"If that's the way you feel, I'm surprised that you came to dinner,” snapped Kristin.
"Now, ladies,” Jack intervened.
"I wouldn't have if I'd known that the dining room was going to collapse,” said Mrs. Parker.
"Now, dear,” said her husband, “these things happen. Other than a few unusual events, it's been a fine evening. Just the news about Cripple Creek—"
"Come along, Horace, I think it's time we went home.” Mrs. Parker rose, took one last look at Ingrid and Cal on the settee, bade Augustina a sympathetic farewell, which infuriated Augustina, and headed for the door with her disappointed daughter in tow.
"I'm still in on Cripple Creek, aren't I?” asked Horace Parker apologetically.
"Of course,” said Jack, and he saw his guests out, smiling as if nothing untoward had happened.
"The nerve of that woman,” muttered Kristin. “I wouldn't paint her if she were—Cleopatra. And I haven't heard that her housekeeping is so fine. They say that she's very stingy with the hired help."
"Does she buy Traube sausages?” asked Kat. “You can't afford to fall out with the local customers."
"And this from the lady who causes strikes at my mines because of her temperance crusades,” said Connor dryly.
"I do not. We haven't had a strike in several years."
"We may now that Kristin controls the supply of marriageable women instead of you."
"I'm not toadying to a snobbish, uncivil woman with no manners just to sell a couple of sausages, Kat. Ingrid and I have accounts all over the mountains."
"Amelia Parker could hurt you in the local market."
"I don't care,” said Kristin.
Kat sighed. “Thank God, Ingrid's looking after business. I love you like a sister, Kristin, but you never have your mind on anything but art."
"You love me like a sister?” Kristin echoed, looking touched.
"Well, of course."
"My own sister couldn't stand me,” said Kristin, blinking back tears. “I don't think any of my brothers liked me either, or my father and mother."
"Oh, sweetheart, you're just upset because of the dining room. Why don't you have a glass of wine?” Jack picked up the ladies’ bottle and a crystal wine glass.
"Are you trying to get me drunk again?"
She gave him a furious look, and Jack began to laugh. “Not a bad idea, now that you mention it."
Kat turned on him like an avenging fury. “It's bad enough that you drink, Jack Cameron, without urging spirits on your wife. You should be ashamed of yourself."
"Come on, Kat. Can we forget the temperance lecture for one night?” said Connor.
"I never forget temperance,” said Kat.
"My Aunt Frieda likes me,” said Kristin sadly. “She's the only one from Chicago who ever writes to me."
"Stop looking at her,” said Augustina.
"I wasn't,” said Sean.
"I'd love to come to Cripple Creek sometime,” Ingrid told Cal Bannister in husky tones.
Sean forgot about placating his wife and scowled at his ex-wife.
"And I'd love to entertain you,” said Cal.
"Of course, it would be a trip to sell sausages.” Ingrid fluttered her eyelashes at the mining engineer.
"I thought Kristin was supposed to sell sausages,” said Sean. “Cripple Creek's a real pretty valley. She'll want to paint it. And Pike's Peak's right there, so—"
"I'm leaving,” said Augustina. “Are you coming, Sean?"
Sean rose reluctantly; his eyes were still fixed on Ingrid and Cal.
"I guess we'll be leaving too,” said Connor, “since the party seems to be breaking up.” Grinning, he slapped Jack on the back. “Most interesting dinner party I've ever been to. Usually they're deadly dull."
Jack walked his guests to the door while Ingrid continued to flirt until she heard them leave. Then she rose and said, “I'm for bed. I've had a long day."
Cal grinned and said to Kristin, “I think the lady's been using me to make someone jealous, don't you?"
Kristin was still looking glum and didn't quite take in his meaning. Ingrid patted her on the shoulder and said, “Cheer up, Kristin. You have two sisters, because I love you too. Although I doubt that Kat and I will ever make it a three-way sisterhood."
"Oh, Ingrid, you should make friends with Kat. She never meant to do you any harm. One can never have enough friends, especially those of us who don't have family."
