by Jo Goodman
Calico promised that she would and shooed Molly out. The tub proved to be a temptation she could not resist, and she turned on the taps while she made the bed. Quill had put away the clothes she’d worn to go outside. She had not given them a thought last night, but they would have raised Molly’s eyebrows this morning. Calico’s eyes strayed to the bedside table. The flask of whiskey was also gone. She was a little sorry about that.
Slipping into the tub, she lay back and sluiced water over her shoulders. She looked down at her breasts. Her pale skin bore the rosy evidence of Quill’s stubble until the heat of the water created a flush that covered it. She touched fingertips to her lips. Had Molly noticed they were swollen? She could still feel the press of Quill’s mouth there, a stamp that would not fade for some time. It was a slightly different sensation between her legs, because there she was aware of a tender emptiness. Her hand slid from her mouth, to her breast, to her belly, and came to rest on her mons. Much as he had done, she made a gentle exploration. Her skin was sensitive. The bud between the folds of skin was especially so. She avoided a second pass across it; the sharpness of the pleasure was too much like pain.
Calico let her hand drift across the curve of her thigh and fall deeper into the water. She laid her head against the lip of the claw-footed tub and closed her eyes. It would have been easy to slide back into sleep if it hadn’t been for Molly’s interruption, or rather Molly’s rambling during her interruption. Calico had never thought she would welcome ignorance over knowledge, but she found herself dangerously close to entertaining that notion now.
Beatrice Stonechurch had been awake last night, all night if she was to be believed. The woman, who was frequently late to the breakfast table because she happily reported she slept very well, was awake all night with a stomach ailment. The thought of it was enough to make Calico’s stomach roil. She decided right then that she would have peppermint tea at breakfast.
She would have to tell Quill. There was really no question of keeping it to herself. If Beatrice had seen anything, heard anything, and was thinking about repeating it, he was entitled to share her anxiety. Fair was fair.
With that, Calico gulped air and slid deeply under the water.
* * *
Ramsey and Quill stood as Calico entered the dining room. Ann looked up, beamed, and said, “I finished Far from the Madding Crowd last night. I could hardly sleep for wanting to discuss it with you.”
Calico responded with what she hoped was better than a wan smile. Was everyone awake last night? “Good. I look forward to it also.” She took the chair Quill held out for her and accepted Ramsey’s offer to make a plate for her at the sideboard. She managed to thank them both warmly while avoiding eye contact. She remembered that Quill had called her a coward, and for the first time, she felt like one.
The plate that Ramsey set in front of her was filled with more than she ate at three breakfasts. She stared at it, unsure how she would manage, but gamely picked up her fork.
Across the table, Ann chuckled. “Father pays no attention to what anyone eats. He thinks we all consume food as he does.”
Ramsey sat and tucked into his second helping of eggs. “I do not think about it at all,” he said. “It’s fuel. What is there to think about?”
Ann shrugged helplessly. Her mouth dimpled as she winked at Calico. “See?”
“I do.”
Ramsey waved his empty fork with a flourish. “Enough about that. Miss Nash. Ann. Mr. McKenna came to me with the most startling proposition this morning. Even more startling, at least to me, is that I have agreed to it. Whether you will do the same remains to be seen, but I will warn you that it includes you both or neither of you.”
Ann and Calico stared at him and then at each other. They shrugged simultaneously, mutually agreeable in their silence.
“What is it, Father?” asked Ann.
While Ann’s attention was on her father, Calico stole a sideways glance at Quill. He was enjoying gooseberry jam on toast and giving nothing else away. She looked back at Ramsey, who like a good showman was delaying the big reveal by pouring a measure of cream into his coffee.
“Father!”
Ramsey pulled his cup and saucer closer in the event his daughter was tempted to stir it for him. “All right. It’s this: Mr. McKenna has proposed to instruct you on the proper use of firearms.” His eyes, absent of all amusement, darted in Calico’s direction. “Both of you. At the same time.”
