This Gun for Hire

by Jo Goodman

“I do,” said Quill, but what he was thinking was the lady doth protest too much. He started to rise. “I have no place here. I believe your discussion would be better served if I left.”

  “Sit,” said Ramsey.

  “Stay,” said Ann.

  Quill regarded them sardonically, one brow arched, his mouth pulled to the side, and then he continued to the door.

  “Come back here,” Ramsey said. “I am relying on your counsel in this matter.”

  “Please,” said Ann. “You figure largely in my ability to accomplish what I have set out to do.”

  Quill would have continued regardless of his employer’s wishes, but Ann’s appeal had his full attention. Still, he hesitated, and when he turned, it was done slowly, deliberately, and with the derisive smile still fixed to his face. Ramsey stared back at him, unmoved, but Ann had the grace to look sheepish. She was young, Quill reminded himself, and sheltered, and the grown-up airs she affected were to impress her father. He decided to return to his chair for Ann’s sake and determined he would have it out with Ramsey at another time.

  Ramsey waited until Quill was sitting before he asked his daughter, “What do you mean Mr. McKenna figures into your success?”

  “I would like to know that as well,” said Quill.

  Ann folded her hands in front of her and spoke to her father in clear tones. “I cannot be left entirely to my own devices. I believe I mentioned that I must be challenged intellectually, and that is best done by people who bring knowledge and expertise to the subjects I intend to study. Mr. McKenna is one such person.”

  Quill cleared his throat because neither Stonechurch was looking in his direction. He was ignored, so he spoke up. “I am not one such person.”

  Ramsey kept looking at his daughter, but he tipped his head to indicate Quill. “He says he is not one such person.”

  “But he is.” She glanced at Quill. “You are. You are easily the most educated man in and around Stonechurch.” She said to her father, “That is no slight against you, Father, as you are knowledgeable in a great many things, but Mr. McKenna studied law at Princeton. He would be an excellent tutor.”

  “I would not be,” said Quill.

  “He says he would not be,” said Ramsey. “And you could go to Smith.”

  “No, I cannot. I will not leave you.”

  “What if Mr. McKenna could do it but does not want to? What then? He has other duties, you know.”

  “I am perfectly aware. But surely you can free him sufficiently to attend to my education.”

  Quill said, “I am sure he can’t.”

  Ramsey was silent, thoughtful, but before his daughter became too hopeful, he shook his head. “Mr. McKenna is correct. I cannot make him available to you.”

  Quill heard the finality in Ramsey’s tone, a tone that even Ann recognized as the end of the discussion. He considered what might be possible. “Katherine Nash,” he said to himself. Then more loudly, “Katherine Nash might be persuaded to tutor you, Miss Stonechurch.”

  Ann pursed her lips. This had the effect of deepening the crescent dimples on either side of her mouth. “Who is Miss Nash?”

  Almost simultaneously, Ramsey said, “I might not find her suitable.”

  Neither Quill nor Ann paid attention to him.

  Ann rested her chin on her fist as she considered Quill’s suggestion. “How do you know her?”

  “We met once briefly, but I primarily know her by what I have heard from others. She is highly regarded.”

  “She has a liberal arts background?”

  “I would definitely say that her education was liberal.”

  “All right. Do you think she will agree? Where is she now? How do we find her?”

  “Leave all of that to me,” said Quill.

  Ramsey rapped his knuckles on the desk. “A point of order, if you please. I still have not agreed to this.”

  Ann bent and put her arms around her father’s shoulders. She kissed him soundly on his cheek. “Of course you must agree, Father. We understand that. I will seek you out when you return from the bank. You can review my curriculum. When you see it, I think you will understand why Aunt Beatrice would be hopelessly out of her depth but fully in support of the endeavor. If you find that Miss Nash is suitably qualified and amenable, it is likely I will only need the occasional tutor to provide assistance in very specific areas.”