"You need a drink, my girl,” said Ingrid. “A good stiff one. Ask Jack for a brandy."
Jack, who appeared through the archway at that moment, said, “Ingrid, if I offered my wife a brandy, she'd probably make me sleep in the basement, and as you probably know, our sleeping arrangements leave a lot to be desired as it is."
"Really, Jack!” snapped Kristin.
"Really what? You're the one who's insisted on this unnatural marriage."
Kristin turned pink and glanced apprehensively at Bannister. No telling what he thought. Unnatural, her husband had said. Exactly what Sister Mary Joseph had talked about. Surely Sister Mary Joseph had never meant that abstinence was unnatural. Kristin clenched her fists and glared at her husband. How could he say such a thing? And in front of other people. She'd put two pieces of furniture in front of her door tonight, and she didn't care what anyone thought.
Chapter Eighteen
"Looks like the dynamitin’ put two big cracks in the cross beams right under your dinin’ room, an’ that there heavy table caved the whole thing in. Shouldn't be no trouble to fix, though you might consider gittin’ a lighter table,” said the carpenter.
"Just put in extra cross beams,” said Jack. “The table I've ordered is heavier than the last.” Having eaten in the kitchen. Jack went to Kristin's studio. He entered quietly and stood behind her, studying the self-portrait on which she was working. The innocent sensuality she depicted so unknowingly on the canvas made him yearn to take her in his arms. Instead he murmured, “Beautiful."
She jumped.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you.” Kristin immersed herself so thoroughly in her work that the house could fall down without her noticing, he thought wryly and laid a hand on her shoulder as if to steady her.
"How do you get in here without my hearing?"
"I usually do, but it's called walking like an Indian,” he replied. “You can't hunt unless you learn it."
Kristin turned to stare. “You learned quickly."
"What's this Ingrid tells me about your going up to Mohawk Lake by yourself?"
"Connor was describing it to me before the dining room collapsed,” said Kristin and went back to painting the pink silk roses at the shoulders of the gown. “It sounded so beautiful."
"It is."
"You've seen it?” she asked eagerly, giving him her full attention.
"I have, and you certainly can't go by yourself."
"I can too."
"How? You don't ride. You don't drive a wagon."
"I'll walk,” she replied stubbornly.
"It's miles, Kristin. And the woods are full of wild animals."
Kristin looked so crestfallen that Jack was hard put to keep from grinning. “Oh, all right,” he said with feigned reluctance. “I'll take you."
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I'll hire someone."
"I'm not letting you traipse into the mountains with some stranger. How do we know he'd be trustworthy?"
"How do I know you would be?"
"Better the devil you know,” said Jack cheerfully.
"Devil is right."
She said it so sincerely that he was taken aback. Did she truly think him evil? he wondered uneasily. She had no reason—no good reason. “I suppose we could go up there, camp overnight—"
"Absolutely not,” said Kristin.
Jack had anticipated that reaction. “Then it will have to be a one-day outing. Can you get what you need in, say, four or five hours? We'd have to leave early tomorrow."
Kristin w
avered. She did want to paint Mohawk Lake. She needed a deep forest scene for her landscape series, and Connor's description had made the area seem perfect. Maybe they could visit the cabin where Kat had been held captive by the mad German carpenter. Life in the West was so exciting—not that Kristin herself craved excitement. But she couldn't resist Jack's offer, for she saw that if she wanted to visit Mohawk Lake, Jack was her only option.
"Very well,” she said primly, “but you mustn't take advantage of the situation."
"In what way?” asked Jack, looking as innocent as he could considering his plans for a bucolic afternoon seduction.
"Well, I suppose since we'll be in the wilderness, I don't have to worry about that."
Jack nodded agreeably, thinking, Much you know, sweetheart.
Jack was sprawled comfortably, his back against a tree trunk, looking over papers he had just received from Cal Bannister. This was going to be one hell of an investment, he thought. By the time they'd mined out the Cripple Creek holdings, he could retire and take his wife to Europe to hobnob with the aristocracy. Somehow that prospect didn't interest him. Colorado was more to his taste. He flipped a page to read about three new claims that Cal had prospected and filed in another area of the valley.
