Jack put her hands on the buckle of his heavy leather belt, and Kristin knew immediately that she could satisfy all her curiosity about men—about Jack, for she had no curiosity about other men. He stood at the center of her universe, the heart of her desire to see. She managed to unbuckle the heavy belt, to work open, one by one, the buttons on his trousers, and she felt a sort of wonder. He was so different. Not ugly or frightening. Just very different. Very exciting.
"You can touch it,” he said softly.
Kristin looked up into his eyes, then down as she reached a tentative hand to him. First she ran a finger along the shaft, which was harder than the muscle in his arm, than the stones that made the mountains, as hard as the handle of the axe Oakum used to chop wood, and as smooth. Then her exploring finger touched velvet. Her husband groaned.
"That's enough,” he said, his voice tight and soft. He reached for her, and Kristin was disappointed that she could no longer look or touch, for she thought of her life as being in her eyes and in her hands.
The disappointment was only momentary, for when Jack urged her gently onto her back and lifted himself above her on straining arms, she discovered that she could see for a minute the coming together of their bodies, the slow disappearance of his—what was it called?—into herself. Then they blended together in a needy, seeking, liquid blaze of excitement, the power of him, the sure stroke and heat of him inside her, plunging until the long shudders attacked her inside and out, both her and Jack. Naked in the dappled sunlight. On the soft blanket. Trembling. Stilling. Sweat on their skins like dew in the pine-scented air.
For a long time, Kristin cuddled against him, mind and body in such a state of dreamy contentment that it was hard to think of anything. She wasn't sure how long they had lain there, naked. Dozing. Happy.
"Sun's getting lower in the sky,” Jack murmured lazily.
"I never finished my painting,” she murmured back. She could just see the easel over the intriguing bulge of his shoulder and biceps.
"You'll remember the scene.” He had turned on his side to kiss the corner of her mouth where the raspberry stain had been, the little spot that had started it all.
"This is terrible, you know,” she said sadly.
"Terrible? I thought we were superb."
"It was unnatural.” Kristin could almost hear Sister Mary Joseph hissing in her ear. “Only at night.” It was all coming back to Kristin now that dark urge was satisfied and the spell of pleasure spun out.
"What do you mean, unnatural?” He sounded more amused than worried.
"How can you not think so? Surely, nobody does—does what we did in broad daylight ... in a wood where anyone could come along ... and see ... and know how, how sinful—"
"Who's going to come along? I'd wager there's not a soul in ten square miles, and the bear's dead.” He was laughing, pleased with himself.
"I don't know how you can take this so lightly,” said Kristin. She sat up and gathered her clothing, one arm shielding her breasts, really worried now. Embarrassed. “I'm sure the Holy Mother is very shocked and disappointed with us,” she said.
"Nonsense. The Holy Mother expects married couples—"
"—to disgrace themselves in a public forest?"
Jack grinned. “We don't know that it's a public forest. Maybe someone owns it."
"That's even worse. About the only saving grace is that it's Tuesday.” She had turned her back and hastily pulled on her drawers and chemise, her light summer petticoat, ignoring her stays, which would take too much time. She stuffed them into the picnic basket and turned to him, careful to keep her eyes on his face, nowhere else.
"Tuesday?” Jack looked confused. “You mean it's all right to make love in the forest on Tuesdays but not other days?"
He was hopeless. She couldn't believe that he'd been educated by the Jesuits and still know nothing about what was proper between married couples. “Get dressed,” she whispered. Amiably Jack pulled on his trousers while she turned her back. She would not look any more.
"Want me to do your laces?” He had fished her stays out of the hamper while she was stepping into her dress. Since they were so hard to do herself and the dress waist didn't fit comfortably without them, Kristin agreed.
"Lord, you have a beautiful back,” said Jack as he began to tug on the strings. “Such delicate shoulder blades.” He leaned forward and, brushing her loose moonglow hair aside, kissed the back of her neck, then watched with satisfaction as the goose bumps rose along her shoulder. He tied the strings and then slipped his hands around to cup her breasts, to run his thumbs inside her chemise and across her nipples. She jerked under his touch, giving him even greater pleasure. She was so responsive.
