by Jo Goodman
“Daft socialist experiment.”
Quill nodded. “Something else you learned from Ann?”
“Yes.”
“Ramsey’s voice carries to the rafters when he is ranting.”
“It is no wonder she is concerned about his health.”
“Exactly.” He sighed. “Since I have been charged with discovering what’s happening at the mine, I will be gone from the house more often. That will require you to keep an eye on Ramsey.”
“Do you believe Ramsey is safe at home?”
“Yes. As long as he stays put. He gets it in his head that he has to leave and tears out of here like his hair’s on fire.” Quill regarded Calico’s flaming tresses for a long moment. “Like yours.”
Self-conscious, Calico tucked a loose strand behind her ear.
Quill cleared his throat and continued. “I’ve gotten used to listening for doors opening and closing, especially the front door because that’s how he leaves and he usually slams it hard.”
“I will keep that in mind.” She rose and began to clear the bed of the remaining clothes.
“Do you need help?”
“No.”
Quill did not offer again. She was firm enough in her refusal that he thought if he touched anything, she might break his fingers or threaten to.
Calico opened the door to the wardrobe and began to place her things inside. “Does Ramsey have a candidate in mind? For the leader, I mean. Has he mentioned anyone?”
“No. And I didn’t ask. I want to form my own opinion.”
She nodded. “I was wondering about the house staff.”
“My sense is that they are loyal and are happy to work in the big house, as they like to call it. They care that Ramsey Stonechurch is respected in town. They believe it reflects poorly on them if he is not.”
“They are probably right.” She looked over the contents of the wardrobe now that everything was in place, and she was glad she would be visiting a dressmaker tomorrow. She told Quill about her plans. “So if you go to the mines tomorrow, Ramsey will have to go with you.”
“He will probably want to. He can stay in his office there with Frank Fordham while I poke around. The men know me. It won’t be unusual.”
“Do they trust you? You do look like a lawyer. No one trusts a lawyer.”
“Until they need one. You, on the other hand, you look like a . . .”
She waited, beginning to feel warm under his scrutiny. If he were smiling, she might have said something about the sun on her face, but he was not, just the opposite, in fact. His features were oddly solemn. She swallowed because that was what it took to move the lump from her throat and find her voice. “A teacher?” she asked.
He was still a long time answering, but finally he nodded. “Yes, exactly like a teacher.”
“Yes, well, that is a good beginning. Appearance helps. I told you I had mostly cavalry wives to instruct me. I wasn’t sure if I looked the part.” Truly, she thought, it was easier to look the whore.
What she said made Quill curious about what she did not say. “What about your mother? Was she one of your teachers?”
“No.”
Quill recognized when a door was being closed in his face. He did not try to push through. “Will you be joining us for dinner?”
“If that is what is expected, then yes.”
“It is expected. The derringer is not.”
Calico smiled crookedly. “He told you.”
“Yes, he told me. You could have asked me for it.” When she merely shrugged, he said, “You wanted him to see it, I think.”
Calico did not respond to his observation. She asked, “Was he angry?”
“More annoyed than angry. He does not like surprises. He believes he should be able to anticipate every situation, every consequence.”
Calico recognized something of herself in that description so she did not comment. “How old do you think he is? Do you know?”
“Fifty-two. Why?”
“Just wondering. Was he older or younger than his brother?”
“Older. Three years older. Leo would have been forty-nine this year. I remember that Beatrice remarked on it on the anniversary of his passing.”
“But she is younger than that, isn’t she?”
“Considerably. Ann told me her aunt was twelve years younger than her uncle.”
“Thirty-seven, then,” said Calico softly. “Has she shown any interest in marrying again?”
“Not that I am aware, and I believe I would be. She seems to be settled here, content with her situation. She is wealthy in her own right. Her husband’s shares in Stonechurch Mining passed to her, and although she has nothing at all to do with the operation, she has never sold a single share to Ramsey. On paper, at least, he does not have controlling interest.”
“So he might not want to encourage her to remarry.”
“Probably not. It would have the potential to turn the business on its head. Why the curiosity about Beatrice?”
“I’m not sure. Just . . . something. Did I mention that Beatrice is accompanying Ann and me tomorrow?”
“No, but for God’s sake, don’t go looking for a husband for her.” He grinned when Calico’s jaw snapped shut. “Good. Concentrate on finding the object of Ann’s affection.” He paused. “If he even exists.”
“Well, I certainly do not believe he haunts either of the dress shops we intend to visit. You know the town. Where should I be looking for young men?”
“The most suitable of them are employed by—” He stopped because Calico had raised her eyebrows.
“Who said anything about suitable? Ann is a seventeen-year-old female passing from girlhood to womanhood, and that, Mr. McKenna, is a transition where suitable is rarely a frame of reference. She will be entertaining notions of romantic love that would curl your hair. Swarthy rascals and outright villains will figure largely in her daydreams. I saw the dime novels she has tucked away in her room. Please, dismiss the idea of suitable from your mind and tell me where I should be looking for men who might have caught her eye.”
