“How is it that you know so much about birds?”
He shrugged. “Just something I picked up somewhere. Grandfather gets around a fair bit, you know. Preaching in different places, ministering wherever he’s needed most, brings the world into focus.”
“Have you always traveled with your grandfather?”
“My parents were killed in an Indian raid shortly after my birth. They must have overlooked me, because when Grandfather returned home he found me, unharmed and, if you believe him, completely unaware of the carnage. He had been off tending to one of his flock that day. If he hadn’t, he would have been killed as well and I’d have been a four-month-old at the mercy of the world.”
“How sad.” Her heart broke for him. The picture of a cooing infant surrounded by death flashed through her mind. “Oh, how could you stand it?”
Nothing in her well-ordered life prepared her for Patrick’s quiet acceptance of his own situation. He seemed unaffected by the unfairness of his life, and satisfied with his lot. It was admirable.
“Easily. Oh, sure, I wish my parents hadn’t been murdered, but wishing for something that cannot be changed doesn’t change it. I have only known life with Grandfather, and it has been a good life, so I feel blessed. I know it must sound strange, and maybe you can’t understand how I feel but honestly, I don’t feel sad over how my life has been.” He paused, and then went on. A small grin lightened the mood considerably. “And, to tell you the God’s honest truth, I’m not in the least unhappy about the turn my day’s taking. I hoped you might agree to this impromptu luncheon. I’m very glad you did, Kristen.”
“I am, too.” It was true. He was good company, and getting out of town, even for a few hours, was lovely.
They rounded a bend in the lane and the creek came into view. While it was not a huge body of water, it looked like an oasis. Water gurgled over river rocks, and a cool breeze wafted off its surface.
Patrick reined the Appaloosa in beneath the canopy of a gnarled cottonwood. He jumped down, unhitched the horse and left it to graze beside the tree before he came around the wagon and reached a hand up to help her down. She hesitated, contented with her high seat and full view. The breeze cooling her cheeks felt heavenly!
Holding her right hand out to Patrick, she quickly grabbed the lunch basket with her other hand, then climbed down. He took the basket from her before they turned and made their way to the shore.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you for bringing me.”
“It’s my pleasure, believe me.” Patrick spread a faded green plaid blanket on the ground. They sat side by side, but not touching, and gazed out over the lazy creek.
The view was peaceful, the company pleasant, and she was grateful for the outing but part of her—a big part—wished Jack nestled beside her instead of Patrick. Remorse over the unkind thought instantly shot through her. How could she be so ungrateful? Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she was glad no one could read her mind.
Make the best of every situation, dear. Aunt Irene’s beloved voice filled Kristen’s head. How she wished the elderly woman could be here with her now. With Aunt Irene by her side life would have been much simpler, the choices before her much clearer. But her aunt wasn’t with her, and any choices would have to be Kristen’s alone. Right or wrong, good or bad, the responsibility for every decision was all hers.
Hopefully Aunt Irene looked down on her from heaven. If she was extra lucky, her guardian angel might help her with some of the decisions regarding the future. There seemed to be so many, her head spun from considering all of them.
Time for further contemplation, or for heeding Aunt Irene’s advice, was cut short when Patrick turned to her. She felt his probing stare, and turned her head to meet his gaze.
“What?” She smiled at the sight of the big man grinning like a mischievous little boy. “Do I have something on my face?” She brushed a fingertip across the end of her nose. He didn’t answer, so she wrinkled her forehead. “You can’t just stare at a woman without giving her some hint as to why you’re doing it, you know.”
Patrick reached a finger out and tapped her lightly on the chin. Then, he leaned close, held her chin and angled her face so their noses nearly touched. “I didn’t mean to stare,” he said softly. “I just couldn’t help but admire your loveliness, Kristen.”
She saw what he meant to do a scant moment before he made his move. Her heart tripped double-time, the same way it had earlier during the shooting. Again, she felt cornered, with no good way out of the situation.
