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Miguel and Dove came for Jenna at the mine shack. Miguel bundled her up and carried her outside. With Dove's help, he settled Jenna on the soft bed they'd created for her with several quilts and a feather tick from the hotel. Then he jumped up into the driver's seat and took up the reins. Dove sat in back beside Jenna as they rode down the mountain to Park City.
"Where's Branch?" Jenna tried not to ask but had to know.
"He rode over to Coalville." Dove glanced away as she spoke—evasively, Jenna thought.
"There was a shooting on Independence Day," Miguel said over his shoulder. "At a pension, a boardinghouse, run by a Mrs. Powers."
"Branch arrested the Irishman that did the shooting," Dove added. "His name was Murphey, and he had been taunting a German who—"
"The Murphey that owns the Murphey mine?" Jenna interrupted.
"No, another one. Anyway, the German was shot and had to be taken to St. Mark's Hospital in Salt Lake City. Jason Tuttle was put in the same room, but he's been released now. Branch had turned Murphey over to Constable Moore before he went looking for you. This morning he learned that the prisoner escaped. He went to see Moore about it."
Jenna said nothing. The story sounded genuine, yet she sensed they kept something from her. Branch likely wouldn't return until after she left. She vowed to make that come about as soon as possible. But it hurt. She had never dreamed anything could hurt so badly.
The next week she spent mostly sleeping. She ate what Maura and Dove placed before her, docile as a newborn lamb. Still, her body was slow to regain its strength. No one needed to tell her that her own low spirits impeded her recovery. It simply couldn't be helped.
The sun shone through the window, casting a lopsided rectangle of pale yellow onto the bare wood floor beyond the lavender-and-blue rug beside Jenna's bed. Children shouted and laughed in the street below, and wagons and horses passed by. She was wondering if one of the horses might be Satan when a tap came on her door. She called for the visitor to enter, scolding herself for praying it would be Branch.
"Eugenia?" A man with snow-white hair and a pale face stuck his head around the edge of the open door. "May I come in?"
She stared at him, wondering what this stranger wanted with her. He took a step inside, aided by a pair of wooden crutches, and leaned against the doorway. One foot was encased in white plaster of Paris.
It hit her abruptly who he was. "Rembrandt!" she said, sitting up. "You look so different without your beard. Younger. . . and very handsome. No wonder Mama fell in love with you. How is your foot?"
He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture and hobbled over to stand beside her bed. "It was a minor break. It will heal in another few weeks. Are you feeling better?"
"I'm fine, just tired. Please, sit down."
She watched him draw the chair over to the side of the bed and lower himself onto the hard seat. He'd lost weight, she noticed. She had meant it when she said he looked younger—twenty years younger. She glanced at the photograph on her bedside table. The resemblance was obvious now. How it must have shaken him when he first saw her, and she'd shown him a photograph of himself on his wedding day.
"How is Agent Tuttle?" she asked. "Dove told me he was out of the hospital. Is he here in Park City?"
"He returned to Denver a few days ago. Hendricks is in jail, you know, and Miguel has been cleared of all charges."
She'd known about Hendricks and Miguel, but somehow, she was surprised Tuttle had left.
Rembrandt reached inside his coat and drew out an envelope. "Tuttle stopped off to leave this for you."
Jenna took the plain white envelope and turned it over. Her name was printed on the front. The flap was sealed. "Go ahead and read it, my dear."
Pensively, certain the missive would contain some sort of reprimand, she ripped the envelope open. When she unfolded the letter, a bank draft fell onto her lap. She gasped as she read the amount. "A thousand dollars! I don't understand."
"It's the reward money."
"But Miguel was cleared. And that reward was only for five hundred, anyway."
"For the capture of the train robber—whoever it was. The other five hundred is from Pinkerton for capturing the murderer of the Denver agent. Virgil Godbe pulled the trigger that killed both Leonard Snipe and Sloan McCauley, but on Hendricks' orders. He'll stand trial for that. Tuttle said you earned both bounties, and I agree." Rembrandt motioned to the paper still in her hand. "I believe there's a note?"
