THE IMPERIAL ENGINEER Page 6

  There wasn't any more he could do tonight. Maybe everything he'd forgotten would come to him in his sleep. He'd had those dreams before, the ones where everything he hadn't done haunted him.

  Besides, there was a dance at the Hailey Theatre tonight, and he had asked Miss Minnie Hathaway to go with him.

  * * * *

  Imajean's baby had gotten past the red, squashed stage, for which Lulu was grateful. She had long ago decided that most mothers were afflicted with maternal blindness. There could be no other reason for them to think newborn infants were beautiful. Young Terrence was fair of skin, with the dark blue eyes typical of children only two weeks old. His shock of dark hair stuck out in tufts, giving him the appearance of a particularly mischievous imp. With a clear conscience, Lulu assured his proud parents he was a beautiful child.

  After dinner Miss Petersham accompanied Mr. Teller and the other guests on a walk to settle their digestion, while Lulu and Imajean visited. They caught up on the latest developments in the battle for women's suffrage and Lulu told all about her planned return to Portland. "I hope you'll have a chance to meet Mrs. Duniway someday. Perhaps you can accompany me on one of my visits to Portland next spring."

  Imajean regarded her fingernails for a moment before she said, "As for that, there's something I have to tell you." Again a hesitation. "I've given much thought to this, Lulu, and I want you to know I've made the decision after much soul searching."

  Avoiding Lulu's eyes, she went on. "I've decided I can't be active in the movement for a few years. Not until Terrence--and the sister we hope to give him in a year or two--are older. It wouldn't be fair to them, to have a mother who puts herself in dangerous situations--or could be arrested. And I couldn't be effective staying here at home. So I'll step back and let others carry the banner for a while." Her hands clenched into fists and she stared down at them. "I...I hope you'll try to understand."

  "Of course I do." Lulu squeezed one of Imajean's hands. "One makes choices, and not everyone should make the ones I have."

  "Have you never wanted to marry, to have children?" Imajean looked down at Terrence, sleeping peacefully, and drew a finger across his cheek. His little mouth pursed and made suckling motions. "I never realized how wonderful it could be, to hold my own child, to feel him nuzzle against my breast. It's...there are just no words to describe the feeling."

  "I've thought of it," Lulu admitted. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm really suited for a single life. I get lonely..." As she had more often recently. As she knew she would for many nights to come, until she banished all thoughts of Tony Dewitt. Completely and permanently.

  If she could.

  "You said it, though. It's not fair to a child, to put one's self deliberately in dangerous situations. I would make the same choice you did, and I would resent having to do so." She smiled down at the baby. "Just the same, I have a yearning, sometimes. May I hold him?"

  Imajean handed her the child, carefully. Lulu took him just as carefully, but old skills came back. She cradled him in one arm and took his tiny hand. "I have a few cousins, but was seldom around when they were babies. One forgets how very small they are. And how perfect."

  "I hadn't realized-- Do you come from a large family?"

  "Yes, but they're not all relatives." At Imajean's puzzled look, she said, "I have only two brothers, but my godparents are like second parents, and I think of their children as my cousins. If you count them all, it's a pretty big family. I've never added them all up, but when we all get together, it's a mob."

  She didn't mention that Tony Dewitt was one of the mob. She was doing her best not to think about him at all.

  Later that evening she found herself thinking about Imajean and her ready adaptation to motherhood. How unfortunate she had chosen to set her ideals aside and take on a purely domestic role.

  What a tragic waste of talent!

  "An intelligent woman should be able to balance her maternal duties and her obligations to society," Imajean had told Lulu on the occasion of their first meeting. "I do not intend to become one of those terribly foolish women who lives only for her children. Can you imagine anything more ridiculous?"

  Lulu had always known such a choice would be difficult. She could not fault Imajean for choosing motherhood. Trying to be both an effective reformer and a devoted mother was more than any woman should have to do.

  Yes, Lulu told herself, she had definitely made the right decision when she made up her mind to remain single and childless.

