"I'm in business now,” said Kristin, “earning my own living."
Mr. Pembroke roared with laughter. “Doesn't Jack give you enough pocket money, little lady?"
Before Kristin could answer, Maude announced, “Fresh mountain trout in dill-cream sauce with a touch of white wine,” and began to serve the plates.
"Wine?” Kristin stared at hers. “I don't drink."
"It's not intoxicating when it's been cooked,” Jack said. He didn't want his wife getting off on the subject of brandy. She seemed bound and determined to make a scene.
"Bring me one that has the sauce scraped off,” Kristin said to Maude.
"Oh ma'am, it's ever so delicious. I had some and didn't feel the least tipsy."
"Nevertheless—"
Maude sighed, picked up Kristin's plate, and plopped it down in front of Mr. Pembroke. Eyebrows rose along the table, and from the hall came the sound of a gruff voice saying, “I been waitin’ to see her for two weeks. Couldn't hurt nuthin’ if she just talked to me a minute. I ain't leavin’ ‘til you asks."
Yvette unfolded the dining room doors and stuck her head through to say, “There eez a—person—out here een ze hall, madame, who eensists on talking to you."
"By all means, show him in,” said Kristin.
"There. Din’ I tell you,” said the gruff voice, and Yvette's slender, dark-clad form was replaced by a burly miner in heavy boots and a plaid shirt. “Ah'm Fish Eye Morgan, Miz Cameron. Maybe you remember me."
"Of course, Mr. Morgan, you're courting—ah—Lizzy."
"Right, ma'am."
"Won't you have dinner with us, Mr. Morgan? Maude, set a place between Mrs. Pembroke and Mrs. Parker."
Mrs. Parker looked horrified. She'd been angry to find herself seated by a woman, but this was really too much.
"That evens up the table,” said Kristin.
"Hello there, Fish Eye,” said Connor. “I didn't get out to the Chicago Girl today. How are things going?"
"Takin’ out lots of gold jus’ like yesterday,” said Fish Eye, nervously rolling up the bill of his hat. “Say, ma'am, I din’ mean to invite myself to dinner."
"Quite all right, Mr. Morgan. We were just having a discussion on how terrible I am to charge prospective bridegrooms for the wedding ceremony."
"I never give it thought,” said Mr. Morgan, his fish eye rolling wildly. “It's worth it to find a wife, unmarried females bein’ in short supply."
"There you are, Mr. Morgan,” said Maude, glaring at him. She'd just finished squeezing a place setting in between the two ladies.
Fish Eye sat down opposite Mattie Parker, whose presence had resulted in more women than men at the table. “Scarce as women are, it's a service that's much appreciated, ma'am.” He nodded his head to Kristin, then inspected Mattie. “You one a them as is on the market?"
"Certainly not,” said Mrs. Parker. “Please do not address my daughter, Mr.—ah—whatever your name is. You have not been and will not be introduced to her."
"When I see Mattie's dressmaking bills, I feel like I've got a daughter on the market,” said Mr. Parker jovially. He was on his fifth glass of fine wine. “Maybe I should pay your fee, Mrs. Cameron, and send Mattie over here.” His wife and daughter took his remarks amiss.
"Is that gravy on that there little bitty trout?” asked Fish Eye.
"Yes,” said Kristin, “and it has wine in it. If you're a teetotaler, you might want to scrape it off."
Morgan looked more distressed than ever.
"Oh, don't let it bother you, man,” said Jack from the end of the table. “If you take a sip or two now and then, even on your fish, it won't disqualify you from marriage."
Fish Eye Morgan beamed at Jack and dug into his trout with elbows flying. Dill-cream sauce with a touch of white wine dripped off the edges of his mustache. Mrs. Parker and Mrs. Pembroke edged away. After he had taken a second big bite, demolishing half the trout, he said, “What I wanted to talk to you about, ma'am, was Lizzy. I done asked an’ she accepted, so all we need is your approval."
"You have it,” said Kristin. “Congratulations."
Fish Eye was so excited that he dropped his third hunk of trout into the sauce, causing a minor splash. Both ladies shifted farther away, almost off their chairs.
