by Jo Goodman
“Nothing like that. Your father and I have just come from the mine office. He went to his room. I heard the fire in here and thought I would warm myself at it.”
“Then please do.” She graciously waved him to the wing chair set at a conversational angle to hers. “Shall I pour you a drink? I can ring for tea if you like. I think there is still someone in the kitchen.”
“No. The heat is enough.”
“Very well.” She set her book aside as Quill took up the chair. “I had it in my mind to speak to you as soon as my father let you out of his pocket.”
Quill chuckled. “It must seem that I live there.”
“Doesn’t it to you?”
“I never thought about it.”
“Perhaps you should, Mr. McKenna. My father will respect you more if you stand up to him.”
“No, he won’t.”
Now Ann laughed. “No, you are right. He won’t.” She pointed to the pair of windows on the opposite side of the room. The velvet drapes were drawn back and the overcast sky seemed to push oppressively against the glass panes. “She is not coming, is she? Or do you think it is the weather that has impeded her journey?”
“I have no idea.” His smile was sympathetic. “You have no use for that answer.”
She sighed and shook her head. “None at all.”
“You said you would take care of it. I assumed it would be done quickly.”
“There is no hurrying Miss Nash. She chooses her, um, pupils, I suppose you would say, with care.”
“You seem hesitant when you talk about her.”
“Do I?” Not for the first time Quill silently cursed how hard it was for him to lie. He blamed his father, the Presbyterian minister, and his mother, the daughter of a Presbyterian minister. His brother had the reputation as the preacher’s bad boy, and no matter how Quill tried to emulate his brother’s sinning ways, it never quite took. Even when he did something downright awful, Israel was often punished for it, either because he stepped forward to take the blame, or he was held responsible for allowing Quill to do something everyone agreed was downright awful. Quill had finally concluded that the best course was to be, if not the good son, at least a better one, and spare Israel their father’s rod on account of his behavior.
Quill held out his hands toward the fire and used the movement to cover shifting in the chair. “I believe I told you I do not know her well. I suppose that accounts for it.”
“Mm-hmm. It certainly is one explanation.”
Quill expected that she would elucidate and was very relieved when she did not. Instead, Ann went in another direction.
“I am disappointed that she has not sent word one way or the other. Even if she cannot leave her current post, she could write to say that she was in receipt of Father’s letter. She could let us know if she was considering the offer.”
Quill was disappointed as well, but he did not say or show as much. Christmas had come and gone, and they were days away from the new year. He would have preferred to find her himself, but that was not possible. The last time he left Stonechurch, Ramsey had ventured out alone and come within inches of intercepting a bullet intended to stop his cold heart. It was the act of dropping to his knees to investigate what he considered was some peculiar vegetation that saved his life. Learning what happened upon his return, Quill made the decision that he could not leave again, no matter what family matter he was expected to resolve. God, but he wished he had taken up science instead of the law.
Quill said, “I could send another letter and try to find out if—”
He stopped when Beatrice Stonechurch appeared at the parlor’s open doorway. She was a diminutive woman given to folding and unfolding her hands, a nervous tic that everyone kindly ignored. They were unfolded at the moment because she had them on either side of her head as she smoothed and patted her coffee-colored hair. Her fingertips fluttered, and then Quill realized all of her was a-flutter. He rose to his feet.
Ann also stood. “Aunt Beatrice? What is it? Father?”
“No. It is not your father at all. It is that woman. That woman has arrived, and she has come to the back door. What is to be done? Why would she come to the back door?”
Quill felt his lips twitch. What was it that Joe Pepper had said about her? Oh, yes. Calico Nash does not disappoint. And, Quill thought, she knew how to make an entrance.
Chapter Four
The cook was thrusting a cup of hot tea into Calico’s hands when Quill and Ann arrived in the kitchen. Beatrice Stonechurch brought up the rear of their welcoming party.
“Oh, hello,” said Calico. She directed the greeting to Quill, regarding him over the rim of her teacup as she hid her smile behind it. She looked over the young woman who stood beside him on the right, decided this must be Ann Stonechurch, and gave a cursory examination of the older woman standing behind them both. This was the older woman’s second trip to the kitchen, and the cook had identified her as Mrs. Leonard Stonechurch, the widow of Ramsey Stonechurch’s brother. Neither the cook, a stout and sturdy woman who introduced herself as Abigail Friend, nor any of her kitchen helpers, appeared to find it odd when Mrs. Stonechurch fled the room.
Calico found it odd, but said nothing, and now the woman, who at her full height stood several inches shy of Quill’s shoulder, had returned with reinforcements, neither of whom had yet spoken a word. Ann Stonechurch, taller than her aunt but still on the petite side, was staring in a way that could most politely be called fascinated but was closer to stunned. Quill McKenna was grinning at her in that annoying way he had, as if he knew something she did not. That edge of secrecy in his smile would have been enough to contend with by itself, but the fact that sunshine seemed to spill from his parted lips was aggravating in the extreme.
Calico blew gently on her tea before she took a careful sip. Having made the first overture, she felt no need to speak up.
