West of Paradise

by Hatch, Marcy

  He shut the door and glanced over to where Katherine lay beneath a thin sheet, wearing nothing but her chemise and drawers. Her hair was tangled prettily about her face and she looked up at him sleepy-eyed in that way some women do.

  You should get dressed,” he said. “Harlan’s here. I’ll be waiting downstairs.”

  He grabbed his hat and coat from the chair, slinging his satchel over his shoulders, and was out the door before she had a chance to reply. The boy was already halfway down the stairs, but Jack soon caught up to him.

  “When did Mr. Harris arrive?”

  “About an hour ago,” the boy replied. “He had breakfast first. Then he sent me up.”

  “Of course,” Jack said with a laugh. Only Harlan would come all this way and then sit down to eat breakfast first.

  When Jack reached the first floor, he heard a voice say, “Well, Mr. Smith. It’s good to see you again.”

  Harlan leaned nonchalantly in the open doorway, an unlit cigarette in his fingers. He was dressed entirely in black, as if it wasn’t hot as blazes outside, and smiled as if he was just as cool as a beet in a root cellar.

  “I didn’t expect you so soon, Mr. Harris,” Jack said politely.

  “Ah, well, I knew you and the Misses were anxious to see the place,” Harlan said, adding, “and where is she? Surely not still abed at this hour.”

  “I should think not,” Katherine said, coming down the stairs and looking as though she’d had a good hour to get ready rather than the ten minutes it had taken her. Despite the heat that had settled in she appeared fresh and well-rested, having donned the yellow blouse again but pairing it with a cornflower blue skirt and a matching bonnet with a wide ribbon. Her valise was clutched tightly in her hands.

  “Nice to meet you again, ma’am,” Harlan said, bowing and tipping his hat to her.

  Katherine gave Jack a questioning look but he only smiled and offered his arm, saying, “Mr. Harris has come to show us the place he has to let. He knew how anxious we were to get settled.”

  “How lovely,” Katherine said, playing along.

  They proceeded outside into the bright morning sun where Harlan had a pair of horses hitched to a buckboard, crates in the back. Jack tossed his satchel in and gave Katherine a hand up before pulling himself up. Harlan found his seat and took up the reins and they were soon rattling down the street in the general direction of the railroad.

  “Now tell us,” Jack said, once they were away from the hotel, “what really brought you out?”

  “Well, I do actually have a place to let, I’ll have you know,” Harlan said in an offended tone. “And you might want to make use of it in light of the fact that your friend Mr. Woolbridge has accused you of trying to kill him.”

  “What?”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Katherine sputtered. “He had a gun pointing at us!”

  “I figured it was something along those lines, but you know the Pinkertons. They don’t take kindly to being made to look like fools, and I suspect that’s what happened with Jim.”

  “He was going to take Katherine in. I didn’t have a choice.”

  Harlan glanced over at Katherine. “You sure do look like Alanna.”

  “Well, I’m not!” Katherine said indignantly.

  And Jack said, “The real Alanna tried to kill her.”

  “If you say so. But the word on the wire is that you’re in cahoots with her—with Alanna.”

  “That son of a whore. He knew damn well who I was with. I gave him everything I had on Alanna and he as much as admitted I was right,” Jack said.

  “Maybe he’s tryin’ to cover his own ass,” Harlan suggested.

  “I’m sure he is, but I would’ve thought better of him.”

  “You made him look bad, Jack. But I have a feelin’ he’ll come around. Give him some time.”

  “Time? And what are we supposed to do while we’re waiting?” Jack asked.

  “That’s exactly why I’m showing you this place I got. It’s the perfect spot to lay low and quiet for a bit, way out in the middle of nowhere. You’ll like it.”

  Jack made no reply, seeing the logic in Harlan’s thinking but not liking the sound of ‘way out in the middle of nowhere.’

  They drove in silence for a long while, out past the train tracks and down a well-traveled road that ran straight through nothing as far as the eye could see. An occasional copse of trees broke the dry landscape here and there, but aside from that it was nothing but flat with tall needle grass and broomsedge faded to a dull yellow. A hot breeze rustled along the tips, rippling the surface, making it undulate like a vast sea. Birds flew up at their approach, swerving away across the sky.

  “Whose place is this?” Jack asked after a while.

  “I told you; it’s mine,” Harlan answered. “I grew up on it once upon a time. There was a family there for a while, tryin’ to make a go of the old place but they gave up and went back east. I was hopin’ they might buy it, take it off my hands, but I guess I’m stuck with it for now. Unless you and the Misses think it might suit?” He gave Katherine a friendly wink. Jack returned a scowl.

  ❧

  Harlan’s property was situated down a long narrow lane, half hidden by a grove of bur oak. The house was square and plain, whitewash fading, with a narrow covered porch, a barn, and a number of chickens pecking away in the dirt yard.

  Katherine spotted a well between the house and barn and said a silent thank you to the gods of proper hygiene but withdrew it moments later when she saw the outhouse, door slipping off its hinges and leaning precariously in a westerly direction. Not fair! she thought, remembering the marble floor in the bath of her penthouse apartment—the bidet, hot water at a touch, and the lovely smell of bath oils.

