by Jo Goodman
“Here is my point,” Ramsey said, lowering his hands to the edge of his desk. He stood slowly, fingertips white against the dark walnut wood. When he was stiff-armed and leaning forward, he spoke again. “I am telling you to interfere. Do you understand? That is the nature of employer-employee relations. I pay you for services you provide for me.”
“I understand,” Quill said calmly. “Now will you please sit? If Ann walks in here and sees you this close to apoplexy, you will be supporting her primary reason for staying. Is that what you really want?” Ramsey remained still as stone for several long moments, putting Quill in mind of a gargoyle on the roof of a cathedral.
Ramsey’s eyes narrowed, but he relaxed his arms, shoulders, and sighing heavily, eased himself back into his chair. After a moment, he said, “I do not think the state of my health is Ann’s primary reason for staying.”
“Can we agree to disagree on that count?”
“Probably not. You know I find it unsettling when people do not agree with me.”
“Which is why you employ so many bootlickers.” Quill arched an eyebrow and regarded Ramsey candidly. “You hired me to challenge you. That is what you said you wanted, and I took you at your word. Being surrounded by toadies does not mean you are respected; it means you are the head toad.”
Quill noted that Ramsey’s color had been receding until the “head toad” remark. He watched it flare again, but he did not back down. “Pardon me,” he added. “It means you are the head toad, Mr. Stonechurch.”
Ramsey picked up a letter opener and slapped it rhythmically against the open palm of his other hand while he stared hard at Quill. “Was I drunk when I hired you?”
“Not so it showed.”
“Damn my tolerance.” He tossed the letter opener aside. It skittered to the edge of the desk and stopped just short of falling over the side. Ramsey leaned over and drew it back. He set it parallel to his blotter. “If you won’t speak to Ann, tell me what I can say to her that will persuade her to go east to school. She has her choice of colleges for women. Bryn Mawr. Vassar. Radcliffe. She wants nothing to do with any of them. Three years ago she talked of nothing else. She could not wait to leave Stonechurch. She has never been farther east than St. Louis. I was the one who had reservations then. Now that I want . . . no, need her to leave home, she will have none of it.” He stopped, shaking his head. “Her life is in danger because of me.”
“I understand.” And he did. Three days ago Ann had tumbled from the depot’s platform and onto the tracks as No. 486 was rolling in. She was immediately rescued by the miners crowding the platform, and her aunt had made a heroic leap to cover Ann’s body with her own, necessitating the rescue of her as well, but the question of how Ann had fallen had not been satisfactorily answered. Ann blamed herself, for in her mind, she had gotten tangled in her skirts and must have made a clumsy attempt to disengage. She had no recollection of being jostled, and neither her father nor Quill had suggested that she might have been pushed. Her aunt’s account of events was similarly unhelpful. It was an accident that was no accident at all. Quill knew it for what it was—a warning. And on this, he and Ramsey Stonechurch were of like minds.
As if he did not already know the answer, Quill asked, “What reason did she give you for wanting to stay?”
“Ach.” Ramsey waved a hand dismissively. “She insists no one can take care of me as well as she can. There is no reasoning with her. I pointed out that her aunt does very well by me, but she claimed that Beatrice has not taken my best interests to heart because my sister-in-law says nothing about my whiskey and cigars. Thank God, is what I said. Ann did not find that amusing. She marched off and has not spoken to me since. We argued after dinner.”
“When you asked for your whiskey and a cigar.”
Ramsey thrust his chin forward, unrepentant.
“You have no shame,” said Quill.
“Why should I? Dr. Pitman says there is no harm in it.”
“I would call him a quack, but what he is, is a toady.”
Ramsey’s dark eyes narrowed as he stared suspiciously at Quill. “Did you speak to Ann after all? That is very close to what she said, except she called Pitman a sycophant.”
“Your daughter has a better vocabulary than I do. I am not sure she will be improved by college.”
“Mother of God. Did you say that to her?”
“I told you, I didn’t talk to her, and she rarely approaches me for advice about you or anything else. I am fairly confident that she sees me as one of your sycophants. Probably the very worst of them since I am always nearby.”
“She should be used to lawyers dogging my footsteps.”
“Perhaps, but it does not mean she respects them for it, and you should keep in mind that I am not really your lawyer.”
“You could be.”
“No, I could not.”
“You choose not.”
“That’s right, and this is an old argument. An old, settled argument.”
Ramsey shrugged. “I don’t see the harm in mentioning it now and again.”
“The harm is that you will lower your guard as you become accustomed to me as a lawyer when you hired me as your bodyguard.”
A deeply skeptical grunt came from the back of Ramsey’s throat. “I think you are a better lawyer.”
“Perhaps, but I have no interest there, and since I am charged with protecting you, it is better if you keep that in mind.”
“Better for you, you mean.”
“Only in the sense that it makes my job a little easier if you also remain alert. The consequence of you failing to do so could make you dead.” Quill thought that Ramsey was going to raise a counterpoint after he mulled that over, so it was a pleasant surprise when he offered no objection and returned to the subject of his daughter and her rebellion.
