3

Jake’s loud voice made Hattie jump. Having just located a clean pair of overalls in her bag, she’d shucked out of the oversized wrapper Mirabel had given her without a thought for modesty. It never occurred to her that just because a man was in the room she shouldn’t disrobe.

Horace and Papa had never minded.

Hattie blinked at Jake in confusion as he crossed the room in two giant strides and manhandled her back into the wrapper. He pulled the two sides together and yanked the tie at her waist so tight she could barely breathe. Ripping the overalls from her hands, he tossed them across the room. “Hey!” she protested.

He stared down at her with unsmiling sternness. “You won’t be needing those. Mother has arranged for a fitting with a dressmaker.”

Narrowing her eyes, she stared up at him. “I don’t want no sonovabitchin’ dresses!”

“Well, that’s a crying shame, kid, because new dresses are exactly what you’re going to get! How many other girls have you seen running around in boys’ pants?”

She thrust her chin at a mutinous angle, and he growled, “The girls in Mattawa wear skirts, Hattie Taylor, and I’ll be damned if you’ll embarrass your aunt by strutting around in those sorry pants. And don’t even think about throwing another fit in front of the dressmaker, or I’ll blister your butt so hard, you’ll be eating your dinner off the sideboard for a week!”

“Jacob, please,” Augusta protested weakly. Really, this was too much. It was one thing for him to pepper his conversation with outrageous language when there was no one to hear except her and Mirabel. She derived a sneaking enjoyment out of it—reminding her as it did of her darling Luke. It was something else entirely, however, to mention . . . well, the unmentionable in front of an impressionable young girl. One did not speak of the anatomy in mixed company. And most certainly not with such vulgarity.

Hattie didn’t share Augusta’s qualms. Threats of a thrashing were things she understood. Plus, her mama had said to look for silver linings when life gave you black clouds. Jake was her silver lining. In just a few hours, she’d already become accustomed to his flashing grin and teasing ways. This hard-eyed man laying down the law just wasn’t the same, and she’d do almost anything to bring back her new friend. “Okay,” she agreed ungraciously. “I’ll wear the stinkin’ dresses.” She just wanted him to smile at her again.

He did. “That’s my girl,” he said and grinned. He bent to clamp his hands under Hattie’s arms. Jake lifted her high in the air, planted a swift kiss on her lips, and set her down again. He ran his hand down her wet hair. “I’ll send the dressmaker up,” he said. And left the room.

Since her mama’s death, kisses were rare occurrences in Hattie’s life. She pressed the unaccustomed warmth of Jake’s into her lips with her fingertips in hopes of making it last a little longer. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Augusta watching her and immediately knuckle-scrubbed her mouth. “He better not kiss me again,” she muttered gruffly.

“Oh, I’m sure he shan’t,” Augusta replied, hiding a smile when her words elicited a flash of disappointment across Hattie’s face. She studied the little girl. “How old are you, child?”

“Eleven.” Hattie looked around the room and, as she took it in, her jaw sagged. Concerned about her carpetbag, she hadn’t given the room her attention earlier. Now she stared in awe.

It was large and airy, illuminated by two tall windows with tops curved like spread fans of leaded glass. Ruffled muslin curtains, tied back with green bows, fluttered in the breeze. Sunlight cast dappled shadows through the tree outside, painting patterns across the hardwood floor. Hattie wondered if it was the fresh air blowing in or the bottles of hartshorn and camphor on the dressing table that made the room smell so good. Almost as good as Aunt Augusta.

In addition to the scents, the dressing table contained an ornate set of silver-backed hair accessories. She studied all the beautiful items atop the dresser, then drifted about the large room, staring at everything, touching nothing. Each item seemed prettier than what caught her eye before, but Hattie’s perusal was merely a stopgap to keep her from grabbing the one thing she really wanted to touch more than anything in the world. The doll. The bed had a high mattress, four posters, and a pale gold satin comforter, piled with tiny pillows of satin and lace. Perched on the top was the doll. Hattie gazed at it hungrily.

Augusta, watching her, felt a pang for the child’s obvious longing. At the same time, she experienced a little thrill of vindication. Hattie’s language might be coarse, and she’d arrived looking as dusty and unkempt as a vagrant ragamuffin. But her mother’s early training had clearly stayed with her. Hadn’t Augusta told Jacob breeding would tell? Hattie’s awe of the room and her hunger for the doll shone like a beacon from her freshly scrubbed face. Yet she hadn’t so much as touched one item, let alone grabbed indiscriminately as might be expected from a child allowed to run wild and unsupervised the past few years.

Augusta swooped across the room and swept the doll off its pile of pillows. She extended it to Hattie. “Her name is Lillian.”

