Sir. How old did she think he was? He moved closer and heard the quick intake of breath. Grinning, he slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Still think so?” When he leaned down, she ducked and twisted free and moved behind the desk. She pointed at the open door, but seemed to have lost her power of speech.

  “Close the door?” He mocked. “I think we should leave it wide-open for propriety’s sake.”

  “Out!” she croaked.

  Sorry he had followed through on an impulse, he strove to be serious. “It’s not a bad thing to have people know you and I are becoming friends.” Men might leave her alone if they knew he had his eye on her.

  “Is that what you’re doing, Mr. Beck? Making friends?” Her cheeks were red, her eyes green fire. “Are you going to go, or do I have to scream?”

  “That would bring a crowd. And bets as to how far I’d gotten.” She looked so flustered, he took pity. “We have business to discuss.”

  Brushing a few strands of red hair from her forehead, she came around the desk and dipped her brush into the can of white paint. If he approached again, he knew what to expect.

  “Why don’t you take off the apron and headscarf and let me take you to lunch at Ronya’s?” Ronya said she hadn’t seen Kathryn since yesterday. The girl had to eat.

  “I’ve already had oatmeal.”

  “You cooked?” Matthias opened the desk drawer and pulled out the books she’d hidden. “Ahhh.” He chuckled. “Learning how to fend for yourself. Is that it, Miss Walsh?”

  “It seems the wise thing to do.” She kept an eye on him, using meticulous strokes on the board that was already coated. “Don’t you have better things to do than sit and watch me paint a wall?”

  He smiled, leaned back, and made himself comfortable. He let his gaze move over her at leisure. “You’re going to need a bath.”

  Sucking in a shocked breath, she glared at him. “Thank you for telling me I stink!”

  “Typical female, putting words in a man’s mouth. I didn’t say you stank.” Her look told him to stop talking. “I’m sure you’re still gritty from the stagecoach ride. And you’ve been cleaning up this place since you moved in. It’s a reasonable assumption you’d want—”

  “Are you always this offensive?”

  Oh, that high tone, and all because he was trying to explain he hadn’t meant to insult her. “I’ll bet you had a nice bath every day back in Boston. Probably used scented soap, too.”

  “I have a washtub now and know where to get water. And Scribe, young gentleman that he is, has provided me with the firewood to heat it.” She slapped more paint on the wall. “And there’s always the bathhouse down the street.”

  That idea needed to be killed right now. “Oh, yes. You can go there. You’ll have the privacy of a canvas partition between you and your tub mates. About twenty men, I would guess.”

  That got her full attention. “No walls?”

  Feeling a twinge of regret for tormenting her, Matthias stood. “Outer only.” He’d said more than enough to get the point across. “Sell me the press, Kathryn. Just go home where you belong.”

  Her expression changed. “I am home, Mr. Beck.” She wiped her cheek with the back of her gloved hand, leaving a smear of paint on that smooth porcelain skin. “And just because a man wants something doesn’t mean he gets it.”

  “Do you want to bet on that, your ladyship?”

  Kathryn stripped off the gloves and tossed them into the empty paint can. “The press is not for sale.”

  “Everything has a price.”

  She lifted her head and arched a brow. “Do you want to bet on that?” Her eyes glittered with temper. “A press is a very powerful weapon. I wouldn’t want to sell it to a man who might use it for purposes other than what is right and good. Is that clear enough, Lord Bacchus?”

  Matthias’s heart pounded for battle. “There’s nothing worse than a self-righteous girl in a snit.”

  She gave him a pained smile. “Men always resort to insults when they lose an argument.”

  Matthias left before he said anything he’d regret.

  The more work Kathryn did on her little house on Chump Street, the more she felt at home. She washed her hair and bathed in the washtub Saturday night in preparation for Sunday morning worship services. She knew people would notice her and wanted to dress as simply as she could so she wouldn’t cause a stir.

  The Calvada Community Church was up the hill at the end of Rome Street. The mountains loomed behind, covered with pine trees. Kathryn breathed in the scent and filled her lungs with the crisp late fall air. Snow covered the peaks and would soon be covering the town.