  * * * *

  After taking Miss Hathaway home, Tony went to his room above the Kansas Headquarters Saloon with relief. He'd forgotten how tiring conversation could be with someone who agreed with everything he said.

  Well, not everything. She had ventured a rather strong opinion on the topic of women who stepped out of their womanly role. Lulu, it was plain, was not someone she admired.

  He removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. If only he didn't have to wear them. But here in the west, the feelings against people of his race were strong. Spectacles were an inexpensive and easy disguise, hiding the most obvious evidence of his ancestry. He knew some people in town thought him to be part Indian, but as far as he knew, no one suspected he was Chinese.

  Except Mr. Eagleton, and Tony still wasn't sure what he thought.

  The night was warm for the end of September, so he left the window open. By now he was accustomed to falling asleep to the noise from downstairs. As he stripped off his collar, he heard heavy footsteps going past his door. The tobacco store owner, probably, coming in from his weekly poker game. The wall vibrated as a door opened and closed nearby.

  Instead of folding his shirt, he hung it on the back of the chair and laid his britches neatly across the seat. Tomorrow he'd be up early, finishing all the tasks on his long list. Clad only in his drawers, he crawled into bed.

  The old dream came that night. He heard the roar of the flames as they rushed up the canyon, heard the screams of trapped miners. Smelled the acrid, suffocating smoke.

  Someone pounded on his door, yelling, "Fire! Everybody out! Fire!"

  On his door?

  Tao Ni huddled into a ball of terror, knowing the fire would find him, no matter how well hidden he was.

  More pounding.

  No! He would not crawl from under the sluice box. He was safe here. His father had said so. He curled even more tightly, making himself as small as possible.

  "Dewitt! Get out of there. The fire's spreading!"

  Dewitt? Who is Dewitt? I am Guan Tao Ni. I must remember always that I come from an old and honorable family. Many times his father had spoken those words, making him promise he would never forget his ancestors who had proudly served the Imperial Family for many generations.

  A crash, and the sluice box was ripped away as if it was canvas. The acrid odor of smoke choked him.

  Hard hands slapped him awake. "Get the hell out, Dewitt. The whole place is ablaze!"

  Footsteps pounded away. A door slammed before he could untangle himself from the sheet. He snatched up his britches and shoved his legs into them, stepped into his boots and pulled on his shirt. Grabbed his pocketbook. His spectacles? No, they'd only be in his way.

  He went to the door, remembered almost too late what Silas had taught him long ago, and splayed his hands against it.

  It was hot. Too hot. On the other side he could hear the sharp crackle of burning wood.

  The window!

  He pushed the sash up all the way and leaned out. Dark as it was, he couldn't see the ground, but he knew there had been a pile of lumber down there a few days ago. Not a good place to jump to.

  Better than burning. He'd slid one leg over the sill, when he heard the cry for help. Hanging from the farthest window, someone was screaming, a high, shrill, terrified keen. He couldn't make out which of his fellow boarders it was, but a woman, for certain. "Jump!" he yelled.

  She waved her arms and screamed even louder.

  Tony peered into the
flickering darkness below, but saw no one close enough to call to. "Jump!" he yelled to the woman again. It had no effect on her screaming.

  He hesitated, trying to see what lay below. If he jumped and broke a leg, he'd be no use to her.

  He couldn't let her be burned to death.

  Feeling as if he was going to certain death, he drew back inside. The pitcher on his commode was half full, so he plunged the hand towel into it and pulled it out, dripping. Then he poured the rest of the water over his head and shoulders. Holding the sopping towel against his nose and mouth, he jerked the door open.

  Flames swayed toward him, but they hadn't entirely filled the hallway yet. He dashed down to the last room, hissed as the brass knob burned his hand.

  Locked.

  He backed up. Kicked.

  The door cracked.

  He drew a deep breath, reached inside for the vitality Ji Rong had told him would be there when he needed it. The skin of his back puckered from the heat.

  He kicked again, and the door all but flew off its hinges. He set it back into the frame, hoping it would buy him a few seconds.

