“What can I do for you? And weren’t you in here earlier? This morning, with a pretty lady—yes, I’m sure it was you.” His welcoming smile stretched. “Of course, I never forget a face.”
“Never?”
“Nope. Never. Well, almost never, leastways.” Planting his hands on the counter, and leaning closer still, he asked, “So? What’ll it be?” He swept a glance from Jack’s hat to his boot tips. “We got a little bit of everything. Spurs, hats, denim workpants if the ones you’ve got are your only pair. Socks, though during these hot months there ain’t much call for the woolen ones but we got those too, if you’ve a mind for some. Let’s see…we got a fair selection of mining tools, although I got to admit Jake over at the Smithy has got some mighty fine hand-hammered items. Now, what else…?”
Jack held a hand up to stop him. “I already know what I need.”
The clerk scratched behind his right ear with an index finger that looked like it hadn’t seen a bar of lye soap in a month of Sundays.
“Well why didn’t you say so, then? You could’ve saved a feller the trouble of ticking off the display shelves if you’d let on you know what you need.”
“Ah, I didn’t mean to let you go on so. It was…” Jack shrugged diplomatically. “It was just interesting to hear that you offer such a vast array of goods. And in such a compact space, too. Why, you’ve got a real knack for showing the stock to its best advantage.”
Annoyance turned instantly to pride.
“Why, we do have a real nice place here, don’t we? My missus and me, we bought it from her papa. Well, we own the building but the bank gave us the seed money to stock up and all. That Mr. Brown, he’s a good man. If it wasn’t for his generosity you wouldn’t see so many fancy things in these here showcases. No sir, we wouldn’t have been able to keep such a fine place if it wasn’t for Brown’s Bank.”
Brown. Everywhere he turned he either ran headfirst into that crook Randall Brown or the preacher’s grandson. Would he have no rest until he shook the dust of this town off his boot heels?
Jack ignored the reference to the banker. He pointed to the front window’s display ledge.
“There is a pair of ear bobs in the front window. Silver with turquoise inlay. I’ll take them.”
****
Kristen pulled herself back to reality.
Daydreams were nice, but in their proper time and place. With barely an hour to prepare for the first lesson, this was neither.
It still hadn’t sunk in that the germ of the idea, planted so innocently over the previous night’s mashed potatoes and chicken, had grown so quickly. By the time the earliest rays of sunshine swept across her brow through the lacy curtains, Kristen had lain awake beneath the counterpane nearly all night debating whether she’d had a brilliant idea or merely a wishful dream.
But she hadn’t been dreaming. One innocent, wistful remark had been enough to set her on a new path. She would have to think of something special to do for Julia, especially if this plan was a success.
Over slices of delectable peach pie, she had broached the subject of giving private elocution lessons to her fellow boarders. The idea had been so enthusiastically received that the first lesson was set to take place this very afternoon.
It was almost too much for Kristen to believe, that she could be paid to teach the basic rules and practices of gentility. She had taken so many of her talents for granted, the lessons for each having begun so early in her life that the ins and outs of needlework, languages, social graces, watercolors and a plethora of likewise information seemed ingrained, part and parcel of who and what she was.
Fortunately for her, not every woman had received the same education. Julia, Geraldine, Roberta, Justine and Eliza were anxious to broaden their horizons. Only Edith had refused the offer of lessons. She wasn’t as warm toward Kristen as the other women, so it wasn’t surprising when she claimed to have other things to better occupy her time. Her disdain at the proposal hadn’t thwarted anyone’s enthusiasm. Besides, five pupils were more than enough to keep Kristen’s mind—and hands—busy.
Hopefully her purse would benefit from the arrangement. The initial lessons offered were thrice-weekly afternoon embroidery sessions and hour-long, post-dinner meetings to discuss etiquette. Those, also, were tentatively scheduled to take place three times a week. All had agreed upon a modest fee, and each woman agreed to pay Kristen at the end of each week for the number of lessons attended. To keep track, Kristen drew up a basic ledger page, listing five pupils and leaving room to fill in which classes they attended.
