by Martha Hix
He kept picturing her, all peaches and cream in his bed.
And the tiny kitten wanted a return to it?
Never, ever had a bed partner caused such an uproar within him, like the force of an Alabama tornado. She was too young and not physically his type. Was she his ideal? In no regard did she resemble his pure-as-driven-snow mother.
Without a doubt, he didn’t come close to being her ideal, either.
So why couldn’t he block the little alley cat from his thoughts?
“I’ve made you something.”
He half jumped out of his skin when Patience said that from behind him. He swiveled around in his chair. He couldn’t help but smile. She looked adorable, standing there with sugar on her nose, her hair twisted up.
Holding forth a bowl, she grinned, which deepened her dimples. “I found a jar of fruit on a shelf in your pantry, so I made a bowl of peaches and biscuits with cream.”
“Biscuits that Jewel dropped when she caught you straddling me?” he teased, adding a wink.
One hand went to her hip. “Your floor isn’t all that dirty. This one biscuit isn’t all that ruined. Bugs ate just one teeny corner.”
“They didn’t!”
She giggled. “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself. Anyway, these biscuits landed on the bed, not the floor. I dusted ’em off.” She dipped a spoon into the mix and, leaning forward, lifted it to his lips. “I added a tad of sugar, Sugar.”
Laughter came naturally, just like his desire to take a bite. “Delicious.” The bite and the girl.
Why fight it?
“Another?” he asked.
He did have the strength of character not to pull her on his lap, which was a struggle, but he pulled out a chair for her, and when she was seated, he took over the honors and fed her the last of the treat.
He dabbed a napkin to her bottom lip, taking the last drop of cream from it, saying, “That was quite a pleasant surprise. Thank you.”
“I should say so. And you’re welcome.”
“Patience…” He studied this woman, this player of games. “Why did you act as if you couldn’t talk?”
Closing her eyes, dropping her chin, she laced her fingers on her lap. “When Chet had me on our… Our, well, I guess you might call it our ‘game,’ I didn’t wish to speak to pigeons.”
“And the game was to offer your ‘services’?”
“The game is, was to reach El Paso.”
“It isn’t every day that two people set out on an adventure with a town as the sole reason, although that town has many charms. Why El Paso?”
“That’s where we planned to part. Chet to go on to Mexico, and I—I was hoping that my father would be waiting for me there.”
As an attorney, Grant knew to ask questions for which he already had the answer. “Chet Merkel is neither your brother nor your stepbrother, correct?”
“Correct.”
On shakier ground here, Grant had to ask, yet he dreaded the reply, going in. “Is he your paramour?”
“No. He’s quite loyal to a fiancée in Juarez.” A frown replaced the light in her sweet face. “Chet is nothing to me but a business partner whose father is the—what did you call it?—the paramour—of my mother. He’s not even a business partner anymore, because he cheated me out of my share of our ill-gotten gains.”
“Tell me more about these ill-gotten gains.” When she didn’t, Grant inched his chair closer to hers. “Where is your mother?”
“Lafayette Merkel demanded she choose between him and me.” She looked away, toward the window. “He had no desire to support both of us, you see, and I really did get in the way of their grand love affair.” She took a deep breath. “My presence here shows her answer.”
Last night, Grant had wanted to help the girl. He still wanted to. No young woman, especially one of such a tender age and with no family to turn to, should have to struggle to the point of falling in with a devil.
“The shell game you ran with Merkel. Were you a virgin before the game?”
She blushed, as he knew she would. “I’d never just give that away and certainly not for money.”
Grant lifted a brow. “Men are gullible. Especially when it involves their blind third eye.” Gullible, yet keenly perceptive. “How—”
“What is a ‘blind third eye’?”
Was she joking? “The thing that ends virginity.”
“Oh. That.” It wasn’t just a blush this time. Her face went red as a beet.
“How did you manage to hold on to your virginity?” he asked, doubting she had.
“Powders. Chet mixed powders that I slipped into drinks. They would put the gentlemen to sleep.”
“You didn’t offer me a drink. Wait. You did. You were planning to send me to Zs.”
“Not so. Not at all. And how would I have mixed in the powders?” She frowned, and he hated that his doubt erased her innocence. “Did you like those peaches?” she asked. “Would you like some coffee?”
He captured her hand. “Where did you learn to spoil men?”
She smiled, showing the dimples again. “From my mama, of course.”
“Is she a courtesan?”
“What is that?”
“A lady who brings pleasure to gentlemen, one man at a time.”
“I guess you could say that about her. She always did her best to please my papa. He was her great love. I think. They had three children. I was the middle. My brother was killed in a freak accident when he was ten.” She paused, obviously moved, remembering. “My little sister died in her crib.” Another pause. “Mama really wasn’t the same after the baby passed on. Losing two was just too much.”
“Merkel said you killed the baby.”
“Of course he said that. It was part of the game. I had nothing to do with little Alice’s death. I adored her! She was like a baby doll.” Tears welled in Patience’s soft brown eyes. “She simply went to sleep one night on her little tummy. She never woke up.”