"No,” she said sharply.
"Just one more kiss,” said Jack. He pulled her down into his lap, kissing her deeply. “And one more,” he murmured. Kristin pushed him away, single tears slipping out of each eye.
"You just don't understand,” she said accusingly.
"Indeed I don't, but it's been a lovely afternoon.” Why did she feel that married love-making was sinful? he wondered and decided that it must be the embarrassment of a new bride. Undoubtedly, as she became accustomed to the pleasures they found together, she'd relax and stop thinking that anything unusual and overwhelming was sinful. Satisfied with his reasoning, he helped her up, reaching for his blue shirt as he rose. “All right now. Let's get you dressed.” He pulled the forgotten pale green confection of a gown up and helped her into the sleeves, buttoned the row of tiny pearl buttons, then donned his shirt, laughing, saying, “If every artist looked the way you do, love, they'd never have a chance to paint anything."
"I didn't choose this dress,” Kristin retorted. “It was what Yvette thought proper for a picnic."
"I didn't mean the dress, but Yvette does have good taste. You have to give her that."
"She's bossy."
"That too.” Jack collected the remains of the picnic and then Kristin's art supplies, after which he helped his wife up onto the wagon seat.
She sat there, feeling glum.
"Your painting of Mohawk Lake looks like it's going to be beautiful,” said Jack.
She nodded, thinking she might have come close to finishing it if she hadn't—her mind shied away from what had happened. No matter how wonderful it had felt, she knew she must have sinned grievously. Of course, that was the nature of sin. Its allure was the great pleasure it offered. She could almost feel Sister Mary Joseph hovering behind the two of them like a great, black, bat-winged angel of vengeance.
"Who will you send it to?” asked Jack. “Actually, someone in town might want it. Would you like me to ask among my investors?"
"That's all right,” said Kristin, not wanting to be indebted to him any more than she was already. “I'll send it to Mrs. Potter Palmer."
Jack nodded. “Don't let it keep you from the self-portrait. I have my heart set on seeing that finished."
She should be painting herself in a hair shirt, not that lavender gown, Kristin thought. Never in the daylight, Sister Mary Joseph whispered in her ear.
"Are you cold, sweetheart?” asked Jack.
She shook her head, thinking about pleasure, which she had certainly felt and was not supposed to, and about unnatural acts, which she had probably been guilty of, for she had touched his—what was it called? Kristin had no idea, never having known about that extra appurtenance on a man's body, not until she married Jack. This time she had seen it, since they hadn't been wearing the proper nightclothes. And because they'd participated in “the act” at an improper time, certainly in an improper place.
So what was it called? she wondered with intense curiosity, picturing it in her mind. His pleasure loaf? She almost giggled, then felt doubly guilty, but still the most similar shape she could think of was one of her many failed attempts at baking. A loaf that was the wrong shape to begin with because she'd got the amounts of flour wrong, and then it never rose. Although his pleasure loaf had certainl
y risen. Oh dear. She truly had to stop thinking about him. And it. And “the act.” But how she'd love to paint him without a stitch of clothing!
Her father had been right not to send her to Europe. She was much too weak and sinful a woman for such temptations. She probably would have painted a naked man if she'd ever had the opportunity, although she couldn't imagine how such an opportunity would come about. Unless one were married in an unchaste union. As she was.
She had to get out of Breckenridge! That was the only way to save her soul.
"It's a pity about the bear,” said Jack.
"What?” There he sat, her beautiful, tempting husband, his soul in mortal danger, and he was thinking about a bear.
"The skin would have made a fine rug. And we could have butchered it and taken home some of the meat. I've never eaten bear."
"I don't understand how you can cut up an animal. Or shoot one, for that matter."
"If I hadn't shot it, my dear wife, you'd be the bear's dinner."
