He took another drink of his Heinrich, the frosty cold alcohol quenching his parched throat. She pasted a smile of nonchalance on her mouth, but he noticed she licked her lips.
“Well, what do you think about it?” he asked once more.
She lifted her chin and boldly met his gaze like a fighter making ready to take down his opponent. “I thought President Roosevelt quite grand for infuriating Southern politicians by the gesture.”
Resting the beer bottle’s base on the hard cords of his thigh, he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “You know what I think?”
“I can’t say that I do.”
“I think it took some oysters on Teddy’s part.” And he really did. Just the other day, he’d read the story in the Advocate. At the time, he’d thought it a waste of energy, but now he was glad he’d forced his brain to soak up the information.
“I don’t recall the menu being listed in the Idaho Statesman.”
Menu? Who was talking about the menu? He’d been talking balls, as in nuts, cojones, jewels. But she didn’t understand that he’d been gentleman enough not to use crudeness a second time in her presence. Then it hit him: She was interested in knowing the specifics of the White House dinner menu. As if he would know—or even care. He’d been damn impressed he’d gotten the two players’ names right. Now she wanted a menu. He didn’t remember reading anything about that.
“Yeah, I know all about the dinner,” Jake returned in words with more stretch in them than the rubber connection of his double-end striking bag. If she wanted a menu, he’d improvise one to sound intellectual. He knew about cooking and elaborated on food he could fix. “It was Hungarian steak, stewed tomatoes, fried potatoes, and apple pudding.”
“And oysters.”
“Right.” He brought the bottle to his mouth for a thoughtful sip, then added, “Silver plates of them on the half shell.”
Though she tried to hide her excessive interest by blinking, she studied the beer bottle in his hand as he drank. The wooden floor rumbled beneath them from the jumping efforts of the men as they hopped to the beat of the ropes. While he had her full attention, he tilted his head back and downed long, satisfying swallows; then he lifted the bottle in silent query to get her to reconsider her abstinence.
When she didn’t take his cue, he asked, “Are you sure I can’t get you a beer?”
“Do you think I’m an immoral woman, Mr. Brewster?”
“No,” he said carefully.
“Then why do you keep offering me alcoholic refreshment?”
“Because you keep staring at my beer.”
“I may stare at a new hat in the store window, but that doesn’t mean I want it.”
“A hat wouldn’t make you feel nearly as good as a beer.”
“How do you know? Have you ever worn a lady’s hat?”
“Hell no.” But his mind quickly jumped to the time he’d been with that actress and she’d coaxed him into putting on her silk petticoat for all of fifteen seconds. He’d been roaring drunk, so he didn’t count the moment as any kind of abnormal tendency.
“Well,” she said smartly, “maybe you’d find a lady’s hat preferable to beer.”
“I know I wouldn’t.” He finished the drink with a toss of his head, then set the empty on the desk. “How’s your knee?”
The photographs of him that lay next to that thick outlaw book pulled her attention as she replied. “Fine.”
“I don’t think so.” His eyes were drawn to the same spot as hers: the promotional portrait of him wearing boxing trunks, his arms bent at the elbows, poised in a fighting position. The Bruiser in his prime, ready to take on the Great Zephyr. “When you walked into the office, you favored your right leg.”
“No I didn’t. Is that really you?”
“Yeah, it’s really me.”
To his surprise, she selected one of the carte vistas and examined it. Or, more obviously, examined his body. He saw knots and bunches and layers of muscle that at this moment were coiled in anticipation over her reaction to what she saw in the black-and-gray image. He wondered what appealed to her in a man. As he waited for her to say something about the photograph, he felt his pulse pounding throughout his body, even in his fingertips.
She met his gaze. “You were pretty good at boxing?”
“Better than good.” Fired off with confidence, his reply filled the room. Then he cursed himself when she made no further comment. He didn’t want to come off full of vanity and empty of smarts.
Her attention returned to the photograph. And while she studied his portrait, Jake studied her. The tilt of her chin. The angle of her hat. The color of her lips. The fine way her winter skirt fell over her hips.
