Chapter 4
Jane’s eyes never strayed from the house as they approached.
She wanted to take in everything about it.
Morgan wrote about the house at Morning Star in his first response to her inquiry, but it was clear to her that he viewed it as a shelter from the storm, not a home. In Jane’s mind, it should be both.
The long log house was larger than she had permitted herself to believe it could be.
She said nothing to Morgan about the photographs of rough-hewn cabins that she had seen and upon which she had based her expectations.
This house looked solidly built, the mortar lines straight and parallel to one another, the corners squared off at what appeared to be true right angles.
It sat low to the ground and was so wide that it looked as if it squatted on the land.
The house was sturdy, in service of its purpose, and had none of the architectural embellishments that distinguished Manhattan mansions along the avenue.
From what she could tell at a distance, and then again as they drew closer, the house was in good repair.
The porch did not run the length of the front of the house, but it was long and wide enough to hold a swing.
That swing, she noted, looked as if it had recently been given a fresh coat of white paint, and the thought that this might have been done in anticipation of her coming to Morning Star both warmed Jane and made her anxious.
The windows were glass, another feature she had not been certain she could expect, and where the sun did not reflect too brightly, she could see lace curtains framing them on the inside.
The empty flower boxes beneath the windows were also freshly painted, and Jane permitted herself the indulgence of imagining what she might plant there.
As Morgan guided the buckboard abreast of the house, Jane’s eyes were drawn to the large door front and center. In contrast to the dark, weathered frame of the house, the door was varnished and polished so that it fairly gleamed from under the protective roof of the porch.
Jane stayed in her seat as directed until Morgan secured the horse and wagon. She took his hand when he offered it and let him assist her descent. It fell to her to release his hand when she was steady, but Jane held it longer than that because there was comfort and calm in his support.
“What are those buildings?” she asked, pointing off to her right.
“Woodshed. Smokehouse. That’s the barn next to the corral. The bunkhouse is on the other side of the barn. Hard to see from this angle, but the men have a good view of the road leading up here from where they are.”
As Jane’s eyes were drawn to search for the outbuilding, a figure appeared on the far side of the corral. “Someone is coming.”
“I see him. That’s Jem Davis. I think I mentioned him. He’s the one set on marrying Renee Harrison.”
“Cecilia Ross’s cousin.”
“Yes. That’s the one. Did you see Renee at the Pennyroyal this morning?” When Jane nodded, Morgan added, “Good. Because Jem will want every detail. It’s better if you don’t have to make them up.”
Jane clutched the sleeve of Morgan’s duster as he turned back to the house. “Who am I?” she asked. “I mean, who are you going to say I am?”
“If I know Jem, I won’t have to say anything. He’ll figure it out for himself.” He gestured to the front door. “This way. He’ll come in the back.”
In the entryway, Jane allowed Morgan to help her remove her coat and scarf. She gave him her gloves but kept her hat. He hung her things on a hook beside the door before he shrugged out of his coat and took off his hat and gloves. He put his outerwear next to hers.
It was the first time Jane had seen his gun belt and holster. She stared at the weapon at his side.
Morgan unfastened the belt and held it out to her. “Would you like to see it?”
Jane leaned in for a closer examination but kept her arms at her sides. “Is it safe for me to touch?”
“If you don’t squeeze anything. Here.” Morgan unstrapped the holster and removed the revolver by its pearl handle.
He tossed the belt over his shoulder, freeing his hand.
He opened the Colt’s cylinder, took out the bullets, and pocketed them before he reversed his grip and held the gun out to Jane by the barrel.
“It’s empty. Now I’m certain it’s safe for you to touch. ”
Still, she took it gingerly. The pearl grip was cool and smooth in her palm. “Is this what is called a six-shooter?”
“Some call it that. Folks also call it a Peacemaker, though I’ve always thought that name mocks it some.
It’s a .45-caliber centerfire, made by Colt and mostly favored by lawmen and shopkeepers.
I like it because it’s lighter than other models, accurate, and the short four-inch barrel means it clears the holster easily. ”
“The fast draw,” she said. When he did not comment, Jane looked up at him. She sighed. “It’s another fiction, isn’t it?”
