by Jo Goodman
“That’s fair,” she said. “It’s odd, but if she admitted to poisoning Leonard Stonechurch, I’m not certain I would believe her. I suspect she did it, but to hear her say it would make me doubt. Her hate for Ramsey is so abiding that I can imagine her confessing simply to wound him. And it would. Profoundly.”
“He’s always thought it should have been him in the tunnel.”
“So did she.” Calico slipped an embroidered pillow behind the small of her back as she sat up straight. “I never suspected that she was the one who shot at Ramsey when you were gone from Stonechurch. I thought she would have persuaded one of the miners to do it.”
“I thought the same until she spoke so confidently about that antique revolver being loaded. If she had killed Ramsey then, it would have been by accident, not design. She had no idea how to handle that gun. She was still trying to scare him away. What is hard to believe is that she ever thought that would work.”
“I think it was for Ann’s sake that she tried that tack.”
“I don’t know. Ann’s accidents? That was Beatrice. She was present both times. She used Ann to scare Ramsey. It worked, but she couldn’t anticipate that he would hire protection. Beatrice supported Ann’s desire to stay in Stonechurch because it gave her leverage. Hell, it was probably Beatrice who suggested that Ann advance her education right here. And finally, she left Ann in Whit’s care. Nothing she did was for Ann’s sake.”
Calico said nothing. It was as they had talked about earlier. Beatrice’s desperation explained things but did not excuse them. “Quill?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you have regrets about Nick Whitfield? It’s been a week. You haven’t said a word.” Calico felt the pressure of his fingers on her foot ease and then disappear altogether. He shrugged. She said, “That is no answer.”
“No, but I thought it would be telling.”
She smiled a shade ruefully. “You do wish you had been able to take him alive, don’t you? I wondered. I thought it was probably true, but when you didn’t say anything, I didn’t trust myself to know.”
“You have good instincts about me. You can trust them.”
“There are things I would rather hear from you, whether I think I know them or not. It’s important.”
“All right, then, yes, I regret the way it ended, but not because I think I did anything wrong or even that I could have done anything differently. I shot to wound him because I wanted him to face a judge and a jury and eventually a noose. That would have been justice for the deputies he murdered, for the women he hurt, for Mrs. Fry and her girls, for the attempt on your life. Throwing himself off that footbridge when we were ready to apprehend him was just cowardly. Frankly? It pissed me off.”
Calico remembered the moment clearly enough: Whit slumped over the rail, blood blossoming darkly near his shoulder where Quill had shot him, and his right foot dangling awkwardly inches above the bridge as if he could not bear to put weight on it again. Calico supposed the pickaxe had been responsible for that injury, but she would never know with certainty. When Whit had raised his head and turned it in their direction, she thought at first it was to watch their approach, but then his eyes slid past her, past Quill, and focused on something behind them. Calico had looked over her shoulder and followed the direction of his gaze.
Ann was no longer behind her rocky cover. She was standing in the open, and Whit’s focus was entirely on her.
Calico had said nothing to Quill about what she had seen or thought in those last moments before Whit somersaulted over the rail, so she told him now, along with the conclusion she had drawn from what Whit had done.
“I don’t think he was trying to get away from us, not precisely. I think he wanted to be with her more. Not Ann. His sister. When we were at Mrs. Fry’s, Chick and Amos talked about the photograph of her that he carried around. Even they thought his affection for her was unnatural. I think Ann looked like her, at least superficially. The dark hair, the small frame. Her youth. That’s what he liked. It’s why I had to wear a black wig when I met him. And remember that Ann told us later that he called out another name when he was chasing her? I think Nick Whitfield was more deeply disturbed at his core than Beatrice Stonechurch. He was malevolent. She was dying inside.”
After a while, Quill said, “You’re probably right about all of it.” He resumed massaging her foot. “And you know what?”
“What?” she asked, tempering her smile because she knew what was coming.
“It still pisses me off that he got away.”
Calico’s response was more philosophical. “And I like to think his fall put him one hundred twenty feet closer to the gates of hell.”
He gave her foot a swift squeeze with both hands as he looked sideways and offered up a somewhat sheepish grin. “I should have said something to you about it sooner.”
“As long as you know it.” She wiggled her toes when he found a ticklish spot. “Do you think it’s too late for us to elope?”
“Elope? I thought you wanted a proper wedding.”
“I want a pretty proposal. The wedding ceremony scares me. You know, the judge who is coming to Stonechurch for Chick’s trial and to oversee the transfer of Beatrice’s share of the mining operation to Ann could just as easily marry us. There would be no fussing.”
“I was not aware there was fussing.”
“That’s because you have not been allowed to accompany Ann and me to the dress shops. That is Ann’s doing, not mine, because if I had my way, I would make you suffer.”
“Oh, I know you would. Why don’t you tell me about it? I promise I will suffer.”
“You are good to me, Quill.” Calico shared the awful details of being poked and pinched and pinned by not one dressmaker, but two. Ann, rather lawyer-like, had successfully argued that neither dressmaker was culpable for the choices made by their husbands, and that the nature of the competition between Mrs. Birden and Mrs. Neeley-Brown demanded that both women be involved in fashioning the gown. Calico found it was better to stand back while all three of the women pored over pattern books and discussed fabrics.
