Elusive Lovers

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  "Careful of that,” said Ingrid. “Be a shame to ruin it. That's the best paintin’ I've ever seen in my life. Makes me want to go out, grab me a man, an’ take him straight to bed. Since I can't have Sean, I wouldn't mind havin’ ole Jack there. He looks good enough to eat."

  Kristin gave her a look of great alarm and chagrin.

  "All I have to do is look at that paintin’ to see how much you want him, honey. That bein’ the case, why don't you stop this silliness an’ come on home?"

  "No."

  "Too proud? Believe me, he wants you. Poor man's losin’ weight, lookin’ peaked. He's just bound an’ determined that this time you'll come home on your own."

  "Does he know where I am?” Kristin asked.

  "Sure. Connor Macleod told him."

  "Kat betrayed me?"

  "Hell, Kristin, that Methodist minister preached a sermon on you an’ Jack, somethin’ about men who neglect their husbandly duty an’ let their wives stay in sportin’ houses. If Connor hadn't heard it from Kat an’ told Jack, someone else would have told him. Everyone in town must know where you are by now."

  "Good. If Jack's embarrassed enough, he'll give up on me and—"

  "I heard what happened last night."

  Kristin dropped down onto her cot. “I took care of it,” she mumbled. “I can take care of myself."

  "If you're so sure of that, how come you didn't show up for breakfast?"

  "I'm not going back to him,” said Kristin stubbornly. “The sausage business is yours, Ingrid. Enjoy it."

  "You handin’ over your husband too?"

  Kristin glanced at her quickly, then away. “I thought you wanted Sean."

  "Sometimes you take what you can get."

  Kristin brushed a hand across tear-filled eyes. “Do it then. Just don't tell me I should go home. A good Catholic woman shouldn't be married to a devil like Jack Cameron."

  Ingrid laughed. “I always thought the devilish ones were the most fun."

  "I'm not going after her,” said Jack.

  "You two are as stubborn as a team of mules wantin’ to pull in opposite directions. Maybe you'll change your mind when I tell you that she was tryin’ to get down the backstairs to the privy last night when some fella caught her an’ offered ten dollars if she'd go into one of the rooms with him."

  "Who?” Jack looked enraged.

  "Doesn't matter."

  "Of course, it matters. Did she—"

  "—get away? She did. Seems she was carryin’ a parasol, which strikes me as pure good luck. Not too many women carry them after dark on the way to the privy."

  "Kristin looks on a parasol as a weapon.” Jack brooded on the dangers his wife faced because of her fool-headed attitude. If he rescued her, he'd have to let her leave him. Otherwise, she'd run away again and end up someplace worse. Though he couldn't think of any place worse than a whorehouse, unless it was a whorehouse where she'd be expected to take customers.

  "She loves you, you know,” said Ingrid.

  "Not a chance,” said Jack bitterly.

  "She's done another portrait of you. You'd better get over there an’ see it. Then you'll know what I mean."

  "Why? What does it look like?"

  "You'd have to see it to understand,” said Ingrid, looking smug. “I'll tell you what, Jack. Bring her home. Really try to work things out. If, in a week or so, she still hasn't settled down, I'll help you convince her that you're what she wants."

  "And how would you do that?"

  "Jealousy,” said Ingrid. “I'll go after you myself, an’ you—you'll act like you're interested."

  "You think that would work?"

  "Sure. I already got her upset by sayin’ I'd take you if she didn't want you."

  "How upset?” asked Jack.

  "Enough. We could put on an act. Might help you. Might help me. Couldn't hurt to try. But she's got to be here to see us gettin’ cozy."

  Jack grinned. “How are you going to get Sean Fitzpatrick over here to see it?"

  "Leave that to me.” Ingrid rose. “Now, go get her before someone beats you to it.” And she left the room, hips swaying.

