This Gun for Hire Page 13

  Ann heaved a mighty sigh. “Those were merely examples of sport. There are others.”

  Calico was certain that Ramsey could not raise his eyebrow any higher without a block and tackle, but he proved her wrong. She looked away quickly, pretending interest in a bolt of gray wool serge until she could temper her smile.

  “Tell me about these others,” he said.

  “If you must know, archery and shooting.”

  Calico began to finger the fabric as though testing its strength, but she heard Quill clear his throat. Beside her, Beatrice drew in a soft but audible breath. Mrs. Birden tsked.

  Ramsey Stonechurch said in stentorian tones, “Mother of God, spare me hell in a teacup. Absolutely not.”

  “Father!” Ann appealed to Calico. “Tell him, Miss Nash. Explain to him why these are perfectly reasonable feminine pursuits.”

  Calico grimaced, but her features were composed by the time she turned and lifted her head. As she expected, everyone was staring at her, but only Ann’s expression was pleading. She faced her squarely and left no doubt that she would not be manipulated. “If I am going to explain anything, I will do so at the request of your father, and regardless, I will not be pressed into providing one in Mrs. Birden’s establishment.”

  Ann flushed at the rebuke, but she took it on the chin, albeit a slightly wobbly one now. She released her father’s arm. “You are right, and I am sorry.”

  Calico thought the apology was credibly sincere, and the way Ann’s eyes darted from person to person, it was clear that she was begging everyone’s pardon for the awkward moment.

  “I believe I would like to step outside,” said Ann. “Excuse me.”

  No one stopped her, but Calico immediately made to follow. It was Ramsey who put out an arm as she would have picked up her coat. “Let her go,” he said. “I know my daughter. She needs a moment to cool those hot cheeks.”

  “But I should—”

  He shook his head. “She won’t move away from the window. Give her a brief respite.” When Calico made no further move to retrieve her coat, Ramsey lowered his arm and regarded his sister-in-law. “Ann said you were also interested in these sporting clothes. Was she telling me true or attempting to elicit your support?”

  “Intrigued,” said Beatrice, clapping her hands lightly together. “I do not think I am mistaken. The word she used was ‘intrigued,’ not ‘interested,’ and I can say without fear of being contradicted by either Miss Nash or Mrs. Birden that I was most definitely intrigued.”

  “But not interested, eh?”

  “No. Goodness no. Not for myself. I imagine I would look quite foolish in sporting clothes. It seems to me that it is a fashion for younger women like Ann and Miss Nash. They would be very well suited to hemlines raised above the ankle and those darling little jackets that are cut just at the waist. Quite stylish and much more practical.”

  Ramsey remained suspicious. He said to Mrs. Birden, “Show me.” And then he added to the room at large, “Not that my daughter will be carrying a quiver or raising a gun in my lifetime, but a bicycle is not out of the question.”

  Calico, who was watching Ann at the window, exchanged a glance with Quill as Mrs. Birden drew Ramsey closer to the table to examine her fashion catalogs. Beatrice Stonechurch unclasped her hands and made room for him.

  Calico carefully sidled away. Not only was she not interested in the fashion plates, but in the main, she found them ridiculous. Women on the plains and prairies had been pulling the trigger on shotguns whenever they needed to, and she had never heard of one of them pausing to change into something more sporting.

  She went to the dress shop’s large window and looked out on Ann Street, observing the activity over Ann’s right shoulder. The wide thoroughfare seemed to be home to every sort of industry, and as she stood there, the pedestrian traffic began to increase markedly. Here was the afternoon shift change, then, and even as she watched, Ann began to move with the tide, drifting away without purpose, like so much flotsam at the mercy of the current.

  Quill was suddenly beside Calico, holding out her coat. “Your reticule?” When she nodded, he handed it to her. His approving quicksilver grin was how he communicated that he knew her derringer was inside.

  Her response was to nod, and then she was out the door.