Kristin nodded, thinking, I'd have been dead. Unshriven. Roasting in hell for unconfessed sins of the flesh. She tried to picture hell and was caught up in the thought of painting it. What did hellfire look like? she wondered. What sort of flames? She hadn't seen the great Chicago fire, which occurred before she was born. And no matter how intriguing to the artistic eye a fire might be, her parents had never been willing to take her to one.
"For a woman who has a pig slaughterhouse in the back yard, you're certainly squeamish,” said Jack, chuckling.
"I'm never there when they butcher the pigs. The smell is bad enough without having to actually watch."
"You don't have to tell me,” said Jack. “The neighbors are complaining."
Kristin sighed. “I'll talk to Oakum, although I don't think I can do anything about the smell."
"Move the whole operation elsewhere,” suggested Jack.
"I can't,” said Kristin. “That's why Kat gave me the house. She'd have a perfect right to complain—"
"All right. All right,” said Jack. “Let's not quarrel after such a lovely afternoon."
Kristin looked up into his eyes. He had no idea of how much endangered his soul was. She should probably try to explain it to him, but he didn't seem to care, and she was too embarrassed to bring it up when it would remind him of her shameless conduct that afternoon.
She'd start packing as soon as she got home, she promised herself, slip out of the house tomorrow morning when he'd gone to his office. It shouldn't be too hard. Maybe he'd go out of town, rounding up more mining syndicate investors.
Where would she go? Denver? The Pinkerton detectives who had found her before were there. Somewhere else then. At least she had money that she could take out of the bank. Not to mention the fashion money Jack had given her. She'd have to pack up all her new paintings, hope that the wet ones came through the move without—
"I'm as hungry as a bear.” Jack's voice interrupted her thoughts. “But I imagine Abigail will have something tempting for us to eat tonight."
Tempting. Sister Mary Joseph seemed to echo Jack's words in Kristin's head. Sensualism is an abomination to God, Sister Mary Joseph had said. The good sister had seen one of Kristin's paintings and denounced it as being too sensual. Kristin hadn't even know what the nun was talking about. The word sensual hadn't had much meaning for her in those days, when she was an innocent young convent girl who never thought about men and didn't know what a man's pleasure appurtenance looked like. She wouldn't call it a loaf anymore because that made her want to giggle, and it was probably another sin—giggling about an object of sin. Oh dear, she had to stop thinking about it.
Chapter Nineteen
"Dinner bell's rung,” said Jack, walking into her room without knocking. “Aren't you—what the hell are you doing?"
The chemise she was about to pack fell from her hands.
"Now listen to me,” he said. “You are not running away again. Do you understand that? You can have the room to yourself, but I'm leaving my door open. You won't be able to get out of the house without my hearing. And I'm assigning Maude to dog your every step."
Kristin stared at him.
"It's dangerous for a girl like you to be running around alone. Didn't the bear teach you anything? And you're probably accosted on trains. For heaven's sake, Kristin, show a little sense. What we did this afternoon is part of marriage. A very nice part."
"It was a sin,” said Kristin.
"The devil it was."
"Exactly."
"Well, I don't care what silly ideas you have about sex. I don't want you coming to harm, and I intend to see that it doesn't happen—even if I have to hire Pinkerton's on a permanent basis.” He walked out and slammed the door.
Kristin picked up the chemise. Somehow or other she'd get away. He couldn't have her watched every minute. Maude didn't have the time for it, not with Winifred wanting everything in sight waxed, polished, blackened, or lightened. Winifred was the scourge of dust and dull surfaces. Kristin went to the mirror and rearranged a few locks of hair before going down to dinner. She was ravenously hungry. Sinful activities evidently sharpened other appetites. That in itself was probably a sinful thought.
Pinkerton's? There was no branch in Breckenridge. He'd have to send to Denver. Did he really want her to stay that much? She had to squelch a thrill of pleasure. Before he could rehire Pinkerton's, she told herself severely, she'd be gone.
