“That’s for sure. Sometimes I wish...” A wistful expression crossed Jube’s face. Then she exhaled a cloud of smoke and murmured, “Oh, nothing.”
“Tell me... you wish what?”
“Oh...” She shrugged and admitted sheepishly, “That he wasn’t so shy.”
“Why, Jubilee!” Agatha’s eyebrows rose. “Do you have... feelings for Marcus? I mean, special feelings?”
“I guess I do. But how is a girl supposed to know when the man never makes a move toward her?”
“You’re asking me?” Agatha spread a hand on her chest and laughed.
“Well, you’re a girl, too, aren’t you?”
“Hardly. I’m thirty-five years old. I no longer qualify.”
“But you know what I mean. Sometimes Marcus looks at me... well, you know. Different. And just when I think he’s going to—”
A knock sounded.
“Everybody decent?” came Candy’s voice.
Jube whispered to Agatha, “We’ll talk more later.” Then she raised her voice. “More than decent. Come in.”
The door swung in slowly and Gandy leaned against the frame with his necktie loose and his jacket slung from one finger over a shoulder. He spoke to Jube but looked at Agatha.
“So, you got her all settled in, I see.”
“Sure did. She’s feeling much better now.”
“She looks better.” He brought his shoulder away from the doorframe and ambled inside, dropping his jacket across Agatha’s feet. “You looked like a ghost when you came downstairs lookin’ for me, did you know that?” He reached for her empty cup. “Here, I’ll take that.” He set it aside, then sat at her hip with one hand braced on her far side. “But your color is back.”
She tried to tug the bedcovers higher, but his weight pinned them low. Her cheeks grew rosy-bright above the pristine white of her high-necked nightgown. And her hair was glorious, flowing free in rich, thick waves, catching the lantern light and tossing it back in highlights nearly the color of burgundy wine. He took a moment to let his eyes wander over it appreciatively before returning his gaze to her translucent green eyes. They were captivating eyes, unlike any he’d seen before, as pale as seawater. They had begun bothering him in bed at night, keeping him awake, as if she were in the room watching him. An unexpected stirring brought warmth to his chest as their gazes remained locked and his hip pulled the blankets down from her breasts.
“M... Marcus brought me the tea,” she stammered, flustered by his nearness, by the fact that she was clad only in a nightgown, and could feel his body warmth against her hip. “And Jubilee brushed my hair.” She touched it uncertainly, almost apologetically. “And all the others came in to wish me good-night.”
“So, will you sleep now?”
“Oh, I’m sure I will.” She tried to smile, but succeeded only in dropping her lips open and revealing the fact that her breathing was none too steady. Her fingertips fluttered to the buttons at her throat. Immediately, he captured the hand and drew it down. Then they sat with their fingers linked. Her heart beat like that of a captured bird, but there were so many things she wanted to say. “I don’t know what I would have done without all of you tonight,” she whispered. “Thank you, Scott.”
“There’s no need for thanks.” He gave in to impulse and circled her with both arms, pulling her lightly against his chest. He held her that way, motionlessly, for several long, long seconds. “We’re your friends. That’s what friends are for.”
Her heart slammed hard against him. She didn’t know where to put her hands except against his shoulder blades. She was conscious of Jubilee watching them from the foot of the bed, and of the intensified scent of cigar smoke from Scotty’s skin and clothing, and of the fact that her unbound breasts were flattened against his hard chest—the first time they’d ever found such a resting place.
“Good night, Gussie,” he whispered, then kissed the tip of her ear. “See you in the mornin’.”
“Good night, Scott,” she managed to say in a whisper. While her heart still pounded within her breast, he rose, caught up his jacket, and moved around the bed. Standing behind Jubilee, he leaned over the brass footboard. Jubilee lifted her face and smiled upside down at him.
“G’night, Jube,” he said.
They kissed upside down.
“’Night, Scotty. I’ll take good care of her for you.”
He winked at Jube and grinned at Agatha. “Y’all do that.”
Then he, too, was gone.