"You'll think I'm crazy,” Cal wrote, “but I had a gut feeling about this place. It may turn out to be better than any of them. Of course, you should be reassured to know that with me gut feelings are based on study of the volcanic rock, the drifts below the claim, and so forth. I won't bore you with all the geological details, but you might tell Connor.” Bannister went on to describe what he had found in the new section of the valley.
Jack flipped another page to read production figures on the mine they had in operation, where they had drilled a ninety-foot tunnel. He was smiling at the latest assay reports when his wife shrieked, sending a hush of alarm through the forest. Insects, birds, small animals all went still. Kristin was frozen in front of her easel. Sweet Jesus, he thought, spotting a black bear that swayed threateningly on its hind legs in the forest shadows.
Jack picked up his rifle and called to his wife, “Move slowly to your right. Don't turn and run.” The bear's shaggy head swiveled, its attention divided between Kristin and Jack. Kristin trembled so visibly that Jack could see it. Hesitantly she stepped to the right. The bear's head swung back toward her. Jack hissed, and it looked at him again. She took another step to the right, putting herself out of his line of fire. He sighted carefully and pulled the trigger in a smooth, slow motion. The bear seemed to hesitate, shudder, then it swayed and fell into the grass as Jack put a second shot into its chest. Cautiously, he walked forward.
"Don't go near him!” came Kristin's voice from his right. Jack raised one hand as if to calm her and continued his approach. When he was within three feet of the animal, he noted that he had put the first cartridge between its eyes. Wouldn't his father be surprised to know that Jack, man about Chicago, had turned into a credible woodsman? “She's dead,” said Jack.
"You mean it was a mother bear?” asked Kristin.
"I don't know about mother, but it was female.” He shouldered his rifle and walked toward her.
"Shouldn't you keep watching it?"
"What are you expecting?” asked Jack. “A miraculous resurrection?"
"That's blasphemous,” said Kristin and burst into tears.
He glanced back at the bear, who was still dead in the grass, a shaggy mound that looked much less threatening than it had just a minute earlier. Reassured, he laid down his rifle, and took Kristin in his arms. “Now, sweetheart—"
"Stop calling me that,” she sobbed.
"You weren't in danger. I'm a very good shot."
Kristin's nose was being tickled by the hair that curled at the throat of his shirt. He was turning into more than a good shot, she realized. Jack seemed like an entirely different man. Her fashionable husband was dressed in Levis, boots, a wide leather belt, a soft cotton shirt of a deep blue that matched his eyes, and a western hat. He carried a revolver in his belt and the rifle with which he'd saved her from the bear. She hardly recognized him as the sophisticated John Powell Cameron she had painted with mustache and gold-headed cane, a painting that now hung over the fireplace, embarrassing him when people came to call.
She could feel the hard muscles in his arms, the power of his body. She experienced a rush of heat and pulled away.
"Better now?” asked Jack kindly. “Why don't we take a break and have our picnic?"
"I'm not sure I could eat.” Kristin was embarrassed at the way she had reacted to his body when he seemed intent only on reassuring her.
"Of course, you can. Abigail has packed us all sorts of exotic delights."
"I'm not drinking any brandy.” How hard it was to be cautious and suspicious on such a lovely day when her husband had just saved her from a black bear and was being so kind and nonthreatening.
"My dear, you have a lascivious mind,” he teased, embarrassing her further. He took her arm and led her toward the tree under which he'd been sitting. “Would I ask you to drink spirituous liquors at midday? Abigail has fixed lemonade and other things you'll like.” He spread a blanket, helped Kristin to seat herself, and returned to the wagon to lift out the picnic hamper. The food was delicious, the air around them cool, the sky bright with sunshine, the lake a stunning sapphire blue surrounded by the deep green of the forest. Enchanted, Kristin let herself enjoy the moment.
