And she turned away before he could summon a reply.
Liam kept his mind blank as he drove home. Even the dogs were unusually quiet. Only on the last stretch of Sacramento Street did he set the horses in one last, reckless run to the gates of his great, empty house.
It was at those gates that the world lurched violently and threw Liam forward against the dashboard of the surrey. The horses screamed and reared. A hard grip on the seat kept him from falling out; the effort wrenched his arm and slammed his head against the roof. He heard a yelp and a whimper and struggled to right himself.
The carriage had collapsed on one side, front and rear wheels tilted at an impossible angle. Bummer lay very still on the ground a few feet away, Norton licking him with worried nudges of his muzzle. Ignoring the pain in his arm and head, Liam scrambled out of the surrey. He gave the horses a swift check and found them trembling and white-eyed but whole. He moved quickly to crouch beside the dogs.
“Bummer,” he said. “Can you hear me, boy?”
The terrier’s visible eye opened and then shut again. His whimper was barely audible. Liam ran his hand over Bummer’s side, careful not to exert any pressure. One of the dog’s legs was bleeding badly, and he flinched when Liam brushed his ribs. Pushing Norton gently out of the way, Liam gathered the terrier in his arms and strode for the gates.
Chen met him before he reached the front door. “Mr. O’Shea, what—”
“We’ve had an accident, Chen. Send for the veterinarian immediately. And clean up Bummer’s leg. I think his ribs are broken.”
With utmost care Chen took the dog, murmuring assurances into the terrier’s limp triangular ear. “I will take good care of him.”
“I know you will. When Bummer’s safe, send a message to Mr. Bauer that I’ll need to see him right away. I’ll be in front speaking with Forster.”
“At once, Mr. O’Shea.” Chen vanished into the house, Norton trotting anxiously behind.
Liam knew Bummer couldn’t be in better hands until the veterinarian arrived. His next most pressing business wouldn’t wait. He went out into the garden and was taking the path toward the carriage house when he saw Forster by the surrey, bent over one of the ruined wheels.
“Well?” he said, joining the other man. “What caused it?”
Forster straightened. “I can’t account for it, Mr. O’Shea, except that it looks like someone sawed halfway through the front axle. A few good runs and it was bound to give way.” He clucked his tongue. “It’s a miracle the horses weren’t hurt.”
“Yes.” Liam remembered how he’d raced the surrey not once but twice, how Mac had been in the carriage only minutes before.
She could have been badly hurt.
She… could have died.
This had been no accident. No accident that Caroline had been safe with Perry in the gig.
He unbuttoned the collar of his shirt and ripped off his tie. “See to the horses, Forster. The veterinarian’s on his way—have him examine them carefully, and give them an extra measure of grain tonight. The poor beasts have earned it.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. O’Shea. Are you all right?”
“Perfectly.”
Forster gave him a dubious glance and went to calm the horses, unbuckling their harness. “There, now,” he soothed. “You’ll be fine, my beauties. No one will hurt you again.”
Liam stood by the surrey as Forster led the team away. No, no one would hurt the horses or Bummer or anyone else again. His bitter thoughts turned toward the center of town, toward Market and a certain suite of boardinghouse rooms.
This time I’ll kill you, Perry.
* * *
The room was heavy with the scent of incense, a scent that didn’t quite cover the more acrid smell of opium from the adjoining chamber. Perry was grateful for the low light and heavy shadows; he’d been careful to wear a hat that gave him some anonymity so that the man he was to meet would have trouble identifying him later.
When everything was finished.
While he waited under the impassive scrutiny of the tong guards, he thought back to the news he’d had from Forster a few days before. The news that had led him here to this alien place, to ally himself to men with whom he had nothing in common. Men who would probably see a sawed-through carriage axle as a warning rather than a murder attempt.