Mrs. King, the boardinghouse owner, had heard the plan and confessed she had once been part of eastern society. A husband with a mining urge had brought her out west. When he passed on, she had stayed but said she still missed more genteel pursuits. With unbridled enthusiasm, Mrs. King had even volunteered to step in and teach any class if Kristen found herself one day otherwise occupied.
The arrangement looked, on the surface, perfect. However, a troublesome finger of doubt had poked Kristen all day long. What if the lessons proved to be a disaster? What then? She had no other method of support figured out, so without the lessons she would be back where she started. Worse off, even. When she began her journey she had at least had a small nest egg. Now she was practically destitute.
This has to work
.
Nothing can go wrong. Nothing.
“Kristen?” Julia drew the last syllable out in a singsong fashion. “You’ve got a visitor at the front door. Should I let the feller—ah, the
gentleman
—in or would you like to take his call on the porch? I don’t mind relaying a message, if you’ve a mind to give one. It ain’t any trouble at all.”
She let the slip slide, especially since it was obvious Julia had attempted some measure of gentility in her announcement of the unexpected caller. Had this been Boston, there would have been a calling card. But, as she reminded herself at least a dozen times each day, this wasn’t Boston.
Kristen threw her hands up in frustration. If she accepted a caller, who would finish setting up the chairs? She had only pulled half of them into a circle in the parlor.
Julia quickly offered to help. “You’re getting the chairs together here, ain’t you? Why don’t you let me finish, so you can go see the man outside.”
“You don’t mind?” Refusal was out of the question. “The last two are over there.” She pointed to a pair of blue side chairs.
“I don’t mind at all. Go on, see the guy. He’s mighty cute, if I do say so myself. And, he’s got that look on his face.”
Halfway to the parlor door, Kristen stopped.
That look?
“What do you mean? What kind of look is on his face?”
Julia was in the process of dragging one of the chairs across the worn rug. Julia crossed to the first blue chair and tugged it over the rug, talking over her shoulder while she worked. “Oh, you know the look I mean. It’s the kind that says he’s done something wrong, and he knows it. More to the point, he knows you know he’s been a creep. If I was the wagering kind—and I’m not, mind you—but if I was, I’d bet my bottom dollar he’s here to beg forgiveness.”
With a soft grunt and the push of one hip, Julia moved the chair into position. She wiped her palms down the sides of her dress, looked up at Kristen and asked, “So, what did the feller do? And are you going to forgive him for it or not? Me? I’d let him wiggle like a worm on a hook for a spell before I caved in, but that’s just me. You do what you want. After all, you’re the teacher and I’m just the pupil.”
Julia’s grin was lost on Kristen. She suspected her apprentice had much more experience with men, fish and hooks than she did. Was it possible the wrong person was giving lessons here?
Julia was right. The man on the porch was handsome, sorrowful-looking and, as he turned to face Kristen when she came outside, looking to make amends. Patrick’s expression, coupled with the way he worried his hat’s brim between his fists, was all but comical.
Had she not been concerned an immediate pardon might give the wrong impression, or lead to a second round of amorous advances, she might have laughed aloud. Instead, Kristen concentrated on staying solemn in the face of his discomfort. It was tough, but she managed to keep a bland expression.
“Whatever are you doing here? I thought we concluded our…ah, our dealings for the day.” Her tone was deliberately neutral. Mindful of the hour and her first lesson, she added, “I’m on a schedule, so please get to your point.”
“I don’t blame you for being angry with me.”
He closed the space between them with one large step, forcing Kristen to bend her neck backward and look up at him. Concern tugged his brows together, and once again she had to try to contain her amusement. Patrick must have seen the flicker of emotion in her eyes, however, because his lips twitched, chasing some of the seriousness from his face.
“Dare I hope? Maybe you’re not as angry as I think you are, then?”
She took a step back, bringing her spine in contact with the closed door. The movement didn’t put much extra space between them physically but she hoped it might convey an unspoken message.
“No, you’re right. I am annoyed with you.”
And nearly every other man in town, practically.
“Your behavior by the creek was shocking. I thought better of you, Patrick. Really, I did, and I’m disappointed that you did…that you tried…ah, that you acted in such—well, you know what you did. I don’t need to explain.”