"Oh, yes." She flushed with pleasure as she read the few words. "William Pinkerton has agreed to keep me on if I promise never to act on my own without orders again."
Rembrandt smiled. "I knew Tuttle had wired the man. I'm very pleased for you, Jenna."
She glanced back at the note. "Tuttle says he'd be proud to work with me, that I have a cool head and quick hands. Important virtues for any detective."
"And so, you do."
She gave an indelicate snort and crumpled the letter in her fist. "He didn't see me wandering around lost in that mine. If Branch hadn't found you, Tuttle might have bled to death before I'd brought help." She stared into space, remembering. "The only thing cool about me in that tunnel was my body. I was half-frozen. If that flashflood hadn't washed me outside, I'd still be tramping around in the dark, worrying about rats and. . . and other things." She shuddered.
Rembrandt chuckled. He took her hand and gave it a pat. "I've seen grown men twice your size turn white as a cloud at strange noises in a drift. That's how stories of ghosts and evil little creatures come about, my dear. I've felt my own hair stand on edge a time or two when I was alone in the mine."
He was a kind man, her father. When she had known him only as Rembrandt, she had taken his kindness for granted, simply a part of him. The man she once wished was her grandfather was truly her own father. That knowledge felt strange and good at the same time.
His face grew solemn as he stared down at her hand in his. His fingers were rough with calluses, his voice soft. His gaze, when it met hers, held pain.
"There's something I must ask." He took a deep breath as if to fortify himself. "Your mother was six months pregnant when I left her. You said you had no brother or sister. I've nearly gone crazy wondering what happened, but I was too much of a coward to expose myself and ask."
Jenna stared at him a long time before answering. Fate had pulled a dirty trick on all of them. She recalled the look of melancholy that had come over him when he visited her during her recovery from the gunshot wound. "Few of us get to travel the road we most desire," he'd said then. Now she knew the source of his grief—the road he'd been denied would have led him back to her and her mother fifteen years ago.
"The rough handling Mama suffered that day caused her to go into premature labor, I suppose," she said. "She never talked about it. All I really know is that the baby was dead when Mr. Spenser and I got there. He buried it out back. It was a boy."
"A boy." James' voice quavered. "I had a son. Somehow, I knew. . ." He rose and walked to the window, keeping his back to her, but she heard him sniffle.
All the times she had imagined her reunion with her father and how sorry she was going to make him for abandoning her, it never occurred to Jenna how much he might already have suffered. She remembered the comments she'd heard about the way he had been drinking his life away until Branch sobered him up and gave him a reason to live again.
He came back and took his seat once more in control. "It's Hendricks I have to thank for losing my son. I tried to stop them from hurting Ada, but they'd already done a pretty good job pounding my face into the floor, and the gang leader had a gun on me. The best I could do was agree at once to take them to the gulch where I'd found the nuggets I'd so foolishly shown off to a barkeep on the way home."
"Why didn't you kill Hendricks once you came here and found him again?"
He sighed. "That was twelve years after the fact. I doubt I would have killed him, but I certainly would have seen him arrested. Oddly enough, I never recognized him." Rembrandt stroked his clean-shaven chin and wagged his head thoughtfully. "He was the one wearing a beard then, and he still had a full head of hair."
Rembrandt shook his grizzled head and gave a snort of humorless laughter. "What an idiot I was." His eyes lifted and met hers. "And your mother paid the price. I've missed her so much. Please, tell me about her. Is her health all right? Is she happy?"
"Happy?" Jenna stared at the sunlight on the floor. The rectangle of yellow light had dwindled to a sliver now. "Mama cried for days after Mr. Spenser brought me home. She carried a baby blanket around and sometimes she'd talk like she was still expecting. Her mind couldn't handle losing you and the baby, too, I guess. So, she simply pretended none of it had happened."
Rembrandt's knuckles whitened as his hands clenched. "My poor, poor Ada."
