Wanted

By Carmi Cason

What happens when a small town girl takes a swipe at a big city gangster?
She winds up needing a lot of help. But as a stranger in a strange town, who can she turn to?
Marissa Erinson just wanted to make a difference in her new adopted city, St. Louis. She wanted to share the stories of the people she encountered along the way.
Some people, though, don't want their stories told, and when Marissa shares one tale too many, she finds herself in the crosshairs of Prohibition era bootleggers.
With the gangsters who run the town hot on her trail, Marissa can't trust anyone, not even her friends. Certainly not the stranger who shows up claiming to have her best interests at heart.
If she can't figure out a way to get out of the sites of the gangs - or at least get out of town - Marissa might not live to share another story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carmi Cason
• Release date: Dec 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005704865

Carmi Cason

Carmi Cason is a mother and grandmother with an undergraduate degree in music and a graduate degree in English. She dabbles in science and multiple foreign languages. From her earliest memories, she has loved stories.She sat in rapt attention at the feet of her maternal grandmother and grandfather, both of whom regaled her with tales of their families and the real-life histories that brought character to her home. Her father passed on his Hardy Boys collection, introducing her to the world of fiction. With a lot of direction from her mother, a gifted storyteller, Carmi has developed a deep passion for writing and conveying meaning through the stories she writes. She also believes that life has a purpose, that though we live in a broken world we are valuable and valued, and that no matter how dark life seems there is hope. She prays you will find that hope in her work.Her mascot is her cat, Oscar, a black tabby who fights against pestal incursions and loves to have his ears scratched.​{If you enjoy my work, please consider offering monthly support at Patreon or a one-time donation at either Patreon or PayPal. I am also available for biographical/autobiographical work or personalized children's books.)​

Book preview

Prologue

As he peered at the young woman weaving her way past the gas lanterns that lit the plaza, Alistair Galloway marveled at how easily he, if he had already received the go ahead, could have taken her out at that very moment. She hurried, head down, across the deepening Missouri twilight, heedless of the shadows that swallowed her where she passed between the streetlamps. Alistair felt a strange relief that Angus had chosen him to kill the girl. Too many of Alistair's coworkers held tendencies toward cruelty, and the girl looked far too innocent to take any liberties with.

She held several books clutched tightly to her chest, and she didn't seem to notice that no other soul inhabited the area through which she trod. Either this girl had spent her life in a sheltered existence, or she had absolutely no sense. Maybe both.

In a way, Alistair despised this assignment - the girl looked no older than his little sister. Not that Alistair held any real moral objection to offing someone if necessary, and Alistair had encountered women far younger with more worldly knowledge than a barroom scrub. When he had handled other cases, though, Alistair had felt that he was meting out some form of justice. Silly, he knew, to require justification for what many would label murder, but Alistair had a peculiar conscience. Some people just begged to run into trouble, and Alistair didn't mind wearing the label. 

Trouble, he had often chuckled at the thought. My mutha woulda said as much. Besides, he reasoned, people who dealt with Angus Moran knew exactly what they were getting into, and if they chose to double cross the Moran brothers, then they chose their own fate.

This girl, though. She seemed as innocent as a mewling kitten, and about as disheveled, too. How could she know anything about trouble, much less ask for it? Alistair wasn't supposed to know why Angus had requested her elimination, but people talk. Alistair knew. Sure, she had managed to clash with the Rats' interest in a way, and someone needed to educate her about meddling in things she didn't understand. She hadn't, though, known exactly what she was doing. For heaven's sake, he reasoned, she doesn't even know who the Rats are.

Still, conscience be damned, Alistair would do it. Not here; not now. But he would kill the girl before long, and he knew why. In ordering the girl's elimination, Angus would deliver a clear message to everyone in the community. Don't cross me, the message blared loudly and clearly. Angus counted on using the isolated, unknown girl to let her friends know where things stood. And not only Angus; too many other big players had a stake in making the message clear. If Angus let it pass now, mutiny might stir in the ranks of more than one organization.

One, insignificant girl would hardly be missed when she was gone, but the more significant people - the ones who had aided and probably even funded the girl - cared what happened to her. When she died, they would think twice before they dared trespass against the Rats, or the next time, they would suffer personally.

