Wanton Angel (14 page)

Katie’s voice was like a chiming bell. “Have a grand evening, ma’am,” she answered, “and mind you keep clear of rowdy sorts when you’re coming home afterward.”

Bonnie grinned as she let herself out through the main door and carefully locked it behind her. For such a young girl—she was barely fourteen—Katie was a motherly sort.

The program had already started by the time Bonnie bought her ticket, found a seat near the back of the spacious Pompeii Playhouse and settled in to forget her troubles for all too brief a time.

She saw the magician Katie had mentioned, along with an act consisting of six remarkably intelligent dogs and a somewhat slower trainer. She wept as an enormous woman sang “In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree,” laughed at the bawdy stories told by a homely young man named William Fields. All in all, the evening was most restorative, and Bonnie was in better spirits when she left the theatre, hurrying because Genoa’s familiar carriage was parked in front of the store.

Her sister-in-law sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea. She had been chatting with Katie, who smiled uncertainly at Bonnie, closed her book with a thump and vanished into her room.

“Have you ever seen a brighter child than Katie?” Bonnie asked, sensing that something was terribly wrong and wanting to put off knowing what it was.

There was true affection in Genoa’s gaze, along with a certain reluctance. “I seem to recall one who was equally precocious,” she said.

Bonnie sat down at the table and poured a cup of tea, inwardly bracing herself for bad news. Genoa looked wan and thinner than ever, and she was not in the habit of calling at such a late hour. “The Farley baby—”

Tears sprang into Genoa’s pale blue eyes, glistening on her sparse lashes. “Bonnie, Susan and her baby are both fine. I’m here because—because of Eli.”

Bonnie’s heart stopped beating, then began again, with a pounding lurch. “Something h-has happened to—to—”

“No,” Genoa said quickly, reaching out to cover Bonnie’s trembling hand. “Eli is fine.” She paused a moment, then went on. “Bonnie, he means to take Rose away from you if he can. He said the most dreadful things and he’s having poor Mr. Callahan draw up papers to declare you a—a poor influence.”

A poor influence.
Bonnie suspected that Eli had used considerably stronger words, but she couldn’t take offense now because she was too frightened. “He really hates me,” she said softly, to herself as much as to Genoa. “Dear Lord, to take my child away!”

“Both Mr. Callahan and I have tried to reason with him,
Bonnie,” Genoa hastened to say. “Eli wouldn’t listen to a word we said.”

Bonnie left her chair like a sleepwalker and went to stand at the sink, her back to Genoa, near to doubling over with the pain. “I can’t lose my baby. Eli must not take my baby.”

Genoa said nothing, for there was nothing to be said. After a few moments she rose from her chair, pausing behind Bonnie to lay a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. She left soon after, without saying good-bye.

Bonnie slept that night, but fitfully, caught in one nightmare and then another. She awakened at intervals, shaken and sick, to plot her escape and Rose’s, but she knew in her heart that she wouldn’t have the shadow of a chance against Eli if he took her to law. What judge would take her side?

Webb arrived at midmorning with his horse and buggy, having prevailed upon his landlady to prepare a picnic basket. Bonnie wondered distractedly how Earline Kalb, a woman with a reputation almost as tarnished as her own, had reacted to the request. According to gossip, Earline wanted to make Webb a permanent boarder and, on the rare occasions when she encountered Bonnie, she made a point of snubbing her.

For all that, Webb’s devotion was unwavering. “Good Lord,” he muttered at the sight of her, “you look as though you haven’t slept in a month! Are you all right?”

Bonnie could not explain, at least not immediately. There would be time enough for the terrible truth later, when they were away from the prying eyes of Northridge. She shook her head and allowed Webb to help her into the buggy seat. He placed Rose Marie carefully in her lap and then rounded the rig to climb up himself and take the reins into his hands.

They were waiting to board the small ferry that would carry them across the Columbia, when Bonnie finally spoke, and then it was only to say, “The river looks high.”

“It’s perfectly safe,” Webb assured her gently, as the sturdy craft, built of heavy logs, was drawn toward them by ropes wound around great horse-powered spindles.

The boat drew smoothly up to the riverbank and Webb drove his rig aboard, greeting the grizzled old operator with a smile.