Quill stepped forward and around the kitchen table. He held out his hand with no expectation that Calico would take it. “Miss Nash,” he said, tucking away his grin and putting her on the receiving end of a polite and proper smile. “On behalf of the Stonechurch family, welcome.”
Calico set her cup down and thrust out her hand. When he engulfed it in his, she pointedly looked past Quill’s shoulder at the only two Stonechurches in the room and raised her eyebrows. “They allow you to speak for them? It either indicates a remarkable lack of good sense or very poor manners. I feel certain it will not take me long to determine which it is.” She removed her hand from his. “What do you do here?”
Before Quill could respond, Ann Stonechurch came around the table from the other side and put out her hand. “I am Ann Stonechurch,” she said, lifting her chin. “It is a pleasure to meet you. Mr. McKenna has told me almost nothing about you, so I look forward to the time we will be spending together.”
Calico appreciated the firm handshake and the tilt of the young woman’s jaw. Now that Miss Stonechurch had recovered her poise, she seemed genuinely welcoming. Calico took it as a good omen.
Ann indicated her aunt, who was hovering closer to the door than the table. “You have met Aunt Beatrice?”
Because Calico judged the woman to be on the skittish side, she said, “We introduced ourselves earlier, and she observed my chill and wisely suggested tea.” Calico picked up her cup again, sipped, and then thanked Mrs. Stonechurch.
Folding her hands, Beatrice looked quickly over at the cook before she responded. “Yes, the tea. Of course. You are welcome.”
A small frown puckered Ann’s brow, but she said, “Very good. My father does not yet know that you have arrived. I would be happy to show you to a room where you can change before you meet him.”
Calico was tempted to ask what was wrong with what she was wearing, but she feared it might put Aunt Beatrice in a swoon and challenge Ann Stonechurch’s composure. Quill might have flashe
d his grin again or—and this was more likely—simply shaken his head, but other than one of those brief signs to let her know he knew precisely what she was doing, he would have remained unmoved.
She had spoken with Mary Pepper about what she should wear for her interview with Ramsey Stonechurch, but in the end she had ignored Mary’s advice and decided instead to let the pharaoh see exactly whom he was considering for his daughter’s protector. Mary thought she had taken leave of her senses, but could not talk her out of wearing her buckskins, boots, and duster. Calico’s only concession was that she packed her revolver in her trunk instead of wearing it. The trunk necessitated taking the train, which Calico supposed was also a concession, but as it was turning out be an exceptionally hard winter, she did not mind so much.
“I would like to see that room,” she said. She would welcome cleaning up, shaking off the cinder dust of her journey, but she had no intention of changing clothes to make the acquaintance of Ramsey Stonechurch.
Quill said, “I’ll carry your trunk. Ann, lead on.”
Calico returned her cup to Mrs. Friend and then stooped to pick up her leather satchel. She did not argue about Quill taking the trunk. It was heavy, and she had paid a man playing checkers with the station agent to put it on his wagon and drive her, the trunk, and her bag to the Stonechurch mansion sitting squarely at the end of the long main street. Her driver was the one who assumed she was a back door sort of guest, and she had not cared, preferring instead to get out of the cold as quickly as possible.
The room she was shown was as fine as any that could be found in the costliest Denver hotel. After a second look around, she revised her opinion and considered it to be finer. The furniture was all dark mahogany, each piece polished so that it gleamed. The large wardrobe had brass handles, the bed’s headboard was inlaid with extravagant scrollwork, and the narrow chest of drawers had porcelain knobs. A silk dressing screen was open in one corner of the room, and a long looking glass mounted in an elaborately carved frame stood next to it.
“Where do you want this?” asked Quill, referring to the trunk resting on his shoulder.
“Foot of the bed’s fine.” While he was setting it down, Calico pointed to the door beside the wardrobe. “Where does that lead?” she asked Ann.
“The bathing room.” She walked over, opened the door, and allowed Calico to see inside. “Father stayed in a hotel in Georgetown, here in Colorado, I mean. Hot and cold running water and a bathtub that could be filled from the tap. He would not let it rest until he had the same. The house has grown like Topsy.”
“I imagine it has,” said Calico without any hint of sarcasm. She supposed if she were as rich as Midas, she might be tempted to have marble-topped sinks and a bathtub bigger than a horse trough. She dropped her satchel and went to have a closer look.
“All the linens you need are in the cupboard. Soap, too. If you prefer bath salts, I can have some sent up. One of the maids will be along directly to set a fire for you. Aunt Beatrice will already have seen to that. I will tell my father that you are here. How much time will you require?”
“Ten minutes. Maybe less.”
Ann frowned. “Oh, but—”
Quill interrupted. “Miss Nash will need at least an hour.” And before Calico could contradict him, he said, “Tell your father, Miss Stonechurch. He’s been waiting almost as impatiently as you.”
Ann nodded. She gave Calico a quick, encouraging smile, and hurried out.
As soon as Quill judged she was out of hearing range, he rounded on Calico. “I know you own at least one dress that would have been suitable for travel.” When she simply stared at him, he reminded her. “Black and white. Stripes. You were wearing it the day I met you, or at least you were wearing it for part of the day.”