Finally, the girl lifted her eyes and took in her surroundings. Alistair could only shake his head at his distaste for the assignment. When she saw him standing there, staring at her, she started, and Alistair could see the wheels of her mind churning as she debated whether to remain calm or to flee, panicking, into her apartment. Alistair didn't mind that she saw him now; she wouldn't see him when he came for her, so she wouldn't know to run. Instead of trying to conceal himself, he offered a pleasant smile. The girl lifted the corners of her lips and waved before darting into the small campus bookstore. Again, Alistair shook his head. This assignment would prove all too distastefully easy.

Chapter 1

The pervasive aroma of fresh, hot food would have smelled good to her, if she could have ignored the equally inescapable smell of sweat and sewer gas that rose up from the sweltering pavement around her. Marissa Erinson wanted nothing more than to escape from the pressing crowd that had arisen, somewhat spontaneously, from the old fairgrounds in St. Louis.

True, she had once fantasized about the crowds and the sights and the excitement, having heard from her infancy about the World's Fair of 1904. Grandma Cora had spent hours describing the unparalleled grandeur of the neo-Classical buildings, paper buildings which had deteriorated within a couple of years. According to Grandma, she had never tasted food like the fair's: ice cream in a cone made like a waffle, Dr. Pepper soda, and tea poured over ice. That tea tasted like heaven, Grandma claimed, wiping her forehead as if she could still feel the 90-degree heat beating down on her.

As Marissa had later learned, weeks after she had left her newly air-conditioned home in rural South Carolina, St. Louis didn't hold the market on magic, and reality couldn't match up to her idealistic imaginings of adventurous happenings and interesting people. Only two things lived up to her expectations of splendor: the music that drifted through the air of the park and the beautiful white building that stretched over a hundred feet in the air. In South Carolina, she had not encountered any music that danced like the music of St. Louis. It bobbed and jagged like a hummingbird over a river, and though it swept Marissa along in its stream, she couldn't catch it.

As for the building, it stood taller than any man-made structure she had seen up close, and while the hemlock trees at home had stood perhaps a bit taller, they had bent to the will of the wind, thin and spindle and tensile. The white stone edifice of the building stretched so wide that she couldn't see the sides from the front, and it seemed as immovable as it was immense.

Marissa, a familiar voice called out, and Marissa ripped herself from her reverie. Come over here. You're a smartie. Maybe you can give us a hand.

Sam Lincoln, Marissa complained internally.

Irritated and a bit anxious, she pretended not to see him. The first few times that Sam had spoken to Marissa, she had felt incredibly flattered that someone with such high social standing would even talk to her. False flattery, she later recognized. After a few days of exposure to Sam's dubious charms, Marissa had realized something, and she kicked herself for not seeing the truth earlier.

Sam held everything that could recommend him to the unthinking masses: good looks, money, family name. The only thing Sam didn't have, in Marissa's opinion, was any measure of true character. Oh, she would have called him a character, she knew, but his greatest strength came from his ability to show off for his friends, not from any substance. All performance. To this fact Marissa owed her greatest embarrassment to date.

She remembered staring up at a cloud that had passed overhead, obscuring the sun and acting as harbinger to a late summer cool front. Within her first few hours in the city, her boss's wife had warned Marissa not to expect the pleasant weather to last. According to the Farmer's Almanac, Mrs. Ellenwood had assured Marissa, the city of St. Louis would see a late Indian Summer, a sweltering reminiscent of Marissa's South Carolina hometown. At least, Mrs. Ellenwood had insisted that the two locations would prove comparable.

Of course, Mrs. Ellenwood had never really traveled beyond the confines of her neighborhood and would therefore possess no knowledge of the great difference. A hot day in the city in fact could not really compare to a hot day near Marissa's country home west of New Town, South Carolina. Even though her mother's Great-grand-daddy Withers had move from the beach after the hurricane of 1822, he had settled near a large lake which provided Marissa, a fifth-generation Erinson, with plenty of cool recreation in the hot summer months. And on particularly sweltering days, the family would pack up with Miss Lottie, a neighboring Negro woman who lived in a small house on the Erinson property. Miss Lottie would bring her five children in the Erinson's second wagon and the whole group would caravan to the beach over an hour away. If the clouds had completely evaporated, Mr. Erinson would join the group and turn the expedition into an overnight camping trip.