Kristen swallowed hard, and then used the tactic that worked the best for her. She stumbled to her feet, nearly tripping over the hem of her dress. Patrick began to rise, but she took a step off the blanket before he had a chance to do more than push himself to him knees.
Then, without once looking back, she ran as if all the foulest ghouls in the underworld were after her.
Chapter Eight
Spurs jangled against the wide floorboards as the tall, muscular man uncrossed his ankles and heaved himself upright. A rivulet of perspiration snaked its way down one chiseled cheek. Kristen wondered how long he had been waiting.
“Mr. Brown! I didn’t expect to see you here.” Her hopes of slipping into the boardinghouse undetected were smashed. Getting past him without stopping to chat was unthinkable. Her stomach was tied in knots but she put a smile on her face and stopped beside him.
“I’m afraid I came to see you.” He removed his hat, twisting it in his hands. A wide white scar ran across the back of his left hand, beginning near the thumb and hooking around behind the pinky finger. It was not the type of scar a man got behind a desk. “And it’s Randall, remember?”
“Right. I’m sorry, Randall.”
Kristen recognized regret when she saw it. It was clear in his eyes, the deep set of his mouth and the sag in his shoulders. The man looked like he carried a wagonload of trouble.
He met her gaze, and then looked away. “Not as sorry as I am.”
With every passing moment, Kristen’s stomach knots grew tighter. Maybe not eating the picnic lunch by the creek had a silver lining to it. Thanks to Patrick’s overactive romantic leanings, their luncheon had been spoiled so her belly was empty—and she was very grateful that it was.
“Whatever do you mean?” Fear shot up her spine, its probing fingers like razors against her conscience. The possibility he had found her out and divulged her whereabouts to her family brought her close to being ill.
“I don’t believe you’re going to be pleased to see me when I give you my news.”
Her suspicion of the man, and his business, grew. Still, Kristen remained calm—on the outside.
“I cannot imagine what you could possibly say that might cause me displeasure. Why, your association, and the teaching position, are the best things that have happened to me since I disembarked from the stagecoach.”
He shuffled his feet. The spurs beat an unsteady tune against the floor. What made western men so enamored with the fool things? They seemed silly on a man not astride a horse. Moreover, there was no saving a floor after it had been gouged by a careless cowboy’s spur.
“I don’t think you’ll feel the same in another minute, ma’am…”
“Why don’t you let me decide about that? Now, what’s got you twisting your hat into something for the rag bin?”
He hurriedly unclasped the hat, straightening out its crooked brim with a shake of his head. The waning sunlight cast shadows across his face, so she could only half see the expression in his eyes when he looked up at her.
Thankfully, the banker stopped procrastinating.
“I’m so sorry to have to break the news. Do you realize a man was killed earlier today? Just down the street from the bank, by the saloon?”
“I am.” What could the gunfight have to do with her?
Brown cleared his throat, the sound like sawdust on creaky floorboards. “The, uh, gentleman who was killed was Ernest Handel.” He paused, eyeing her as if he exp
ected something.
The name had a familiar ring but Kristen couldn’t place it. She met, and forgot, many people. Her father’s business made passing introductions commonplace. In addition, the trip westward had produced uncountable such meetings. What significance—or memory—should this dead man evoke?
“Lorelei Handel, the schoolteacher, is his wife. Was his wife,” Randall corrected hurriedly. “Ernie was her husband. He is—he was—the man who got shot today.”
“How tragic.” Kristen covered her mouth with one hand. When the man in the street had been a stranger, his passing was troublesome enough but now, with his identity familiar to her, she felt an extra stab of sorrow. Instantly she thought to comfort his widow. “What can I do to help? Surely I can do something, can’t I?”
Back in Boston, she would have baked a cake. Here, the grieving process might vary. She did not want to look ridiculous showing up in the widow’s parlor with an inappropriate gesture of condolence.
“Well, as a matter of fact, there is something you can do for Lorelei.” Randall’s face blanched. His Adam’s apple bobbed above the collar of his shirt, then slid back down out of view.
