He knew.
Somehow, he knew her secret. And he was threatening to ruin her reputation by exposing her.
This is ridiculous. It’s not like I’m a criminal.
But Papa would certainly think so, if he knew what had happened. And what about her new friends? Evie, and Louisa, and—she swallowed—Jason? She could not bear it if he knew of that shameful night. He would certainly not believe her innocent of vandalism against the blockhouse then. No one would.
Perhaps she should leave, really leave. Start a new life back East among ladies like Mrs. Stanton and Miss Anthony. Surely she would find acceptance among them. But since she could barely afford a ticket to San Francisco, certainly she could not pay for passage to New York. She sniffled. Besides, she’d found friends here in Seattle. And what of…of Jason? A painful prickle of tears assaulted her eyes, and she blinked furiously against them as she thrust the traitorous thought to the back of her mind. One more thing not to think about.
With a sickening sense of shame, she turned toward the café. It had been a mistake to come to Will’s house. And she had not even confronted him about the oil of turpentine, either. Nor would she. Without a doubt, he had perpetrated the vandalism to implicate her in order to scare her away from Seattle. It wouldn’t work, because even if she wanted to leave, she could not. No, her best course now would be to avoid him as much as possible and hope he held his tongue.
Twelve
How to approach Will without accusing him outright? Jason struggled with the question throughout the day. Word of the near-disaster had spread like a cold wave at high tide, and the men talked of nothing else as they worked. The general consensus was that the vandal had been a sailor from the Decatur, trying to avenge his buddies who’d been denied liberty because of Kathryn. If that were the case, Jason hoped the man was never found out. Judging by the vehemence with which the millworkers vowed to defend her honor, he might not survive the encounter.
Paperwork consumed the morning. After the first week of Jason working alongside the men, Henry had opened his files and turned over the office. Jason’s time was more and more devoted to the design of an improved water system for the town, an idea that everyone in Seattle heartily applauded. Jason was nearing his second week of immersing himself in the mill’s accounts. It was long, tedious work that sent cramps through his fingers by the end of the day, but he found the labor consuming and exhausting in a different way from the physical effort of milling timber.
Until today.
He tossed the pencil on an open account book and massaged the stiffness from his fingers while he stared through the office window. Will and another man were fiddling with a roller that kept jamming. They’d been at it off and on for the past hour. Excuse enough to interrupt his paperwork to check on their progress.
Jason left the office, nodding at the working men as he made his way to the end of the infeed deck. Will looked up at his approach.
“How’s the repair coming?” He pitched his voice loud to be heard over the noise of the engine and the buzz of the main saw as it chewed through lumber.
“It’s not,” Will shouted in answer. “The roller was shot, so we’re replacing it. Don’t have a spare, so we had to take one off the front end.” He pointed toward the outside edge of the roller belt, where Big Dog and a trio of others were about ready to heft a dripping log.
“Can we rig a replacement?”
Will jerked a thumb over his shoulder to where Murphy bent over a worktable intent on a task. “Already working on it.”
“Good man.”
He almost raised an arm to slap Will on the shoulder, but the gesture seemed awkward, almost condescending, for someone with far more experience leading this crew than he. Another reason he struggled with how to approach his question. He couldn’t afford to alienate Will with a false accusation. If it was false.
“Have you got a minute?” Jason jerked a thumb toward a deserted place outside the shed. “Want to ask you something.”
When they stepped out from beneath the roof’s wide overhang, the noise dimmed considerably. The sun shone today for the third day in a row, and the temperature was warm enough that he didn’t need his heavy coat. Both were unusual for January, according to the men. Some had espoused the opinion that the break in the weather was a sign from the Good Lord that He wanted the blockhouse finished sooner rather than later and was holding off the rain until the last shingle was in place.
Jason and Will stood side by side watching the loading of the log on the roller belt. “What’s your take on the incident at the blockhouse this morning?”
There. No beating around the bush, and no accusation. Just a simple question.