When the lantern was extinguished and the building became silent, Agatha lay beside the sleeping Jubilee for a long, long time, as wide awake as she’d ever been in her life. She was confused and more aware of her own body than she ever recalled being. Not just the parts that usually hurt, but the parts that didn’t. From head to foot she felt tingly. Within her breast her heart continued thudding as if it had been powered by some mystical force after lying dormant all these years.
How could Scott have done such a thing—nonchalantly sat down beside her and taken her into his arms without a thought for propriety? And she in her nightie! And Jubilee right there!
But when her hands had rested upon his shoulder blades and her heart lay against his, her own thoughts of propriety had fled. How good it had felt to be pressed to his solid bulk, held for a minute. How hot her face had felt, and how insistent her own pulsebeat. How full and heavy her breasts, when crushed. She remembered the smooth feeling of his cotton shirtback stretched taut as he held her. And his jaw against her temple. And his collarbone against her mouth. And the smell—ah, the smell—so different from her own violet water and starch.
In the wake of remembrance came embarrassment.
But he belongs to Jubilee—doesn’t he?
Confused, Agatha tossed and turned to lie on her other hip. The same refrain kept spinning through her mind over and over again.
How can Jubilee belong to Scott if she has feelings for Marcus?
When she finally slept, it was fitfully, and without an answer.
CHAPTER
11
In the morning they all pitched in as promised. Marcus installed a new doorknob, and when Willy showed up they put him to work collecting feathers and stuffing them into a pillowcase. Agatha noticed he was scratching again and made a mental note to talk to Scott about it.
She’d awakened uncertain how to act around Scott this morning, but he treated her as platonically as always.
By ten-thirty Willy grew weary of chasing down feathers, so Agatha sent him off to Halorhan’s to see if she’d received any mail.
He returned with the latest issue of The Temperance Banner and an envelope bearing a Topeka postmark and Governor John P. St. John’s official return address.
“Why, it’s from the governor!” she exclaimed.
“Oooo, the guv’nuh!” repeated Ruby. “My, ain’t we in tall cotton!” She rolled her eyes and shook her fingers as if they’d been singed.
Agatha carefully slit the envelope and removed a letter engraved with the state seal, while they all gathered around: Marcus, with a screwdriver in his hand; Scott, with his elbow propped on a broom handle; the girls, perched on the edge of Agatha’s tiny kitchen set; Ivory and Jack peeking over her shoulder; Dan with Willy climbing up on his boots to get a better look.
Agatha’s eyes quickly scanned the sheet.
“Well, what’s it say?” demanded Ruby.
“It’s an invitation.”
“Well, read it ‘fore we git gallstones from frettin’!”
Agatha’s glance flashed to Scott. Then she turned away nervously. Her mouth felt suddenly dry. She cleared her throat and moistened her lips.
Dear Miss Downing,
As an active member in the movement to prohibit the sale of intoxicants in the state of Kansas, your name has been mentioned to me by State Representative Alexander Kish, Miss Amanda Way, and Miss Drusilla Wilson. As you know, when I became elected governor of Kansas, I made a promise to my constituents to do al
l within my power to banish not only the consumption of alcohol, but its sale as well within the boundaries of our fair state.
To this end I heartily support the recent legislation passed by both houses of the legislature, proposing ratification of a prohibition amendment to our state constitution.
If those of us who in the past have worked with zeal toward this noble cause will clasp hands once again for more aggressive work than ever before, this amendment can and will be ratified by the voters of Kansas.
By way of expressing my appreciation for your work and encouraging your further support for the prohibition movement, I extend this invitation to afternoon tea in the rose garden of the governor’s mansion on September fifteenth at two o’clock P.M.
The letter was signed by Governor John P. St. John himself.
When Agatha finished reading, nobody said a word. Her face and neck felt uncomfortably warm. She stared at the letter, afraid to look up and meet their eyes in the strained silence. The stiff paper crackled as she folded it slowly and then slipped it back into the envelope.
“What’s wrong?” Willy’s voice seemed to boom in the room as he glanced up from one face to another.