After a pleasant half hour of desultory conversation and happy sampling of Abigail's provisions, Kristin sighed. “I am glad we came,” she admitted, treating herself to one last spoonful of wild raspberries and cream. “Have you ever seen such colors? There's nothing like this in Chicago."
Jack nodded. He was eating cold chicken and crusty, fresh-baked bread. “The forest smells wonderful. Compare this to the Stockyard District, and it would be hard to think of moving back to a city."
Kristin bobbed her head in agreement. “The saddest thing is, I was getting used to that smell when I stayed with Genevieve. I suppose that's what happens to people. They get used to ugliness if they have to."
"I hope you've forgiven me for all the misery I caused you."
Sleepy and mellow with good food and the beauty of her surroundings, Kristin said, “My parents needn't have reacted the way they did. There's a mean streak in all of them.” A frown etched her forehead. “Do you think that will come out in me as I get older?"
"Never in this world,” said Jack. “You're as sweet as honey. A true changeling."
"That's what my father used to say. Not about honey, about being a changeling. When he was drunk or angry with Mother, he'd say that. I don't think he ever believed that I look like my great grandmother. He claimed—"
"Hush. They were jealous."
Kristin shook her head. “They held me in contempt."
"More fools they.” Jack dropped his last chicken bone into the hamper, wiped his hands on a linen napkin, and said casually, “You've got a raspberry stain."
"Where? Yvette will be furious.” Kristin inspected the sleeves and bodice of her pale green gown. “She's really irritable about paint spots. I'll never hear the end of a raspberry stain."
"It's a right—there,” said Jack and leaned forward with a handkerchief to touch the corner of her mouth. Before she could object, he had leaned away again to inspect his handiwork. “Nope. That didn't do it."
Nope? He really had changed. Miners said “Nope.” Henry the Burro Man said “Nope.” Oakum, the pigman, said—to her astonishment Jack licked the corner of her mouth. When she gasped, he shifted and licked the inside of her lower lip. Then smothered her mouth with his. Sweetly. Gently. As if he had no plans to do anything but explore her lips. Minute after minute. Hour after hour. Making her feel all soft and happy. All protected and cherished.
When, still leaning back against the tree trunk, he lifted her into his lap, she nestled there. Liking the warmth of his arms. The gentle stroking of his hand on her
spine. The curve of palm under her chin, the fingers cupping her cheek as she rested against him, her lips raised to his for the long, easy kiss that warmed her all over with its sweet yearning. His yearning. Hers.
After a time, they slid down to the blanket, lying on their sides, the kiss continuing. Jack nuzzled her throat where a white ruffle edged the high, boned neck of her dress. He unbuttoned the long row of buttons, one by one, continuing to kiss her mouth, eyes, ears, throat.
Kristin pulled his blue shirt from his trousers and ran her fingertips over his chest and stomach, then stripped away the shirt because she wanted to see what she was touching, what she had seen only once before. In curiosity, she touched the tip of her index finger to the nipple that peeked through whorls of soft hair on his chest. Jack stiffened and she glanced up at his face, questioning. In answer, he slid the unbuttoned dress from her shoulders, then her chemise, and touched her nipple.
"I felt the same thing,” he whispered when she inhaled sharply at the flood of feeling he had caused. Were they really experiencing the same thing? she wondered and inched a questing finger into another whorl of hair that circled his navel. Jack sighed—a deep, almost hoarse sound that intensified the weak, warm sensation in her thighs and somewhere inside where babies grew.
Maybe that's what Sister Mary Joseph had meant about thinking of procreation—the consciousness of where babies might grow. Kristin was becoming painfully conscious of that area, low, between her hips, between her legs, because Jack had bent his head to her breast, touched the nipple with his tongue, then his lips, then both. Tremors rocked her. She wanted to squirm, to press up against him, to see more of him, as he was about to see more of her because here in the dappled sunlight, he was smoothing the clothes away from her lower body, piece by piece, even as his lips stayed at her breast, pulling ever so gently until she heard little sounds coming from her own throat.
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