Rainy Day Dreams: 2 (28 page)

There. No beating around the bush, and no accusation. Just a simple question.

Will didn’t look at him. “The men seem partial to the sailor theory.”

“I didn’t ask what the men think.”

A cautious nod. “I think if we let them keep talking like that, we’ll have another fight on our hands. They’re whipping themselves up.”

Jason turned his head and studied the man. “You’re avoiding my question.”

Will pursed his lips for a second. “You know my opinion of the
lady
in question.” He spoke the word as though he doubted the veracity of it. Jason drew breath to contradict him, but he went on. “Everyone seems so certain of her innocence. I pity the man who dares to disagree.”

“So you think Kathryn crept through the forest and spread oil of turpentine on the building, and then…what? Lost her nerve and ran off without striking a match?” The idea, spelled out like that, sounded ludicrous.

Will didn’t seem to think so. “She needn’t have crept through the forest. A black-cloaked figure in the dark could walk fairly openly through that part of town. There are no houses close enough to see, and there were no moon or stars last night.” He turned then and faced Jason head-on. “Or so I’m told. I wouldn’t know, since I was at home with my grandson, sleeping soundly.”

Ah. The man knew where Jason’s questions were leading, and provided his alibi before the accusation could be voiced.

All right, so maybe he didn’t do it. But that doesn’t mean Kathryn did.

Jason planted a boot heel in the dirt. “I don’t believe her capable of such a desperate act. She has no reason to want the fortress
destroyed. Besides, she’s a frail woman. I can’t imagine her wandering through town alone in the dark.”

Of course, she
did
venture down to the waterfront alone just two days past. The reminder gave Jason pause. But that had been in full daylight.

Will’s mouth twitched, and Jason thought he might mention the incident, but he did not. “It could have been hostile Indians,” he conceded.

Despite his words, he believed her guilty. Jason saw it in the set of his jaw, in the way he wouldn’t look Jason in the eye. But he had determined to keep his opinion to himself.

Fine. That was probably the safest course of action, given the men’s fervent defense of Kathryn.

“Yes. It certainly could.”

And maybe that was the answer after all. Unless the culprit confessed, they would never know.

All through the afternoon the numbers in the ledger on Jason’s desk kept blurring, replaced by the image of dark, tear-filled eyes. What could it hurt to check on the girl, just to make sure she was all right? Using the excuse of an errand at Coffinger’s, he left the mill a few minutes early.

He strode into the café expecting to find Kathryn working at Evie’s side. But the restaurant owner was alone.

“Jason. I didn’t expect to see you here.” She fixed an inquisitive look on him. “Can I get you an early supper?”

“No, thank you. I thought Kathryn would be here.” He glanced toward the storeroom doorway, half expecting her to appear at the mention of her name. “Have you seen her?”

Evie’s smile might have widened a fraction, or it might not have.
Either way, he chose to ignore the added brightness in her tone when she answered.

“She’s usually here by now, but I think she lost track of time. I stepped outside a while ago and saw her next door, hard at work on her painting. She was so engrossed she didn’t even notice me.”

Her painting. The idea of seeing her paint left a sour taste in his mouth. “Well, I’d hate to interrupt her.” He turned to go.

“No, wait!” Evie leaped up from her chair and hurried over to stop him. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. In fact, I was just about to peek my head outside and call to her.” A guileless smile spread across her lips. “I need her help. If you don’t mind telling her so, you’ll be saving me the effort.”

He found himself practically shoved across the room and through the back door. Playing matchmaker, was she? Well, her efforts were wasted here. She’d have a far greater chance of success with Murphy, or Lowry, or one of the others. But while he was here, he might as well check on Kathryn. With a scowl for Evie’s lack of subtlety, he straightened his coat with a tug and headed next door.

Kathryn had once again spread her blanket on the grass, and she sat at a graceful angle, leaning forward toward her short easel. She held her brush in an easy three-fingered grip and applied paint in minute brushstrokes. The familiar posture squeezed his heart in his chest, and he almost turned back. He must have made an unconscious sound, for she looked up.

“Jason.” The pensive lines in her forehead cleared, and a delighted smile pressed dimples in the smooth skin of her cheeks. “What are you doing here? You’re usually at the mill at this time of day.”

The clasp holding her hair in place had come loose and dangled in a mass of dark curls down her back. With an unconscious gesture she pushed back a lock, tucking it behind her ear, while she waited for his answer. The less severe arrangement made her appear…softer. Or something.

He stopped at the edge of the blanket and shoved his hands into
his coat pockets. “I’m on my way to the blockhouse, and thought I’d check to see if you’re feeling okay.”

The sun was behind him, and she shaded her eyes to look up into his face. Her bonnet lay discarded on the grass, and the skin across her nose had turned pink from prolonged exposure. A healthy glow seemed to radiate from her smile.

