Freeing? Given recent developments, wandering in the forest would soon find her free of her scalp. No, thank you. She intended to remain within the safety of the town for the remainder of her stay, however long that may be. But she smiled and replied with a noncommittal murmur.
“There’s where we’re going.” Louisa pointed ahead.
The work area stood at the top of a knoll not far ahead of them. Looking at it, Kathryn immediately saw the wisdom in building the fort there. Its central location would allow access by most of the town, and the land around it had been cleared far enough that an approaching enemy would be spotted immediately. But the forest’s edge did lie fairly close on two sides. Within gunshot range? A shiver rippled down her spine.
How far was the Faulkner House from here? She turned to look behind her. They had taken one turn and the hotel lay hidden behind a rise in the land, but they had not traveled very far. Perhaps half a mile. Certainly near enough to reach safety within a reasonable amount of time. Provided, of course, the streets weren’t swarming with savage enemies.
“They see us.” Louisa lifted an arm above her head and waved.
At the building site, one of the men waved back. David Denny, Kathryn identified. Beside him another man straightened from his work, and her pulse skipped when she identified his broad shoulders and dark, curling hair. Jason. Somehow she must find the proper way to approach him about continuing his painting.
“They’ve seen us.” Louisa flipped the reins and the wagon began to roll forward.
The work stopped at their approach, and in no time the wagon was surrounded by eager, smiling men. And not only eager for sandwiches, either. Kathryn found herself inundated with offers of assistance to climb down. Jason, of course, was not among those who crowded her side of the wagon. She took one of the dozens of hands lifted toward her and stepped from the sideboard to the ground.
Smiling her thanks, she made her way around the wagon to the back. The children waited at the edge of the bed beside the crates containing the results of their afternoon’s labor. A quick count of heads showed her that they had made plenty of sandwiches for the work crew to eat three or four each. Evie had been afraid they would run out.
Noah stepped up beside her and took charge. “Let’s get going so we can get as much done as possible before the light fails completely. Form a line here.”
He gestured with both hands and the men moved to obey. Louisa and Kathryn stood at the back of the wagon, distributing sandwiches and sweet cakes. To a man, the millworkers voiced polite thanks as they received the meal from her hands, and Kathryn made certain to smile into each face.
“I want down,” demanded a small voice behind her.
Kathryn looked up to find John William standing over her. He extended his chubby arms toward her, and she reached for the child. Before she could grasp him, someone pushed by her, jostling her away.
“Come here, boy,” said a rough voice.
Surprised, she turned to see who had spoken so harshly and found herself looking into the stern countenance of the boy’s grandfather. The glare the narrowed eyes fixed on her was so full of menace she took an involuntary step backward.
He lifted John William to the ground and immediately snatched up his hand. “We’re going home now.”
“But I don’t want to go home,” the child whined. “I want to see the fort.”
“There’s nothing to see yet.” The words were clipped and full of impatience. “We have things to do at home.”
Before she could even bid the child goodbye, he was pulled away from her and disappeared behind the line of men waiting for their supper. Why, if she didn’t know better, she would think the man was trying to get the child away from her. She turned to Louisa, astonished by such a rude display from a grown man. Her friend was staring after the pair with a surprised expression.
“Have I done something to offend him?” Kathryn asked.
Louisa shook her head. “It certainly looks that way.”
“But how? I’ve never spoken a word to him.”
“He is very protective of his grandson,” Louisa said slowly. “Perhaps he’s cautious of strangers.”
Kathryn stiffened. Did he think she would harm a child? The very idea was offensive.
“I’ll ask him tomorrow morning when he brings John William for the day.” Louisa dismissed the incident with a quick smile, though she did glance once more in the direction in which the rude man had disappeared.
Will Townsend stomped away from the building site, dragging his grandson beside him. Fury still buzzed in his brain. Fury—and fear. The sight of John William’s arms outstretched to that woman had sent a spear of alarm straight through his heart.
Who did she think she was to show up here and casually insert herself into the daily lives of his friends and grandson? And on a flimsy claim of kinship with Madame Garritson, no less. He wouldn’t believe it for a minute except Madame herself had verified the distant relationship when he stopped by the Faulkner House to inquire the other night.
“Ow, Grandpa. Let go my hand.”
The child’s plaintive whimper drew his attention from his brooding, and he realized he was practically dragging the boy down the street by the arm. Immediately contrite, he relaxed his grip.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hold you so tightly.”
John William rubbed his wrist with the fingers of his other hand and turned a reproachful look up at him. “I wanted to pass out sandwiches. I made them, but I didn’t get to pass them out.”
Those green eyes never failed to move Will. A hundred memories blew through his mind like a warm breeze. Oh, John. If only you could see how much like you your son is. More every day. His throat tightened, and for a moment he could not speak. When he did, he forced a light, conversational tone.
“You made sandwiches today?”
The child gave an eager nod, reproach forgotten. “Me and Inez did.” His little chest puffed importantly. “I put the meat on after Miss Kathryn cut it.”
A chill invaded his blood. With an effort, he kept his boots moving up the street. “Miss Kathryn was at the restaurant, you say?”
