Elusive Lovers

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  "'Twas you she came to harm with,” said Genevieve. “We're trying to help her after you wrecked her life."

  Jack flushed. “Just remember what I've said. I'll have the police on you if you've sold her."

  "Sold her?” Genevieve had caught the implication. “Out of my house, young man!” She leapt from her seat and rushed to the umbrella stand in the hall.

  "Not until I've got the address of Mrs. Macleod,” said Jack, who followed Mrs. Boyer only to face an umbrella coming at him point first.

  "Out!” ordered Genevieve.

  Remembering Kristin's story of the bounder in the railroad station, doubled over with pain in a skirmish with Genevieve Boyer's umbrella, Jack reconsidered his demand for information. Since he couldn't knock the woman down, he backed out, wondering if her indignation meant that she was, in fact, a fine, charitable person or that she was a seller of young innocents into sin and putting up an indignant front in order to bamboozle him.

  "That miserable hypocrite,” muttered Genevieve as she strode down the hall to check on the preparations for dinner. How dared Jack Cameron, who was the cause of all Kristin's troubles, suggest that Genevieve might be a procurer? The man had an evil mind. And no doubt his intentions toward Kristin were evil. Men were creatures of great lust and no conscience. Fortunately, she doubted that he'd bother to chase the girl all the way to Colorado when he had only a name in Denver to guide him. No, he'd give it up, turn his desires elsewhere, and Kristin would be safe.

  At the end of her first day in Breckenridge, Kristin was in the kitchen. Having finished washing the dinner dishes, she had gone back to ironing Mr. Macleod's shirts. As she worked, she tried to sort out the children, of whom there were so many. The two blond ones, Phoebe and Sean Michael, evidently belonged to Mr. Fitzpatrick and some former wife. There was a red-headed toddler, Liama, daughter of red-headed Augustina and black-haired Sean Fitzpatrick, the half-brother of the now absent black-haired Kat Macleod, daughter of Maeve. Kat was married to Connor Macleod, son of James Macleod, a Denver photographer who was married to Maeve. James had been as nice to Kristin as Maeve had been hard-hearted. Kristin sighed. What a confusing family! She thought she had the names and relationships right. Molly, three years old and daughter of Connor and Kat, was black-haired like her mother and uncle, and then there was a sandy-haired teenager named—what was his name?—he was evidently a son by some previous marriage of Connor Macleod's. Connor also had a grown daughter who was married and lived somewhere else.

  Kristin had just scorched another of Mr. Macleod's shirts with the flat iron when she heard Mr. Fitzpatrick in the dining room say, “I thought I'd seen a ghost when she sat down to dinner."

  "Nonsense,” said Connor. “She's eight or nine inches shorter."

  "Still, the resemblance is uncanny. I can't stop looking at her."

  "You'd better,” said Connor, “if you don't want to find yourself in hot water with your wife."

  Are they talking about me? Kristin wondered. Then she was distracted from that question when Connor Macleod said, “Did you see that mob of angry men down by the saloon? They'll probably show up at our door any minute."

  Sean laughed. “And Kat out of town. I always said my sister was a troublemaker. I used to catch it for her antics when she was just a tyke."

  "Maybe they'll call on Reverend Passmore instead of us,” said Connor. “How Kat could team up with him to campaign for Sunday closing is beyond me."

  "She'd team up with the devil if it meant closing a saloon,” said Sean.

  Kristin shivered to think that frightening mob of thirsty miners might come up French Street. Surely they'd have gone back to their mines by now? Bone-tired, she hung one shirt and picked up another. They seemed awfully limp, not at all like her father's and brothers'. Was there something else she was supposed to have done beside wash and iron them? Mr. Macleod hadn't said. Then she whipped her hand away from the iron, having burned herself for about the fortieth time. The iron made another yellow-brown patch on the shirt. She hoped Mr. Macleod wouldn't notice. Maybe he'd be so glad to have a clean shirt that he wouldn't care.

  "He's left Chicago,” shrieked Minna. “I've been jilted!"

  "Now, now. Maybe he has business out of town,” said Heinrich Traube, but he too looked anxious. He couldn't find his youngest daughter, and now his eldest daughter's fiance had disappeared as well. Mr. Traube hadn't had the heart to tell Minna that Pitman Cameron had declared the engagement “in abeyance” until Kristin was returned.