  Surprised to find the service had already started, she slipped into the back row behind six women. There were a few other women closer to the front, with husbands and children. One of the ladies in front of her glanced back. Kathryn smiled, but the young woman turned around quickly and whispered to the lady on her right, who whispered to the next. An older woman dressed in black leaned over and gave the young women a reproving look, then glanced back at Kathryn.

  Her eyes flickered in surprise. Shaking her head, she frowned and waved in a way that told Kathryn to move forward.

  The last thing Kathryn wanted to do was draw more attention to herself. She whispered, “Thank you, but I’m fine right here.” She could see and hear Reverend Thacker clearly.

  The woman turned her back and didn’t look at Kathryn again. She whispered something to the young woman beside her. Whatever she’d said was passed along to the other five women. The women rose when it was time to sing a hymn and sat in perfect unison when it ended. When the service ended, Kathryn stood, hoping to introduce herself, but the six women quickly filed out of the church without a single glance her way. Kathryn frowned. Was she being snubbed? What on earth had she done wrong?

  Reverend Thacker and his wife passed by her and stood at the door to greet parishioners on their way out. Both welcomed Kathryn and asked if they might come to call. She said she’d be pleased to have them do so. Others greeted her out front. Abbie Aday approached, beaming, her hand touching the hat Kathryn had given her. “It looks wonderful on you, Abbie.”

  Nabor looked annoyed. “We have no time to dawdle.” He took his wife by the elbow and steered her toward the gate.

  Abbie glanced back over her shoulder. “You look lovely, Kathryn.” Her eyes moved over Kathryn’s russet dress in admiration. Wincing, she turned away again.

  Henry Call greeted Kathryn. “You’re looking well. Matthias said you’ve done quite a bit of work on your new home.”

  Nothing of which Mr. Beck would approve, she could have said. “It’s so nice to see you again.” Matthias Beck was noticeably absent, but Morgan Sanders was in attendance. The mine owner smiled and gave her a nod. She returned the acknowledgment before addressing Henry. “Is your business going well?”

  Call looked from her to Morgan Sanders and back. “As well as can be expected. Some things take time.” He hesitated. “You’ve met Morgan Sanders, I hear.”

  “He invited me to dinner when I stayed at his hotel.” Her skin prickled uncomfortably. She had the uncanny feeling Sanders’s attention was fixed on her despite his ongoing conversation with several men. “I’ve been busy cleaning and organizing my little house. I plan to use the front office as a shop for ladies.” She walked out through the gate, Henry at her side.

  On the way down the hill into town, Henry talked about their stagecoach ride with Cussler and Wiley. Kathryn laughed, enjoying his easy manner. They parted at the corner of Rome and Chump Street, Kathryn heading to Ronya’s, Henry back to Beck’s Hotel. She’d been eating oatmeal for three days and longed for another miner’s plate.

  The café was packed. All conversation stopped when she entered. A woman came from the kitchen with two plates piled high with flapjacks. She glanced at Kathryn in surprise and set the plates down before two men who barely noticed them. Kathryn followed her into the kitchen and greeted Ronya. “May I join you ladies?”

  Ronya laughed as she flipped pancakes. “Charlotte, this is Kathryn Walsh, City Walsh’s niece. Kathryn, meet Charlotte, my new helper. Sit.” She pointed the spatula at a stool by the worktable. “You look mighty grand this morning, Kathryn. How was church?” She didn’t ask what Kathryn wanted to eat, but started filling a plate with scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes. She grinned at Charlotte. “This girl has an appetite.”

  “Reverend Thacker is a fine speaker.” Kathryn admired Ronya’s swift efficiency. Charlotte picked up two more plates and headed into the dining room. “You have a full house this morning. Can I help?”

  “You?” Ronya sounded shocked. “Are you asking for a job?”

  Kathryn considered. “Could I work for meals?”

  Ronya studied her seriously. “Eat first. Then you can pitch in.” She slid the loaded plate across to her, took a mug from a hook, and filled it with hot coffee. “Where have you been eating the last few days?”

  “At home. Oatmeal.” Kathryn grimaced. “I’m sure I could learn a great deal about cooking by working for you.”

  Charlotte set dirty plates on the counter near the wash pan. “Why would you work here?” She swept Kathryn’s expensive ensemble with knowing eyes. “You come from wealth.”

