Maybe it was the word richest that finally broke through to Kathryn, or maybe it was just the whole rotten day in which she had been repeatedly accused of being a prostitute, and had seen her son nearly murdered in the filthy streets while a bunch of dirty ruffians watched. Or maybe it was kissing a man who turned out to be such a pig as this one. Whatever it was, Kathrytfs temper broke.
With measured steps, she walked toward the desk, then put her fists on it and leaned toward him. He was sitting, so she was the one looking down at him.
"Let me make myself clear, Mr. Jordan. I have no, let me repeat that, no desire to marry you or any other man. I came here because I signed a contract for a job. You hear me? A job! And I want nothing else from you. Right now I don't even want that because I have never met a more vain, egomaniacal man than you in my life—and that includes the aristocracy of Ireland. I have no idea how the photographs were exchanged, but I can assure that I did not switch them. I represented myself honestly and with integrity, and that is how I expect to be treated in return. Now, I demand that you honor your contract with me!" Never in her life had Kathryn demanded anything, except sometimes that Jeremy not do something dangerous, but this man seemed to elicit emotions and responses from her that she'd never felt before.
"Demand, do you?" the man said with a one-sided smile, then slowly he stood up, pulling himself to his full height of well over six feet. "Well, Mrs. de Long, I demand that you get out of my house and never step foot into it again. Now which of us is more likely to have our demands obeyed?"
Standing there, Kathryn looked across the desk into eyes that had turned as cold as sapphires, and she knew she had lost. There was nothing she could do or say that was going to make this man give her the job that was hers by right, the job that she and her son so desperately needed.
Trying to retain her pride, she stiffened her back and walked toward the door. If she allowed herself to think for even a second about what this man was condemning her to, she'd collapse.
Once she was outside the odious man's office, she took Jeremy's hand in hers and led him out of the house. Jeremy knew his mother well enough not to ask questions about what had gone on; besides, their voices had been loud enough for him to hear most of it.
Kathryn half pulled him down the dirt road, past the stone wall that separated the two very different parts of town from each other, and into the muddy streets of Legend proper. For all that Jeremy was only nine, he had seen a very ugly side of life, and he knew what jobs were open to women in a place like Legend.
"I can work," he said softly. "I'm strong and I can get a job. There are mines here and I—"
Abruptly, Kathryn halted in the middle of the street and stared at her son. "Going to work in a mine at nine years old?" she said, horror in her voice. "Is that what kind of mother you think I am?" For a moment forgetting his age, she said, "I'll make a living on my back before I—" She broke off as she stared at something above Jeremy's head.
"Mother?" he said, then turned and looked at the sign that was behind him. "Prettiest girls in the West," the sign read. "Highest prices for the best."
"Mother!" Jeremy said in fear, then grabbed her arm when she took a step forward. "I'll work. I'll—:"
But Kathryn wasn't paying any attention to him. As though she were in a trance she started walking, half dragging a fearful Jeremy behind her.
"No, no," he began, but stopped when his mother walked past the entrance to the saloon and instead started up the stairs beside the building. For a moment Jeremy stood rooted where he was, then he saw a small sign hanging beside the bottom of the stairs. I'll sue anybody about anything, the sign said. No case too small. I ain't afraid of nobody. John T. Stewart, attorney-at-law.
"What an extraordinary sentiment," Jeremy said, reading the sign. "Mother, did you—"
But Kathryn was already halfway up the stairs, and Jeremy had to run to catch her. "Mother, whatever are you thinking of doing?"
"I'm going to sue the bastard," Kathryn de Longe said, which made her son stand where he was, his mouth open in disbelief, for he'd never, ever heard his mother use such a word before. She thought damn might open the gates of hell.
"Wait for me," Jeremy called and ran to follow his mother into the grimy little office.
* * *
Chapter Two
"Cole Jordan?" the attorney, John T. Stewart, said as he pulled on the long point of his drooping mustache. "You want me to sue Cole Jordan?" Turning around in his chair, he glanced over his left shoulder at his plump wife, who was knitting what looked to be a twelve-foot-long scarf. Mr. Stewart seemed to be highly amused by the very prospect of suing such a man—and he didn't seem to have any intention of taking the case.