Calico saw Ann’s enthusiasm deflate when she heard this last condition, but the young woman quickly recovered herself, leaping from her chair to throw her arms around her father’s neck. Calico realized Quill must have seen Ann’s initial reaction also, because he nudged her foot under the table. Calico kicked him back.
“Well,” said Ramsey, making no attempt to free himself from his daughter’s clutches. “I know how Ann feels about the offer, Miss Nash, but I have no idea what your thoughts are.”
Ann’s presence forced Calico to accept the proposal with caution. It was with a decided lack of eagerness that she said, “It is certainly a generous offer, and one that you must have given considerable thought to before you agreed, I don’t know if I am—”
Ann broke in. “Oh, but you must, Miss Nash. You heard Father. We must both agree to take lessons. I thought we already had. And you did say it could be a woman’s pursuit as well as man’s.”
“I did, but I think I must have meant some other woman’s pursuit, not mine.”
Ann disengaged from Ramsey and straightened, her disappointment keen. She rested one hand on her father’s shoulder. “I hope you do not mean that.”
“I do mean it,” she said firmly. “But you should not take it as a refusal. I intended to say that I do not know if I am truly prepared to hold a gun, let alone shoot one. I suppose we shall find out, won’t we?” She gave Ann a slightly reproving smile that became warm as she turned to Ramsey. “Thank you, Mr. Stonechurch. Of course I accept.”
Ramsey jerked his chin at Quill. “He made a compelling case. The man’s a damn fine lawyer—”
“Father!”
“A fine lawyer,” he amended, patting Ann’s hand. “Which is precisely why I hired him.”
Calico watched Ann. She had not yet thanked Quill, and Calico was unsure if she would seize the opening her father had given her. The young woman was nodding. Her eyes were brighter than they had been, but her smile was diffident.
“Yes,” said Ann softly. “Thank you, Mr. McKenna. I would be pleased to learn to be so persuasive in my arguments.”
Ramsey’s brow beetled as he regarded Ann. “If I hear even one of his lawyer tricks coming from you, our arrangement is finished.”
Alarmed, Ann said, “You would fire him?”
“No. Of course not. I would disown you.”
Ann’s lips pursed in disapproval, but she bent and kissed him on the cheek anyway. “You are a beast, Father, but I love you in spite of it.”
Ramsey ruffled her hair before she straightened. “And you’re a good daughter.”
Calico thanked Quill as Ann returned to her seat. It was a modest thank-you, something she might say in response to having been passed the jam. It was impossible just then to express anything approximating the joy she truly felt. She would be outdoors. She would have a gun in her hand. She would stay sharp.
Quill McKenna had solved her problem, and Ann Stonechurch had the satisfaction of believing she’d won the day, which in fact, she had. All in all, a splendid outcome. Calico’s plate no longer looked as full as when Ramsey had set it in front of her. Appetite returning ever so slightly, she dug in.
* * *
Ann was hardly able to stay present during her studies. Her eagerness to begin shooting practice was a palpable thing.
“I don’t think we will be firing guns today,” Calico told her. She redirected Ann’s attention to a passage in the Tho
mas Hardy novel that Ann had looked forward to discussing earlier. Now the girl could not seem to recall a single salient point. The names of the characters sometimes eluded her.
“Why wouldn’t we?” asked Ann. “Mr. McKenna said we would have the lesson today.”
“I cannot be sure, but I think there are things he will want to teach us before we take aim at anything. Have you held a gun before?”
Ann shook her head. “No, Father has never allowed it, but you must have seen the guns in the case in the rear parlor. I studied those.”
“I have seen them, and I think they are older weapons. Antiques.”
“Some are certainly from the war. The oldest piece belonged to my great-grandfather. He carried it when he came exploring with Pike.”
“Then it must be at least eighty years old. I do not intend to shoot with that. It might explode upon discharge.”
