He lifted his head, held her cheeks between his palms, and forced her to meet his gaze. “Did y’ hear me?”
She swallowed and replied soberly, “I heard you.”
“You’re not a woman who’d take a thing like this lightly. I knew that before I kissed you.”
“So did I, before I let you.”
He looked down into her face as the lantern light fired the tips of her lashes to deep umber and drew becoming shadows beside her nose and mouth. With his thumbs he drew light circles on her temples. He saw even more clearly what he had seen before—compelling green eyes, a straight, fine nose, and soft, kissable lips, all arranged in an utterly beguiling fashion. He found it hard to believe no man had ever been enticed by them before.
“You must have found it strange that I never came t’ thank you for the scissors.” She swallowed but remained silent. “Did you?”
“Yes. You’re the first man I ever gave a gift to.”
He kissed her chin and told her softly, “Thank you.”
“Why didn’t you come to tell me before?”
“Because tonight isn’t the first time I’ve considered doin’ this. I considered it that day. But, Gussie, I don’t want y’ t’ think I’m takin’ advantage of y’ when you’ve drunk your first whiskey, and when you’ve been taken by surprise once already tonight. That’s not why I did it.”
“Then why?”
“I don’t know.” His eyes grew troubled. “Do you?”
“To comfort me?”
He searched her eyes and took the easy way out. “Yes, t’ comfort you. And t’ tell you the scissors have been in my breast pocket ever since Willy brought them t’ me. They’re beautiful scissors.” He watched her expression change to one of imminent shyness. “You’re blushing,” he told her.
“I know.” Her gaze fluttered aside.
It had been so long since he’d noticed a woman blush. With a finger he brushed the crest of her cheek where the soft skin had bloomed like a June rose. “Can I stay here? On top of the covers, beside you?”
Her eyes flashed to his. Pale green to stunning brown. She felt the weight of him pressing almost against her breasts. It would probably be as close as she’d ever get to the real thing.
“You can trust me, Gussie.”
“Yes... stay,” she whispered, then watched as he rolled away to lower the wick on the lantern and turn the room into a secure black cocoon. She felt him roll toward her again and settle onto his side facing her. Then listened to his breathing and felt it stir the hair above her ear. And wondered what it would be like to be able to share his bed like this for the rest of her life.
CHAPTER
15
True to his word, Scott remained totally trustworthy throughout the night. Still, Agatha slept little. Lying beside a sleeping man did nothing to promote it. Not until a gray dawn was lighting the night sky did she finally slip into slumber.
A loud whisper awakened her.
“Hey, Gussie, you awake?”
She rolled her head and opened her eyes. Scott was gone. Willy stood in the sitting room doorway with Moose in his arms. Outside it was raining and thunder rumbled.
“Hello, you two.”
He smiled. “I brung Moose t’ see ya. Moose’ll make ya happy.”
“Oh, Willy. You make me happy. Come here.”
He beamed and came at a run, threw Moose onto the bed, then clambered up and sat beside her in his familiar pose, ankles out on either side of him. His eyes immediately took in her bandage and the dried blood. When he spoke, his voice held horrified respect. “Gosh, Gussie, did that man do that to you?”
She curled on her side and petted his knee. “I’ll be all right, Willy. It scared me more than it hurt me.”
“But g-o-o-osh...” He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight.
Moose came pussy-footing across the blankets, nosed Agatha’s lip, and tickled her with his whiskers. She giggled and rolled back, scrubbing at her nose. Willy giggled, too, watching. Then he offered, “Me an’ Violet’s gonna take care o’ the store so you can rest today. Violet says t’ tell you everything’s under con... con...” He stopped, puzzled, and finally remembered the word. “Control.”
“You tell Violet I’ll be down shortly. I’ve never been a lazybones in my life, and I refuse to start now.”
“So dat’s where you are, you li’l rapscallion!” It was Ruby, swishing through the door with a covered plate in her hand. “Scotty know you got dat crittuh on his bed?”