  She released her father and went to stand in front of Quill. She extended her arm to shake hands with him. “Thank you, Mr. McKenna. I am confident that you will persuade Miss Nash to come to Stonechurch. When you are not kowtowing to my father, it is your particular talent to be persuasive.”

  Quill released her hand. “Thank you. I think.”

  “Oh, it was a compliment.” Turning, she fled the room, pausing only to slide the pocket doors closed behind her.

  Ramsey Stonechurch was the first to fill the silence that followed. “What happened here?”

  Quill avoided a direct reply. “What do you think happened?”

  “I think I was outmaneuvered.”

  “She is your daughter,” said Quill. “There is reason to be proud.”

  “She was good, wasn’t she? I did not suspect that she could be so forward. I believe she must have practiced.” He did not require a response and did not wait for one. “And then there is you. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “You should not have told her that I suspected it was a young man keeping her here, and you definitely should not have commanded me to sit as if I were your pet monkey. I will reluctantly tolerate the first, but speak to me again like that, and I will be gone.”

  “Seems to me you had your revenge. You forced my hand with this Calico Nash business.”

  “Believe that if you like, but we both know you were considering the merits of it when Ann interrupted.”

  “I was in full agreement that protection for Ann is necessary but questioning the suitability of someone like Calico Nash.”

  Quill regarded Ramsey Stonechurch for several long moments, weighing his words, judging their consequence before he spoke. “This needs to be said because I cannot tell if you are denying yourself the truth or only denying it to me. Ann does not need someone like Calico Nash. She needs Calico Nash. Ann has provided us with the perfect cover for Miss Nash. You see that, don’t you?”

  Ramsey did not respond. Instead, he raised his pocket watch, examined it, and turned the face so Quill could see. “The bank, remember? My appointment with Raymond Garrison. I need to get to the bank.”

  “Did you hear me, Mr. Stonechurch?”

  “I did indeed.” Ramsey stood, put away the pocket watch, and nodded once at Quill. “You told my daughter you would take care of finding Miss Nash. God help you if you don’t. God help you if she doesn’t agree. I never asked you if you were a praying man, but if you’re not, you should be.”

  November 1888

  Falls Hollow, Colorado

  Joe Pepper looked up as the door to his office was pushed open. A blast of cold air swept into the room along with an eddy of snowflakes and Calico Nash. He rose from behind his desk as she stomped clumps of wet snow from her boots. Her spurs jangled musically. She was wearing a heavy coat with the lambskin collar turned up around her ears and a green wool scarf wrapped around it to keep the collar in place. Her black Stetson with the telltale braided leather band was pulled low over her forehead. Her buckskin trousers were tucked into her boots. She crossed her arms and slapped at her shoulders, dislodging more snow from her coat.

  “Put yourself by the stove,” Joe said. “Coffee?”

  “Yes. No need to trouble yourself. I’ll get it. You get the whiskey.” She tore off her gloves, shoved them in her pockets, and held her hands out to the stove. After turning them over a few times, she took down a cup from the shelf by the stove and poured coffee. She did not d
rink immediately, using the cup instead to continue to warm her hands. When Joe added whiskey, she thanked him. “I don’t remember the last time I was this cold,” she told him. “I suppose I have to count that as a good thing, else I would never go out in the snow again.”

  Joe nodded. “I know exactly what you mean.” He stayed at her side until she sipped and pronounced the whiskey to coffee ratio a good one. He added a little whiskey to his own cup of coffee when he returned to his desk. “Have a seat when you have a mind to.”

  It was several minutes before Calico set her cup down to remove her scarf, hat, and coat. She did not hang them up, preferring to lay them out on a bench near the stove where they might absorb more heat. Afterward, she took back the cup and sat down across from Joe. She sipped, enjoying the warmth as it trickled over her tongue, down her throat, and settled in the pit of her stomach.

  “When did you eat last?” asked Joe.

  “I’m fine.”

  Joe reached for his stash of gingersnaps anyway. “Fresh,” he said, holding up the tin. “Mary noticed my trousers were getting loose and she took sympathy on me.” When he tipped the tin toward her, Calico reached in and came out with three.