  Jack Cameron spent three days in Denver trying to trace Kristin Traube and Maeve Macleod, which was two days longer than he had planned. He found a Macleod photographic studio, but it was closed each time he visited it. He found a Timmie Macleod, who was a burly teamster and the foulest-mouthed man he had ever met. He found a Red Betty Macleod, who was a lady of the night in a Market Street crib, but no one knew Maeve Macleod or Kristin. Even in the railroad station where someone should have noticed a beautiful young girl climbing off the train by herself, no one admitted to having seen Kristin. The depot baggage manager became downright belligerent when closely questioned by Jack.

  "And what would you be wanting with such a young lady if there was one?” he asked, eyeing with suspicion Jack's velvet-collared Chesterfield overcoat.

  "I am a friend of the family,” said Jack.

  "Are you now? Well, I've not seen her,” said Mr. Seamus McFinn and slammed down his rolling shutter.

  Jack shook his head and went on to canvas the business district. He also slept uneasily in luxurious accommodations at the Windsor Hotel, dined expensively but with a nervous stomach at Charpiot's, which called itself “the Delmonico's of the West,” and saw a rousing prize fight at the Palace Theater. Denver was a fine town—muddy but exhilarating. He'd have enjoyed it a lot more if he could have found Kristin, but after three days he'd still located neither Kristin nor the mysterious Maeve Macleod. Genevieve Boyer must had been lying to him, and by God, he would see that she paid for it. He was relieved to locate a Pinkerton's branch in Denver and engaged their services.

  Then, knowing that he had done all he could for the moment, Jack climbed onto the train to Breckenridge and read over the reports he'd received on the Chicago Girl gold mine, in which the Cameron Bank had a fourth share. He knew his engineering study had been good, so why weren't they producing more gold? Perhaps they were stinting on the development of the mine, even though they had received a healthy infusion of capital from the bank on his recommendation. The interesting thing was that the partners were named Macleod—Connor and Kathleen Macleod. He hadn't noticed that before. Maybe they'd know Maeve.

  "I see you're lookin’ at gold-mine papers there,” said a fellow sitting beside him, wearing a crushed hat and a embroidered waistcoat with red and purple fleurs-de-lis on a gold background.

  Jack frowned at him. “Do you always read strangers’ papers over their shoulders?” he asked.

  The man grinned, revealing a missing tooth on the left front side. “When I ain't got nuthin’ else to do, why not? Rocky Mountain News hadn't come out when I left Denver."

  Jack had noticed that too. No doubt, out here on the frontier, reading material was scarce and anything would do, even someone else's reading material.

  "You lookin’ for a good gold mine, I got one,” said the man. “Assayed out at twenty ounces of silver and forty ounces of gold per ton."

  Jack's eyebrows lifted, and he knew the skepticism showed on his face.

  "It's a winner,” said the fellow, “or would be if I had me the money to develop it."

  "Where is it located?” asked Jack.

  "Well, I ain't tellin’ that,” the man replied. “Cain't have Yankee strangers jumpin’ my claim, now can I?"

  "I'm from Chicago,” said Jack, “not the Northeast."

  "Chicago's north to me. Makes you one a them big city slickers, don't it?"

  Twenty ounces of silver didn't stir Jack's gambling instincts, but forty ounces of gold was ano
ther matter. “How much money are we talking about?"

  "Why would you be askin'?"

  "Because I'm a banker, and I've already, as you've just ascertained, invested in one gold mine."

  "You got money in the Chicago Girl? Well, I swan. Got yerself a good one there. I'm surprised them Macleods sold you shares. Miss Kathleen, she loves that mine. Found it her ownself. Best business woman on the Western Slope. I know ‘cause I married one of her Chicago girls."

  "One of her Chicago girls?” Jack's attention sharpened. “Connected by any chance with Genevieve Boyer or Maeve Macleod?” he asked eagerly.

  "Cain't say as I know either a them ladies,” said the miner. “My girl's Hettie Mann that was. Now she's Hettie Wapshot, and I'm Aloysius Wapshot.” The man thrust out a callused paw and shook Jack's hand. “So you're a Chicago banker an’ you put money in gold mines?"