  The woman still stood at the window, screaming. Mrs. Tompkins, he thought. Not very tall, but she must weigh half again what he did.

  He grabbed her. "Climb onto the sill. I'm going to lower you."

  She screamed and clutched at him.

  "Mrs. Tompkins, listen to me! You've got to get out of here. Climb through the window and I'll lower you as far as I can."

  The only reaction was that her screams grew louder. Flames crept around the door.

  Well, hell! He hit her, just hard enough to stun. While she was shaking her head, he swung her legs onto the windowsill, staggering a little under her weight. The shirt on his back felt as if it was charring. "Grab my hands," he told her.

  She did, with a grip almost tight enough to break bones.

  He pushed, and was all but pulled after her as she plummeted. "Let go now. Drop!"

  She clung.

  "Damn it, woman, let go!" He swung her sideways and heard the scrape of her nightgown against the wooden siding. With a shriek, she let go.

  Tony wasted no time going after her. He balanced himself on the windowsill for a moment, then shoved himself clear so he'd not land on the woman.

  He landed and rolled, gasping when his back made contact with the rutted alley.

  Three men came careening around the corner of the saloon. Two of them carried a ladder and the third held a double-bladed axe in one hand and a torch in the other.

  "You're from the rooming house?"

  Tony tried to answer but had to settle for a nod. Now that he was safely out of the burning building, he was shaking like an aspen leaf in a strong wind.

  Mrs. Tompkins started screaming again.

  The rest of the night was one to make his nightmares seem tame. After a few moments to pull himself together, he went to work fighting the fire, along with most of the men in town.

  They tried to save the Grand Central Hotel, but the wind laughed at their efforts. Sparks ignited the roof, and soon the whole building was enveloped in flames. After that there was no saving the rest of the block. While bucket brigades and the hook and ladder company fought against the flames, Tony and many others did their best to save the offices and stores across the street. Men risked their lives, fighting the sparks and flaming debris that could so easily ignite the dry roofs. Wet blankets were thrown over the cornices of the buildings and hung to protect the windows. The north wind continued to send sparks flying great distances, and vigilance was needed to see that the fire didn't spread throughout the entire business district.

  The weary firefighters labored until near dawn, when the last flames subsided into embers. They remained alert, keeping watch in case the buildings across the alley, some of which had caught fire earlier, should again burst into flame.

  Suddenly a shout came from down the street. Tony looked that way, as did every other man in the crowd. For a moment he couldn't see what the excitement was, then he saw a tongue of flame lick upwards from a high door.

  "The livery stable!" someone shouted, and as one the weary men ran toward the new conflagration.

  They saved the livestock, but the building burned to the ground.

  * * * *

  Lulu woke to someone knocking on her door. She dragged herself from sleep, fighting the clinging remnants of a bizarre dream in which she was swimming upstream, against a raging current. "Just a minute," she called, reaching for her robe.

  As she crossed the bedroom, she had a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair stood on end, her eyelids looked swollen, and a pink crease bisected her right cheek. As if I had a hard night on the town, instead of being decently in my bed by eleven.

  She shuffled, barefoot, to the door and cracked it open, not wanting anyone to get a good look at her. "Yes?"

  The man who stood there wore a soiled, torn shirt, and his face was streaked with dirt. A smear of blood darkened his chin.

  "Can I come in?" His voice was hoarse, just louder than a harsh whisper.

  She took a good look. "Tao...Tony?"

  "Yeah, it's me. Can I come in, Lulu?" He leaned against the wall beside the door, as if he hadn't the strength to keep himself upright. "Please?"

  She swung the door open without hesitation. "You're hurt! What happened?"

  He hobbled past her, moving like a feeble old man. Without invitation, he sat on the settee and leaned forward, elbows on knees. He closed his eyes. "I'm homeless," he said, still in that hoarse almost-whisper. "A fire. The whole block." His eyes fell shut. "So damn tired."

  "A fire? Where? What block?"