"Mr. Stewart, your sign says that you are afraid of no one," Kathryn said, her lips tight, and she couldn't resist a bit of sarcasm. "Why didn't you write, 'With the exception of Cole Jordan'?"
She had meant to shame him, but instead, he grinned at her. "I didn't write on there, 'Except for the devil,' either." After a pause, he looked over his shoulder to see if his wife had caught his witticism, and since she was smiling into her wool, she had.
"No sir," Mr. Stewart said, "I'll sue anybody but the devil and Jordan, which in my book is about the same thing. I'll take on murderers and thieves. I'll even take on preachers, but I’ll not go against the Jordans."
For Kathryn, what she was hearing was too much like what she'd encountered in Ireland over nine years before. No one would stand up to the O'Connors then, and now no one would help her fight the Jordans. "Are you telling me that in a free country like this you'd allow one man to rule you?"
"You can wave all the flags you want, ma'am, but it won't help. The Jordan family owns every inch of this town, and we all do what they say."
"How many of them are there?" Kathryn asked, eyes wide.
"A passel, but most of 'em went to Denver years ago. Only Cole stayed behind to run the town."
"This isn't a town, Mr. Stewart, this is a Den of Sin."
"It is nice, ain't it?" Mr. Stewart said, smiling fondly. "This town is a lawyer's dream-come-true. I got so much business, a dozen of me couldn't do all the work. And I can charge whatever I want."
Kathryn would have left as soon as she heard the man's cowardly attitude, but she was hungry and she knew Jeremy was too, and hunger makes a person desperate. Besides, in the last minutes she had been watching Mrs. Stewart. With every word that was exchanged, the woman's head had bent lower over her knitting, and she was now wearing a frown. Her look encouraged Kathryn.
"I have a case that you couldn't lose," Kathryn said. "I have a contract signed by Cole Jordan, and I'm sure someone in town could verify his signature. But then he admits he signed the contract. I'm no longer asking to work for him, but he does owe me money, and I need that money. I traveled a long way on his word, and now he's going back on his word. Doesn't that count for something here in America?"
"Maybe in America it does, but this here is Legend, and the United States government don't own this place, the Jordans do. They—"
"Isn't there someone who isn't afraid of him?" Kathryn asked in exasperation. "I can see by the filth of this town that the decent people here are fighting a losing battle, but surely, someone, somewhere…" She was looking at Mrs. Stewart, who still had her head low, her frown deepening. "Maybe someone with children…Surely there must be someone besides me who isn't afraid of him. Or maybe there's something he's afraid of," she said as an afterthought.
"Cole's afraid of guns," Mrs. Stewart said, speaking for the first time. "He won't touch a gun ever since he was nine years old. The boy had a dream that his whole family was killed by the people of Legend shooting at some robbers. Of course nothing like that ever happened, but that don't stop Cole. Won't touch a gun."
After that statement the woman looked back down at her knitting, and Kathryn blinked in confusion. What did that information have to do with Mr. Jordan's refusal to honor a contract?
But Mr.
Stewart seemed to think there was some relevance, as he had turned in his chair and was looking at his wife expectantly. "What's your point, sugar muffin?" he asked after several long moments of silence.
"Judge Harry Bascom."
The name meant nothing to Kathryn, but it seemed to mean a lot to John T. Stewart, for he turned as pale as an eggshell. Considering that he had the red face of a budding alcoholic, that was no easy task.
The lawyer turned back to Kathryn. "How much you payin' me?"
"If I gave you a hundred per cent of all I own in the world it would be nothing."
Mr. Stewart looked at Kathryn hard for a moment. "That's good. Beautiful young widow. Hmmm, almost too beautiful. You look like one of Carl's French singers."
At that Kathryn narrowed her eyes at him.
"No offense," he said, then looked back over his shoulder. "Martha, honey, can you do somethin' with her hair? Pull it back a bit and see if you can make her look less… well, less appealin'. We don't want people thinkin' she's a floozy."
"You leave it to me, Jake, I can make any woman look unappealing."
