Brighter than Gold (Western Rebels Book 1) (13 page)

“Kathleen?” he murmured gently.

Automatically, she turned her face toward him and smiled. “Hello, Mr. Adams. It was kind of you to walk over and say goodbye again. But then, I suppose you came for your watch? I have it right here in my pocket. It was on the dresser shelf.”

He blinked. “That’s unimportant, Kathleen. I’ve come to see how you are.”

Lim cleared his throat. “I must go home now and share the sad news with my family.”

When the door had closed behind him, Jack leaned toward Katie. “I want you to know how sorry I am. Although I didn’t know him very long, your father was a splendid man. It was very easy to care for him.”

Her great blue eyes were luminous with pain. “Thank you for saying so, Mr. Adams. I know that Papa liked you very much, too. “

Jack held her small, cold hand in both of his. “I think you are right. And, I know he would expect me to take an interest in your welfare.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Katie searched his eyes and found them curiously intent.

“I know that I should wait, should give you time to adjust to what’s happened and to grieve, but it’s time we simply don’t have to spare. All I am certain of is that I came to know both you and your father unusually well in the time I spent in your home. I know that Brian would not have wanted you to spend the rest of your life in Columbia, running the saloon, Kathleen.”

“I appreciate your concern but you really have no right—”

“Perhaps I don’t. But, I must speak out, to say what I believe your father would say if he could.”

A fiery spark kindled in her eyes. “I find your presumption quite extraordinary! Do, please, enlighten me! Since you were acquainted with my father for only a fortnight, and I have known him my entire life, it certainly does seem proper that
you
should speak on his behalf.”

“You may think I am being presumptuous, but I do care,” Jack replied in an even voice. “And your father talked to me about you. He was well aware of your many gifts, and anxious that you have the opportunity to fulfill them.” He took a breath, and she looked at him, waiting. “You shouldn’t stay here now that Brian is gone. I want you to come to San Francisco with me.”

Katie gasped. “You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, but I am. I am completely in earnest.”

“Mr. Adams, what exactly are you proposing?” Her mind reeled as she remembered what he had said to Abby earlier about a fiancée waiting for him. Did he expect Katie to be his mistress?

“Nothing illicit, I assure you. Look, Kathleen, I have a family in San Francisco, a home and a life—”

“What do you mean, a family?”

“I live with my grandfather and my brother. It would all be perfectly circumspect. You could learn to explore and enjoy life for a change, attend parties, make new friends—”

“I think you must be mad!” she interrupted. “Do you think that just because I am a woman, you can take me in hand and tell me what is best for me? If so, you’re very much mistaken!
I
know what is best for me. I already have a life here with friends and work that I enjoy. Lim will help me run the saloon, and now that Abby is here, too, I shan’t be alone. I don’t need your help or your patronage, or whatever it is that you’re offering!” Tears stung her eyes as she pulled her hand from his.

Jack bit his lip. How had he erred? “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” he said quietly. “Believe me, that was not my intention. I came here tonight as a friend, not only of yours, but of your father’s as well. I see that I’ve only made matters worse.”

Katie’s features were strained as she turned away from him. “I’ll survive. We’ll all survive.” She drew a shaky breath. “Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to be alone. Have a safe journey, Mr. Adams.”

Jack stood up, then slowly extended his hand and smoothed back the stray curls from her brow. “I truly do care about you, Kathleen.”

Katie nodded, still unable to meet his compelling gaze. Then she remembered the watch and held it out to him. He accepted it, his fingers brushing hers before the contact was broken.

She listened as Jack walked out of the kitchen and out of her life. The door clicked shut behind him, and suddenly the warm July night felt painfully cold. Under a ray of snow-white moonlight, Katie buried her face in her hands, weeping as if her heart would break.

Part Two

Chapter 9

San Francisco, California

July 7, 1864

“It’s seven o’clock, Mr. Wyatt.”

Jonathan Wyatt opened one eye just a fraction. Across the spacious bedroom, Elijah, his manservant, was opening draperies of indigo velvet. The tall second-floor windows afforded an impressive panorama from Rincon Hill that encompassed much of the city to the north and the surrounding bay to the east, but this morning, like most mornings, little of the city was visible through its cloak of fog. Wyatt preferred it this way. It was hard enough to wake up without the shock of sunlight.

“I’ve drawn your bath, sir,” Elijah was saying. “Would you care for breakfast?”

“Just tea and fruit, thank you.” They always had exactly the same conversation. Wyatt closed his eyes again, then added on impulse, “Elijah, do we have any... muffins?”

The black man stopped short in the doorway and glanced back, surprised. “I—I am quite certain we do not. Shall I ask Mrs. Gosling to bake some?”

“Yes,” he murmured, smiling. “But there’s no hurry. Tomorrow will be fine.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?”

“No. I’m sure you’ve thought of everything, Elijah. Thank you.”

Wyatt listened for the click of the paneled door, then opened his eyes again and stretched. The fine linen sheets caressed his naked body, tempting him to doze, but his bath was hot and his tea would be waiting downstairs in exactly half an hour. It was a routine that servants and employer had perfected over a number of years. If he deviated from it, they would all think he’d gone mad.

Smiling again to himself, Jonathan Wyatt emerged from his testered walnut bed and padded across the luxurious Turkey carpet. A cool, misty breeze filtered through the window which Elijah had opened an inch or two. Wyatt paused to breathe deeply of the morning air, then continued on to his tiled bathroom. Efficiently he bathed, toweled his hair and lean-muscled body, and shaved. Awake at last, he crossed into his dressing room and surveyed the cedar-paneled closets filled with all manner of expensive, tailored clothing. He chose a dark blue morning coat, white shirt, blue cravat, fawn-colored double-breasted waistcoat, and sleek fawn trousers. When he was dressed, Wyatt briefly surveyed himself in the full-length beveled mirror and adjusted the square shoulders of his coat. The tailoring was impeccable. He brushed back his hair, deciding to stop at his barber’s in the afternoon for an overdue trim, slipped his watch in its waistcoat pocket, attached the chain to the opposite side, then picked up fawn-colored gloves and left the dressing room.

