Squire's Quest (21 page)

She opened her mouth to say she would bake more bread, and closed it again. "I can't
stay at your cabin. It's not right."

His hand tightened on her arm as she stepped onto the frozen ruts of Ferguson Street.
"Where else? You said yourself you couldn't afford a boarding house or hotel. Watch out
there."

She stepped sideways to avoid the horse biscuits. "I thought to go back to Virginia City.
I have enough for the train and the stage, and I was going to ask--"

"Ask me to lend you enough to eat on? I could do that, but I won't." He waited until they
were on the sidewalk again, then pulled her against the front of a store and turned to face her. "I
want you to stay here, Callie. Until the weather moderates, anyhow. This is no time of year to be
traveling. I want us to have a chance to...to get acquainted again. We were friends once, but
things have changed. We've changed."

His voice deepened and he leaned close, so close she felt the warmth of his breath on her
cheek. "Will you stay, give us a chance to see if we can be friends again?"

Breathless, she nodded. When he'd come so near, she'd had the strangest feeling in her
belly. Sort of a fluttery, hungry, scared feeling.

"But where will you stay? That's your place."

"I'll be fine. Don't you worry."

She loved his grin. He always looked happy when he grinned, and it made her feel
happy too.

They began walking again, but this time he didn't just keep hold of her elbow. He tucked
her hand around his arm and pulled her close.

Ramsey's Restaurant was busy. They threaded their way to where a table for two was
tucked into a corner. Callie had never before eaten in a place with cloths on the tables. Not a
restaurant, anyhow. Lambert House had tablecloths, but she'd never sat down in the dining room.
One Easter when there was no company for dinner, she'd sat down with Mrs. Flynn and had
eaten off good china with silver utensils.

She picked up a fork and looked at the back. Sure enough, it was stamped with words
too tiny for her to read. But it was heavy, like Mrs. Flynn's silverware had been.

"Making sure it's clean?"

The fork clattered to the table. "Oh!" Heat bloomed in her face. "No, I was--"

Picking up his own fork, he looked at the back. "My mother used to say how much she'd
like a set of silverware with the pieces all matching. The year before I left home, my aunt and
uncle sent her a set from England. She's got twelve of everything, and the only time she'll use it
is for special occasions."

His grin flashed and she couldn't resist smiling back. "Ma used to say she'd like to have
pretty dishes. We never did. Pa didn't hold with piling up worldly riches."

From the look on his face, he was about to say something harsh, but the waiter appeared
just then. By the time they'd both ordered dinner, she'd had a chance to think about what she'd
said.

She and her mother had lived frugally, but her father didn't seem to. She'd seen ample
evidence in Virginia City that he'd piled up more than his share of worldly riches. Even though
she'd tried not to listen, it would have been impossible not to hear the gossip about his ownership
of the house with the blue door and the three saloons.

After dinner they went to the livery stable to pick up their horses. As Merlin helped her
to mount, he said, "You need clothes. Mainly britches. Tucking your skirt up makes no sense,
and it shows your ankles. We'll go to Herman's, see if he's got something that'll fit you."

"Oh, no! I can't." She could just hear what Pa would say if she were to appear in public
in britches.

"You'll be a sight more modest than you are now." As if to prove his point, he lightly
grasped her around the calf. Even through her wool stocking and long underwear, she felt the
heat of his hand. Stepping back, he tipped his head up toward her. "You wore britches back in
'69. Why can't you now?"

"Pa says no decent woman shows the shape of her legs."

"Bullsh-- That's nonsense. My sisters are all decent women. They wear britches
whenever they ride. Not a one of them would be caught dead on a sidesaddle. Well, except Ellen,
but she lives in Boston."

"And your father lets them?"

"He's the one made the rule."

His jaw was set when he mounted and led off back toward Seventeenth. When they
pulled up in front of Herman's, he held up his arms to catch her. They were stiff with tension,
and she stepped back quickly once her feet were on the ground.

Herman's had a few second-hand dresses for sale. She found a not-too-faded gray one
that would come close to fitting. She didn't argue when Merlin chose a pair of black britches and
held them up to her, but she vowed to herself she'd walk before she'd put them on and ride in
public.