"Except for yourself, love bunny," the man said with an adoring look at his wife's bowed head.
Kathryn was embarrassed by the affectionate exchanges between the two of them; she felt as though she'd walked into a honeymoon chamber. She wouldn't have guessed that Mrs. Stewart, her face weathered by many years in the mountains and quite a few pounds overweight, could inspire the name "love bunny."
"Ahem," Kathryn said, clearing her throat and intercepting the looks they were exchanging. "Who is Judge Harry Bascom?"
Reluctantly, Mr. Stewart looked back at Kathryn. "He ain't afraid of even the Jordans."
"Or the devil," Mrs. Stewart said softly, and this witticism sent Mr. Stewart into spasms of laughter.
While Kathryn waited for him to come back to the task at hand, she glanced at Jeremy, who was quietly studying the few law books in a case against one wall. She knew Jeremy well enough to know that he was keenly interested in every word that was being spoken.
"Then you'll take my case?" Kathryn asked when the man had stopped being convulsed with laughter.
"What do you think, Bunches?" Mr. Stewart asked his wife.
Jeremy looked up from a book and mouthed, Bunches of what? to his mother, making her hide a smile behind her hand.
For a moment Mrs. Stewart looked at Kathryn, studying her, and Kathryn could see the intelligence there. No wonder Mr. Stewart asked her opinion.
"I think this woman might do some good for this town. I think it's time that someone fought the Jordans, and I think this woman and you, Jake, are just the ones to do it."
Before Mr. Stewart could say anything, Kathryn spoke up. "I don't want there to be any misunderstanding. I have no intention of helping this town, as you put it. In fact, I have no intention of staying here. I really just want enough money to get out of here so I can go somewhere else. San Francisco maybe." At this she looked at Jeremy, and his slight smile and nod were enough for her. "Yes, just the money and nothing else."
Mr. Stewart looked at his wife at the end of this speech, saw that she was smiling into her knitting, then turned back to Kathryn. "If I can get Judge Harry, I'll be glad to take on your case."
"And how likely is it that you will be able to get this judge?"
At that, Mr. Stewart chuckled. "Three years ago Cole Jordan broke Judge Harry's eldest daughter's heart. He'll come. Don't you worry about that. It's just a matter of when. Now you just tell me where you're stayin' so I can contact you when it's all arranged."
"That is a bit of a problem," Kathryn said, looking down at her hands. "My son and I have no place to stay and no money to rent a room." Her head came up and her mouth tightened in anger. "I thought we were coming here to a job and a place to live. But now we have nothing."
"Oh, that's very good," the man said. "You'll do real well on the stand. Can you make them tears come at will?"
It was on the tip of Kathryn's tongue to tell him that her feelings were genuine and not something she could turn on and off, but Mrs. Stewart spoke.
"You'll have to stay with us," she said, smiling sweetly at both her and Jeremy. "You wouldn't happen to know how to sew, do you, dear?" she asked, thereby establishing that Kathryn was to be a working guest.
"My mother was a cook for a large estate and I learned a bit from her," Kathryn said modestly. "Perhaps I would be allowed to help in the kitchen."
"If you insist," Mrs. Stewart said, smiling as she looked back at her scarf.
"My mother can knit, too," Jeremy said, speaking for the first time.
For a moment Kathryn held her breath. Would Mrs. Stewart be horribly offended by his words?
But Mrs. Stewart looked up, eyes twinkling, and held aloft her long, long scarf. "Then perhaps she might teach me," she said, and all of them laughed together.
Four and a half weeks, Kathryn thought, as she twisted the black cotton gloves on her hands. She and Jeremy had been in this horrible town of Legend for four and a half long, long weeks, and during that time she had learned more than she'd ever wanted to know about Cole Jordan. She'd found out that his family owned all the land, the buildings, the mines, and, some said, he even owned the people.
She'd found out that he was massively wealthy, but he never spent a penny on the town unless he had to. He just lived on his side of the stone wall and pretended that the debauchery on the other side didn't exist.
Except when he came down to visit, that is. Visit the "girls," as they were called. And it seemed that he visited them often. "Twice a day if he ain't too busy," a woman had told her.