“Uh huh. With Miss Weesa and Miss Inez. She played dolls with Inez and blocks with me. She’s a good builder.”
“Is she, now?”
The idea of that woman sitting beside John William, touching his toys, touching him…Will set his teeth. What game was she playing, really? Whatever it was, he would not let his grandson be caught in the cross fire. If Louisa insisted on spending time in Kathryn’s presence he would make other arrangements for John William’s daily care, and he would do it immediately.
With an abrupt move, he turned on his heel. “Let’s go this way.”
The child complied. “Are we going back to the blockhouse so I can eat a sandwich?”
“No. I’ve just remembered an errand I need to run down by the wharf.” He swept the child up and settled him on one arm.
“I can walk,” John William complained. “I’m not a baby.”
“I know, but I can walk faster because my legs are longer.”
“Can we go see Captain Baker’s ship?”
The child’s love for all things nautical normally brought a smile to his grandfather’s face, but not tonight. “Another time. I want to be safely home before it gets too late.”
John William studied him with a serious expression. “Are you afraid of the mean Indians, Grandpa?”
Will returned his gaze calmly. No sense in upsetting the child. “No, I’m not afraid.”
Not, at least, of the Indians.
When the sandwiches had been distributed and the men had taken seats on piles of logs or in dirt to eat them, Kathryn was able to inspect the building. A trench had been dug, and the beginnings of the walls lay deep inside. She walked to the edge and peered down, judging the thickness of the wall with satisfaction. The blockhouse would be sturdy with its foundation buried in earth this way. Louisa and David came up beside her.
“Goodness, I can’t believe how much progress you’ve made,” Louisa exclaimed, one hand resting on her husband’s arm and the other pressing into the small of her back.
“The work is going quickly.” He gave a satisfied nod. “I think we’ll be finished within a couple of weeks.”
“The sooner the better.” They wandered away, David pointing out something in the length of timber down in the trench.
Kathryn glanced around the area. Everywhere she looked men tried to catch her eye with broad smiles and nods. She answered absently in kind. Then she caught sight of the object of her search. There. Jason had selected a stump a little apart from the others and sat with his back to them, staring across the bay. Gathering her courage, she made her way around the building site in that direction.
He turned at her approach, and she ignored the way his body stiffened when he caught sight of her.
“How is the sandwich?” Surely he could not take offense at a benign question like that one.
His answer was given without taking his eyes from the vista in front of him. “Fine. Good. Thank you for bringing it.”
Encouraged by his polite tone, she ventured an observation. “The view is beautiful from here, don’t you think?”
For a moment he did not answer. When he did, his voice was guarded. “Not particularly.”
“You don’t find it beautiful? The way the wind whips the water into froth and the heavy clouds turning it dark and almost forbidding?”
“I wasn’t looking there. I was looking at the mill.”
She directed her gaze to the mill, where black smoke belched from the smokestack and an untidy mass of logs cluttered the corralled waters of the inlet. “It does give the area a rather dismal appearance,” she admitted.
Though he did not look at her, she watched his profile and saw his lips tighten into an impatient line. “If you had any concept of the ingenuity that has gone into building and equipping that mill you wouldn’t call it dismal. I find it inspiring.”
She leaped on the word. “Do you plan to paint it? The view from here would make for an interesting scene.” Ugly, in her opinion, and not even close to the beauty of the landscape in his room, but she did not voice that opinion. If he was inspired by ugly buildings, then he should paint ugly buildings.
Now he did look at her, and uttered a disgusted grunt. “Did I not clearly forbid you to talk to me of painting?”
Irritation crackled along her nerves. Why, he spoke to her as if she were no more than a child, and an aggravating one at that. She snapped a reply. “I do not respond well to rudely shouted commands.” With an effort, she calmed herself. “Besides, you requested that I not speak of the painting, not of painting in general.”
“Then please let me make that request officially now.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “Do not speak to me of paint in any form. Nor of canvas, brushes, pigment, oils, lighting, or any other aspect of art.” With a jerk, he turned his head away from her, a clear dismissal.
“But why?” Frustration overcame her, and she resorted to pleading. “With a talent like yours—”
He stopped her by raising a finger and fixing a stern look on her face. “Not. Another. Word.”
Anger erupted in her stomach. Surely he was the most infuriating artist in the world. Rudeness of this magnitude could not be excused under the guise of creative temperament. With a jerk that set her skirts whirling about her ankles she left him alone on his stump. If he insisted on ignoring his talent, what was it to her? Let him rot away in anonymity here in this backwoods, primitive territory.
Eight
Thursday, January 10, 1856
Kathryn rose before the sun, dressed quickly, and tiptoed through the hotel so as not to disturb Madame or any of the guests. Serving the café’s breakfast diners platters of steaming hot food that Evie produced in extraordinary volume was one of the highlights of her day. She was becoming familiar with the men, and prided herself on the ability to bid “good morning” to Big Dog, Red, Murphy, Lowry, Samuels, and the others by name.
Two things made her sad. First, the announcement toward the end of the meal that the Fair Lady had set sail with the tide. By all rights, she should be on that ship. At least Captain Baker had promised to have her letter delivered to Papa the moment they moored on San Francisco’s pier.
