He glanced around, as if wondering what to say next. Kit knew the feeling. This encounter was not happening as she’d expected, and the courage to apologize was diminishing. But she had to find Sam before being sent back to Chicago. That was the reason she was here. Afterward, she’d go home gladly—get as far away from Clay as possible. Sitting next to him made it hard to concentrate. It was a struggle not to remember how he’d kissed her yesterday. How warm and fuzzy that had left her feeling, and how she wanted to experience it again.
Kit cleared the roughness from her throat and wet her lips.
Chapter Five
Kit’s tiny cough made the muscles in his neck tighten. Assuming she was about to say something, Clay cut her off at the pass. “What are you playing at?”
Watching her walk down the steps this morning had been like seeing an angel descending from heaven, complete with golden curls flowing in her wake. She was something, he just couldn’t quite figure out what. She was up to something, too, and he’d best figure out what that was—quick. Before both he and Sam were in too deep.
Her brows drew together above her startled eyes. “What do you mean, what I’m playing at?”
Downing the last drop of his coffee, he set the cup down. “Why didn’t you just tell me who you were? There was no need to pretend to be someone else.”
“I—” She stopped, eyeing Mimmie Mae approaching their table.
“I’ll be right back to refill your cups,” the woman offered, after setting two plates holding thick beefsteaks and perfectly cooked eggs on the table.
Sitting stiff in her chair, with arms folded across her chest, Kit waited until Mimmie Mae walked away before saying, “I had to pretend to be those other people.”
Clay bit back the mirth tickling the corners of his mouth, caused by her obvious irritation, and picked up his knife and fork. “Why?” Cutting into the steak, he watched the pink center ooze red juice onto his plate. He kept staring at it, hoping it would quell his desire to gaze upon her blushing face. Oscar’s Kit had grown into a very pretty woman, and when her cheeks flushed, she was downright gorgeous.
Her gaze darted nervously as she quietly answered, “I have my reasons.”
With damn near as much force as he drove a pickax, he stabbed the meat with his fork and popped it in his mouth. Charming or not, she was Kit, his ward, and appeared to be as bull-headed as Sam.
Mimmie Mae returned, filled his coffee cup and set the teapot on the table, since Kit’s cup was still full. “Can I get you two anything else?”
“I don’t believe so.” He glanced across the table.
Kit offered a slight smile to the woman and shook her head.
“Well, just holler if you think of something,” the hotel owner insisted as she walked away.
Clay took another bite of steak and nodded toward Kit’s plate. “Best eat while it’s hot. Eggs lose their flavor as they cool.”
“They do not,” she retorted. “Besides, I’m not hungry. I already told you that.”
“Suit yourself,” Clay said, scooping up eggs with his fork and doing his best to act natural. “The Kit Oscar always talked about was forever hungry. He said she had a hollow leg. Said it took every ounce of gold the Wanda Lou produced just to feed her.”
“He did not.”
“That’s how I remember it.”
She cut into her steak with vigor, noticeably miffed, but soon her pace slowed and she began to eat as if sincerely enjoying the food. Clay found pleasure in the meal as well, not from the food—though Mimmie Mae’s fare was always tasty—but from the company. The way she looked up, gazed at him with those soft and teasing eyes every once in a while, had his blood heating up—enjoyably so.
He finished his meal and leaned back, sipping his coffee.
She patted her napkin against her pert lips before repositioning it upon her lap. “Mr. Hoffman,” she started, glancing around as if what she was about to say would reveal a highly prized secret. “Would you please tell me where Sam Edwards lives?”
An intense churning in his stomach caused his breakfast to sour and sent an aftertaste bubbling up his throat. For a moment there, he’d imagined he was sitting across from Katherine, a woman he still wanted to get to know better. Knowing that was impossible was still playing havoc on him. “Sam lives a few miles out of town.”
“Which direction?”
Oscar’s wish had been for the two grandchildren to meet, but Clay felt he had to uphold Sam’s interests first, and her aliases had him questioning her true reason for being here. “Why didn’t you wire that you were coming? Or just arrive as yourself?”
