by Jo Goodman
“I asked him why he doesn’t borrow what he needs from another crew at another mine. That’s when I learned he and his men are the only ones working with explosives. It’s been that way for a long time. They go from mine to mine as needed, and right now the Number 1 mine is the only one requiring a fire in the hole.”
“Do the explosives arrive damaged or are they damaged in storage?”
“I don’t know. Kittredge stopped talking. He got skittish as he went on. Started to think better of what he was saying.”
“But you said he’s complained. Someone must know.”
“I said that he says he complained. He sounded credible, but I don’t know who he reported it to, and if I ask too many times, or ask the wrong people, it will get around. No one will speak to me, or if they do, it will be hard to trust what they say.”
“Have you told Ramsey?”
“No. That’s what I was trying to puzzle out.”
“It’s his company. Seems as if it’s something he should know.”
“Yes, well, it’s not entirely his company. Beatrice owns half, remember?”
“I’m not sure why that’s important.”
“It’s important because she has an interest even if she doesn’t put her hand in day to day. She leaves the decision making to him, but she pays attention to the operation. She asks questions. I know because I’ve been in the room when she’s come to Ramsey on one matter or another. She has a distinctive perspective on Stonechurch Mining. The operation is personal for both of them, but Beatrice has a different view of the men working for them. She knows the miners by name, knows their families, knows whose wife is going to have a baby and whose father is ill. She visits men who have been injured. She makes sure their families are cared for. Ramsey supports the school, but she knows the children. He gives money to the library, but she heads the committee that chooses the books.”
Calico said, “I’m realizing I don’t know her at all. I was aware that the shopkeepers were happy to see her, but I assumed that was at least in part because she spent money with them. I observed she spoke to everyone who came in and out of the stores, but I didn’t realize she was as familiar with the miners.”
“Did you know that she visits the mines more often than Ramsey?”
“She’s never mentioned it.”
“Probably because she’s been doing it for so long that it’s a matter of routine to her. Maybe a couple of times a month. She takes things when she goes. Breads and cakes. Little sandwiches that you would expect to have at tea. Jellies and jams. Bandages. Liniments. Salves. Woolen socks. Gloves. The men flock to her.”
Calico tugged on Quill’s coat at the elbow, stopping him in his tracks. She stared at him, looking for the lie. “Little sandwiches?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “Truly?”
“Truly. I swear. The miners love them.”
Shaking her head, Calico released his coat. They began walking again. “She is not precisely as she seems, is she? I am appreciating that about her.”
“It is not making too much of it to say that the men adore her.”
“And you think she is sympathetic to them.”
“I’m not certain she would be in favor of me digging into this matter too deeply. Ramsey hasn’t shared his suspicions with her.”
“I think I understand why, but the company’s losses are her losses, too.”
“There is no denying that. What is less clear is how much she would care about it. I’m not suggesting that she would be complacent if the company was facing bankruptcy, but that’s not the case here. The losses are small compared to the gains. She might find it acceptable if she thought the men had something to gain.”
Calico was quiet for a long time, then, “No wonder you were awake.”
“Hmm.”
Calico stopped as they broke through the trees, reluctant to return in spite of the cold. She stamped her feet.
“Do you want another drink?”
She shook her head. “How often do you go out at night?”
“Since you’ve been here, only once. Before then, every three or four days if I could. Never less than once a week. I’m surprised you tolerated the indoors for as long as you have, unless this is not your first time?”
“No, this is the first I’ve wandered off.” When he started to go, she said, “Not just yet. I have a question.”
“It can’t wait?” When her expression clearly communicated it could not, he said, “Go ahead.”
“What about Ann? Does she never accompany Beatrice to the mines?”
“No, never. Not that I’m aware.”
“Hmm.”
“What are you thinking?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure. I can’t decide if it’s odd or understandable.”
“Why odd?”
“Beatrice dotes on Ann. It seems it would be in her nature to invite Ann to join her. Then again, perhaps Beatrice has asked her and Ann has not wanted to go.”
“Or, and this seems equally likely, Ramsey forbids it.”
“Why would he do that?”
Her genuine confusion made him chuckle. “You do realize that it is your upbringing that is out of the ordinary, don’t you?”
Calico bristled. “I don’t know why you would say that.”
Quill stared at her, trying to make out her features in the darkness. Finally, he said, “I can’t tell if you’re serious.”
“What is extraordinary about being raised to care for myself, tolerate those who are different from me, and expect folks to behave like they have some sense?”
This time Quill’s chuckle was absent of humor. “Everything about that seems extraordinary. My brother believes the Lord will provide, my mother’s tolerance is limited to people who agree with her, and my minister father expects folks to behave as if Satan’s whispering in their ear.”
“I can’t tell if you’re serious,” she said, echoing him.
“Oh, I assure you I am. And if Ramsey doesn’t want his daughter associating with the miners, who can be rough and unruly as the mood strikes them, it’s not the most unreasonable thing he’s ever done. He would stand with society on this one, and you would stand alone. Well, mostly alone.”