Jenna knew her words hurt him, but she also knew he had to hear it all. "She still pretends. Not about the baby. . . That stopped soon enough. But when visitors came—something that rarely happened, once folks figured out that she wasn't quite right in the head—she always told them you were at your mine, or asleep, or gone for supplies. She's very inventive. In town they called her Addled Ada. . . until they found out they'd have to reckon with me. That first year in Meadowood, my eye was black more than it was flesh-colored until an old Indian who worked for us taught me how to fight."
Jenna frowned and shook her head wonderingly. "She never seemed to notice how they treated her. I doubt there's a bed in town that doesn't have one of her quilts on it, or a teapot without one of her crocheted cozies. She's always making things and giving them away."
"She was always that way." The light of remembrance turned his gray eyes a warm, grayish lavender. "One of the things I loved about her. Pride makes her hide behind pretense, however. She's so very proud."
It irked Jenna that he should know her mother so well. Yet, why shouldn't he? He had been married to her, lived with her almost ten years before fate separated them. After a long moment of silence, she heard him sigh.
"I'm very eager to get to know my grown-up daughter," he said, with a little-boy smile. "But I believe we each have a pressing matter to see to first."
"Mama?"
"Yes. And Branch."
Exhaustion overtook, her. She laid her head back against the pillows Maura had stuffed behind her when she'd brought in her noon tray and closed her eyes. She had accomplished her mission here in Utah. But nothing could make her world right now that she had faced her feelings for Branch. . . too late.
"Branch detests me." She opened her eyes and examined her fingernails. They'd grown out a bit since she'd become ill. "He won't come near me now."
"Only because he feels he let you down. He doesn't think he deserves you now. You love him, don't you?"
She nibbled on a thumbnail. "Yes, but—"
"But what? The man went into that mine after you, even though he knew it was about to flood, you know."
"The Murphey Mine?"
He nodded. "He caught you as the water hurtled you past him. He protected you with his own body when the two of you were washed out into the rocks and brush. Then he pumped the water out of you, carried you to the mine shack at the Silver Bullion, and tended you until you were out of danger. He refused to let any of us help. I doubt he got an hour's sleep or ate enough to keep a ladybug alive. His only thoughts were of you."
Jenna burrowed her hands in the blanket on her lap and bit her lip to keep back the tears. "Oh, Papa, I'm so confused. I watched Mama hurting all these years because she gave her heart. . ." She let the sentence fade, not wanting to cause him more pain.
Jenna had vowed never to make the same mistake as her mother—giving her heart to a man. Yet, she knew now that life had dealt her mother the cruelly she suffered, not her father. Ada Leigh-Whittington had never lost faith in her husband. Perhaps Ada had been the only truly sane one all these years. Jenna had a hunch her mother knew that, in his heart, her husband had never left her at all. And she had made that be enough.
"You must go to her, Papa. She needs you so much."
"I intend to do exactly that, Jenna. But before I go, I want to know everything will be all right for you. I want to be able to tell your mother you're happy."
She doubted anything would be right for her ever again. Yet she donned a brave smile. "I'll be fine. I want to be with you when Mama first lays eyes on you and—"
"But you have personal business to see to here. We can't have the world thinking none of the Leigh-Whittingtons can manage their lives happily."
He pushed an unruly lock off Jenna's brow and smiled at her tenderly. "I'm proud of you, my dear. Watching you, and coming to know you these past weeks, have given me great joy. There is one thing, however, that I am disturbed about.
"She frowned. "What's that?"
"I can't decide whether to give you drawing lessons or simply burn that sketchbook of yours."
Laughing, she said, "Burn it, Papa. I'm hopeless, and we both know it."
He chuckled. "I've worn you out, so I'll go now, but I have one more thing to say about Branch. He's a good man, and he loves you. Listen to your heart before you decide to lock it away in a safe like a miser with a bag of gold."
He rose and hobbled to the door. "You know, I could still use one of your old hugs."
