Summerfield's Angel

By Kim Fielding

After the hard winter of 1888 ended Alby Boyle's work as a Nebraska ranch hand, he returned to New York City in search of his long-lost family. His mother and brothers are nowhere to be found, however, and after Alby's years of absence, Five Corners no longer feels like home. His prospects seem as dim as the nighttime alleys.

 

When Alby pauses to admire an angel ornament in a department store window's Christmas display, he meets Xeno Varnham-Summerfield. Wealthy, handsome, and enthusiastic, Xeno brings Alby some temporary cheer. But for Alby to achieve his dreams of love and a real home, well, that may take a bit of holiday magic.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tin Box Press
• Release date: Nov 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223832430

Kim Fielding

Kim Fielding is pleased every time someone calls her eclectic. Her books span a variety of genres, but all include authentic voices and unconventional heroes. She’s a Rainbow Award and SARA Emma Merritt winner, a LAMBDA finalist, and a two-time Foreword INDIE finalist. She has migrated back and forth across the western two-thirds of the United States and currently lives in California, where she long ago ran out of bookshelf space. A university professor who dreams of being able to travel and write full-time, she also dreams of having two daughters who occasionally get off their phones, a husband who isn’t obsessed with football, and a cat who doesn’t wake her up at 4:00 a.m. Some dreams are more easily obtained than others. Blogs: kfieldingwrites.com and www.goodreads.com/author/show/4105707.Kim_Fielding/blog Facebook: www.facebook.com/KFieldingWrites Email: [e-mail] Twitter: @KFieldingWrites

Book preview

Chapter 1

December 1888

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New York City was bigger than Alby Boyle remembered, and noisier. Carts, wagons, carriages, and omnibuses rattled down the packed streets, and a hundred pedestrians’ conversations flowed around him at once. The smells were overwhelming too: human and horse excrement, wet wool, piles of garbage and spoiled food. He couldn’t imagine what the reek would be like in summer—which he supposed should make him glad it was late December. Except New York was also colder than he remembered. Not the clean, numbing freeze of Nebraska winters, and nowhere near the killing temperatures that had changed his life the previous year. New York cold wrapped damply around him, triggering shivers that felt as if they’d never stop.

Alby hunched his shoulders inside his duster and tipped the brim of his Stetson downward, hoping to deflect some of the sleet that spat from the stone-colored sky. Buildings towered over him in every direction, dwarfing him, keeping him from getting his bearings. He wasn’t at all sure he was headed in the right direction, but he reckoned he ought to cross the street here. If he was wrong, he’d reach either the Hudson or East River soon enough, and then he’d know which way to go. Maybe.

Instead of crossing, he turned toward the nearest building, where a row of large and brightly lit street-level windows battled the gloom outdoors. Some of the windows showcased dresses so elegant he couldn’t imagine them worn by real human beings, and the men’s suits were adorned with velvet trim and silver buttons. Other windows contained children’s clothing, leading him to wonder what it would be like to grow up attired in such finery. Wouldn’t the children be afraid to even move? And the final window, where Alby lingered the longest, had a table draped in lace and set with gleaming crystal and china, as if the owners of the fancy clothing might sit down at any moment for dinner. The thought made his mouth water.

But what truly held his attention was the Christmas tree beside the table. It was covered in tiny electric lights, glittering ribbons, and colored glass baubles. At the very top perched an angel with shining red hair, wearing a golden gown and with her wings spread, smiling down at him as if bestowing a benediction. Someone had crafted her with great care. He’d never seen anything so beautiful.

But glory such as this wasn’t meant for the likes of him, and after emitting a longing sigh, Alby turned away.

Head down, he stepped off the curb, took a stride forward—and was yanked violently backward by one arm. He lost his footing and landed on his ass, but almost before he could register the shock of the fall, a pair of horses trotted by just an arm’s reach away, pulling a trolley down the tracks.

Are you drunk, sir? Or simply insane?

Alby blinked up at his savior, a young man whose complexion was shifting from snow-pale to an alarming red. I, uh…. Alby shook his head.

You can’t simply walk in front of a trolley! You were very nearly killed, sir!

Alby’s hat had fallen off and landed in an ice-rimmed puddle. He fished it out, gave it a good shake, and got to his feet. But the other man, apparently still not confident that Alby had all his wits, grasped Alby’s arm and tugged him back onto the sidewalk. As they stared at each other, the crowds parted and rushed by, like a stream flowing past a stone.

