Diamonds in the Rough

by Emmy Waterford

  “Under the circumstances,” Hannah said, letting him guide her through the crowd as they became more riled, Don on their heels.

  Once out of the saloon, in a dank alley where two men lay sleeping or dead in a gutter, Hannah said, “Thank you, I … I wasn’t expecting that!”

  “Because you wouldn’t know your own nose from a star in the sky. And you think you can get a grand manse built?”

  “I’ve done a good deal more than that, laddie buck, and I’ll be doing it without your help.”

  “All right, all right.” Jack held his flattened palms out to calm her. “I’m just glad you’re unharmed. Say what you will of me, but not that I left a woman to be gutted in some bar fight.”

  Hannah put her hands on her hips, cocking them just so. “And what makes you think I couldn’t have handled myself just fine without your help?”

  “I … I don’t suppose anything might.” Lacking a hat to tip, he gave Hannah a slight bow and turned to walk away.

  “Wait a minute,” Hannah said, stopping him, but failing to spin him around to face her once again. “You want the job, it’s yours.”

  But he just offered her a wry little grin. “No, but thank you.”

  “What? But … all that, back in the saloon?”

  “I didn't want you to hire that scalawag. He’s dark as coal, through and through, you can see for yourself. Now that he won’t be hiring anybody anytime soon, least of all you, I’d imagine, I suppose my work here is done.”

  Hannah was quick to answer. “Let’s suppose it is. Doesn’t that mean your work in Marion County was only just beginning?”

  “I —”

  “No, Mr. Kincaid, I’m through with your childish games. You wanted the job and you have it. You’ll take it, and you’ll do it to your uttermost.”

  “I … ” Jack glanced around, at the simpering Don Bellamy behind Hannah, then at Hannah herself. “I don’t suppose I have much choice, do I?”

  “Not unless you’re too blind to see opportunity when it knocks … a second time!”

  Silence followed, and what followed that was Jack Kincaid’s throat clearing. “How many men?”

  “This won’t be just any old house, Mr. Kincaid,” Hannah announced. “For my part of the house, I want two floors. However, I want a tower extending two floors above, so I can watch the sun rise over the trees.”

  Jack tilted his head to one side, “Your part of the house?”

  “I’m sorry, did you not hear me the first time?” Hannah grinned slightly as she continued. “And for the guest part of the house, I want three floors. I want my guests to have plenty of room. Also, a basement in each section. Never know about twisters, you know. Oh, and I’ll need a barn, stable, servants’ quarters, men to patrol the grounds and work the orchards —”

  “Orchards?”

  “Apple trees, Mr. Kincaid.” Hannah knew better than to reveal her true purpose for the lookout tower or the real reason she’d need so much labor. “Or is that something which is beyond your purview?”

  Jack scratched his chin. “No, not at all.”

  “Very good. It’s the Alexander place in Marion County, Indiana. You won’t have any trouble finding me.”

  “No,” Jack said with a resolute tilt of his head, “I don’t suppose I will. Shall we call it a month then?”

  “Why so long?”

  Jack shrugged as he considered. “That’s a lot of men, and no small distance. Horses, there’s logistics involved—”

  “Logistics?”

  “Of course.”

  Now it was Hannah’s turn to look him over, fine clothes and a rugged build only added to his overall attractiveness, but Hannah knew better than to be fooled by war paint or to be intimidated by it.

  “Remind me why I should trust you, Mr. Kincaid?”

  But he looked her square in the eye. “No.”

  That was all she needed to hear.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Two months later, construction had begun on the new house in Marion County. They’d long-since cleared the charred remains of the previous house, which Hannah knew had been burned by its disgruntled owner just as he was being forced off the property by the railroad. Summer was in full pitch, hot and humid but not without a refreshing breeze to cut through the din of men working, tools sawing and hammering in a rolling cacophony.

  The Bellamy Brothers stayed on full-time, rifles in their hands, riding around the parameter of the two-hundred-and-sixty acre property. Their guard was mostly against predators and savages and road agents, but Hannah knew there were other dangers creeping around, unseen or undiscovered, perhaps even in her very midst.