“And I am not allowed to tell you what was finally decided because they said it would be unlucky.”
“Do I look disappointed? I am trying to look disappointed.”
She snorted. “They measured and marked and hemmed and hawed. I am certain the Union and Central Pacific came to compromise more easily than these rivals.”
“Yes, but the railroads were merely joining a nation. How hard could that have been compared to choosing between velvet or striped silk? With laying track, you have your narrow and your standard gauges to consider, but with a gown, there is the stiffness of the flounces, the tightness of the bodice, the placement of the darts, the ribbons, the lace, the netting. It is—”
Laughing, she dug her toes into his thigh. “Do you have any idea what you’re talking about?”
“No, but then I am confident that neither do you.”
“True.”
“About the wedding, do you suppose you can screw your courage to the sticking place and meet me in church?”
“If it’s important to you, I can.”
“It’s important to me.” He paused, shrugged, and said, “And no one is more surprised to hear it than I am.”
Calico’s heart swelled, and she realized that she was dangerously close to tears. She gave him a watery smile when he regarded her oddly. Fanning one hand in front of her face, she blinked rapidly and whispered, “I am so in love with you, Quill McKenna.”
He smiled then, and when Calico glowed in response, even he felt as if he’d swallowed the sun. He held out his hand to her. “Come here.”
She did, taking his hand and allowing him to pull her close. She shifted until she found her niche in the curve of his shoulder. He laid his lips against her temple, kissed her, and then moved his lips to h
er fiery hair and kissed her again.
“I’ve been thinking about that pretty proposal,” he said. “I have most of it worked out.”
“You do?”
“Hmm.”
“If you need someone to practice it on,” she said quietly, “I would not object to listening.”
“You understand it’s a work in progress.”
She nodded.
“I haven’t decided about kneeling. It seems—”
“I swear to God, Quill, I am going to get my gun.”
He chuckled, squeezed her shoulders. “And there you are, the woman who threatens me, challenges me, makes me laugh. Often all at once. I do not know how not to love you. You are clever, courageous. You humble me, and you lift me up. How can I not want you to be with me? I will take you in marriage if you will have me, but I will never leave you if you will not. You are as infuriating as you are interesting. You are never dull. I want to stand with you, and I want you to stand with me. You are my forever, Calico Nash.”
She turned her head, studied his face. Her eyes were luminous and the breath she took softly shuddered through her. “Is there a question, Quill? I think there is supposed to be a question.”
“I’m coming to that. But first, the caveat.”
She regarded him suspiciously. “Caveat?”
“Warning. Admonition. Caution.”
“I know what caveat means. I want to hear it.”
“It’s this: You will not always get your way.”
“I will mostly get my way.”
“Maybe.”
“I like my chances.” She lifted her head and kissed him on the mouth. “The question?”
“Will you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?”
Calico smiled. “Yes.” She kissed him again. “Yes. You only had to ask. But I shall cherish all of it. Always.”
She stood then and took him by the hand and led him upstairs. It was there in their bed, in his arms, and in her heart, that she got her way by letting him have his.
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True to the Law
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October 1889
Bitter Springs, Wyoming
Finn Collins decided he would stare at Priscilla Taylor’s braid until his eyes crossed. The braid, perfectly plaited with every hair still in place at the end of the day, rested along the line of Priscilla’s ramrod straight backbone. Priscilla never slumped on her bench. She never fidgeted. The braid never moved except when Priscilla raised her hand to answer a question, then it slid ever so slightly to one side and the tip curled like an apostrophe. Or maybe a comma. Those punctuation marks were suspiciously similar, except one was high and one was low. It was no wonder he got them confused.
“Finn?”
Finn did not stir. In point of fact, he did not hear his name being called. He sat with his elbows on the desk, his head cupped in his hands. His chin and cheeks rested warmly between his palms. His eyes had begun to relax. Priscilla had two braids now. Two ramrods. And when she raised her hand to show everyone that she knew the answer to something no one cared about—like the name of the fifth president—the tail of one braid curled in a comma, the other in an apostrophe.
“Carpenter Addison Collins.”
Finn came to attention with the jerkiness of someone suddenly roused from a deep sleep. His elbows slid off the edge of the desk, his head snapped up, and his feet, which had been swinging in a lazy rhythm under the bench, kicked spasmodically before slamming hard to the floor. He blinked widely. There was only one person who called him by all three of his proper names.
“Gran?”
Thirteen of Finn’s classmates were moved to laughter. Finn’s brother, Rabbit, was an exception. He glanced over his shoulder at Finn and rolled his eyes. Somehow he managed to convey disapproval and embarrassment. Just like Granny.
Finn felt color rush into his face and knew his cheeks were glowing like hot coals. If someone poked at him, he would burst into flames. For himself, he didn’t mind so much. In some ways it would be a relief. More concerning was that no one would be safe from the conflagration. Priscilla’s braid would take to the fire like a candlewick. She’d whip her head around then, he was certain of it, and shoot tongues of fire at anyone who tried to save her. Stupid girl. She would burn down the school. Probably the town. It would be his fault because no one ever blamed girls. To save the school, the town, to save everyone, really, he had to act. The solution was clear.
