by Jo Goodman
Ann mimicked Quill’s grip and aim. “Maybe I am standing at the bottom of the staircase and the scoundrel is coming down the steps toward me. He is a dark-haired villain with a scar at one corner of his mouth. It makes him seem as if he is smiling when he is not. He uses it to draw me in, make himself seem less threatening, but I know the truth. I pull the trigger and—”
Calico said, “Ann, what are you reading that is not on the list we discussed? And please put that down.”
Ann slowly lowered the Colt. Her cheeks were flushed. “It is heavier than I thought it would be.”
“Ann?”
“Oh, very well. The latest Nat Church adventure arrived in the mail a few days ago.”
Quill said, “Nat Church and the Chinese Box? I would like to read that.”
Calico said primly, “Do not encourage her, Mr. McKenna.”
Quill gave every indication that he was abashed. “You should not be reading that tripe,” he said to Ann.
She nodded solemnly. “I’m sure you’re right.” She mouthed the words, “I will give it to you later.”
“I heard that,” said Calico. She set her gun on the table and gave Quill her full attention. “What else should we know?”
Quill instructed them on how to clean the gun properly. He pointed out the safety features and demonstrated how to load the guns, explaining that they used different cartridges. Ann wanted to know why he owned guns that did not use the same bullets. It was a reasonable question, and he saw Calico smirk as he was searching for an explanation that would not give him away as a liar. Before his hesitation became obvious, he said, “The one Miss Nash is holding was given to me by someone who had no use for it any longer.”
Ann, still very much under the influence of Nat Church dime novels, sat up straighter and asked with unbecoming eagerness, “Because he is dead? Because you killed him?”
“No,” said Quill. “Because he . . . well, he . . .”
“Retired,” said Calico. “I believe you told me you had a Colt that once belonged to the Teller County sheriff. This must be it.”
Although Quill was on firmer footing thanks to Calico, he still only trusted himself to nod.
“Oh,” said Ann, her narrow shoulders sagging.
“I cannot imagine why you are disappointed,” said Calico. “I’m sure the sheriff killed some miscreants with it.”
Seeing that his young student was mollified for the time being, Quill continued the lesson.
* * *
Ann was animated at dinner as she answered her father’s questions about the first lesson. It was clear to Calico that she had hung on Quill’s every word, but she was not as certain that it was as evident to Quill or, more important, to Ramsey. Calico reminded herself that Ann’s attention made her a good student, even if it was for the wrong reasons. She felt more confident after seeing Ann handle the Colt than she could have imagined she would be.
Quill, it turned out, was a good instructor. More than once during his demonstrations, Calico was put in mind of her father. She had been much younger than Ann when she learned to use a gun, but the manner in which she had been taught was virtually the same. Bagger Nash’s first concern for his daughter was her safety. When the weapon she was using made her arms sag with fatigue, Bagger used to make her promise not to shoot herself in the foot. For some reason that always made her laugh, and Bagger would relieve her of the gun when she was too weak to resist.
As Calico had predicted, Quill did not take them outside. The first lesson never included target practice. The first lesson was about respect. Although Ann was disappointed, Calico thought she had taken the lesson Quill meant to teach to heart.
Ann finally wound down as dessert was being served. That was Ramsey’s opportunity to ask about her other lessons, and those questions he directed at Calico.
“I wish Beatrice felt well enough to join us,” he said, “because I had this bit of intelligence from her. She tells me that you have instructed my daughter to read the Bible.”
Calico blinked. Of all the things he might have mentioned about Ann’s studies, this was easily the most unexpected, and she could infer from his tone that he was not pleased. “Yes, I have.”
“I do not recall seeing it on her list of recommended reading.”
Neither was a Nat Church dime novel, Calico wanted to say, but apparently that was of lesser concern, if it was even known. She realized she must have telegraphed her thoughts because Ann was trying to catch her eye. It was clear she was pleading not to be given up.
Calico said, “I thought I was given leave as her teacher to modify the list as I deemed appropriate. You have objections to the Bible in its entirety, or is it a particular book?”
“I do not have objections, not precisely, but I would certainly like to hear the purpose of it.”
“The purpose? It has been a source of inspiration for art, music, poetry, and literature. My hope in having Ann read the Bible is that she will come to recognize its influence in the arts, from works by Da Vinci to Handel to Chaucer.”
Ramsey stroked his beard, thoughtful as he regarded Calico. “You surprise me, Miss Nash. Clearly you have given this careful consideration.”
“That I surprise you in any way, Mr. Stonechurch, is not a compliment. It means you have underestimated me and that makes me wonder why you hired me as your daughter’s teacher.”
His hand fell away from his beard, and he pointed a finger at Calico, not aggressively, only to underscore his argument. “And that is why I hired you.” He looked at his daughter. “Did you observe how she makes her case? You can learn that from her, not from Mr. McKenna.” He picked up his fork and stabbed his sponge cake. “Now, what book of the Bible are you currently reading, and have you reached the passage where I part the Red Sea?”
