Rainy Day Dreams: 2 (19 page)

She directed her gaze to the mill, where black smoke belched from the smokestack and an untidy mass of logs cluttered the corralled waters of the inlet. “It does give the area a rather dismal appearance,” she admitted.

Though he did not look at her, she watched his profile and saw his lips tighten into an impatient line. “If you had any concept of
the ingenuity that has gone into building and equipping that mill you wouldn’t call it dismal. I find it inspiring.”

She leaped on the word. “Do you plan to paint it? The view from here would make for an interesting scene.” Ugly, in her opinion, and not even close to the beauty of the landscape in his room, but she did not voice that opinion. If he was inspired by ugly buildings, then he should paint ugly buildings.

Now he did look at her, and uttered a disgusted grunt. “Did I not clearly forbid you to talk to me of painting?”

Irritation crackled along her nerves. Why, he spoke to her as if she were no more than a child, and an aggravating one at that. She snapped a reply. “I do not respond well to rudely shouted commands.” With an effort, she calmed herself. “Besides, you
requested
that I not speak of
the
painting, not of painting in general.”

“Then please let me make that
request
officially now.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “Do not speak to me of paint in any form. Nor of canvas, brushes, pigment, oils, lighting, or any other aspect of art.” With a jerk, he turned his head away from her, a clear dismissal.

“But why?” Frustration overcame her, and she resorted to pleading. “With a talent like yours—”

He stopped her by raising a finger and fixing a stern look on her face. “Not. Another. Word.”

Anger erupted in her stomach. Surely he was the most infuriating artist in the world. Rudeness of this magnitude could not be excused under the guise of creative temperament. With a jerk that set her skirts whirling about her ankles she left him alone on his stump. If he insisted on ignoring his talent, what was it to her? Let him rot away in anonymity here in this backwoods, primitive territory.

Eight

Thursday, January 10, 1856

K
athryn rose before the sun, dressed quickly, and tiptoed through the hotel so as not to disturb Madame or any of the guests. Serving the café’s breakfast diners platters of steaming hot food that Evie produced in extraordinary volume was one of the highlights of her day. She was becoming familiar with the men, and prided herself on the ability to bid “good morning” to Big Dog, Red, Murphy, Lowry, Samuels, and the others by name.

Two things made her sad. First, the announcement toward the end of the meal that the
Fair Lady
had set sail with the tide. By all rights, she should be on that ship. At least Captain Baker had promised to have her letter delivered to Papa the moment they moored on San Francisco’s pier.

The second thing that made her sad—and a little angry—was Jason’s absence. Apparently he would rather skip breakfast completely than risk seeing her. The idea sat bitterly in her stomach. Perhaps she should tell him that she would abide by his wishes. She would not, under any circumstances, discuss art with him again. In fact, she would not discuss
anything
with him. Let him scowl and glower and squander his talent. It mattered to her not in the least.

The sun was well along its ascent when she carried a laden tray up the hotel’s stairs and rapped her toe on Miss Everett’s door.

“Time for breakfast,” she called in a cheery voice.

The handle turned, a crack appeared, and the lady peered out. With a quick smile, she opened the door wide. Kathryn entered and deposited the tray on the small table she had procured from Madame. The surface of the table was no wider than the tray, the perfect size for this small room. She straightened and looked around. The addition of a few personal items, like a cozy afghan on the bed and a basin and pitcher in the far corner, gave the room a crowded but cheery look. She noted the wilted blossoms in a cup beside a Bible on the nightstand. This afternoon she would look outside for fresh ones.

Miss Everett’s gaze flickered across her face and then she cast her eyes downward. “Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome.”

Sunlight streamed through the east-facing window and cast a bright glow into the little room. “Why, look,” Kathryn exclaimed. “The sun does shine here after all. I’d begun to think I wouldn’t see it again until I returned to California.”

“It promises to be a beautiful day,” Miss Everett agreed. “Just before you came I was admiring Mount Rainier. I have a perfect view from my chair.”

Kathryn looked out the north window where she gestured. When she caught sight of the mountain, her breath snagged in her chest. A huge, majestic pyramid towered above the forest that butted up nearly to the back of the hotel, its steeply sloping sides covered in snow. Jagged rocky precipices around the top third stood bare and exposed in the sunlight, lending a sense of wildness that a completely snow-covered peak would not imply.

“It’s stunning.” Her voice came out in an awed whisper. “I can’t believe I haven’t noticed it before.”

“Perhaps you’ve been too busy.” Miss Everett gave her a kind smile. “Whereas I have done nothing for days but sit here and stare out the window.”

Kathryn drank in the vista before her. Tall, slender trunks of the cedar trees, the deep green of the fir boughs, the shining white of the snow-capped mountain, and the azure blue of a cloudless sky. Could such a dazzling contrast of colors be captured in oils on canvas? Oh, if only her skills approached the level of Jason’s. But even if she failed, how could a student of art like herself gaze on such beauty and not at least try? Excitement flickered deep inside her at the prospect. As soon as she finished her hotel chores, she would go outside with her easel, palette, and one of the canvases she’d packed and start a new painting. With luck the weather would hold for as long as it took to absorb the view and get the basic lines down. She had a few hours before the afternoon tea.

