“Oh, Lila.” His arms tightened. “Poor Malina.”
“I just found out.” Her cry broke the calm stillness surrounding an ordinary green house. “When we readied Malina for Miss Frieda’s. But Bronx, she said she heard her baby cry!” Lila’s face turned red as dawn. “She got up from childbed as well as she could and followed. Saw a despicable man set down the bundle.” Her throat worked so hard Bronx reckoned she’d be sick. “But she collapsed in weakness. Another sporting gal helped her, but when they made it back an hour later, her baby was gone. I’d had no idea there was a child. Or that he was alive.”
“Lila, I don’t know what you want me to say.” Bronx swallowed bile himself. “Likely some kind soul took in the babe. Made him their own.”
“I can only hope.” Her tragic stare bore into his. “It was long our hope, mine and Emmett’s, passing by Stillborn Alley as we did each day. To one day find life and make it ours. But...”
“Lila. You wouldn’t have known. And this was after Emmett’s time.”
“I know. But I might make a difference now. And Malina said...she’s had time to think. In the dark. About how her sickness might worsen, and she’d die in the night.” Lila gripped his shoulders, tight. “How she longed to see her little one again to hold him close. How she longs to find her son, now that she’s found her way.”
“I can understand her wish, but Lila, I can’t imagine it being possible.”
“I think a detective might know how to find a missing child. A Pinkerton who didn’t mind snooping among the dregs. But...I don’t know.”
Her tears damped his chest, for the buttons had come undone in the tightness of his arms.
“A detective? I...Pinkertons find outlaws.” Bronx gulped. How well he knew. Reminded him how wise it was he skeedaddle out of here.
She moved from him to wipe her eyes, then started the walk to the boardinghouse. “I am sorry to break down so. But I was little. Ten maybe, and I still remember my parents’ fears, even though it happened in Philadelphia. How could I ever forget? Afterward, they hardly let me talk to customers at the shop!” She shuddered into him again, and the closeness, the goodness of her only pounded more guilt through him because it was all due to somebody else’s tribulation.
“What happened then, when you were ten? In Philadelphia?”
“A little boy named Charley Ross was taken—and not heard from. The Pinkertons tried. His father hired them.”
“Did they have luck?”
Fourth Street had come to life in the morning air as they waited to cross the Avenue. She peeked through the hands covering her tears. “No. He’s not been found, far as I’ve ever heard. But, at least, everyone tried.” Her voice flitted into the noise of a four-in-hand Concord rumbling by. After it passed, Bronx held tight to her hand. “We need to try. We need to find a Pinkerton.”
On the other side of the Avenue, Bronx ciphered what to say. No need to kill her dream, her goal but...
“Lila, the child was only moments old. He has no name. No...nothing. No real father.”
She stopped walking, and he smashed against her. “He has us.”
Bronx did not move away. Her fragrance of dawn and cloud drifted across them. “Far as we know, he might have perished,” he whispered. “Likely, somebody with compassion buried him.”
“No. Stillborn Alley is a place of blood and bone. No one cares.” Her tearstained gaze bored into his. “Bronx, if Malina couldn’t find him again, he promises to be alive. And someone has him.”
“Maybe somebody long gone from here.”
“I know. That’s why we need help.”
“Hiring—Pinkertons—will take money.” Bronx’s voice shook over the name because he knew how to find one.
Drifts of her hair covered her eyes, and he longed to kiss her vision clear. But he dared not. “I know it’ll be costly. I could sell Gethsemane.”
“Sell?” Bronx had not seen this coming, any of it.
Her face purpled. “I’ve had offers for it from a man who wants to expand his business.”
Bronx heated in reply. Of course. Cheap cribs or a fancy bordello.
She read his mind. “No. Not that. A taverner on the Avenue has long wanted the property. He has a vision to undertake an exclusive enterprise similar to Mr. Dexter’s poker club. Mr. Dexter is one of Colorado’s first millionaires, but his hunting cabin is opulent and a much sought-after destination for rich card players. Our shanty promises to be much the same size and demeanor, and filled with mining history, to boot.”
“Card-playing. At Gethsemane?” He held the boardinghouse in some astonishment.
“It’s not a dedicated edifice. It’s not holy ground.” She gulped so hard he watched her neck tighten. “And I must consider the offer an opportunity.”
“What would happen to you next?” If she was selling Gethsemane, might that mean…