"I don't care about fancy," she said with a shake of her head. "As long as there's plenty of it. All I've had since last night is a sandwich packed by that logger."
Cole steered her past the pile of barrels and through the door of the cafe. "How in the world did you ever come to be lost in the Diablos?" he asked.
"It's a long story," she said. "It would take much too long to tell." Under her breath, she added, "More than ninety years."
"What?"
"Nothing," Annabel said. She smiled brightly. "The food smells good."
Cole supposed it did, but at the moment he was less concerned with that than he was with the fact that she was obviously hiding something from him. Ever since he had met her, he had felt that she was dodging his questions and supplying answers that were no better than half-truths. He was going to have to extract the truth from her slowly and carefully, he sensed.
With that realization came another one: He had passed the point of courtesy, of being merely a gentleman helping out a lady in distress. He couldn't simply send her on her way and forget about her, and it had nothing to do with the fact that he had already missed a day's work and spent a considerable amount of money on her. Finding out the truth mattered because it was the truth about Annabel. He had to know everything he could about her.
"We're in luck," he said as he gripped her arm just above the elbow and pointed with his other hand. "There's an empty table over there. You don't find that often in Richelieu's, especially at this time of day."
They made their way across the crowded room and reached the table in question, which sat in one of the cafe's rear corners. Next to the table was a potted palm which separated the dining area from the entrance to the kitchen. Not the most elegant location, Cole thought, but clearly Annabel didn't care.
He held her chair for her and then sat down across from her. A young, redheaded waitress in a long gray dress and starched white apron came over and greeted them. "Mr. Brady, isn't it? Haven't seen you in here for a while. How's Patsy?"
"Just fine," Cole replied with a smile. "We'd like two steak dinners, please."
"Comin' up. Schooners of beer with those?"
Cole looked across the table at Annabel, who said, "Sure."
The waitress said to her, "That's a lovely gown, ma'am. Dressed like that, you ought to be dining in the Palace, not in a place like this."
"Not at all," Annabel said. She looked across at Cole. "I've heard good things about Richelieu's."
"Well, we'll try to live up to our reputation, ma'am." The waitress grinned at Cole. "Say hello to Patsy for me, will you, Mr. Brady?"
"I'd be glad to," Cole assured her.
When the waitress had left, Annabel asked, "Who's Patsy?"
A certain tightness in her tone took Cole by surprise. Was she . . . could she actually be jealous? He couldn't stop himself from laughing.
"Did I say something amusing?" Annabel asked, and now there was a hint of coolness in her voice.
"Not at all," Cole quickly told her. "I was just thinking about Patsy. Patsy—or actually, Patrick—O'Flaherty. He's the stoker on our crew. A bandy-legged little Irishman, barely five feet tall, but he seems to think he's John L. Sullivan. Considering the swath he cuts all over town with young ladies like that waitress, I suppose he might as well be."
"Oh." She seemed relieved. "Who's John L. Sullivan?"
That question brought a real look of surprise to his face. "Just the former heavyweight champion of the world. I don't imagine you keep up with prizefighting, though. I suppose it really is a barbaric sport."
"The sort of thing where one fighter might bite another fighter's ear off?"
"Well, I doubt if any pugilist would ever go that far." Cole laughed and shook his head. "How in the world did we wind up talking about such things?"
"I don't know. I have a feeling I could talk to you about almost anything."
Cole's expression became more solemn. Suddenly things seemed much more serious. Annabel looked as if she wished she could take those words back, but Cole was glad she couldn't. They meant that she was beginning to trust him. He leaned forward and said, "Annabel . . ."
Nervousness flickered in her eyes, but she said, "Yes?"
Before he could say anything else, the waitress reappeared beside the table and placed two huge mugs of beer in front of them. "There you go," she announced. "Be back with those steaks in just a minute."
Cole sat back. The moment was lost. He picked up his beer and said, "What shall we drink to?"
"How about San Francisco?" Annabel suggested. She picked up her schooner. "And new beginnings."
"To San Francisco," Cole agreed. "And to new beginnings . . ."
Chapter 6
That was a wonderful dinner," Annabel said later. She found herself sleepy, wanting to stretch like a contented cat. There was nothing quite so satisfying as a good meal.
Well, maybe one thing . . .