"She needs a short coat," Merlin told the clerk. "Not long, like for a lady. Something
that'll keep her warm when she's riding. A couple of wool shirts and some socks. Let me see your
boots."

She didn't realize he was speaking to her until he repeated his demand. Silently she lifted
one boot and then the other, allowing him to examine the soles. She knew what he saw. Before
long she'd be putting newspaper inside to cover the thin leather.

"You got any boots like mine?" He lifted one foot off the ground.

"Probably not small enough for a woman." The clerk pulled two shirts off a shelf. Ugly
brown ones.

"I've got big feet," Callie snapped, "and I won't wear those shirts."

"Can't say I blame you. Got any green ones? How about red?"

The pile of clothing on the counter grew and grew. She wasn't sure how much of it was
for Merlin and how much for her, but she was afraid to ask. His jaw muscles were still working,
as if he was mad.

She knew better than to argue with an angry man.

The boots fit, but she begged off wearing them until she had a chance to oil them. To her
surprise, he agreed. He did make her put on the coat and hat. They looked peculiar over her old
dress, but she liked the heavy plaid wool lining in the canvas coat. It was somehow warmer than
her long one. And the gloves, she'd never had such fine ones.

After a stop at a grocer's, they headed out of town. Callie figured they were about
halfway to his cabin when Merlin said, "Your father ought to be shot."

Stunned, she stared at him. "Shot? Why?"

"For bringing you out here with no warmer clothes than you had. For abandoning you in
a strange town." The hand holding his reins tightened into a fist. "For teaching you to be
meek."

The crate was in the cabin when Merlin walked in. He stepped around it and set the
gunny sack full of groceries on the table. He was on his way back out when Callie appeared in
the doorway with the saddlebags holding her new clothes.

"I was going to get those."

"I'm not helpless. I'll let you fetch the groceries, though. That horse of yours won't let
me near."

Since he'd trained Gawain to shy off from strangers, he wasn't surprised. "I'll introduce
you to him. Then he will."

"Don't bother." She set the saddlebags on the bed. "I should have done up these dishes
this morning. Where do I get water?"

"I'll bring it in before I go to the barn."

"That's woman's work. Just tell me where--"

"Consarn it, Cal. I said I'd do it. Now take off your coat and set yourself down. I want to
see what's in this." He probably should wait to open the crate until Mick could witness. Cal
wouldn't be thought trustworthy.

No, doggone it. Either Mick'll take my word or he won't
. He took a deep breath.
Cal could rile him better than anybody.

The crate was well-made, with an outer frame of boards protecting the close-set inner
ones. After tipping it and turning it, he decided the side with the shipping label tacked to it was
probably the lid. "I'll be right back."

The short crowbar he fetched from the shop was all he needed. Taking care, because he
didn't want to scar the wood, he eased the tip of the crowbar between boards and pried. With
tortured squeals, the nails gave way. He peeled the lid off carefully and set it aside.

"That's Pa's quilt." When he looked a question at her, Cal shrugged. "It was in his cabin
when I stayed there."

The quilt was faded and frayed, but the pieced star pattern was still plain. He lifted it
away.

Underneath were several books, laid side by side so they formed a layer with little room
for anything else. One by one he picked them up and looked at the spines. Edgeworth, DeSade,
Shakespeare, Dickens. The last surprised him. "Plutarch's
Lives
. Does your father read
Greek?"

"I don't know."

"Hmm." He'd bet Lemuel Smith hadn't read any of the books.
Ballast. That's what
they are.

Underneath were a pair of nearly-new men's shoes, two linen shirts carefully wrapped in
muslin, a heavy leather pouch, and a notebook, along with a packet of letters addressed to Smith
in Virginia City and, inside a worn velvet bag, a Daguerreotype showing a pretty woman. She
had a look of Callie about her. "Your mother?"

She took if from him and stared down at it for a long time. "She looks so young." Her
hand trembled when she held it out to him.

"I think you should keep it. If he asks for it, you can give it back, but I doubt he will."
He didn't say what he thought, that the crate had been intended as a red herring, in case the law
took after Smith.

