Moira.”
He lifted the corner of his mouth in a half grin that sent her heart tripping. “Nice to meet you, Miss O’Mara.”
Her cheeks burned beneath his reference to her earlier insistence on his use of her formal name. She might have been a touch rude, but there weren’t exactly rules of etiquette for a brothel escape.
She cleared her throat. “You never answered my question. Why are you helping us?”
He stared into the distance. “Because it suits me for now.”
“What happens when it doesn’t suit you?”
“I guess we’ll find out when that happens.”
Her stomach dipped. For a moment she’d thought he was different. That he was actually helping them out of the kindness of his heart, out of Christian charity. Turned out he was like everyone else. He obviously had an ulterior motive. Maybe they were an amusement, maybe he was bored, maybe he’d flipped an imaginary coin and their predicament had come up tails. His motivation didn’t really matter.
Whatever the reason, he’d cease helping once they ceased serving whatever purpose he’d assigned them. People only cared when they needed something.
With a last appeal for silence, John stepped into the corridor and slid the door closed behind him.
Finally grasping the gravity of the situation, the girls remained unnaturally quiet. Moira flopped into position. Blood thumped rhythmically in her ears. She rubbed her damp hands against her thighs, then tugged her too-short skirts over her ankles. The dress was a castoff from the foster family she and her brother, Tommy, had lived with before Tommy ran away. Mrs. Gifford had recycled the expensive lace at the hem for her own purpose and left Moira with her ankles showing.
The cowboy probably thought... Moira fisted her hands. Why waste her energy worrying about what Mr. Elder thought of her clothing when they were still in peril? She’d heard Fool’s End was dangerous, but every one-horse town she’d passed through had been dangerous.
She should have heeded the warnings this time.
Normally she’d never go out after dark, but she’d waited two hours for Mr. Grey, only to be told that he didn’t know anything about her brother Tommy.
Tears pricked behind her eyes. Another dead end, another disappointment. After four years, she was certain this time she’d finally catch up with him. A maid from the Gifford house who remembered her fondly had discovered the charred bits of a telegram in the fireplace of Mr. Gifford’s study. Piecing together what few words she could read, Moira had made out the names “Mr. Grey” and “Fool’s End.” The sender’s name had been clear as well: Mr. Thomas O’Mara.
A name and a location weren’t much to go on, but it was all she had. Tommy must have forgiven her for the trouble she’d caused if he’d contacted her. She’d stolen Mr. Gifford’s watch, and in her cowardice, she’d let her brother take the blame. He’d run away that same evening and she hadn’t seen him since. There was no doubt in her mind the telegram had been for her. She doubted Mr. Gifford burned his own correspondence.
She’d considered posting a letter to Mr. Grey but then quickly dismissed the thought. Letters were impersonal and mail service unreliable. Instead, she’d set off almost immediately. Yet her arrival today had been too late. Tommy was nowhere to be found.
Mr. Grey had denied knowing anything about Tommy or the telegram, but something in his denial didn’t sit right with her. On her way back to the hotel, not two blocks from her destination, some drunken fool had nabbed and locked her in that second-story room with four other girls.
Children.
She hadn’t seen a one of them before that moment. Yet they’d formed an instant bond against a mutual enemy. Moira shuddered at the implication. She might be naive, but she knew a brothel when she saw one. If they were discovered, there’d be no escaping unscathed the next time.
Keeping her expression neutral, she passed each of the girls a sack. The less they picked up on her terror, the better. Being afraid didn’t change anything anyway. It only made the waiting more excruciating.
Together they huddled silently in the deepest recess of the darkened stall, barely concealed behind the stack of hay bales. Hazel crawled onto her lap and Moira started. The frightened little girl had clung to her since her kidnapping. Had that been only a few hours ago? It seemed like an eternity. Hazel burrowed deeper. Unused to such open displays of affection, Moira awkwardly patted the child’s back.
Tony took Hazel’s cue and clustered on Moira’s left side, Sarah on the other.
Darcy sat a distance apart, wrapping her arms around her bent legs and resting her chin on her knees. “This is stupid,” she announced in a harsh whisper. “You should have waited until I thought of a better plan.”
Moira pursed her lips. At fifteen, Darcy was the oldest of the girls—and the most sullen. The only words she’d uttered in the past two hours had been complaints or criticisms.
Darcy snarled another gripe beneath her breath.
Since they were all terrified and half-crazy with hunger, Moira bit back an angry retort. “We’re here now and we’ll have to make the best of it.”
Darcy scowled but kept blessedly quiet.
For the next several minutes they waited in tense silence. As time ticked away, the air beneath the burlap sacks grew thick and hot. Sarah shifted and coughed. Footsteps sounded from the corridor and Moira hugged Hazel tighter.
“Can I help you, sir?” an unfamiliar voice spoke.
“I’m looking for a gang of thieves.”
Moira immediately recognized the second man as her kidnapper. His raspy voice was etched on her soul.
“Five of them,” the kidnapper continued. “A bunch of girls. One of them picked the wrong pocket this time. Stole Mr. Grey’s gold watch.”
“Why didn’t he nab the little thief right then?” the first man spoke, his voice tinted with an accent that might have been Norwegian or Swedish.
“Because he didn’t notice his watch was missing right off.”
“Then how does he know who done took his watch?” The Norwegian sounded dazed.
“Because we got three reports of the same kind of thing.” The kidnapper’s voice raised an octave. “An orphan girl comes in begging for change or food, and the next thing people know, their watches and money go missing.”
“Well, I’m plum confused by the whole thing. Is it one girl you’re after or five?” The Norwegian sputtered. “Did all five of them pick Mr. Grey’s pocket? What’d she look like? Wait a second. What did they look like?”
“Well, let me see here. Mr. Grey seen a girl with red hair just before—” The kidnapper huffed. “Never mind. It ain’t your business. Have you seen them or not?”
Moira’s blood simmered. Why that low-down, no good, drunken...
Another thought jerked her upright. A watch. Four years ago a pocket watch had set off a chain