Marissa loved camping with Miss Lottie's kids. The woman's eldest daughter, Moira, seemed a fiery counterpoint to Marissa's indulgent nature, and Moira, along with Miss Lottie, seemed the only creatures on the planet not overwhelmed by Marissa's brother. Marissa's younger brother, Jackson, overshadowed everyone, whether adult or child, rich or poor, educated or ignorant. On some occasions, this served Marissa well.

She enjoyed grabbing the attention of the various pew occupants as she strode by Jackson's side into the little chapel in New Town. Too, Jackson managed to wrench costly items from willing fingers on a regular basis. On many occasions, he brought home sugar sticks that he had received from the store proprietor's wife, Mrs. Andersson. That Erinson boy, the woman would say with a slightly chastising tone. Then an indulgent smile would soften her stare when she actually turned his way. Marissa had always secretly equated his smooth talk and flashy smile with tools of thievery. Still, his victims had found more pleasure in indulging him than pain in parting with their treasures.

For Marissa, though, she spent most of her time with her brother protecting herself from his persistence. For every charming trait that he possessed, he held methods of tormenting and coercing Marissa into all sorts of unpleasant situations. She loved him, but she honestly couldn't regret a few months away from him. Looking around her, she laughed at the realization that all the years of fending off her brother's energies had probably emboldened her to undertake the crazy excursion hundreds of miles from her home. Usually, Marissa felt timid on her bravest day, but what possible challenges could compete with fending off her brother?

Marissa could never have known how prescient her thoughts would prove. If she had held any illusion that life on her own would be easy, her first week disabused her of her naiveté. On her third day in town, she had, she thought, mastered the delivery bike that her boss had instructed her to learn. This feat, for a woman, had to amount to a great accomplishment. Everyone knew that women couldn't think the right way to maneuver through traffic – her boss had informed her of the fact as soon as she had arrived. At her insistence, however, the boss finally agreed to give Marissa a trial run, and Marissa had managed with great success. Actually, she had never ridden a bicycle before, but her boss didn't need to know that. It can't be that much harder than riding a horse, she reasoned. By her first afternoon, she had managed to stop running up over curbs or falling over when she dodged a car or buggy. She hadn't lost or sullied a single book, and on day three, she felt secure enough in her ability to believe that she had achieved mastery of the vehicle.

When Marissa had convinced her mother to convince her daddy to let her leave the comfort of their renovated plantation – one previously abandoned and derelict since the Civil War – so she could go to work for a university bookstore, Marissa had considered herself the most amazing woman in the world. Not only would she have access to all of the university's class material through the bookstore, she would have an income and a place to stay. An unchaperoned woman in a college town. Marissa sighed at the memory.

Within mere days, reality slapped her across the face and sent her, crawling, back to her small apartment above the bookstore at Forsyth and Asbury. Really, the job should not have required any great effort on her part. Her boss, Mr. Ellenwood, had requested that she deliver a set of classroom books to Professor Garner, the professor of Biology, whose office rested on the south side of the school. To Marissa, the task presented very little challenge. Surely, if she could maneuver the hills and ditches of the back of her property in the deep south state of Carolina, she could manage paved roads in the Midwest metropolis of Missouri.

Should have presented no challenge, but the coyotes and bears in the backwoods back home couldn't compare to the cold-hearted cads of the big city. On the infamous third day, her first ten minutes of work passed uneventfully, and Marissa almost forgot that her little bike pulled a cart with fifty pounds of books behind her. With only a couple of blocks to go, Marissa had begun to celebrate, and though she realized the dearth of glamour involved in her feat, she couldn't help feeling a sense of accomplishment.

The feeling lasted until twelve minutes into the fifteen-minute bike ride, exactly until the moment that she encountered Sam Lincoln for the first time.

Miss? the voice had come from the sidewalk to her right, and at first, Marissa ignored it, assuming that no one had reason to call her. Hey, lady! the voice came more demandingly, and a two-toned shoe appeared in front of Marissa's tire. The baggy plus fours appeared even more abruptly, and Marissa swerved violently to avoid injuring the leg and foot inside the apparel. Unfortunately, the movement sent her cargo into a catastrophic lurch, and before she could right herself, the bike plunged to the pavement.

Several books lay brutalized beneath her bike, and matching scrapes began to well with blood on her left elbow and knee. When she felt the pain of the scratches, she forced herself not to cry, but once she had extricated herself from the wreckage and viewed the scene of destruction, tears began to sting her eyes despite her resolve.