The second thing that made her sad—and a little angry—was Jason’s absence. Apparently he would rather skip breakfast completely than risk seeing her. The idea sat bitterly in her stomach. Perhaps she should tell him that she would abide by his wishes. She would not, under any circumstances, discuss art with him again. In fact, she would not discuss anything with him. Let him scowl and glower and squander his talent. It mattered to her not in the least.
The sun was well along its ascent when she carried a laden tray up the hotel’s stairs and rapped her toe on Miss Everett’s door.
“Time for breakfast,” she called in a cheery voice.
The handle turned, a crack appeared, and the lady peered out. With a quick smile, she opened the door wide. Kathryn entered and deposited the tray on the small table she had procured from Madame. The surface of the table was no wider than the tray, the perfect size for this small room. She straightened and looked around. The addition of a few personal items, like a cozy afghan on the bed and a basin and pitcher in the far corner, gave the room a crowded but cheery look. She noted the wilted blossoms in a cup beside a Bible on the nightstand. This afternoon she would look outside for fresh ones.
Miss Everett’s gaze flickered across her face and then she cast her eyes downward. “Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome.”
Sunlight streamed through the east-facing window and cast a bright glow into the little room. “Why, look,” Kathryn exclaimed. “The sun does shine here after all. I’d begun to think I wouldn’t see it again until I returned to California.”
“It promises to be a beautiful day,” Miss Everett agreed. “Just before you came I was admiring Mount Rainier. I have a perfect view from my chair.”
Kathryn looked out the north window where she gestured. When she caught sight of the mountain, her breath snagged in her chest. A huge, majestic pyramid towered above the forest that butted up nearly to the back of the hotel, its steeply sloping sides covered in snow. Jagged rocky precipices around the top third stood bare and exposed in the sunlight, lending a sense of wildness that a completely snow-covered peak would not imply.
“It’s stunning.” Her voice came out in an awed whisper. “I can’t believe I haven’t noticed it before.”
“Perhaps you’ve been too busy.” Miss Everett gave her a kind smile. “Whereas I have done nothing for days but sit here and stare out the window.”
Kathryn drank in the vista before her. Tall, slender trunks of the cedar trees, the deep green of the fir boughs, the shining white of the snow-capped mountain, and the azure blue of a cloudless sky. Could such a dazzling contrast of colors be captured in oils on canvas? Oh, if only her skills approached the level of Jason’s. But even if she failed, how could a student of art like herself gaze on such beauty and not at least try? Excitement flickered deep inside her at the prospect. As soon as she finished her hotel chores, she would go outside with her easel, palette, and one of the canvases she’d packed and start a new painting. With luck the weather would hold for as long as it took to absorb the view and get the basic lines down. She had a few hours before the afternoon tea.
The tea. She cast a quick glance at Miss Everett. How to approach the subject of the afternoon tea without being dismissed out of hand? She had given the matter considerable thought, and come to the conclusion that Miss Everett’s reticence was due to a case of shyness the likes of which Kathryn had never seen. Left to her own devices, she might spend the entire six months within the confines of this room, stepping foot outside only for an occasional visit to the necessary. In cases like this, what was needed was a friendly push.
She cleared her throat. “Mr
s. Hughes asked me to convey an invitation. It seems most of the women in Seattle gather at the café on Thursday afternoons for tea, and they would like to meet you.”
The shadowy smile vanished and lady’s brow creased. She averted her eyes. “I’m not ready—”
“Of course you are. You’ve been here three days already and haven’t met a soul outside of Madame and myself.” With a quick glance over her shoulder to ensure she was not overheard, she went on in a low voice. “Let me assure you, Madame is not typical of the manners and character of the ladies in Seattle.”
That elicited a faint upward turn of the lips.
Encouraged, Kathryn continued. “I’m told there are no more than twenty ladies and twice that many children.”
“Twenty?” Her already pale face went white, and she shrank back toward the corner. “Please convey my appreciation for the invitation, but I don’t think—”
“Nonsense.” Kathryn strode forward and grabbed her cold hand. “I’ll stay by your side the entire time, and I promise to defend you from any hostile approach they may attempt.”
She assumed a wide grin, and was rewarded with a hesitant smile.
“I’m sure you think me foolish for taking sanctuary here.” Miss Everett’s glance circled the room. “Back in Nevada City my mother often chided me for being too timid. She wanted me to be more adventurous. That’s why I paid for six months’ lodging in advance. I knew if I didn’t, it would be far too easy to flee back home, where things are familiar. I’ve never been comfortable talking with strangers.”
“You talk to me,” Kathryn pointed out. “Until ten days ago I was a stranger.”
Her smile came to the fore. “I doubt you’re ever considered a stranger for long. You’re so outspoken.”
Was that a good thing? Papa would have said no, that ladies should be soft-spoken and demure. But many of the women Kathryn admired back home were considered outspoken to the extreme. Papa would have called them pushy. She decided to accept the statement as a compliment. “Thank you. I will call for you a few minutes before four and we will go together.”
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