“Yup. Moose is makin’ Gussie happy again.”
She chuckled in her dry, sarcastic way. “Moose is keepin’ one young’un I know from helpin’ with the sweepin’ downstairs.”
“Oh! I forgot!” Willy bounced off the bed and hit for the doorway. He caught himself on the doorframe and swung around, sending his feet flying. “Take care o’ Moose for me, Gussie. He gets in the way when we sweep.”
Ruby arched one eyebrow at the doorway when he was gone. “That chile evuh do anythin’ slow?”
Agatha laughed. “You should see him on his way to the bathhouse.”
“Eggs ‘n’ grits dis mornin’. Scotty says t’ see ya eat ‘em all. Emma says no rush returnin’ the plate. I say, if I git my hands on dat no-count trash did this t’ you, I’ll pluck his balls bald, then grind ‘em up for pig mash.” She slapped the plate down unceremoniously. “Now eat.”
Agatha couldn’t help chuckling at Ruby’s colorful language. There were times when she forgot about the girls’ former lives, but reminders surfaced now and then in startling anecdotes or ribald language such as Ruby had just used. Eating her breakfast, after Ruby had exited, Agatha smiled to herself. Oh, Ruby, I love you, too.
Abruptly, Agatha turned thoughtful.
It was undeniably true. During the past six months she had grown to love all of Scott Gandy’s “family.” And they, in turn, loved her. They proved it in countless ways, by rallying around when she was in trouble, sheltering her while she feared, pampering her afterward. How miraculous. How sobering. Suddenly, she found herself toying with the grits, her appetite lacking. Supposing she lost them now, when she’d just found them?
Moose came sniffing. She set down the fork and fed him some scraps but found her eyes blurred by tears as she watched the kitten stand on her lap and lick the plate.
Petting Moose’s tiny head, she prayed, Dear God, don’t let that amendment become law.
The door between Scott’s office and the sitting room was closed when Agatha rose. She paused in the nearer sitting room doorway, glancing at his sack coat tossed over an upholstered chair, a full ashtray beside it, a discarded newspaper, a discarded shirt collar beside his humidor. Once again she felt an unwarranted stab of intimacy, more poignant than before, as she realized their days together might be numbered.
The watercolor painting of Waverley drew her hypnotically. She shuffled across and stood studying it intently: a magnificent edifice any man would pine for, if forced to leave. Sweeping wings, Doric columns, and its crowning glory: the high, dominating rotunda studded by an eight-faceted peaked roof like a diamond in an elegant mounting.
She studied the broad entry door framed by top and sidelights, picturing Scott as a boy, charging through as Willy would. She pictured him as a young man marrying a beautiful blond woman somewhere inside, in a room with a wedding alcove. She pictured him as a new husband, reluctantly going away to war, galloping down the lane beneath the magnolia trees, turning for a last glimpse of his family, his tearful wife with their child on her arm, her hand raised above her head. She pictured him as a defeated “Johnny Reb,” returning to hear the voice of his dead daughter haunting him in his sleep.
Agatha touched his rosewood humidor, let her fingertips linger upon the rich, polished wood he had smoothed so many times. She touched the worn collar that had circled his strong, dark neck.
You’ll be going back, Scott. I know it. It’s what you must do.
Leaving his apartment, she noted th
at the hall door to his office was open. She tried to hurry past, but he was sitting at his desk and glanced up.
“Agatha?” he called.
Reluctantly, she returned to the open doorway, standing well out in the hall, self-conscious in her bloody nightgown and bare feet.
“How are you this mornin’?” he asked.
The look of him stopped her heart. Rumpled, unshaven, uncombed, as she’d never seen him before. His white shirt, minus its collar, lay open at the throat, the sleeves rolled back to mid-arm. The lantern was lit on his desktop, throwing flame across the dark skin of his face, while beside him the rain slapped the bare windowpane and ran down in rivulets. Instead of a cheroot, he held a pen in the crook of his finger.