Frowning, Quill scratched behind his ear as he considered his answer. “When you explain it like that, I guess you want to be around when the miners change shifts.”
“She’s been to the mines?”
“On occasion, but she doesn’t have to be there to see the men coming and going. They all live in town. She only has to be present when they’re on their way or coming back, and that’s occurred many times.”
“All right. I will be alert to that. It would be the afternoon change, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes. The others are too early or too late. You will want to visit the mercantile and Smith’s leather goods. The owners of both have sons that work regularly in the stores. One is about Ann’s age. The other is twenty or so. There is also a boy at the feed store who always seems to be sweeping outside when I’ve been with Ann. I don’t know that I ever thought about it before, but you will want to look for him.”
She nodded.
There was silence then, comfortable as first, but less so as it went on. Calico looked down at her hands. Quill looked at her. As so often is the way, when they finally spoke, it was at the same time.
“You first,” Quill said.
Feeling somewhat foolish, she hesitated. When she looked up, she fixed her eyes on him. “I have been curious about why you recommended me to the pharaoh. What made you think on our short acquaintance that I would do this?”
“That you would do it? I was never sure about that. But that you could? That’s different. I was confident.”
“I understand about providing protection, but tutoring Ann?”
“I am prepared to cover for you there, if it comes to that. You held your own at breakfast with Washington Square.”
“It is early days yet.
She showed me her curriculum. Latin. Trigonometry. Renaissance art. Do you play poker, Mr. McKenna?”
“Quill. And yes, I do.”
“Are you any good?” Before he could respond, she put up a hand. “Never mind. You cannot be. By your own admission you don’t lie well, and what is a bluff except a lie of expression? Well, I lie very well, and I bluff like I lie. I like to win, but I can accept losing. I do not catch every miscreant I am chasing. I do not score a bull’s-eye every time I shoot. I know there are faster draws than me, and I do not provoke a gunslinger to test his mettle. I will need to do a great deal of bluffing if I am going to pass muster with Ann, and you will have to hone your tutoring skills to help me succeed.” She hammered him with a dead-on look. “And it would not hurt if you honed your prevaricating skills as well. You are pitiful. You lied at breakfast about never having read Washington Square. The only question I have is how many times you’ve read it.”
Quill stared at her. “How in the—Never mind. The answer is twice.”
“Pitiful.”
“Uh-huh. On the other hand, I do know Latin, trigonometry, and have a better than passing acquaintance with the Renaissance. I swear I can help you there. You do not have to know everything, but begin with what you do.”
In spite of her intention to guard her fences, she realized she was smiling. “You are not such a bad sort, Mr. McKenna.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said dryly. “It would be more welcome if you would call me Quill.”
Although he was regarding her virtually without expression, she felt sure there had been an overture of intimacy in his tone, an invitation. How else to explain the warmth she felt under her skin and the odd little skip in her heart? Her smile faded as she returned to guarding her fences.
Chapter Six
Calico had visited more mining towns than she could properly recall. Some of them were no longer in existence, having been deserted by the inhabitants when there was nothing left to mine. In contrast to those ghost towns, or even those rough hamlets with some ore left to expose, Stonechurch had become a community. Everywhere Calico looked, she saw the influence of the Stonechurch brothers. It was most evident in the public buildings because they bore the Stonechurch name. These were not grand structures by any means. Unlike the mansion, which was stone, these buildings were all wood framed, but the exteriors were painted white, the windows were clean, and they all appeared to be in good repair. There was the Ezekiel Stonechurch Library, named after the grandfather who had explored the new territory with Pike. Not far away, but on the opposite side of the street, was the Maud Wilson Stonechurch Schoolhouse, which Calico learned was named after Ann’s mother. The building that served as a meeting hall, courtroom (when one was needed), and land office was also home to the town council—whose five members were duly elected after being endorsed by Ramsey Stonechurch. By necessity, it was the largest structure in town, and it had been renamed following the death of Ramsey’s brother and was now the Leonard W. Stonechurch Town Hall. There was a jail, but the town’s official lawman was saddled with the title of constable, and he was appointed by Ramsey Stonechurch, not elected by the populace.
Except for the Stonechurch Mining office, which was located rather unobtrusively at the end of Ann Street near the rail station, Calico noticed that none of the businesses had the Stonechurch name. There was Smith’s Leather Goods, Hamilton’s Mercantile, and Shriver’s Apothecary. It seemed that every shop owner had taken his cue from Ramsey Stonechurch and attached his name to the business. Zimmer and Zimmer Laundry. Bartholow’s Eatery. Dr. Pitman had a residence on the main street and a modest placard by his front door to indicate his profession. A similar placard marked the undertaker’s home. Stonechurch had two barbers, two dressmakers, two churches, one livery, one blacksmith, and three saloons. Most surprising, the bank was not owned by Ramsey Stonechurch, and it bore the rather utilitarian name of Miner’s Trust.
