“No.” He tucked his wallet back into his pocket, and took her elbow.
“No?” She tugged her arm from his hold. “Yes, there is. I’ll show you.”
“No.”
She fell in step beside him as he walked to the door. “Brett Quinter, I’m not leaving here without my paintings. Now, quit being so grumpy.”
Jenny tried to make him stop or turn around, but he shook her hold off like a fly on a cow’s back.
“Suit yourself,” he said, without missing a step toward the doorway.
Chapter Three
Eva, unable to keep up with the tears flowing down her cheeks, shivered as Bug walked out the door. She’d never wanted him to learn about Willamina’s death this way. The pain, the hurt, on his face remained before her eyes even when she closed her lids. How could she have been so callous?
So uncaring? That wasn’t like her.
She bowed her head, burying it in both hands, and leaned against the wall. Yes, he’d hurt her. How could he believe she had no idea what was happening, that she didn’t know what was going on?
She wasn’t gullible, nor was she stupid. Of course, fifty percent sounded like a lot, but Jack had taken a chance on her, and she owed him for that. Paying him with money was better than paying him in other ways. And using a false name had been partially her idea. She didn’t like the idea of everyone knowing who she was. When the time came, and she wanted to settle down and raise a family, no one would know that she was Eloisa Reynolds. She’d once again just be Eva Robertson.
Willamina had liked the idea. And she liked that painting of herself. She said it showed her soul.
Being a washwoman that is. It demonstrated how she’d dedicated her life to keeping the world as clean and bright as she could.
“Eva?”
She wiped at the tears still flowing and glanced up. “I need to leave, Jack. I just need to leave.”
“All right, sweetheart,” he took her arm. “Come this way. We’ll go out the back. It’s only two blocks to the hotel.”
Words wouldn’t form, so she nodded, thankful for his kindness. It was always there, just below the surface even when others didn’t see it. The jaunt to the hotel didn’t take long, yet, by the time they arrived, she’d dried her tears and regained control.
In the front lobby, she stopped Jack.
“I’m fine. You don’t need to see me up.”
“Are you sure?” He patted her cheek.
“Yes.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “I should get back.
I’ll explain you came down with a headache.”
She rubbed her temples. “You won’t be lying.”
“I know,” he said. “I met him.”
The smile that touched her lips was real. “He’s a nice person. It was just—”
“Don’t try to explain it all now. We’ll talk at breakfast. I really need to get back to the gallery.
Benjamin Cannon is very impressed by the event.”
“I’m glad.” She was, but it didn’t resonate in her chest as it should. “Go on. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He brushed a gentle kiss to her cheek. “Sleep tight.”
She waited until he’d walked back out the double glass doors etched with huge roses before she turned and made her way to the front desk. There she inquired about having two meals sent up to her room. With the assurance the food would be delivered in half an hour, she went to the long stairs, and taking one at a time, prepared herself to face her traveling companion.
September Quinter was only fourteen, but a more mature, insightful young girl probably didn’t exist. The Quinters—Bug’s family—had been very supportive of Eva’s painting career, but when it came to this trip to New York, they’d been adamant she wasn’t going alone. Every one of the brothers, as well as their wives, had offered to travel with her.
Their offers had been sincere, it had been their abilities to comply that she questioned. The men were very busy with their businesses, and their wives, just as busy with their families and children.
It had been Ma Quinter who suggested September, and Eva hadn’t been able to say no to the girl, for it was evident September looked at this trip as the chance of a lifetime. It had been so far.
Jack had made sure they had a private car on the train ride, and the hotel they stayed at was the best in the city.
Whenever they’d had a spare moment the past two weeks they’d explored fancy shops or gone sightseeing, including the newly structured Statue of Liberty, for which every Quinter family member had made a donation. Joseph Pulitzer had sent out a fundraising plea in his World newspaper, asking every American to step up and contribute to the cost of building the base for the statue. Pulitzer said, “The statue was not a gift from the millionaires of France to the millionaires of America, but a gift of the whole people of France to the whole people of America.” As soon as she’d read the article, Ma Quinter had set about collecting donations from all of western Kansas.
A smile touched Eva’s lips as she recalled how folks had asked Ma why she was so passionate about funding something she’d never seen. Ma, in her no nonsense way, had said she didn’t have to see something to believe in it.
September, as well as Eva for that fact, had been thoroughly impressed with the statue, and couldn’t wait to tell Ma all about it. The thought made her pause. Fingering the key she’d pulled from her pocket, Eva glanced down the hall. It was empty.
The red, plush carpet had been recently swept, not a foot print could be seen in the pile. Eva thought of September and how the girl had taken notes about the hotel, things she wanted to tell Randi and Hog about.
They weren’t scheduled to leave until next week, but Eva was ready to leave now, tomorrow at the latest. September wouldn’t mind, the girl was ready to be home. She hadn’t wanted to attend the art show, and Eva hadn’t forced her. Though September would have loved to have seen Uncle Bug. They hadn’t discussed it, yet Eva knew the girl had hoped as badly as she they’d run into him.
The key slipped from her fingers, hitting the floor silently. How was she going to keep the fact she’d seen him from September?