Her skin, she knew, would heal, but she couldn't salvage all of the books, two ripped nearly in half from the force of the fall. Too, her stockings now sported a large hole that had begun to run, her woolen sweater wore a similar blemish, and her embarrassingly long hair, which she worked hard to hide, had escaped its tight bun when her cloche had flown across the road.

Though she had known that all self-respecting young women in the city would have shorn their hair to at least shoulder length, Marissa couldn't leave behind the more provincial fashion of letting her hair fall to the middle of her back. The clothes disaster left her with only one pair of stockings and two sweaters to her name, and though she had hoped to salvage some of her self-respect, she could hear the guffaws and snickers of several people in her general vicinity. Before glancing up to view her audience, she scrambled across to grab her hat and had managed to shove a good deal of her slightly wavy hair under her cap by the time she met anyone's gaze.

Though her mind initially burned with both embarrassment at her dilemma and indignation at the owner of the leg that had caused her accident, her thoughts turned to gratitude when she viewed the owner shushing his companions before turning toward Marissa with a look of concern.

Are you okay, Miss? the pleasant voice queried, and Marissa looked up into a pair of jovial green eyes.

I'll be fine, she tried to sound confident, though tears still threatened to overspill their restraints. Despite her emotional upheaval, she worked hard to take in the appearance of her assailant-rescuer. She could tell little from his sweater-vest or skimmer hat, only that he preferred casual dress on that particular day. His slicked back hair parted neatly on one side, and he looked very clean and well-manicured, more than she could say for herself at the moment.

Judging by his companions, however, he belonged to a family of comfortable means. All of his friends wore a casual, sophisticated air, and Marissa recognized several high-quality items of clothing adorning the young man's friends.

I don't know who let you out on the street like that, came the surprisingly rude expression from the seemingly compassionate face of the young man. Are you one of those suffrage people?

Suffrage? the accusation felt so foreign as to confuse the normally astute Marissa.

You know, the young man continued, slowing his speech as if to make himself clearer to a slower mind. Women's rights, voting, trying to be a man?

For several seconds, Marissa tried to process the ridiculous assertion that the young man had leveled her way, aware that she appeared severely lacking in intelligence at the moment. She wavered between smiling dumbly up at him, a move that would no doubt establish her as simple, and reprimanding him for his impudence by exposing his ignorance to his friends. Though Marissa held no great allegiance to the Suffragettes, she certainly knew a significant amount about them, no doubt more than this impudent youth who had sent her flying onto the pavement.

As usual, Marissa chose the less confrontational route. Uh, erm...no, she stuttered ridiculously. I just have to make a living somehow. I work at the bookstore.

A titter of laughter erupted from the small crowd of men, and the tears resurfaced in Marissa's eyes. She considered scurrying away as quickly as possible, tail neatly between her legs.

Shhh! came the unexpected admonishment, and Marissa again looked up into that young man's strange mixture of mirth and compassion. Did he really care if they stopped, or did he want to prolong his friends' pleasure at her expense? Don't listen to them. None of them had to work a day in their lives.

And you did? Marissa spurted impulsively. She immediately wished the words back. Another round of laughter spread through the group, but this time it seemed directed at the young man. Marissa must have guessed right about his wealth.

After a glare to quiet his pack, the man turned back to Marissa. There are all types of work, sweet lady. I have had my share, just not what you would consider 'earning my keep.'

At his last words, he lifted his chin at two of the nearby young men and like soldiers, they peeled off from the group and headed toward Marissa. She initially cringed away from them, so little experience did she have with young men, but she quickly figured out that the first young man had dispatched the other two merely to retrieve Marissa's books from the street.

So, you work at the campus bookstore, he observed. What's your name?

Marissa hesitated. She felt no great trust for him, completely confused at his motive for engaging her thusly.

I can just go ask Mr. Ellenwood, he asserted at her silence, this time infusing his jocularity with a teasing threat. He'll tell me anything I want.

Though he wore a joking demeanor, Marissa couldn't escape the sensation that a more serious intent lay behind the young man's tone, as if he fully intended to find her out one way or another. The attitude would have raised Marissa's ire and secured her rebellion, but she hated confrontation, and the way the young man carried himself, she felt sure that he possessed the power to back up his intimations. Not that she suspected any serious harm from him, just perhaps more mischief than she cared to encounter. She decided to salvage her pride and concede at the same time by making a demand of her own.

