"I'd be as romantic as you'd let me,” murmured Jack, shifting Molly and waving a hand as if to invite Kristin to sit on his other knee.
"Horsey-back ride,” crowed Molly.
"What?” Jack glanced, alarmed, at the little girl.
"Mrs. Kathleen Macleod,” said Winifred, showing Kat into the drawing room. “Paying an afternoon call."
"Looking for her missing children,” said Kat. “You might have sent word where they were, Kristin."
"I didn't know they hadn't asked permission,” said Kristin.
Kat looked pointedly at Ingrid and her two children on the settee. “You always have your head in a paint jar, Kristin. As far as I know, you haven't even tried to sell Traube's Colorado Sausages anywhere but—"
Jack rose, handing Molly to her mother. “I'm sure you'll support me, Mrs. Macleod, in my suggestion that Kristin accompany me to Denver tomorrow. I have business and can escort her safely on her selling mission."
"I'm not—"
Kristin got no further, for Kat said, “That's a sensible idea."
"I can go on my own,” said Kristin. “You do."
"So I do,” Kat agreed, “but I'm older and better able to take care of myself, while you are young and extremely naive. You two can combine business with your wedding trip, which, as far as I know, you have not yet taken."
"I'm not going,” said Kristin. Wedding trip sounded ominous to her, like something Sister Mary Joseph might have mentioned in her lectures about “the act.” The church probably didn't approve of wedding trips.
"Kristin, I've put up a lot of money to establish Traube's Colorado Sausages, and I'm seeing no profits. I expect to hear that you have accepted Mr. Cameron's offer."
"I have painting to do. I couldn't possibly—"
"My dear, you really should stop counting on an income from art. I've showed everyone that lovely painting you did of Molly sitting on the carpet with her doll, and I'm afraid I wasn't able to talk anyone into commissioning a portrait. You'll never be self-supporting if—"
"She doesn't need to be,” Jack interrupted. “I'm perfectly able to support her."
"All women should be able to support themselves,” said Kat, giving him a look of haughty dislike.
"Certainly,” Kristin agreed. “Considering the reason for our marriage, I'd hardly want to trust my well-being to you.” She turned away from her angry husband and asked Kat why no one had been moved by the painting of Molly to want a portrait of their own.
"Oh, some think your painting is too fuzzy, and others—” Kat leaned forward and whispered, “It's Ingrid. Ladies won't come to your house because she's here. Is she, by any chance, thinking of leaving soon?"
Kristin shook her head.
"So you see,” continued Kat, her voice at a normal level, “you really must make a success of the sausage business."
"Why didn't you tell us Mama was back, Aunt Kat?” asked Phoebe.
"It was your father's place to do that,” replied Kat. “Good afternoon, Ingrid. You're looking much improved."
"Improved from what?” asked Sean Michael.
"Your mother has been ill,” said Kat.
"Drunk,” said Bridget. “That's what my mama says. She says—"
"That will do, Bridget,” ordered Kat. “Now, children, we must all go home."
"I'm coming back for piano lessons,” said Phoebe.
"So am I,” said Sean Michael.
"Boys don't play the piano,” said Bridget.
"Yes, they do. I peeked in a saloon door and saw—"
"Sean Michael Fitzpatrick,” cried his aunt, “don't ever let me hear that you've been anywhere near a saloon."
"Aw, Aunt Kat, I just—"
"We're both coming for piano lessons,” interrupted Phoebe. “Aren't we, Mummy?"
"I hope so,” said Ingrid, her heart in her eyes.
Kat sighed. “Oh, Ingrid, what are we to do?” She shook her head, rounded up the children, and departed.
"We leave tomorrow,” said Jack, following Kristin back to the studio, “and if you try to get out of it, I'll tell Mrs. Macleod on you."
"Sneak,” Kristin hissed, and Jack grinned.
"Now maybe you'd like to tell me what she meant about Ingrid."
"Oh, nothing. Just that Ingrid used to be a—a something or other in West Breckenridge."
Jack groaned. “I can't believe I'm sharing my house with a prostitute, a gaggle of female sausage makers, and a herd of pigs."