****
Bug held the door for Jenny to enter the hotel.
The four block walk from the art gallery hadn’t eased the pain in his chest. Matter of fact, the air, which he had imagined would be cool and refreshing, had coated the back of his throat as soon as he’d stepped out the art show door. Hot, stuffy, and disgusting, the air had made its way into his lungs, where it still hung like dust-coated cobwebs.
Without looking his way, Jenny marched through the door. Her fancy heeled boots echoed off the tile covering the foyer floor. He’d told her he wasn’t fit for company, and that she should go back and buy her paintings, even offered to send a bellhop from the hotel back down to fetch her. But, silently, angrily, she’d refused and stomped down the boardwalk beside him.
They’d stopped at the street corners, waiting for a break in the never ending traffic before crossing, and even then, when he tried to take her arm, she kept it tucked to her side, letting him know just how unhappy she was with him.
She didn’t pause now, waiting for him to catch up as she stormed toward the staircase like a thundercloud rolling in from Colorado. He wasn’t none too happy himself. Bug let her climb the stairs by herself as he made his way to the front desk.
There he asked the man about having the painting wrapped and shipped.
Happy to assist a guest, no matter what the task, the man assured Bug all would be taken care of and relieved him of the painting. At a cross roads, and not knowing which way to go, Bug spun around, and rested his back against the tall desk with his elbows on the top.
“Brett, my boy,” Chester Staples greeted, stepping off the wide staircase. “I just passed Jenny.
She didn’t appear to be in a good mood. The art show wasn’t what she expected?”
“No, I guess not,
sir,” Bug answered, pushing off the desk.
Chester frowned deeply. “I’ve seen Eloisa Reynolds’s work. It’s brilliant. What was the problem?”
Hearing that name made Bug wanted to shout—It’s Eva Robertson, not Eloisa Reynolds —but he couldn’t. Nor could he say he was the problem, not to Jenny’s father—his boss. The man, though fair and honest, loved his daughter and catered to her every whim—most of which drove Bug batty.
“Come on, join me for a drink,” Chester gestured to the room across from the desk. “Did you get a chance to eat? I know you didn’t before you left for the show.”
“No, sir, we didn’t eat.”
“Well, Jenny will send Charlotte down to get something. I’ll have a drink while you eat.” Chester turned, walking toward the dining room, and Bug, knowing the man expected it, followed.
Poor Charlotte, the household employee from the Staples’s Pennsylvania home that traveled with Jenny as her fulltime maid, would get an earful.
Most likely about his boorish behavior. Bug liked Charlotte, she was a feisty little thing when she wanted to be, but there wasn’t a whole lot he could do to ease what she’d have to put up with tonight.
After they sat, and Bug asked for whatever the evening special was and Chester ordered his bourbon, the man let out a small chuckle. “Did you tell her she couldn’t buy anything?”
“Excuse me?”
“Jenny. Did you tell her she couldn’t buy any of the paintings?”
“No, sir, I didn’t. Matter of fact, I told her to buy whatever she wanted. I said I’d send a bellhop down to help her carry it home.” It was the truth, minus some other serious pieces, but still, the truth.
“She’s a lot like her mother was. Stubborn and strong willed. They don’t make them like that anymore.” Chester smiled at the waitress who set a glass down in front of him. “One more after this, darling.”
“Yes, sir,” she agreed, and then turned to Bug.
“Your meal will be out in a few minutes, sir.”
“Thank you,” he acknowledged, doubting he’d be able to swallow a bite. It stirred his stomach just thinking how no one in his family bothered to write him about Willamina. Hell, he didn’t even know when she’d died. Was it last month? Last year? That kind of news was important. His family had told him about new babies, each one of his brother’s had had one of those since he left home, and they’d told him about other friends that had passed on. Why not Willamina?
Something snapped. He blinked, looking to see what it was.
Chester held up his hand and flicked his thumb over his finger, making the sound again. “What’s the matter, boy? You were miles away.”
He couldn’t lie to the man now anymore than he’d been able to a few minutes ago. When he’d arrived in Pennsylvania with his oil sample almost three years ago, Chester had been one of the first men he’d met. The man was part owner of the American Refinery Company near Bradford, Pennsylvania. The company produced over eighty percent of the country’s oil and had the world’s most prolific oil fields.
Upon hearing about the oil sample Bug had brought in, Chester had contacted him and invited him to visit the fields. Their relationship grew steadily, and before long, Chester offered him a job.
Bug was resistant at first, since he’d come to learn enough so he could go back to Kansas and create his own company, but Chester had been insistent, and eventually convinced Bug he’d only know enough to make him dangerous by just visiting the fields. If he worked for the company, learned every aspect of the oil business, when he returned to Kansas, he’d be destined to succeed. Chester had also implied the American Refinery Company would be interested in financially backing Bug’s oil business.
“Did something happen, tonight, Brett?
Something between you and Jenny?”
Bug shook his head. “No, sir. Nothing more than usual. Jenny gets frustrated with me on a weekly basis.”
Chester laughed and swallowed the last of his bourbon. The waitress was there with the second glass before he set the empty one down, and she also placed a plate of food in front of Bug.