I think it's only proper for me to know your name before I disclose mine, she tried to appear proud, though she knew her insecurity would leak through the tone. She took comfort in the fact that most people didn't possess the insight to notice such things.

At her demand, some hoots and hollers erupted from the man's friends, a sure recognition of her challenge. Undaunted, Marissa just squared her shoulders and looked the young man in the eyes. She felt absolutely no confidence, but she could bluster through it for a few minutes at least.

The man's eyes flashed, and Marissa felt for a moment some genuine malice just simmering under the surface. He eyed her for only an instant, but in that minute, he seemed to assure himself that she posed no real threat to his dominance – perhaps he had noted her insecurity – and so returned the smile to his eyes.

Sam Lincoln, he conceded, and tilted his head at her expectantly.

Like Abraham? she asked stupidly, and again Sam broke into a full grin.

Like Abraham, but not related. I think you owe me something? he reminded her, not missing a beat.

Oh, uh...Marissa, she offered, hoping she could maintain some dignity by refusing to divulge her last name.

Marissa who? Sam pressed, and Marissa clenched her jaw in irritation. This brought an even bigger smile to Sam's face. Mr. Ellenwood, Sam reminded her.

Oh, no, sorry, she feigned forgetfulness to mask her concession. Marissa Erinson, she capitulated, and her humiliation felt complete.

Well, Marissa Erinson, Sam teased, and he stepped a step closer to her, taking her hand and pulling her out of the street and up onto the curb. If you stand in the street for much longer, you'll end up with hoofprints on your back.

Completely unused to the contact, Marissa cringed away from the young man's touch; she had come to consider him a bit of a cad. She turned back to the street as if to retrieve her things only to find that the two book-retrievers had also righted her bike which now stood erect in the gutter.

Once again, Sam took her hand uninvited and spun her back to face him.

You should let me look at those cuts, he pressed. They look pretty nasty.

Marissa had completely forgotten the cuts, but once he reminded her, she felt the throb of the torn skin and the trickle of blood where it seeped down her nylons.

No! she insisted too vehemently. They're nothing. I'll bandage them after I've delivered the books.

Though she felt his resistance, she pressed forward with her escape. The professors always have the best medicine, and the university is bound to keep bandages on site.

Professors have whiskey? one of Sam's friends murmured, and Marissa's jaw dropped despite her desire to appear collected. Cause whiskey is the best medicine. Guess it’s time to go back to school.

Prohibition had outlawed whiskey nine years before, but Marissa noted that her new acquaintance seemed comfortable enough with the transgression of those laws.

Shooting a glare behind him, Sam smiled reassuringly up at Marissa as if to allay her concerns. Always kidding around, he shook his head, then quickly redirected Marissa's attention, effectively wrapping up their encounter at the same time. Here's twenty dollars to replace the books, he gallantly offered, pressing it into her hand before she could refuse. Get those bandaged quickly, he nodded at the wound on her knee.

A bit dumbfounded, Marissa stared once again at the young man, not sure how to properly respond and still maintain her self-respect. Who carried twenty whole dollars around in their pocket? Taking advantage of her stupor, Sam motioned with his head, and the group moved as a unit down the street, the opposite direction from the university.

Thanks! Marissa called out weakly, and Sam turned back to smirk at her over his shoulder.

Oh, no problem, he insisted. We'll see you around town.

Completely at a loss, Marissa stood and stared after them for a full minute, grateful that Sam didn't consider her important enough for another glance. What a crazy afternoon! she mused, finally gathering herself enough to remember the waiting professor and her book-laden bike.

She turned and shuffled back to her three-wheeled conveyance, climbing aboard and continuing her original course toward the university. Unable to wipe the preceding minutes from her mind, Marissa decided - as her father always encouraged - to analyze them rationally.

First of all, she had no idea what to make of Sam. True, he had initially caused her crash in the first place, and she had not yet ascertained how that had happened. Could he possibly have stuck his foot out at such an inopportune moment by accident? Marissa couldn't fully dismiss the possibility. His manner and the state of his friends spoke good breeding, but Marissa couldn't shake the sense that Sam Lincoln knew a thing or two about the less-than-dignified side of life. His confidence and smooth comportment made him attractive, maybe even alluring, but Marissa had no great longing for action and adventure, and something in his eyes seemed more dangerous than she ever intended to tolerate.