Calico was unconvinced. “If you say so.”
“Do you really want to argue about it now?” He swore the shudder that went through her shook the ground under his feet. It was answer enough. “Stubborn woman. Come on.”
It was when they reached the relative warmth of the kitchen that Calico felt the full effects of the whiskey. She swayed on her feet as Quill nudged her into the room. “Ooh.” She put a hand out to steady herself and found the table.
Quill stopped her from pulling out a chair by putting his hands on her waist and moving her toward the back stairs. “Mother’s milk,” he said under his breath. “I don’t think so. You’re drunk.”
“Am not.”
“Sh. Whisper.”
“Am not,” she repeated, this time quietly.
Quill decided the better course was not to call her a liar. He unstrapped the blanket roll from her back and stayed close behind her as they climbed the stairs. With a little physical guidance and some prompts in her ear, he managed to get Calico inside her room without anyone else coming out of theirs.
Calico removed her hat and tossed it behind her. Quill caught it, leaving her to cross the room unassisted. Spinning around with more grace in her mind than in reality, Calico collapsed backward on the bed. “Ooh.” She blinked rapidly and pressed her fingertips to her temple. “I should not have done that.”
Rolling his eyes, Quill dropped her Stetson on the trunk lid and then went around the bed to where she was sprawled on top of it. Her splayed legs were hanging over the side. “Boots first,” he said, and hunkered down.
“I can do that.”
“
Uh-huh.” He pulled them off and set them gently on the floor. “Socks on or off?”
“Off.”
Quill removed them and dropped them inside her boots. He pulled off his gloves, stuffed them in his pockets, and then rubbed each of her feet between his hands. When he judged they were warm enough, he tugged on her little toes to see if she was still awake.
“Hey,” she said. “Why’d you do that?”
“Because I could.” He took her by the ankles and lifted her legs as he stood, then he shifted her ninety degrees so she was lengthwise on the bed instead of crosswise. This had the effect of twisting her duster so he leaned over and began unbuttoning it. She slapped at his hands, not hard, but just to let him know she was protesting. He ignored her. Once he had wrestled the jacket off, he removed her gloves and warmed her hands as he had warmed her feet. He thought she might have sighed, but because she was Calico Nash, he thought it was just as likely that she had sworn at him. Shaking his head, he yanked the blankets from under her, pulled them over her, and tucked her in.
He thought her eyes were closed, but when he finished, she was looking at him. “Warm enough?”
“Mm.” She tugged on the covers until they were at her chin. “Toasty.”
Quill could not tell if her smile was sleepy or drunken. Probably a little of both, he decided. “I’m going to see to the fire.” He turned to go, but she caught him by the hand. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” And she didn’t. She felt oddly disconnected from her thoughts. They tumbled, flitted, but she could neither follow one nor catch it when it landed. “Will you sit with me?”
Quill’s eyes shifted from her to the chair. “Let me take care of the fire first.”
Calico was slow to release his hand, and when she did, she felt bereft. To see him better, she rose up on her elbows and stayed that way while he stirred the fire and added wood. It seemed to her that he remained there overlong, staring at his handiwork, but eventually he turned and came to the bed. It was only when he was standing beside her that she realized she had been holding her breath.
“If you like, I can move that chair closer to the bed,” he said.
She lay back again and smoothed the blankets. “No. Leave it there.”
He nodded and started to retreat.
“No,” she said when she understood he meant to sit in it no matter where it was. “I want you to sit here. With me.”
Quill turned and stepped sideways out of the line of the firelight. His eyes narrowed fractionally as he studied her features. She did not look as if she was up to mischief, but neither did she look particularly innocent. “You have a good poker face.”
“I do,” she said agreeably.
“I still think you’re drunk.”
“I’ll let you know when I’m drunk.”
Quill took off his hat and coat and put them on the window bench. He ran a hand through his hair. “Wouldn’t it be better if you behaved like you have some sense?”
Calico patted the space beside her. “Wouldn’t it be better if you behaved like Old Scratch was whisperin’ in your ear?”
“Damn,” he said under his breath. And then he sat. “Move over, I need more room.”
Calico scooted sideways while Quill made a quarter turn toward her and drew up a knee so he could rest it on the bed. “Better?” she asked.
He ignored the question and asked his own. “Do you ever not get your way?”
“Of course.”
“Name one time.”
She didn’t have to think about it. “I offered to give Ann riding lessons, and she turned me down.”
“Did she tell you she’s afraid of horses?”
“No. Is she?”
“Uh-huh.”
Calico sighed. “Well, there you have it. My motive was completely selfish, but you already know that. I wanted a reason to get out of the house.”
“Maybe there is something I can do about that.”
“Really?”
“Maybe. No promises.” Quill glimpsed her hopeful expression before she schooled her features. “No promises,” he said firmly.
Calico slipped one arm free of the blankets and found his hand. She wrapped her fingers around his and squeezed.