Connor was grinning widely. “Yes, sir,” he said. “You do perform a service, Kristin. Particularly to me. It's a great relief to have just one maid instead of dozens underfoot as we used to."
"It's always nice to be appreciated,” murmured Kristin.
While most of the guests were watching Fish Eye as if hypnotized by his table manners, Ingrid said, “I like a man with some face hair. Makes kissin’ more interestin', unless the hair's got fish sauce drippin’ off it. Use your napkin, for God's sake, Fish Eye."
The miner flipped up his napkin, which he had tucked under his chin, and wiped his mouth. “Sorry, honey,” he said, “but even with my mouth wiped, I can't be kissin’ you. I'm spoke for."
"I meant him for kissin',” said Ingrid, “not you."
The mustachioed Denver investor, in whom Ingrid had indicated an interest, turned pink under the furious eyes of his wife as he wiped his mustache. Kristin put a napkin to her mouth to keep from giggling, and Yvette, on door duty for the evening, reappeared and announced another caller. “I think he's a sausage buyer, madame."
"Show him in,” said Kristin. Maude was clearing the fish plates in preparation for serving a lamb saddle with mint jelly, which she had announced self-consciously just after Ingrid kissed the Denver investor on the cheek.
"Would you care to join us for dinner?” Kristin asked hospitably.
The fellow, dressed in an ill-filling suit, looked quite astonished when confronted by so many people. “I've et,” he said and, taking remembrance of his mission, added, “Miz Cameron, on behalf of the Methodist Conference of Colorado, Breckenridge branch, I'm here to inform you that Methodists won't be eatin’ your sausage no more. We voted."
"Why?” she asked. “Have I offended the Methodists?"
"The dynamitin’ of the Reverend Florida Passmore's church bell is enough to sour any Methodist, ma'am."
"I'm sure,” said Kristin. “I found it a shocking thing myself. But I don't see what it has to do with sausages."
"Well, folks figgered either ‘twas rowdies who wanted to drink on Sunday what done it or ‘twas you because of the preacher's sermon on contaminatin’ associations. Figgered you might of took offense an’ hired it done."
Jack had mentioned this ludicrous rumor. Was it one of his jokes? Kristin wondered. Had he paid this man? “That's a very peculiar idea,” she said.
"Nothin’ peculiar about it, ma'am. We done us some detectin'."
At the word detecting, Kristin stiffened. The Pinkertons were mixed up in this?
"An’ we discovered that no one left town the day after the dynamitin'—leavin’ town bein’ a sure sign of guilt—'cept you, ma'am. You went off to Denver an’ stayed. Ifn you hadn't a come back, like as not we wouldn't a pursued this no further, but soon as we heard you had, we met an’ voted on no more Traube's sausages. Respect for our church bell's more important than any sausage, no matter how tasty and popularly priced, like your ads say."
"What ads?"
"I've been runnin’ them,” said Ingrid. “Since you weren't here to get new orders, I thought advertisin’ might help.” Then she turned on the Methodist spokesman. “You're a booby. You know that, Seth? Only a booby would think Kristin had anything to do with that dynamitin'. Now you come right out in the hall, an’ I'll whisper in your ear who did it.” Ingrid jumped up and headed in his direction.
"Now, Miz Ingrid—” cried the Methodist. “I'm a married man. I—"
Ingrid grabbed his arm and dragged him out into the hall. As the door opened to let them out, Gwenivere slipped in and made a beeline for Kristin.
Mrs. Parker shrieked, then composed herself and whispered to Mr. Pembroke, “It's no wonder she receives no portrait commi
ssions."
"Whatever do you mean, my dear woman?” he replied. “Mrs. Cameron's artwork has been praised by Mrs. Potter Palmer herself."
"And the society ladies in Denver are falling over themselves to get sitting dates for the summer of ‘92,” said Mr. Showalt of Denver, who sat to Kristin's left. “Half Denver society should be in Breckenridge next summer."
"Then I'll try to see that Mrs. Cameron is,” Jack muttered.
"But her pictures are fuzzy,” said Mattie Parker.
"My dear girl,” drawled the young blade who had escorted her in. “Fuzzy is all the rage in Paris."