Ann laughed. “That doesn’t seem likely. You are worrying too much, Miss Nash. You could be excited about this. Didn’t you tell me you are open to new experiences? Well, here you are on the cusp of one.”
“I suppose.”
“Besides, neither of us will be firing Great-Grandfather’s pistol. That would give my father apoplexy. I heard Mr. McKenna say that we will be using his guns. I did not know he had more than one, and I only know about that because he was wearing it when he came back this past August.”
“Your aunt told me he was gone for a while.”
Ann nodded. “Family matters, I think. No one spoke to me. Frequently they don’t. You probably know more about it than I do.”
Sensing Ann was fishing, Calico said nothing.
Ann sighed and directed her eyes to the passage Calico wanted her to read. She did not read it, though. She said, “What do you think of Mr. McKenna?”
If Calico had not been anticipating a conversational turn like this, she might have given a start. Instead she injected a note of shrewdness in her tone, as if she were only now coming to see which way this wind was blowing. “Ann? Have you an affection for Mr. McKenna?”
Ann’s head snapped up. She was wide-eyed and blushing. In spite of those signs, she said, “No! No, why would you think so? I was asking you what you thought of him.”
“I know,” Calico said gently. “It struck me that you might have reasons for asking that are not so obvious. Am I wrong?”
“Most definitely. I asked because . . . well, I just asked. Everything is not for interpreting. Take this book, for instance. I believe dissection of every character’s motives does not illuminate the story but rather detracts from it. In my estimation, they are all very silly anyway.”
And with that, they were back on task. Calico did not think Ann would stray from it again, at least not with a line of questioning that had anything to do with Quill McKenna.
* * *
After lessons with Ann were over, Calico went to find Ramsey Stonechurch. He was not in his study as she expected, but Quill was. She hesitated when he waved her inside, but the sardonic look he gave her was not one she could refuse.
“Where is Mr. Stonechurch?” she asked, sliding the pocket doors closed behind her. “I came to see him.”
“I figured.”
“You’re sitting at his desk. Does he know?”
“Not only does he know, but he invited me to.” He set down the newspaper he was reading and leaned back in his chair. “He’s with Beatrice. He intercepted her luncheon tray and decided to take his meal with her.” Quill checked his pocket watch. “Hmm. I did not realize it was so late. I thought he would be down by now.”
Calico stepped closer to the desk. “She might be giving him an earful. This morning I learned from Molly that Beatrice was up most, if not all, of the night.”
“Dyspepsia. So I heard.”
“Yes, but what do you think she heard?”
“Probably nothing. You were a very quiet lover.” He mocked her by holding up his hands to ward off anything she found to throw at him.
Calico put herself into one of the chairs on the opposite side of the desk instead. “It’s dangerous to be too predictable.”
“I will keep that in mind. You look lovely, by the way. I wanted to tell you that at breakfast. Is that one of the gowns from Mrs. Birden’s shop?”
It was of so little importance what she wore, that Calico had to look down at herself to recall what she had chosen that morning. It was the dove gray dress she had asked Mrs. Birden to make for her. It had a delicate edge of lace at the throat and wrists and no other adornment. She liked it for its plain and simple lines, but she wore it with a green shawl Beatrice had insisted that she purchase. The shawl was closed with her cameo brooch.
“Yes,” she said. “Mrs. Birden made it for me.”
“Well, you look lovely in it.”
“Oh, stop. It drains the color from my face, which is why Beatrice made me buy the shawl. She said it was on account of the house being cold, but I had already heard her whisper to Mrs. Birden that the gray washed my complexion so completely the freckles hardly showed. I thought that would be something in the color’s favor, but apparently not.”
Amused, Quill said, “You know, when you run on like that, you sound just like her.”
Ignoring that, Calico regarded him frankly. “I did not think I was all that quiet.”
“I’d know a little more about that than you would, wouldn’t I?”
“I spent eight days in a whorehouse,” she said dryly. “Do you think I wasn’t paying attention?”