  Jack brooded for another fifteen or twenty minutes. If there was one man who'd offer ten dollars, there'd be another who'd offer twenty as word got around town that Kristin was living at The Gentlemen's Sporting Club. Then there'd be someone who'd be willing to break down a door to get to her. Someone who didn't mind forcing a woman. Face grim, he went to his library and took a loaded pistol from the desk, shoved it into his belt, donned his coat, snatched his rifle off the rack on the wall, and called for his horse. He wondered whether Kristin was still wearing the faux Worth ball gown she'd left in. And he was curious to see the painting that, according to Ingrid, displayed Kristin's love for him.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  "You don't have to shoot anyone, Mr. Cameron,” said Marcella Webber, who had come out when she heard a commotion late in the morning. “She's not being held against her will.” Jack Cameron stood in the hall faced off against Pascal, the mute giant who kept order for Marcie and appropriated the firearms of patrons before they were allowed in. Jack had refused to surrender his. “And please don't shoot Pascal,” Marcie added. “He's just doing his job."

  "I've come for my wife,” said Jack, teeth gritted.

  "Took you long enough. Still, if she doesn't want to go, she doesn't have to. I don't hold with men abusing women."

  "I don't abuse her,” said Jack.

  "One woman's loving is another woman's abuse,” said Marcie. “She thinks you're the devil's stepchild."

  Jack got a firm grip on his temper and replied, “No matter what her opinion of me, no one can doubt, after last night, that she'll be safer at home than here. So step out of my way.” He waved the rifle in the general direction of Marcie, Pascal, and the girls who were peeking out of the parlor.

  "You'll not hurt her?"

  "I never have,” said Jack.

  "She's done nothing wrong while she was here."

  "I didn't think she had."

  "Just finished my portrait and a mural for the new parlor addition."

  What kind of mural would suit a parlor house? he wondered uneasily. Anything that he'd want his wife credited with? Morbid curiosity getting the better of him, Jack said, “Let's see them,” and he forced everyone on the first floor to accompany him to the parlor where Marcie's portrait hung over the fireplace. “She's done a lot better by you than by me,” he muttered. “What did she charge you?"

  "Fifty dollars."

  "Damn. She charged me a hundred and made me look like an ass. Now where's the mural? Here, girl.” He waved the rifle at Betts. “Stick right with us. I don't want anyone warning Mrs. Cameron that I'm here.” The whole crowd went through to the second room, where the finished mural glowed merrily above the wainscoting. “If she can do that with a parlor house,” said Jack, “she could probably make hard-rock mining look like a weekend at the seashore."

  Marcie viewed the mural with approval. “It does take the customers’ fancy,” she admitted. “Business is up half again since I opened this room."

  "Wonderful. More lechers swarming around my wife."

  "Your wife is in the attic when the lechers swarm,” said Marcie dryly. “Seems to me that a charming fellow like you ought to be able to keep her home.” She tossed him the key. “The door to the attic stairs is at the end of the hall on the second floor. See that you treat her well."

  When hadn't he treated her well? Jack felt like retorting. He'd been a very patient and accommodating husband. Maybe too much so. Still, he'd give patience one more shot. Jack climbed the stairs to the business floor of the brothel, then unlocked the door and climbed to the attic, taking no trouble to walk softly. Kristin met him with her parasol at the ready. “You,” she gasped.

  "Me,” he agreed. “You're coming home."

  "Have you no interest in preserving your honor? I've just spent ten days in a sporting house. What man—"

  "Y
ou haven't been dishonored, just inconvenienced,” said Jack. “Now, gather up your things, and let's go.” Patience, he reminded himself.

  "No."

  At that moment Jack spotted the painting. “Well, well, well,” he murmured, studying it with fascination. “I can see what Ingrid was talking about. You do have some interest in me, after all."

  Kristin was already racing down the stairs when Jack, whirling at the descending tap of her feet, realized what had happened and pursued her. He caught her in the first-floor hall, dropped his rifle, and swung her over his shoulder. “Package up her stuff and send it to Nickel Hill, will you, Marcie? I'd be much obliged. Stop that, Kristin."