  “I was an unwelcome encumbrance to my stepfather, and my mother told me her life would be much easier without me.”

  Both women stared at her, and Kathryn blushed, embarrassed that she had made such a slip of the tongue. “I’m wearing the remnants of my old life.” She shrugged. “I wasn’t sent away completely empty-handed. There is the inheritance.”

  “Worth barely anything,” Ronya said, clearly disturbed by what Kathryn had revealed.

  “My stepfather gave me money enough to support myself for a few months, if I’m frugal.”

  Ronya and Charlotte exchanged a look, before Charlotte spoke. “You could take your pick of any man in Calvada, Miss Walsh. Everyone is talking about you and Morgan Sanders.”

  “What?” Kathryn blanched. “I had dinner with the man once, and it was more a summons than an invitation.”

  “You’d better be careful with that man,” Ronya told her.

  “He owns most of the town.” Charlotte sat on a stool and wiped her forehead.

  Kathryn waved her hand airily. “He told me.”

  “So what will you do?”

  “She’s going to try opening a shop for ladies,” Ronya told Charlotte. “Hats and unmentionables. We’ll see how that goes.” She chuckled. “Matthias told me. He’s been eating in my café since he came to town. It seems you have the interest of two important men in Calvada.”

  Kathryn sniffed. “He wants to buy my uncle’s press.”

  “Why not sell? You have no use for it.”

  “And he does?”

  Charlotte tucked a wayward strand of hair back in her chignon. “Sure, he does. Stu Bickerson won’t give him a line of print.”

  “Who’s Stu Bickerson?”

  “Editor of the Clarion. Morgan Sanders has him in his back pocket. Only seems fair Mr. Beck has a way to print his opinions and ideas on how to run this town.”

  “Run this town?” Kathryn laughed. “What’s he doing? Running for mayor?”

  “Not unless the men gain some guts,” Ronya told her. “Right now, they’re afraid of Sanders.”

  Kathryn couldn’t believe these two women thought Matthias Beck would make a good mayor. Even so, she had her own opinions about certain things. “A newspaper should be neutral, presenting facts rather than taking sides.”

  Ronya gave her a wry look. “Is that how it’s done in Boston?” She added seasoning to the bubbling pot of beans on the back of the big iron stove.

  She sighed. “No.” She’d read the blistering articles written about the suffragettes. “But one can wish.” Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony had been called traitors to the natural order of God’s creation. One editorial labeled their followers as “harpies”; another said they were unnatural, unfeminine, a disgrace to their sex. Many women shared that same point of view. Kathryn’s own mother had ordered her never again to attend another meeting. Of course she hadn’t listened. Perhaps if she hadn’t lost her temper and tried to speak up at that last rally, she might still be living in Boston.

  Everything had happened so fast that day. Two men had seized her like bailiffs grabbing a criminal and taken her by carriage to the front gate of the Hyland-Pershing estate. Judge Lawrence Pershing had been waiting. He had had her followed.

  “And she’s a public disgrace just like her father,” the judge had railed at Kathryn’s mother, “joining up with Susan B. Anthony and her crones, showing up at that rally, and making a scene.” He’d snatched a newspaper and shaken it like a dog killing a rat. “It’s all right here in the New York Tribune! If not for my connections, her name would be mentioned.” He threw the newspaper at Kathryn. “Are you proud of yourself? Word will spread of this latest escapade. Your reputation is ruined.”

  Women’s suffrage an escapade? Her reputation ruined? Kathryn regretted her impetuous behavior, not because she felt in the wrong, but rather that her attempt had gained nothing, certainly not the respectful hearing those women were due.

  Ronya put the lid on the large iron pot. “Your uncle printed truth and look what happened to him.”

  Leaving Ronya’s, Kathryn decided to head back up Rome toward the church. She hadn’t been to the cemetery to pay her respects to her uncle. She had been so consumed with getting the little house in order that she hadn’t thought of it until she saw the graveyard near the church this morning.

  Simple crosses marked most graves. One large stone bore the names of men lost in a mining accident, dated October 13, 1872. Another farther on listed five more lost the previous year. Kathryn continued searching for Casey Teague Walsh’s grave.