"Me, too, Papa." She held open her arms.
THE NEXT MORNING JENNA joined the Trenoweth family for breakfast, determined to have it out with Branch. If her father was right and Branch only stayed away from her because he felt he'd failed her, then she intended to set things straight. If Branch truly didn't want anything more to do with her, she had to know and put it behind her, so she could get on with her life.
But Branch had left.
"He left on the six o'clock stage for Salt Lake City," Maura explained.
"Did he say why he was going?"
"Nay, nor when he'd be back."
Jenna spent the rest of the morning playing checkers with her father and listening to Dove and Miguel discuss plans for their future together. The two would be married by Judge Street when his circuit brought him back to Park City sometime in the next week or so. After the ceremony, they would head south to find Dove's people and settle down.
In two days Rembrandt would depart for Meadowood and the long-overdue reunion with his wife. Everyone was making plans and getting on with life, except Jenna. She felt left out, and that made her cross and withdrawn.
Why had Branch waited to leave until she was well again? Perhaps he hoped she would be gone when he came back. She could go with her father. It would be wonderful to see her mother's face when James Leigh-Whittington walked in the door after all these years. With every fingernail chewed down to the nub, Jenna decided that was exactly what she would do.
When Jenna informed Rembrandt she would be traveling to Meadowood with him, he gave her a long, hard look. Then he smiled and said what a delight it would be to have her with him. She’s be ridiculous feeling disappointed when he didn't try harder to convince her to stay, yet she did. It seemed a silent confirmation that giving up on her relationship with Branch McCauley was the right decision.
The next morning Jenna put on the biggest smile she could manage and bounced into the kitchen full of cheer and chatter. Dove and Maura put breakfast on the table where the children sat already, and Jenna could hear Sell outside at the pump, singing as he washed up after seeing to his chores in the stable.
Jenna gave a bright "Good morning" and went to the stove to peek into a covered pan that was giving off a delicious aroma.
"Well," Maura said, placing a platter of sausage on the table, "and what has you so chipper this mornin', me girl?"
Jenna sniffed audibly. She smacked her lips in appreciation of the fried potato slices seasoned with onions, green peppers, fresh mushrooms, and cheese. "Only that I'll be home soon. I'm leaving with my father on the train tomorrow. I can't wait to see Mama and Papa together again."
Maura and Dove exchanged a puzzled glance.
"Does Branch know you're leaving?" Dove asked.
Jenna poured herself coffee and took a seat at the table. "Now, how could I tell him when I've not laid eyes on him in over a week?" Belatedly, she remembered to smile, but it was almost impossible to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. "Aren't you happy for me? I accomplished my mission here in Utah, and now I'm going home. My parents will be reunited, and my job with the Pinkerton agency will be waiting for me in Chicago. What more could I ask for?"
Maura scooped the crisp potatoes into a bowl and slammed it onto the table. "Jenna—"
Dove lightly put her hand on Maura's arm. Maura turned away with a sigh. Sell came in the back door and hooked his hat on a peg.
His glance took in the group gathered around the table. "Morning."
"Ye be just in time, love," Maura said, pouring him some coffee. "We'll be celebrating tonight to see Jenna and her father off properly since they be leaving on the morrow."
Sell arched one eyebrow at her, then gazed at Jenna. "Is this so, my pretty? You're abandoning us?"
"It's time, don't you think?" She stared back at the Cornishman in blatant challenge.
"Well, now, I—"
Maura diplomatically interrupted her husband. "I'll start planning for the party right after breakfast. Jenna, you'll be wanting to pack, so leave everything to Dove and me. Be sure to rest; we don't want ye too worn out to dance a jig or two."
"Maybe I can get that scamp Paddy to teach me a few steps, so I won't look entirely foolish." She winked at the boy. Paddy blushed and dropped the forkful of scrambled eggs he'd been about to eat.
Maura laughed. "Oh, aye, Paddy dances a proper Irish jig, all right, but. . ." She paused, then mumbled something about the boy being clumsy because of his youth.