  "Only after I've had them inspected by an engineer of my own choosing,” said Jack. “Now about your wife—"

  "Ain't sellin’ my wife,” said Aloysius Wapshot.

  "I'm not asking you to. I want to know about the Macleods and the Chicago girls."

  "Nuthin’ to tell. They brings ‘em out and finds husbands fer ‘em—substantial fellas like me, fellas who might consider partin’ with half the shares in a good mine, given enough capital money to develop it."

  Jack studied the man carefully. He had found in the past that he had a good eye for swindlers, and he didn't think Mr. Wapshot was one.

  "By God, you're interested. I kin see it. I knew this was my lucky day when I found that horseshoe on the street. Sunk in mud it was, but I seen it. Where you plannin’ to get off? Breckenridge I reckon, if you was goin’ to see the Macleods. Well, the Macleod mine ain't goin’ nowhere. Why don't you just stay on the train with me and come to Aspen. I'll find you a good engineer."

  "Thanks, but I'll find my own,” said Jack. With the scent of profit in his nose and the conviction that Kristin was safe and could be found next week, he added, “I think I will accompany you to Aspen, Mr. Wapshot."

  Kristin stared woefully at Molly's ruffled frock. The iron was cold again, the ruffles scorched. As patient as she'd been, Miss Kat would not be pleased. Kristin sniffed and brushed away a welling tear. This housewifery was a depressing business, and she hadn't painted a single picture since she'd got here, although the mountains rose majestically at the edges of the valley that held Breckenridge. Not that the valley was any beautiful sight with its muddy river, misnamed the Blue, and its inexplicable piles of gravel.

  The town was small, undoubtedly too small to harbor any art collectors, if Kristin ever managed to produce any art in between the ironing, the dusting, the washing, and all those other activities at which she was so inept. She was trying to act as servant to nine people. In Chicago there would have been a swarm of knowledgeable servants to take care of so many masters. Here there was just Kristin, the hopeless housemaid.

  Still, it was a wonder Miss Kat seemed so anxious to marry her off. Surely even an inept housemaid was better than none. And it was so embarrassing. Kristin didn't want to tell Kat Macleod why it was that she refused to entertain suitors, although they had collected on the front porch after church. Evidently word of an unmarried female ran through the bachelor community of the Western Slope like wildfire. Men from miles away had come to meet her.

  Curse Jack Cameron! If she ever saw him again, she'd—she'd—well, she didn't know what she'd do, but she'd better not find herself with child. Kristin's hand had been pressed against the small of her back, which was aching. Now she moved it around to pat her waistline. No sign that she was turning into a pickle barrel, thank God. That was the only sign of pregnancy she knew.

  Chapter Five

  "Excuse me, sir."

  Jack looked up from his newspaper. He was traveling to Breckenridge from Aspen, where he had been offered shares in numerous silver mines and refused them all. He did wire his father for money to invest in the Wapshot gold mine. Pitman Cameron had replied that he did not appreciate buying into a second gold mine when he had sent his son west to investigate the first, which was not yet showing much profit. However, he had sent the money. The Cameron Bank, not to mention Jack himself, were now part owners in Aloysius Wapshot's venture.

  "Sir,” prompted the unknown gentleman, seating himself beside Jack, “I believe you are Mr. John Powell Cameron, who bought into an Aspen gold mine."

  "I am,” said Jack, deducing from the accent that the fellow was a New Yorker.

  "I am Melrose Farr."

  "The fellow who tried to buy Wapshot out for a practically nothing?"

  "All in the way of business,” Mr. Farr responded. “And I am still interested in that mine."

  "Well, now it will cost you a good deal more than you would have paid had you offered him a fair price in the first place,” said Jack, turning the page of his newspaper. There was nothing he relished more than a good financial haggle, and he knew how to conduct one—by exhibiting disinterest to the party who wanted something Jack controlled.

  "Are you disinclined to sell?"

  "It would depend on the price.” Jack named an outrageous one.

  Mr. Farr blanched.

  "I see that you are not a serious buyer,” said Jack and returned to his newspaper. He was reading of Aspen's attempts to clean up its red light district, which he had visited for the local interest, not to search for Kristin. He had convinced himself that she was safe in Breckenridge under the protection of the Macleods. Jack looked forward to seeing her, poor girl. What an adventure she had had! And women were not appreciative of adventure.