“Do you mean have I recovered from the shock of someone making me out to be a traitor and a vandal?” Her lips twisted into a sardonic line, and then she heaved a sigh. “I suppose so. There was a steady stream of ladies to and from the hotel this morning to assure me of their belief in my innocence.”

“That’s good. I’m glad.” Now that he’d reassured himself on that matter, he edged backward toward a hasty escape.

“Wait.” She leaped to her feet and hurried forward with an outstretched hand. Just before she touched his arm she stopped and clasped her hands in front of her waist. “Now that you’re here…I know I promised not to mention painting again, but…” Her gaze slid toward her canvas.

She was nothing if not persistent. Served him right. He should have known better than to approach an artist at work. Instead of the irritation that had overtaken him every other time she begged for his advice, he experienced a sense of surrender. Maybe if he told her the truth, painful though the words were to speak, she would stop plaguing him once and for all.

“I can’t advise you on technique, Kathryn.” When she would have protested, he held up a finger. “I don’t know anything about painting because I am not an artist.”

That took her aback. “Many artists doubt their ability. You should not. The beautiful landscape in your room is proof of your talent. And I saw your palette, the brushes, the tubes of oils.”

“They belonged to my wife. To Beth.” There. He’d said her name aloud, and though he felt as if someone had wrapped steel bands
around his chest, it wasn’t as painful as he’d feared. “She was the artist.”

Kathryn’s brows drew together as she digested the news. “The initials on the painting are JEG. Not Jason E. Gates?”

“My middle name is Leonard. JEG stands for Julia Elizabeth Gates. She went by Beth, because she insisted
Julia
sounded like an old dowager aunt.” The hint of a laugh escaped on a breath at the bittersweet memory of Beth planting her hands on her hips and insisting on the nickname.

“Oh.”

He went on in a softer voice, fighting a flood of emotions. Best get it all out at once, so they could put the topic behind them. “That painting is of a place that was special to us. The place where I proposed, in fact. She—” He swallowed. “She painted it as a wedding gift for me.”

Compassionate tears flooded her face. “I’m sorry, Jason.”

Tears prickled behind his eyes in answer. He tore his gaze away, shifting his weight from one foot to another as he looked out over the treetops at the majestic mountain peak looming in the distance.

“No harm done. You couldn’t have known.” He forced a bright tone, ready to end this painful conversation. “So you see, it’s no use asking for my help on matters of art.”

Thankfully, she matched his forced smile and adopted a casual tone that mirrored his. “Ah, well. Advice on lighting would be of no use to me at this point anyway.” She folded her arms and aimed a jaundiced eye toward her canvas. “The scale is all wrong, and I’m at a loss on how to fix it.”

An automatic reply rose to his lips, an encouraging vote of confidence that she would figure it out in time, but the words died unspoken when his gaze fell on her painting. He looked at it.

Blinked.

Looked at it again.

Squinted his eyes to refocus.

“Well.” When he realized she was watching him for a reaction, he quickly cleared his expression. “It’s quite…” He grasped for a description that would not offend her, but came up blank. “Quite colorful,” he finally blurted.

The truth was, the painting was terrible. Probably the ugliest and most amateurish attempt he’d ever seen.

Hurt appeared in her eyes. “You don’t like it.”

“I didn’t say that,” he responded hastily. He’d learned from living with Beth that an artist could be extremely passionate about her work, and usually took criticism personally. “The trees are very…tall. And green.” She watched him closely, obviously expecting more. Folding an arm across his middle, he planted an elbow on it and tapped a finger on his mouth as he made a show of studying the canvas, casting about for something encouraging to point out. “The scale of the mountain isn’t exactly right, as you say, but the composition is, um, artistic. I like the way you have the rising sun peeking over that rocky ledge.”

“That is not the sun rising,” she informed him in a flat tone. “It’s supposed to be mid-afternoon, and that yellow spot is a reflection of the light on the snow.”

“Ah. Well.” He flashed an apologetic smile. “As I said, I’m not an artist. Nor am I an art critic.”

“You hate it.”

Did that tremble in her voice hint of an impending onslaught of tears? Nothing in the world made him more uncomfortable than a woman’s tears. All Beth had to do was sniffle and he would fall all over himself to placate her. Either that, or beat a hasty retreat before the storm broke.

Which seemed like the best course of action in the current situation.

“I don’t hate it. Not at all.” He took a backward step. “And you know what they say. Beauty is in the skin of the—No, I mean in
the
eye
of the beholder.” An awkward laugh escaped as he backed up even further. “I almost said
skin deep,
but of course that’s mixing metaphors. Or something.”

Egad, he’d begun to
babble
.

“I have to go. Don’t want to be late for the blockhouse.” He whirled, and had almost reached the corner of the hotel when he remembered his errand. “Oh, and Evie asked me to tell you she needs your help.”

He shouted the last over his shoulder without turning. The gentlemanly thing would be to stay and help her clean up her painting supplies. In this instance, he felt justified in
not
doing as good manners dictated.