  * * *

  Calico dogged Ann’s footsteps until the girl stepped sideways into the recessed alcove between the mercantile’s pair of windows. She did not think she was mistaken that when Ann turned, there was both surprise and relief in her expression. That made her consider that Ann was not trying to hide, but rather that she had tucked herself into the alcove to get out of the way. It did not seem to be the behavior of someone anticipating a stolen moment with a passerby, but Calico also recognized it gave Ann a good vantage point from where she could observe everyone.

  Calico joined her in the alcove and turned so that she also faced the street. “Your father asked Mrs. Birden to show him the sporting clothes.”

  Ann nodded but said nothing, and her fleeting smile was resigned, not hopeful.

  “I did not encourage him. Your aunt had a hand in that.”

  Ann continued to stare straight ahead. “It doesn’t matter. He will never permit me to learn to shoot or take up a bow.”

  “Do you really want to learn to use a bow?”

  “No. I said that to distract him.”

  “So you are not interested in tennis, croquet, or riding a bicycle.”

  “I am not uninterested, but what I want is to be accomplished with a gun.”

  “An Annie Oakley?”

  Ann wrinkled her nose. “I do not want to join a Wild West show, if that’s what you mean.”

  “God forbid. Why is it so important to you? I do not recall seeing anything of the sort in your extensive curriculum.”

  “It’s there,” she said. “Or at least the intent is there. Every one of the schools Father wants to send me to has courses to promote physical health and fitness.”

  “I suggest you reconsider the bicycle, then. I do not think it requires much in the way of fitness to shoot a gun.”

  “I suppose.”

  Calico did not think she sounded convinced. “I admit to being curious. Since you have given this some thought, who did you have in mind to teach you?”

  “Mr. McKenna.”

  Calico was so rarely astonished that she had forgotten what a peculiar state of mind it was. She struggled to find words, and then to find words that were appropriate to say in the presence of this particular young lady. She finally came up with, “Goodness,” and recognized what a shamefully inadequate response it was when she heard it aloud.

  Recovering her wits, Calico said, “Have you discussed this aspect of your education with Mr. McKenna?”

  “I certainly intended to. To my regret, I put the cart before the horse. I did not expect to see him or my father walk into Mrs. Birden’s. That has never happened. My enthusiasm for the sporting clothes outran my common sense.”

  Calico said nothing. It was a truth that everyone who had been in the dress shop could support.

  “Do you have any advice for me?” asked Ann.

  “Advice? About what?”

  “About Mr. McKenna, of course. I need his cooperation.”

  “Aren’t you putting the cart before the horse again? I think you need your father’s approval.”

  “No. I cannot broach the subject with him, but if Mr. McKenna can be persuaded, he will encourage my father to see the sense of what I want. He has some influence there. I have witnessed it.”

  “Well, I have no influence with Mr. McKenna, and if you speak to him on this subject, I will be unhappy if my name comes into it.”

  “All right.”

  Calico stared at her young charge, suspicious of Ann’s easy surrender. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You
’re going to chip away at him, aren’t you?”

  “Like a chisel on marble.”

  Calico laughed, encouraged. “Good girl. Shall we go back to the shop?” She put out a hand, indicating the street where the traffic had begun to dwindle and said casually, “Unless you are waiting for someone.”

  Ann frowned deeply. “What do you mean?”

  Calico shrugged. “You were staring out so intently as the men were going by that I wondered if there wasn’t perhaps someone you hoped to see.”

  “Did you? How peculiar. No, I was simply thinking.”

  Calico stepped out of the alcove and Ann fell in beside her. They turned in the direction of the dress shop. “Do you know them?” Calico asked. “The men who work for your father, I mean.”

  “The ones who work in the offices, yes, but not the miners. I recognize faces and know some by name. Father does not encourage familiarity. He thinks it is not proper.” She smiled a trifle crookedly. “He is rather like a feudal lord in that regard. I have mostly become accustomed to it, but not without considerable frustration.”