  “Here we are. Come on and I’ll show you ’round, then we can unload the supplies.”

  “Supplies?” Katherine echoed.

  Harlan pointed to the crates in the wagon. “Supplies,” he repeated with a smile, offering Katherine a hand down.

  He took them around the side as the chickens scattered at their approach, motioning to the well and a sagging clothesline strung between a post and one corner of the house. “I expect you can straighten that if you’ve a mind to,” he said to Jack. “No doubt the Misses here would appreciate that.”

  “Enough of the charade,” Jack said, getting annoyed.

  “Sorry.” Harlan put a straight face on and continued, “The chickens were still laying last time I came out, though there’s about half as many. Still, you should get a few eggs every day.”

  He swung the barn doors open and immediately dozens of sparrows flew out into sky and away. The harsh, whispery sound of their wings startled Katherine into stepping directly into Jack. His hands steadied her and for one brief moment she wanted to stay right there, with his hands on her. But she jumped away and scolded herself silently, ignoring him and focusing her attention on the barn’s interior. The bright light revealed three empty horse stalls, roosts for the chickens, and a rusted plow. There was hay up in the loft, and a few holes in the roof where blue sky pricked through.

  “And if you’re really ambitious, you could fix the roof. I’ll even pay you for your time.”

  “Your generosity astounds me,” Jack said, shaking his head, “but I’m afraid I don’t do heights.”

  “Ah, too bad.” Harlan gave a shrug and led them to the house, opening the front door.

  Katherine found herself pleasantly surprised by the interior. It was dusty to be sure, but there was a huge hearth, a wood floor, curtains at the windows, and a braided rug she thought might be brighter given a good beating. A tall cupboard hugged one corner, while an old pine table took up the space before the window. Two black rocking chairs completed the furnishings.

  “I know, the place needs a
good cleaning,” Harlan said, looking pointedly at Katherine. He grinned and opened a second door, revealing a small bedroom, which actually had a bed and an old steamer trunk bound in leather and brass. “There’s a small pantry out back and the loft upstairs.” Harlan pointed to a ladder. “That’s where I used to sleep; cold as hell in the winter and hotter ’n Hades in the summer.”

  Katherine shrugged. “I’m sure we’ll manage. It’s a very nice house.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that. My folks would’ve appreciated it. But here, let’s get those supplies in so you two can get settled and I can get going.”

  Katherine made to go with them but Harlan shook his head and waved her away. “We’ll get this heavy stuff, ma’am. No need for you to strain yourself.”

  A retort nearly tumbled from her lips, something sarcastic, something she might have said to any man who would’ve suggested she might strain herself by lifting a few crates that couldn’t have weighed more than forty pounds. But she swallowed the words and reminded herself where she was, when she was.

  “There is, however, a broom and duster, bucket, cleaning supplies in the shed out by the clothesline,” Harlan said.

  Katherine turned away before she could say anything, marching out of the house. She stomped over to the shed and found the items Harlan had mentioned as well as a few rags. She let loose a frustrated sigh and made her way to the well, which had a pump rather than a bucket on a rope. It took a bit of muscle (as much as it might have required to lift a few crates, she thought) but eventually the water began to flow and she filled her bucket and went inside where Jack and Harlan had brought the crates.

  “What is it?” she asked, peering in.

  “Corn meal, kerosene, bacon, lard, taters, cheese, buckwheat, molasses, raisins, and I forget what else. Hopefully enough to keep you ’til I can get back.”

  “And when might that be?” Jack asked.

  “Coupla weeks, I guess,” Harlan said.

  “A couple of weeks?” Katherine repeated. Surely not, she thought; she couldn’t possibly spend that much time way out here. She needed to get to Leavenworth!

  “‘Fraid so. But don’t worry, you’ll be fine; Jack’s pretty self-sufficient. I hear he even cooks.”

  “Great,” Katherine said. “Because I don’t.”

  Both men turned to stare at her.

  “Well, what I mean is, I can cook, I just . . . I just haven’t . . . much.”

  Harlan raised a brow at Jack. “Good luck to the both of you then.” And with that he was gone.

  Katherine didn’t wait for Jack to give her one of his suspicious looks, setting to cleaning with as much vigor as she could muster. She wiped the furniture down, swept the floor, and dragged the rug out to the porch where she hauled it over the railing and beat it with the broom. A year or more worth of dirt and dust flew out into the air, a great brown cloud.

  She found linens in the trunk in the bedroom, which she washed in a wooden tub along with all the curtains and hung everything out on the sagging line to dry. She dusted the mantle and the window sills, cleaned the glass as best she could, and washed whatever dishes she could find: three deep dish plates, four bowls, a pair of chipped cups, three saucers, some forks, a half dozen spoons of varying sizes, an iron pot, and a skillet.

  She lost track of time in her effort to be busy and make the house clean, although not clean by any standard she knew. Still, it would have to do for the time they were here. She put the dishes in the cupboard, hung the skillet and pot on their hooks by the hearth and, not seeing Jack anywhere, she wrestled the rug into the house and returned it to its place. Then she took a step back to survey her work.