He merely grunted softly, noncommittally.
She opened her fingers but did not withdraw her hand. There was a short silence. She could not guess what he was thinking, but she decided to say what was on her mind. “Men have kissed me before.”
Quill blinked. “I know,” he said slowly. “I was one of them. Did you think I forgot?”
“No. At least I hoped not. It’s all right to say that, isn’t it? That I hoped you didn’t forget?” She sighed heavily. “This is like setting out in the dark with no notion of the lay of the land. Seems I’m already running headlong into my first obstacle what with you sitting there like the great stony face of a mountain.”
“I was only waiting for you to draw a breath. The answer to your question is yes. It’s all right to say that you hoped I didn’t forget.”
She nodded. “I guess that’s good. That you didn’t forget and that I can speak my mind about it.”
“Yes,” he said, careful not to smile. “Both those things are good.”
Catching something vaguely patronizing in his tone, she regarded him suspiciously. “You just spoke to me as if I were a child. There is no convincing you I am not drunk.”
“Tipsy, then.”
“If you like.” She waved her hand airily. “Now about the other. I thought you should know that those men who kissed me, well, I kissed them back. Most of them.”
Quill knew he shouldn’t ask, but the devil was whispering in his ear. “The ones you didn’t kiss back . . . what did you do?”
“I walloped one with my first reader. I was six and he was eight.”
“That happens,” Quill said philosophically.
“The other fellow I marched off to jail at the end of my Colt.”
“For kissing you? That seems excessive. Please tell me you were not six.”
“Funny. He was a felon who thought he had a way with women, whether they wanted him to have his way or not. It was a real pleasure taking him in.”
“Good for you.”
She smiled a trifle lopsidedly, proud of what she’d done and a little embarrassed that she had shared it. “So there you have it. I am not inexperienced.”
“And you thought that was important to tell me.”
“Yes. It occurred to me that you might have thought differently.” She shrugged. “Did you?”
“I did.”
“Ah-hah.”
Laughter rumbled deep in his throat. “Ah-hah? Do you think we would still be kissing if I had gauged your experience better?”
Calico sobered, after a fashion. “I didn’t think that . . . exactly.”
“Hmm.”
“But I’ve noticed that when you’re not barging in where you don’t belong, or sneaking up on a body, you’re real mannerly.”
“You think I need some encouragement?”
“Don’t you?”
“Not as much as you’re offering.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Then why haven’t you kissed me?”
“Aren’t you worried that we’ll get bored with it? Bored to the point of stupefication, I think you said.”
“I said that because I shouldn’t want you. I don’t even want to like you.”
“In vino veritas,” Quill said, shaking his head. “I know. Don’t you think I know? Here it is, Calico, the truth: If I kiss you now, it won’t end there. Not this time. I don’t mind if you take me for a gentleman, but you should not mistake me for a saint.” The look he gave her was significant for its knowing. “And it’s already too late for you to bluff. Your poker face doesn’t work when you’re flushed
to the roots of your hair.”
Still, she tried. “Of course I’m flushed. These blankets are tucked around me so I can’t move, and that fire is blazing. I’m still wearing all my clothes, and you poured whiskey down my—”
Quill said, not unkindly, “Shut up, Calico.” He bent and put his lips to hers.
She made a small sound, not protesting, just startled. She welcomed the pressure of his mouth. It held her still in a way the tight cocoon of blankets could not. It comforted and excited, and it seemed perfectly reasonable just then that his kiss should do both.
When he released her, drawing back just a hairsbreadth to change position, she lifted her head, reluctant to let him go. Her mouth brushed his jaw. His stubble was rough against her sensitive, slightly swollen lips, but the sensation tickled more than stung. She followed the line of his jaw to the hollow behind his ear, and then she whispered, “One of us is on the wrong side of the blankets.” His soft chuckle made her smile; his breath was warm against her neck.
Neither of them attempted to deal with the wrong side/right side of the blanket problem. A tangle was inevitable. What they avoided was the argument about it.
Quill caught her chin with his fingertips and lifted it a fraction. Her lips parted. The narrow, dark space between them was an invitation. Their sweetly puckered outline was a promise.
“You are all temptation,” he said, and then he plundered her mouth.
Calico welcomed him, welcomed the deep, driving force of that kiss, the way it covered her, took her over, took her under, and made her so very grateful she was a woman to this man. She lifted her arm that was still outside the blankets and rubbed his back with her palm. His shoulders bunched under her touch. A shudder tripped along the length of his spine. He moved closer. It was as if she had pulled a trigger.
She liked that.
Calico stretched, arched her back. She wanted to be against him; she wanted to be flush to his taut frame. The blankets were an annoyance. Their clothes were genuine obstacles.
She freed her other arm from out of the cocoon and slid her hand between their bodies. Three buttons fastened his jacket and she undid them easily. Further exploration revealed four buttons on his vest, and she worked on those from top to bottom. When she found six buttons on his shirt, she actually groaned and pushed at his shoulders in frustration.