  She was pounding on his back with her fists, her feet and calves kicking below his arm, where he clasped her firmly at the knees. There was such a thing as too much patience, he decided when the toe of her boot caught him a painful blow to the thigh. He was tempted to swat her rear but didn't want to get into an argument with Marcie or Pascal. “I can carry you through the whole town kicking and yelling if you force me, Kristin, but you'll go quietly and ride if you're sensible,” he muttered as he strode out the front door of the Gentlemen's Sporting Club.

  "I've got some news for you,” he said once they were both on his horse, Kristin held in front of him, rifle in its scabbard.

  "I don't want to hear it."

  "Oh, don't be sulky."

  "See you found your wife,” called the station manager as they passed the depot. “Comes of lettin’ women git on an’ off at other than the ladies’ stop."

  Jack ignored him. “It's about the pictures you entered in the Denver show the last time you ran away."

  "What show? It was just a trick to get me into the hands of those detectives."

  "Nope. There was an exhibition, and I had the paintings you left at Peacocks’ entered."

  "All of them?” Kristin looked horrified. “Some were failures. They shouldn't have been—"

  "Thanks, Jack,” he said, imitating her voice. “Not at all, sweetheart,” he replied in his own. “I thought it was the least I could do after abducting you before you could score a great artistic triumph."

  "I did that before you ever had me abducted."

  "See you got her back,” called Connor Macleod as they rode off the bridge and onto Main Street.

  "Only took two guns and a lot of bluster,” Jack called back.

  "This is humiliating,” Kristin hissed. “Couldn't you have taken some roundabout route?"

  "Breckenridge is too small to have any roundabout routes.” He swung the horse up Lincoln. “So you don't care how your paintings fared. Is that right?"

  "Something's poking into my side."

  "That's my pistol. If you don't treat me with wifely respect, I may just use it to shoot you."

  Kristin giggled.

  Jack smiled. “You took first and third places."

  "I didn't!” Kristin was so excited that she forgot her quarrel with Jack. “First place? And third? Oh-h-h."

  "You can kiss me if you want,” he suggested.

  "Abomination!” shouted Reverend Passmore. “Drinking on Sundays! Residing in brothels! Unbridled lust in the streets! Our town is turning into a Sodom and Gomorrah."

  Kristin glared down at him from Jack's arms. “It would almost be worth kissing you just to spite him,” she muttered to her husband.

  "Spoken like the gracious, loving wife you are,” Jack murmured back and spurred his horse up the hill.

  "I still refuse to—to—"

  "We're going to have a talk about that,” he promised.

  "What we need, Kristin, is to have a reasonable discussion about our problems,” said Jack. They were sitting in the drawing room after dinner.

  "I'm tired,” said Kristin. “I've had a trying day."

  "So have I,” said Jack. “It's bad enough to have a sermon preached about me."

  "I don't remember your being upset when he preached that sermon about me,” said Kristin. “How do you think I felt about being called a person whose character was formed by contaminating associations?"

  "How do you think I felt being called an outrage to public decency?"

  Kristin giggled. “I didn't know he'd said that."

  "Damn right he did.” Jack grinned. “He said any man who let his wife reside in a brothel was an outrage to public decency."

  "So that's why you dragged me home at gunpoint?"

  "No, it's not, and I didn't point a gun at you."

  "Just the fact that you had one—"

  "You're trying to get me off the subject of our problems. I didn't threaten you with my rifle, and I didn't bring you home because of Passmore's sermon. What the hell do I care what he thinks?"

  "You cared when he accused me of dynamiting his bell."

  "Right. You ought to keep that in mind. You might have been arrested if I hadn't stuck up for you."

  "But I didn't—"

  "I know that, Kristin,” he snapped, then took a deep breath. “About our problems."

  "We wouldn't have any if—"

  "What? If I moved out? If I didn't want to exercise my rights as a husband? If I—"

  Kristin turned pink and tried to get up. Jack, quicker than she, scooted onto the middle of the sofa and held her in place with both hands. “This is all because of that night in your father's library, isn't it?"

  "Well, we'd certainly never have married if—"

  "You haven't forgiven me."

