Rainy Day Dreams: 2 (13 page)

Straightening the guest rooms proved not to be as onerous a task as she feared. True, the bed linens did not look as crisply immaculate as hers at home after Mrs. Porter was done with them, but they were at least neat. And though Madame spoke with grim satisfaction of chamber pots to be emptied, she did not find a single one. Apparently guests preferred the solitude of the privy out back. The occasional discarded article of clothing she merely folded with two careful fingers and laid neatly across the foot of whatever bunk was closest. Other than Miss Everett, the hotel was empty of guests, so the work went quickly without distractions. She finished all the rooms on the left-hand side of the hallway in less time than expected and started on the others with a much improved outlook. Running a hotel was not difficult in the least. She directed a smirk toward Madame’s sitting room below.

She approached the room in the far corner, the one where Madame had installed Jason. After a perfunctory rap on the door with her knuckle, she pushed it open. Whereas most of the guests had left their bed linens in various states of disarray, Jason had taken care to smooth the coverings flat on the bunk in the corner. The second bunk had been stripped in preparation for removal. The linens lay neatly folded at the foot of the bare mattress. Well, he may be rude, but at least he was neat. In a rush of magnanimous charity, she decided to ask if Madame could spare a chair for this room as well.

Arranged on the smooth covering of the bed in the corner was
an assortment of items—a tidy stack of clothing with a hat resting on top, a shaving kit, a—

She drew a sudden intake of breath. That was an artist’s palette! The surface was a satisfying mishmash of hues and pigments, blended together in a rainbow-colored jumble. There were paint-brushes in varying sizes too, and made of expensive red sable. And those things there, what were they? She widened her eyes. Were they…

Her lungs emptied of air. She tiptoed into the room, gaze fixed on a half dozen narrow objects as long as her hand, some of them shriveled and malformed, the others rounded. Why, those were paints in tin tubes with screw-on lids. Monsieur Rousseau used these new paints in his own work, and touted them to all his students. The sealable tubes were so much more effective than pigskin bladders. And more expensive too. Though she had been trying to convince Papa that the higher cost was worth the extra money because paint waste would be virtually eliminated, he refused to see reason.

So focused was she on admiring the tubes of paint that at first she did not see the canvas. When she did, a chill spread from the back of her neck down her spine and over her entire body, and for a moment she was paralyzed. It had been centered on the wall beside the door so that the person lying in bed could gaze on it with an unhindered view. And no wonder. It was stunning.

Tall birch trees lined a glassy stream and stretched limbs heavy with golden-green leaves across the water like slender, elegant ladies reaching for their lovers on the far shore. Sunlight streamed through the foliage, tinged with green as it poured onto the stream’s shiny surface in bright, verdant pools. Leaves floated lazily on an invisible current in a carefree journey toward an aimless end. Tall grasses in hues ranging from bright gold to vibrant green to rich maroon clustered along the bank, soaking up stray rays of the sun that peeked between misty white clouds and flowed through the living canopy above.

Kathryn inched closer. With an effort, she pulled herself from the grips of the painting to examine the details with an artist’s eye. An exquisitely light touch had created the feather-soft look of the golden leaves, and an expert hand had blended gold to green. Bolder strokes gave the slender tree trunks the impression of strength, of permanence, though the details of peeling bark and a peek of living white wood beneath had been wrought with intricate care. And the light on the water! How had the painter managed to capture the exact hue, the feeling of movement, without physical evidence of a rippled surface? It was astounding. The work of a true artist. Why, even Monsieur’s landscapes, while perhaps technically superior in the aspect of scope, did not portray the depth of feeling of this piece.

Something on the floor caught her eye. A piece of wood. With the toe of her boot she lifted the draped bed covering for a better look. It was the corner of a crate. A narrow, rectangular crate. She recognized it instantly as the one with which Jason had taken such care during the short journey from the ship. And no wonder, if it housed this masterpiece.

She stepped closer to the painting and searched for the artist’s signature. There, in the bottom left corner. Peering closely at green letters that blended to near invisibility with the watery reflection of the leaves, she made out a set of initials.
JEG.

Jason E. Gates.

Why, that rude man she had determined to avoid for the duration of her stay in Seattle was an accomplished artist!

Jason trudged up the hill in the company of a handful of millworkers. The muscles along the backs of his thighs, unaccustomed to such a steep grade, protested with burning twinges. His shoulders, too, were stiff and sore after a day of lifting heavy logs and stacking
cut timber. It had been close to six weeks since he left the mill in Michigan, and his body would take a while to re-accustom itself to the work. He’d like nothing better than a hot supper and to stretch out in bed for a good night’s sleep.

The second, at least, wouldn’t happen for a while yet. He and the others planned to grab a bite to eat at Evangeline’s and then head over to the blockhouse to work until the sun set.

Will, the daytime foreman, caught up to him. “Now that you’ve had a chance to see our outfit in action, what do you think?”

“You run a smooth mill operation. Everybody knows their job, and they work hard at it.”