Kristin was at her easel, working on the painting of Mohawk Lake, every brush stroke reminding her of something that had happened between her and Jack the afternoon before. Maude sat in the corner, chatting and polishing silver. Although she seemed to have no idea why she was tagging along after Kristin, Maude did it faithfully, even to the extent of following Kristin to the necessary house, which wouldn't be there much longer. Jack had been talking at dinner last night about putting a reservoir on the roof that would catch rainwater and pipe it down into the house for bathtubs and water closets.
Kristin hadn't said so, but she figured the water tank would fall through and kill everyone beneath it or, at the least, drench the furniture and interiors. But she wouldn't be here to see it. If she had to leave her house to Jack, she was going to do it for her soul's sake.
"Mrs. Macleod to see you, ma'am,” said Winifred.
Kristin put aside her brush to welcome Kat, only to find that the Mrs. Macleod entering a step behind Winifred was Maeve Macleod. Had Maeve found out about the shocking activities yesterday at Mohawk Lake? Kristin felt her cheeks turning pink in anticipation of the tirade to come.
"Well now,” said Maeve, “no need to look like that. I haven't come to quarrel."
"You haven't?” said Kristin in a wary voice.
"No, I've come to employ you."
"I'm not doing maid work anymore."
"For which I'm sure all those in need of maids are grateful,” replied Maeve. “But that's not my business. James and I are opening a saloon here in Breckenridge."
Kristin put her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Since Kat couldn't vent her feelings in front of her temperance friends, Kristin was her chosen confidant.
"Yes, we're going to call it the Chicago Irishman in memory of my dear first husband, Liam Fitzpatrick."
The one who had died of drink?
"A fine man,” said Maeve. “Always kept food on the table, unlike James, who's a dear man too but not the best provider. Nor careful with money. Nor good at making it."
"He's a wonderful photographer,” said Kristin.
"Aye, but I don't want photographs on the walls of the Chicago Irishman."
Kristin's heart began to trip with excitement. Had Maeve Macleod come to offer a commission? She'd wept over the pastel of Bridget. Two tears.
"I've seen that mural you did for Hortense. An ugly thing, to be sure. Why anyone would want mining scenes I can't imagine, but still they looked just like real mines and miners, and I've a great desire to have pictures of the old country on my own walls."
>
Kristin's heart sank. “I've never been there."
"Of course, you haven't, but I'll tell you about it. ‘Twould be a fine thing for me to look upon the beauties of Ireland while I'm serving up beer and spirits to the poor thirsty miners of the town, many of them, I've no doubt, hungering for a sight of the old country themselves."
"Well, I'd be delighted to try,” said Kristin. Greens. She'd heard how green Ireland was and thought of all the luscious shades of green she could use on the walls of Mrs. Macleod's saloon. It might be disloyal to Kat, who had been such a good friend, but business was business, as men were always saying. Kristin couldn't resist the greens—chartreuse, emerald, lime, kelly, jade, forest—
"Heavens, girl. Your face is aglow. I never realized a blonde could be a beauty. I take it you're interested?"
"Oh, yes,” said Kristin eagerly. “When shall we start? I'm almost through with this painting."
Maeve studied it thoughtfully. “Well, you have talent. That's a beautiful spot. Where is it?"
"Mohawk Lake."
"Mohawk Lake!"
Maeve had heard about yesterday's picnic sins! At the time, Kristin hadn't given a thought to the possibility of spectators. Since then, she'd been able to think of little else. Spectators and mortal sin.
"That's where that evil German carpenter took my Kathleen when he abducted her."
Brought out of her tangled thoughts, Kristin said, “I've never abducted anyone, Mrs. Macleod."
"Now, girl, don't look so distraught. I know you're not about to abduct Kathleen—or Bridget either. Why would you? Although you have no child of your own.” She stared at Kristin's waistline. “You don't have one on the way, do you? A woman with child can't be climbing ladders."
She and Jack were kissing madly yesterday, among other things, but then it wasn't kissing that made babies. Unfortunately, they had been doing the other thing too. “I don't look as if I'm with child, do I?"
"You don't. But then you wouldn't. You haven't been married that long.” Maeve thought a moment, tapping her forehead as if to inspire memory. “But I'd forgotten. He seduced you before—"
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