The house was deceptively quiet as he descended the wide staircase. Dropping his gloves on the table in the entry way, he turned into his book-lined study. A tray awaited him on the large Chippendale desk, which many thought out of place with the Gothic flavor of the room. Wyatt professed not to care: the desk was not just a family heirloom; it was practical as well. It had ample space for his papers when he worked at home and deep drawers for storage.

Now the desk was clear except for the tray containing a steaming cup of tea, a translucent china plate of neatly arranged raspberries and orange segments, silver cutlery, a linen napkin, and a newspaper folded in half. Wyatt sat down and opened the newspaper with one hand while adding milk and a bit of sugar to his tea with the other. He scanned each column with a critical eye and dipped a gold pen in ink to make notations in the margins from time to time. When he had finished, the tea and fruit were gone. Wyatt checked his pocket watch and, as if on cue, a tall woman with steel-gray hair drawn into a bun appeared in the doorway. She wore a severe brown dress, but her appearance was belied by a fond smile.

“Good morning, Mr. Wyatt. Can I get you anything else?”

He stood, holding the folded newspaper, and returned her smile. “No, thank you, Mrs. Gosling. Is my grandfather in the dining room?”

“Yes, sir. He’s expecting you, as usual.” She paused, as if uncertain whether to deviate from their usual morning dialogue. “The muffins you requested are baking, sir. Would you like one when they are finished?”

Passing her, Wyatt grinned infectiously. “If I’m still here, why not?”

Mrs. Gosling watched her employer walk through the west parlor and enter the dining room. Perplexed, she shook her head and murmured through pursed lips, “Why not indeed?”

Wyatt found Ambrose Summers at the far end of a long, polished mahogany table, sitting under a portrait of John Adams, who had been first cousin to Ambrose’s mother. The family resemblance was noticeable, especially now that the old man was nearing eighty. His thinning white hair was combed neatly back from a face with large, keen gray eyes behind round spectacles, an aquiline nose, a small mouth nearly hidden under a drooping mustache, and round, heavy cheeks that were accentuated by white side whiskers. Like Adams, he was short in stature but generous in girth. Ambrose Summers loved to eat.

“Good morning, Grandfather,” Wyatt greeted him, coming around the table. Bending, he kissed the old man’s pink brow.

“Say good morning to Harriet,” Ambrose reminded him, indicating the exceptionally large gray cat curled on his lap. Harriet looked up expectantly, egg on her whiskers.

“Hello, Harriet.” He pulled a chair up near his grandfather’s. “The two of you are looking quite satisfied.”

Ambrose finished his biscuit, then pushed his plate away and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Hmm. Well, it was a very good breakfast. Mrs. Gosling never overcooks the yolks.” Harriet seemed to nod in agreement as she began to wash her face. “You’re looking very fit this morning, Jack. Must’ve slept well. I knew you’d feel better after a night in your own bed. And I’ll wager that you’re happy to be back to your regular routine.”

His grandson smiled absently. “Yes, I suppose so. It is good to be home, and to be myself again, and yet... I feel a bit awkward at the moment. I can’t quite say why.... After all, I’ve been happy with my life by and large—particularly with the structure that I’ve been able to maintain. It’s always fit like a glove and I’ve never wanted to disrupt that, yet these past two days I’ve felt rather...
confined
by the discipline that I have imposed upon myself.”

Summers studied him carefully. “Well, you know that I’ve always thought you went a bit too far in that regard, regimenting your days and so forth, but it was your choice.” He paused to stroke the purring Harriet. “Your life was in disarray for some years, and it was a pleasure to watch you rebuild with such indefatigable determination. But perhaps the time has come to inject a bit more spontaneity into your routine.” With a philosophical shrug, he continued, “Or it may be a simple case of readjustment. You’ve been away for several weeks, living a very different life. It may take some time to settle back to being
yourself
again.”

“Yes... myself.” He sighed deeply. “Perhaps I’m not entirely certain who that is anymore.”

“Jack, did something else happen while you were away this time? I know that you’re upset about those deaths, but they were not your fault,” Ambrose said firmly, reaching over to pat his grandson’s arm.

“Weren’t they? If I hadn’t held up that last stage, Brian MacKenzie would still be alive.” Jonathan Griffin Adams Wyatt pressed his eyes with taut fingers, then looked around. “Where’s Conrad?”

“Elijah just went up to draw his bath, so you can speak freely. Jack, my dear boy, I must urge you to confide in me. I’ve sensed that something has been bothering you ever since you arrived home, and it will only gnaw at you if you keep it inside.”

“You’re right, of course, Grandfather, but I’m not even certain myself exactly what’s troubling me.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I’m due at the
Morning Star
offices in ten minutes—”

“The newspaper will wait for you,” Ambrose replied calmly. “You’re the owner and editor. And here’s a chance to bend your routine a bit.”

Wyatt’s smile of surrender failed to reach his hooded eyes. “You know, it all was so simple in the beginning. When Conrad ran off to the foothills to make his fortune, and then was tricked out of his claim by Van Hosten, all I sought was some justice. And perhaps a bit of the excitement that seemed to be lacking in my own life since I had straightened it up so meticulously.” He sighed again. “God only knows how Conrad would feel if he knew what I’ve done, especially since I counseled him to put the experience behind him and not seek revenge.”