Everything had changed in the course of a single night. She could no longer look at that finger without recalling the touch of it tipping her chin up. She could no longer look at the wedge of skin at his throat without recalling the texture of crisp, masculine hair beneath her fingertips. She could no longer look at his full, sculptured lips without recalling the thrill of being passionately kissed for the first time. Nor could she look at him without coveting and wanting more of the same.
Possessiveness was something new to Agatha. So was cupidity. How swiftly they controlled once a woman had had a taste of a man.
“I feel much better.” It was an outright lie. She felt sick at the thought of losing him.
“I had Pearl change your beddin’ and take the soiled sheets t’ the Finn’s.”
“Thank you. And thank you for the breakfast. I’ll send Willy up with some money for it.”
A pair of creases formed between his eyebrows. “You don’t need t’ pay me back.”
“Very well, then. Thank you, Scott. You’ve been—you’ve all been very good to me. I... I...” She stammered to a halt as tears collected in her throat. She swallowed them and forged on. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
He stared at her, eyes dark with consternation, while she searched for equilibrium but found only heart-wrenching dread. Suddenly, he dropped the pen and shot from the chair, swinging toward the window as he’d done once before in this room when they’d had words. Staring out through the runnels of rain at a jagged spear of lightning, he said tightly, “Agatha, what happened last night—I never should have done it.”
The drone of thunder sounded while she wondered how to respond. How did one respond when a heart was shattering? She drew upon some hidden store of strength she would not have suspected she owned.
“Why, don’t be silly, Scott, it was only a kiss.”
He turned his troubled face to her and went on reasoning as if she’d argued with him. “We’re too different, you and I.”
“Yes, we are.”
“And after November 2, everything might change.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Then...” The thought went uncompleted. He drew a deep breath and spun away, then caught his palms on the shoulder-high ledge where the upper and lower windows met. Letting his head drop, he stared at the floor.
A choking, exhilarating, chilling shaft of hope shot through her body. Why, Scott, what are you saying? Too confused to remain any longer, she left him staring out the window.
But if he’d been intimating what she thought, that rainy morning brought an end to any talk of it. While October waned and they waited for Election Day, he avoided her whenever possible, and when he couldn’t, he treated her with the same friendly deference as he did Ruby, Jack, or Pearl.
Willy learned to play “Oh! Susanna” on his mouth organ and Agatha suffered moments of regret over her poor judgment in choosing such a gift. Its shrill sound began to grate on her nerves.
Sheriff Cowdry asked every bartender in Proffitt to print the word temperance for him, in hopes of discovering who’d left the note on Agatha’s door. But four of them replied that they didn’t know how to write, and of those remaining, five misspelled the word exactly as it had appeared on the note.
The weather stayed gloomy and the streets turned into a quagmire. The stomach influenza went around and they all got it, one after another. Willy said Pearl called it the “Kansas quick-step,” which he found tremendously funny until it was his turn to suffer the malady. He made the worst patient Agatha could imagine, and with Violet home from work with the flu, too, Agatha was left both to see after the store and nurse Willy.
She herself caught it next, and though she recovered in time to be able to go to the polling place to pass out last-minute literature with the other W.C.T.U. members, she stayed at home instead, using the flu as an excuse.
November 2 was a bleak day. The sky was the color of tarnished silver and a cold wind blew out of the northwest, bringing beads of snow so fine they could only be felt, not seen. The cowboys were gone, the cattle pens empty. The ruts on the street had frozen into uneven knots that nearly shook apart the buckboards that came into town in a steady stream as outlying settlers came to vote. The saloons were closed. The sheriff’s office—acting as a voting poll—was the hub of activity.
Agatha avoided the windows, sitting in the lamplit recesses of her workroom shut away from the world. She tried not to think about the decision being made by the voters all across Kansas. She tried not to think of the four men from next door crossing the rutted street and walking along the opposite boardwalk to cast their votes, nor her longtime neighbor women, who even now stood in the stinging sleet encouraging the male voters—in their stead—to stamp out alcohol once and for all.