* * *
“I wanted to tell him he was the serpent in the garden,” said Calico, cinching her robe around her waist. “I suppose that’s why you set your heel down on my toes.”
Quill was sitting comfortably on Calico’s window bench, his back in one corner of the niche and his long legs stretched across the padded seat. It was after midnight, but Ramsey had retired to his room early, citing stomach discomfort, so Quill felt safe bearding the lioness without fear of interruption. “Actually, I thought you might call him Ramses.”
Calico groaned softly. “Why did I not think of it? I doubt I will ever be given a more perfect opportunity than the one I missed.”
“It’s true. You are losing your edge.”
She eyed him narrowly. “Not amusing.”
“A little amusing.”
Her narrow-eyed stare remained unchanged.
“All right,” he said agreeably. “Not amusing.”
Calico grinned. She carefully turned the upholstered chair away from the fire so that it faced Quill and sat, drawing her legs up to one side and covering her bare feet with the hem of her robe. “Do you think he has a real objection to Ann reading the Bible, or was there some other reason that he brought it up?”
“Truth? I think he likes to bait you. It’s part of his courting ritual.”
“Hmm. Yours, too.” Quill looked as if he might object but then seemed to think better of it. “That’s right,” she said. “You do it, too. Ramsey, though, asked me to go riding again. He wants to show me more of the land surrounding Stonechurch tomorrow.”
“Whatever he shows you, you can be sure he owns it.”
“I figured as much.”
“Did you give him an answer?”
“I told him yes. I offered reasons why it would be difficult. Ann’s lessons. Your shooting instruction. I even fabricated a need to visit Mrs. Neeley-Brown’s dress shop to make up for the dresses I bought from Mrs. Birden. He has better aim than I do; he shot them all down.”
“He won’t be taking you in a rig this time. You’ll be on horseba
ck.”
“I know. That is the part I’ll be looking forward to. I really do need to order riding clothes. I don’t ride sidesaddle and I dislike wearing trousers under my skirt, but that is what I will have to do.”
“You’re all right with this?”
“Right enough. I won’t be distracted, if that is a concern. I know it will be up to me to watch out for him. I’ll take my gun. He can carry my rifle in his scabbard.” She gave him a considering look. “You’ll be here with Ann. How do you feel about that?”
“I think I can count on Beatrice to provide plenty of distractions. She is feeling better, by the way. I visited her after dinner.”
Calico tried to read his expression. It was inscrutable. “Did she mention anything?”
“She mentioned lots of things, but no, nothing that you’re wondering about. Besides, if she had heard something, she would be more likely to mention it to Ramsey than to me.”
“Maybe she did. Maybe that’s why he asked me to go riding.”
“You think he’s going to interrogate you?”
“He might.”
“I could understand your concern if he began questioning me. I’m the one who can’t lie. You will be fine.”
She huffed softly. “I find that a little insulting.”
“It’s not his business,” said Quill. “We work for him. He does not own us.”
“I think he would disagree. Don’t forget where we are. This is Stonechurch. What he doesn’t own outright, he finds ways to control. Yes, I know the shops are privately owned, but surely you realize Ramsey has only to stop buying their products to ruin them. They depend on his patronage as if he is some English lord and they are tenant farmers and villagers.” She set her chin on one fist. Her brow wrinkled. “I believe I will point Ann toward studying the Revolution. I am certain there is a lesson that we can debate at dinner.”
“I am not sure Ramsey is as petty-minded as you seem to believe. The man wants a legacy, and he is wise enough to know you do not ruin the very people you are expecting to erect your statue.”
Calico’s chin came up. “You are persuasive.”
He shrugged modestly.
“Why don’t you want to practice law?”
“Too confining. The courtroom, the offices, the procedures.”
“The rules of law.”
“Yes. In short, the rules of law. The irony is that I mustered out of the Army for similar reasons, although I didn’t understand it at the time. I thought studying the law would allow me to right wrongs, so I was slow to comprehend that the law can also protect wrongs, even nurture them.”
“You are talking about the Indian campaigns.”
“Yes, and more. There was so much more. Sometimes I think they could have survived the campaigns. What they could not survive was the law. Our law. All of it created to serve us.” He chuckled softly, without a shred of humor. “My views did not make me a popular counselor.”
The curve of Calico’s mouth was faint, sympathetic, and a trifle sad. Her eyes held his and she willed him to see her sincerity. “Perhaps not, but they make you a good man.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Shut up and accept the fact that I do.”
That made him laugh, and this time amusement touched every note of it. “Would you consider coming over here and telling me I’m a good man?”
“Not even for a second.”
Another chuckle rumbled deep in his throat. “You are a hard woman, Calico Nash.”
“I have been told that before, but usually he is in shackles.” She pretended not to be moved by the sunlight in his grin, but there was a stirring between her thighs that made her want to squirm. She held herself very still instead. “When Ann interrupted this afternoon, you were telling me about Buck McKay.”
