Bicycle Built for Two Read online

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  A BICYCLE BUILT FOR TWO

  By Alice Duncan

  Book #3 in the series “Meet Me at the Fair”

  A Bicycle Built for Two

  Copyright © 2002 by Alice Duncan

  All rights reserved.

  Published 2002 by Kensington Corp.

  A Zebra “Ballads” Books

  Smashwords edition March 15, 2010

  Visit aliceduncan.net

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Chapter One

  “But that’s outrageous!”

  Alex English stared, aghast, at his fellow members of the World’s Columbian Exposition’s Agricultural Forum, the body of men in agricultural pursuits who had put together so many of the magnificent exhibits fair-goers daily flocked to see. Alex himself had donated the oats, wheat, and barley, grown on his own Illinois farm, that had been used in creating a reproduction of the Liberty Bell.

  “We can’t have that sort of thing going on here. This Exhibition is meant to be an arena of education. It’s a place where families can see for themselves what a great country America’s become. It’s supposed to be wholesome and moral. It’s not supposed to be a—a—” But Alex couldn’t find words egregious enough to describe the disgraceful event that had just been related to him.

  “True, true.” Gilbert MacIntosh, railroad magnate and weekend farmer sighed. “To be fair to the girl, she did ask the gate men to keep an eye open for the man, and to refuse him admission if he showed up. It’s not really her fault that he managed to get past them.”

  “But to very nearly strangle his own daughter?” Alex could scarcely take it in. “What kind of family does the girl come from? Are we sure we want her sort working at the Exposition?”

  All of Alex’s sensibilities rebelled at the notion that somebody could attempt murder—and upon his own daughter, by Gad—at the fair he’d worked so long and hard to create. He had no patience with people like this girl, this so-called “dancer,” this benighted “fortune teller.” He’d fought against admitting that dashed fortune-telling booth to begin with, believing such truck inappropriate for so high-minded an enterprise as his cherished World’s Columbian Exposition. Only reluctantly had he been coerced into accepting Madame Esmeralda’s trashy enterprise, and only so long as she confined it to the Midway Plaisance.

  “What exactly is her sort?” Gilbert asked, an ironical twist to his voice.

  But Alex entertained no such moral ambiguities as his friend seemed to possess. “The bad sort. Great jumping cats, Gil, you can’t honestly believe the girl is of sound character with a father like that, can you?”

  “I think it’s her father’s character that’s in question here, Alex. Not hers.”

  “Humbug. The acorn doesn’t fall far from the oak tree. No matter what the so-call psychologists that are popping up all over the place say, such moral laxity runs in families.” He pounded the table. “It even says so in the Bible. Unto the seventh generation!” The Bible was an excellent resource, and Alex felt no qualms about using it as a reference. Not even Gil, who occasionally entertained bizarre notions, would dare refute the Bible.

  “I don’t think it’s as easy as that.” Gilbert rubbed a hand across his eyes, as if he were exhausted, which he probably was. “In spite of the Bible, her father isn’t her fault, Alex.”

  “Bah. His sort breeds his sort, and she’s his daughter.” Alex knew it to be true. He was sure Gil did, too, but was being stubborn for some unfathomable reason. Alex had the Bible on his side, for crumb’s sake.

  “You’re not being fair to her, Alex,” Gil insisted.

  The Agricultural Forum members spent long hours, together and individually, overseeing events in the Agricultural Building and making sure displays inside were kept up to snuff. Alex had worked like a demon all his life to propitiate the farming enterprise his great-grandfather, grandfather, and father had begun and maintained. He’d added a genius for business, a far-sighted and creative mode of thinking, an interest in new ideas, farming methods, unique uses for his produce, and boundless energy and ambition to his inherited green thumb. He had, therewith, created the largest, most prosperous farming enterprise in the middle west. He wasn’t about to let a low-bred, low-class girl from Chicago’s worst slums disrupt his cherished Exposition.

