She knew, too, that it wasn't a matter of his being too busy with his work. There hadn't been any fires, either major or minor, in San Francisco during the past five days. She was certain of that, because she had checked the newspaper every day. Fires were big news around here and always made the Chronicle.
Well, if that was the way Cole wanted to be, there was nothing she could do about it, Annabel supposed. Maybe, in fact, she should be saying good riddance. He never would have understood her, not with his old-fashioned attitudes toward women—old-fashioned as far as she was concerned, anyway.
But still, as she thought about how it had felt to share a cable car seat with him . . . about the warmth and strength of his thigh as it pressed against hers . . . she couldn't help but feel a sense of loss.
It wasn't, however, like mourning a lost love . . .
It was more like mourning a love that might have been.
****
"Wake up, lad. You're dreamin' again."
Cole jerked in his chair, and his hand nearly knocked over one of the rooks on the chessboard in front of him. "I'm not asleep," he said.
"Maybe not," Patsy O'Flaherty said, "but you're dreamin', right enough." His pleasantly ugly little bulldog face creased into an even wider grin. "About a gal, I'd wager. Ah, lad, I've been there meself, so many times."
Cole tried to force his attention back on the game. He and Patsy had been dueling for well over an hour. As usual, the chess match had been a fiercely fought battle of move and countermove, gambit and ploy.
It didn't make things any easier for Cole that instead of rooks and knights and bishops and pawns, he often found himself seeing a queen instead, a queen who looked just like Miss Annabel Lowell . . .
He felt terrible for having practically abandoned her at Mrs. Noone's house. He knew he should have gone back to see her and make sure that she was all right, but after Mrs. Noone had told him that Annabel was going to be working for her, there hadn't seemed to be any real need— or excuse—to return. Annabel had a good place to live, a job—at least for the time being—and pleasant companions.
So, when you came right down to it, Annabel didn't need him around at all anymore.
And that was such a painful thought that he'd done his best to banish it—and her—from his mind.
He'd failed miserably, of course.
"Och, there ye go again already!" Patsy exclaimed. "Sure and that lass ye found wanderin' on the ferry dock has taken over yer brain completely, lad.!"
"Nonsense," Cole declared. He reached for his only remaining bishop and moved it. "I'll prove it. Check."
Patsy sighed, slid a rook over and took the bishop, leaned back in his chair, and said, "Check—and mate."
Cole stared at the board for a moment, then rolled his eyes and blew his breath out in disgust with himself. He put a fingertip on his king and tipped it over. "Good game."
"Not necessarily." Patsy sat up again and clasped his hands together on the table in front of him. "Why don't ye go see her? If ye really want to get her out o' yer system— and I seriously doubt that ye do—the only way t' do it is with a clean break. Take it from me, boyo: I'm speakin' from experience."
Cole shook his head. "No, there's no need for that. I'm sure Miss Lowell is doing fine. If there was any problem, Mrs. Noone would have let me know."
'The problem is ye're pinin' away for that gal."
Patsy had a point, Cole supposed. But what would bother him more: the guilt he felt for not going to see Annabel, or the disappointment he would feel when he saw that she was getting along just fine without him?
Cole scraped his chair back and stood up. 'Think I'll get a cup of coffee," he said, deliberately changing the subject. "You want some?"
"Irish coffee?" Patsy waggled his bushy eyebrows.
"Not while we're on duty," Cole said sternly. He headed for the potbellied stove in the corner of the firehouse crew's living quarters, where a pot of coffee was always warming.
Before he got there, a heavy weight landed on his left shoulder, staggering him. Thick, soft fur brushed his ear, and sharp claws dug through the uniform jacket and into his shoulder. He was grateful for the thick wool garment. The cat was able to hang on without inflicting too much pain or damage.
Not that it would have mattered to the huge black-and-white cat if he did. Fulton went where he pleased and did what he wanted, deeming it a perfectly legitimate right in return for his services as the firehouse mouser.
Cole reached up, pried Fulton off his shoulder, and tucked the cat under his arm as he continued on his way to the stove. When he got there, he dropped the animal carefully to the floor. "Go find a mouse." Fulton just stared at him for a second, then commenced washing his long, silky fur.