By the time the boys arrived home, it was dinnertime. Inky shadows cloaked the Rockies, and the coming night promised to be every bit as cold as the previous one.
Maura had laundered the bedding, cleaned out the hearth, and restored the bedroom where she and the gun-fighter had spent the night to its former state.
The stage had come through at last, and there were three guests in the hotel now, a husband and wife traveling to Wyoming, and an older man passing through to Butte, staying only the night.
She'd already served them all dinner, and had fifty cents in tips in the pocket of her calico dress. She'd been hoping for a chance to steal up to her room so that she might hide the coins in the toe of one of her stockings, or deep in back of the bureau, but Judd and Homer came stomping in before she had the guests' dishes cleared away.
"Hey, there, runt," Judd said, following her into the kitchen and giving her a shove, paying no heed to her armful of plates. "You'd best have plenty of grub left for us. We're halfway starved."
"There's more than enough." Maura quickly set down the dishes, picked up a fork, and began turning the chicken pieces as they sizzled in the skillet. My, Judd appeared to be in an unusually expansive mood. His eerie lashless eyes, so pale a green they were almost yellow, shone like tiny lamps in his round face. And Homer's mouth was twitching in a smug, self-satisfied smirk, the kind he wore when he'd finished throwing some greenhorn fresh off the stage into the watering trough outside the livery. In most ways the brothers looked almost identical. Of average height, they both had the same thick necks, brawny builds, round-as-a-platter faces. And the same lank brown hair. But Judd, at twenty-five the elder by a year, had a bristly handlebar mustache, and his stringy hair hung all the way to his shoulders. Homer's straggled around his ears and just past his chin. His eyes had a few sparse brown lashes, and he had more of a paunch than Judd did—and an even bigger chip on his shoulder. But Judd, with his squashed nose and freckled ears, had by far the more dangerous streak of mean.
"Did you win in the poker tournament?" Maura ventured, stirring string beans and onions in a pan beside the chicken.
Homer stuck his hands in his pockets. "You might say that."
"We done just fine." Judd exchanged a quick sly glance with his brother.
"We done so good, runt," Homer boasted, his nose wrinkling with pleasure at the delicious aroma of frying chicken rising from the skillet, "that one of these days we might even buy you a little present. Seeing as you're our sweet little sis and all. How'd you like a new Sunday dress?"
Maura stopped stirring the string beans and onions and stared at him in amazement. She hadn't had a new dress in years—all she'd done was let out and resew the same ones over and over, adding a bit of lace trim now and then, or a sash when Ma Duncan would slip her some money.
"You did win," she breathed, thinking longingly of the splendid pink velveteen fabric she'd seen in Peever's General Store last week, fresh from the East. She had a picture in her mind of the gown she could sew from it—a fit-for-a-princess gown with long full sleeves like pretty bells, and a white velvet sash and grosgrain ribbon at the bodice....
"Son of a bitch. Don't get carried away, Homer." Judd glared at him, his mood shifting abruptly, as usual. "We done all right in Hatchett," he added, scowling. "But you don't need no new dresses. The ones you got now are just fine."
Maura turned away to stir butter into the bowl of mashed potatoes on the table.
Judd helped himself to a hunk of fresh-baked corn bread. Homer immediately followed suit.
"You take in any money while we were gone?" Judd demanded as he chewed the bread with gusto.
"There was only one customer until today. Because of the blizzard, you know," she added, hoping they wouldn't notice the heat stealing into her cheeks as she thought about that particular customer. "The stagecoach didn't make it through until this very afternoon."
"Well, bring some of this grub out front for us pronto." Judd sniffed approvingly at the chicken frying in the skillet. "Me and Homer have worked up a hell of an appetite trying to get back here tonight just so's we could help you out."