Will didn’t look at him. “The men seem partial to the sailor theory.”
“I didn’t ask what the men think.”
A cautious nod. “I think if we let them keep talking like that, we’ll have another fight on our hands. They’re whipping themselves up.”
Jason turned his head and studied the man. “You’re avoiding my question.”
Will pursed his lips for a second. “You know my opinion of the lady in question.” He spoke the word as though he doubted the veracity of it. Jason drew breath to contradict him, but he went on. “Everyone seems so certain of her innocence. I pity the man who dares to disagree.”
“So you think Kathryn crept through the forest and spread oil of turpentine on the building, and then…what? Lost her nerve and ran off without striking a match?” The idea, spelled out like that, sounded ludicrous.
Will didn’t seem to think so. “She needn’t have crept through the forest. A black-cloaked figure in the dark could walk fairly openly through that part of town. There are no houses close enough to see, and there were no moon or stars last night.” He turned then and faced Jason head-on. “Or so I’m told. I wouldn’t know, since I was at home with my grandson, sleeping soundly.”
Ah. The man knew where Jason’s questions were leading, and provided his alibi before the accusation could be voiced.
All right, so maybe he didn’t do it. But that doesn’t mean Kathryn did.
Jason planted a boot heel in the dirt. “I don’t believe her capable of such a desperate act. She has no reason to want the fortress destroyed. Besides, she’s a frail woman. I can’t imagine her wandering through town alone in the dark.”
Of course, she did venture down to the waterfront alone just two days past. The reminder gave Jason pause. But that had been in full daylight.
Will’s mouth twitched, and Jason thought he might mention the incident, but he did not. “It could have been hostile Indians,” he conceded.
Despite his words, he believed her guilty. Jason saw it in the set of his jaw, in the way he wouldn’t look Jason in the eye. But he had determined to keep his opinion to himself.
Fine. That was probably the safest course of action, given the men’s fervent defense of Kathryn.
“Yes. It certainly could.”
And maybe that was the answer after all. Unless the culprit confessed, they would never know.
All through the afternoon the numbers in the ledger on Jason’s desk kept blurring, replaced by the image of dark, tear-filled eyes. What could it hurt to check on the girl, just to make sure she was all right? Using the excuse of an errand at Coffinger’s, he left the mill a few minutes early.
He strode into the café expecting to find Kathryn working at Evie’s side. But the restaurant owner was alone.
“Jason. I didn’t expect to see you here.” She fixed an inquisitive look on him. “Can I get you an early supper?”
“No, thank you. I thought Kathryn would be here.” He glanced toward the storeroom doorway, half expecting her to appear at the mention of her name. “Have you seen her?”
Evie’s smile might have widened a fraction, or it might not have. Either way, he chose to ignore the added brightness in her tone when she answered.
“She’s usually here by now, but I think she lost track of time.
I stepped outside a while ago and saw her next door, hard at work on her painting. She was so engrossed she didn’t even notice me.”
Her painting. The idea of seeing her paint left a sour taste in his mouth. “Well, I’d hate to interrupt her.” He turned to go.
“No, wait!” Evie leaped up from her chair and hurried over to stop him. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. In fact, I was just about to peek my head outside and call to her.” A guileless smile spread across her lips. “I need her help. If you don’t mind telling her so, you’ll be saving me the effort.”
He found himself practically shoved across the room and through the back door. Playing matchmaker, was she? Well, her efforts were wasted here. She’d have a far greater chance of success with Murphy, or Lowry, or one of the others. But while he was here, he might as well check on Kathryn. With a scowl for Evie’s lack of subtlety, he straightened his coat with a tug and headed next door.
Kathryn had once again spread her blanket on the grass, and she sat at a graceful angle, leaning forward toward her short easel. She held her brush in an easy three-fingered grip and applied paint in minute brushstrokes. The familiar posture squeezed his heart in his chest, and he almost turned back. He must have made an unconscious sound, for she looked up.
