Christie And The Hellcat Part 32

Blue eyes filled with hurt. "Is that what you think?" Zee looked down at her hands then back up, her expression puzzled. "You ain't usually like this. What's got into you?"

Since Christie didn't know herself, the question was unanswer-able. A sudden need to be on her own overtook her. She untied her ap.r.o.n.

"I have to go out." She marched across the kitchen, grabbed her bonnet, and put it on.

Zee stared at her. "What about supper?"

She wrapped a shawl round her shoulders and pulled on her gloves. "The roast beef's nearly ready. Give it five more minutes then you can serve yourself and Julie. There should be plenty for two."

"Aren't you gonna eat with us?"

"No. I'm going over to Ann and Curly's." She picked up her bag.

"They invited us both to a social, but since you'll be too busy entertaining our new houseguest," her mouth twisted on the word, "I'll make your excuses."

"Darlin'." Zee reached for her, her gaze pleading.

Christie evaded the hand and headed for the door. She was on the verge of tears and she didn't want anyone to see.

"Don't wait up," she managed. Then she walked out into the night.

GIF.

The short walk round to the Shaws' house did Christie good. The cool air cleared her head a little and dried the angry tears that had welled up as soon as the door latch closed behind her.

She should have asked me first. She opened the gate to Ann and Curly's spread, went through, and closed it behind her. A poker game, for heaven's sake! She trudged up the path to the front door. That girl is lovely, suppose Zee and her Pushing away that distressing thought, she rapped gloved 209.

knuckles on the door and waited.

Curly was still tying his tie when he answered the door. "Christie!

You're a mite early." He remembered his manners and stepped back.

"But always most welcome. Come on in." He peered past her into the night. "Zee not with you?"

She stepped inside, easing herself past him. "No. She's busy." A tear spilled over onto her cheek, and she wiped it away. Curly's brows drew together. He seemed about to speak, but was forestalled by the appearance of his wife.

"Christie," said Ann warmly. "No Zee?"

"She's busy," put in Curly, saving Christie the trouble of repeating herself.

"Oh. What a pity." Ann looked disappointed for a moment then she brightened. "Still, it'll do you two good to get out of one another's pockets for an evening. And I'm sure we'll still have fun. I thought we could play Charades."

Ann ushered Christie through to the parlor and gave her a stack of Harper's to keep her occupied while she finished getting ready.

Christie turned the pages of the magazines, not really taking in the articles or ill.u.s.trations.

Probably laughing and chatting. Haven't even noticed I've gone. I hope the roast beef chokes them.

A tear dampened the page, and she blotted it with her handkerchief. She heard movement outside. When Ann and Curly bustled into the parlor, Christie had a.s.sumed a cheerful mask.

The evening pa.s.sed pleasantly enough, though it lacked the zest of the socials she had attended in Contention. She pondered that for a while then came to a startling conclusion: the evening's ingredients were the same; it was her taste that had changed.

Life at the brothel had always been lively, full of music and laughter and dancing. She had never known what was going to happen next. Catfights between wh.o.r.es were frequent, and involved much name-calling, hair pulling, and dress ripping. Then there was that time a drunk fired his guns into the ceiling, the bullets bringing down the chandelier, ricocheting round the salon, smashing mirrors and sending gla.s.s everywhere. Not to mention the games of strip poker in the back room, which, when Zee was dealing, always seemed to end with Christie stripped down to her drawers. Compared to all that, an evening of polite conversation, sewing, and Charades seemed, well, dull.

210.

"shot a man in the Golden Slipper, but he deserved it."

The snippet of conversation jerked Christie out of her reverie. "I beg your pardon? Were you talking about Zee?"

"Of course we were, dear." Ann Shaw looked up from her crocheting. "Who else gets herself into constant trouble? Go on, John."

"Happy to," said John Meeker, "but perhaps Miss Hayes would care to tell us Deputy Brodie's version of events?"

All heads turned to regard her and she blushed. "I didn't have time to ask her the details," she stammered. I didn't give her the chance.

"Oh?" Meeker seemed disappointed. "Well, then. By all accounts, the man she shot was that gambler who arrived last week from New Orleans, what was his name . . ."

"Americus Millain," supplied Virginia Meeker.

He nodded. "Thanks, Ginny. That's him. Anyway, it was Millain who killed Polly this morning."

"Polly?" asked a puzzled Christie.

"Apollinar Juarez," explained Meeker. "The talk's all over town, how Millain cheated Polly out of his money and suckered him into shooting first. Folks weren't pleased. They liked Polly." A grin spread over his bluff features. "But Brodie settled the score. Did to him what he did to Polly. Took his ward off him in the process too."

He shook his head in admiration. "Got to hand it to her."

Christie sieved the nugget from Meeker's narrative. "Zee cheated?"

"No one would say so to her face, but it sure looks that way."

"Get her to show you her card tricks, Miss Hayes," broke in Maggie Norton. "She cheats so well you simply can't tell." Virginia Meeker nodded agreement.

Albert Norton took up the tale. "Way I hear it, Brodie didn't keep her winnings but split 'em three ways with the other players, Bob Lewis and Silas Ward." He stroked his bushy mustache and grinned.

"They couldn't believe their luck."

"What about the octoroon?" asked Curly.

"Oh, her," said Norton. "Seems Brodie tore up the guardianship papers and set the girl free."

"Tore them up?" Christie blinked and stood up. The other people in the room were giving her odd looks, she realized. "Please excuse me. I have to go."

GIF.

211.

Someone had turned down the lamp in the kitchen, and Christie blinked as she peered round the dimly lit room. The dirty pots and crockery had been washed and put away in all the wrong places, and a cot now stood beside the stove.