He studied her silently. His hands had stopped crushing his hat brim. Now, he turned and placed the hat on a small wooden table beside the door. Then he stepped a few inches closer, all the while looking deeply into Kristen’s eyes.
She reached a hand behind her and found the doorknob. The knowledge that escape was but a fast turn of the wrist away steadied her galloping insides. She lifted her chin, the defiant pose one she had learned at her father’s knee. Sometimes it worked to get her what she wanted. Other times it didn’t, but it might just add some credence to her side of the debate.
“Are you so angry that you won’t forgive me? Were my actions so despicable that they are unpardonable?”
Patrick swept a fingertip across her cheek. She would have twisted away had he not pushed an errant lock of hair up toward her right ear. She reached a shaking finger to finish tucking the stray curl into place.
“What’s it to be, Kristen my sweet? Will you forgive me or not?”
“Don’t call me that,” she whispered. Endearments were meant to be reserved for lovers. She and Patrick would never, ever be that close. They would never be lovers. The sound brought heat to her face, but a chill to her heart. “It’s not right, and you know it.”
“You haven’t answered my question.” He held her gaze captive with his. She felt exposed and vulnerable to his scrutiny. “Will you forgive me? You know in your heart it’s the right thing to do, to forgive someone their misdemeanors. Say you’ll forgive me.”
“I will. But don’t do…ah…” She hated being trapped. Her hand tightened its grip on the doorknob but, despite the lure it dangled before her, she stubbornly refused to turn it. She cleared her throat and chased the tremor from her voice. “Don’t do what you did down by the creek again, Patrick. I mean it.”
He heaved a sigh, and then nodded. “Thank you for your pardon. I appreciate your kindness regarding my indiscreet behavior.” His eyes searched hers for so long she wanted to look away.
With an expression not much changed from the one he’d worn when she first opened the door and stepped onto the porch, Patrick nodded a second time.
“Fine. I’ll honor your wishes but I’ve got to say—even if it’s just once that I say it—that I’m attracted to you, Kristen. I may be a preacher’s grandson, and a man with some hard and heavy ties to scripture, but I’m still a man. And a man has feelings and—no, I see your eyes growing round at my words and I don’t want to rile you again so I’ll stop here but you know now how I feel.” He took his hat from the table and fitted it on his head. With a sweet, yet regretful, smile, Patrick said, “I just want you to know that while I fancy you, I won’t wait forever for you to return my feelings. A man’s got to find companionship, and build a family, so I want to be clear that if you don’t indicate you might have some romantic leanings my way, I’ll move my sights elsewhere.”
His honesty loosened the knots in Kristen’s stomach, as well as her grip on the doorknob at her back. She brought her hands together at her waist and jerked her head in understanding. “I understand.”
Patrick leaned close, his breath warm against her cheek as he spoke directly into her right ear. “I do hope you’ll change your mind. Really, I do.”
Chapter Eleven
Things weren’t going the way he planned. By now the deed should be safely back in his saddlebag. He should be halfway home to Kansas. And the last thing on Jack’s mind should be a woman—even if she was by far the most beautiful, honey-haired woman he’d ever run across.
With those deeper-than-deep blue eyes…he couldn’t forget those eyes. Every time he closed his own, Kristen’s cerulean blues haunted his dreams.
Why hadn’t he just ridden by when he saw that stagecoach being robbed? He could have waited for a more opportune time to reclaim his deed. There might have been a moment before it found its way into Randall Brown’s greasy fingers when he might have snatched it back, tucked it into his coat pocket and turned his horse, Midnight, around. If he’d done that, taken a more sensible approach to the matter, Kansas soil would be beneath his feet now instead of the red powder that passed for ground in this Godforsaken wilderness.
Why didn’t I leave that stagecoach alone? What was I thinking, throwing myself on top of that woman?
Jack slapped a hand across his thigh, the stinging on his palm strangely satisfying. It reminded him that although his mind was in turmoil his body was, as ever it was, in full control. That, at least, was something.
He walked down the street at a slow pace, with no reason to hurry. He had nowhere to go.