  “What do you mean?” he demanded of Gilbert MacIntosh. “If the girl is a menace to the rest of the Exposition, I say get rid of her.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Mr. Farley Pike, another wealthy Illinois farmer. “We don’t want her type soiling our project.

  Alex nodded. “Exactly.” He didn’t much like Farley, considering him a stuffed shirt, a bore, and assuredly a hypocrite into the bargain, but he appreciated his support at the moment.

  Gil eyed them both with a jaundiced air. “You’re not being just, gentlemen. It’s not the girl’s fault that her father is a drunkard.” He aimed a gaze at Alex that hit its target like a jab on the jaw. “She isn’t the problem. Her father is the problem. And she took the precaution of warning the gate keepers that he might well make trouble. I believe she ought to be lauded for trying to better herself and her foresight, not kicked in the teeth for having been cursed with a bastard for a father.”

  A general gasp went up around the table. These gentlemen, these salt-of-the-earth farmers—granted, they were a good deal more prosperous than most farmers—weren’t accustomed to hearing profanity spoken in their presence. Somebody, Alex didn’t see who, muttered, “Well, really.”

  Alex pressed his lips together briefly. He didn’t approve of cursing, either. However, it was Gil’s prodding of his conscience that irked him more than Gil’s unconventional language. He didn’t like to think of himself as the sort of fellow who would condemn a person out of hand. An urge to defend his stand assailed him. “Now, listen here, Gil, old fellow. We all know that there are certain types of people who can’t be helped.”

  Gil eyed him without favor. “And how, pray, can you be sure this girl is one of them? Have you met her? Spoken to her? I haven’t, so I prefer to withhold judgment until I have. I know you’re a good man, Alex, but I think you’re not behaving like one in this instance. At least talk to the girl and determine her soundness of character and mind before you deprive her of the means of making her living.”

  Scores of epithets, most containing words like “bleeding heart” and “soft touch” flitted through Alex’s brain. He knew he was being unkind to Gil. Gil was as hard-headed a businessman as any of them. And he was only being reasonable. Alex knew it, even though he hated acknowledging the truth, because the truth in this instance was not to his credit. He liked to think of himself as the reasonable one in any gathering of gentlemen.

  After a longish pause, during which Alex pondered how he could get his own way and rid the Exposition of this girl, this Kate Finney, who was clearly devoid of morals or worth, without seeming, even to himself, irrational and ill-tempered, he said, “Very well, Gil. You’re correct.” He felt magnanimous admitting it. “I’ll visit the girl and talk to her. If I think she ought be kicked out, however, you may be sure I’ll recommend doing so to the Fair Directory.”

  “Fine, fine,” Gil said upon a heavy breath of air. “That’s fair.”

  “Thank you.” Alex rose. “Shall we retire to
luncheon, gentlemen? I hear a hamburger calling my name.” He smiled and his co-agriculturalists laughed, and the men all left their meeting room in the Exposition’s Administration Building. He clapped Gil on the shoulder as the two men met at the door. “Would you care to visit Miss Finney with me, Gil?”

  But the other man shook his head. “Can’t, Alex. I’ve got to see to my Guernseys. My man said one of them isn’t feeling well. Can’t have sick cows at the fair.”

  “Good Gad, no!” The mere thought of a sick cow, a diseased cornstalk, or a patch of mildew on one of his pumpkins made Alex’s skin crawl. Once, several years ago, Alex’s mother had laughingly told him he was too much of a perfectionist, but Alex didn’t think it was possible to be too careful. It was his attention to detail that had increased his family’s fortunes so greatly. Besides, he knew his mother had only been joking.

  Gil grinned at him. “Don’t take it so hard, Alex. If the cow’s sick, I’ll take care of her.”

  Alex gazed sharply at his best friend. Was Gil making fun of him? He didn’t want to think so, but he frowned slightly. “Of course, you will,” he said more stiffly than he’d intended.

  Placing a hand on Alex’s shoulder, Gil stopped his friend’s forward progress. Alex turned and gazed at him quizzically. “Yes, Gil? You want to say something?”