Help me out? Maura bit back a strangled laugh. The only thing Judd and Homer ever did to help out was to stay out of her way. They tracked mud onto the floors, broke crockery, tore and dirtied their clothes, and added all the figures wrong when they tried to check her arithmetic regarding the hotel books. And twice in the past month they'd started fights in the dining room, breaking the front windows and several of the chairs. They still
owed over fifty dollars at the saloon for having shattered the mirror over the bar when they got drunk in November and took target practice at the whiskey bottles, but Big Ed, the owner, was too intimidated by them to press for payment.
Ma Duncan had been a schoolteacher before she married and had tried to teach all of them as much booklearn-ing as she could—but her sons had refused to go to school or study after they turned twelve, and only Maura had appreciated the opportunity to gain an education. Not only had Maura paid attention to her lessons, she had been absorbed by them, and had enjoyed learning everything from geography to spelling and even elocution.
But the boys cared nothing for schooling, for chores, or any kind of work.
And why should they, when they've always had me or poor Ma Duncan to handle everything for them?
"Well, I do appreciate your desire to help me out," she said carefully, not looking into either face as she began arranging the chicken pieces on a platter. How she would love to give them a piece of her mind one day. But she knew she never would. She'd never dared speak back to either one of them. Even on the boys' best days, violence simmered just beneath the surface, and like everyone else in Knotsville, Maura was afraid of them. "We are running low on supplies. If you could get over to the mercantile—"
"Hell and damnation, Maura Jane! You didn't have nothin' to do while we were gone," Homer exclaimed. "Why didn't you go yourself?"
"You're getting mighty lazy, little girl," Judd added, wagging a dirty finger at her. He stuffed another piece of bread into his mouth. "What would you have done if we hadn't made it back today?"
"There's enough for today. But by tomorrow—"
"Listen here." Judd grabbed her arm and spun her around to face him. "Since when do you give us orders? If we feel like loading up on supplies, we will. You hear? And if we don't, then it's up to you. Where'd you be if our folks hadn't taken you in when you were just a little mite—too little to be of any use to anyone? Ever think about that? And why in tarnation Ma wanted a girl, I'll never understand."
"But she did—and you had it easy for years." Homer threw her a contemptuous glance. "Now you can finally earn your keep and you've got the gall to complain about it."
"You'd have been in some gutter by now if not for our pa saying you could come live with us," Judd added. "And don't you forget it!"
Suddenly his arm shot out and he seized a handful of her hair. He gave it a tug, enough to make Maura wince, then let the curls go, slowly, letting them ease through his dirt-encrusted fingers as she watched him in wide-eyed apprehension.
"You got everything you need and want right here—a warm bed, all the food you can eat, and decent clothes to wear," he growled. "Lots of women would be happy with that and not start trying to give orders to their menfolk. But not you."
"Not you," Homer repeated, jeering.
Maura's heart slammed against her rib cage. She fought the anger that rose like acid in her throat, the resentment combined with fear that tingled through her. Her voice trembled. "I only asked you to—"
"Shut up." Without warning, Judd shoved her backward. She careened into the table, slamming her hipbone against the edge, but managed to bite back the cry of pain as she caught herself and straightened.
"Stop your damned bellyaching, runt," Homer warned, taking a step forward, "and get that grub on the table now. We're likely to die of hunger listening to you whine."
He grabbed a chicken
leg from the platter and bit into it as he shouldered his way out of the kitchen. Judd did the same, helping himself to a fat chicken leg and then leaving without a backward glance.
A trail of grease and crumbs was left in their wake.
Slowly, shakily, Maura eased away from the table. She dipped her hand into her pocket, thankful that over the sizzling sounds of the skillet and the boys' rumbling voices, they hadn't heard the coins jingling there.
"As soon as I have enough for a ticket on the stagecoach, I'm leaving," she whispered to herself as she set platters of chicken, string beans and onions, and mashed potatoes on a tray, then removed another loaf of bread from the oven.
"And when I have my own dress shop one day I'll have all the gowns I want and never wear the same one more than once in a week. No one will tell me what to do. And no one will lay a finger on me. And I'll never chop firewood again or wash piles of dishes every night for hours on end."
