Silver Lining (9 page)

As this was the first time he'd seen her when she wasn't wearing a hat, what he noticed immediately was her hair, a warm reddish brown, which she had smoothed back into a glossy knot at the nape of her neck. His sister, Gilly , would have referred to the style as work hair. But Max believed an explosion of frilly curls looked faintly ridiculous on a tall woman, and he silently applauded her wisdom in avoiding an elaborate arrangement. In fact, the simplicity of the style imparted a surprising hint of dignity.

No amount of scrubbing could have converted her tanned face and hands into the creamy paleness so coveted by women of fashion, but tonight she glowed with the same shiny golden health and vitality that he associated with his mother. That also surprised him. Previous to this moment, he would not have believed that Low Down had anything in common with his mother "You're staring at my face," she murmured, raising both hands to her cheeks. "I rubbed some lamp oil on my… but the oil was too shiny, so I rubbed it off again, but it wouldn't come off completely, and my face is still shiny, damn it, but I don't have any powder… "

Now he placed the scent he had detected: lamp kerosene beneath a strong soapy smell that reminded him of wash day at the ranch. And he noticed the clean natural arch of her eyebrows, and the feathery length of her lashes. Her nose was undistinguished, just a nose, and he couldn't tell whether she'd rouged her mouth, as her lips were pressed into an anxious line. If she didn't have powder, she probably didn't have rouge either, but tonight she looked like a woman.

Finally, he examined the ugliest dress he'd observed in a while, certainly not one his sister or Philadelphia would have chosen for an evening out. A shopkeeper's wife might have selected this dress for Sunday meeting; it was high-necked with plain sleeves to the wrist and boasted nothing whatsoever to distract the eye, no trim or fancy tucks that might be considered attractive. Moreover, the fit was wrong. The molded bodice clung too snugly, the waist hung too loosely, and he suspected the skirt required a larger petticoat frame in order to hang properly.

But his gaze lingered on the tight bodice that revealed full rounded breasts that astonished him. He'd had no inkling, none at all, that a beautifully statuesque figure existed beneath Low Down's sloppily loose, shapeless vest, shirt, and long johns. If he'd thought about the subject at all, he would have guessed that she was straight up and down with no curves.

"Will you say something, for God's sake? I'm a nervous mess. Do I look proper enough to eat supper in a hotel dining room?"

He made a twirling motion with his forefinger. "Turn around," he ordered in a strangely husky voice.

She rolled her eyes, then slowly turned for his inspection. Just as he'd suspected. The seat of the dress had begun to shine and show wear, and the poof looping over the bustle was a slightly different color, suggesting it had been replaced at some point.

"Damn it, Low Down! You bought seconds after I told you not to!"

"The important thing about that conversation was not what I bought, but who paid." Her wedding ring caught the lamplight when she smoothed a hand along the draped material at her waist. "This is a perfectly good dress, hardly warm at all. There was only one small tear under the arm, and I fixed that.

Now tell me the truth. Can I be seen in public without people laughing at us?"

This was the woman who continued to swear that she didn't care what people thought of her, Max thought, suppressing a sigh. But she'd been truthful when she warned him that she wouldn't obey.

"You'll be fine," he said, deciding not to make an issue out of buying seconds. The hour was too late to send her out on another shopping expedition.

"Thank God!" The air ran out of her as if she'd been holding her breath. "I have another dress in case you didn't approve of this one, but it would have taken forever to change. You can't imagine the contortions required to put together a rig like this." Her hands fluttered up in helpless exasperation. "I thought I never would figure out this bustle contraption. Why fashion wants women to look like they have a butt the size of a wagon, I don't know, but I can tell you it sure feels strange. And a corset!" Letting her head fall backward, she blinked at the ceiling. "No person can wrench their arms around to lace it up by themselves. You have to twist the thing around front, lace and tie it, then twist it back around, and then you get pinched spots and you can hardly breathe. And I'll tell you something else I learned. You better put your stockings on first because you sure can't bend over while you're wearing a corset, lest ways not this one, so you have it take it off, put on your stockings and start all over."