  “I see,” said Calico. And she did, all of it. As Ann pointed out, accustoming oneself to a different perspective was not without considerable frustration.

  * * *

  Calico waited until she heard Ramsey Stonechurch climb the stairs and go to his room before she left hers. Whether by design or habit, he was the last one to retire, and the wait for him to do so had seemed interminable. Calico read for a time, played solitaire, cleaned her Colt and then her rifle, turned down her bed, and poked at the logs in the fireplace at least a dozen more times than she needed to.

  Ann had gone to her room immediately after dinner, and no one suggested she linger. Beatrice excused herself soon after, claiming she had a headache. As soon as the other women left, Calico sensed an impending interrogation, and she spoke up quickly to head Ramsey and Quill off, explaining she had to prepare for Ann’s lessons and never giving them an opportunity to insert an objection.

  She thought it was possible that Quill might show up at her door, and she would have welcomed the opportunity to speak to him alone, but he never came. She learned from Molly, who had arrived with a tea tray at Beatrice’s request, that Quill was gone from the house. Calico could only imagine that he had gone to one of the mines. It was late when he returned, but he still went to bed before Ramsey, and his footsteps never slowed as he walked past her room.

  Calico hurried down the hallway when she heard Ramsey’s door close. She had removed her shoes. Her woolen socks cushioned her footfalls, making her passage virtually silent. She wore a nightgown and a flannel robe and had confined her hair to a single plait that fell over her right shoulder. It was not her preference to have a confrontation in her nightclothes, but she had to be prepared if someone happened upon her in the hallway.

  When she reached Quill’s room, she did not hesitate. She turned the doorknob quickly and slipped inside. A single lamp burned on the nightstand beside the bed. The fire in the grate crackled but provided little in the way of light. Still, what was there was enough for her to see that the bed was unoccupied. The armchair facing the fire had its back to her. She expected that if Quill were sitting there, he would have already said something. Nonetheless, she stepped forward carefully in the event he had fallen asleep in it. He had not.

  Puzzled, Calico turned slowly as she remembered that his room was a mirror of hers, right down to the wardrobe on the opposite wall and the closed door beside it that led to a bathing room. She approached it, rapped lightly with her knuckles, and listened for a reply. She heard nothing.

  After a brief debate in which she weighed the consequences of intruding against the consequences of inaction, she opened the door, poked her head inside, and withdrew it just as quickly. She quietly pulled the door shut and then knocked louder than before. Almost immediately there was splashing, some thrashing, and a few words that were largely unintelligible.

  Good, she thought, removing herself to the bed. She had his attention.

  It was not long before Quill appeared in the doorway. Water dripping from his tousled hair collected in the towel he had slung around his shoulders. He carried a shirt over one arm, his trousers over the other. He had hastily jammed his legs into a pair of gray flannel drawers and now they clung damply to his hips, thighs, and calves. He was barefoot, he had yet to shave, and even in the meager light, his blue-gray eyes glowed like a wolf’s.

  His mouth flattened and a muscle worked in his jaw. Calico was heartily relieved by it, and she came within a cat’s whisker of telling him so. Some bit of common sense asserted itself as she opened her mouth to speak, and she clamped her lips together. He would not have understood anyway, she thought, but a grin stamped on his face right now would have been gilding the lily.

  “Start explaining.”

  “You know,” she said conversationally, “I am considerably more civil when you intrude on me.”

  His expression did not change. He was giving her no quarter. “That is not an explanation.”

  “Prickly. Would you like to finish bathing? It seems a shame to let the water grow cold, and I don’t mind waiting.”

  “Calico, I swear to God that I will—”

  She put up a hand before he made a threat that he would feel compelled to carry out. “All right. I thought it would be obvious. I need to speak to you.”

  “Now? At this hour?”

  “There was another hour that was better? You were holed up with our employer after dinner and then you left the house. It was already late when you returned, you did not stop at my room, and I decided it was wiser to wait to see you after Ramsey went to bed. He did that just a very little while ago.”