The day after she and Jeremy had moved in with the Stewarts, Kathryn had found herself to be regarded as a heroine, maybe even an avenging angel. "You tell him I wanta buy my place," a man told her, then Kathryn launched into a long explanation about how she had no power to make Cole Jordan do anything.
But no one seemed to hear her, for a few minutes later three women descended on her complaining about their "working" hours. Kathryn knew her face was aubergine purple when she thought about what they worked at, but the women kept on in spite of Kathryn's embarrassment.
By the end of the first week Kathryn began to carry a notepad and pencil with her wherever she went so she could write down the complaints. She had no idea what she was going to do with her list, but it seemed to be the polite thing to do.
By the end of the second week she knew half the people of Legend by name, and the wagon drivers bringing goods up from Denver always saved the best of the produce for her to use in the Stewarts' kitchen. By the third week she was known as the best cook in the country, "maybe even in the whole world" thanks to a fairly continuous round of dinner parties the Stewarts gave.
So now she and Jeremy had been here over a month and she was sitting in a courtroom waiting for the trial to begin. Right after their one and only confrontation, Cole Jordan had left town and had only returned last night, so Kathryn had not seen him during her long stay in Legend.
But now she was sitting at a table on one side of the courtroom, and he was on the other, half hidden behind his three lawyers. This morning the Stewarts had dressed Kathryn all in black, pulling her dark hair back so tightly that her eyes watered, then an old-fashioned black silk poke bonnet had been pushed down onto her head. When Jeremy had seen her, his eyes had widened, and he'd said in a whisper, "You look like a Raphael Madonna." Looking in the mirror, Kathryn agreed that she looked pale and… well, untouchable.
"A virgin widow," Mr. Stewart decreed, as he put his arm around his wife's plump shoulders. "I knew you could do it, Honey Lamb," he said to his wife.
"I look ridiculous," Kathryn said, pushing at the high collar of her heavy black silk dress with the cameo at its neck.
"I think she looks beautiful, Mrs. Lamb," Jeremy said, blinking at his mother. He'd called Mrs. Stewart that behind her back for all the first week, but one night at dinner it had slipped out, and the Stewarts had lau
ghed so hard that he'd called her that ever since. Even Kathryn had slipped twice and called her Mrs. Lamb. It was easy to do since Mrs. Stewart was kind and gentle—and ruled her home and husband with an iron fist.
So now Kathryn was sitting in the courtroom and awaiting the next moments that would decide the course of her life, for Cole Jordan had been called to the stand.
Mr. Stewart had just asked Cole why he hadn't honored his contract and given Widow Kathryn the job she so desperately needed for the support of herself and her dear little son.
"I refused to hire her because she couldn't handle my son," Cole said smoothly, ignoring Stewart's insinuations and smiling at the courtroom with absolute confidence. He even smiled up at Judge Bascom, but Kathryn was relieved to see that the judge did not smile back.
"All of you know my son," Cole continued. "He can run a whorehouse; he can gamble. But look at her. She's never drunk put of anything except porcelain, so what does she know about a boy like mine?"
John Stewart looked puzzled, as though he didn't understand Cole's comment. "But isn't that what a governess is for? To teach things like tea drinkin'? If you wanted someone to teach the boy how to drink out of a beer mug, why bother hirin' someone from Philadelphia? We got beer-drinkers right here in Legend."
At this the courtroom erupted into laughter until Judge Bascom banged his gavel.
"However," Mr. Stewart said loudly, "we concede that your son has the knowledge of a criminal and the manners of a jackass—"
"Just like his pa!" someone in the courtroom yelled, and there was more laughter until the judge shouted at everyone to shut up.
"Now, according to your story, you thought you were hiring an older woman who was experienced in dealing with incorrigibles and the criminally insane. Is that correct?" Mr. Stewart didn't wait for Cole to answer before he continued. "Then am I to believe that you wanted to hire a, shall we say, masculine woman to teach your son to be a gentleman? Can you tell me how that works, Mr. Jordan?"
Jude Deveraux, Linda Howard et al - Anthology - Upon A Midnight Clear Page 3