Her fingers closed around the Daguerreotype, as if it was something precious. "Yes, I
will."

"Let's see what's in here." Merlin upended the leather pouch over the table.

A cascade of pebbles poured out. Rounded pebbles, of the sort to be found in a spoils
pile. He sorted through them with a finger. And that's probably exactly where they'd come from.
Plenty of placer spoils along Alder Creek.

"I told you Pa didn't rob any bank." Her chin was set, and her green eyes challenged him
to argue.

He scooped the pebbles back into the pouch and dropped it into the crate. "I guess he
didn't. Mick will just have to go looking for his bank robber somewhere else. I've got mules to
tend. Let me slide this out of the way. When I come back, I'll bring nails and we'll put this back
together good as new."

She stood aside while he scooted the crate to the foot of the bed. After a quick glance to
make sure she wasn't watching, he picked up the packet of letters and tucked them inside his
shirt. He slipped into his coat, said, "I'll be back in a couple of hours."

She turned around, still clutching the Daguerreotype. "Merlin, I'm glad you opened the
crate. I thought this was lost."

"Then I'm glad, too."

* * * *

Callie tidied up the cabin, washed the dishes, stowed the groceries in the open shelves
beside the fireplace, and used her foot to sweep the worst of the litter from the floor. Honestly,
men were the messiest critters.
I wonder if there's a broom in the barn.

When she had supper ready to cook, she sat on the bed and wondered what to do.
Idleness was foreign to her. Her mother had tried to teach her to sew, because "The Devil makes
work for idle hands." Mrs. Flynn had believed the same, although she'd considered reading
worthwhile, as long as it was what she called "improving literature." Frau Trebelhorn had
begrudged Callie one day off a week, and had more than once demanded fresh bread on
Sunday.

She looked at the books Merlin had taken from the crate. Tempting as they were, if she
started reading one, she'd never get to finish it, not as slow as she read.

The saddlebags were still lying on the end of the bed. Even though she didn't know what
was Merlin's and what he'd bought for her, she could unpack them. As tightly as they were
jammed in, the shirts and britches were probably badly wrinkled. She'd bet he didn't have a
flatiron.

Four pairs of wool socks. Two Union suits. Two pairs of britches and two wool shirts.
And that was just the first saddlebag. She stacked the garments on the bed and opened the
second. It held the boots and a brown paper wrapped package. The paper wasn't tied or anything,
so she opened it. Inside was a pretty, tightly-rolled, cloth something. Curious, knowing she
shouldn't snoop, she unrolled it. "Oh, my goodness!"

It was a shawl, no doubt about that. Generously sized, woven of fine, soft wool, it was
printed with red roses and green leaves. Laying it across her knees, she stroked the fabric. Her
work-roughened hands caught at threads and she pulled them away, lest she snag it. She couldn't
resist lifting it to her face and rubbing it against her cheek. Was it a gift for his mother? It must
be.

Or did Merlin have a sweetheart somewhere?

The thought brought a lump to her throat. "I'd like to be his sweetheart," she whispered.
And immediately covered her mouth with one hand. Such a thought should never be spoken.
Someone might hear.

Carefully she folded the shawl and laid it aside. She knew the boots were for her, and
they needed oiling. That would occupy her for a while.

She found a bottle of neat's-foot oil on a shelf beside a can of bacon fat. It was
half-empty, but there should be enough for her boots. The woodbox held newspaper pages, dated
more than a week ago. She laid two thicknesses on the table and set the boots atop them.

Such fine boots. She'd had new boots before, but none like these. They reached almost
to her knees, with laces all the way to the top. She'd seen the like on some of the men at the
mines, but never on a man who worked on horseback. Those men wore boots without laces,
mostly with tall heels and narrow toes.

All except Merlin.

She'd finished with her boots and was wiping her hands when the door opened. She
jumped. "Oh!"

"It's just me." As he removed his coat and hat, he said, "Starting to snow, and the wind's
kicking up. A good night to hunker down with a fire." He set the bucket he'd carried in on the
narrow counter beside the fireplace.