Jenna knew the woman had meant to say that Branch was the better dancer. The instant she regained the privacy of her room, she let her body go limp. Her head bowed, and for a minute, she gave in to the pain swelling her chest and throat before mentally snatching herself up by her bootstraps.
Soon, she’d be home. From this second until the time Park City passed out of her view forever, she would think of nothing but how wonderful it would be to see her mother again. And Charley Long
Bow. What adventures she had to tell the surly old Indian.
Except, of course, she wouldn't tell him everything. Some things she would keep to herself closely tucked inside the treasure chest of her heart. One day, maybe, she'd be able to take out those memories and see them for the flimsy stuff they were. And then the pain would end.
THE REMAINDER OF THE day stretched out endlessly until Jenna felt nearly as tormented as she had wandering the mine drifts with only a candle and the imaginary Tommy Knockers to guide her. Maura refused Jenna entrance to the kitchen, saying it would spoil the surprise the family was preparing.
Now, finally, supper was only an hour away. Jenna was arranging her hair in front of the mirror when the door suddenly burst open. Jenna whirled about.
"Branch!"
He leaned indolently against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest. His slitted eyes gave him a sleepy look, yet she sensed anger despite his casual stance.
"What's this I hear about you leaving for Chicago tomorrow with Rembrandt?" he said.
She turned back to the mirror, trying to appear calm despite the blood pumping so furiously in her brain she could barely think. "We're going home to Meadowood. Chicago is simply where we leave the train. I'll wire Charley Long Bow to pick us up in a rented buggy."
To avoid facing him outright, she slid one last pin into place to hold the knot atop her head and fussed unnecessarily with her collar. "I'm not sure if I should warn Mama that I'm bringing my father home or not. What do you think?"
Her eyes lifted to the reflection in the silvered glass. His mouth tightened, and he looked toward the ceiling as if seeking an answer there, or perhaps seeking control over his temper. After a moment, his arms fell to his sides. He stared at her before pivoting on his heel and vanishing down the hall toward his room.
Jenna’s shoulders slumped, suddenly exhausted. Mixed emotions assailed her—relief to have the scene she had so dreaded over with, disappointment that he made no attempt to change her mind, and, finally, anger that he could let her go so easily. A blast of dynamite could not have destroyed her more completely. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath to banish the tears gathering in her throat. Before she could exhale, the door flew open and slammed against the wall.
Branch strode into her room. "Put these on." He flung a large dressmaker's box and several smaller containers on the bed.
Her brows drew together as she stared from the packages to him. "Why? What—?"
"Just do it. I'll be back in ten minutes. If you're not wearing them, I'll put them on you myself." With that, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Jenna stared at the closed panel, fighting off the urge to go after him and tell him he was an egotistical jackass. Only the memory of how miserable she'd felt when she'd thought she'd lost him kept her in place. He had obviously gone all the way to Salt Lake City to buy whatever the boxes contained. Surely, a man wouldn't buy gifts for a woman he wanted nothing more to do with.
Unless it was a payoff for services rendered.
If so, why would he care whether she ever wore them or not? And he wouldn't threaten to dress her himself. She moved to the side of the bed and picked up the smallest of the packages. Her hands shook as she untied the string, lifted the lid, and folded back the crisp tissue paper guarding the contents. Inside, lay a pair of red slippers of soft kid, with narrow heels and Spanish embroidery on the toes. The most beautiful shoes she'd ever seen.
The second package held a combination chemise and drawers of crimson washing silk, buttoned down the front to the open crotch. Several inches of exquisite Valenciennes lace and black ribbon, drawn through beading, decorated the low, scooped neckline. More lace and ribbon trimmed the legs, ending with ruffles. Tucks at the waist accentuated the bust and narrow waist. Beneath the chemise, she found a corset covered in black satin and trimmed with sheer lace. Fine black silk stockings had been included, with red lace garters threaded with black satin ribbons. He had thought of everything.