She sighed heavily, yet met his gaze square on. “I couldn’t,” she said. “Sam inherited half of everything my grandfather had.”
The hint of anticipation sparkling in her eyes made Clay frown and stiffen at the same time. “Yes, he did. But why couldn’t you wire him?”
“Because he doesn’t know me. I don’t know him.”
Outwardly, Clay remained calm. Inside, clicking along like the revolutions of train wheels, a dozen scenarios rolled across his mind. Lord knew, after the way she’d already tried to fool him into believing she was someone else, what type of ideas she might put in Sam’s mind. If the two of them got together and decided to challenge the will, not only would Oscar’s shares of his companies be in jeopardy, so would Clay’s shares—the entire town, for that matter.
His ears buzzed as the scenarios kept coming. “Oscar tried to convince Sam to move to Chicago, but he refused. What makes you think you’ll convince him?”
She frowned. “I’m not here to ask him to move to Chicago.”
Just when he thought he knew what he was doing, Clay’s instincts proved wrong. Her confusion stabbed him dead center. “Then why are you here?”
“I just want to meet him.” She shrugged. “Find out who he is.”
An eerie sensation crept up Clay’s spine. “Find out who he is?”
“Yes. I don’t understand why the will includes a complete stranger.” Her facade was gone, and nothing but honesty glimmered in her sad eyes.
Clay tried telling himself to remember just how cunning women were, but something inside him said she wasn’t being deceitful. She truly didn’t know who Sam was.
Clay pushed away from the table. “I’ll send a message to him and let you know when I hear back from him.” After placing two bills on the front desk, for both meals, he strolled out the door.
“Damn you, Oscar,” he growled. “How could you not have told her?”
An echo in his ears sent a shudder up his spine, and a heavy sigh left his chest as his name was repeated. Rubbing at the tension burning his neck muscles, he turned. “Hello, Clarice.”
“Didn’t you see my note?” she asked, barreling down the boardwalk as if on a mission—which was as normal as the sunshine. “I left it on your desk.”
“Yes, I saw it.”
Without missing a step she hooked his elbow with hers, forcing him to walk beside her as her heels clip-clopped a rhythmic beat on the wooden walkway. “Did you read it?” The humorous glint shimmering in her eyes said she knew he hadn’t.
“No,” he admitted. “I haven’t had a chance to yet.”
Clarice shook her head in the way that reminded him so much of their mother, he had to smile, and felt a twinge of guilt. If Kit didn’t know about Sam, she might not know about her mother, either. Clay had assumed Oscar had told her, after finding Sam.
Reaching over, Clay flicked the floppy black lace dangling from the brim of Clarice’s huge pink hat. “Where are we going?” His glance had gone down the hill to the telegraph office, as he wondered if Mr. Watson had sent a message yet. If Oscar hadn’t told Kit, the solicitor must have upon reading the will. How else would she know Sam’s name?
“To see Mr. Mason,” Clarice said.
He cringed, not really knowing if it was for him or Mr. Mason. “Why?” There were so many other things he needed to see to.
She
turned the corner, tugging him with her, and together they climbed the stairs built into the hill that led to the row of buildings above. One of those being the school.
Being prepared was the most he could hope for. He forced Kit and Sam to the back of his mind, or as far back as he could before he drew in a solid breath seeking fortitude. He’d need it. When it came to Clarice, one was best to pack a good supply of staying power. A side iron never hurt, either. “Tell me what’s happened, so I have some idea what to expect.”
She let out a hiss that made him cringe. Normally, his sister was a gentle and kind person, one everyone loved, but get her dander up and a grizzly would cower. They topped the twenty or more steps, and Clay brought their hurried pace to a dead stop.
“He’s the fourth teacher you’ve hired in less than two years.”
“Clayton Hoffman—”
His neck muscles tightened. He was in for an earful when she used his full name.
