Kaitlin's Silver Lining

Kaitlin’s
Silver Lining
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the workings
of the authors’ imaginations and not meant to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely
coincidental.

No
part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

Copyright
© 2008 by Jami Bevans

Originally
published with Champagne Books

Rereleased
2012

Cover
art by Jami Bevans

Produced
in USA

One

Denver,
Colorado, 1876

“Don’t even think
about climbing aboard my rig with that goo clingin’ to your skirts, Missy.”

Kaitlin Kanatzer had
one foot lifted toward the trolley step when the conductor’s grumpy voice
stopped her progress.

“J—j—just how d—do
you pro—propose I get home?” Her teeth clattered in the unseasonably cold
autumn air. She didn’t dare put on her coat for fear of ruining it and held it
aloft between two sticky fingers.

“I don’t rightly
care. I just know you ain’t gonna climb in this rig with molasses covering you
from head to toe. The city pays to keep these public wagons clean. ’Sides, it
ain’t all that far to your house.”

“You’re a
mean-hearted old coot, Martin Shires.”

“A walk in this
weather might just make you come to your senses.” He shook his bald head. “It
ain’t right you leading those women to picket and carry on against an honest
man’s right to drink. No sirree, it just ain’t right.”

He clicked the reins,
setting the horse into motion. The trolley lurched. Kaitlin stumbled back,
teetered a moment, and landed on her backside on the icy ground. A chorus of
laughter sealed her humiliation.

Ignoring the jeers
and the pain, she pulled herself up and grimaced at the dirt clinging to her
hands. No doubt, the back of her dress was littered with soil and debris. Her
coat lay crumpled beside her. So much for trying to keep the garment clean.
With as much dignity as she could muster, she lifted the heavy skirts, picked
up her coat, and walked as fast as she could toward her home.

Thankfully, she
didn’t have to journey far, but the cold wind against her molasses-drenched
skin made the walk most unpleasant. By the time she made it home, her bones
ached with fatigue, and her anger had simmered to a bitter resentment. Next
time she protested for women’s rights, she’d be more prepared.

She yanked the door
wide and stepped inside her cozy, two-story house. She took two more steps,
closed the door, and froze. What should she do now? “Maggie. Maggie!”

Maggie Mcguire
rounded the corner, a handkerchief in one hand and a mug of hot cider in the
other. “What in tarnation’s got a hold of you?”

“You must be feeling better
to be up and around.”

“Don’t you be
changing the subject.” Maggie set down her cup and took Kaitlin’s coat. “Now
tell me how you got yourself covered in molasses.”

“Call it a difference
of opinion with patrons at the Tip Top Saloon.”

“I see.” Maggie
tilted her head. “But were you successful?”

Kaitlin sighed,
allowing the warmth of the house to comfort her frozen limbs. “We got their
attention, or the men wouldn’t have felt obliged to react as they did. They
took special delight in targeting me. The rest of our ladies suffered very
little of the men’s revenge. I imagine it was because some of the husbands
involved wanted a warm place to sleep tonight.”

“Leave it to you to
joke about such a humiliating experience.” Maggie chuckled. “Guess we’d best
see about getting you bathed.”

“It’s good to see you
smiling again.” Kaitlin studied Maggie’s face for signs of illness. While she
still sported bags beneath her eyes, her cheeks blossomed with color. Even her
voice sounded stronger. “You must be on the mend.”

“I won’t be doing any
jigs, but I feel well enough to help you clean up.” She grimaced. “Lordy, what
a mess.”

Kaitlin caught her
image in the hall tree mirror and frowned. Maggie hadn’t lied. She looked a
fright. Streaks of dark syrup ran down her face and matted her hair. Her
favorite dress was ruined. Even her shoes sported dark spots. She stretched out
her arms and scrunched her nose. How should she go about cleaning the thick
syrup from her body without contaminating every piece of furniture she owned?

“The kitchen.” They
both replied in unison then giggled.

“You stay right there
while I get a bath ready. No sense you dragging that stuff all through the
house. I figure once I get the water ready, you can strip here.”