“I think my daughter imagines herself in love,” said Ramsey. “That’s why she will have no part in leaving.”
Quill had not expected that. He said nothing.
“Do not pretend that it had not occurred to you. You watch everything. Everyone. You must have observed her mooning about.”
“Mooning? Ann? No, I have not observed that.”
“Well, if that’s true, you should not admit it. It does not inspire confidence in your ability to protect me.”
“Your daughter is not trying to kill you.”
“She might if we argue again as we did last night.” Ramsey stroked his beard, thoughtful. “I want the name of the young man,” he said finally. “I want you to find him and put him here.” He pointed to the opposite side of his desk, directly in front of the chair where Quill sat. “Right here. In front of me. There will be a discussion.”
Quill shook his head. “No.”
“No?”
“I will not spy on your daughter.”
“Investigate, not spy.”
“Semantics. You will have to find someone else. I cannot protect you and follow her. Ann should go. Perhaps if you ask Mrs. Stonechurch what she knows.”
“I already asked Beatrice. She says there is no one, but then she would. My sister-in-law’s first order of business is to keep the peace.”
“Yes. I would agree.” It was what made Ramsey’s sister-in-law an excellent sycophant. He did not say so. The wiser course here was to keep that to himself. It was whispered about as fact that Beatrice Stonechurch occupied one of the only two warm spots in what the miners acknowledged was Ramsey Stonechurch’s stone cold heart. Ann Stonechurch resided in the other by virtue of being his daughter. Mrs. Stonechurch came to be there by accident, the one that had killed her husband, Ramsey’s younger brother. Ramsey did not accept responsibility for the collapse of the Number 3 mine that buried Leonard Stonechurch for two days and left him unable to walk or draw a deep breath without coughing blood, but that did not mean he did not grieve for his brother
or not think the collapse had claimed the wrong Stonechurch. Quill had it from Ann that her father grieved the loss of his brother’s vitality, his humor, and most especially, his counsel, and it was during that time, when he saw Beatrice’s unwavering, selfless devotion to her husband, that his sister-in-law came to take up permanent residence in his heart. But, Ann had hastened to add, when her Uncle Leo died just short of a year after the accident, it had been her father who had retreated to his office and did not emerge from his work or his whiskey for a week, and her Aunt Beatrice who seemed to regard the passing as a relief.
Quill had more experience with suffering and death than Ann Stonechurch, but he refrained from telling her that her Aunt Beatrice probably was relieved. Any comment he could have made about people mourning differently would have seemed patronizing, and her motive for telling him any of it was to express her concern for her father’s health and not to cast aspersions on the aunt she loved dearly.
Ramsey snapped his fingers loudly enough to pull Quill’s attention. “That’s better,” he said when Quill’s blue-gray eyes refocused. “Now tell me what you were thinking.” He held up his hand when it appeared that Quill meant to object. “Do not deny it. You did not hear a word I said until I brought you out of your trance. That you can think so deeply that you are unaware of your surroundings is another thing that does not inspire confidence.”
“You were asking for a recommendation,” Quill said. “I heard you. I was thinking about Ann and how she has, from time to time, expressed concerns about you. I had not realized until now how long it’s been since she’s done that.”
“There is your proof that I am not the reason she won’t leave. I am no longer first in her affection. I knew it. I was right.”
“Maybe, and maybe she does not trust me to do right by you. No matter what you think, her concern is genuine.”
“I do not doubt that it is genuine. I am saying it is no longer primary. There’s a young man somewhere.”
“All right. But I stand by my decision not to be the one to find him. As it happens, I do have a recommendation.”
“Well? Out with it. I am supposed to be meeting with Raymond Garrison at the bank this morning. He does not like waiting, even for me.”
“Katherine Nash,” said Quill.
“Who is Katherine Nash?”
“I told you about her. The woman I met back in August when I was passing through Falls Hollow.”
“Mother of God. You mean Calico Nash? Calico Nash, the bounty hunter?” Ramsey’s brow creased. “Or is it huntress?”
“Hunter,” Quill said. “Bounty hunter. I am almost certain she will threaten to shoot you if you call her the other. She does that a lot. Threaten, that is.”
“She threatened you?”
“Several times.”
Ramsey was philosophical about it. He shrugged. “I wanted to kill you at least once today, and we are not yet at the noon hour.”
“There will be common ground, then.”
“Not so fast. I am not certain I want a female of her particular ilk around my daughter.”
“I am not sure she is of a particular ilk. She impressed me as one of no other kind. And we are in agreement that if Ann will not leave—for whatever reason—she requires protection in her own right.”
“Of course she does. But Calico Nash?”
Quill shrugged. “The decision is entirely up to you.”
“I am glad to learn you know it. As you said, Ann is my daughter.”
At that precise moment, the pocket doors to Ramsey’s office parted and the daughter under scrutiny and discussion walked in. She was small in stature, taking her height and delicate bone structure from her deceased mother, but her stride, her ramrod spine, and the determined set of her jaw were all from her father. She marched up to his desk, laid a tri-folded piece of paper on the blotter in front of him, and waved an opened envelope under his nose. She withdrew the offending envelope and put it behind her back when Ramsey would have snatched it from her.