Hem Fenwick had been reading the new issue of the
Northridge News
and he waved it for emphasis as he said, “This here front page article of yours is bound to bruise a few toes, Webb.” He spared a polite nod for Bonnie as he closed the gatelike railing behind them and then signaled his helper, stationed on the other side of the river, to set his team of horses to pulling.

Webb grinned. “How about your toes, Hem? Did I step on them?”

“Not me,” replied Hem. “But them union fellas might do a little howlin’ and hoppin’ around.”

Bonnie was holding Rose Marie so tightly that the child squirmed in protest, and she made a conscious effort to relax a bit. The gray-green water swirled against the sides of the ferryboat and splashed up over its worn decks, but since neither Hem nor Webb seemed concerned, Bonnie was determined not to worry. She smiled and tried to take an interest in the conversation, a decision she was soon to regret.

“You don’t lack for nerve, Hutcheson,” Hem observed pleasantly, settling back against the boat’s railing and folding his arms beneath his bushy white beard. Overhead, twin ropes suspended from one side of the river to the other squeaked on their pulleys as the craft was hauled through currents powerful enough to carry it away, should it ever break free. “No, indeedy, you surely don’t.”

Webb looked uncomfortable, not for his own sake, but for Bonnie’s. He tried to ignore what Hem had said, turning to smile at Rose and tickle the underside of her chin.

“Ain’t afraid of the union, ain’t afraid of Eli McKutchen!” Hem crowed in exuberant wonder.

Webb paled, and a muscle in his jawline bunched. “Why would I be afraid of Eli McKutchen?” he asked, in a voice that could have frightened Bonnie, had it been directed at her.

Hem, who was either heroic or stupid, spat over the side of the rail and beamed. “Everybody knows that the Angel is his woman, Webb.”

Such fury coursed through Bonnie that she was sickened by it. She hated being called “the Angel” and, more than that, she hated being referred to as Eli’s woman, but
somehow she managed to keep her temper in check. “Don’t talk about me as though I weren’t here, Hem,” she said in a clear voice. “And I am not Eli McKutchen’s ‘woman.’”

Hem’s grin widened for a moment, but it faltered when he saw the warning in Webb’s gaze. He turned away and busied himself with a series of unnecessary signals directed toward shore.

“I’m sorry,” Webb said quietly, his hand venturing shyly to cover Bonnie’s.

She did not withdraw it. “So am I, Webb. So am I.”

It was a relief to Bonnie when the ferryboat finally came ashore and Webb was able to drive his rig up the bank. The road above was muddy and narrow, but Webb navigated it with his usual skill, turning the horse and buggy north toward the plot of land he’d bought some time before Bonnie’s return to Northridge. He’d been building the house all that time, putting in a wall here and a floor there, whenever he could spare the time. Now, Bonnie suspected, the place was finished and ready to accommodate a wife.

Dismally, Bonnie watched the horizon.

“Smile,” Webb reprimanded softly, just as the sturdy white house came into view. Standing on a gentle rise overlooking the river, it gleamed in the bright sunlight.

“Oh, Webb,” Bonnie whispered, “how beautiful!”

The pride in his face shamed her. He slapped the reins down to make the horse move faster, and soon they were turning onto the rutted path that served as a driveway.

Bonnie drew in her breath when they finally came to a stop in front of the house. The windows all had shutters, painted green, and there was a swing on the porch, where a man and his wife could sit of an evening, watching the river roll by. Beyond that river, Northridge was clearly visible.

Sheer despair swelled into Bonnie’s throat. “You’ve done a fine job, Webb,” she said, speaking with a difficulty that was not lost on her friend.

Webb took Rose from Bonnie’s lap and set the child on her feet, then helped Bonnie down. He did not release her hand, but instead drew her around the side of the house, past a pretty bay window that would offer a grand view to the rear. Here, though no yard had been planted, a sizable plot had been marked off for a garden.

Bonnie wanted, for one wild moment, to live here with Webb always, to plant vegetables and flowers in that garden. A quiet joy filled her at the thought of weeding and watering, of cutting flowers to set out in vases, of preserving tomatoes and carrots and peas for her family to enjoy on cold winter days.

Some dreams, she thought sadly, are so beautiful that we just want to reach out and grab them, even though we know they weren’t meant to be our own.