Merely holding them made her feel feminine and lovely. Excited now, she tore open another box and found a flower garniture for her hair made of red silk roses and black ribbons. Another box held a black lace shawl.
Only the large dressmaker's box remained. For a long time, she held it on her lap, fingering the black grosgrain ribbon holding it closed. Branch must be trying to tell her something but what? She was afraid to peer too closely into her heart for the answer. What if she were wrong? Soft tapping on the door brought her abruptly to her feet. The box slid to the floor. Had ten minutes fled so quickly?
The door opened, and Maura peeked inside. "Branch sent me to help ye dress."
"Oh, I. . ." Jenna glanced guiltily at the box lying at her feet. The tie, loosened by the nervous plucking of her fingers, had come undone when the box hit the floor. Scarlet satin spilled out onto the rug.
Maura came in and lifted the carton onto the bed. "Men have awful taste when it comes to choosing women's clothing. Let's see how well me brother did, shall we?" She swished the protective tissue aside and held up an elegant evening gown that fairly took Jenna's breath away.
The neckline and waist of the fitted bodice dipped to a low V in front. Short ruffles of black lace over a red insert kept the neckline from being totally scandalous. The sleeves formed short poufs of satin, trimmed with black bows and red-silk roses at the shoulders. Similar poufs caught up the scarlet split-satin overskirt, allowing an underskirt of black lace over scarlet satin to show.
"Me brother has better taste than I would have given him credit for." Maura carefully laid the gown on the bed and turned briskly to Jenna. "Well, me girl, let's see how it looks on ye. Branch said to have ye ready in ten minutes, no more."
Jenna considered braving his anger to take a tub bath first but decided against it. In the mood he was in, he would probably kick in the door and shock five years off his sister's life by plucking Jenna out of the water and dressing her himself, like he had threatened to do.
As it turned out, Maura still had to waylay him for five minutes while Jenna finished getting ready. Finally, the door whipped open, and Jenna turned to face him from across the room.
The glower faded from his handsome face as his glance swept over her. He took in every detail, from the flowered garniture in her glossy, mahogany-colored hair to the crimson tips of her slippers peeking from beneath the black lace underskirt. His mouth opened and spread in a smile. Warmth crept into the cool green eyes. Bowing from the waist, he offered his arm.
No words passed between them as he escorted her down the stairs, despite the questions crowding Jenna's head. The gleam in his eye and the luxuriousness of the skirts rustling provocatively about her legs as she walked made her feel sensuously feminine, even beautiful. With her hand tucked in the crook of his arm, it felt like the beginning of a fairytale she didn't want to end.
Men stared with envy and wistful longing as the couple threaded their way through the mercantile to the front door. Outside, a surrey waited, drawn by a chestnut mare. Branch assisted her up and took his seat beside her. He picked up the reins, gave them a flick, and the mare broke into an easy canter.
Jenna studied Branch out the corner of her eye as they drove along, heading toward the mountains. The rust-colored hair showing from beneath his hat looked clean and freshly trimmed, as did his beard. He wore a brown sack coat, brown-and-green-striped trousers, a gold brocade vest, and a black cravat at the neck of a crisp white shirt. Never had he looked more handsome.
When he turned slightly and caught her gazing at him, she quickly averted her eyes and drew the black lace shawl more snugly over her shoulders despite the evening's warmth.
"Am I allowed to ask where you're taking me?" she said.
"You'll find out soon enough."
"Find out if I'm allowed to ask, or find out where we're going?"
His mouth quirked. "Where we're going."
Evening shadows gave the land depth and mystery, seeming to be in cahoots with the man beside her. She admired the wildflowers and suppressed her curiosity. But curbing the chaotic thrum of her heart or the moths fluttering in her stomach proved impossible.
He had risked his life going into the flooding Murphey mine to find her. He had taken care of her, keeping everyone else away until he'd known she would be all right. Not the actions of a man eager to be rid of a woman. Yet, once he had returned her to the hotel, she had seen neither air nor hide of the man until today.
What was he up to?