Rebecca Hagan Lee Read Free Page B

he identified the culprit.
    He didn’t mind religious fervor. He’d grown up with missionaries and had been surrounded by it. His father was minister of the First Presbyterian Church of Hong Kong, his mother had preached the gospel according to John Knox on her deathbed, but a little religious fervor went a long way, and Will was rapidly reaching the end of his patience.
    The construction of the Silken Angel Saloon
had become a clarion call for every follower of William Booth’s philosophy in San Francisco—and their numbers seemed to be multiplying daily. A year ago, you could count the San Francisco Salvationists on one hand, but the past few months had brought boatloads—all looking to save the city—particularly the Barbary Coast—from itself and eternal damnation.
    Will didn’t object to the goal, but he certainly objected to the methods. Between visits from the Salvationists and the Women’s Suffrage and Temperance League, he’d had to replace three bar mirrors, two plate-glass storefronts, a case of whiskey, two tables, and half a dozen chairs. All of that in addition to the breakage caused by the usual assortment of rowdy customers.
    He’d nearly reached the bottom of the stairs and was in the midst of shoving his arms into the sleeves of his dressing gown when the soprano reached the refrain.
    “‘Bringing in the sheaves. Bringing in the sheaves. We shall come rejoicing, bring—’”
    He hurried down the remainder of the stairs and collided with the figure standing at the foot of them. The girl looked up, widening her eyes in surprise at the force of the impact. He recognized the look of astonishment and fear as her ugly black boots lost purchase on the polished oak floor and she wobbled backward.
    Reacting instinctively, he reached out, grabbed the girl around the waist, and hauled her against his chest. The air left her lungs in a whoosh of warm breath.
    “Oh!” came her muffled exclamation. Her hat had been knocked askew and her face was buried in the hair on his chest, revealed by his open robe.
    Will held her fast until he was certain she was in no danger of falling, then set her down on the floor and released his hold.
    She sucked in a breath.
    “Please . . .” Will held up his hand. “Don’t sing anymore.”
    A startled look crossed her face. “I wasn’t going to sing.”
    “Thank God,” he murmured beneath his breath.
    “I was going to scream.” She didn’t look up, but continued to stare at his bare chest as if mesmerized by the sight.
    Staring down at the top of her head, Will pulled the silk edges of his robe together and knotted the belt. “Don’t do that either.”
    “I most certainly will!” she warned, still staring at the bit of flesh left exposed by the wide lapels of his dressing gown, a frown marring the area between her eyebrows. “If the situation warrants it.”
    “It won’t,” he muttered. “As long as you don’t sing.”
    She looked up at him then, her gaze narrowing in a warning that matched her frown. “What’s wrong with my singing voice? I’m told it’s quite pleasant. And how dare you manhandle me this way?”
    Her eyes were blue. Cornflower blue fringed by thick dark lashes and framed by eyebrows that were a dark reddish brown. A tiny sprinkling of lighter reddish-gold freckles dotted her nose. Her hair, beneath her awful military-gray bonnet, matched her eyebrows. “Would you rather I allowed you to tumble to the floor?”
    “No. Of course not,” she replied. “I thank you for saving me from that, but if you hadn’t come charging half-clothed down the staircase as if the building were on fire, I wouldn’t have been taken unawares or thrown off balance in the first place.”
    “You’re blaming me?” Will was taken aback by her audacity. He stood nearly three inches over six feet tall in his bare feet and was solidly built, while the top of her head barely reached his chest despite the two-inch heels on her boots. She was a tiny,