“Would you like to see the inside of the house?” Webb asked gently.

Bonnie didn’t think she could bear to walk through those carefully planned rooms, knowing that she would have to disappoint Webb, but she could hardly refuse. “Certainly,” she said, catching hold of Rose’s hand.

Webb took the other, and Rose Marie swung gleefully between them as they went up the back steps and entered a spacious kitchen. The room hadn’t been painted, and there was no linoleum on the floor, but the cabinets had been put up and there seemed to be dozens of them. Their glass windows glistened with newness. The stove was large, larger even than Genoa’s, with a long warming oven across its top and a pretty brass woodbox standing beside it.

The room smelled pleasurably of new wood, and Bonnie could imagine herself baking bread there, washing dishes, brewing fresh coffee for a tired husband.

Rose studied herself in the gleaming chrome trim on the stove front and laughed at her distorted reflection, while Bonnie examined the sink, with its shiny water spigots, and felt real yearning. “Oh, Webb—indoor plumbing!”

Webb looked very pleased and proud, but modesty kept him from bragging about such modern conveniences. He said only, “There’s a well house out back.”

The next room was a dining room—the bay window they had passed outside graced this chamber—and beyond this was the front parlor, a place filled with light and affording a view of Northridge and the river. The fireplace, made of new red brick, was there for the sake of charm, apparently, for the vents in the floor indicated that this house had a central heating system.

Adjoining the parlor was a study that ran the length of the
house. The walls were lined with bookshelves and there were plenty of windows to let in the sun. Through them, Bonnie could see the snow-capped Cascade Mountains in the distance.

“I could work here,” Webb said shyly. “And if someone wanted to sew or read—” Bonnie looked away.

Upstairs there were four bedrooms, the largest at the front of the house boasting its own fireplace with built-in bookshelves on either side. And as if the place weren’t already a miniature heaven, there was a bathroom, too, with a flush toilet, hot and cold running water and an enormous tub.

“We could be very happy here, Bonnie,” Webb ventured to say.

Bonnie’s conviction that one should never marry without love was beginning to waver. “I know,” she said.

E
LI WAS ANNOYED
and distracted. He’d spent hours behind closed doors at the Brass Eagle, wrangling with the union organizers and their more devoted followers, but very little had been accomplished. Now, entering Genoa’s kitchen, he cursed himself; it was no wonder that he hadn’t been able to achieve anything as far as negotiations were concerned—he’d been able to think of nothing but Bonnie. She’d become an obsession.

Genoa was bent over the open door of the oven, fussing with a shoebox that rested there. The papers Eli carried, which contained Seth’s astute opinions on the smelter situation, fluttered to the floor as the muscles in his hands went slack.

“Good God!” he boomed, and the impossibly small infant nestled in the shoebox squalled a pitiable protest. He lunged forward and snatched the baby, box and all, from the oven door. “Genoa, have you taken leave of your senses?!”

Genoa’s pale blue eyes widened for a moment, then filled with quiet laughter. “Give me the child, Eli,” she said reasonably. Even sweetly.

Eli stepped back in horror, holding the baby protectively. He gaped at his sister, incredulous.

Genoa extended her arms. “Eli,” she said, the soul of patience. “The child.”

Eli stared, appalled. How could his sister’s mind, once so formidable, have degenerated to such a state in a few short years? He supposed it was the loneliness of a spinster’s life, the lack of cultural stimulation. He took another step backward and collided with Seth, who bent, muttering, to gather up the notes that were spread out all over the floor. All the while the lawyer dabbed at his neck and forehead with the ever-present handkerchief.

“What is going on here?” he fussed, light glittering on his spectacles as he looked from Eli to Genoa in puzzlement.

“That,” blustered Eli, holding the box firmly and squaring his shoulders, “is what I’d like to know! By all that’s holy, Seth, I just walked in here and found my own sister about to roast this baby like a suckling pig!”

Genoa’s laughter erupted at this, and so, surprisingly, did Seth’s. He rose from his crouching position on the floor, forgetting the scattered papers, and carefully pried the shoebox from Eli’s grasp.

Genoa took the child, her skinny shoulders shaking, and tucked the toweling that served as a blanket more closely around its squalling little body. “There, there, little one,” she said gently, before putting the box back on the oven door.