“Try to hurry,
Maggie, but don’t overtax yourself.”

Laughter echoed down
the hall. Maggie definitely felt better. A dollop of molasses trailed down
Kaitlin’s nose. She crossed her eyes to stare at the offending drop before
taking an index finger and scooping it off. Not particularly fond of the taste,
she found a clean spot on her skirt and wiped her finger. A draft from the
closed door chilled her, and she wrapped sticky arms around her body.

She stood still, not
wishing her drenched clothing to come in contact with the walls or furniture.
Sounds of Maggie preparing her bath came from the kitchen. She peered around
the corner to watch. Maggie made several trips to the pump to fill buckets and
dump them into the tub. The water on the stove would take a while to heat
before Kaitlin could enjoy her bath.

Meanwhile, her cheek
twitched. Molasses itched.

“Well, at least James
Latham got a helping of just desserts.” A bitter laugh followed as Kaitlin
reflected upon the incident. The look of surprise on that man’s face justified
the wearing of his boss’s latest shipment. She’d had the quickness of mind to
twirl her heavy skirts, flinging molasses all about the saloon. James just
happened to be standing in the way.

More than two years
ago she’d left James at the altar. He still held a grudge, a grudge so bitter
he’d incited the men to lift that heavy barrel and douse her. Didn’t he know
she hurt also? She, too, wept for lost dreams and hopes. He was the one at
fault. Not her.

Men!
She’d
exhausted all hope of ever coexisting among the stubborn gender with mutual
trust and admiration. With this in mind, she’d joined the suffragists’ movement
with a keen desire to succeed. She’d had her share of setbacks, but she was
determined, and the devil take any man who stood in her way.

A resounding knock
interrupted her contemplations. She stared at the door, willing the intruder to
leave. Under the circumstances, she wanted no company.

“If you’ve come to
gloat, you can go away.” She had no intention of opening the door to more
ridicule.

Bang! Bang!

The casement rattled
from the force of the summons. She wrinkled her nose and drew her eyebrows into
a fierce frown. Before she could dismiss the caller again, a fist pounded on
the wooden door once more. Whoever stood outside seemed very determined.

Kaitlin’s hand stuck
to the handle once she pulled it open. A sucking noise accompanied her efforts
to free herself. Standing back, she looked to see who dared interrupt her
afternoon. She could do nothing but stare. Had he spoken?

The molasses on her
neck stretched as she tilted her head. The man stood at least six feet tall and
not an inch less. A lock of wavy blond hair fell across his forehead when he
inclined his head. She followed the lock of hair to a crooked nose, the looks
of which indicated it had been broken once upon a time. A handlebar mustache
framed a set of slightly chapped lips. Rough, calloused hands played with the
rim of a well-worn Stetson. Lanky and lean, the man exuded a confident air. His
mustache twitched. The smile he gave her caused her insides to tighten. In all
her life, she’d never encountered such a fine-looking man.

Her skin warmed.
She’d just been cursing the male population, and here she was mooning over a
complete stranger.

“Miss Kanatzer?”

Ah,
Beethoven.
His voice had the same, rich essence as Beethoven’s Fifth. The
deep cadences struck a chord within her, numbing her senses and rendering her
momentarily speechless.

“Kaitlin Kanatzer?”

Mooning over a man?
Kaitlin did not moon over men. She straightened her shoulders and glared at the
unwanted guest.

“Yes. Who wants to
know?”

His mustache twitched
again, and the wrinkles at the corners of his brown eyes deepened. The man hid
a laugh behind a discreet cough. Beside him, a young adolescent giggled
outright. Kaitlin’s gaze swung down to the young girl, whose features could
have mirrored her own at that age. Kaitlin’s eyes rounded with suspicion.

“Uncle Bryce, look.
She’s a brown bear with polka dots.”

Kaitlin folded her
arms across her chest. While ogling the newcomer, she’d all but forgotten her
predicament. The comment snapped her from her momentary stupor. She shifted her
gaze from the child to the man. “What brings you to my door?”

A bemused expression
exploded upon his face. Her eyes narrowed. She’d had enough amusement at her
expense today. Thank heavens, Maggie chose that moment to walk up behind her.