  He didn't answer. His head gradually drooped lower. She realized he was sound asleep.

  Lulu took a good look at him. The blood on his chin came from a scratch beside his mouth. The dirt on his face and clothing looked like a combination of soot and mud. His boots were muddy too, and his trousers torn and filthy. From the looks of him, he hadn't simply escaped from a fire, he'd been fighting it.

  She knelt and worked his boots off, ignoring the dirt they scattered across her pretty rag rug. He wore no socks. The cuffs of his trousers were ragged, with a strip of cloth hanging loose. Planning to clean them later, she set the boots just outside the back door, then stopped at the range to start a fire. He'd want a bath when he woke.

  He was no longer the lithe, slim boy of her memory, but a well-muscled, fully grown man. Lulu got him on his feet with difficulty, for he didn't want to wake up. With one shoulder under his armpit, she guided his stumbling steps to her bedroom and let him topple onto the bed. The sheets would wash.

  He fell on his side, and that was when she got a good look at the back of his shirt. It was stained and bloody, and patches of the fabric were stuck to him. "Oh, my God!"

  Could she get it off of him? Not without hurting him terribly. On his shoulder blades, the linen shirt was well and truly affixed to his skin. She got the scissors from her mending basket and started cutting. Once she had the sleeves and front removed, she rolled him so he lay prone, then attacked the fabric on his back, cutting carefully around the places where it adhered. His skin was red, as if sunburned, except where the fabric was stuck to him, and there it was blistered.

  The blisters had broken and wept and the dried fluid acted like glue. "Oh, Tony, that must have hurt," she whispered. Now what? I've got to get that off, so I can doctor his back.

  "Don't move," she told him. "I'll be right back."

  All she could remember about doctoring burns was that they had to be kept clean. Her mother hadn't held with putting grease on them. She and Pappa had argued about that more than once when Mamma burned her hand cooking. The water was hot now, so she poured it into a basin and refilled the teakettle. Picking up all the clean towels she had, she carried them and the basin into the bedroom.

  He lay where she'd left him. If she hadn't seen the slight rise and fall of his chest, she would have wondered if he even lived. Blac
k, sooty smears were streaked across her clean sheets. I should have taken his trousers off.

  She soaked a towel in the warm water, wrung it out, and lay it across his back. He stiffened, groaned, relaxed again. She took a good look at his trousers, perforated with hundreds of small holes with charred edges. In one place, at the back of his right calf, reddened skin showed through a larger hole, where the fabric had actually caught fire.

  She replaced the cooled towel with another one, noticing as she did that the scraps of stuck-down fabric seemed looser. "You're going to hate me, but I'm taking your trousers. I need to see if you're injured anywhere else." She took up her scissors again and started cutting.

  His body was smooth and golden. But the gold was marred by dozens of red burns, from fingertip-sized to the one on his calf that was larger than her palm. What a shame, like defacing a work of art.

  The big burn on his calf was blistered and weeping, too. She wet another towel and lay it across his leg. I wish I could turn you over, but I want to take care of your back first of all. She hadn't noticed any serious charring of his clothing on the front, and crossed her fingers she wasn't missing something important.

  And then she saw him.

  Before he had been like any injured creature, in need of her help. An object of concern, of pity.

  Now she saw the man. A perfect, golden body, like a marvelous sculpture. Broad shoulders with well-defined muscles spread from the straight indentation of his spine. His wide, deep chest tapered to a slim waist and hips, and his tight, round buttocks were relaxed now but still firm. His thighs were as muscled as his shoulders, his calves those of a man who knew how to walk all day long. His feet, dirty from soot and mud that had found its way into his boots, were slim and long, the toes straight.

  She wanted to touch him. To stroke her hands from his shoulders to his buttocks, to feel him tighten under her touch. Her hands itched to feel the flex of his thighs, to explore the tender backs of his knees, to rub the tiredness from his calves. She wanted to wash his feet, wanted to stroke each tendon with soapy hands, slipping her fingers between his toes and massaging across his insteps.