And there would be only two things she'd remember fondly about Knotsville or this damned hotel.
One was the bleary affection in Ma Duncan's faded eyes when, on her deathbed, she'd thanked Maura for caring for her and told her she could have her pink silk handbag and the pretty enamel jewel box tucked in the upper drawer of the bureau. Maura would never forget the way Ma Duncan had squeezed her hand with the last of her feeble strength and told her that she'd been a good daughter, a far better and more dutiful child than her own flesh-and-blood sons.
Ma Duncan hadn't exactly loved her—there hadn't been enough juice left in her to love anyone, Maura had realized long ago. The woman had been a dried-up mound of dead dreams and lost hope, too tired and dejected to feel much of anything. But she had cared about Maura, had tried her best to be good to her and see that she had what she needed.
She was the closest Maura had ever come to family.
The other memory she would take with her and keep always was last night—the night spent in a stranger's arms, with snow falling outside, a fire crackling within, and Quinn Lassiter's mouth and hands warming her body, holding her close and banishing for a few short hours the knowledge that she was alone in the world.
"I don't regret it," she said to herself as she placed the last slices of bread upon the plate. "The only thing I regret is that Quinn Lassiter isn't a stick-around, settle-down kind of man, instead of a sweet-talking, too-arrogant-to-say-goodbye gunfighter."
The ache that curled through her at this thought surprised her. She steeled herself. Quinn Lassiter had gone off to Helena without a backward glance. And she had her own path to travel. A path she would travel alone.
You don't need Lassiter. You don't need anyone, she told herself. You have to concentrate on getting away from Judd and Homer and this town, and making a decent life for yourself. A life where you won't be afraid to speak your mind, where you can do as you please, earn some money of your own, and settle down someplace friendly. Perhaps even find a friend or two, she thought wistfully— and maybe, if she was lucky, someone to love, someone who would love her back.
February brought more snow and furious winds that galloped out of the mountains and raced headlong across the Montana plains. Long bitter nights followed endless shivery days. Maura worked diligently and single-mindedly and each evening carefully counted out her precious pennies, but by the end of the month everything changed— and her tedious gray world was tilted upside down.
All of her careful plans—the treasured coins she'd gathered and secreted away to buy her a ticket to a new life, her dreams and hopes and visions of a future in San Francisco—all disintegrated into a meaningless haze.
For when the harsh winds of February began to ease toward the milder ways of March, she was struck broadside by a terrifying realization.
She was going to have a baby.
Quinn Lassiter's baby.
Chapter 5
She was changing bed linens on a Wednesday morning when the first wave of queasiness washed over her. It passed shortly, and Maura dismissed it—until the sensation returned the following day while she washed breakfast dishes. A few moments later came a strange dizziness, a light-headedness that had her gripping the edge of the sink, fearful she would keel over.
Maura had never felt anything like it before. Groping her way to a kitchen chair, she sank down, gulping deep breaths of air, wondering if she could have the fever or influenza.
And it was then that she remembered with a white-hot shock that her monthly time had come and gone, and she was late.
Nearly three weeks late.
Perched on the chair, clinging to the sides of the seat, Maura remembered the bouts of nausea and dizziness that Hallie Gordon, the blacksmith's young wife, had suffered when she was with child. And she knew with sudden blinding clarity that this was the same thing.
How did this happen? she wailed silently, her hands flying to her throat.
But she knew how it had happened. The memories of that long snowbound night with Lassiter hadn't faded during the past weeks—if anything, they'd grown more vivid, floating through her mind with disturbing warmth each night as she tried to sleep. The gentleness of his touch, the heat of his kiss, his deep, gravelly voice saying her name, telling her—like a miracle—that she was pretty.
But she hadn't ever expected she'd get pregnant after just that one time!
She'd been a virgin for twenty-four years and the one time she decided to find out what it would be like to lie with a man, to be held in his arms...
