His Substitute Bride

“Not yet.” Quint chuckled mysteriously. “Hang on, we’re almost there.”

Annie could hear the music, too, a blaring, pumping rendition of what she recognized as the “Blue Danube.” By the time they stepped into the cleared area and she saw the flash of swirling color, she’d already guessed what Quint’s surprise would be. Clara would be ecstatic when she saw it.

“When I count to three, you can look,” Quint said. “Ready? One…two…three!”

Clara opened her eyes, blinked and stared. Her mouth rounded in a little O of amazement.

The carousel was a showpiece. Not only were there horses, but lions, bears, tigers, camels, zebras and swans. They were painted in every hue of the rainbow with glass eyes and gilded trappings. They glided up and down on brass poles as the huge machine revolved beneath its gleaming metal-capped dome, piping out music that sang of circuses and sugar floss and children’s laughter.

Savoring her surprise, Quint lowered Clara to the sandy ground. “So which animal do you want to ride?”

Her eyes danced. “Can I ride them all?”

He grinned. “Not at the same time. Choose the one you want to ride first. Then we’ll see about another.”

“Will you and Aunt Annie ride, too?”

“Certainly we will. First we have to buy tickets. Come on.”

While Quint waited in line at the ticket booth, Annie and Clara watched the turning carousel. As it slowed to a stop, the little girl tugged at Annie’s skirt and pointed. “That red horse! That’s the one I want!”

The horse was riderless for the moment. While Quint rushed up with the tickets, Annie leaped onto the platform and seized the bridle, saving the seat until Quint could clamber after her with Clara. He gave her a wink and a boyish grin. “Good catch, lady,” he muttered, lifting the little girl onto the saddle.

In the next moment they began to move. Quint swung onto the black steed that loped alongside Clara’s. Annie scrambled for a sidesaddle perch on the charging lion behind them. With music blaring and mounts pumping, they were off.

Clara hung on to the brass pole, her laughter floating back to Annie’s ears. Quint glanced over his shoulder. “Uh-oh,” he said. “I think that lion back there is following us. Come on, let’s ride!” He leaned forward over the black horse’s neck. Clara followed his example as Annie growled and roared behind them. The little girl shrieked with delight, laughing so hard that Annie feared she might wet her bloomers.

All too soon the carousel slowed and halted. “I want to ride the lion now,” Clara said. “You can ride my red horse, Aunt Annie.”

“Are you sure you can handle a lion?” Quint hoisted her onto the golden back. “They can get pretty wild, you know.”

Clara gave him a serious look. “I can ride it fine, Uncle Quint. It’s only a pretend lion, you know.”

Annie had to bite her cheeks to keep from laughing at the expression on Quint’s face—first startled, then beaming with fatherly pride. She gave him a smile as he caught her waist and swung her onto the vermilion-painted horse. His hands lingered for an instant as she settled into place. His eyes held hers, triggering a rush of warmth to her cheeks. Then the carousel began to move. Quint remounted and the new chase was on, with Clara roaring and snarling behind them.

By the time the ride ended, Annie was feeling queasy. “You two take another turn if you want,” she told Quint. “I need my feet on solid earth. I’ll wait for you on those benches by the playground.”

While Quint and Clara debated which animal to ride next, Annie tottered over to an empty bench and sank onto the seat. She’d had a problem with motion sickness since she was a little girl. She should have known better than to take that second ride. But it had been so glorious, flying along next to Quint, seeing the boyish merriment in his eyes and the flash of his smile. The memory would stay with her until she forced herself to forget.

Taking deep breaths, she waited for her stomach to settle. On the whirling carousel she caught glimpses of Clara astride a zebra and Quint mounted on a bear. Even the sight made her feel dizzy. Turning away, she glanced around for a distraction.

On the bench beside her, someone had left a neatly refolded newspaper. Annie could see enough of the masthead to recognize it as the San Francisco Chronicle—Quint’s paper. Curious, she picked it up, opened it to the front page.

The headline story was about a fire in a working-class neighborhood south of Market Street. Ignited by a fallen kerosene lamp, the blaze had consumed two boardinghouses and a dry goods store before the fire department managed to get it under control. An elderly man had perished in the flames.

Annie remembered what Quint had told her about the shortage of water for fighting fires. This time the firemen had stopped the blaze from spreading. Without water the fire would have been unstoppable. Hundreds of people could have died. Many more would have lost their homes and possessions.

She was beginning to understand what drove Quint’s crusade against Josiah Rutledge.

Her eyes skimmed the rest of the page. Enrico Caruso, the world’s greatest opera singer, had arrived in town and was staying at the Palace Hotel. Mayor Schmitz had announced some new political appointments. A courtroom fight had broken out over a libel suit, resulting in several arrests. Annie turned the page.