No woman, not even Gilly, had ever mentioned a corset or stockings in his presence. And he could sooner imagine the women of his acquaintance doing somersaults through the lobby of Howard Houser's bank than he could imagine them commenting about butts as big as wagons.

Max cleared his throat and removed his gloves from his pocket. "If you'd like to fetch a shawl, gloves, and your bag, we'll go down to dinner. You did buy a shawl, gloves, and a bag?"

"I have two shawls. This is the evening one." She lifted a length of fringed paisley from the back of a chair and whirled it around her shoulders like a cape. Grace was not her strong suit. "And this is my evening purse," she said, showing him a drawstring bag that made a light clinking sound when she lifted it.

He couldn't imagine what she would carry that might clink. "If I hold it facing this way, no one will notice that some of the beadwork is missing." She seemed proud of this point.

"Maybe we should sit down and have a drink before we go downstairs." Right now he wanted a whiskey.

Horror widened her eyes. "No! We can't sit on those chairs." Color rose in her cheeks. "They're just to look at." When he lifted a baffled eyebrow, she hurried past him on the way to the door, trailing the scent of soap and kerosene. "What if we accidentally left a smudge or a scratch or spilled something, and someone discovered it and threw us out of here?" Turning, she leveled a hard warning look at him. "This is the only time I'm ever going to stay in a place like this, and I don't want to ruin it by getting thrown out.

So don't sit on those chairs!"

She disappeared into the corridor, wobbling a little on what he assumed were nearly new high-heeled shoes.

Max rested his forehead in his hand for a moment, then went after her, catching up at the landing.

"Maybe I better take your arm again," she muttered, eyeing the staircase. "If I fall down the stairs," she added in a low dry voice, "and end up sprawled at the bottom in front of all those swells, I'm going to pretend that I'm dead. You tell someone to haul me off to the nearest boardinghouse, then go have your supper."

If someone had told him this morning that he'd find something to laugh about today, he would not have believed it.

She glared at him, then slowly a smile appeared. "That's the first time I've heard you laugh."

When he placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him, it was also the first time he had touched her. Beneath the soft paisley shawl, she was as solid as granite.

"Listen to me," he said, looking into her eyes. "You're not going to fall down the stairs. And no one is going to pay any attention to us. No one is going to throw us out of the hotel. Stop worrying." He recalled her comment that she'd never stay in a place like this again. Very likely she was correct. "Enjoy the evening."

"I don't belong here," she said, sliding her eyes away from his. "If Mrs. Olson—the woman who adopted me—if she could see me now, she'd tell you so."

"Just for tonight, pretend that you do." He extended his arm, and she gripped it with surprising strength.

"Ready?" She nodded, lifted her skirts, and they slowly descended. Low Down kept her gaze on the floor until they reached the dining room, then she raised her head for a quick look around and he felt her draw a deep breath.

"It's so beautiful! Well, take a look at that!" she whispered, leaning close to him. "There's the man in the green uniform!"

"No," Max said, careful to keep any hint of amusement out of his voice, "that is the maître d'. He'll seat us."

When the maître d' held her chair for her, she looked at Max with wide, amazed eyes, then, when he draped a napkin across her lap, she clapped a hand over her mouth and laughter sparkled in her gaze.

"Would you care for a drink before dinner, sir?"

He wasn't certain, but he thought it possible that Low Down was strangling. "Are you all right?" he inquired, leaning toward the candles in the center of the table.

"I'll have a whiskey," she gasped.

The maître d' arched an eyebrow as if her request for whiskey explained the awful dress and her crimson face.

"The lady will have sherry, and I'll have a whiskey," Max said in a firm voice.

"Oh Lordy," she gasped when they were alone. "I couldn't believe it when he put the napkin across my lap! Did you ever hear of such a thing? And then he draped one across your lap, too!" She fanned her fingers in front of her face. "I swear I didn't know whether to laugh or belt him one for being so familiar.

Oh, Max. Did you ever see anything like this room? There's fresh flowers on every single table, did you notice?" Dropping her hand, she fingered the edge of the cloth, then informed him, "This is real damask.