He laughed. “All right. You have me there. But you shouldn’t necessarily use what you heard there as a gauge. I am certain you were quieter than the majority of Mrs. Fry’s girls.”
Calico’s stare drifted away as she turned thoughtful. “Why were you there that evening?”
“Joe Pepper asked me the same thing. I wanted a drink, and I wanted company.”
“I know that,” she said. “I didn’t ask it very well, but I meant why were you passing through Falls Hollow in the first place? What took you away from Stonechurch? You had a job here. You don’t strike me as someone who would have abandoned it on a whim.”
Quill looked at his watch again. “I need to find Ann. I told her we would be starting around three.”
“She’ll find you. It can’t be much later than two thirty.”
“Two thirty-three.”
“As I said . . .”
Quill set his hands in his lap, folded them, and tapped his thumbs together as he thought. Finally, he said, “In your travels, have you ever come across one Buck McKay?”
“No. I know the name, though. Robberies, if memory serves. Not trains. Not banks. Something . . . no, I can’t quite bring it to mind. I remember his territory, though. Illinois. Indiana. Missouri. That’s probably why our paths never crossed.”
“He’s been known to make forays into Kansas.”
Calico snapped her fingers. “Buck McKay. He was running crooked games on Mississippi riverboats. I heard they threw him overboard.”
“You do remember him.”
“He didn’t drown.”
“No. And no one shot him either, which they would have been well within their rights to do.”
“There was something else, I think. More recently. It might be what happened in Kansas.”
“Probably. It was in the papers. He set up a traveling tent church, passed himself off as a man of God, although of no particular denomination, and bilked a succession of congregations out of their offerings. He promised the money would be used to build a more permanent structure. He moved on every time.”
“You went after him? You told me you weren’t a bounty hunter.”
“I’m not. He was arrested, tried, and found guilty. I went to see if I could get him moved from Kansas to an Illinois prison as a favor to his parents.”
“How could
you do it? Wouldn’t you really have to be a lawyer?”
“I am a lawyer, Calico, just one who doesn’t much care for practicing it.” Quill did not waste a second. While she was recovering from that blow, he gave the other. “As for why I would do a favor for his parents, it’s both simple and complicated. They are my parents, too.”
She stared at him. “Then . . .”
“That’s right. Buck McKay is my older brother.”
Chapter Nine
Ann Stonechurch accepted the weapon Quill placed like an offering in her open palms. She hefted it, accustoming herself to the weight. “What kind of gun is this?”
“A Colt .44 caliber centerfire. It’s a popular model. If Constable Hobbes carried a gun, that would be a good choice. That’s a four-inch barrel, and I would appreciate if you didn’t point it at me.”
“I am not even holding it correctly,” protested Ann.
“It’s not loaded either. And none of that matters. That’s a pearl grip so have a care.” Quill turned to Calico. The three of them were sitting at a table in the back parlor. The round walnut table, used for cards when Ramsey invited assemblymen, railroad officials, and sometimes the constable and the town council, bore evidence of cigars that had burned too long or the white rings of glasses left to sweat. No amount of polishing could erase the suggestion that deals had been made here and money had exchanged hands, sometimes with cards in play, sometimes without. “Try this,” he said, passing Calico her own gun. “See how it fits.”
Calico held it gingerly as if it might discharge in spite of Quill’s promise that it was not loaded. She had wondered if he would take the revolver from her room or had another of his own. Here was proof that he had been going through her things again. She studied her weapon and then looked at Ann’s. “It seems as if the barrel on this might be longer.”
“Good eye, Miss Nash. That’s a four-and-three-quarters-inch barrel. Also a Colt, but a .38-40 caliber. The grip is ivory.” He held out his hand. “Here. Let me show you how to hold it.” He palmed it, adjusted his grip, thumb on the hammer, finger on the trigger, and aimed at the ripening apple in a still life painting above the gun case. “It would be unusual for you to be aiming at a target that high, but you get the idea.”