  Hannah remained at the center of the activity, even though she knew her constant presence was getting under Jack Kincaid’s feet, not to mention his skin. “We’ll want to get those trees planted before it snows,” she said. “Make sure they can take root.”

  “We’ll post canvas over the orchard this winter,” Jack said with a lilt of exhaustion in his voice. “That’ll keep ‘em out of the elements ‘til the spring.”

  Hannah nodded. “What about the stables?”

  “Coming along on schedule, Miss Alexander. The ponies’ll be just fine. Did you want to sleep in a carriage all winter, maybe get frostbite and have to lose those fine little feet of yours?”

  After a cold pause, Hannah put her hand on her hip, cocking it like a rifle, ready to fire. “The disposition of my feet are of no concern to you, Mr. Kincaid.”

  He only offered her a wry smile, a polite nod, and turned to survey the work in another quadrant of the property. “Looks like one of your men, comin’ in.” Hannah turned to see Don Bellamy riding up on his brown paint, Clubber. Jack asked him, “What word?”

  But Hannah’s glare silenced him, Jack rolling his eyes as Hannah addressed Don personally. “What is it, Don?”

  “Men, three of them, on horseback, hovering around the northeast.”

  Jack went ahead and asked. “White men?” Don nodded and Jack turned to Hannah. “Road agents?”

  “Out in the open?” Hannah glanced around. “Could be spies though, maybe planning a hit on the train.”

  “Just checking us out then,” Don said.

  “They see you, Don?” Jack asked.

  “Do you mind, Mr. Kincaid?”

  “Not at all,” Jack said, adding, “what about it, man? Did they see your arms?”

  “I … I rode out toward them, they took off over the ridge.”

  Jack faced Hannah. “So they know you’ve got armed guards, chances are they’ll reserve their efforts for the train.”

  “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  Jack shrugged. “S’the railroad’s problem, far as I can see.”

  “Then you can’t see much farther than your own nose,” Hannah said to Jack as she turned to Don. “Tell your brothers, get back to your post.” With a nod, Don turned his paint around and rode across the property toward Barney in the southwest quadrant of the property. “I’d like to bring in some additional men, Mr. Kincaid.”

  “Hired guns?”

  Hannah raised a single brow. “Your grasp of the obvious never ceases to amaze me, Mr. Kincaid. Also, what do you know of mining?”

  “Mining? I’m an architect, Miss Alexander, I don’t know anything at all about mining.”

  “I see.” She gazed out at the mountain, lost in thought.

  “Why?”

  Hannah’s wandering imagination was yanked back to their conversation. “Sorry?”

  “I asked you why you inquired about mining.”

  “Oh, well, coal, of course. Those mountains are full of it. We pull it out of the mountains, sell it to the railroads, keep those iron horses rolling.” Jack gave it some thought, unable to offer any rebuke. Hannah added, “They’re already rolling through my land twice a week, I might as well get something out of it.”

  After a skeptical pause, Jack said, “Well, you did get two-hundred-and-sixty acres.”
/>   “And I’ll have everything on or in those two-hundred-and-sixty acres, am I clear?”

  Jack sighed and looked out over the mountains. “You do what you want, but I’m not sending my men into those mountains. We build houses, not tunnels.”

  “But you’ll be here to make sure the operation runs smoothly, that my rights are secured here on the property.”

  “No, Miss Alexander. I’ll be here until your house and your stable and your orchards are up, as agreed. Whatever other thing you’re cooking up, you’re on your own.”

  Hannah stood there stumped. She couldn’t fire him from the various jobs he was already overseeing, as much as she wanted to. And he seemed to know it. Which left her little option but to say, “You do what you want,” before walking briskly away from him to just about anywhere else. She tried to ignore his eyes on her as she walked away, but she knew he was watching, probably with that smug, self-satisfied smile, she knew.

  And she was right.

  *

  Four days later, six more guns had arrived on horseback, brought in by telegraph from the Marion County Postal Office and Courier. They were stationed around the property as Jack’s men went on building the house, the stable, the other necessary structures around the property. Jack was walking around the house, surveying the digging of the well and its irrigation trenches leading out into the yards and the orchards beyond.