  "Why should I?” Kristin wanted to go upstairs and push the dresser in front of her door. Better yet, she wanted to be safely back at Marcie's, painting in the attic and planning her escape from problems she couldn't solve. She certainly didn't want to be sitting in the drawing room with Jack. She could hardly look at him now that he'd seen that painting. He probably thought she was anxious to fall into bed with him and commit every sin on Sister Mary Joseph's list, starting with enjoying “the act” and ending with enjoying it on some important feast day. It was probably a feast day today, and Jack was just waiting to desecrate some saint's memory.

  "We need to be honest about that night, Kristin. Brandy or no brandy, I'd never have kissed my fiancée's sister if I weren't attracted to you."

  "You didn't even know I was alive until that night. You couldn't have picked me out in a crowd. You probably thought I was twelve years old instead of eighteen."

  Jack grinned. “Well, I certainly found out differently, didn't I?"

  "I don't think that's funny.” Kristin's lips quivered. It was terrible to have someone laugh at you about your sins. What if anyone else in the household saw that picture of Jack when Marcie sent it back? If I were a good Christian, I'd have finished the suffer-the-little-children picture for Father Boniface Wirtner instead of painting that sinful, naked portrait of Jack, she admonished herself.

  "And you'd never have kissed me back if you weren't attracted to me,” Jack pointed out.

  Kristin's cheeks burned. He couldn't know that she'd had a long-term infatuation with him back then. Could he? “I don't know that I did kiss you back,” she replied defensively.

  "Take my word for it,” said Jack dryly. “You did. That night and on several other occasions. And then you left Chicago so fast, you didn't even wait to see if your parents would relent, or if I'd help you out. I think you wanted to go."

  Was that true? Kristin wondered. Had she wanted a career in art so badly that she'd run a thousand miles to find it? Or had the famous-spinster-artist idea been wishful thinking because she thought all her options were closed once she'd been dishonored?

  "Every time you've run away from me, you've advanced your career—except for that lascivious mural at Marcie's."

  "It is not lascivious,” she protested. “It's just—realistic."

  "The hell it is. Stylistically, it's Impressionistic, and a good thing too. The fuzziness makes it a little less shocking. And while we're talking about your painting, I'd like to point out that your pictures of me are a lot more flattering than th
ey were to begin with. Also there are a lot of them. I think you're in love with me."

  "I am not."

  "As for me, I followed you to Colorado, didn't I?"

  "Your father sent you on business."

  "And I found you."

  "Only because I was at Macleod's and you owned part of their mine."

  "And I stayed here."

  "That was a surprise,” Kristin admitted.

  "And married you."

  "You didn't have any choice."

  "Of course I did. I could have done business a lot more handily in Denver and left you here ironing Connor's shirts. I married you because I wanted to."

  "You did?"

  "And because I wanted to start a new life. With you. So that's what we're going to do, Kristin. Make a success of this marriage."

  Kristin bit her lip. He made it sound almost feasible.

  "You've become a successful artist. I've become a successful independent banker. Why shouldn't we be a successful husband and wife?"

  "Well—” Was he saying that he was willing to abide by the rules? Kristin looked up at him hopefully. She really did like Jack when he wasn't endangering her immortal soul. And maybe she did love him. “There's the problem of the church,” she said hesitantly.

  "What problem? We were married in the church."

  "Yes, but—but—” She just couldn't discuss the do's and don'ts of “the act” with him. “Maybe you could talk to Father Boniface Wirtner about—about marriage. How it's supposed to work and—and—"

  Jack laughed. “I doubt that Father Boniface could tell me anything about marriage that I don't know, sweetheart."

  "Yes, he could,” said Kristin desperately.

  "All right, I'll talk to him."

  She relaxed and smiled, then had another thought. “We'd have to get a calendar of feast days."

  "Feast days?” Jack looked puzzled. “All right. I'll order one. Maybe Marshall Fields has them."

  "Jack, it's not like ordering a dining room set. You'd have to ask Father Boniface Wirtner where—"

  "Fine. So it's all settled? We're going to make a new start?"

  Kristin nodded hesitantly.