He yanked hard on Priscilla’s offending braid.
She squealed. It was a sound no one had ever heard her make before, but everyone knew how a piglet sounded when it was in want of its mother’s teat. Priscilla squealed like that, and all eyes shifted to her. A moment later, so did the laughter.
Priscilla swiveled on her bench seat, slate in hand, and swung it at Finn’s head. Finn ducked instinctively, but he was never in any danger. Miss Morrow stepped in and stayed Priscilla’s arm. Out of the corner of his eye, Finn saw her calmly remove the slate from Priscilla’s hand and set it gently on the desk. She had a small, quiet smile for Priscilla, one that was more understanding than quelling. For the class, she effectively used a single raised eyebrow to stopper the laughter. It was Finn for whom she had words. He held his breath, waiting for the pronouncement.
“Finn, you will stay after the others leave today.”
Finn kept his head down, his eyes averted. He knew better than to look pleased. He kept his voice small, penitent. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Is there something you want to say to Priscilla?”
Now Finn looked up and stared squarely at Priscilla’s back. “Sure is. Prissy, that pigtail is nuthin’ but a temptation. And now that I heard you squeal, well, giving it a yank now and again is a thing that can’t be resisted.” He risked a glance at Miss Morrow. For reasons he did not entirely understand, she looked as if she was going to choke on her spit. “That’s all I got to say, ma’am.”
Tru Morrow covered her mouth with the back of her hand and politely cleared her throat. “We will speak later, and you can write your apology.”
Finn’s narrow shoulders slumped. Staying after school with Miss Morrow was nothing but a pleasure. Writing, whether it was an apology to Priscilla or “I will raise my hand before I speak” twenty times, well, that cast a long shadow on the pleasure of Miss Morrow’s company. His pap would tell him that a man has to pay for his pleasure, and it seemed to Finn that his pap was proved right again. He tucked that thought away so he could use it when Pap asked him to account for his behavior today. There was nothing like flattering a man with the rightness of his thinking to stay another lecture on the same subject. Granny would be a little trickier. She wasn’t impressed by flattery, and it seemed that a man paying for his pleasure had a different meaning to her because when Pap said it she snorted and set his plate down hard. If she didn’t have a plate in her hand, she just cuffed him.
Finn sighed. He would consider the problem of his granny later. Miss Morrow was walking to the front of the classroom. His eyes followed her. The carefully tied bow at the small of her back perched as daintily above her bustle as a bird hovering on the edge of its nest. It was as severe a temptation as Priscilla Taylor’s braid. Even if he could keep himself from tugging on it, he still might blurt out the question he was asking himself: How did she tie it?
Finn sat on his hands. For the moment, it was the best way to stay out of trouble.
* * *
Tru Morrow stood to one side of the door as she ushered her students out. She made certain they left with their coats, hats, and scarves. Most of the girls wore mittens or carried a muff. The boys, if they had gloves, wore them. Those with mittens simply jammed their hands into their pockets. Mittens were for girls and babies, she’d learned. Finn had explained it to her.
She closed the door as soon as the last student filed out. The “bitter” in “Bitter Springs” didn’t refer to the quality of the water, but the quality of the wind. Born and raised in Chicago, she had been confident that she understood cold. She was familiar with the wind blowing over the water of Lake Michigan, funneling ice into the collective breath of the city. That was frigid. It was only October, and she was coming to learn that there was a qualitative difference between frigid and bitter. Here in the high plains country, wind seared her lungs. It was so cold, it was hot, and even when she sipped it carefully, she seemed to taste it at the very back of her tongue. Bitter.
Tru lifted her poppy red shawl and drew it more closely around her shoulders. The wool felt substantial and warm and smelled faintly of smoke from the stove.
“Finn, would you add some coals to the stove? Half a scoop. That will keep us warm long enough for you to write your apology.”
Finn stood. Tru sensed his uncertainty as she passed him.
“What is it?” she asked without pausing.
“Well, it’s just that you’re awful confident that I know what I’m apologizin’ for.”
Careful not to smile, Tru took her seat behind her desk. She folded her hands and placed them in front of her where Finn could see them. Her posture was correct, her spine perfectly aligned, shoulders back, chin lifted. She envisioned herself as a model of rectitude, and she was impressed with herself even if she could see that Finn wasn’t. It was probably her eyes that gave her away, she thought. She had been told they were a merry shade of green, a color, according to her father, that could not be easily captured by an artist’s palette because the substance of it was a quality of character as much as a quality of light. It was a fanciful notion, but one she brought to mind when she was in danger of taking herself too seriously.
Now was such a time. She relaxed her spine and leaned forward, unclasping her hands as Finn moved to the stove to add coals. She smoothed back a wayward coil of hair that had been pushed out of place by her brief encounter with the wind. She could not help but notice that Finn’s eyes followed this small movement, and when her hand fell away from her hair, he remained exactly as he was a moment longer, transfixed. She could only guess at what he was thinking.