  Gil looked troubled. Alex hoped nothing was amiss at home. Gil had recently married a charming woman. Alex had been best man at the ceremony, an event that had started him thinking about setting up housekeeping himself. His mother could use some help on the farm. Not that Alex didn’t provide her with a full household staff, but still, managing such a large home and grounds could be tiring to a lady no longer in the first blush of youth, especially now that his father had passed on to his just reward. “Is something the matter, Gil?”

  “Yes. No. Aw, hell, Alex, I don’t know.”

  Alex allowed his eyes to open wide for perhaps two seconds. It was unlike Gil to swear this much. In order to make his friend relax, he smiled. “Out with it, Gil. If something’s wrong, perhaps I can help with it.”

  Gil’s smile slipped sideways and he chuckled softly. “Actually, you’re the only one who can help.”

  “I don’t think I understand, Gil.”

  “No, I’m sure you don’t.”

  Alex was puzzled by Gil’s air of distress. Cocking his head to one side, he waited, figuring his friend would get to the point eventually.

  “Alex . . .” Again, Gil stopped speaking.

  More confused than ever, Alex said, “Yes?”

  “Alex, you’re turning into a fussy old man before my very eyes, damn it!”

  Alex blinked at him. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what Gil meant, for that matter. “Um . . .”

  Gil’s hand tightened on Alex’s shoulder. “Listen, Alex, I’m saying this all wrong, but try to understand.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “We’ve been best friends for years. I love you as I would a brother.” Frowning slightly, Gil emended his comment. “Actually, I love you a good deal more than I do Henry.”

  At last Alex found a reason to smile, so he did. Henry was a stuffed shirt and a crashing dullard. Everyone who knew him agreed.

  “But, dash it, Alex, you’re getting to be as bad as he is!”

  “I beg your pardon?” Alex was certain he’d misunderstood.

  “Take this girl, for instance.”

  “I’d rather not, thank you.” A good deal put out with his friend, Alex felt himself tense until his posture was . . . well . . . rather like Henry’s, actually. The realization forced Alex to calm down and relax his rigid posture.

  “But that’s just it, you see. You’re willing to condemn Miss Finney before you know her story. You’ve never even met her, yet you’re talking about forcing her out of the Exposition.” Gil’s eyes told an eloquent story that Alex didn’t want to read. “It’s not like you to condemn a person out of hand, Alex. At least, it’s not like the Alex English I grew up with. I hope to God you’re not turning into another Henry, Alex, or I might just be forced to take action.”

  He said the last few words with a smile on his face and a laugh in his voice, but Alex still read the truth in his eyes. A mixture of indignation, fury, and absolute, bone-deep hurt kept him speechless.

  Gil took note of his silence. “Damnation, now I’ve wounded your feelings. I’m sorry, Alex. But, dash it, I’d hate to see you turn into an intolerant old fusspot before you’re even thirty. You used to be a generous, good-hearted fellow, old man. I know you’ve always worked like the very devil to achieve your success, but you used to have a sense of humor and an even deeper sense of honor and integrity.”

  “Integrity?” Alex gaped at his friend. “Are you insinuating—”

  ”No!” Again, Gil passed a hand over his eyes, as though he wanted to clear them of fog. “You’re still full of integrity and honor. You always have been. But you used to care about other people, as well. You used to possess a gentle nature and a sense of fun. You used to possess a sense of good will and tolerance for those less fortunate than you.”

  “Fortunate!” Alex knew that his anger was justified at last. He bridled. “Good fortune had nothing to do with my success, Gil. You know that as well as I do.”

  Another sigh leaked out of his friend’s mouth. “I do know it. You’ve worked damned hard, and your success has been well-earned. But, dash it, Alex, you’re . . .” He hesitated again, as if he didn’t want to create a rift in their friendship. “Damn it, Alex, you’re losing your humanity!”

  Alex fought a sneer and lost. “My humanity? Are you suggesting I’m wrong in wanting only wholesome and morally sound displays and educational entertainments at this fair, Gil?”