“Jason.” The pensive lines in her forehead cleared, and a delighted smile pressed dimples in the smooth skin of her cheeks. “What are you doing here? You’re usually at the mill at this time of day.”
The clasp holding her hair in place had come loose and dangled in a mass of dark curls down her back. With an unconscious gesture she pushed back a lock, tucking it behind her ear, while she waited for his answer. The less severe arrangement made her appear…softer. Or something.
He stopped at the edge of the blanket and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “I’m on my way to the blockhouse, and thought I’d check to see if you’re feeling okay.”
The sun was behind him, and she shaded her eyes to look up into his face. Her bonnet lay discarded on the grass, and the skin across her nose had turned pink from prolonged exposure. A healthy glow seemed to radiate from her smile.
“Do you mean have I recovered from the shock of someone making me out to be a traitor and a vandal?” Her lips twisted into a sardonic line, and then she heaved a sigh. “I suppose so. There was a steady stream of ladies to and from the hotel this morning to assure me of their belief in my innocence.”
“That’s good. I’m glad.” Now that he’d reassured himself on that matter, he edged backward toward a hasty escape.
“Wait.” She leaped to her feet and hurried forward with an outstretched hand. Just before she touched his arm she stopped and clasped her hands in front of her waist. “Now that you’re here…I know I promised not to mention painting again, but…” Her gaze slid toward her canvas.
She was nothing if not persistent. Served him right. He should have known better than to approach an artist at work. Instead of the irritation that had overtaken him every other time she begged for his advice, he experienced a sense of surrender. Maybe if he told her the truth, painful though the words were to speak, she would stop plaguing him once and for all.
“I can’t advise you on technique, Kathryn.” When she would have protested, he held up a finger. “I don’t know anything about painting because I am not an artist.”
That took her aback. “Many artists doubt their ability. You should not. The beautiful landscape in your room is proof of your talent. And I saw your palette, the brushes, the tubes of oils.”
“They belonged to my wife. To Beth.” There. He’d said her name aloud, and though he felt as if someone had wrapped steel bands around his chest, it wasn’t as painful as he’d feared. “She was the artist.”
Kathryn’s brows drew together as she digested the news. “The initials on the painting are JEG. Not Jason E. Gates?”
“My middle name is Leonard. JEG stands for Julia Elizabeth Gates. She went by Beth, because she insisted Julia sounded like an old dowager aunt.” The hint of a laugh escaped on a breath at the bittersweet memory of Beth planting her hands on her hips and insisting on the nickname.
“Oh.”
He went on in a softer voice, fighting a flood of emotions. Best get it all out at once, so they could put the topic behind them. “That painting is of a place that was special to us. The place where I proposed, in fact. She—” He swallowed. “She painted it as a wedding gift for me.”
Compassionate tears flooded her face. “I’m sorry, Jason.”
Tears prickled behind his eyes in answer. He tore his gaze away, shifting his weight from one foot to another as he looked out over the treetops at the majestic mountain peak looming in the distance.
“No harm done. You couldn’t have known.” He forced a bright tone, ready to end this painful conversation. “So you see, it’s no use asking for my help on matters of art.”
Thankfully, she matched his forced smile and adopted a casual tone that mirrored his. “Ah, well. Advice on lighting would be of no use to me at this point anyway.” She folded her arms and aimed a jaundiced eye toward her canvas. “The scale is all wrong, and I’m at a loss on how to fix it.”
An automatic reply rose to his lips, an encouraging vote of confidence that she would figure it out in time, but the words died unspoken when his gaze fell on her painting. He looked at it.
Blinked.
Looked at it again.
Squinted his eyes to refocus.
“Well.” When he realized she was watching him for a reaction, he quickly cleared his expression. “It’s quite…” He grasped for a description that would not offend her, but came up blank. “Quite colorful,” he finally blurted.
The truth was, the painting was terrible. Probably the ugliest and most amateurish attempt he’d ever seen.
Hurt appeared in her eyes. “You don’t like it.”