Now that he’d had a moment to catch his breath, Alby got a better look at the other man—who still held his arm, as if Alby might make a mad dash for the trolley. The fellow appeared a few years younger than Alby’s thirty, with a handsome beardless face, pale blue eyes, and thin eyebrows the color of a palomino horse. He was taller than Alby but much slighter in build, and he wore a heavy black coat and a tall top hat.

I’m sorry, said Alby. And he was, because he realized now that his brush with death had truly frightened the young man. He added a half-truth by way explanation. I ain’t from here.

That explains the exotic attire. Now that the danger had passed, the man’s expression relaxed. A spark of what might have been amusement animated his face, making it beautiful.

Not that it should have mattered to Alby.

Thank you for saving me.

I’m pleased I was able to round out my day with a good deed.

The fellow seemed to realize he still held Alby’s arm and dropped it quickly. A touch of pink briefly tinged his cheeks, but he didn’t walk away. Neither did Alby, perhaps because this was the first friendly face he’d encountered since getting off the afternoon train.

Do you reckon you could help me with something else? asked Alby.

Perhaps.

Can you point me in the direction of Baxter Street?

All traces of humor left the other man’s face. You should not go there.

Why not?

It’s dangerous. The most terrible squalor imaginable and the worst sorts of ruffians.

I can hold my own if I got to. Alby had been in more than one fight, and he’d spent years managing animals much heavier than he was.

You look— The man swallowed audibly. Quite strong. But these are low men who will sneak upon you unaware, who will outnumber you and set upon you with weapons. They have no morals or honor at all.

I can hold my own, Alby repeated. Now if you’d just set me on my way?

After a pause, the man gave a small nod. Very well. He pointed. You can continue down Broadway until you get to Broome, and then turn left.

Thank you.

But do be careful, sir, and not just of the trolleys.

Alby touched his hat brim in a gesture of gratitude and took a step in the direction he’d been told.

But once more the handsome man grasped his arm. I’m sorry. But if you don’t mind my asking, what business takes you to such a rough part of the city?

A heavy sigh escaped Alby’s lungs. I was born there.

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The buildings grew no more familiar as Alby neared Baxter Street, nor did the faces of the people he passed. But something struck a chord of recognition within him. Maybe it was the layers of rags everyone wore in an effort to keep warm, or the bleakness in their eyes. Maybe it was the hollow-cheeked children who skulked about him, staring at his strange clothing and, he was certain, sizing him up. To these children, all adults were either potential predators or potential prey, and they were trying to decide which side Alby fell on. He kept a firmness in his jaw and a narrow glare in his eyes, and the children scampered or sidled away.

And finally there was Baxter Street, the pavement cracked and crumbling. The buildings loomed here too, but these were piecemeal collections of deteriorating bricks and rotting wood hung with rickety, sagging balconies. Windows were small, many of them broken, many more covered with blankets or newspapers in attempts to keep out the chill. Laundry hung on lines, although it would never dry in this weather. Store displays showed tottering piles of cheap cookware, dusty bottles and boxes, faded bolts of cloth. No glittering fairy lights or golden angels to be found here. Stalls and pushcarts crowded the sidewalks, offering fruits and vegetables, loaves of bread, cheap jewelry, household goods, small trinkets, and used clothes. The luckiest peddlers huddled under shop awnings with their goods. Men and women haggled loudly as they shopped, some of them pausing to stare at Alby.

Finally, he came to something he did recognize: a wooden building with clapboards in disarray and a roof in danger of imminent collapse. In Alby’s memory this building had no sign—and there was still none today—although he knew what he’d find should he venture inside. Filthy walls and floors, splintery tables and chairs, a long bar with the wood marred by thousands of nicks and scars. And there’d be exhausted men in patched clothing, each of them drinking away a hard day of work. Or a hard day without work. Alby’s father used to frequent this place, and when his mother grew afraid there’d be nothing left of his pay, she sent Alby or one of his brothers to fetch him home. Sometimes their father came. Sometimes he cursed and cuffed their head instead.

Alby wouldn’t find his father there today, because the old man had dropped dead years ago, when Alby was only seven or eight. Where he was buried, Alby neither knew nor cared. He didn’t go inside the saloon, instead turning into the narrow alley that ran between it and the brick building next door. How many times had he walked down here, hearing the noises of laughter and yelling and crying from tenement apartments, the calls of ragpickers on the street, the barking of dogs? Sometimes he’d even slept there, when the heat was too oppressive indoors