“Great,” she heaved a sigh of relief. So that’s what this unexpected visit was about—a condolence call! The knots in her middle began to calm. “Anything I can do to help—just anything. Name it.”
Before the words were completely out of her mouth, Randall said, “Your job. Well, her job. I mean, the job you think you’re starting. That is, because Lorelei is leaving—was leaving. It—I—she—oh, there’s no easy way to say this, I’m afraid.” He paused, his face contorted in embarrassment. “Listen, I’m here to ask that you step aside from the teaching position. Lorelei and Ernie intended to homestead, and start a family. Now…” He spread his hands helplessly.
He wanted her to give up her job? Before she had even begun to teach?
Good Lord, what next?
A hopeful smile crossed the banker’s face. “So…what do you say? Do you think you can move aside, and let the widow keep her place at the school? Without it, now that Ernie is gone, I just do not believe Lorelei can pull through. She has to have something to live for, doesn’t she?”
****
Her stomach growled indelicately but the food before her held no appeal. Mashed potatoes, a piece of fried chicken and boiled carrots filled her plate nicely, and would have, under other circumstances, been enticing but Kristen could only just take a sip of milk now and again. The thought of funneling any of the solid food down her constricted throat was more than she could bear.
Life, and its challenges, had been tolerable before now. There had even been times these past weeks when the adventure of striking out on her own had seemed a lark. Meeting new people, breaking out from under Father’s thumb, riding the stagecoach unaccompanied…being rescued by a handsome man—yes, there had been many moments when things had been more than tolerable. They had been pleasant and she had felt finally in control of her own destiny.
Kristen listlessly pushed a lump of potatoes to the side of her plate with the back of her fork. It stuck solidly against the edge of the china. With a sigh, she placed her fork on the plate and dropped her hands to her lap.
“Not feeling hungry tonight?”
Julia’s query forced Kristen to lift her stare from her lap. She gazed across the table at the woman. The other four ladies seated around the round pine table were, like Julia, dancers for the revue show at the dance hall. They were all engaged in conversation, save for Julia whose earnest expression and inquisitive stare made Kristen feel guilty for having been such an abominable dinner partner.
Remembering her manners, Kristen compelled herself to smile. She lifted her shoulders, and then dropped them quickly. “I suppose I’m not.”
One plucked eyebrow lifted as Julia tilted her head and made no attempt to disguise her disbelief. “Why, I can hear your tummy growling clear over here. You might not be hungry, but it sure as shooting is.”
Covering her middle with one hand, Kristen said, “I suppose you’re right. I’m physically hungry but mentally—and emotionally—I’m just much too indisposed to have an appetite.”
“Something bothering you, is it? It ain’t a happy face I see looking back at me.”
The dancers were rough around the edges, unrefined and ill schooled but they were good, decent women simply trying to make their way in a world designed more for men’s accommodations than for theirs. They worked hard at the dance hall, and while theirs was not a life Kristen would have consciously chosen for herself, she was smart enough to realize that most of the women hadn’t chosen the vocation, either. They danced because they could and it paid the bills, not because they aspired to work in a smoke-filled room amidst catcalls and loud men.
Tonight Kristen was too preoccupied to mentally correct Julia’s speech error. She merely shrugged her acceptance of her companion’s assessment.
A satisfied nod sent Julia’s thick black curls bouncing against her shoulders. “That’s what I thought. You’ve got troubles. Is it man troubles? If it is, maybe me and the other girls might be able to help. Between us, we’ve had more than our share of man troubles, ain’t we, girls?”
A wave of agreeing murmurs came instantly.
It was a kind offer but Kristen doubted anyone could help her now. Since Randall’s departure, she had pored over her options and they were virtually non-existent. How could some dance hall girls get her out of such a tight jam?
“It’s not man trouble.”It would be easier to reconcile herself to romantic issues. They could always be solved, one way or another. “I wish it was something like that. It’s…well, it’s worse, actually.”
