“Whatchu starin’ at, mister?” Hattie demanded belligerently, drawing herself up. Normally, her skin was what her mama used to call alabaster pale beneath scattered dustings of freckles. But Hattie felt heated color burn along her cheeks, and her shoulders twitched in annoyance. Horace had once described sideshow attractions to her—and she didn’t enjoy being gaped at as if she were one.
Ever since leaving Nevada on this trip north to Oregon, she’d been stared at as though she were a freak of nature. It had been a long, arduous journey, first by mule, then by rail. She would never admit this, but it’d been sort of scary to go so far all by herself. And for some dang reason, all along the way people had gawked at her, whispering behind their hands and pointing.
Well. She tossed her hair. She had not suffered their regard in silence.
“Not a thing.” Jake smiled. He reached out a hand to touch her hair, biting back a laugh when Hattie jerked her head out of reach and swatted at his fingers. “I was just admiring the color of your hair. It’s very pretty.” The brief touch confirmed his suspicions: the texture had felt aggressively alive beneath his fingertips. He watched hesitant pleasure shine in Hattie’s eyes.
“Yeah? You think so?” she asked. “Sonovabitchin’ lady on the train said it’s heathen hair, sign of the devil’s handmaiden. Horace always said it was the hair of angels, though.” She pinched a strand, studying its color uncertainly.
“I’d believe Horace if I were you,” Jake advised, wondering if Horace was also the person responsible for teaching her to swear with such conviction. “Whoever he may be.”
“Horace was my friend,” Hattie snapped defensively, afraid there had been a criticism somewhere in that sentence. “He lived with me ’n’ Papa in Nevada.” And her brief pleasure in Jake’s compliment was abruptly buried beneath the renewed misery of her enforced separation from Horace. She had begged him not to send her away, but he’d been adamant.
“Ain’t right for a young lady to grow up in these here hills with no female for guidance,” he’d said. “’Twere different when yer pa was alive, but he’s gone now. Yer ma was a gen-u-wine lady, and it’s only ’cause of her you can read and write so good.”
“She told me it would give me a rare freedom.” Hattie had never forgotten those words.
Horace had nodded. “You’re already way past what I can show ya. It’s time you go to her people. I already writ ’em, Hat, so it’s no use tryin’ to change my mind.”
Hattie hadn’t missed Papa all that much when he died a few months back. Since Mama’s death he hadn’t shown much interest in anything, anyhow, ’cept prospecting and whiskey. But Hattie sure did miss Horace. And she knew he was missing her, too. She’d seen the tears in his faded blue eyes when he’d put her on the train in Silver City—and she’d seen him slip money to that sonovabitchin’ porter to watch over her. Big waste of his hard-earned money that had been!
Jake watched the sudden, dejected slump of her shoulders, the fire in those big, lawless eyes suddenly quenched, and experienced another uneasy sensation, as though his stomach suddenly dropped out of place. For all Hattie’s bravado and tough talk, she was only a child.
A child who’d clearly had a fair share of upheavals in her young life. “Come on,” he said gruffly and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, surprised when she allowed it. He’d half expected her to shrug it off. “Let’s go home. Mother and Mirabel are anxious to meet you.” He guided her through the station house and out to the open buggy.
She was quiet on the ride through town, staring down at her scuffed boots, and on impulse Jake pulled up before Bigger’s Saloon. “Be back in a jiff, kid. Stay put.”
He was in and out in minutes. After pulling himself up into the open buggy, he handed Hattie a bottle with a straw bobbing in its opening, then unhooked the reins.
“What’s this?” she asked, sniffing the neck of the bottle suspiciously.
“Sarsaparilla.”
“Sass-prilla? Never heard of it.”
Jake nudged the bottle toward her mouth. “Try it. I think you’ll like it.”
Picking up the reins, he watched from the corner of his eye as Hattie took a cautious sip through the straw. A look of wonder crossed her features and she drew on the straw eagerly. As she savored the drink, her natural curiosity seemed to reassert itself, and she sat up straighter.
Looking from side to side, she took in the sights of the busy town. By the time they stopped in front of Jake’s home, she was almost what he assumed was her normal, pugnacious self again. It had been all he could do not to laugh out loud as he’d listened to her return a rude remark to two boys on the walkway who had yelled insolent commentary on her attire.
She wilted a little, however, as she stared up at the large, ornate house. Even as her chin jutted out stubbornly, she shifted a little closer to Jake on the leather seat. “So, who is this Mirabel?” she asked.
“She’s my mother’s friend and housekeeper.” Jake looked down at her, thinking of the likely reaction she was going to get from the women. “Let me give you a little friendly advice, Hattie, gained through my personal experience. Don’t even think about swearing in front of Mirabel. She’ll wash your mouth out with soap quicker ’n you can shake a stick. She’s done it to me and, believe me, it is not an experience you wanna court.” He swung out of the buggy.
Hattie didn’t reply but her chin jutted up farther yet. Clutching her carpetbag, she disdained Jake’s extended hand and jumped to the ground unaided.
He opened the front door and ushered Hattie into the foyer. “Son of a bitch,” she whispered in awe, turning in a slow circle as she stared up at the high ceiling with its crystal chandelier, at the open staircase with its curving, carved-wood banister and faded tapestry runner. She peered through the open French doors on either side of the foyer, gaping at the ornately furnished dining room on one side and the parlor on the other.
“Jacob? Is that you, dear?” His mother’s voice came from within the parlor, and Jake turned Hattie in that direction.
For just a moment she balked, staring up at him with wide, frightened eyes. Then her mouth set, her chin jutted even more, and she swaggered ahead of him into the room.
Augusta rose gracefully from a horsehair settee and crossed to meet them. Mirabel tucked the feather duster she’d been unnecessarily dusting the piecrust table with into the pocket of her voluminous white starched apron. She stood ramrod straight, her hands crossed at her waist.
Augusta stopped in front of the young girl. “You must be Hattie,” she said warmly.
“Yes, ma’am, guess I must,” Hattie replied, clutching her carpetbag and the empty soda bottle. She stayed close to Jake’s side.