  “The water closets will go here, in this corner, one on each floor.”

  “With tubs in each?”

  “Copper. The running water will go to the kitchen, too.”

  “No more outhouses … I love it!”

  “If it’s good enough for the Tremont in Boston, it should be good enough for you. We’ll have a hot-air system too, keep the house warm in the winter.”

  Hannah looked around at the house as it began to take shape. “Excellent. Good work, Mr. Kincaid, really … very good work indeed.”

  “We’ll see if she doesn’t fall in around after you slam the front door in my face.”

  “Miss A., Miss A!” Hannah and Jack turned to see Don racing toward them. Instantly on the alert, Jack reached for his holstered pistol, still ready to draw as Don rode up to them. “Visitors to the property, Miss A. I couldn’t stop ‘em!”

  Jack asked, “What number?”

  “Six, white men all.” The men trotted up across the property just at that moment, six horses each with a rider, Jack’s extra guard trailing in behind them. Hannah’s back stiffened to see the men, one better dressed than the others and riding at the center of the pack, obviously their leader. His black beard was graying but well-trimmed, his posture straight in his riding coat.

  Jack’s hand hovered near his pistol even as the Bellamy brothers and the rest of the Alexander guard closed in around the unwelcome visitors.

  “State your purpose,” Hannah said, her voice deliberately strong and confident.

  The man in front of the others sat stunned for a moment, then coughed up an amused chuckle. He looked to his other men, dressed in the leather chaps and denim of the cowboy or ranch hand, or the hired gun.

  “So it’s true,” he said, “I still can’t believe it … a woman!” The men chuckled as their leader turned back to face Hannah. “Name’s Chisholm, miss, Henry Chisholm. That name should be familiar enough, even to a person of your sex.”

  “It is,” Hannah said coldly. “I don't recall extending an invitation.”

  “And I didn’t expect one. Still … ” Chisholm looked around the property, at the men in his employ and at the men in Hannah’s. There were too many guns in too close a proximity. One spark at that powder keg would create a slaughter to wipe them all out, and Hannah knew it. She felt the man, Chisholm, knew it, too.

  But he wasn’t there for retribution, nor for violence, Hannah knew that, too. He was sizing them up, eyeing their weaknesses, taking in the full measure of the reputed young woman late of Cutthroat, Illinois.

  And she’d give it to him … in increments.

  “Sorry about the house,” Chisholm said. “Careless of me.”

  “Quite,” Hannah said. “But I should really thank you for doing much of the job for me. Clearing away the debris was an easy enough task for my men.”

  Chisholm looked at them all, around him and beyond, still working the buildings. “Yes, I see.”

  “And now that you’ve seen?” Jack asked.

  “The eunuch speaks,” Chisholm said with amused shock. “Yer name’s Kincaid, from New York.”

  Jack stood, chest stretching just a bit broader. “What of it?”

  “I hear you do good work, is all. Maybe you’ll come work for me someday. I’ll miss this place, sure, but I got lots a land, all kinds of things on the horizon for Henry Chisholm, and that’s a fact.”

  “Our best wishes to you then,” Hannah said, standing in an extended silence which told him what she didn’t have to, that she’d rather that be the last word between them.

  But Chisholm and his men lingered, their horses’ hooves clopping in the mud as they languidly gazed around the property. “It’s a sad thing when a man gets driven off his land, especially by some … some legal wrangling, back-room wheelin’ ’n’ dealin’.”

  “Yes,” Hannah was quick to say, “it is. Especially when his wife and child are cast out as well, with the mother to die horribly en route in flight, and the father not long after. It is a terrible thing indeed, Mr. … ” Hannah paused as if trying to recall the name, but this was meant only as an insult, as if merely fashioning the name upon her tongue took effort and disgust. “ … Chisholm,” she finally finished.

  Chisholm held a stone-faced expression, his eyes falling directly upon Hannah. “You sure you wanna settle in these parts? Dangerous territory, no telling how death’s gonna come at ‘cha.”