Deliberately, he looked away. The sharp noise of jump ropes and a dull rattle of equipment intruded on his thoughts. He knew she wasn’t staying in Harmony. He knew she was going back to Boise. He also knew he’d never be involved with her even if she were staying.
Women like her were marriage-inclined. Men like him didn’t pay social visits to ladies unless they meant business. Even though he was partial to her height, her hair, the color of her eyes, the sensuous length of her legs, for the time being, he wasn’t interested in tying another matrimonial knot.
“I have to say,” Truvy’s voice came to him, “that the nature of the photograph does make you look formidable and maybe a little . . . well, never mind.” She set the carte vista down. “Now, I really do need to go.”
About to leave, she took a step, but he called out, “Wait, Truvy. I have something for you.”
The lift of her brows questioned him.
Jake rifled through the disorganized middle drawer of his desk, grabbed a bottle, then presented Truvy with Duggan’s Turpentine Liniment. “For your knee. The ache—and everything. It’s the best for a sprain. Now if you’d’ve torn a ligament, I’d’ve said go with Bomber’s Carbolic Salve. But you didn’t, so the liniment’s better.”
A burst of laughter rippled through the air as she reacted to his know-how in a way he hadn’t expected. Light hysteria filtered in her amused voice. “Mr. Brewster— Jake,” she said,rephrasing,“you couldn’t possibly know how much your gesture means to me. Let me emphatically thank you for this liniment. For a moment, I thought I’d come to the wrong conclusion about your character, and I can see now that I was mistaken.” She deposited the Duggan’s into the open mouth of her leather pocketbook. “Good day. I wish you well on your—whatever it is those men are doing out there.”
She left before Jake could comprehend exactly what she’d meant.
The second she was gone, he jumped on his dictionary, tearing through the pages while he remembered the word. He cursed. The letters were a blur he could hardly distinguish. Squinting, he brought the book up close to his eyes.
en . . . encounter.
Dammit, he was going backward.
ele . . . elo . . . em . . . emboss . . . embroil . . . emery . . . emmet . . .
emphatic: uttered with emphasis; forcefully signifi cant; impressive.
He slapped the dictionary closed and chucked it in his drawer.
Lowering himself onto the chair, he narrowed his eyes, then scratched the stubble on his chin. To hell with reading newspapers.
He’d really impressed her with that liniment.
Chapter
8
D iscussions about male privates. Animal elixirs.
A naked lady painted on the entire wall. Perfect women.
Total ignorance of literature. Outlaws and hard time.
Jake Brewster occupied Truvy’s daydreams. While she stared at the candle flames flickering from the Plunketts’ holiday tree, she ceased to see with clarity. White tapers blended together with ornaments and garlands. For a spinster like her, it was unproductive to think about a virile man like him, a man who could have any woman he desired because of his appearance. And his charm.
He was very charming. And flattering.
Looking at that boxing photograph of him, with its
edge, that streak of determination set in his shoulders, the pride, the intelligent gleam in the core of his eyes, the ambition in his stance, she’d wondrously thought she made a mistake about his character and personality. But then he had to go and offer her that liniment, shattering her illusion.
She was glad. Glad his brain worked the way it did.
Glad she would no longer be tempted by his physical allure. By his body and smile. Those green eyes of his. That straight lock of hair that seemed to always be at his temple. His suggestion she engage in drinking a beer with him. As if she ever would.
“I wonder if it will snow all day.” Mrs. Plunkett’s voice invaded her mind.
Mr. Plunkett answered quietly. “The almanac said it was going to be a cold winter. Longer than last year’s.”
Mr. and Mrs. Plunkett’s voices drifted in and out of Truvy’s musings as her thoughts wandered from the couple sitting in the parlor with her.
She wouldn’t be party to any more of Edwina’s transparent errands. Because that day at the gymnasium when those he-men wore outlandish skins and leg tights and had been oiled to a high gloss while talking about bull steer remedies—well, that was enough for her. Any doubts she had about Mr. Jake Brewster were confirmed.
He had to be as dense as a knot in a tree to think drinking a potion of that kind and wearing fur made a man manly.
The snap of the fire in the hearth jolted Truvy.