Julia leaned closer, the tips of her curls drooping dangerously near the half-eaten pile of potatoes on her plate. “You ain’t…you know, ‘in the family way’?”
She shook her head in denial. “No, of course not. I’m not that kind of woman.”
Julia had the good grace to look embarrassed. “I didn’t think so, but I had to ask. You understand, don’t you?” When Kristen nodded, Julia continued speaking. “I knew you would get my drift. Now, don’t go getting any false ideas about me, or the rest of the girls, either.” She jerked a thumb at the others. “None of us is that kind of girl. We might shake our fannies and kick up our heels, but all that’s only for show, mind you. When the curtains come down, we’re just good-hearted ladies trying to earn a living. Nothing but dancing going on, not for any of us.”
“I didn’t believe otherwise.”
“Of course you didn’t.” The other women had stopped talking and were listening to the conversation. Julia turned and asked, “She ain’t the snooty kind, is she, girls? She wouldn’t think poorly of us just because we’re dancehall girls and she’s a fine lady.”
“Nah, we can tell she would never think ill of us.” Geraldine, a red-haired, buxom dancer waved one hand in Kristen’s direction. Her southern accent turned the sentence into one long, drawled sound that took Kristen a moment to decipher. When she finally did understand, she smiled.
It felt good to talk, even with women with whom she had so little in common.
“Thank you for realizing I would never… ah, ‘think ill’ of any of you. I have no reason to do so.”
She wasn’t ready to totally endorse the dancehall lifestyle but she had seen enough of her boardinghouse companions to know they were good, upstanding women. Their life choices had been severely limited, as hers were now. But at least they could dance more than a waltz. The expensive education her father provided had given her knowledge of the ballroom dance steps, but none of anything more modern.
I won’t even be able to find employment in the dancehall, Kristen lamented silently.
Julia smiled wistfully across the table. “I ain’t never heard anyone talk the way you do, Kristen. I wish…oh I really, from the bottom of my heart, wish I might someday have such grand manners and talk so good.”
“So well,” Kristen cor
rected with a return smile. “And you do many, many things that I am not capable of doing.”
“I still wish I could talk as go—as well—as you. Ain’t nothing quite like the sound of a fine-bred lady to turn a man’s head, or to make a gal feel like a queen. Ain’t that right, girls?”
Murmurs of appreciation and admiration brought a blush up Kristen’s throat and across her cheeks. She did have some value, and talent. She felt uplifted, and hopeful. There was no clear reason for her to feel that way—she still was no closer to deciding her future, or fortifying her purse, than she had been at the beginning of the meal.
“Why, you should give lessons.” Geraldine waved her fork above her plate for emphasis. A splatter of potatoes hit the tablecloth but she continued, “Ain’t that right, gals? Why, back in Mississippi girls took lessons in ‘most everything…stitchin’ and bakin’…why, I heard they even had lessons in talking proper. Now that I could cotton to…the sewin’ needle and oven weren’t made for me, with my clumsy nature, but now talking—that I could take a fancy to.”
Her friends giggled.
Julia teased, “Yeah, we know just how much you like to talk, Geraldine. God knows, you could talk the ears off corn if you set your mind to it. Couldn’t she?”
The other women voiced their agreement, much of it in good-natured jibes or harmless jokes.
Kristen felt like part of the group, if only for the minute. She sorely missed her friends from Boston. Out here she was on her own, by her own choice, but that didn’t mean she still didn’t sometimes long for companionship and girl-talk. She basked in the warmth of friendship and laughter, and joking over small things. It warmed her heart, and fed her soul. Mostly, it made her feel less lonely than she had been in a long time.
Then, an idea. It was just a small idea, really. Not a blazing, red-hot firebrand of an idea, but more a flickering, hopeful wisp of one. Still…even the tiniest ember could be fanned into a roaring flame, if given the right care and attention.
Sterling's Way (Lawmen & Outlaws) Page 6