The tea. She cast a quick glance at Miss Everett. How to approach the subject of the afternoon tea without being dismissed out of hand? She had given the matter considerable thought, and come to the conclusion that Miss Everett’s reticence was due to a case of shyness the likes of which Kathryn had never seen. Left to her own devices, she might spend the entire six months within the confines of this room, stepping foot outside only for an occasional visit to the necessary. In cases like this, what was needed was a friendly push.

She cleared her throat. “Mrs. Hughes asked me to convey an invitation. It seems most of the women in Seattle gather at the café on Thursday afternoons for tea, and they would like to meet you.”

The shadowy smile vanished and lady’s brow creased. She averted her eyes. “I’m not ready—”

“Of course you are. You’ve been here three days already and haven’t met a soul outside of Madame and myself.” With a quick glance over her shoulder to ensure she was not overheard, she went on in a low voice. “Let me assure you, Madame is not typical of the manners and character of the ladies in Seattle.”

That elicited a faint upward turn of the lips.

Encouraged, Kathryn continued. “I’m told there are no more than twenty ladies and twice that many children.”

“Twenty?” Her already pale face went white, and she shrank back toward the corner. “Please convey my appreciation for the invitation, but I don’t think—”

“Nonsense.” Kathryn strode forward and grabbed her cold hand. “I’ll stay by your side the entire time, and I promise to defend you from any hostile approach they may attempt.”

She assumed a wide grin, and was rewarded with a hesitant smile.

“I’m sure you think me foolish for taking sanctuary here.” Miss Everett’s glance circled the room. “Back in Nevada City my mother often chided me for being too timid. She wanted me to be more adventurous. That’s why I paid for six months’ lodging in advance. I knew if I didn’t, it would be far too easy to flee back home, where things are familiar. I’ve never been comfortable talking with strangers.”

“You talk to me,” Kathryn pointed out. “Until ten days ago I was a stranger.”

Her smile came to the fore. “I doubt you’re ever considered a stranger for long. You’re so outspoken.”

Was that a good thing? Papa would have said no, that ladies should be soft-spoken and demure. But many of the women Kathryn admired back home were considered outspoken to the extreme. Papa would have called them pushy. She decided to accept the statement as a compliment. “Thank you. I will call for you a few minutes before four and we will go together.”

She fled quickly, closing the door behind her before Miss Everett could refuse.

Jason hurried up the streets, his stride as long as he could stretch his legs. Over a mug of coffee as strong as wagon grease during the
men’s lunch break, Henry had revealed his plans for an expansion of the mill. The concept had merit, and Jason’s enthusiasm ignited as he listened to the ideas. After two and a half days of studying Henry Yesler, Jason’s respect for the man had grown tremendously. A visionary with lofty goals for both the mill and the town, Henry was a man to be admired and followed.

His skills in execution fell slightly short of the mark, though. His visions were exemplary, but rather lofty. He needed men around him who could translate those visions into work that could actually be accomplished. Jason was just such a man.

In the case of the proposed mill expansion, Hudson Lumber Mill back in Michigan had undertaken a similar project when Jason worked there. When he told Henry he had brought some sketches with him, the man’s excitement had made him bubble like a boiling soup pot. He’d sent Jason to retrieve the sketches with all speed.

His boots pounded on the Faulkner House’s porch and echoed off the hotel walls as he bounded up the stairs. In his room, he threw open the lid of his steamer trunk and began rummaging inside. Where had he put that satchel? Ah. There it was.

The smell struck him at the same time his fingers closed around the leather. He jerked upright. No need to wonder at the odor; he knew it as well as he knew the scent of the rose water Beth used to dab on every morning when she dressed. Invisible fingers squeezed his heart, and he shut his eyes against the tide of memories that pounded like fists against his brain. Oil of turpentine. But where was it coming from? He glanced at the paint supplies he’d arranged in the corner when the spare bed had been removed, intending at some point to wrap them up and store them out of sight where they could no longer taunt him. No, he hadn’t brought oil of turpentine for fear the container would leak and saturate the other items in the trunk. Where then?

He spied the window, which he had cracked open before leaving.
Was the odor seeping in from outside? Moving like a fearful child, he edged close to the window and peered through it. The sun rode high in a clear blue sky, illuminating the landscape behind the hotel in a bright light he had never seen. The mountain, which he had admired often since his arrival, stood sentinel over a forest so deep the inside looked black as night. These things he noted in passing, for he located the source of the odor immediately.

In a wide stretch of grassy clearing behind the hotel sat Kathryn. In fact, she had positioned herself directly beneath his north-facing window. Before her stood an easel, a flimsy portable one no taller than a child. To accommodate the lack of height, she had laid a blanket on the grass and arranged herself on it facing a small canvas. She wore a knit shawl around her shoulders against the chill. Her skirts spread out around her in an unconsciously graceful fan, and she had removed her bonnet to reveal a tail of dark hair curling down her back. She was absorbed in her work, bending forward and applying her brush with light, sweeping strokes. From here he could easily see her progress. She had completed a rough sketch of the landscape, her focus, of course, being the mountain. Now she was blocking the forest with the primary green.