She crossed toward the portable bed and looked down at the girl nestling beneath the blankets. Sleep had brought serenity to Julie's anxious features, or perhaps it was feeling safe for the first time in years. Poor thing.

Christie turned, searching for Zee. The deputy was sitting in the corner with her feet resting on the kitchen table and her chair propped against the wall. Her hat was pulled low over her face, but the tension in her body showed she wasn't asleep.

"Zee," said Christie, keeping her voice low so as not to wake the sleeping girl.

A hand pushed the Stetson back, then pale eyes leached of color by the lamplight looked at her. A pang shot through Christie at the wariness in Zee's gaze. I put that there.

"Oh, Zee." She rushed toward her, crawled onto her lap (almost tipping the chair over in the process), and hugged her.

For a heartstopping moment, she thought Zee wasn't going to respond. Then strong arms wrapped round her and pulled her close.

She buried her head in Zee's shoulder and from sheer relief started to cry.

"Hey. What's all this?" came Zee's voice. "The social can't have been that bad."

"No," she sniffed. "Though it was dull as ditch water without you.

Oh, Zee. I'm sorry."

A hand brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. "Me too, darlin'. I shoulda made it clear. I don't 'own' Julie."

Christie pressed two fingers to Zee's lips, silencing her. "I know.

You tore up the guardianship papers." Zee kissed her fingers and she removed them.

"Yeah." Zee glanced at the sleeping girl. "But I couldn't leave her on her lonesome. She's never had to fend for herself before. Not sure she even knows how."

"That's why you brought her home?"

Zee nodded. "Pretty girl like her would be easy prey for some sonof-a-b.i.t.c.h. Probably end up in a wh.o.r.e house." She sighed. "It may still come to that."

212.

Christie frowned. "There must be something more respectable she can do." Now she was safely in Zee's arms again, she felt compas-sionate toward the girl. ( Is that what the problem was? Jealousy? It was an unflattering and salutary thing to learn about herself.) She considered the problem of Julie's future. "Those fashionable dresses of hers. She made those herself, if I'm not mistaken. Which means she's a pretty fair needlewoman. Maybe she could get a job with Madame Clemence?"

Zee gave her a squeeze of approval. "Knew if I brought her home you'd think of something."

Christie pressed her face into a broad shoulder to hide her flush of shame. Zee had had faith in her; why had she not reciprocated?

"Hey now, none of that." Zee tucked a finger beneath her chin and raised it. Their gazes locked and held for a long moment, then Zee broke into a grin. "It's time to kiss and make up."

She bent her head and kissed Christie, a kiss so thorough it made Christie's heart race, her toes curl, her head spin . . . Except that the cause of the spinning turned out to be Zee standing up with Christie in her arms.

"Bed," growled Zee, elbowing the door open and heading for the stairs.

Christie had to clear her throat twice before she could speak.

"Mm. Bed."

Chapter 11.

Zee strode up to the telegraph office window, shook the handbell for service, and waited. The clerk appeared from the backroom, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and pushing up his spectacles.

"Morning, Deputy. What can I do fer you?"

"Sorry to disturb your breakfast, Henry." She reached in her vest pocket and pulled out the slip of paper she had worked hard on, paring the words to a minimum. "Need you to send this to New Orleans for me."

He accepted the message, and began to count the words. She slapped down the exact money. "That oughtta cover it."

He finished his mental arithmetic, looked at the coins, nodded, and scooped them up. "Pinkerton Detective Agency? You fixing to track down some bad guys?"

"No. Some good guys."

When no further explanation was forthcoming, he shrugged and wandered off to send the message. She leaned against the counter and waited, the uneven tapping of the Morse key punctuating her thoughts.

The idea had come to her this morning, when she was snuggling in bed with Christie, listening to the dawn chorus and the distant yap-ping of the Rikers' dogs as they fought over breakfast. Searching for Marion Fontenot's kin was a long shotafter all she had died a decade ago and a.s.signed guardianship to her lover rather than a relativebut blood was thicker than water, and, if it paid off, it would be one more choice of futures to offer Julie.

More importantly, it would take the girl away from Benson and from Christie. The little blonde was trying hard to accommodate Julie, Zee knew, but she was struggling. Take this morning. On her 214 way to feed and water the horses, Zee had tiptoed through the kitchen, expecting Julie to still be sleeping, only to find a delicious smell of frying ham and the girl up and dressed and preparing breakfast for three.

"Least I can do," said Julie, giving her a shy smile.

Zee had paused, her mouth watering in antic.i.p.ation, and wondered whether to warn Julie that Christie might want to cook breakfast herself. Then the door opened and Christie came in.

In other circ.u.mstances it might have been funny, seeing Christie's wide smile vanish so abruptly.

Julie glanced round from serving out the portions. "I hope you don't mind, Miss Hayes." She ducked her head, the mannerism confirming Zee's suspicions that Millain used to hit the girl.

"Of course not." Christie managed a weak smile that made Zee want to hug her. "How very kind of you to take the trouble, Julie."

What made thing even worse, of course, was that the ham and eggs were delicious, and Julie's coffee was even better than Christie's. Zee enjoyed her breakfast, though Christie, she noticed, seemed to have lost her appet.i.te.

When Julie rose to clear away the dirty dishes, Zee leaned toward Christie and said in a low voice, "She can dress make and cook. That should improve her prospects some."

Christie brightened. "It should, shouldn't it?"

When Zee was leaving for work, she grabbed Christie by the arm and urged her out into the yard. "Don't worry, darlin'," she said loy-ally if not entirely truthfully, "Your cooking's more to my taste."

Then she kissed Christie until her knees gave way and gave her rump a slap. "And anyway, that ain't the reason I keep you around."