It only takes one time, she reminded herself, wishing she had considered that before. But she hadn't. That night she'd thought only of how cold and how lonely she was, how hard life was, how much she needed someone, if only to share the dark hours before the dawn.
Self-pity had landed her in one fine fix.
She paced around the kitchen, returned to the sink, and stared down at the pile of still-to-be-washed dishes. A quiet dismay swept through her. She was going to be bringing a child into this worlds—and giving it a life. But what kind of life would that be?
The same kind she had here in Knotsville? With Judd and Homer as uncles? Stifling the baby as they stifled her, putting the child to work, no doubt, from the time she was old enough to toddle, shouting at her and bullying her as they did Maura?
No.
Maura took a deep, steadying breath, her mind filled with one thought and one thought only. No, she wouldn't let that happen. This child, her child, was going to have a better future than that.
Ma Duncan did her best for me, she thought desperately as she reached for a soiled plate. But she couldn't love me. She couldn't protect me from Judd and Homer. I'm going to do better for my baby. My baby will know love. It will have a real home. Pretty dresses, if it's a girl, she vowed. And an education. If it's a boy, he'll learn manners and respect, right from wrong, as well as figuring and spelling and geography, and how to earn a living in this world.
Things were going to be different for this baby.
So help me God, I'll give my baby a better life than the one I've had, she vowed fervently, one hand moving to her belly, lying protectively against it, as if she could shield the tiny life growing within.
She swayed at the sink as the enormity of what lay before her struck through to her soul. The first thing she had to do, the very first thing, was to get out of this town.
And once she left there would be no turning back—-she must make sure the boys didn't find her and drag her back. If they did, she'd never get away again.
Shoving her auburn hair back from her eyes, Maura began washing the dishes, as if she could wash away every obstacle as she did the soiled remnants of food. She'd have to leave soon, before the boys caught any inkling that she was going to have a baby. She shuddered at how they would react to that. They'd demand to know who the father was, they'd shout at her, condemn her, no doubt call her a whore.
Well, they wouldn't have that chance, Maura decided grimly as she rinsed the dish in her hand and set it down, reaching for another. She had
six dollars and twenty-two cents saved up. It would have to be enough.
She'd leave as soon as an opportunity came along, but... where would she go? To San Francisco? To follow her dream and try to get work as a seamstress in a dress shop, and then gradually learn enough and save enough to open her own shop someday?
She heard Judd hollering for her from the lobby.
"Mr. Edmunds in Room 201 says he knocked over the china pitcher in his room—there's broken china all over the damned floor. Get up there and clean it up before he gets back from the saloon," he told her when she hurried to his side. His pale green eyes glared at her. "Then bring me and Homer some pie and coffee. Go on, get a move on, girl. I swear you been loafin' in that kitchen for hours now."
She didn't bother to answer, just returned to the kitchen for a broom and dustpan, and scurried upstairs to Room 201. On the way, she glanced along the hall to Room 203, where she and Quinn Lassiter together had made this baby that was growing inside her.
He has a right to know.
The thought popped into her head. She froze in the hallway, clutching the broom and dustpan in suddenly shaky fingers.
He won't care, a small voice insisted deep inside her. He won't even remember you. Why bother?
Because it's right. I should tell him. A man has a right to know that a child of his is going to be brought into the world.
She could go to Helena, she thought, a tight knot in her throat. See if he was still there. But then what? What if he didn't want her—want them—what if he didn't care about the baby?
Then she could go on to San Francisco. Find a job, tell everyone her husband died and raise her child alone.
But it would mean living a lie for the rest of her life— and foisting that lie on the baby.
Uncertainty assailed her as she forced herself away from Room 203 and entered the room where china fragments were scattered across the floor. What if Quinn Lassiter did say he would do right by her and marry her? If she went ahead with it, she'd be married to a stranger—a stranger who didn't really want her. Or love her.
Gregory, Jill Page 4