“—the children of this town deserve a quality education, and as the proprietor of the town, it’s your job to see they do. I …”
He could have interrupted to say he’d spent a small fortune on the school building, the home for the teacher to live in and the salary he paid those brave enough to take on the job—especially after their first nose to nose encounter with Clarice—but he didn’t. Instead, he listened as she prattled on about the importance of an education. How that was the only way the children would have the opportunity to leave Nevadaville and the mining community—as if it were the worst place on earth to live.
When she did finally take a breath, he jumped in. “What’s happened?” He didn’t have all day. It was time for him to know what he was in for.
Her hands balled into fists, her lips puckered, but what caught his full attention was how her voice grew soft, almost despondent. “He used a switch on Liza Rose.”
As hot and swift as the flame on a fuse, vehemence raced up Clay’s spine. “Liza Rose?” The little girl, only six, would never do anything to deserve a switch. Last Christmas Clay had helped pass out gifts to the children. Liza Rose had received a doll, one with glasses just like hers. She’d named the doll Mrs. Smith and carried her everywhere.
He’d never told Clarice, but he’d seen the doll in a catalog and ordered it several months in advance for Liza Rose. Her father had worked at the stamp mill, but an accident had taken his life going on two years ago, and her mother, a thin, quiet woman, worked at the society house with Clarice. Men lost their lives in a mining community. That was common knowledge. But Clay felt responsible for every life lost in Nevadaville, and the families left behind, especially the children. Not so different from Sam and now Kit.
He grasped Clarice’s arm. “Come on.” Each step along the carved pathway brought his temperature higher, like steam building inside his new boiler.
“Don’t you want to know what happened?” Clarice asked, skipping every now and again to keep up with him as they made their way toward the schoolhouse.
“No,” he admitted. It didn’t matter. Anyone so callous they’d take a switch to a six-year-old shouldn’t be teaching. And wouldn’t be. Not in his town. Neither he nor Clarice had had the chance to attend an actual school, and the opportunity for a formal education was just one of the things they both were proud to offer the residents of Nevadaville.
Kit watched as the man and woman walked into a building she assumed, by the bell hanging in the tower, was the school, wondering who the woman was Clay had smiled so fondly upon.
“Excuse me?”
The soft voice, along with the tug on her skirt, had Kit glancing down. A tiny girl with bright red hair, and green eyes that looked overly large behind gold-framed glasses, cast a wary glance about.
Captured by the distress in those eyes, Kit knelt down. “Hello there.”
“Hello,” the girl responded somewhat timidly.
Kit tapped the head of the little doll hanging over the girl’s arm. “Who is this?”
“Mrs. Smith.”
“Well, hello, Mrs. Smith,” Kit said, shaking the doll’s miniature hand. “My name is Kit.”
“Kit?”
“Yes. Kit. What’s your name?”
“Liza Rose.”
“Hello, Liza Rose.”
The girl, as if just remembering something, asked, “Have you seen Miss Clarice?”
Kit bit her lip. She really had to meet this Clarice woman. Shaking her head, she admitted, “I’m afraid I don’t know who that is. Why are you looking for her?”
Liza Rose’s eyes turned watery. “Because I’m afraid Frenchie’s gonna eat the babies.”
“Oh, my,” Kit replied, understanding the child’s fear was real. “Tell me, who is Frenchie?”
“Miss Clarice’s cat. He ran out the door behind Miss Clarice. I tried to stop him, but couldn’t catch him.” She took Kit’s hand. “Can you help me catch him?”
Since she had nothing to fill her time with until Clay heard back from Sam, Kit answered, “I’d love to help.” She couldn’t remember the last time someone had asked for her assistance. “Where did you see him last?”
“In the front yard,” the girl said, already pulling on her hand.
At the end of the road, where it curved to glide down the hill, a two-story house with big pillars fit neatly onto a small grassy plateau. A fence, made of wooden slates and painted white, encircled the entire property. Liza Rose pushed open the gate, and when she released it, the big spring recoiled, almost catching the hem of Kit’s skirt as she followed the child.