He’d done as much observing as working, and kept a careful eye out for areas where the process could benefit from improvement. To his surprise, he hadn’t found any. In fact, he’d been impressed by the number of logs they managed to mill in the span of a single day. The crew worked together like they’d been doing it for years, and by talking to some of them throughout the day, he knew they had been.

Will snorted. “They were showing off for the new boss. We have a few who’ll take advantage of a chance to slack off. But for the most part, we’ve got a good group of men.”

At the top of the hill a few men bid farewell and veered off to the left where a row of small cabins and shacks lined the street. Most turned right in the direction of a handful of establishments along the left side of the wide avenue where the Faulkner House stood. A couple of the men ahead of Jason entered Coffinger’s Dry Goods store, but the rest headed in the same direction as he was. The wide door of Evangeline’s Café stood open, and a steady stream of customers turned at the colorful totem pole and entered.

Will showed no sign of stopping, but kept on in the direction of the larger, nicer homes that began just beyond the hotel. As they passed the pole, Jason craned his neck to look up at the top where the carved wings of an eagle were spread wide, as if to embrace the wharf and Elliott Bay at the bottom of the hill.

“What’s the story behind this?” He slapped the pole as they walked by.

Will glanced up at it and shook his head. “It was here before me. Apparently it was a gift to Evie from the old Duwamish chief this town was named after. His way of saying welcome, not only to her but to all the settlers.”

“Apparently not all of his people are as agreeable as him,” Jason said drily.

“Definitely not.”

They arrived at the Faulkner House, and Jason came to a halt. “You going down to the blockhouse?”

“For a bit. After I see to my grandson.” His chest swelled with pride. “He’s a rascal, and sometimes Louisa is waiting for me at the door, ready to hand him over. I need to make sure she’s agreeable to watching him evenings too until the building is done.”

Jason was curious to know how the man had come to have custody of his grandson, but held his tongue. If Will wanted to tell him, he would choose his own time in which to do so.

“I’ll see you down there.”

He jerked a nod and turned toward the hotel. First, a quick visit to his room and the satchel where he stored his loose money, then he’d head next door for that supper. The door to the Faulkner House opened and a figure appeared. Kathryn. She stepped onto the porch, an expectant look on her face, her gaze fixed on him. Clearly, she was waiting for him.

Beside him, Will’s eyes narrowed and his lips twisted into a scowl. He came to a halt.

“Hope you’ll excuse me for saying so, but if I were you, I’d watch out for that woman.”

Surprised, Jason looked at him. Why would he say that? “Do you know her?”

“Oh, I know her all right. You can find her kind everywhere.” His gaze slid sideways and fixed on Jason. “If you take my advice, you’ll
keep your money close and your business even closer where that one’s concerned.” He jerked a farewell nod and continued up the street, his pace quick as though he could hardly wait to put some distance between himself and Kathryn.

Jason stared after his back for a second. What did he mean by
her kind
? He had not exchanged a word with Kathryn last night. Maybe he assumed she was a man-hungry female and held strong opinions about women who traveled to Seattle alone in order to attract a husband. When he arrived with David last night she’d been recovering from her faint, drooping across the chair and surrounded by an audience of attentive men. Did he mean to beware women who feigned weakness in order to attract attention? No need to warn Jason off there. In fact, no need to warn him off
any
woman.

He kept a wary eye on Kathryn as he approached the hotel porch. Something had happened to excite her, and the smile she fixed on him was warmer than any he had seen from her.

She rushed forward to meet him as his foot touched the bottom porch step. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Oh?” He eyed her with caution. “Why?”

“Because I’ve seen it.”

“Seen what?”

“The painting.” Enthusiasm bubbled in her voice. “It’s beautiful! I’ve never seen color blended to such effect. I would have credited the use of the expensive paints, but when I looked closer I realized mere oil and pigment couldn’t have achieved that level of beauty.”

With her first words, his feet had halted as though the bottoms of his boots were stuck to the porch. A buzz started in his ears and intensified as her chatter continued.

He interrupted. “You entered my room?”

The gushing stream of words halted for a second. “Yes. To clean it, of course.”

“My room did not need cleaning,” he told her coldly.

She drew back, eyeing him with surprise. “I saw. Your bed was neat and orderly.”

“And yet you entered anyway.”

Blotches of color rose on her slender neck. “I saw your paints, and couldn’t help—”

“Did you touch them?” The idea of this woman, or anyone for that matter, disturbing those art supplies sent a spear of anger straight through his skull.

Clearly offended now, she drew herself up. “Of course not. I only admired them. And then I saw your painting.” Her throat moved with a swallow. “I was hoping to ask—”

He didn’t wait to discover what she wanted to ask, but barged past her and into the hotel.

“Madame Garritson!”

Anger gave his voice an unexpected volume in the confines of the front room. A few seconds later the interior door opened and the rotund hotel manager appeared. At the same time, Kathryn followed him inside and came to a stop nearby.

“Perhaps I failed to make my wishes clear.” With considerable effort, he wrestled his voice to a reasonable level. “When I arranged to pay for privacy, I expected that the belongings in my room would be safe from probing eyes. Yet I find that your
assistant
has entered my room and conducted a thorough investigation of the contents.”