Grant took her hand, squeezing gently.
She continued. “At any rate, I never thought Mama was so aggrieved that she’d give up on Papa. It shocked me when she turned to Chet’s father.”
This part of Merkel’s story had a ring of truth to it. “Were the Merkels neighbors of yours?”
“No, not at all. Lafayette Merkel crossed Papa’s path in Tulsa by chance. He’d also been a mining engineer. They knew each other at a mine in West Virginia. But Mr. Merkel chose a different angle. He took an interest in oil.”
“I see. So your partner the card-player was simply a family friend.”
“Not really. He showed up one day, looking for his father. But Lafayette Merkel and the lady who’d decided she had every right to call herself ‘the Widow Sweet’ were beyond the Tulsa city limits by that time.” Standing, Patience picked up the saucer. “Maybe Mama is one of those court ladies. If I ever see her again, I’ll ask. I’m glad you enjoyed the peaches.”
“I did.”
“I would make you a lunch, but your cupboards are pretty bare, except for some pickled eggs and pig feet.”
“There’s summer sausage in the wellhouse. Jerky, too.”
“That’s not a meal, although it would have sounded like heaven to me before Chet showed up in Tulsa. I’d run out of food and money.”
Suddenly very interested in just how far the relationship had gone with that Merkel centipede, Grant asked, “Is he your suitor?”
“Gracious, no! There’s nothing between us, except our parents and desperation.” She paused. “You want some of those eggs? I suppose they’re edible. I’ve seen people eating them in barrooms.”
Should he leave this strange girl in his home to go fetch a meal from the café? Good sense told him that might not be wise. Yet… He had the strangest feeling that he could trust her, even though she had confessed t
o more than one confidence scheme.
He replied, “Bread and butter will do. We have plenty, if we can trust some of the bread off the floor.”
“Maybe the bugs left us a few crumbs.”
Moving closer, he got a whiff of her sweet scent—just enough to remind him of how good she smelled when he awoke this morning.
She looked over his papers, asking, “Does Mrs. Craig make a point of serving your bread in bed?”
“No. But she’s same as family. I imagine she thought some little red she-cat had jumped through the window to attack as I slept. Probably thought that little kitten was biting me right on my rump, right here.” He reached back and gave Patience a love pat.
She jumped and giggled.
“Now wouldn’t that make sense?” he asked.
She nodded, and when collected, asked seriously, “What are you working on?”
“Two cases for court tomorrow.”
“What are they about?”
“One rancher who shot another rancher in the leg, because he cut down a barbed-wire fence that kept cattle from a natural waterhole. The other case is about the sale of some land that took place in 1901. One of the seller’s heirs contends the purchase doesn’t smell right. It harks back, I believe, to an earlier problem.”
“There’s a lot of that in Oklahoma.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
It seemed odd that she would even know about such cases. “Tell me more.”
“They have to do with oil. Actually there aren’t many going to court. Shysters are getting the Indians to sign over their natural-born rights ahead of the wildcatters coming in, drilling for oil.”
“You don’t say.”
“I say.”
That was the sort of thing her “stepbrother” had mentioned the previous night.
Anew, Grant worried about Patience’s fate.
He took her hand. “Listen up. Tonight we’re going to Mrs. Craig’s home. She and her niece will see that you’re on your way to El Paso, or on to New Mexico Territory, to find your father. I think it might be a good idea if you stay in El Paso until you have some word of his whereabouts. The Heaven’s Gate church has a mission in that city. I’m sure Mrs. Craig can arrange for you to stay there.”
She visibly shuddered. “No, please no.”
“Now, now. Don’t worry. I’m not turning you out in the cold. I’ll provide you with funds.”
“I’m not a beggar.”
“Don’t let pride get in your way. Look, Patience. If it’s wholesome employment you want, you might wish to work at the mission. They provide an orphanage that—”
“Wait a minute,” she interrupted. “You took my virginity.”
Was she serious? “I didn’t take your virginity.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t. You and I both would have known if I had. You would’ve had pain. There would’ve been blood. Patience… How old are you, really?”
A long moment passed. “Seventeen. Almost.”
Holy sheet music! It was the “almost” part that shook him. Why? Certainly, he’d compromised her to a large extent, but his intentions had been honorable and still were. The fact remained. He had thirteen years on her. With his sisters, he’d enjoyed being older, wanted to be their protector, the hero, and loved being looked up to.
This very alone young lady needed protecting in the worst way, most assuredly from herself and the ease in which she’d allowed herself to fall into a life of deception. Her salvation was not something Grant Kincaid, Esquire, could tackle at this moment. Should he even? He wanted to. From this vantage point, he kept thinking about the little girl in the bow and sailor suit. She carried an invisible sign that read, “Keep off.”
Nonetheless, he did worry about what would become of her.
“Kitten dear, this is Friday. I must concentrate on these cases. Run along now. Find something to keep yourself occupied. In the front parlor, there’s a book about flowers that Sheriff Alington brought by last week, if you can read, or—”
“I most certainly can read.”
