In Every Heartbeat - By Kim Vogel Sawyer Page 0,79

he’d ignored their pleading looks. Now he wished he’d treated them to cake, even if it meant limping all the way back to Chambers on his peg leg.

“You two go on in,” Pete encouraged, giving Lorenzo a gentle push toward the door.

“But I thought you wanted to visit.” Confusion puckered Lorenzo’s boyish face.

“I do want to visit, but I need to see both Pa and Ma.” The names slipped out easily, catching Pete by surprise. “But Pa’s not home right now, is he?”

The pair shook their heads in unison. “Reckon he’s workin’ at the brewery,” Lorenzo chirped.

“So I’ll have to come back later.”

Dennis cast a furtive glance at Pete. “But . . . you’re comin’ back . . . right?”

Pete wished he could wrap Dennis in a hug that would heal all the insecurity and hurt of his brieflife. But he sensed if he reached out, the boy would retreat. Instead, he leaned down to look eye-to-eye with his brother. “I promise, Dennis. I’ll come back.” He’d keep that promise no matter what it took.

For long seconds, Dennis peered unsmilingly into Pete’s eyes. Then, without a word, he grabbed Lorenzo’s arm and hauled him inside. Pete waited until the door closed behind his brothers before heading out to the street. He paused on the slab where he’d met the boys that morning, trying to decide what to do. He could go to the hotel and relax until his pa got off work, then come back; or he could sit on the bench outside the little market across the street and wait. If he waited, he’d spare himself the cost of a cab ride. He decided to wait. Only three hours until the end of Pa’s shift.

The sun had slipped downward, and Pete buttoned his jacket to protect himself from the cool, city-scented breeze. He settled onto the wood-slatted bench and observed people passing. Some scurried, some slogged. Most sent curious glances in his direction, but few smiled and none stopped to talk. As the supper hour came and went, the scent of ripening fruit from the boxes in front of the market made his stomach growl. So he purchased a rosy apple and a small wedge of cheese from the kind-faced older lady behind the counter inside then returned to the bench to eat his simple supper.

The activity on the street slowed as evening fell. Pete checked his watch—seven-thirty. Only another half hour before Pa got off work. Would he come straight home, or would he stop off at a tavern? With it being Friday, it could be payday. Pete pinched the crisply ironed crease in his pant leg. Was he wasting his time sitting there watching for Pa?

A tall, rail-thin man in a stained white bib apron stepped out onto the shadowed sidewalk, broom in hand, and began busily sweeping dust and dried leaves toward the curb. The straw bristles came within inches of Pete’s foot. Pete tucked his legs backward to avoid having dust tossed across his shoe. His wooden leg scraped against the cracked sidewalk, making his stump tingle. Automatically, he reached to massage his leg.

The broom ceased its motion, and Pete’s gaze followed the broom handle to the man’s face. The man offered a sympathetic grimace. “Did I hurt’cha? Didn’t mean to.”

“No, you didn’t hurt me.” Pete cupped his knee, ignoring the persistent distant ache in his stump. “I can move if I’m in your way.”

The man waved a callused hand. “Nah. Never sweep under the bench anyway, no matter how much my wife chides me about it. What difference does it make? Nobody sits under there.” He chuckled briefly, and then his eyes narrowed. “You new around here?”

Pete nodded.

“Thought so. Don’t get too many gentlemen like yourself in this part o’ the city.” His eyes took in Pete’s suit. “Mostly workin’ class. A few bums.” He snorted. “Too many bums.” Then he tipped his head, his gray eyebrows forming a V. “Wasn’t for them fancy duds, though, I might mistake you for one of ’em. Lowest of the low lives right over there with his wife an’ a whole pack o’ young’uns.” He pointed to the apartment building where Pete’s family lived. “You look quite a bit like him.”

Pete’s mouth went dry. “That right?”

“Yup. But you wouldn’t wanna be associated with that lot. Sends his kids over here to steal from the stands.” Shaking his head, the man put the broom to work again. “ ’Course, I don’t turn ’em in to the coppers. As