“Well, I did not think it was suitable for travel, and neither would you if you had to wear it.”
Quill walked over to the door, closed it, and leaned a shoulder against it to prevent a sudden intrusion by the maid coming to set the fire. “Do you really intend to wear trousers to sit for your interview?”
“Why shouldn’t I? We will be talking about protecting his daughter. He needs to know I can do it.”
“He knows you can do it because I told him you can. He knows you’re Calico Nash, and he knows your reputation. His daughter, however, knows none of that. To her, you are Katherine Nash, a teacher who is here to interview for a position as her private tutor. That is your role this time. No wig, no theatrical face paint to tart yourself up, but you do have to dress in a manner becoming a serious woman of studies.”
Calico set her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Don’t you think that should have been explained in someone’s letter?”
“Until I saw you standing there in the kitchen, I thought it had.”
“Obviously not.”
Quill settled his blue-gray eyes on hers and held the stare, grim and sober. “I want Stonechurch to hire you. His daughter needs someone looking out for her as much as he does, perhaps more since hurting her would be the surest means of killing him. He and I believe there have already been warning shots across that bow.”
“That’s why you’re here?” she asked. “You’re his bodyguard?”
“Yes. Ann thinks I am his lawyer. Sometimes he likes to think the same thing.”
“Mother of God,” she said under her breath. She removed her hat, tossed it on the bed, and began to unbutton her long coat. “You will have to tell me all of it when we have more time. You need to go because I need to wash and change my clothes. And to be clear, the money is good, very good, but I don’t have any qualifications as a teacher. Hell, I don’t have a paper that says I graduated the eighth grade. What I know about the education of a young woman like Miss Stonechurch would not spill out of a thimble if I jammed my thumb in it.”
“Let me worry about that.”
Calico paused in unwinding her green woolen scarf. “Did I say I was worried? Because I’m not. I did not know anything about whoring either and I managed that well enough.”
“That was for an evening. This will be weeks, even months.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Ten months give or take a week.”
“And is someone really trying to kill Stonechurch, or did he hire you as a precaution against that happening because he is so universally disliked?”
“There have been threats and two serious attempts.”
She nodded thoughtfully, finished removing her scarf, and laid it on the bed. “All right. Go.”
“Not just yet. Where is your pistol? I can see that it’s not under your sleeve.”
“In my bag.”
Without asking permission, Quill opened the satchel. The derringer was lying on top. He took it. “A precaution. In the event someone else has hired you to shoot Ramsey in the interview.”
“I do not think someone would have to hire me.” In response to the wry look he gave her, she pointed to her trunk. “It is up to you if you want to seize my Colt. I won’t be carrying it under my dress, but you might not take me at my word.”
He opened the trunk, lifted the Colt Model 1877 double-action .38 caliber revolver by its pearl grip, and looked over his shoulder at Calico. “Lightning.”
“That’s what it’s called. Shoots fast and true.”
Quill replaced it in the trunk and closed the lid. “Do you have any other weapons?”
“There is a Winchester rifle in there under a false bottom.” She shrugged when he cocked an eyebrow at her and slowly shook his head. “I think it is important to be prepared.”
“Is there a cannon being delivered later?”
She gave him a flat smile and pointed to the door again. “Out.”
He stood and pocketed the derringer. “Going.” He opened the door and held it that way when Molly the maid appeared carrying kindling and a box of
matches. He let her pass and paused another beat. “Thank you,” he said.
“It’s nothing, sir, but you are quite welcome,” said Molly.
Quill did not correct the girl’s impression that he was speaking to her. Over the top of the maid’s head, he caught Calico’s eye to make certain she knew that she was the one he was thanking. From the look of mild annoyance on her face, he guessed that it either did not matter to her or that she thought he was not moving fast enough. Congratulating himself for relieving her of her pistol, he ducked into the hallway.
* * *
Ramsey Stonechurch stood as the pocket doors to his study parted and Katherine Nash was shown in. He motioned her forward, waved his sister-in-law off, and invited her to sit.
“Miss Nash,” he said, his dark brown eyes making a study of her from head to toe. She was wearing a simply tailored black wool gown, cinched at the waist by a black silk scarf that she wore as a belt. The gown had long sleeves, a white collar, and another silk scarf that was secured at her throat by a cameo brooch and fell down the center of the bodice like a man’s ascot. “I think my sister-in-law was pulling my leg, which is astonishing since she has almost no sense of humor. I look forward to telling her that she made a very good job of it.”
Calico had not yet taken the chair she was offered. One hand lay lightly across the curved back. “How do you mean, sir?” she asked as if she did not know.
He indicated the whole of her person with a sweep of his hand. “Your attire. Beatrice would have me believe you arrived in buckskin trousers and a Stetson and intended to sit for the interview in that mode of dress.”
“Really? I can’t imagine.”
“It was difficult for me also. Please, sit.”
Calico did and fixed a polite smile as he did the same. She waited for him to begin.
Ramsey picked up his letter opener and turned it over in his hand as he spoke. “I received the first threat on my life some twelve months back. It came at a time when there was no obvious reason for it. No accidents at the mines, no grumbling about wages or hours. I dismissed it.”