"You're not,” said Kristin, “because it's not your house. Maybe you should return to Chicago."
Even in Jack's unsettling company, Kristin was beside herself with delight. What a difference from her first train trip through the mountains! Now aspen leaves brushed her shoulder through the open windows of the train, lupine and wild roses bloomed in the meadows, and except for the high peaks, the snow was gone. On the other hand, with the train windows open, her smart blue suit and pretty hat were being showered with soot and cinders from the engine stack. Still, she refused to let Jack take the window seat. Better to arrive in Denver looking like a coal miner than to miss all the opportunities to sketch.
"Why do you keep sketching those unpainted mine buildings?” Jack asked, for he kept his eye as much on her sketches as on the passing scenery.
"Because I have a mural commission when I return. If you hadn't got Kat to persuade me to go to Denver with you, I'd be doing a mural on the walls of the Single Jack Cafe this very minute. It's owned by Hortense, who was a Chicago Girl, and Eyeless Ben Waterson, who raised Connor's older children from his first marriage. I thought since so many of the customers were miners, they'd feel at home with mining pictures."
"Or better yet, dance hall girls,” muttered Jack.
"What was that?” Kristin did a quick sketch of a stamp mill backed by a hill of mine tailings. “Look! Look at that stream!” The train had curved around a base of solid rock, revealing a vista of mountain meadow, edged by pine, carpeted with swirls of wildflowers, and bisected by a meandering stream with a rocky bed. Kristin's pencil flew.
"That's good news about the mural,” said Jack. “A real step forward for the town as well as for you."
She glanced at him with surprise, having expected that he'd object to any success of hers. She remembered Mrs. Hallowell doubting that a husband would support his wife's art career. Was that why Mrs. Drusilla Weems had left her husband? Mr. Cameron was surprisingly complacent over Kristin's success. She had to wonder why. Could he be proud of her talent? Her heart did a traitorous flip of happiness at the thought. Or had he finally decided to leave without contributing further to her support?
"Maybe now you can consider giving up the sausage business,” said Jack.
Kristin frowned. “Without paying Kat back?"
"I could do that."
"You just don't want me to be independent."
"I just don't care much for pigs in the parlor and a house full of giggling sausage makers. What if we wanted to have a dinner party?"
"I don't want to have a dinner party,” said Kristin. “And it's my duty to continue with the sausage making. For Kat's sake. And for Ingrid's. Especially Ingrid. What would she do if she had no means of supporting herself?"
"Go away and stop causing the Macleods grief? Frankly, I worry about leaving her in charge at the house."
"Yes,” said Kristin thoughtfully. “I hope she does a proper job of handling the Sunday salon.” For two Sundays, the drawing room had been mobbed with single men who had come in search of wives. Kristin welcomed them and oversaw their conduct, Winifred served tea and cookies, at a price, and Ingrid played the piano. Occasionally, in response to special requests, she sang a song or two. Although Ingrid's songs were very lively, Kristin had doubts about the lyrics. They seemed a bit odd to her and caused immoderate laughter among the men, even Jack, if he happened to be home.
Usually he went off to the Denver Hotel to visit with his friend, Robert Foote. Kristin suspected that they indulged in spir
ituous liquors on such occasions, although Reverend Passmore ran around town, especially on Sundays, preaching against saloons and drinking, demanding that people abide by the Sunday closing laws, which no one did. “We had a long discussion about her responsibilities,” said Kristin, “but I must say Ingrid didn't seem to be taking much note."
"Well, she's an unusual person to serve as a chaperone,” said Jack dryly.
"I think we should make every effort to be back by Sunday."
"Not possible.” He smiled to himself. Although Kristin didn't know it, she was on her honeymoon.
"So how did it go?” asked Jack once the waiter had taken their orders. They were having dinner at their hotel after each had conducted an afternoon of business.
"Wonderfully,” said Kristin. “It was much easier than I imagined. Everyone was so nice. I have orders from five restaurants and three butcher shops."