  “Then he is not asleep.”

  “Probably not, but if I had waited any longer, I would have been. I expected to have to wake you.” When Quill did not admit that she had, she went on. “So here I am. Are you going to dress? You’re dripping.”

  Quill looked down at himself at the same time a droplet of water from his elbow splashed on the floor by his foot. Regarding Calico sourly, he tossed his shirt and trousers onto the chair and finished drying his arms and chest. He rubbed his hair with the towel one more time before he slung it around his neck again. Ignoring his clothes, which answered her question about dressing, he remained in the doorway and leaned one shoulder against the jamb as he folded his arms against his chest.

  “Wouldn’t you be warmer closer to the fire?” When he merely continued to stare at her, she said, “I guess you’re hot enough, leastways that’s how I’m interpreting that look.”

  “Good for you. Now, what do you have to say?”

  “Where did you go tonight?”

  “To the Number 1 mine.”

  “I thought you might have. Ramsey stayed inside.”

  “He promised. When Ramsey and I were talking after dinner, he said something about a man named George Kittredge that made me think I should better acquaint myself with him.” He paused, this time setting his jaw, and asked, “Again, what do you want?”

  “You really do not like your bath interrupted.” When she thought he might actually growl at her, she put out a hand. “I want to talk about Ann. I thought you should know what I learned this afternoon. It will be up to you to decide if you want to repeat it to Ramsey.”

  “Is this more about Ann having her ear to the ground? Because I’ve already told him about that.”

  “No.” The space between her eyebrows puckered slightly. “Are you certain you don’t want to put a shirt on? I think I see gooseflesh.”

  Sighing, Quill pushed away from the door frame and went to get his shirt. He threw off the towel, shrugged into the shirt, and buttoned it as he sat on the arm of the chair. “I don’t know why I ever thought this was a good idea.”

  “Yes, you do.” She smiled but did not elaborate. Instead, she said, “T
ell me how it came to be that you and Ramsey ended up in Mrs. Birden’s shop. Ann assured me that it has never happened before. And no, there is really nothing you can do except humor me. It will ease your mind if you recall that I have humored you on more than one occasion.”

  He was silent a moment, then, “No, I am not finding that as helpful as you seem to think.”

  Calico was not diverted. “Go on. Tell me.”

  “It is no great mystery. Ramsey and I were standing on the sidewalk outside the Stonechurch office. Frank Fordham was in the doorway and he wouldn’t let us leave. There is always one more thing with Frank. I was listening to him, but I could see that Ramsey’s attention was wandering. He kept glancing down the street, and then he suddenly decided he’d had enough and announced we were going. He did not say where, and I did not ask, but the dress shop wasn’t our destination. We had just passed it when he stopped, backed up, and cupped his hands against the window so he could peer inside. The first I knew you were in the shop was when he told me.”

  “Huh.”

  Quill stretched his legs. “What?”

  “How did he tell you?”

  “I don’t know. He said you were in the shop.”

  She fiddled with the end of her plait, brushing it lightly against her jaw as she thought. “I mean, did he say something like, ‘There’s Miss Nash.’ Or did he mention his daughter first? ‘Why, there is Ann. I should probably stop her before she spends all my money.’ Maybe he saw Beatrice.”

  “Is this important?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Let me think.” Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. “He mentioned you first. Something like, ‘Well, here’s a piece of luck. Miss Nash is looking at fashion plates.’” He opened his eyes and stared at her. As understanding came to him, his eyebrows lifted a fraction. “He has an interest in you.”

  “See? I think that is important.” Calico yanked at the quilt folded at the bottom of the bed and pulled it around her shoulders and across her lap. “It might not bother you, but it gives me gooseflesh.” She regarded Quill thoughtfully. “Not that I could not accustom myself to the chill when the man is as wealthy as Ramsey Stonechurch.”