He had seemed interested in her, though for what reason she couldn't fathom. Perhaps he thought her pretty: she knew she could clean up nicely, though her current state wouldn't place her in that category. Maybe her naiveté amused him. Ironically, she really knew and understood quite a bit about the world; she just couldn't always conduct herself with as much sophistication as she would have liked. Definitely, he had enjoyed the encounter for some reason, but Marissa couldn't divine his motive for amusement, and she didn't possess enough curiosity on the subject to want to seek him out in the future for the answer.

Turning her attention to her own behavior, Marissa found both reasons for censure and reasons for satisfaction. On the downside, she had allowed herself to crash recklessly into a pedestrian's foot. She had also stumbled over her words to such an extent that she still didn't know what Sam or his friends thought of her brain capacity.

On the other hand, Marissa had regained her self-respect when she had won the concession of Sam's name. She had gotten the money back for the books, though through no accomplishment of her own, and she would make it to Professor Garner's having lost only a few minutes. All in all, she had forfeited little more than some pride, and she didn't need that anyway. A little humility never hurt anyone, she reasoned.

By the time she rounded the corner and spotted the professor's office, she felt fairly content with how everything had ended. She would erase Sam Lincoln and his friends from her thoughts and continue with her well-laid plans until circumstance provided some reason for her to rethink her determination.

Chapter 2

Professor Garner glanced down at his watch again, irritation sprouting in his mind. In a way, he had begun to anticipate meeting the precocious young woman from South Carolina about whom he had heard so much. He would have described the young lady, Marissa, as extremely enterprising based on what he had heard of her. Though the girl's father had not garnered enough influence to enroll her in a university, the man had allowed his daughter to move halfway across the country to seek her own way. On the one hand, Professor Garner respected such forward thinking, but on the other, he questioned the man's wisdom.

Even though Mr. Ellenwood, the bookstore proprietor, had spoken highly of her intelligence, his description also implied that she retained a naivety that boded ill for her continued well-being in the big city. Independence meshed poorly with innocence. Professor Garner selfishly wanted to keep her in town, eager to encounter anyone who seemed so full of ideas; but his reason upbraided him where his selfish pleasure did not. The girl needed an authority to look out for her.

If the professor could find a way to take on the role of surrogate father in all propriety, he would do so, though he had no right to assume such a responsibility. Still, if his Florence had survived the birth of their third son, she had wanted to keep trying until they had a daughter. The professor had considered the thought absurd at the time, but now that his head wore more grey than black, he would have welcomed the affections of a daughter to comfort his older age. His heart somehow foresaw the possibility of the enthusiastic new young lady as a filial substitute for what could have been.

Silly, sentimental claptrap, he chastised himself. He had no real reason, other than Mr. Ellenwood's enthusiasm, to consider this girl anything special, and how could he assume she would want any help, anyway? Just a few words about her spoken by his friend and a fanciful mind likely to foresee too much. At his age, Paul Garner felt he knew better than to get too excited over novelty.

Glancing back at his watch, the professor rose from his seat, arresting his reverie and forcing himself back to the present. If he waited any longer for the young woman, he would start his evening classes behind schedule, and nowadays, he much preferred an earlier bedtime. Gone was the time when he stayed up for hours pondering the complexities of life. He now spent much more time pining over days gone by, especially his Florence.

Excuse me, Professor Garner? came the urgent call, and his office door swung open just as he reached for the handle.

Marissa! he replied familiarly, suppressing his irritation. Mr. Ellenwood had described her to a tee, down to the bright, soulful eyes that shone with so much expectation.

I'm so sorry I'm late! she panted. I had a little...

Marissa! the professor exclaimed again, suddenly aghast. What happened? All of his frustration vanished when he took in her disheveled appearance.

The well-manicured hair that Mr. Ellenwood had described now hung loosely around the girl's neck, her cloche hat perched atop a mass of wavy light-brown hair. The mess contrasted with the neat bun he had expected, knotted in silent rebellion against the current feminine trend of shorn hair. Blood leaked from a gash on Marissa's knee, and her sweater wore a stain that indicated a matching scrape on her elbow. Even if she had shown no signs of physical upset, the unnatural excitement in her eyes would have caused Professor Garner some alarm.

Come in, child, he commanded. Sit down and tell me what happened.

He could see her war within herself, longing to unload her own frustrations to someone, but for some reason restraining herself. Instead, she pulled her book-laden cart into the room and pressed it forward. An offering to distract from her miseries, he imagined.