He patted the air. “There’s a good girl.”
“You sound like an old, old man. Last night, how old did you say you are?” After he answered her, she said, “You act much older than any twenty-nine.”
He noticed from the corner of his eye that she pivoted away, obviously offended at being dismissed.
She added, “Also, take note. I won’t be palmed off on some orphanage. I intend to eat some of those blasted feet and eggs while I waste time until dark, where I won’t embarrass you with your neighbors. Then I’ll be gone, but not with your church lady friends. I’ve had enough of those types of women. Thank you very much.”
Grant almost apologized for hurting her feelings, but he stopped short. It was better just to let her go, wasn’t it? “The Santa Fe train rolls through here tomorrow. It connects to the Texas & Pacific to El Paso. If you’ll agree to stay at a hotel tonight and then allow either Mrs. Craig or Mrs. Sam Kincaid to escort you to the train tomorrow, I’ll make certain you have a ticket. Now forget the tavern food. I’ll go to the café and bring food back here.”
If she stole him blind while he was gone, then so be it. He would just mark it up to: No good turn goes unpunished.
* * * *
Patty stuck her tongue out at Grant’s back as he took his leave. She marched around his house. Stomped, really, but both Mama and Papa would have scolded her for stomping. Whatever she was doing, she kept going. “Dang it all, treating me like I’m a better seen than heard child!”
In a way, she found herself almost glad things were turning out this way. Who would want such a grumpy old grandfather-acting guy like Grant Kincaid in the first place?
She hated the idea of taking his money for train fare, yet she’d be that much quicker in reaching El Paso. Quicker? He was her only chance to reach there.
Maybe she ought to call on that orphanage when she arrived, if there wasn’t any word from Papa. She did like little kids, and if she could do them some good, where was the hurt in helping them?
Taking Old Grandpa Kincaid’s charity, though? Therein lay the irksome part.
Glad her mother wasn’t around to scold on being unladylike, she plopped down in his chair-on-wheels. “I’ll just have to find a way to repay him.”
How?
For a few minutes she daydreamed about reaching El Paso, where she would find a message from her father at the Western Union office. He would not only be waiting for her in the city, he would have a gift—her very own Brownie camera. At first light, they would be off to New Mexico, where she would take photographs of the fascinating people and places.
And then what?
Would he want to find Mama? Would Papa give up the mines to follow his daughter and introduce her to the native people of the Plains? What about tizzies? She didn’t think he’d be too pleased if she found another Mr. Kincaid. When a neighbor boy back in Tulsa had asked if Patty could shoot marbles with him, Papa said, “Can? She certainly can, but I certainly will not allow it. Remove yourself from this porch and do not return, you six-fingered idiot!”
The future? Patty had no idea how it would turn out. She almost wished she were going on to Ropesville with Chet, where they were planning to layover with his mother and her friend, a crippled gypsy who read the future with tarot cards.
No, she didn’t wish anything with Chet Merkel.
With nothing else to do, she looked around Grant Kincaid’s dining room. Basically, it was a dining table, two eating chairs, and a chair that swiveled on its base. He obviously used his table as a desk. She took a look at the front parlor. There was a fireplace with built-in shelves on one wall. The shelves were empty. The opposite wall held a love seat and a platform rocker. There was a harp sitting up against a wall. That was it for furniture. But
there was a crystal candy dish, filled with peppermints. She took one—it was so delicious—and replaced the lid.
This place needed a woman’s touch, the candy dish being the exception.
She returned to the dining room. Her gaze landed on the papers Grant Kincaid had evidently been working on. The property sale, Armstrong vs Baker. All her life, she’d listened to her father talk about legal documents. Given that he’d studied law as well as geology and mining, Papa never approached a project without scrutinizing the legalities of the property, and she’d listened from her earliest days. Once she learned to read, she read them, too. She had a grasp of deeds and deeds of trust, as well as leases and agreements, not to mention mineral rights. Why her interest? Because it was Papa and Patty time, spent together.
Mama was always off in another room, fiddling with her hair or her jewelry or powdering her nose, or any number of other things in her own little world that didn’t include Patty or Papa.
It didn’t take Patty long to ferret out exactly why the heir thought this deal had a bad smell to it.
* * * *
“What are you doing?” Grant burst into the dining room to find that Patience had meddled in his legal papers, only to have his world tilt upward on its axis. He quickly had a hard time believing his eyes.
When he grabbed the sheets she offered, he realized she’d pinpointed the problem with Mike E. Baker’s 1901 purchase of the Utopia Ranch from Dan A. Armstrong. She described a workable solution and outlined a viable conclusion in a precise and elegantly penned document that was tidier than anything he’d ever presented to the courts.
He stared at her in astonishment. “Where did you train to do this?”
“At my father’s knee.”
“Amazing. Simply amazing. Thank you, sweetness.”
“You’re welcome, sir.” She smiled somewhat coolly. “But why do you call me that? It seems kind of…offhand.”
“Maybe it sounds like way, but it’s part of your name and the sum of the way I see you,” he said honestly.