Prologue

If he was being honest with himself, Jack Kelly was living a pretty charmed life these days. Gone were the days of scrounging to make ends meet, of starving almost to the point of death every winter, of losing sleep trying to stay one step ahead of Snyder, the cops, the Delanceys, Weasel.

These days, Jack Kelly was twenty-one years old and just about as close to respectable as he figured he was ever going to get. He rented a nice little room above the bar on 23rd street, he was one of the Sun's favorite reporters—certainly their best headline writer, Denton had told him more than once—and he even wore a tie to work.

It was enough to make him laugh at his reflection every morning as he combed his hair and shaved. The boys got a kick out of him too whenever he saw them. Mush could never stop laughing; Racetrack kept asking who he'd stolen the jacket from, Spot especially loved to rib on him, claiming he had no loyalty to the gutter.

"You keep dis up, Cowboy, there won't be no convincin' Moira that you ain't some kinda gentleman," he'd said just the other night while they shared a beer on South Street. "She should know what kinda dog she's hitchin' herself to."

Jack shook his head with a grin as he shrugged into his jacket and headed down the stairs. Moira Bailey: the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, the curious girl who always had her nose in a book and a mind full of questions and thoughts and ideas that left his head spinning, the girl who let him kiss her senseless when they were alone, who laughed at his dumb jokes and who had the brightest smile in all of New York. Moira Bailey, the girl who could do so much better than him and who had, inexplicably, agreed to marry him just two weeks ago.

She looked up when the bell above the shop door chimed. Her face brightened with a smile, surprised to see him. "Good morning, Mr. Kelly," she said, her polite nature a warning that Mr. Dawes, the owner of the bookshop where she worked, was lurking somewhere between the stacks.

Jack cleared his throat and approached the counter. "Good morning, Miss Bailey," he said with a grin as he matched her tone, keeping one hand behind his back. "How are you today?"

Shyly, Moira slid her hand across the smooth grain of the countertop and curled her fingers around his, the tiny blue sapphire on her engagement ring winked up at him as it caught the light. It had been worth skipping supper and cutting back on smokes for two months to be able to afford it, he decided, moving quickly to grasp her hand in his and raising her fingers to his lips for a quick kiss.

She only rolled her eyes at his chivalry and snatched her hand back with a quick glance over her shoulder. "I'm very well, thank you," she said, shooting him a pointed glare that only made him laugh. "Is there something that I can help you find this morning?"

"No," he shrugged. "I just wanted to drop something off before I headed uptown."

"Oh?" she raised her eyebrows.

Jack pulled his arm from behind his back, revealing the single red rose he'd purchased from the flower cart across the street. "For you," he said simply and offered it to her.

She accepted it with a smile and touched the tip of her nose to the silky red petals. "Thank you," she said softly, sounding genuinely touched.

"You're welcome," he stretched forward and pushed back the lock of dark hair that had fallen into her eyes. "If it was up 'ta me you'd get a dozen 'a those every day. And two dozen on Mondays."

Moira bit her lip and glanced furtively around the shop before she rose up on her tip toes and leaned across the counter to brush her lips quickly against his. "I prefer them one at a time," she said, sinking back down to her place behind the cash register.

"Miss Bailey?" The dusty wheeze of Moira's boss floated over from the nonfiction section. She tucked her rose under the counter and needlessly smoothed down her clothes. "Do we have customers?"

"No, Mr. Dawes," she called back, clearing her throat nervously. "Just a delivery man." Jack rolled his eyes, softening at the apologetic look she gave him. "I'm just showing him out now."

He shook his head as she pulled the door closed behind them. The morning rush of the city was just entering its full swing; the early summer sun was already beating down, burning away the chill in the air as the sounds of pushcart vendors and newsboys began to fill the streets. "You ever planning on telling that old man that I'm not a delivery boy?"

"I will," she promised with a frown. "He's just very…" her lips twisted thoughtfully. "He's very old fashioned and I don't want to lose my job."

Jack raised his eyebrows and tried to stifle a smirk. "Well you can't keep it up forever," he reminded, raising her left hand for another kiss. "One of these days he's gonna have to start calling you Mrs. Jack Kelly, y'know."

Moira smiled and leaned in to him. "Mrs. Jack Kelly," she repeated, a blush appeared on her fair cheeks. "I like the way that sounds."

"Yeah," he agreed softly, leaning down to capture her lips with his, "I like the way that sounds too."

She turned her head and let his kiss land on her temple. "You should get to work."