Now running, Liza Rose shouted, “I know he’s after the babies. I just know it.”
“What babies?” The house had a huge front porch, and a brass plaque hung beside the door. Kit peered closer, reading the raised print as Liza Rose shot around the corner of the house. Children’s Society House. So not exactly a brothel, then.
Kit stuck the knowledge in the back of her mind, focusing instead on keeping up with the child. At the side of the house, where the edge of the mountain rose a few yards beyond the white fence, stood a large tree. The leafy branches stretched out to dangle in front of a second-story window, and two ropes hung from one thick limb, holding a long swing, the type usually found on porches. It was quite enchanting, this big swing painted a glossy white and large enough for two adults, or three or four children, to sit and swing while telling secrets or sharing laughs.
Liza Rose had stopped at the base of the tree. “I know he’s after the babies.”
“What babies?” Kit asked again.
“The birds.” The girl pointed into the branches. “Miss Clarice can see them from her bedroom window. She showed me.”
Kit scanned the tree. Several branches up, a long white tail flicked back and forth among the leaves. “Is that Frenchie?”
Liza Rose twisted and squinted, gazing up into the tree.
Bending down and wrapping an arm around tiny shoulders, Kit pointed to the spot. “Right there? See his tail?”
“Yes! Yes, that’s Frenchie.” Anxious, the girl shook her head. “He’s gonna eat the babies. I just know it.”
“We’ll get him, don’t worry.” Kit glanced around for something to throw into the branches. The thick grass was well manicured. Not even a pebble let itself be shown, which proved she had little choice. “You stay here. Right here.”
Liza Rose nodded, eyes glued on Frenchie’s tail, and clutched her doll with both hands.
Kit checked the strength of the ropes. They looked new, and the knots held tight as she pulled. If she stood on the back of the swing, she’d be able to reach the branch the ropes were tied to. It had been a long time, but climbing a tree was not something one forgot. Thankful she’d left her jacket at the hotel, she unbuttoned her cuffs, and after rolling her sleeves to her elbows, rubbed her hands together in preparation. Confidence built within. This was something she’d done a hundred times. Maybe a thousand. With an inner nod of assurance, she climbed onto the swing.
“Kit, Momma says
we can’t stand on the swing.”
“And your momma is right. You must never stand on the swing. You could fall and get hurt.” Kit wrapped both hands around the thick branch and dug her nails into the bark, securing her grip. “I’m a grown-up, so I can stand on it, but only because it’s an emergency. Now, you stay right there, like I told you to.”
Liza Rose nodded, and Kit took a deep breath. As she exhaled, she jumped and swung her legs upward, hooking her ankles over the branch and pulling herself up until the bark bit through her pantaloons and into her thighs. While her momentum was still flowing, she swung her hips, hoisting herself up and over. With a thud, her chest and stomach hit the branch.
She pushed herself up, to sit straddling the limb. Triumph filled her insides as brightly as it had years ago. At one time, there’d been nothing she’d enjoyed more than finding a tree to sit in and pass the hours, devouring the pages of a book on a summer afternoon back in Illinois.
“Stay there,” she repeated to Liza Rose, and began inching her way along the branch. Once she had the solid trunk to aid her, she rose to her feet and assessed the best path upward. The tree was a perfect climber. The branches spread out from the base like staircases, inviting any who dared to roost in the inspirational serenity to hide behind the veil of delicate green leaves. Kit drew a breath as childhood memories settled over her. She was once again ten, shimmying as agile as any four-legged creature that considered the tree its home.
A silly notion occurred to her. The tiniest wish that Clay could see her skimming along the branches. Silly, yes, but it had cheered her insides when he’d said Gramps had talked about her when he was out here. The thought, mingling with the almost forgotten pleasure of tree climbing, increased her confidence, and she scrambled through the leaves as if she was on a Sunday walk in the park.
Several branches later, easing toward the far reaches of one particular limb, she cooed, “Frenchie? Kitty. Kitty.”
“What are you doing up there?”
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