There it was at the top of the editorial section—Quint’s new column. With more interest now, she smoothed the page and began to read.

With each line, fear tightened its cold fingers around her throat.

Chapter Four

The San Francisco Chronicle, April 15, 1906

Yesterday’s fire on Folsom Street destroyed three buildings and, tragically, took one life. That the damage wasn’t worse is a tribute to San Francisco’s magnificent firefighters, who arrived in time to wet down the blaze and save the surrounding structures.

Annie glanced toward the carousel where Quint rode beside his daughter, laughing as if he didn’t have a care in the world. She should have known he’d use the fire as an excuse to escalate the fight with Josiah Rutledge. Where danger was concerned, the man had no more common sense than a fourteen-year-old schoolboy.

Her fear deepened as she read on.

Yesterday we were lucky. But imagine this scenario if you will. A small accident starts a fire. As the blaze rages, the fire crew arrives with the pumping engine. With their usual efficiency, they connect the hoses to the cistern, start the pump…and no water emerges from the nozzle.

Citizens, our beloved city is a tinderbox. A devastating fire could happen today. It could happen tomorrow. The one certainty is, if we don’t update the water system forthwith, it WILL happen.

Three months ago, at the urging of Chief Dennis Sullivan, the Board of Supervisors set aside funds to make the most urgent repairs. The work was to be completed by mid-April. Bank records show that the funds were withdrawn and paid to the contractor. But what have the people of San Francisco received for their hard-earned tax dollars? Let’s take a look.

What followed was a detailed list of the needed repairs and the work, if any, that had been completed. Quint’s research was meticulous. The conditions he described were shocking and frightening—empty cisterns, faulty valves, cracked pipes that had been dabbed with cheap cement instead of replaced.

So what happened to the money? There are two individuals who can answer that question —the contractor and the board member who arranged to hire him on “agreeable” terms. Sadly, we’ve grown so accustomed to this kind of chicanery that most of us are inclined to shrug when we hear about it. In this case, however, lives and property are at stake. When certain evidence comes to light, I wouldn’t wager a plug nickel on the necks of these two schemers, let alone their jobs and reputations.

Certain evidence…Annie shuddered as the words sank home. Quint had pushed things too far this time. He was playing a deadly game with no winning cards in his hand. Her fingers trembled as they gripped the page, blurring the print before her eyes.

It is this reporter’s fervent hope that the responsible parties will experience a reversal of conscience and put the funds to the use for which they were intended. Otherwise it may be too late for them and for their innocent vic-tims—the people of San Francisco.

Annie lowered the paper, dread congealing like cold tallow in the pit of her stomach. Josiah Rut-ledge’s flinty eyes and twisted smile glinted in her memory. The man exuded evil. Quint was tweaking the devil’s whiskers.

As she watched the children frolic on the playground, a slow anger began to simmer inside her. Quint had always been a risk-taker—the first boy to test the winter ice on the pond, the first to walk across the railroad trestle—blindfolded. The first to challenge the new bully in town or leap onto an unbroken horse. His thrill-seeking ways had cost him Hannah’s love and the right to claim Clara as his own child. But even then, he never seemed to learn his lesson.

Annie’s fingers crumpled a corner of the newspaper as she imagined seizing him by the collar and shaking him until his hair tumbled into his mocking brown eyes. Even then, she sensed, Quint would only laugh at her—as he’d been laughing in the face of common sense all his life.

The carousel music had ended. In the silence, the happy shouts of children echoed across the park. Putting the newspaper aside, Annie rose to meet Quint and Clara as they came laughing toward her, so beautiful together, their clasped hands swinging between them.

She would not be so thoughtless as to spoil the day by bracing Quint about his column now, Annie resolved. His time with Clara was too precious for that. But tonight, after the little girl was asleep, he was going to get an earful. He was twenty-eight years old. It was time he stopped behaving like Huckleberry Finn!

Quint glanced at his pocket watch. “How about some lunch? Yesterday it was Delmonico’s. Today I want to treat you to the best hot dogs west of Coney Island. The stand is about ten minutes from here.”

Annie had read about hot dogs and was eager to try one. Clara, however, hung back, looking as if she were about to cry. “I don’t want to eat a dog, Uncle Quint,” she said.

Quint chuckled. “It won’t be a real dog, sweetheart. Just a sausage on some bread. Come on, you’ll like it. I promise.”

Clara trailed them to the umbrella-shaded hotdog stand, dragging her feet all the way. When Quint handed her the bun-wrapped sausage slathered in mustard she took a cautious nibble, frowned, then took a bigger bite.

“Do you like it?” Quint asked.