"Trust a Methodist to get it wrong,” said Ingrid, coming in from the hall and resuming her seat. “Now, I hope it doesn't turn out that you were mixed up in that dynamitin', Kristin."
"Of course, I wasn't,” said Kristin and gestured for Maude to begin clearing the main course. “Do we get to keep our Methodist sausage customers?"
"If we don't, I have a few stories to tell Mr. Seth Olwin's wife,” said Ingrid darkly. Then she turned a bright smile on her neighbor and asked, “Miss me, sweetie?” The poor man turned red.
The men were safely behind closed doors indulging in cigars and brandy. The ladies were in the drawing room with their coffee and petit fours, that door closed as well, and Kristin, having excused herself on the grounds of an indisposition, was speeding down the hall to her studio where she stripped the unfinished portrait of Marcella Webber from its wooden slats, rolled it up with two extra lengths of canvas and all the brushes and paints she could stuff into the bag she had used when she and Jack drove to Mohawk Lake, then climbed out the window. Free! she thought exultantly.
It had gone just as she planned, and Kristin estimated that she had twenty minutes, perhaps a half hour, before anyone realized that she was missing again. All she needed to do was make it across the Blue without fainting from lack of air. Once in West Breckenridge, she'd have other worries, such as being taken for a lady of the night. Her only weapon was a parasol.
"Mrs. Cameron, what are you doing here at this hour of night?” Marcella Webber looked so shocked when the maid brought Kristin into the private parlor that Kristin would have giggled if she'd had the breath for it. She had actually run the last two blocks with a drunken miner at her heels calling out what he must have considered alluring suggestions. Kristin had been terrified.
"I'm ... seeking ... sanctuary,” she gasped.
"In a sporting house?” Marcie eyed her unexpected guest wryly. “Isn't that something you do in a church? St. Mary's is nearer your house than mine.” There was another pause while Kristin took shallow gasping breaths and wished that her hostess would invite her to sit down. “Are you going to faint?” Marcie asked.
Kristin shook her head.
"Are you with child?"
"Not ... that I ... know of."
Much to Kristin's amazement, Mrs. Webber lighted a cigarette. “Then what are you doing in my house during business hours? You took a terrible chance setting foot this side of the river at night and unescorted."
"Could I sit down?"
Marcie waved her to a chair, and Kristin dropped into it, closing her eyes. “I've left my husband."
"You did that last week."
"For good."
"And you've decided to take up life as a prostitute?"
"Of course not. I just want to stay with you until I can get out of town. Until he's angry enough to grant me a separation.” Marcie looked uncooperative. “I can finish your portrait while I'm here,” Kristin offered.
"I should hope so. I've already paid half down."
"And—and paint a mural on your walls. In return for room and board."
Marcie was starting to grin, and Kristin felt a great relief. Her plan absolutely depended upon Marcella Webber taking her in for a week or more.
"Your husband will probably swear out a warrant for my arrest if—"
"He'd never think of looking for me here."
"You're trouble I don't need.” Marcie was laughing.
"Women have to stick together,” said Kristin.
"That's what your friend Kat Macleod is always saying."
Kristin nodded, looking hopeful.
"Free?” Marcie asked.
"What?"
"The mural."
"Certainly."
"What would you paint?"
"Whatever you want. What about the girls? Maeve made me paint them out of the Norman Irish castle scene, but I could do them here. They looked charming as Irish peasant girls dancing around a maypole."
Marcie gave a delighted, full-throated laugh. “You painted my girls on Maeve Macleod's walls? For that alone I'd take you in."
"Oh good,” said Kristin. “I'm going to need clothes and paint. I wasn't able to bring anything away but your picture and my money."
"Well, if you're running away from home, money is the best thing to bring."
"May we join you, ladies?” asked Jack, opening the drawing room doors. Then he noticed that his wife was not among them. “Where's Kristin?"
"I'm afraid she was feeling ill, Jack,” said Kat, and she gave him a warm smile, which took him completely by surprise. He was used to scowls from Kat Macleod. “She's gone to her room for a bit of rest."