"That's very impressive.” Jack gestured for the waiter to fill Kristin's glass from the bottle just opened.
"What is it?” she asked, glancing at the foaming, golden liquid flowing from the lip of the bottle, but Jack had hardly managed to shrug before she was off on an excited description of her sausage triumph. “You'll never guess what I did.” Jack looked encouraging while he sipped his champagne. Kristin sipped too, sneezed as the bubbles tickled her nose, then giggled. “I cooked them a sample—those who had the facilities. Everyone agrees that it's very good sausage, if you like sausage. I don't, but many people do.
"And while the sausage was cooking, I drew sketches of the proprietors and presented them, free of charge. You'd be surprised at how flattered people are that an artist would want to do a picture of them.” She waved to the waiter to refill her glass. Jack smiled. “And of course, I mentioned that I do portraits. No one actually gave me a commission, but I think at least three of the men are seriously considering the possibility."
"I don't doubt it,” said Jack. “Are you still asking one hundred dollars a portrait?"
Kristin had the grace to blush and managed to avoid answering because the first course of their meal had arrived. “I think Kat will be very pleased, don't you?"
"I'm sure,” Jack replied, watching as Kristin took a long swallow of her champagne and a spoonful of her soup. She had ordered steak as her main course, remarking, “Why anyone would eat pork when something else is available, I can't imagine."
"I wouldn't make that comment outside the family,” Jack murmured.
She looked up at him in surprise, spoon suspended between her bowl and her mouth when she realized that he considered himself her family. What a strange idea! She glanced down at the beautiful ring on her finger, which Jack had insisted on buying at Sam Mayer's Diamond Palace before they went on their separate business errands. Kristin felt guilty about accepting the gift since she did not plan to honor her marriage vows, but Jack had insisted. He was generous to a fault. Perhaps to make up for his past conduct.
On their arrival in Denver, Kristin had been shown to her room in the Windsor Hotel by the desk clerk because she was covered with soot and needed to change. Jack had gone off to an appointment without checking in. So after dinner when they went upstairs, she received the shock of her life when Jack followed her into her room. His bags sat to the left of the four-poster bed. “There must be some mistake,” she stammered. “This is my room."
"And mine,” he replied, removing his coat and beginning to unbutton his waistcoat. “As Kat said, this is our wedding trip. Surely you expected to share a room."
"I certainly did not,” Kristin declared, backing toward the door, wondering what she was to do. She had spotted her own baggage over by the wardrobe where the maid had unpacked it. Although she didn't doubt that she could go downstairs and demand a room for herself, it would be embarrassing. Still, she was quite prepared to do it—anything rather than share that bed with Jack Cameron, who had brought all this trouble down upon her with his unprincipled conduct. It was hard enough to resist his charm at a distance.
But she'd have to repack all her things—the gowns hanging in the wardrobe, her more intimate garments. What if he stood where he was now standing and watched as she removed her chemises, her corsets, her drawers and repacked them? Worse, what if he wouldn't let her take them away? She'd have to sleep in a strange hotel room with no nightdress. Kristin couldn't imagine sleeping naked. Sister Mary Joseph had said that women should always wear proper, modest clothing, including nightdresses that covered them from chin to toes, from shoulder to fingertips. She said such nightgowns were particularly important for married women so that they would not rouse the lusts of their husbands and thus promote the occasion for sin.
"I'd love to know what you are thinking, Kristin,” said Jack. “Your face is a study."
"I was thinking of Sister Mary Joseph at St. Scholastica,” she replied severely.
"I'm very glad to hear that,” said Jack as he began to unbutton his shirt.
Good heavens, thought Kristin. Surely he wasn't going to bare any part of his body in front of her? Sister had been very clear that husbands and wives were to prepare for bed in the dark or in separate rooms and both were to wear modest, all-encompassing garments if they shared a bed. Sister advised against it for those who could afford separate rooms.
Not that it mattered. Kristin wasn't getting in bed with him. He probably planned to commit “the act” with her, and after that, having got her with child, he'd insist on going back to Chicago, with or without her.