“Afraid so. Leastways, I never saw it practiced or done. No shootouts at high noon either, none that are actually scheduled anyway. I guess it made for some exciting reading for you.”
She had to admit that it had. “I’m not disappointed by the facts,” she said. “Only surprised by them.”
Morgan took back the revolver, holstered it, and then set the belt on the entry table.
“For a rifle, I favor a Winchester. There are three resting in a rack by the back door. More in the bunkhouse. No one rides the property without a rifle in his saddle scabbard. That’s something you’d have to get used to.
I don’t suppose you had guns in your home. ”
“Not a one.”
“Do you object to learning how to shoot?”
“Object? No. I should like that.” Given the way Morgan was studying her, Jane was not certain that he believed her. “I have always admired Annie Oakley.” She paused, frowned, and regarded him with consternation. “She’s real, isn’t she? Annie Oakley is real.”
Morgan nodded solemnly. “Yes, Miss Middlebourne. Annie Oakley is real.”
“Well, I am heartily relieved to hear it.”
He pointed to the left. “Come, I’ll show you the rooms.”
Jane stayed at Morgan’s side as he escorted her through the house.
A stone fireplace dominated the front room.
The sofa had wide arms, a curved back, and was covered in navy blue velvet that was shiny in places from wear.
There were two armchairs similarly covered.
One showed evidence of more use than the sofa while the other showed less.
The upright chairs had seat covers that revealed skilled embroidery work.
The French knots numbered in the thousands.
There were two tables with lamps, and candles on the mantelpiece.
Other than an empty vase, the room was devoid of items that might grace other front rooms. There were no photographs, no figurines, no little boxes that could hold small treasures or even a deck of playing cards.
The piano was unexpected, but Morgan told her that it came with the house, a gift from Uriah Burdick to his wife.
It neither kept the wife faithful nor kept her on the ranch.
She ran off with a railroad surveyor, and as far as Morgan knew, the piano had not been used since.
He did not ask Jane if she played, and she did not volunteer the information. Instead, she lightly dragged her fingertips across the keyboard’s lid as she passed.
In addition to the front room, there was a dining room, a study that Jane judged to be seldom used, two bedrooms, one half the size of the other, and a loft space that Morgan told her had two more beds.
The ladder to reach the loft was put away since he had no use for the space now.
Someday, he had said, rather more offhandedly than not, and Jane kept her eyes averted, afraid he would know all her secrets at this casual reference to a future that figured children into it.
They ended in the kitchen. Jem Davis was waiting for them, one hip cocked against the sink while he drank his fill of water from a jar.
Jane observed a broad face, square jaw, shoulders that extended like planks from an iron ship, and without conscious thought, she edged closer to Morgan.
If Morgan was aware that she had inched toward him, he gave no indication.
He made the introductions and told Jem to wash his hands before he offered one to Jane.
Far from taking offense at the directive, Jem grinned so widely Jane thought she could count his entire mouthful of teeth.
“Sure, and I was going to do just that,” said Jem.
He set the jar down, turned to the sink, and scrubbed up while he hummed “Sweet Betsy from Pike.” He shook off his hands, looked around for a towel, and when none magically appeared, wiped his hands on the front of his green flannel shirt.
He stepped around the table, nodded, and waited for Jane to extend her hand first.
She did. His hold was gentle and put her immediately in mind of Walt back at the Pennyroyal. Something of her surprise must have shown on her face because Jem gave a lopsided, oddly endearing smile.
“Renee says I have hands like hams and fingers as thick as sausages, but it’s all tender cuts.” He added, “Renee’s my fiancée except she doesn’t always own that she is.”
“I see,” said Jane. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Well, that’s what I would call a mutual feelin’ except I know there’s more pleasure on my side.
” He looked at Morgan. “So you finally gone and done it. Hired yourself a cook and housekeeper. And none too soon. We were just jawin’ about having to cook for ourselves this winter, and there wasn’t one of us looking forward to it.
Me and my brothers probably could survive, but that runt Max Salter hasn’t got but a minute’s worth of meat on his bones and no stores of fat. He wasn’t going to make it, Morgan.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious. It was going to be a problem.”