe novel that I could be proud of. He’s ruined it for me. Goodbye.” She pulled back from the opening.

“I’ll pay you whatever you want. Double, even triple, what he offered inside.”

She heaved a sigh and leaned back out. “It’s not about the money.”

“Maybe not for you. He needs that story, Lydia. He’s already spent the money from advance orders on those special edition reprints.”

“That was his poor decision, not mine.”

“Then do it for me. O’Dell will fire me if I don’t get this story from you.”

Abraham frowned. Desperation made a man dangerous. It was time for them to leave. He tapped on the roof and silently indicated for Lydia to take her seat.

“I’m sorry, Marcus. My answer’s still no.”

The carriage jerked into motion, and Abraham steadied her with a hand until she sat across from him.

Monroe ran alongside them, his shouts filling the carriage’s small space. “After all I have done for you, you would treat me like this?”

Abraham tugged the curtain closed. There was no reason for her to witness such a demonstration.

“You’re making a mistake! People will forget you, but they’ll never forget Billy Poe.” Monroe’s words became breathless, but they held no less sting as they echoed down the alley. “You’re abandoning your legacy, your purpose! What are you if you’re not a writer? ”

Lydia flinched as if Monroe had physically landed a punch.

Abraham slipped to her side and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You did the right thing.”

Tears slid down her cheeks as she clenched wads of her skirt together. “Just keep telling me that until I believe it. In my head, I know it’s true, but my heart is breaking. He’s right. What am I, if not a writer? How will I accomplish anything good in this world now?”

She turned into him, and her silent tears turned into soft cries. Abraham brought his other arm around her and held her like he might Clara … only this was different. Far different. Lydia nestled in and fit like she belonged there. There was no brotherly desire to pat her on the back, make a joke, and let her go when they were done.

“We’ll get through this, Lydia. Whether you’re a writer or not, God has a purpose for you. After this is over, we’ll figure out together what that purpose is. In the meantime, let’s focus on keeping you safe and tracking down Poe.”

After today’s fiascoes, Poe had more than enough reason to seek Lydia out. And Abraham doubted very much it would be to deliver flowers and a love note.