When I worked for the Chinaman, we washed a lot of tablecloths like this. If you think my new duds are expensive, you should check what a damask tablecloth costs. It's enough to make your eyeballs bulge."

"I didn't think your new clothing was particularly expensive." He knew for a fact that Philadelphia had spent more on one hat than Low Down had spent for her entire new wardrobe.

Now she noticed the array of silver gleaming against the damask and her hands dropped to the beaded bag in her lap. "I guess I didn't need to bring my spoon."

Her comment revealed more than she could guess about her background. Only the cheapest boardinghouses required a lodger to furnish his own eating utensils.

"Remember? I showed you my spoon. It's real silver, just like these." Pride and defensiveness firmed her tone and her chin lifted as if she were challenging him to say something.

"I recall your spoon was very pretty," he said, feeling at a loss.

But she seemed mollified. "Yes, it is. It's one of my prized possessions." Frowning, she touched a gloved finger to the row of forks. "Why do we need so many extra forks and spoons?"

He started to explain, then gave up and advised her to watch and follow his lead when it came to choosing her utensils.

Once their drinks arrived, and he'd smiled at Low Down's contempt for sherry, he relaxed and enjoyed the excitement dancing in her hazel eyes. Earlier today, he had dreaded everything about the idea of spending a night in a hotel with her. But, oddly, there was something interesting, maybe touching—he couldn't pin down the precise reaction—about sharing another person's firsts. The first glimpse of an elegant hotel lobby and a suite. Her first foray into the world wearing a dress, at least in recent years. Her first awed impression of the maître d'. Her first taste of sherry; her bafflement and then pleasure at the sight of a full setting of silver.

To extend her day of firsts, Max ordered fried artichokes, duchess potatoes, and lobster salad. For dessert, he chose peach canapés, prepared in a chafing dish beside their table, enjoying her amazement and wide shining eyes.

After the canapés, she politely covered a satisfied burp with her fingertips, then leaned forward to confide, "I loved everything except the coffee. This is the weakest coffee I ever tasted. They must have a new pot that ain't—isn't—broken in yet." An anxious look appeared in her eyes. "I want to remember all of this, every little detail. What was the name of the pastry meat again?"

"Beef Wellington."

"And lobster! I could eat a barrel of that. I'll bet that lobster cost the earth." When he told her the price of the lobster salads, she fell back in her chair and stared at him in shock.

"Max, seriously. Are you rich?"

The question made him laugh. "My family is comfortable, I suppose you could say. Land rich and cash poor. Staying here is a treat for me, too, and I'm paying for it with some of the color I panned out of Piney Creek."

A frown puckered her brow. "Don't you need that money to buy cows or something?"

"This time of year ranchers sell cattle. We buy in the spring."

"Since you're sort of rich, I should have bought a feather or a cloth flower to stick in my hair," she mentioned, sliding a peek toward the other tables. "The shop lady said so, said I needed earrings, too, but I didn't want to add to the cost."

"You look nice just as you are."

She would never be a beauty, would never be a woman who attracted attention for her appearance or style. But if she had looked like this four days ago, she wouldn't have lacked for volunteers to father her baby.

"You don't mean that," she said with a look of naked pleading that begged him to assure her.

"I do," he said stiffly, uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. He decided she was easier to deal with when she had the chip on her shoulder and her chin thrust out. Uncertainty and vulnerability were not qualities he associated with the woman who had cursed, kicked, shouted, and willed him to survive the pox. A deeper glimpse into her character wasn't something he welcomed.

After placing his napkin beside his plate, he glanced toward the door. "Would you like to take a walk?

It's warmer at this altitude, and it's a pleasant night. If you like, we could walk up to Broadway and view the electric lamps." When she didn't appear enthusiastic, he offered another suggestion. "Or perhaps you'd care for another cup of coffee. We can stay here and enjoy the music. Or take our coffee into the lobby."

She crossed her arms on the table and tilted her head to indicate the string quartet at the back of the dining room. "The music isn't too lively."

"Lively music isn't considered beneficial to digestion."