I couldn't, her tone grew administrative. You have a class, and I have already made you late. You need to go immediately.

Stifling a smirk at her tone of authority, Professor Garner made a small concession to her, feigning acquiescence. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, he reasoned silently, donning a smile and a pleasant, indifferent expression. You're right, he agreed. You're right, of course, he repeated amiably. Just sit here for a moment, then. Catch your breath. I have a couple of minutes before class officially starts. In truth, he wanted to insist that the girl sit down in his wingback chair and receive the assistance that he offered. The impertinence of her thinking that she knew what he needed to do! He liked her even more than he had anticipated.

So much so, the professor realized, that he wished that he could wrap her up in a hug and pat her head until she felt better, much as he used to do for his sons. Poor, unfortunate girl! Marissa had left her home, and now she faced an unknown city without the natural defenses of street smarts. Without friends, too, he frowned to himself, and the thought brought his amusement down to reality. How could she survive in a big city so entirely isolated from all resources?

Still, coupled with her vulnerability came an apparent tenacity and determination which might serve her as substitute for other resources. In fact, that determination had propelled her from her safe home into an unwelcoming university system that would, he knew, never accept her. Surely she knew that as well. Yet, here she sat, and he could see in her eye that despite her temporary setback, Marissa Erinson, whatever the cost, had decided that she would accomplish what she had set out to do.

Anthony? Professor Garner called melodiously into the hallway. He didn't wish to excite any protests from Marissa. Anthony! he yelled again, this time more insistently.

Professor... he heard the feminine note from behind him.

No, Marissa. It's okay. Just give me a minute. Though he knew it would irritate her, he shut his office door at his back, effectively cutting off any verbal protest from his appropriated charge. He knew he had only seconds to effect his plan before she bolted, and the more Marissa heard, the more she would protest.

Finally, a brown head popped up from a nearby cubbyhole.

Father? a familiar voice spoke, and the professor pulled up his hurried rush to the outer door.

Mario, oh, the professor deliberated. Have you seen Anthony?

No, father. Last I heard, he was headed into town to find the Brewster brothers. I believe he said something about a raid.

Professor Garner tried to reign in his huff of frustration, but the astute Mario detected it without trouble.

Father, whatever you need, I can help, the young, mousy man insisted to his father.

Of course, you can, the professor agreed. You, however, have worthwhile things to which to attend. Your brother gave up his degree almost a year ago and wiles away his time in worthless occupations. I would much rather send him on a mission for me. At least I would know that he had something useful to do.

Father, the young man began respectfully, though with a slight tone of reproach.

Professor, came the lilting voice from behind Professor Garner. When he swung around, he realized his opportunity had ended. He must act quickly.

Mario, I hate to ask this of you, but would you deliver these books to my next class? Write on the board for them to begin reading chapter four and take notes. I will get there as soon as I can.

Of course, father. It's no problem. I can take my work with me while I oversee the class.

Just know, you'll be helping a young lady in need, the professor shrugged wistfully at his middle son. The older man noted with pleasure a spark of interest in his young son's eye when Mario took in the sight of the disheveled Marissa. Perhaps one would not call her the belle of the ball, the professor reasoned, but she would definitely garner a runner-up position.

Though out of fashion, the long waves of her hair framed her face in somewhat of a halo, and her eyes, wide and sincere, could have melted a man of stone when they held as much insecurity as they currently held.

As for Mario, the professor had lamented numerous times that his middle son had followed so closely in the path of his elder brother, Carlo. The two older sons had shown interest in nothing but studies, and at the rate they moved, the professor would never find a daughter-in-law, much less have grandchildren. Something about Marissa, however, seemed to draw Mario as much as it did Mario's father. Perhaps in a much less fatherly way, Professor Garner smirked. He could only hope.

Collecting himself, Mario grabbed the handle of the trolley full of books and rapidly turned his back on the young woman without a word.

I could go instead, the professor began upon registering his son's interest, but Mario had swung himself and his load around the corner and out of sight before the old man could finish his offer. Shrugging, the professor turned back to Marissa. There, he comforted her. All taken care of.

I really can't keep you here, the higher pitched voice rose insistently as the dear little girl stared up at him. I will be fine, and you have a class that you need to attend to.

And who, the professor corrected in his most professorial tone, is going to attend to you?