  “Miss Walsh.” Sally Thacker came toward her, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. “I saw you from the parsonage. Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for my uncle’s grave.”

  “It’s over there.” She pointed toward a grave off by itself, at the edge of the fenced-in boundary. “He was Catholic, you see. They usually have their own cemetery, but . . .” She left the rest unsaid.

  “Did you hold a service for him?”

  “Not in church, and only a few came up here when he was buried. The rest gathered at Beck’s Saloon for a celebration.”

  Shocked, Kathryn drew back. “A celebration!”

  “Of his life. He was Irish, and some of the men thought a wake more appropriate. His friends’ way of showing him respect, I suppose. Your uncle spent a good deal of time at Beck’s, from what I understand.” She winced. “I don’t mean that to sound critical in any way.”

  “Did you know my uncle very well, Mrs. Thacker?”

  “Call me Sally, please. And no, I’m afraid I didn’t know him at all. He never attended church.” She accompanied Kathryn to the grave.

  The cross was simple. City Walsh. No date, no RIP, nothing about the man who lay beneath the earth and what, if any, difference his life had made. Kathryn’s eyes filled. “His full name was Casey Teague Walsh.”

  “I doubt anyone knew.”

  The grave looked bleak and lonely, the last one in a long row of the dead, with space to separate him from the others. His closest friends must have come to see him laid to rest. Who might they be? Scribe, surely. She wanted to know. “Who attended the burial?”

  Sally drew her shawl more tightly around her. “Scribe. Matthias Beck.”

  It was a moment before Kathryn could speak. “Only two.”

  “There was one other.”

  Kathryn glanced at her, wondering at her reticence. Sally fisted the shawl at her throat. “Scribe and Matthias knew him best, Kathryn.”

  “Who was the other?”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything.” Sally sighed. “Fiona Hawthorne. She stayed a long while after the others left. She was weeping.”

  “She must have loved him.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Is she still here in Calvada?”

  Sally shook her head. “Oh, you mustn’t seek her out, Kathryn. You sat behind her this morning, but you mustn’t sit back there again. It’s reserved for those women. People will talk.”

  Talk? About what? “I sat behind six women. Which one was Fiona Hawthorne?”

  “The one in black.” Looking around, Sally stepped closer and lowered her voice as though ghosts might overhear their conversation. “I tell you this only so you’ll understand why you should keep your distance. Mrs. Hawthorne owns a two-story brothel on Gomorrah.” Sally Thacker looked too embarrassed to say more.

  Kathryn returned to her house and sat at her uncle’s desk. Casey Teague Walsh’s closest friends had been an orphan, a saloon owner, and a prostitute. She wanted to know more about him, but that meant speaking with Matthias Beck. Their last encounter had left her shaken. Every time the man looked at her, she felt her pulse race. Best if she kept her distance.

  She studied the crates of papers stacked against the wall. Perhaps the way to get to know Casey Teague Walsh was by reading the letters, notes, drafts of articles, and newspapers he’d written. It would be a monumental task, but winter nights were long and she wasn’t going anywhere. She would put everything into chronological order. She’d learn the course of events as well as what her uncle thought important, what he believed in, what it was that took him out of the streams and mines and made him become a newspaperman.

  She lifted a crate and set it on the desk. In her quest to know her uncle better, she might even figure out who killed him and why.

  5

  THE RAIN HAD LET UP when Matthias came out of Ronya’s. After two stormy days, the roads were barely fit to pass. He spotted Kathryn with skirts lifted above the mud as she picked her way across the street toward the café. Her cloak dipped, gathering muck and weight with every step she took. Slipping, she spread her hands, trying to regain her balance, but slid and landed on her bustled backside in the middle of Chump Street. Her hands sank wrist-deep in mud when she tried to get up. Scribe, always on watch for her, came flying down the boardwalk to the rescue. He bounded through the mud to help her up, but his earnest efforts made the situation worse, and more entertaining. Chuckling, Matthias watched the boy accidentally knock off Kathryn’s hat. The morning breeze wheeled it down the street, startling a horse that reared and trampled it. One lone feather waved goodbye as a wagon wheel squashed it beneath the mire.