Page 97 of Falling for the Cowgirl
He had to say something, tell her that if he’d proposed—which apparently he had—he’d been drunk and hadn’tmeant a word. But how could he let her down? Especially when she was so excited?
He’d have to figure out a way to tell her later. ...
“Tonight, then?” she asked. “You’ll come have dinner with my family and me tonight?”
“Maybe. I’ll see how work goes today.” He stuck his feet into his boots, not bothering to tie them before starting toward the door.
“Please, Dylan?” The thread of almost panic in her question stilled his hand on the doorknob.
He braced his shoulders. “I’ll try.”
“Thank you.”
There was a slight chance he’d go.Veryslight. Which meant he wasn’t entirely lying to her, was he?
“And Dylan? Please don’t say anything to Papa or Mama or anyone else about—well, about us staying the night together. Papa will disown me if he finds out.”
“Don’t worry, darlin’.” He made himself glance back at her with a wink and a smile, even as he hated himself for acting so cavalier. “No one will ever have to know about it.”
Sitting in the middle of the sagging mattress, a sheet draped around her, with her long, dark hair cascading down her bare shoulders, she was a beautiful young woman. He was reminded of why he’d been attracted to her.
But no how, no way was he getting married to her. Not now. And not anytime soon. He wasn’t dragging a wife into the mess he’d made of his life.
As he left her and the tenement behind and started toward the police headquarters, he rubbed at the familiar ache in his head. All he really wanted to do was sleep for a few more hours. But he hated being alone in his little apartmentand avoided going there whenever possible. He reckoned that’s part of why he seemed to find himself in trouble with women.
If only he could have left Chicago with Bliss...
He blew out a breath filled with frustration. For a Sunday morning, the streets were quiet, the usual hubbub reduced to a few homeless youth out peddling papers and a group of transient workers who slept on the sidewalks conversing over coffee.
From the church one block over, he could hear the piano strains of a hymn. Most good folk were attending a Sunday morning service ... no doubt his brothers and their wives were all sitting in pews, maybe even singing the same hymn.
He passed by the closed storefronts, the usual vendors and peddlers absent. The advertisements, however, were always present, covering the wooden buildings with promises of products that could produce a brighter future. From what he’d learned, a brighter future wasn’t that easy to come by.
His steps slowed as he reached a brick building with the wordsPolice Stationpainted in black on the sign that hung beneath the arched second-story windows. He wasn’t wearing his uniform, but since he wasn’t officially on duty, it wouldn’t matter too much.
He was getting close to completing his list for the superintendent. A little more sniffing around, and he’d figure out the last few officers involved in taking bribes from Rocky Roger Kenna, an alderman in the First Ward who owned numerous saloons and brothels and who regularly paid police officers to turn a blind eye toward his crimes.
Dylan clomped up the few stone steps. Of course with his own drinking and womanizing, no one suspected he wascollaborating with the general superintendent of police to put an end to the corruption within the police department. That’s why the superintendent had picked him. Because he blended in with the riffraff easily enough. He wasn’t proud of that fact, but at least he was using his downfall for some good.
Straightening his back, Dylan yanked open the door. He might have sunk low, but there was a line he wouldn’t cross. He had to hang on to a measure of his integrity, or he wouldn’t be able to live with himself—a feat that was already hard enough.
As he entered the building, a waft of pastrami and rye met him. Constable Tipton, sitting behind his desk, paused with an overflowing sandwich in his mouth. He nodded at Dylan and hurried to finish his bite, his eyes rounding as though he wanted to speak.
With his head still throbbing, Dylan wasn’t in the mood for small talk and tipped his hat at the constable before he bypassed him, weaving through the maze of desks and chairs and cabinets. Without any lanterns lit, the place was dismal, the only light filtering through the front window.
“Hold on, McQuaid.” Tipton’s muffled call came around the mouthful of sandwich.
“Don’t mind me.” Dylan waved off the man.
“Got a letter for you.”
Dylan paused and glanced back at the constable. In his custodian helmet and tight navy-blue tunic with gleaming buttons, Tipton represented all that was good and worthy within the police department, one of the few untouched by the tendrils of vice woven all throughout the fabric of Chicago police and politics.
Tipton swallowed the pastrami and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “From Bliss.”
Dylan’s insides lurched. A letter from Bliss? Dylan hadn’t heard from his friend once over the past months. Yep, the mail was slow, especially when winter isolated the high country of the Rockies from the rest of the world. But Bliss could’ve written to him before now, instead of abandoning him so thoroughly.
“Bliss’s old man delivered the letter himself.” Tipton held out an envelope. “Said it was sitting around his house for months.”