“I didn’t say that,” he responded hastily. He’d learned from living with Beth that an artist could be extremely passionate about her work, and usually took criticism personally. “The trees are very…tall. And green.” She watched him closely, obviously expecting more. Folding an arm across his middle, he planted an elbow on it and tapped a finger on his mouth as he made a show of studying the canvas, casting about for something encouraging to point out. “The scale of the mountain isn’t exactly right, as you say, but the composition is, um, artistic. I like the way you have the rising sun peeking over that rocky ledge.”
“That is not the sun rising,” she informed him in a flat tone. “It’s supposed to be mid-afternoon, and that yellow spot is a reflection of the light on the snow.”
“Ah. Well.” He flashed an apologetic smile. “As I said, I’m not an artist. Nor am I an art critic.”
“You hate it.”
Did that tremble in her voice hint of an impending onslaught of tears? Nothing in the world made him more uncomfortable than a woman’s tears. All Beth had to do was sniffle and he would fall all over himself to placate her. Either that, or beat a hasty retreat before the storm broke.
Which seemed like the best course of action in the current situation.
“I don’t hate it. Not at all.” He took a backward step. “And you know what they say. Beauty is in the skin of the—No, I mean in the eye of the beholder.” An awkward laugh escaped as he backed up even further. “I almost said skin deep, but of course that’s mixing metaphors. Or something.”
Egad, he’d begun to babble.
“I have to go. Don’t want to be late for the blockhouse.” He whirled, and had almost reached the corner of the hotel when he remembered his errand. “Oh, and Evie asked me to tell you she needs your help.”
He shouted the last over his shoulder without turning. The gentlemanly thing would be to stay and help her clean up her painting supplies. In this instance, he felt justified in not doing as good manners dictated.
A gloomy fog settled over Kathryn when Jason disappeared between the buildings. The haste with which he took his departu
re told her everything she wanted to know about her painting. No matter what he said, he did hate it. And no wonder. She studied it with new eyes, trying to see it as he would. Was it really as terrible as all that?
Someone approached from the café and she glanced up to find Evie striding across the grass, wiping her hands on her apron.
“I saw Jason leave, so I knew your work had already been interrupted. The first of the ladies have begun to arrive for tea.”
Was it really that late? “I’m sorry. I lost track of time.” She bent and began gathering her supplies from the blanket.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve almost got everything—oh.”
Kathryn looked up to find Evie staring at her painting with the same horrified fascination she might display upon finding a rat’s nest in her storeroom. She straightened and came to stand beside her friend to inspect her work.
“It’s not very good, is it? Tell the truth.” She couldn’t stop a hopeful tone from creeping in at the end. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as all that.
Evie’s expression became apologetic and she shook her head. “No, I’m afraid it isn’t.”
At least she expressed her honest opinion. The sign of a true friend.
Kathryn’s shoulders slumped. “I’ve studied and practiced as hard as I can, but no matter what I do, my paintings never turn out the way I envision.”
“You’ve mentioned your art teacher in San Francisco. What does he say about your work?”
“That I have a natural talent, and that I’m improving at a remarkable rate.”
Lines appeared between Evie’s brows and she looked again at the painting. “Really?”
“Papa says Monsieur Rousseau’s encouragement has nothing to do with my talent, and everything to do with the high price he charges for my lessons.” A sigh gathered deep in Kathryn’s lungs and she blew it out. “He’s right, isn’t he?”
A compassionate smile crept over her friend’s face. “Perhaps there is some truth to your papa’s opinion.”
Curiously, the realization was not as devastating as it might have been. When she’d taken her first lesson three years ago, she’d been hopeful that she had finally found her life’s ambition. She dreamed that her paintings would be admired by renowned critics and sought after by collectors. Galleries would display her work, and students would try to copy her techniques. But if she was honest, she had begun long ago to suspect that she wasn’t nearly as talented as Monsieur insisted. Her determination to paint had found more and more strength in proving Papa wrong than in striving to improve.
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