Annabel hadn't looked up as she'd mumbled a reply to Cole. It was clear from his tone of voice that he hadn't recognized her, he had thought she was just one of his fellow firemen. She'd kept her head down until he and Patsy moved on.
They had still been within earshot, however, when Patsy asked Cole about his gal. The little Irishman was referring to her, Annabel knew. Then had come Cole's response—She's not my gal—and Annabel had felt something twist and rend inside her. How could he dismiss her so casually? Had he forgotten all about the kiss they had shared? Annabel certainly hadn't.
She scrambled to her feet and started after Cole and Patsy, keeping her head down as she trailed along in their wake. It took only a few moments for her to realize that they were on their way to the area where the wagons for the race were being readied. She watched, staying back in the crowd where she would be inconspicuous, as the teams were harnessed to the pumpers. Then, as Cole pulled himself up on the left side of the wagon, Annabel moved forward and climbed onto the right side, along with several men from the San Francisco department. No one tried to stop her or seemed to find anything odd in her behavior.
Her heart was hammering with a mixture of expectation and anger as the wagon rolled toward the starting line. Expectation because the race was about to start and she was going to be part of it; anger because of the way Cole had so callously dismissed the idea that she was his girl.
She wasn't anybody's girl, she told herself sternly. If she wasn't careful, she was going to allow herself to fall into the trap of thinking like these people did and sharing their old-fashioned attitudes.
But 1906 was where she was, another part of her brain argued, and if she was going to stay here, she couldn't expect everyone else to change their way of life to conform to her ideas.
Annabel took one hand off the grab bar she was holding and used it to wipe away a tear that had welled from the corner of her eye. This mental argument with herself was nothing more than a distraction, and she knew it. She was just trying to keep her mind off the way Cole had rejected her.
When this race was over, win, lose, or draw, she was going to confront him and let him know that she had taken part in the competition after all and had proven herself.
Then she would turn and walk away, and abandon her hope of joining the fire department. She realized now that it wouldn't mean anything.
Not without Cole.
The huge crowd had spread out around the park with picnic lunches. There would be plenty of spectators all along the race course. One of the largest groups was at the starting line, however, which would also serve as the finish line. Cheers rose from the assembled San Franciscans and Oaklandites as the two pumpers drove up to the line. The enthusiasm Of the crowd seemed to communicate itself to the horses, who pranced skittishly and pulled on their harnesses, clearly ready for the race to begin. Patsy O'Flaherty and the driver on the Oakland fire wagon had their hands full keeping the teams under control as the band concert wound slowly to a conclusion.
When the music had ended, Chief Sullivan and the chief of the Oakland department, accompanied by an entourage of politicians, wealthy businessmen, and journalists, came over to the race's starting line. Chief Sullivan made a brief speech, then took out his starter's pistol, again.
"Drivers and firemen ready?" he called loudly.
"Ready!" came back the shouted reply from the men on both wagons.
Chief Sullivan smiled, lifted the, pistol over his head, and pulled the trigger. The weapon cracked, and both wagons practically leaped forward as the horses lunged into motion.
The sudden start jerked Annabel backward, but she was gripping the grab bar with both hands and had no trouble holding on. She came up on her toes just enough to be able to peer over the top of the boiler and see Cole's helmet, its badge emblazoned with the number 21.
The wagons reached a turn in the course and rolled around the curve. Momentum caused Annabel to swing outward a little as the San Francisco wagon made the maneuver. She shifted her weight slightly so as to balance herself and keep her center of gravity stable. Her knees bent in a crouch.
This was something totally new to her. She had thrown. fire axes before—well, Pulaskis, but it was almost the same thing—and she had handled hoses with much higher water pressure than the ones in this era were capable of. But she had never ridden on a bouncing, careening fire wagon before. Still, it seemed to be simple enough. The only strategy involved for the riders was to hang on for dear life.
Wind tore at Annabel's face as the wagon raced onward. She kept her head down so that the fire helmet wouldn't be blown off. Of course, even if her masquerade were to be discovered now, it was too late for anyone to do anything about it, she thought. Nothing could stop the race until it was over.