  "Fifty thousand,” said Mr. Farr, his voice tense.

  "That might be enough for my shares, certainly not enough for the bank's as well.” Jack gave his newspaper a shake and began to read about a lady of the night named Merciful Minnie, who had injured an Aspen policeman by cudgeling him with a wooden leg, which she had snatched from a one-legged customer on the second floor of the brothel.

  "Seventy-five thousand,” said Mr. Farr.

  "Make it a hundred, and I might consider your offer,” said Jack.

  "Sir, that is outrageous."

  "Then you don't really want the mine.” Jack returned to Merciful Minnie who, on the way to jail, had screamed obscenities at several respectable ladies on the street. A charge of public indecency and lewd language had been lodged against Minnie for her remarks.

  "Very well, a hundred thousand,” said Mr. Farr. “Dammit, what did you pay Wapshot?"

  "That's my business,” said Jack, but he had just tripled his money and felt very happy about it. Although the mine was a good one, Aloysius Wapshot had not struck Jack as a reliable partner. Jack would have had to hire a manager and oversee the venture himself. “If you are able to produce the hundred thousand by close of business tomorrow in Breckenridge, the Cameron shares will be yours."

  They shook on it, and Mr. Farr fell into a brooding silence, no doubt wondering whether he had made a wise investment. Jack picked up his newspaper, which also contained information about Merciful Minnie's colleagues, who had caused such a ruckus in the local jail that the police chief was quoted as saying, “From here on, if the citizens of Aspen want to interfere in the operations of the red light district, they'll have to do it themselves."

  Jack chuckled. Although the towns were smaller, the West was much more amusing than Chicago. Maybe he'd stay. A profit of sixty-six thousand dollars might convince his father that the Cameron Bank needed a branch in Colorado. As long as they didn't put any money into silver, the price of which was falling and would, in Jack's opinion, continue to fall, Cameron's of Colorado should be very profitable.

  "Mummy,” said three-year-old Molly Macleod, “the ruffles on my petticoat have turned brown."

  "Mine too,” said Phoebe Fitzpatrick.

  "I suppose the water's bad again,” said Kat.

  Kristin, as soon as she heard the words brown ruffles, departed hastily for the kitchen, knowing that she h
ad scorched them all.

  "Kristin,” called Kat, “do let the mud settle in the river water before you wash the clothes."

  "Yes, ma'am,” called Kristin from the kitchen and breathed a sigh of relief just before she discovered that her stew had burned again. She quickly poured what was not blackened and stuck into another kettle and hid the burned pot on the back porch. Someone would comment on the peculiar flavor, but the Macleods and Fitzpatricks had been remarkably tolerant of her novice efforts.

  In fact, Sean, Miss Kat's brother, seemed to like everything she did and followed her constantly with his eyes. She could tell that he was making his wife, Augustina, nervous. In fact, everyone who looked into Kristin's face, except the children, seemed alarmed or bemused, as if they were looking at a ghost instead of a pretty girl. At least, friends in Chicago had said Kristin was pretty, but perhaps only in contrast to the rest of her family.

  Not that it mattered. Because of Jack Cameron, she was unmarriageable, even if she had wanted a husband to take care of her. She told herself every night before she went to sleep that she no longer wanted to marry, that she truly looked forward to becoming a famous and wealthy spinster artist. But it was getting harder to believe she would succeed when all she'd done in Breckenridge was housework.

  Thinking of Mr. Cameron reminded her of the Breckenridge priest, Father Boniface Wirtner, whom she found very intimidating. Kristin had yet to go to confession because she did not want to confess her loss of virtue. But if she never confessed, she could never be forgiven. It was a frightening thought.

  She had got the stew boiling in the second pot and decided there ought to be some sort of award for bravery, an award intended just for housewives and maids. What a terribly difficult activity it was! She hadn't yet managed to light the stove on her own. Mr. Sean did that for her, and he had trouble because he kept staring at her. Then, with the stove lighted, she never knew how much wood to feed it or how hot it should be to bake bread, as opposed to meat or cake. Nothing came out right when Kristin cooked.