What Calico took away from her tour was that, although Stonechurch the community would live and die by the success of the mining operation, it was not quite the company town she had imagined it to be.
While her interest in the town was real, it did not turn Calico away from her purpose. She kept Ann at her side, although when she reflected on it later, it might have been more difficult to lose her. Ann proved to be shy in public, even a trifle backward, while Beatrice, in startling contrast to her demeanor at home, did not know a stranger and greeted everyone warmly, addressing them by name and making a personal inquiry that communicated genuine concern but also proved that she had been paying attention to whatever tidbit they had shared during a previous encounter.
Calico watched Ann Stonechurch respond to every overture politely. There was no faulting her manners; it was only that her discomfort lent her an air of reserve that could easily be misinterpreted as cool detachment. It probably did not help her cause that people were trying to engage her on the street bearing her name. Ann’s youthful exuberance, her lively curiosity, was sadly absent here.
It occurred to Calico that if she were Ann’s teacher in fact rather than fiction, it would fall to her to address these awkward social interactions. The mere thought stirred memories of sitting in a circle with the cavalry wives while they sharpened her conversational skills as they plied their needles. Under their tutelage she had grasped the niceties of social conventions and communication, and came to appreciate the necessity of them, but it was sitting around a campfire with her father, company privates, and the Indian scouts that prepared her for being able to comfortably carry on with just about anyone.
Ann Stonechurch, Calico decided, needed a campfire in the worst way.
That thought stayed with her on and off throughout the afternoon. It occupied her to the degree that she surrendered most of the decisions about her dresses to Beatrice, Ann, and Mrs. Birden. She did not put up much resistance when they encouraged her to order a third gown, although she did wonder what she would have to purchase from the other dressmaker to maintain the delicate balance. She allowed herself to be measured, poked, prodded, turned, twisted, and scrutinized. She survived it by imagining Quill McKenna’s handsomely molded features with a bullet hole between his eyebrows. Sometimes she imagined him without the bullet hole, but in many ways that was more disturbing than being the subject of so much critical study.
He was an improbably attractive man. She had thought so from the first, and the first had not been when she opened the door to him at Mrs. Fry’s. No, the first was when she had been standing at the top of the stairs looking over the guests crowding the parlor. She had not allowed her gaze to linger on him then, although it had been a sore temptation and resisting it had seemed somehow wrong.
She would not have been able to make out his features if he had not been looking up, but he was, and she clearly recalled the frisson of awareness in response to his open and frank stare. It was impossible to know the color of his eyes from where she stood, but their color had no bearing on how he looked out from them, and how he looked out from them made her keenly mindful just then of being a woman. Oddly enough, it was that moment of self-consciousness that nudged her forward and down the long staircase, and while she never looked in his direction again, his afterimage remained in her mind’s eye, teasing her with its uncommon perfection.
Had she truly stared at him, she thought, she would have had to shade her eyes against the sunshine that glanced off his hair. It was also a mercy that he had not smiled because surely that would have struck her blind.
Even now, nothing about that seemed an exaggeration.
His hair and maddening grin aside, there was no other single feature deserving second notice on its own. Well, perhaps the widow’s peak, although it was only evident when he raked back his hair. And one could make a case for the gemstone quality of his blue-gray eyes. Calico could even allow that some women, at least those drawn to villains, might find the cut of his jaw a point of interest, e
specially when it was defined by a day’s stubble and lent him a vaguely disreputable look. His nose, though, she concluded with a certain amount of satisfaction, was just a nose, neither sharp nor soft, not hooked, never broken, neither long nor short, neither wide nor thin. It was ordinary.
Perfectly ordinary.
Calico came out of her reverie as the man with the perfectly ordinary nose walked into Mrs. Birden’s shop and all the chatter around her stopped.
“Ladies,” he said, tipping his hat as he greeted them. “And so we find you here.”
The “we” he was referring to included Ramsey Stonechurch, who came in behind him a moment later.
Ann’s mouth opened, Beatrice’s hands clamped, and Calico’s lips flattened. As a trio they covered a continuum of feeling: surprise, concern, and disapproval. Only Mrs. Birden was immediately welcoming and her effusiveness gave the other women cover as they gathered their wits.
Ann went to her father’s side, stood on tiptoes, and bussed him on the cheek before she slipped her arm through his. She gave the arm a small squeeze. “I hope your presence means you intend to indulge Aunt Beatrice and me by approving new gowns. We have been through all the books looking for suitable garments for Miss Nash, and we are intrigued by the sporting clothes.”
Calico caught the question in Quill’s eye. She responded with a barely perceptible shake of her head.
“Sporting clothes?” asked Ramsey. “What do you mean by sporting clothes?”
“You must know, Father. Tennis. Croquet. The costume one must have for riding a bicycle.”
He raised a highly skeptical eyebrow. “Odd, but I have never heard you express the least interest in any of those things. I am unaware of you possessing the more critical sporting items, namely a racquet, a mallet, or a bicycle.”