The man must have
sensed her unease. He glanced down at the child. “Perhaps you should say you’re
sorry for that remark, Charley.”

“Why? I told the
truth, and you told me more than once you don’t like liars.”

A rosy hue spread
across his cheeks. The man ducked his head.
“I’m
truly sorry for her choice of words, ma’am. Sometimes her vocabulary is more
colorful than a sunset over the plains of west Texas. Do you think we could
come in and jaw for a spell?”

Her face muscles
tightened. His assumption that she’d welcome him hit a nerve. “I don’t know
you, sir, and as you can plainly see, I’m not presentable for receiving
guests.”

He twirled the
Stetson. “It’s my turn to apologize for my lack of manners. I’m Bryce Stanton,
and this is your niece, Charley, short for Charlene. She’s Bethany’s daughter.”

Bethany’s daughter?
Shock rendered her speechless. She stared at the child. Charley could have been
Bethany—they looked that much alike. The resemblance thrust Kaitlin into a
reservoir of shadowed memories.

Mr. Stanton extended
his hand. She gave him a pointed look. She wouldn’t be able to greet him
properly without getting his hand dirty. She tried to uncross her arms and to
her mortification, they snapped apart, the molasses acting like glue.

“Perhaps you should
come in, Mr. Stanton. I’m Maggie McGuire. Miss Kanatzer and I share the house.
I think it would be best if you took a seat in the parlor and waited until Miss
Kanatzer can clean up a bit.”

Bryce stepped past
both women with Charley in tow, his lips curved into a generous smile. He
turned back toward Kaitlin once he stood inside. “If you don’t mind me asking,
ma’am, what did you get into, anyway?”

“None of your
business.” She shut the door behind them more firmly than necessary. He’d
caught her off guard, and she didn’t care much for surprises.

Charley jumped at the
noise and sidled closer to Bryce. Bryce ignored the girl but stepped closer to
Kaitlin and took a whiff. He reached out a finger and wiped a spot off of her
cheek.

She reeled from the
unexpected gesture. He brought the finger to his lips and smiled. In a motion
that stirred her blood more than she’d care to admit, he licked his finger, a
slow sampling of the thick, sugary substance.

“Someone mistook you
for a pancake?”

His comical
expression made her want to laugh. She resisted the urge and sighed. “Very
funny. If you must know, the owners tarred and feathered me for preaching
against the opening of their new saloon.”

“You’re wearing
molasses and oats, not tar and feathers.”

“You’re too astute,
Mr. Stanton.” The sarcasm flowed naturally from her lips, a habit she embraced
when faced with a frustrating moment. At his look of censure, she relaxed her
stance. “Although the men at the Tip Top Saloon don’t agree with my views, they
aren’t really cruel. They wanted to make their point without hurting me. Old
man Delaney just happened to have a new keg of molasses handy.” And James
Latham had been there to spur them all into action. In fact, her ex-fiancé had
enjoyed every sticky moment.

“Ah.”

“I doubt you came
here to discuss my political inclinations, Mr. Stanton.” Her gaze lit on
Charley. Where was Bethany? Why did this man have custody of Bethany’s
daughter? “Suppose you enlighten us as to the reason for your visit.”

His smile faltered.
“You weren’t expecting us?”

“Why no.”

“I sent a letter. And
then, just before setting out from Texas, I sent a telegram.”

Maggie shook her
head. “She probably got it. In fact, she probably got both of your missives,
but they’re likely sitting in a pile in the parlor. Kaitlin has an aversion to
opening mail of any kind, so she lets it stack up until she can’t stand it any
longer, and then she spends a day sorting through all of her correspondence.”

Bryce lifted one
eyebrow. “You mean to tell me you got my letter, but never opened it?”

Kaitlin had the good
sense to look sheepish. She studied the tips of his weathered boots. “I
would’ve gotten around to it...eventually.”

“That’s absurd.” His
voice rose, giving evidence to his sudden anger. “I don’t know anybody who
doesn’t like mail. What if something important came to you?”