“What’s this?” he asked, pointing to the paper.
“As if you did not know.”
“Well, I don’t. I would not have asked if I did. You know I can’t abide wasting my breath.”
The breadth of that untruth had Quill’s eyebrows climbing halfway to his widow’s peak. He knew he was fortunate neither Ramsey nor Ann spared him a glance because he could not have schooled his features quickly enough to avoid explaining himself. Anything he said would be seen as choosing sides, and in the end, blood being thicker, he would be the one they sided against. He could not do his job effectively if they pushed back at him. Ramsey alone was more than enough.
Ann Stonechurch had a pale, porcelain complexion that was made fairer by hair that was darker and thicker than her father’s. She flushed brilliantly, coming close to the color Ramsey had displayed during his earlier apoplectic fit. Behind her back, the envelope fluttered as her hand shook.
“Read it, Father,” she said. Her voice was tight, a little shrill. Absent was any hint of the melody that usually marked her tone. “And know I will have none of it.”
Ramsey picked up the paper between a thumb and forefinger and shook it out gingerly, as if it might come suddenly alive and turn on him. When nothing like that happened, he held it with both hands and began to read. “This is from Smith College. You have been accepted. Ann, this is splendid.”
The envelope dropped as she threw up her hands. “It is not splendid. I do not want to go. What I want is for you to promise me that you will stop making application on my behalf to any school.”
“But, Ann. This is Smith.”
“Father, I know. I can read. In fact, I read so well that I can study here on my own. I do not have to go anywhere.”
Quill watched as Ann lowered her hands to her sides. Because her father was looking up at her, he did not see her fingers twisting in the folds of her skirt, but Quill did and gave Ann full marks for showing backbone in spite of her apprehension.
“I have been giving this considerable thought,” she said. “What I am proposing is not the whim of a moment or a consequence of our argument last night. I believe it is entirely possible for me to acquire a most excellent education here. I have thus far, with the assistance of a governess, tutors, and of course, Aunt Beatrice, been the recipient of a fine education, and it was you who adamantly opposed me attending the school you built, staffed, and continue to fund in town.”
Ramsey looked over at Quill. “Tell her. Tell her why it was not appropriate for her to attend the school I built, staffed, and continue to fund.”
Quill was grateful for Ann speaking up before he had to.
“I do not want to hear Mr. McKenna’s opinion on any matter since it merely echoes your own.” Under her breath, she said, “Bootlicker.”
Quill pressed a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat to cover his chuckle. Ramsey, he noted, was equally amused and trying hard not to show it.
“Mind yourself, Ann,” said Ramsey.
Quill was aware he did not tell his daughter to apologize, probably because he was not sure she would. Quill harbored similar doubts.
Ramsey put down the letter. “Tell me about this proposal of yours.”
Ann blinked. It was the only outward sign she gave that her father’s turn of thought surprised her. “I have already begun to outline what I believe is a curriculum equal or superior to that which I might receive at any of the women’s colleges. I can say that with confidence because I based my curriculum on the liberal arts studies offered by the various schools. I do not fool myself into thinking I can complete such an ambitious course of study on my own. Aunt Beatrice says there must be discussion, and I agree. I must be challenged to think in new ways about what I read. It will open my mind to experiencing the world in a different light.”
“Experiencing what world?” Ramsey wanted
to know. “I thought you were not going anywhere.”
“Not now. Not at this moment, but someday. And when I do, I will have a deeper appreciation for the adventure of it.”
“All right. Let us say that I approve your curriculum—and before we go any further, my approval of your curriculum is not negotiable. You must agree to it. I insist.”
“I cannot do that. That would give you license to alter my studies in a way I might find abominable. We would arrive at this impasse again, both of us unhappier than we are now.”
That gave Ramsey Stonechurch pause. He stared at his daughter, his world, as if he were seeing her in a new light. “Are you unhappy, Ann?”
Tears came unbidden. She was successful blinking them back, but her chin trembled. “I don’t mean to be,” she said. “I try hard not to be.”
“Is there someone?” he asked. “Someone you don’t want to leave behind?”
Ann’s mouth opened a fraction. She gaped at her father and the flush was back in her cheeks.
Before she could speak, Ramsey said, “Mr. McKenna thinks there might be a young man keeping you here.”
Quill actually jerked in his chair. He glared at Ramsey in the brief moment he had before Ann rounded on him. His first thought was to defend himself. His second thought was to let it go. He went with his second thought.
“My father should be flattered that you think him young, Mr. McKenna, because I can assure you that he is the only man I do not want to leave behind.”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Stonechurch, if I misspoke.”
“If?” she asked haughtily. “If you misspoke? You most certainly did. I know that is precisely the sort of notion that would provoke my father to pitch a fit. How dare you compromise his health by entertaining that idea aloud and in his presence? As a lawyer, I thought you would know better than to make your case with no supporting evidence, and the reason I know you have no evidence is because what you suppose is not true. There is no young man.”
“Ann,” Ramsey said gently, “please calm yourself. Mr. McKenna knows he was in error. Don’t you, Mr. McKenna?”