  “I’ve seen much worse,” Hannah said, looking Chisholm over to make sure her point was clearly made.

  “So I heard,” Chisholm said. “But from the stories I been told, yer really not much more’n lucky. Not unattractive either, but what’s a pretty face once yer luck runs out?”

  “All right,” Jack said, reading the threat as clearly as Hannah did, “that’s enough. Don, have your men escort Mr. Chisholm and his posse off Miss Alexander’s land.”

  “No need for that,” Chisholm said. “We’re not vagrants, Mr. Kincaid, we’re happy enough to take our leave if that is what our hostess desires.”

  “It is,” was all Hannah had to say.

  “Very well then,” Chisholm said, tipping his stovepipe to Hannah and turning to lead his men away without another word.

  Hannah and Jack shared a worried glance, but stood until Chisholm and his men were out of sight over the ridge to the northeast.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The autumn brought the smell of white yarrow across the plains of Marion County. The horses were stabled, the men in their temporary work quarters, the house coming up with impressive speed and stability.

  The upstairs were still very drafty, and the third floor lacked proper walls in certain places, the final roof yet to be completed above it. But the first floor was habitable, and Hannah had insisted that Jack finish the servants’ quarters first, off the kitchen. Hannah was eager to have a cook brought in from New York, or even down from Chicago, but she was adamant that whoever this person was, she’d be treated with respect and would live in comfort, even if that came at Hannah’s own expense. And like everything else in Hannah’s life, it would, but she bore it without complaint.

  The cook was practically invisible, an impressive feat given her substantial girth and eager personality. And she was an extraordinary cook, having worked in no less than Boston’s Tremont itself.

  Her pork roast, butchered from a wild hog shot by Jack himself, was tender and peppery and succulent, the roasted red potatoes and sautéed spinach from their own garden was as colorful as it was delicious. The side of calves’ brains wasn’t to Hannah’s taste, prepared breaded and boiled in a cotton s
ack and served mashed with butter, salt, and pepper, was one of Jack’s favorites.

  “We haven’t heard from our friend, Chisholm,” Hannah said, raising the glasses Vernon Flannery had sent as a gift from Cutthroat to drink the wine he’d also sent along, rich and fruity on her tongue.

  “Thank heaven for small favors,” Jack said, taking a bite of brain and savoring the flavor and texture. “I have to say, you were right about sending for the cook. She’s a wonder.”

  Hannah cracked a smile. “I suppose I should say that … that I was right about you, too … to hire you on, I mean. You’ve done quite well, Mr. Kincaid … Jack, if I may.”

  Jack raised his glass in a wordless toast and took a sip. “I’ve enjoyed it, too.”

  “May I ask, what brought you here, to be an architect, I mean?”

  Jack swallowed and took another sip of wine, wiping the corners of his mouth and returning his cloth napkin to his lap. “My father was a military man, cavalry, forty-fifth under Griswald. My mother and I followed him around Idaho, s’where I was born.”

  “A western boy,” she said with a smile which he ignored. “Fought the Sioux, my old man did, all through eighteen, then the Black Hawk in Kansas. Wanted me to follow in the family trade. Taught me to shoot, fight, think, feel … good man, my father. But when I was a kid, I was always building things; little houses, forts, that kind of thing. My father used to tell me that war, that was just another way to build things, big things, the biggest things, he’d say. Empires, I guess is what he meant.” Jack sighed and stared off into his memories. “But for me, war … that was just another way to tear things down.”

  The cook, who went only by Betsy, prepared and presented the dessert eclairs with loving delicacy and precision, on China plates, topped with powdered sugar dusted on the freshly whipped heavy cream and custard which only a cook from Boston could make correctly.

  And she was gone again, a great plump ghost of a woman.

  A ghost, Hannah thought.

  Standing on the porch with a snifter of brandy, Hannah surveyed the land stretching out in front of her. Marion County, where she’d been born. It had grown from the time she’d left it as a little girl. She’d grown too, and returned in triumph to reshape the land in her own image, according to her own will.