“I wondered when you would retrace your steps on that trail.”
“Well, here I am.”
“His name is Israel. Israel McKenna. I can’t tell you how he came to be called Buck, but it was not a family nickname. The first I heard it was in connection with a gambling debt he acquired when he was sixteen, so it might have had something to do with bucking the tiger. You’re familiar with faro?”
“I am.”
He nodded. “A couple of men showed up at our house looking for Buck McKenna because he owed them money. They could have just as easily shot him, but they were sympathetic to his age. They merely wanted their money. My father paid and delivered a strong lecture on the evils of gambling.”
“The lecture? Was it delivered to the men or your brother?”
“To the men. My brother, when he returned home six days later, got a slightly different lecture in the woodshed. He came out striped but unbowed, and I remember thinking that there was no punishment so harsh that he would be changed by it. Israel would have fared better if our father had given up hope that he could be saved. He suffered a lot of beatings because Father expected sin but believed in redemption.”
Quill rubbed his jaw as he cast his mind back. “There were other incidents, more than my parents ever knew. Petty thefts. Extortion. Israel got better at what he did. It was usually some minor thing that tripped him up. There was talk of moving, but we never did. My parents received sympathy from the community, not censure. It was remarkable. No fault was ever attached to them. In fact, very little blame ever attached itself to Israel. I should also mention that he is engaging, charming, and extraordinarily likable.”
Calico put up a hand. “Just tell me this. Is he prettier than you?”
“I don’t know how to answer that.”
“Let me put it another way. Are you prettier than he is?”
“No.”
She sighed. “It’s hard to imagine, but it explains a good deal.” She tapped an earlobe. “The lamplight is dim, so it is difficult to judge, but I think your ears are turning red.”
Quill resisted touching them. If the light were any better, she would see that his face was flaming. He went on. “Israel left home at eighteen. He set out without telling anyone where he was going. We heard about a Buck McKay now and again but never thought we were listening to stories about Israel. McKenna. McKay. We should have known, or at least suspected, but that came much later. I already told you the kinds of things he was doing. He scraped by. He escaped by.”
“Didn’t you tell me your brother thought the Lord would provide?”
“That’s Israel. If it’s there, the Lord provided it for his taking.”
“I see. A somewhat twisted interpretation. Did you get him moved to a cell closer to your parents?”
“I did, but only because my parents agreed to pay for his board. Kansas was not about to pay to house him in a Cook County jail, and without payment, Cook County was happy to leave him where he was.”
“So you all work together to rescue him.”
“Oh, he does all right rescuing himself.”
“What do you mean?”
“He got off the train in Missouri.”
“Got off the—” She stopped because Quill was already nodding.
“That’s right. He escaped. Somewhere near Jefferson City is what I heard. And that’s the last I heard. He’ll surface again. He always does.”
Calico said nothing for a time. She did not hear bitterness, merely resignation. “Do you want me to find him?”
Quill’s answer was swift. “No!” A moment later, he said it again, more softly this time. “No. There are federal marshals looking for him. Let them find him.”
“Most of those lawmen don’t know the territory they’re appointed to. They probably won’t be successful. Is there a reward?”
“Not for the marshals. I believe they’re motivated by the fact that Israel escaped the custody of one of their own.”
“Oh. That’s embarrassing for them.”
“Yes.”
“Um, just because I have a curious nature, Quill, I was, um, wondering—”
“Three hundred dollars.”
“Oh.”
“Hardly worth your time.”
“I was not going to make time for it. I was curious, just like I said.”
“Uh-huh.”
She shrugged off his disbelief. “Why is the reward so small?”
“First, he’s never killed anyone. Second, to keep bounty hunters away. The marshals really do want to bring him in.”
“What about you? What do you want?”
“I want him to stop. Just stop.”
“And what do your parents want?”
“That’s easy. They want to save his soul. That’s the thing about faith. If you believe, if you really believe, you don’t surrender it for the likes of Buck McKay. If my father admitted that Israel could not be saved, it would make his life a bigger fraud than any ever perpetrated by his firstborn. He has never said that. He can’t. But I believe that’s what he thinks. It is no different for my mother.”
“Are they proud of you, Quill?”
“Sometimes I think they are, not that it’s ever been said, but Israel is the prodigal son.” He shook his head a little helplessly. “Or he could be if he ever went home.”
“Beatrice says you write to your parents.”
“Does she? I guess she would know. She carries posts to and from town.” Quill shifted his position on the bench, dropping one leg to the floor and stretching it out at an angle. “What about you, Calico? Was your father proud of you?”
“He was. He told me, too.”
“You never mention your mother.”
“I didn’t know her. Childbirth fever. I was only days old when she died. My father said she passed holding me in her arms. I was swaddled in Kelly green calico that she intended to use for a dress. She was the one who named me Katherine after her mother, but the way my father always told it, she died calling me Calico. That’s why I’m partial to it.”