The Plunketts’ Christmas tree came into focus and Truvy sat taller on the divan, squaring her shoulders and putting a smile on her lips. This was Christmas morning, after all.
Mr. Plunkett reclined in a gents’ easy chair, a cherry stem pipe clamped between his teeth. A sweet-acrid smoke curled from the English bowl as he puffed and talked at the same time. “Now, Pru, let Miss Valentine be.”
Truvy had missed something in the conversation.
“Honestly, Hi, I’m sure she wants to.” Mrs. Plunkett’s face was round and heightened with a blushing anticipation. “Don’t you, dear?”
“Oh . . . well . . .” Although Mrs. Plunkett could be quite overwrought, she’d taken Truvy in without relation by blood or friendship, and for that, Truvy could only concede, “If it makes you happy, then I’d be delighted.”
“There—I told you she would.” Mrs. Plunkett firmly nodded her head; then to Truvy, she said, “Tomorrow, we’ll get you suitably outfitted. We’ll spend the entire day at the dressmaker’s shop. The dresses you wear now aren’t right for your coloring. The blue velvet and almond green wool are well and good, but they’re too dark against your hair color.”
Suitably outfitted. Tomorrow. My dresses aren’t right.
Truvy could only sit quietly.What had she agreed to?
“With your fair complexion,” Mrs. Plunkett said, happy to be a tutor, “you should always wear the most delicate tints, such as a lighter blue, mauve, and pea green. You need to learn how to group colors.” After sipping spearmint tea from a holly-patterned china cup, she tsked, then said, “I’m afraid I have to tell you, my dear, but that modiste who sold you the lilac dress did you a disservice. Its color loses brilliance by gaslight, whereas pea green gains brilliance in a strong artificial light.”
Truvy tried to form the right words to graciously back out of going on a shopping trip with Mrs. Plunkett. But they lodged in her throat when the elder woman grinned from ear to ear, beaming happily at her. Grateful.
Mrs. Plunkett reached out, took Truvy’s hands in hers, and applied soft pressure. Moisture glittered in her eyes. “Having you here, Miss Valentine, has helped me cope with the absence of my darling Hildegarde. I would be in a fit of the vapors if I didn’t have you as company, my dear.” She rapidly blinked. “You are such a comfort to me.”
Letting Truvy’s hands go, Mrs. Plunkett reached down beneath the tree and selected a red-flocked, paper-wrapped box with gold trimmings. “This is for you.”
The present’s dressing was far too elaborate. Too generous. Whatever was inside had to be extravagant. An unexpected response welled inside her: guilt. For the Plunketts, Truvy had decorated a wickerwork cornucopia with ribbons and filled it with assorted nuts. She had given the gift to them last evening over Christmas Eve supper. The gesture was simple and reasonable.
“Take it, my dear.”
Truvy did so, setting the gift in her lap. She only had one present that came in the mail, and she had opened it that morning in the privacy of her room. The Aunts had sent lemon verbena soap. Every year, it was tradition for her to receive a satin-lined box of a dozen cakes from the dears.
Inasmuch as she adored the soap and its sentimental value, she would have traded it for a letter from Miss Pond. But there had been nothing. No optimistic note. No words of encouragement. In two days’ time, Truvy was scheduled to be back in Idaho. The date stamped on her return ticket was December 27. That train ticket was in her bureau drawer upstairs, waiting for her, for the one message of hope that she’d been absolved, welcomed back to St. Francis.
But hope hadn’t come. Not yet.
Pulling the ties that kept the paper together, Truvy unwrapped the box and lifted its lid. A sterling silver comb-and-brush set nestled on a bed of red velvet. Her initials had been engraved on the back of the oval brush.
“Mrs. Plunkett,” Truvy breathed softly, “this is very nice.”
Anxiousness brought out the lines at the corners of Mrs. Plunkett’s eyes. With her hands clasped together in front of her bosom, she leaned forward. “Well? Do you like them?”
“Yes.” And she did. “But you shouldn’t have.”
“Nonsense. I was delighted to buy them for you. See there?” She lifted her forefinger to the brush. “I had your initials inscribed.”
“That was very thoughtful of you.”