  “Where is Chris?” he asked. “I expected to see him on your heels. He found you, didn’t he? I sent him out to do that.”

  “He did. I was in Kirkwood, staying with Edna and Walt Gravely. They’re nice folks, comfortable to be around.”

  “Gravely. You brought in the man who murdered their son.”

  “I did, but we don’t talk about that. They have other children, a few that are just youngsters. Sometimes I like to be around children.”

  “Really? I would not have guessed.”

  “I know. It surprises me. I was entertaining thoughts of moving on when Deputy Byers found me, so it worked to the advantage of both of us. He’s taking care of the horses, by the way, and then he said he might stop in Sweeney’s. He and I figured you wouldn’t mind since we saw you in here through the window, and my business is with you.” She stretched her legs and regarded Joe expectantly, her ginger eyebrows raised just a fraction. “What can I do for you, Joe? Chris said he didn’t know what you wanted so there was no use speculating.”

  Joe opened the middle drawer of his desk and withdrew an envelope. He pushed it toward her. “You can see for yourself that I didn’t open it. It arrived with a letter for me and I followed those instructions, the gist of which was to personally deliver that correspondence to you.”

  “Huh.” She set her cup down and turned the envelope over in her hands. There was nothing to indicate where it came from. “Do you know who sent it?”

  “I know who sent me my instructions, but I cannot be sure if he also penned your letter.”

  “Interesting. I do appreciate a mystery.” She fanned herself lightly with the envelope and sniffed as if there might be a scent that would reveal a clue.

  Frustrated, Joe pulled at his chin. “Open the damn thing, will you?”

  “Patience. I could just take it with me and read it later.”

  “You are a cruel woman, Calico Nash.”

  She smiled. “I’m not. Not really.” She slipped a short nail under the wax seal, broke it, and removed the letter. “Fine paper.” She rubbed it with her fingertips. “Very fine.” When she heard him sigh heavily, she said, “I do not receive many letters, Joe. I want to enjoy this.” She waited until he sat back in his chair before she unfolded the paper and began reading.

  Joe watched as Calico’s eyebrows lifted, fell, came together, and lifted again. Her mouth never moved around the words so he had no idea what she was reading, but after her eyes darted over the first few lines, her lips parted and then never closed until she came to the end. When she was done, she lowered the letter slowly and stared at him. Had he ever known her to be dumbfounded? He didn’t think so.

  “What is it?” he asked. “What does it say?”

  “It’s from Ramsey Stonechurch,” she said. “Is that who sent your instructions?”

  Joe shook his head. “No. Quill McKenna wrote to me. Remember him?”

  “Oh, yes. Apollo, the Sun God.”

  “What?”

  She shrugged. “That’s what I called him.”

  “To his face?”

  “Lord, no. What would be the sense of giving a man already so full of himself another reason to beat his chest?”

  “Are you sure you are remembering Quill McKenna?”

  “Uh-huh. Brown hair, but mostly sun-licked, you know. Bit of a widow’s peak. Had a light stubble on his jaw but no mustache to speak of. Blue-gray eyes. Tall, but not as tall as Nick Whitfield. Solid frame, lean not heavy.” She put up her hands and held them about twenty inches apart. “Shoulders like so.” The space between her hands narrowed. “Hips about like this. Good hands. Easy draw. Rolling walk and real light on his feet.”

  Joe’s tone was a shade wry. “I guess you do remember him.”

  “Trust me, Joe. A man who looks like he does rides a chariot around the sun.”

  “Hmm. In that case, I found him to be surprisingly modest.”

  “He inserted himself into something he knew nothing about and never apologized to my satisfaction. There is nothing modest about that.”

  “Well,” Joe said, “be that as it may, what does Quill McKenna have to do with Ramsey Stonechurch?”

  “Stonechurch employs him. He does not say in what capacity, only that Mr. McKenna works for him and has recommended me for a position protecting his daughter. That is something out of the ordinary.”