Hattie reached out a cautious hand for the doll, eyeing Augusta warily, as if afraid it would be snatched back if she reached for it. Augusta relinquished it the instant Hattie’s hand closed around the doll’s middle and watched as the little girl promptly bowed her head to give the gift her undivided attention.

Lillian’s head, hands, and feet were made of China bisque, her painted features delicate. Hattie inspected the way the china portions attached to the sawdust-filled cloth body and the detailed clothing the doll wore. Tipping up its skirts, she examined the fine lawn drawers and full petticoats from an earlier era, then turned the doll upright and patted its clothes back into place, carefully arranging its tiny, high-buttoned boots. She ran her fingers over the doll’s fine blond hair, then reluctantly tried to hand it back to Augusta. “Dolls’re dumb,” she muttered gruffly. Then with innate honesty, she added, “Lillian’s real pretty, though.”

“I’m so glad you think so,” Augusta replied smoothly, pretending she didn’t see the doll being offered her. “She very much needs someone to take care of her, and I’m afraid I am simply too old. She’s been very lonely on this big old bed all by herself and has quite anxiously awaited your arrival.”

Hattie promptly clutched Lillian fiercely to her chest, and, hiding a smile, Augusta gently touched the girl’s still-damp hair. Attention absorbed by the doll in her arms, Hattie didn’t notice.

Mirabel arrived with the dressmaker in tow, and the fitting went much more smoothly than Augusta had dared hope. She wasn’t sure if it was Jacob’s threat of a spanking or Hattie’s enthrallment with Lillian that made the difference, but the little girl kept her squirming to a minimum, and she only uttered her infamous swear word once, when the dressmaker accidentally stuck her with a pin.

Augusta quelled the dressmaker’s shocked curiosity with a stern look. She wasn’t above a spot of genteel blackmail. Clearly, they needed to work with Hattie before her introduction into society. The era they lived in demanded high moral standards of its young ladies, and Augusta was determined that Hattie take her rightful place in society. Damned if she’d tolerate anything hampering the child before she even had a chance to begin.

Tomorrow they’d retire to the ranch. For now, Augusta let it be tacitly understood she’d know precisely where to place the blame should tales of Hattie’s verbal indiscretion make the rounds of Mattawa. The retaliation was clear: her patronage would be withdrawn. She only hoped her value as a customer was enough, for she knew well the dressmaker’s love of gossip.

By the time Augusta noticed Hattie starting to wilt, the child’s thick hair had mostly dried into heavy waves and tight, flyaway ringlets. A fiery nimbus outlined its thick mass when the lowering sun poured through the window. Hattie’s shoulders had developed a droop, her arms hung limp at her sides, and for the first time since Augusta gave her the doll, Lillian wasn’t carefully cradled in Hattie’s arms or clasped to her chest. Instead, the doll dangled from the girl’s hand, swinging gently with the slight sway of Hattie’s body.

Even as Augusta watched, the child’s eyes slid shut, then blinked open, her head nodding wearily. Clad only in her new ready-made white chemise and drawers, she looked like a vulnerable little soldier as she struggled to stay awake on the slipper chair where they’d bid her stand for her fitting.

Augusta promptly concluded the arrangements. Hattie had been measured to within an inch of her life, and the adults had pored over the pattern books, discussing fabrics and trim as they went. She saw no need to prolong the session when the child was so obviously exhausted. Helping Hattie down from the chair, she urged her to sit as Mirabel showed the dressmaker out.

Picking up the silver-backed brush, Augusta pulled it through Hattie’s thick hair. She spent several minutes enjoying the unaccustomed chore, before braiding the girl’s hair into a thick plait that fell to Hattie’s waist. Next, she tucked Hattie into a new batiste nightgown. She offered tooth powder and a brush, and when Hattie returned from performing her ablutions, Augusta had turned back the covers on the bed. She patted the mattress. “Come to bed, child.”

Yawning, Hattie stumbled across the room. “Am I going to sleep in here?” she asked, then tumbled onto the high mattress without awaiting an answer.

“Yes, dear. This is your room.” Augusta pulled the covers over Hattie’s shoulders and smoothed an errant tendril of bright hair back into the braid.

“It’s real pretty.” Hattie yawned again and her eyes drifted closed. Then her eyes flew open and she jerked up onto one elbow. “Where’s Lillian?” As quickly as the question was posed, the child subsided. “Oh. She’s here.” She pulled the doll from under the covers and tucked it into the crook of her arm. “Thanks, Aunt Augusta.” Her fan of lowered lashes flickered against her pale cheeks, and she sleepily raised a hand to rub at her nose. “For the room,” she murmured around a yawn, “’n’ for Lillian.”

Augusta smiled down at the young girl in the bed. She had a feeling she was very much going to enjoy having Hattie Taylor live with her. Very much indeed. “You’re welcome, dear. Good night.”

There was no answer. Hattie was already sound asleep.