“My Hildegarde has an exact set. Just like yours. I only wish . . .” She loudly blew her nose into a snowy white hankie. “. . . that I could have . . .”
The sentence went unfinished, overshadowed by a choking sob. Truvy knew what she wanted to say. Hildegarde had not been able to join her parents on Christmas, but she had sent a card with love and the hope that the package from Buffalo had made it on the train.
It hadn’t.
For days, Mrs. Plunkett worked herself into a dither over the missing parcel, lamenting that her one wish would have been for her daughter to be with her for the holiday; her second wish would have been to have some token of love from Hildegarde that she could open on Christmas morning.
“Blast that infernal postal service.” Mrs. Plunkett’s bosom swelled with resentment. “Wells Fargo and Company promises reliable deliveries. Hi, I want you to make this effective immediately—we aren’t going to give the U.S. government another nickel. As of today, we’re using Wells Fargo for all our parcels. That goes for the store, too.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“Of course it’s necessary!”
Resting his pipe in a glass tray, Mr. Plunkett rose from the easy chair and went to the firewood cabinet beside the fireplace. He opened the hinged wrought door and withdrew a brown paper package held together with twine. “Now, Pru, don’t be angry with me, but I did this for you. You would have ruined it if I hadn’t.”
“Wh-what?” Dabbing the corners of her eyes, Mrs. Plunkett stood. The flames wavered from the tree’s star candle holders as she took a step closer to see the parcel Mr. Plunkett held out.
“I saved it for today. It’s from our Hildegarde and her Joe. It came on Monday and I took it from Mr. Calhoon at the post office, then I hid it so you wouldn’t be tempted to sneak a peek.”
“Hi, you awful, awful man!” The handkerchief in her hand was stuffed into the bishop sleeve of her black peau de crepe dress. “How could you have put me through such grief and misery by telling me the package didn’t arrive? You’re a scoundrel and a nincompoop.” She stretched out her arm. “Give me that present from my precious!”
Mr. Plunkett obliged and the string and the paper were torn op
en with a quick pull and rip. Inside the box nestled a bright gold-wrapped present with a large silver bow. Mrs. Plunkett made fast work of ridding it of the trimming until a glass photograph frame was revealed. She held onto its pansy-pattern filigreed edges and sucked in a shuddering gasp. “It’s a . . . picture. Of them.”
Truvy looked over Mrs. Plunkett’s wide shoulder to view the couple.
In her assessment, Hildegarde seemed very happy by the twinkle in her eyes. Her husband’s smile matched her liveliness of expression. He wore a dark suit coat and trousers; she, a dress with Mousequetaire sleeves.
For a couple who—from what Truvy gathered—lived on limited funds, paying for the photographer and purchasing a frame made for a lavish gift.
Gauging from Mrs. Plunkett’s woeful expression and wistful sigh, Truvy could tell Mrs. Plunkett wasn’t impressed. “I was hoping for something else.” But she didn’t say what. She began to cry, an awful fit of shuddering sobs.
Mr. Plunkett put his arm around her middle and tried to placate her by patting the round of her shoulder. “Prudence, there’s no call to cry your eyes out. It’s a bully present.” He lifted his head to Truvy, his gaze pleading for some help. “Isn’t it, Miss Valentine?”
“Oh—yes. Quite. I think the photograph will look lovely hanging above your organ.”
“I don’t want it over my organ!” Mrs. Plunkett wailed. “I don’t want to be stared at while I’m playing Stephen Foster.” She brought a wrinkled hankie out of her sleeve and rubbed its thin white fabric beneath her running nose. “I couldn’t possibly sing ‘Oh! Susanna’ when they look so . . . happy. How can she look like that when I’m suffering so?”
When Mr. Plunkett folded Mrs. Plunkett in his arms, she allowed him. “I miss her, Hi. Why did they have to move so far away?”
“She’ll come home soon, Pru, as soon as Joe can leave Buffalo. I miss her, too.”
“I want her here now.” She cried with a mother’s broken heart.
The doorbell cranked, but the Plunketts, in their shared grief, didn’t hear the chimes.
Truvy rose and went to answer the bell.
Hearts Page 12