  “You would consider it?”

  “I would. He writes that I would have lodging in the house. My board is included. The salary is generous, which surprises me. I would not have expected generosity from Stonechurch. Then again, there will be Mr. McKenna to deal with, so I probably should ask for more.”

  Joe chuckled. “How old is the daughter? Does he say?”

  “Seventeen. That is not so bad. I would not be like a nursemaid.”

  “How long does the engagement last?”

  “There is no information about that, and no indication that he means to hire me. He wants me to present myself for an interview.” She looked at the date on the letter. “He probably has hired someone else by now. This letter was written almost a month ago.”

  “It took some time to track you down. Chris and Buster didn’t know where you were headed after you left them at the jail in Bailey.”

  “I was eager to see the last of Nick Whitfield.”

  “I thought that might be it.” He pointed to the letter. “So what are you going to do about Stonechurch?”

  Calico bit off a third of a gingersnap and absently brushed crumbs from the front of her vest. “Oh, I am going to go. If nothing else, meeting the pharaoh will be interesting.”

  “I have the sense that you don’t think much of him.”

  “I should not have an opinion since I have never met the man, but I have never liked what I’ve heard about his mining practices. To be fair, it is not only him. It’s all of them. Eroding mountainsides with their water cannons, gouging the earth with explosives for their tunnels, and then abandoning it all when the silver, the copper, or the gold is gone. Maybe it’s progress, for a time anyway. Some folks think so. Maybe I will come to see things his way after I hear him out.”

  Joe chuckled. “I am not holding my breath.”

  Calico smiled and winked at him. “I wouldn’t either, Joe. I wouldn’t either.”

  December 1888

  Stonechurch, Colorado

  Ann Stonechurch sat curled in a wing chair near the fireplace in the main parlor. She could feel the warmth of the flames on her face. She closed her eyes and welcomed the heat on her cheeks. If she summoned her imagination, she could pretend it was the sun she felt. In the summer, Stonechurch was surrounded by a verdant landsc
ape. The mountains were there, of course, majestic snowcapped sentinels watching over the town, but there were months of pastoral perfection when the animals grazed on green slopes without effort, the hard foraging of the winter forgotten. Aspen leaves shimmered in the summer. Unburdened by snow, the boughs of every great pine were lifted to the sun.

  It was not that she did not find beauty in a landscape blanketed by snow. She could. Today, though, it was especially difficult because the snow represented another obstacle on the path she had set for herself, and this obstacle was in every way outside of her influence.

  Aunt Beatrice had offered encouragement when Ann first broached the idea of completing her higher-level studies in Stonechurch instead of attending one of the prestigious women’s colleges in the East. Her aunt’s main caution was for Ann to prepare thoroughly before facing her father.

  With her aunt’s approval of her plan, Ann worked on her father. She had been around mining long enough to know that a water cannon applied pressure to a hillside with blunt force. She also had observed canyons that had been scored deep into the earth’s surface by relative trickles of water over the course of thousands of years. She determined then that she would be a trickle. Her father did not respond to blunt force, and she had time.

  Quill McKenna’s support was as unexpected as it was welcome. But for him, she would still be a tickle in her father’s ear, something he would brush aside because it annoyed him. Thanks to Mr. McKenna, it had not come to that. He had plucked the name “Katherine Nash” out of the air and presented it as a gift. Time had seemed to slow to a crawl since then, and Ann knew herself to be impatient to set her eyes on this particular present.

  Ann looked down at the book lying in her lap. It was not very interesting, but it was on the list of books that she had set for herself to read. She started at the top of the page for the third time.

  “Oh, pardon me. I didn’t realize you were in here.” Quill began to back out of the parlor.

  Ann closed the book and quickly put her feet down. She felt awkward of a sudden, uncertain what to do because she had not planned this encounter. When she spoke, her voice sounded slightly off its usual pitch. “No. Don’t go. It is a boring treatise on population growth so you are not disturbing me in the least. Is there something you are looking for? Perhaps I can help you find it.”