She found herself staring with amazement at the interesting musculature of his now naked chest, at the pattern of hair that spread in curls around his nipples and then narrowed in a triangle toward his trousers. His shoulders and upper arms were smooth, long, and muscular, the skin over them a darker shade than her skin. She'd just like two minutes—well, maybe five—to sketch that torso, so different from her own, so intriguing.
"I'm sure Sister Mary Joseph mentioned that wives have a certain duty toward their husbands. Father Boniface Wirtner mentioned that duty in the marriage ceremony."
What had the priest said? Kristin couldn't remember. She had been so ambivalent about the marriage, torn between fascination, fear, and resentment, that she had paid little attention to the vows. Now Jack was walking toward her, stepping between her and the door, a lazy, beguiling smile on his face. Maybe he meant to leave after all, although he was only partially dressed. She tore her eyes away from his body, wishing he hadn't shaved off his mustache. She'd found him at least somewhat less attractive with it. Jack's long fingers closed around her arm well above the elbow so that the backs of his nails rested against her breasts. Kristin tried to pull away.
"You have rights over my body,” he murmured in a low voice that sent shivers up her spine.
"That's all right,” Kristin stammered. “I'm really not interested in—"
"And I have rights over yours, rights which I am interested in. And intend to exercise."
Kristin backed another two steps, and he followed, curving a hand over her other arm. He stroked up, then down, fingers still placed so that the nails and first knuckles brushed both breasts. Kristin felt her nipples hardening the way they did when the water went cold in her bath or she had to dress on a cold morning with no fire in the grate. Except that she was not cold. Jack's hands, Jack's body warmth, so close to hers, sent heat flooding from the lightly touched breasts outward.
"I realize that traditionally a gentleman joins his bride after she has had a chance to prepare herself for bed,” Jack murmured.
His voice was somehow different—lower, deeper, very disturbing to her, as if by its timbre he sought to tell her something beyond words, and the words were disturbing enough—bed ... bride. Kristin was trembling, moving backward, but for each step she took, his was longer, bringing him closer.
"Unfortunately, I'm afraid that if I were gentlemanly enough to leave, you'd lock the door behind me."
"You can leave,” she stammered. “I won't—” She couldn't finish becaus
e he was pressing the backs of his fingers against the sides of her breasts.
"Aren't you ashamed?” he murmured.
She was. He had moved so close that the hair on his chest brushed against the crimson-and-cream silk of her bodice. Through two layers of clothing, Kristin thought she could feel that curling hair against her nipples.
"Not only have you shirked your wifely duty, but you've just lied to your husband."
"I have?” His mouth was closing in on hers, and she felt bewildered.
"You'd lock the door"—still clasping her arms, he pulled her tight against him—"if you had the chance."
Because she had taken another step backward, she found herself pressed against the bed when Jack finally kissed her, caught between the hard heat of his body and the beckoning softness of the deep mattress against her thighs, bottom, and waist.
"So I'm not going to be so gentlemanly,” he murmured against her lips and deepened the kiss again. The pressure of his mouth was the most compelling, exciting thing she'd ever felt. “I'm going to play it safe for once in my life. Undress you myself."
"What?” The shocked response allowed him access to her parted lips, and he slid his tongue along the tender underside. Dizzy with the intimate, brandy taste of his tongue, Kristin tried to push him away. Undress her? Her heart was accelerating into a panic. Confused echoes of Sister Mary Joseph's strictures ricocheted in her befuddled mind, but Jack wouldn't be pushed. He lifted her off the floor and perched her on the edge of the mattress.
"It's too early for—” Before she could say what it was too early for, he had reached down to slide one slipper from her foot. Then he ran his hand from her foot and ankle all the way up the inner side of her limb, taking her skirt and petticoats along. "Stop that!" Horrified, Kristin tried to squirm away, only to find that he had stepped between her thighs and pulled her tight against him.
"Put your legs around my waist, sweetheart,” he murmured.
"No!"
In response to her refusal, he slid his hands under her skirts, cupping her bottom and rolling her against something that bulged in his trousers. Kristin didn't know what it was and began to cry.
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