“Let me know if you need anything else, gentlemen.”
“We will, darling, thank you,” Chester answered.
Bug didn’t even bother to pick up his fork. The food wouldn’t do his stomach any good, so there was no sense sticking it in his mouth. He met Chester’s gaze, “Sir, I received some news tonight. A dear, dear person I knew back in Kansas has died. I need to return home.”
Chester bowed his head in respect. “I’m sorry to hear that, Brett. And I understand. How long will you be gone?”
“How long?”
“Yes, when will you be returning?”
“Returning?”
“Yes, to Pennsylvania. How long do you plan on staying in Kansas?”
Bug didn’t need to contemplate an answer.
“Forever, sir. That’s my home. I won’t be returning to Pennsylvania.”
“Oh.” Chester took a sip of his bourbon. He took his time swallowing. “I knew this would happen someday, but…”
“I never said I’d stay in Pennsylvania, sir. You knew my plan was to return to Kansas from the beginning.”
“Yes, yes, I did. It’s just that since you and Jenny. Well, I guess I'd hoped she’d convince you to stay on the east coast. I don’t see her settling very well in Kansas.”
Bug practically swallowed his tongue. The danged thing had swollen to twice its size. “Excuse me, sir? Jenny settling in Kansas?”
Chester leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “I must insist the two of you marry before you go. I can’t allow her to go otherwise. Her mother would spin in her grave.”
“Marry?” He could barely breathe around his swollen tongue.
“I know the girl has imagined a large, lavish wedding since she was a child. It’ll take a few weeks to put it together.” Chester glanced across the table.
“Who did you say died? A family member? Would the rest understand if you can’t return immediately?”
Bug’s mind spun so fast his vision was blurred.
Marriage? The thought—that of marrying Jenny—had never crossed his mind. Hell, maybe Ma wasn’t so out of the ordinary. It appeared every parent was set on marrying their kids off lickety-split.
“It was a family friend, sir,” he managed to say, realizing Chester waited for an answer.
“So they’d understand if you aren’t able to return to Kansas immediately?”
“Yes, I mean, no. I’m returning immediately, sir.” “That’s impossible. Jenny—”
Bug’s wits returned along with his upbringing.
“Sir, excuse me for interrupting, but, Jenny, is a fine girl. A nice girl, and I haven’t minded watching out for her, now and again, but, sir, I never asked Jenny to marry me. I can’t marry her.”
“Like hell you can’t!” Chester roared loud enough to startle the waitress on the other side of the room. The sound of broken glass echoed in the deepening silence.
Chapter Four
“What do you mean, going home?” Jack asked, coffee sputtering from his lips “Shh.” Eva pressed a finger to her lips.
“September is still sleeping. She was up half the night packing her things.”
Jack set the cup down and wiped his mustached mouth with the white napkin supplied by the bellhop who’d carried the breakfast to the room.
Dressed in another impeccable suit, with his coal black hair neatly combed, and his shoes smartly shined, Jack looked as elegant this morning as he had last night at the art show.
“Eva, I know seeing your friend last night has you confused, but really, honey, running back to Kansas? That’s not like you. You’ve gone head to head against me over trivial things. Trust me, I know how stubborn, persistent, and determined you can be.” He frowned, then grew more serious. “Who is this Bug person? What aren’t you telling me?”
&nb
sp; “Nothing. Bug is the youngest Quinter brother.
You’ve met the others.”
“Yes, and it was like being interrogated by a Confederate brigade. I thought they were going to take me out back and tar and feather me.” He twisted in his chair, as if shaking off an eerie feeling.
“It wasn’t that bad and you know it.” She ate the last slice of her orange, licking the juice from her fingers.
“Maybe not for you, but for me…Let’s just say, I know where you stand with those men, and I’ll never do anything to cross them. Especially not that Indian.” He shivered again. Then as if his worries were over, he picked up his fork and stabbed a sausage link. “This Bug is the youngest?”
“Yes.”
“You never mentioned him before, nor did the other brothers. Why not?”
“I don’t know. I guess he never came up.”
Jack stared at her, extremely serious, for a long time. Her nerves peaked, tickling her skin from the inside. She reached for her cup of tea, but changed her mind, afraid her shaking hands would spill the contents across the white tablecloth.
Jack set down his fork and wiped his mouth once again. “It’s a funny thing, you know.”
“What?”
“What I’ve learned about love over the years.”
“Love?”
“Yes. Love.” He leaned forward and planted both elbows on the table. Touching the fingertips of both hands against each other, he continued. “Of love and women that is. You see, when a woman first falls in love with a man, it’s all she can think of, all she can talk about. To the point others get tired of listening.
But, later, when that love has settled deep inside her, she protects it like a baby. Oh, it’s still all she thinks about, but it’s so precious to her, she keeps it to herself, unwilling to share.”
Eva folded her hands on her lap, squeezing the trembling knuckles against one another.
Jack sighed. “So, this Bug Quinter, he’s the one holding your heart. I’ve always known there was someone, but I thought perhaps he’d died, and the memories were too painful for you to speak of him.”
Wildcat Bride Page 3