It was a long, restless night for many Kansans. Those in the apartments above Downing’s Millinery Shop and the Gilded Cage Saloon were no exception.
Nobody knew the exact time the news would tick along the telegraph wire the following day. Violet was back at work, but neither she nor Agatha could concentrate. They did little stitching and less talking. Mostly, they watched the clock and listened to the lonely sound of its pendulum ticking.
When Scott opened the front door shortly before noon, Agatha was seated at her pigeonhole desk and Violet was dusting the glass shelves inside the trimming display.
Gandy’s eyes found Agatha immediately. Then he closed the door with deliberate slowness. But he remembered his manners and greeted Violet, who rose slowly to her feet.
“Mornin’, Miz Violet.”
For once she didn’t titter. “Good morning, Mr. Gandy.”
He crossed to stand beside Agatha, silent, grave, with his hat in one hand as if he were at a wake.
Her skin felt tight, even her scalp, and she found it difficult to breathe. She looked up into his solemn face and asked in a near whisper, “Which is it?”
“It passed,” he said, his voice low but steady.
Agatha gasped and touched her lips. “Oh, no!” She felt as if the blood had suddenly drained from her body.
“Kansas is dry.”
“It passed,” Violet uttered, but neither the man nor the woman at the desk seemed aware of her presence. Their gazes remained locked while Agatha’s face blanched.
“Oh, Scott.” Unconsciously, she reached toward him, resting her hand near the edge of the desk.
His gaze fluttered to it, but instead of taking it, he tapped his hat brim upon his open palm. Their eyes met again, hers distraught, his expressionless. “We’ll have some decisions to make... about Willy.”
She swallowed but felt as if a cork had plugged her throat. Yes, she tried to say, but the word refused to come out.
His eyes, with all expression carefully erased, leveled on hers. “Have you thought about it?”
She couldn’t stand it, analytically discussing an eventuality that would rip one of their hearts out. Covering her mouth, she turned her face to the wall, trying to control the tears that sprang to her eyes. Her throat worked spastically.
He glanced away because he could not bear to watch, and because his own heart was hammering as wrenchingly as he knew hers was.
Violet moved to the front window, holding the lace curta
ins aside, staring out absently. Somewhere in the store Moose chased a wooden spool along the floor. Outside, the sound of an impromptu victory” celebration had began. But at the pigeonhole desk a man and a woman agonized in silence.
“Well...” Scott said, then cleared his throat. He fit his hat on his head and took an inordinate amount of time trimming the brim. “We can talk about it another day.”
She nodded, facing the wall. He saw her chest palpitate, her shoulders begin to shake. Desolate himself, he wanted to reach out and comfort her, draw comfort in return. Ironic that he should be standing wishing such things about the woman who had fought actively to shut him down and had now succeeded. For a moment he strained toward her.
“Gussie...” he began, but his voice broke.
“Does W... Willy know?”
“Not yet,” he answered throatily.
“You’d better g... go tell him.”
He watched her control her impending tears, feeling desolate. When he could stand it no longer, he swung away and hurried from the shop.
It was the first time ever that Violet recalled his leaving without saying a polite farewell to her. When the door closed, she dropped the curtain and stood in the gloom beside the window, feeling forlorn. That nice Mr. Gandy—how she hated to see him go. What excitement would be left in the miserable little town when the saloons closed?
She heard a sniffle and glanced around to see Agatha’s face turned toward the wall, a handkerchief covering her mouth and nose. Her shoulders shook.
Immediately, Violet moved to the desk. “My dear.” She touched her friend’s shoulder.
The younger woman swiveled suddenly in her chair and clasped the older one tightly, burying her face against Violet’s breast.
“Oh V... Violet,” she sobbed.
Violet held her firmly, patting her shoulder blades, whispering, “There... there...” She had never been a mother, but she could not have felt more maternal had Agatha been her own daughter. “It will all work out.”
Agatha only shook her head against Violet’s lavender-scented dress. “N... no, it won’t. I’ve d... done the m... most unforgivable thing.”
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