Jack frowned. Kristin had been in fine form at dinner—perverse as ever. He turned abruptly and, without a word to his guests, took the stairs two at a time and sprinted into his wife's room. Empty, by God! “Have you seen her?” he demanded of Yvette, who was tidying up.
"She eez downstairs in ze drawing room, monsieur."
"The hell she is!” He did a quick tour of the house, knowing all the while that Kristin had escaped once more. And right under his nose. Back in the drawing room, he faced Kat. “I suppose you helped her."
"What are you talking about?” Kat asked.
"You smiled at me. You can't stand me, so why would you smile at me unless you'd done me some ill turn?"
"Look, Jack,” said Connor. “I know you and Kat don't get on that well, but there's no need—"
"She's helped my wife run away again."
"Again? Has she run away before?” asked Kat.
"You know damn well she has. Every time I turn around, she's gone."
"Well, there's no need to swear,” said Kat stiffly. “I smiled at you because I thought, Kristin being under the weather, that you two might be—ah—expecting a child."
"A child! Fat chance of that! All right, gentlemen, instead of chatting with the ladies, we'll be forming a search party. There's no train out at this time of night, so she has to be somewhere in Breckenridge."
"I say,” exclaimed Mr. Pembroke. “Talk about Bohemian. Your household is better than a grand opera, old boy."
Chapter Twenty-Four
The great Breckenridge wife hunt was a source of amusement to its participants, who roamed the streets of the town, knocking at doors, questioning strangers on the whereabouts of Kristin Traube-Cameron, who had disappeared from her home at the tail end of a dinner party. Now they had gone home, probably still talking about it, and Jack sprawled morosely on the fainting couch in her studio, wishing that he hadn't instituted the search. At the time, he had been worried about her safety. He still was, he supposed, but he was also irritated over the embarrassment. After all that hullabaloo, he still didn't know where his wife was, and he'd now made a jackass of himself in front of the whole town. If Breckenridge had suspected that she had run away from him before, now they knew it, unless there was someone fool enough to think she'd been abducted. No ransom note had turned up. All he'd gained was a sleepless night.
Yvette had gone through Kristin's belongings, but nothing was missing except the Worth copy gown and the emerald jewelry. He tried not to let himself think about the possibility that someone had killed her for the jewelry and hidden her body somewhere. What sensible woman ran away in a Worth dinner gown and emeralds? As for her studio, which he'd always kept a close eye on, it seemed to contain what little it had cont
ained after she left the first time—empty canvas frames, some discarded pictures. Nor could he be sure if she'd taken paints and brushes.
She had even left her latest sketchbook behind, and it gave him an fascinating peek into the state of her mind. He paged through it slowly and found bits and pieces of himself. At least, he hoped those bits were him. By the time he reached a blank page, Jack was feeling completely confused. There was no question that his wife was enthralled with his body. She had sketched every part of him—except for a certain key area above the thighs and below the navel.
So why the devil was she running away? If he didn't have a hold on her heart, he certainly had a hold on her body and her artistic interest. How many husbands would allow a curious wife to draw them naked? He shook his head. He, who had always thought he understood women, didn't understand Kristin at all. But he still wanted her. More than ever. In fact, Jack admitted to himself, he was in love with the girl.
And he had no idea where she'd gone. His best guess was that Kat Macleod had hidden her somewhere. Kristin couldn't have left town. There'd been no trains, not even a freight, between the time she left and the time he posted a man at the railroad station and another at the ladies’ stop. They'd canvassed every house and business in town. His own horses were still in the stable, and they'd checked livery stables in case she'd been fool enough to try to drive or ride out of town. No one was missing a horse or even a mule. Which left Kat Macleod.
He and Kat had certainly had words about that, Kat denying that she'd had anything to do with Kristin's disappearance. “Kristin's flight is your fault,” she had said sharply and left his house without explaining her accusation.
So where was his wife? Was she dead or alive? Jack felt desperate and, for the first time in his life, grief-stricken. He didn't know what he'd done to drive her away. They should have been the most happily married of couples. Instead she insisted, on the rare occasion that she'd talk about it, that they were living in sin. It didn't make any sense. Maybe she still blamed him for that evening in her father's library and all the frightening experiences that followed.
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