Looking startled, Marissa took a hesitant step backwards, suddenly unsure of her proper response.

Relax, sweet girl. If you will only have a seat behind Miss Crenshaw's desk, I am sure that she always keeps handy a supply of first-aid tools.

Marissa seemed to calm, and, while he began a seemingly random knocking on the walls of the room, she sat as the professor had directed. Though she wouldn't say so, the strange knocking caused Marissa to question the professor's sanity.

Miss Crenshaw? he kept calling solicitously. Miss Crenshaw, could you help me a moment please?

From apparently nowhere, a young lady appeared, and Marissa tried to hide her shock at the suddenness of the appearing. So, the professor hadn't lost his mind.

Hello, professor, came a mellow voice, warm and caramel and soothing. I heard you calling for Anthony earlier, the lady acknowledged. Did you find him?

Do I ever find him when I need him? the professor sighed mournfully.

How can I help you? Miss Crenshaw redirected the professor, and the man seemed to remember himself.

Turning to Marissa, he placed a hand gingerly on her shoulder. Miss Erinson seems to have had a spot of trouble, and I think I need a woman's touch to properly offer assistance. Do you mind?

Miss Crenshaw pursed her lips sardonically at the young lady sprawled awkwardly in the desk chair. I think, Professor, that maybe you should go to class and leave her in my care, the woman announced ironically.

Cringing, Marissa imagined a note of derision in Miss Crenshaw's amusement. After all, Miss Crenshaw looked as neat as a pin, and highly fashionable as well. Marissa's legs twitched with an urge to flee from what had begun to feel like confines. She could handle the professor and his cerebral concern, but she didn't like feeling like Miss Crenshaw's personal renovation project.

Of course, Miss Crenshaw, the professor didn't notice Marissa's distraction. I will leave you alone with her for a few minutes while you help her clean up, but I feel I must talk to her before she leaves. If her delivery of my books in any way caused her harm...

I assure you, professor, Marissa interrupted him. It had nothing to do with...

Now Marissa, settle down, Miss Crenshaw cut her off forcefully, and Marissa felt powerless to resist. Professor, you can return to your office for a few minutes, and I will take care of Marissa. Marissa, the young blond continued, turning back to the even younger Marissa. Just give me a few minutes, and I'll have you back as good as new.

But... Marissa began.

No, Miss Crenshaw insisted. I promise, it's no trouble. Here I've got my first aid kit, and while I clean these little cuts, you tell me about your day.

Miss Crenshaw... Marissa tried again.

Barbara, the lady corrected, and the warmth of the secretary's smile began to ease some of Marissa's concern.

Barbara, then. I hate causing this much inconvenience to the professor.

Sweetie, Barbara offered in an offhand way, I don't think the professor minds the inconvenience. You're the new girl at the bookstore, right?

Marissa silently cursed the familiarity of a university community. How did everyone know about her? She must have betrayed something of her thoughts on her face, because Barbara smiled knowingly while dabbing some gauze at Marissa's knee.

It's not that I'm overly nosy, the older girl assured Marissa. The professor has talked an inordinate amount about you over the last few days. Don't act shocked, Barbara smiled. Mr. Ellenwood and the professor are close friends, and Professor Garner feels a personal interest in all goings on at the bookstore. Besides, she grinned. I think he hopes you'll marry one of his older sons.

At this, Marissa nearly jumped out of the chair, alarm finally giving legs to her desire to flee. Marry? He doesn't even know me! I've never even met his sons!

Barbara literally laughed out loud at Marissa's sudden terror, stopping her gentle ministrations to Marissa's knee and throwing her own head back with a deep chuckle. Oh, dear Marissa, the velvet tone thrummed. I assure you; the professor knows that arranged marriages went out of fashion a century ago. He has no sinister ambitions for you. Barbara's eyes softened in a very appealing way as she spoke, and Marissa began to think she could like the usually sassy little blond sitting across from her.

The professor has given to marrying off his two older sons every time he meets a new girl. He is just a bit lonely, Barbara sighed, shrugging her shoulders at Marissa. His wife died twenty years ago, and he had hoped that his sons would have given him some access to a family by now. Instead, Barbara gestured grandly around the office, the older two have dedicated themselves almost entirely to the halls of academia, and the youngest... Barbara trailed off mysteriously. An instant later she continued, "The professor sees only his students, his sons, and