Finally, Agatha raised her eyes. She tried to think of an answer, but the only one that came to mind was, “Nothing,” and it wasn’t true. Scott still leaned on the broom, frowning at her. Marcus worked a thumbnail over a blob of dry paint on the screwdriver handle. Jack scratched the back of his neck, avoiding her eyes, while Ivory’s long black fingers played a silent song against his thigh. The girls sat dejectedly, studying the floor they’d just helped clean.
One could have heard a snake breathe in the room.
“What’s wrong, huh?” Willy repeated, confused.
Dan came to the rescue. “Whaddaya say, buddy?” He dropped a hand to Willy’s head. “Wanna come downstairs and help me sweep up the place?”
Willy obediently turned to leave, but he craned his neck to look back at the dismal group as he and Dan walked away. “Well, sure, but what’s wrong with everybody?”
“Things you don’t understand, pup.”
When they were gone the silence hung long and heavy. Finally, Ruby asked Agatha, “You goin’?”
With an effort, Agatha raised her eyes to Ruby’s—black and inscrutable. It struck Agatha that Ruby was the descendant of a long line of slaves, and slaves learned early how to hide their deeper emotions. Not a glimmer of emotion showed upon Ruby’s face at the moment.
“I don’t know,” Agatha answered heavily.
Ruby looked away, leaned over to pick up a dustpan. “Well, bes’ be gittin’. Everythin’s done ‘round here.”
They drifted away one by one until only Scott remained.
Through the open window came the distant mooing of cattle, the sound of wagon wheels and hooves passing on the street below, a ringing game of horseshoes in progress outside next to the hotel. But within Agatha’s apartment all was silent.
Scott dropped his elbow from the broom, took two punishing swipes at the floor, then gave up to stare at the toe of his boot. He shifted his weight to the opposite hip and looked across the room at Agatha.
“Well...” He drew in a deep breath, then blew it out.
A small fissure formed in her heart. “Scott,” she appealed, “what should I do?”
“You’re askin’ me?” He laughed once, hard and harsh.
“Who else can I ask?”
His voice grew angry, exasperated. He pointed toward the street. “Try those crazy women you march into the saloons with!”
“They’re not crazy! They have good cause.”
“They’re a bunch o’ dissatisfied wives who’re lookin’ for a way t’ get their men back home when all it’d take is a little cuddlin’ t’ keep ‘em from leavin’ in the first place!”
She couldn’t believe his willful blindness. “Oh, Scott, do you really believe that?”
“My father never hung around a saloon in his life. That’s because his wife knew how t’ please him at home.”
“Your father lived on a plantation. There were probably no saloons for miles around.”
He bristled visibly. His eyes hardened to black marble. “And just how do you know so much?”
“The girls told me long ago. The point is, there were no saloons, so your father acted as provider and stayed at home, which is where more men should stay.”
Scott snorted disgustedly. “You’ve been hangin’ around those fanatics too long, Agatha. You’re gettin’ t’ sound just like ‘em.”
“The truth hurts, doesn’t it, Scott? Yet you know it as well as I do—alcohol is addictive and debilitating. It impoverishes entire families by destroying a man’s ability to work, and it turns gentlemen into brutes.”
Scott’s scowl deepened. “What’s worse is you’re beginnin’ to believe all those generalizations.” He pointed a finger at her nose. “And that’s just what they are! Half o’ you women are kneelin’ at every swingin’ door in town singin’ your damned self-righteous songs and you don’t even have cause.”
“What about Annie Macintosh, with two cracked ribs and a black eye? Does she have cause?”
“Annie’s a different story. Not every man who has a glass o’ whiskey is like Macintosh.”
“And what about Alvis Collinson, who gambles away shoe money and grocery money and lets his own son sleep in a bed crawling with lice?”
Scott’s teeth clenched. His jaw took on a stubborn jut. “You really don’t fight fair, do y’?”
“What do you think is fair? To take Willy to the Cowboys’ Rest once every month or so to assuage your guilt?”