  Gil slumped. “No. I’m not suggesting that. I’m only suggesting that your heart might be hardening with your success, old man. I hear that happens to people’s arteries. They get hard as the people get old, and their circulation stops. I don’t want your heart to get so hard around the edges that you can’t see the good in people of all walks of life, Alex. You used to be the most open-handed and open-hearted of men.” Gil shrugged. “That’s all.”

  “I see. In other words, I’m turning into Ebenezer Scrooge before your very eyes, is that it?”

  Gil ran a hand through his hair, then clapped his derby upon it. “Now I’ve offended you. I’m sorry, Alex.”

  “Not at all,” Alex said, offended to his toenails. He drew his gold watch from his pocket and glanced at it for show. “But I see I must be going now, old man. Give my best to Suzanne.”

  And he stalked off. Reflected in a window, he saw Gil staring morosely after him.

  # # #

  Kate Finney absently rubbed the black-and-blue marks on her throat as she contemplated the various jars, bottles, and boxes set out on the dressing table in Madame Esmeralda’s Fortune-Telling booth. The bruises hurt awfully, and Kate wasn’t sure her windpipe hadn’t been permanently damaged. The problem now, however, was how best to hide the bruises her father’s fingers had made on her throat so that they wouldn’t distract the people who entered Madame’s booth to get their fortune’s told. Kate grinned when she thought about a fortune teller who’d been unable to foresee an attack by her own father. The grin didn’t last long.

  “You ought to see a doctor, Kate,” Madame said around a mouthful of bread and cheese.

  “Can’t afford it,” said Kate. She tried to accompany the words with a careless laugh, but it hurt so much to talk, she quit on the laugh.

  Madame huffed and snorted, two things she did when disgusted or upset. Kate was used to it. She absolutely adored the feisty old Rumanian Gypsy lady who’d taught her how to read palms and crystal balls and the Tarot cards. As far as Kate could tell, neither one of them believed for a minute that a body could tell the future by gazing at any of those things, but that didn’t stop either lady from making as much money as possible purveying the dark arts.

  Whatever it took
; that’s the way Kate had learned to deal with life. And if it took misleading a gullible public, so be it. Far be it from Kate Finney to balk at the chance to earn a buck or two. Especially not now that her mother’s health was in such a catastrophic state.

  “Ma needs medical attention more than me,” she added when Madame looked as if she were going to pursue the subject. “You know that.”

  “Fah. You’re every bit as important as your mother, Kate Finney. If your health suffers, your mother will suffer, too.”

  “Stop it,” Kate demanded, only partially in jest. “You’re making my blood run cold.”

  “Huh. That girl should have killed that man when she had the chance.” After this semi-enigmatic comment, Madame stuffed another bit of bread and cheese into her mouth and followed the bite with one of the hot peppers she loved so well.

  Kate understood Madame’s intent. She sighed and picked up a pot of light-colored facial paint as she thought about Belle Monroe. Belle had come into her booth as Kate’s father was in the process of strangling Kate, and had battered him with her parasol. “She tried. She might have, too, if her umbrella hadn’t broken.” It still made her grin to think of that most proper of all proper southern ladies, Miss Belle Monroe, trying to stab Kate’s drunken father with her broken parasol. “Too bad, that.”

  “I should say.”

  But wishing her father dead didn’t pay the rent. Or the medical bills. Kate knew her mother would get better if only she could keep away from Kate’s father. The doctor said there was no hope, that Hazel Finney had consumption in an advanced state, but Kate didn’t buy it. Hell’s bells, Kate herself had beaten tough odds. Who was the doc to tell her that her mother couldn’t?

  Besides all that, the thought of her mother’s possible death made Kate want to curl up and sob. No, sir. Kate was going to fight her mother’s tuberculosis tooth and nail. And she was going to get her mother better one of these days, even if she had to take her out West, where lots of lung patients were going these days. Heck, Kate could work out there as well as she could here. She had faith in herself. Anyhow, the notion of singing or slinging beer in a wild, western saloon made her chuckle.