Jack sighed and kissed her hairline again quickly before he stepped back. "Can I see you after?"

A little line of confusion appeared between her eyebrows. "It's Thursday," she reminded him. "Don't you…?"

He felt his mouth fold into a frown. It was Thursday and on Thursdays he had dinner at Tibby's with the boys. "Yeah," he shook his head. "You're right. But I could stop by after?"

"Possibly," she said, biting her lip. "If it's not too late."

"I promise it won't be," he said and brushed her hair back again. "Wait up for me."

"I might," she gave him a teasing grin. "If you're lucky."

He tapped the tip of her nose with his thumb. "Have a good day, beautiful."

"You do the same," she said as he started down the sidewalk. She'd turned to go back inside before he called her name again. "What?"

Jack's smile was contagious. "When you are Mrs. Jack Kelly, are you gonna let me kiss you whenever I want?"

Moira clapped a hand over her mouth, unable to control her giggles. "Go to work!" she exclaimed, pointing toward Newspaper Row.

And he did go to work with a spring in his step and smile that refused to fade for the rest of the day.

"Ticket, miss?" The conductor was tall and only moderately sooty, with thick white hair and moustache to match. Amelia Owens smiled up at him as she handed him her ticket to be punched. He let out a low whistle. "You're an awfully long way from home, little lady. What's in New York that's got you making such a trip?"

Amelia took a deep breath and felt that old familiar nervousness rise in her belly. "I was born there," she said, repeating what she'd told her boss and all of her friends. "I'm just going home for a visit."

The conductor eyed her ticket again. "But you know this is a one-way ticket, don't you?"

She nodded. "I'm not sure when I'll want to leave." She accepted her ticket back and tucked it into her pocket book before she joked with a smile, "But I'm sure I'll go back eventually."

And perhaps she would be. Perhaps there was nothing left in New York that felt like home. Perhaps she'd only been feeling sentimental in wishing for another glimpse of the skyline, for another taste of city air and noise and overcrowded streets. Perhaps she'd step off the train and want to turn right around and go back.

But as the train rushed her closer to the east coast, the less likely Amelia thought that might be. As the conductor gave her one last smile and moved on through the car, she fiddled with the buttons on her gloves and stared out the window, longing for a view of something familiar, something other than the green countryside and lush border of evergreen trees. She was restless and anxious and took her traveling case from the floor beneath her seat. Inside were only the few things she traveled with: a comb, a handkerchief, her bible, and the small stack of letters and pictures she never left home without.

Mindlessly she shuffled the worn pages between her hands until she came upon what she was looking for. A letter dated almost five years ago—the last time she'd heard from any of her old friends. She didn't blame them for not keeping in touch. Letter writing had never been her strong suit—she was much better in person—and she hadn't expected the kids she'd grown up with to track her down every time she moved.

But this letter was one she had kept. Not because of any rich sentiment they had sent her way, just for the picture—the newspaper clipping—that had been folded inside. NEWSIES STOP THE WORLD read the headline above a picture of a ragtag group of boys, smiling, mugging for the camera, shoving each other and standing on top of one another to all fit in the frame.

Amelia felt her expression melting into a nostalgic smile. Her fingertips danced over the faces she could still recognize like the back of her hand. All their silly street names came flooding back like it had been only yesterday. Racetrack, Kid Blink, Snipeshooter, Mush, Specs…her gaze lingered just a moment longer on the one in the middle. The little boy who'd been trying so hard to be a man, who hadn't wanted anything other than a cigarette and a train ticket west when she'd known him, who had made a game of dodging the police and who had been able to send her sixteen year-old heart soaring with a just brush of his hand.

The boy who'd kissed her so deeply the day she left, who'd promised he would be on the next train, whose bright eyes and devilish grin still held a piece of her heart, even five years later.

Cowboy. They'd called him Cowboy.

Amelia smiled and felt her stomach twist with anticipation. She wondered if they still called him that. She wondered if they would remember her at all. Five years was more than enough time to move on, to forget someone you loved when you were sixteen.

But she hadn't forgotten him. And she hadn't forgotten New York. And she hadn't forgotten that not so long ago the dirt beneath her fingernails had been from the grime and filth of city life and not dust and dirt from cows and horses, that she'd been unable to escape the stain of newsprint and the smell of stale cigarettes; that once upon a time, the boys in that faded photograph had been her family.

They'd had a nickname for her too.

They had called her Santa Fe.