“My guilt!” Scott’s face darkened, his fist tightened on the broom handle, and his head jutted forward. “I don’t have any guilt! I’m runnin’ a business down there, tryin’ to keep eight people alive!”
“I know. And I appreciate what you’re doing for all of them. But don’t you ever have doubts about the men you serve all that liquor to? About the families who desperately need the money they lose at your gambling tables?”
His expression turned smug. “It doesn’t keep me awake nights, no. If they couldn’t get whiskey from me, they’d get it somewhere else. Ratify that amendment and the saloons’ll close—sure enough—but Yancy Sales’ll be sellin’ the same stuff I’m sellin’, only he’ll call it bitters, and every lawmaker in the country’ll be in there buyin’ it and claimin’ it’s for medicinal purposes.”
“That may be. But if prohibition straightens up even one father like Alvis Collinson, it will have been worth the fight.”
“Then go, Agatha!” He flapped one hand toward the depot. “Go t’ the governor’s shindig! Have afternoon tea in his rose garden!” He stomped across the room and slammed the broom into her hands. “Only don’t expect me t’ come runnin’ t’ save you the next time a fed-up saloon owner ransacks your bedroom!”
He stormed to the door and slammed it so hard she cringed. The new knob worked perfectly; the door closed and stayed closed, but she stared at it through a film of tears. She lowered herself to a chair and dropped her forehead to her hands. Her heart ached and her chest hurt. The familial closeness of last night had been shattered by her own choice. Yet it wasn’t her choice at all. She felt torn and confused and grieved that she was falling in love with the wrong man—heaven help her, with the whole wrong “family.” But one did not always choose—she was learning—for whom one cared. Sometimes life made that choice. But it was what one did with that choice after it was made that brought happiness or grief.
* * *
The day hadn’t gone Collinson’s way. In the morning a wild fat-bellied cow had mashed his leg against the fence before he could draw it out of the way. In the afternoon the kid showed up with feathers stuck on his shirt and admitted he’d been hanging around that interfering hat builder again—helping her clean house, no less. And tonight his luck had soured.
Eight hands in a row he’d lost, while the duded-up cowpoke beside him b
eat the house on the last three pots. Even Doc, with his muddled-up brain, had managed to win two out of the last six.
Loretto had it in for him, just like the rest of them around the saloon, and Collinson had a feeling he was pulling face cards out of his sleeve somehow. Smart-aleck punk! Collinson thought. Half a year ago he was still pissin’ in his bed, an’ now he sits gussied up in a fancy black jacket and string tie, double-dealin’ them that he used t’ call friends.
Collinson counted his money. He had enough for two more hands, and if he didn’t win he’d be busted flat. He downed another shot of whiskey and nervously backhanded his mouth, then turned to nudge Doc’s elbow.
“’Ey, ya got a spare cigar, Doc?”
“Doc” Adkins was no doc at all, but a self-proclaimed veterinarian who traveled around the country “pulling” calves and “worming” hogs by mixing wood ashes and turpentine with their feed. His business hadn’t been too lively since he’d fed tincture of opium to one of Sam Brewster’s sows, putting her to sleep permanently instead of curing her enteritis.
Some said Doc Adkins made a habit of sampling his own tincture of opium, which accounted for the distant expression in his yellow eyes and his torpid reaction to life in general.
But he was likable, nevertheless, and a faithful friend to the wretch Collinson. Doc found a cigar now and handed it to his drinking buddy. Lighting it, the florid-faced Collinson studied the dealer.
Loretto shuffled so slickly the cards hardly bent. He arched them in the opposite direction and they fell into line as if by magic.
“So your ma ain’t too happy ‘bout you dealin’ cards here,” Collinson remarked.
“I’m twenty-one,” Loretto responded flatly.
“He’s twenty-one.” Collinson nudged Doc’s arm with his cigar hand. “Ya hear that, Doc? Got hisself a moustache an’ everythin’.” Collinson chuckled derisively and glanced at the blond swatch beneath Dan’s handsome nose. “Looks like a patch of durum the grasshoppers found tasty, don’t it?”