  Better, she decided. Except she was sweating like a pig and probably smelled like one too. She wrinkled her nose and headed to the pump, filling the bucket again.

  She drank first, scooping water into her cupped hands. Then she splashed her face and neck with the cool water, thinking how nice it would’ve been to go for a swim. But barring that, she grabbed the bucket and lifted it high, emptying it over her head, feeling the sudden delightful shock of cold water running down over her head, neck, and arms. It felt divine.

  She opened her eyes and there, standing a few yards away, was Jack, with the most curious expression on his face. It took her almost a full minute to realize what it was.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Salad Days

  Jack stared. His mouth dropped open.

  And he knew he was about as aroused as he’d been in a very long time.

  Katherine’s eyes widened in shock and she quickly hugged herself, covering what had been just about the closest thing to a wet t-shirt contest he’d seen since . . . well, since he didn’t remember when.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, lowering her eyes and hurrying past him into the house.

  Jack stood there, closing his eyes and trying to think of something unpleasant, like Brussels sprouts, maggots, rotting flesh, anything except the image of Katherine standing there with water running down her body, soaking through her thin blouse and leaving next to nothing to the imagination. Almost he laughed, finding it ridiculous that he should be so overcome by a pair of breasts.

  Except that it was painful. So instead he went to the pump and filled the bucket and doused his head under the cold water until he thought he could face Katherine without it being obvious what he would have liked to do with her. He breathed deep and long, wiping his face on his sleeve and picking up his hat where he’d dropped it. He told himself not to be embarrassed, that it was perfectly natural for a man to get aroused when faced with a pair of breasts barely covered by sheer, wet material.

  Nevertheless, he felt his face flush as soon as he stepped inside the house. And even though Katherine had put on a fresh blouse with short puffy sleeves and little buttons down the front he wanted nothing more than to undo those buttons, slowly, one by one; he turned around and walked straight back out of the house and to the pump.

  He splashed his face with cold water then sat down and lit a cigarette, forcing his mind to other matters, for example, what to make for supper. Harlan had been truthful about that; he did know how to cook.

  ❧

  Inside Katherine cursed herself for a fool, yanking the knots from her wet hair with her comb and wondering if she should go out and say something to Jack or if that would only make matters worse. Goodness why hadn’t she thought for one moment? She shook her head angrily, feeling like the worst kind of tease.

  She paced back and forth between the hearth and the open door, debating whether to pretend she hadn’t noticed or go out there and apologize to Jack. She supposed the proper thing would be to say nothing. That’s probably what a woman of the time would do: pretend that nothing had happened. Of course, a woman of the time would never have emptied a bucket of water over her head either. She took a deep breath and went out to the well.

  “Jack?” she called hesitantly.

  She came around the corner and found him sitting there, smoking. He looked up at her, but she couldn’t see his eyes for his hat.

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” she said.

  “Not your fault,” he replied.

  “I . . . it was actually; I should’ve known better. I was just so hot . . .”

  “I know. It’s all right. Go on in.”

  She opened her mouth again, but the words died and she turned around and went inside, plunking down in the rocker with a long sigh.

  A few minutes later Jack came in. He didn’t say anything, going over to the cupboard and perusing the contents.

  “Do you like cornbread?” he asked after a while.

  “Yes,” Katherine answered.

  Jack nodded. “I’ll make cornbread then, and we can have bacon and eggs if there are any. Mind checking?”

  “No, not at all.�
�

  Katherine jumped up, eager to be of help and went out to the barn, finding the nesting boxes after a time, and a half dozen eggs. She gathered them in her skirt, making a cradle, and brought them inside where Jack was slicing up the bacon.

  “Do you know how to crack an egg?” he asked, not looking at her.

  “Of course I do! I’m not completely useless in the kitchen,” Katherine said, adding, “though this hardly qualifies as that.”

  Jack chuckled. “You’re right there. But we’ll make do. Find a couple of bowls and crack those eggs, one by one, mind, in case they’ve gone bad.”

  Katherine followed his instructions regarding the eggs, and sure enough two were gone by, obvious by the pungent reek. “Ugh, they smell . . .”

  “Yeah, I know. Get rid of them quick, out back of the barn.”

  Katherine did so, leaving the offending bowl filled with water by the well.

  By the time she returned Jack had a fire going in the hearth.

  “How did you do that?” she asked, frowning.

  “Do what?”

  “Get a fire going? I didn’t see anything to make one.”

  “While you were cleaning I swept out the fireplace here and went out and collected enough windfall and grass and such to make a fire. I’m handy that way.” He smiled and plopped the bacon in the skillet. “How about some milk from the pantry, flour, the lard, cornmeal, and . . . I think there’s a cake of salt in there if I remember.”

  Katherine found the requested items and brought them out to Jack who mixed everything in a bowl and set it aside to wait for the bacon to cook. Once it was crisp he picked it out with a fork, emptied the grease into a cup, the batter into the skillet and set it over the fire.

  It all took about a half hour or so and Katherine was both impressed and surprised. There was much more to Jack McCabe than the simple bounty hunter he portrayed, she decided, wondering what other interesting traits might be hidden.