The Ballad of Hattie Taylor Read online

  With resigned premonition, Jake started forward. “Hattie Witherspoon Taylor, I presume,” he said dryly upon reaching the pair.

  2

  Hattie wrenched her upper arm from the porter’s grasp and glared up at him for a moment before directing her attention to the immaculately dressed young man standing before her. He returned her regard with a half smile. Impatiently hitching up a sliding strap on the boys’ overalls she wore, she shook her heavy hair out of her eyes. “Who wants to know, mister?”

  “Jacob Murdock, at your service, miss.” He doffed his hat, replacing it at a cocky angle on the back of his head. “You can call me Jake. I’m Augusta Murdock’s son.”

  “Yeah?” She studied him suspiciously for several long moments. Finally, her mouth twisted derisively. “Skinny little sonovabitch, aren’tcha?”

  “Mind your mouth!” the porter snapped and made a grab for her. Hattie knew from experience he was prepared to shake some manners into her.

  But the Jake fella merely grinned and deflected the porter’s movement by reaching out to grasp the man’s hand. Shaking it, he thanked the man for keeping an eye out for his young relative, and surreptitiously slipped him a bill. Hattie would bet big cash, if she had any, that the money was more to get rid of the railroad man than any doubtful assistance he might have given her.

  Mumbling dire predictions, the porter moved away.

  And Hattie, who had already hopped nimbly beyond his reach, turned back to the new person in charge of her.

  As they eyed one another, Jake reflected wryly that the kid wasn’t the first person to mistake his build for skinniness. He was on the lean side and looked slimmer still in his lawyering duds. It didn’t bother him. More than one man had discovered to his cost that lean didn’t equate to weak. Because Jake’s body beneath the deceptive camouflage of tailored clothing was roped with long, flat sinew and muscle, honed to a strapping toughness by an active life. Anyhow, he knew he’d probably gain more bulk as he grew older, because his father had been a muscular man who had often remarked that Jake’s build was like his own as a young man. And Jake, at twenty-two, had begun noticing a bit of additional bulk to his physique.

  With a dull thump, a carpetbag suddenly landed on the platform next to Jake’s feet, kicking up a puff of dust. He looked up in time to see the porter withdrawing into the railroad car once again, but lost interest in the man when Hattie dashed forward to snatch up the bag and hug it to her chest. She turned her head and glared at him, all big eyes and defiance.

  Jake felt something shift inside him at the vulnerability briefly flashing across her face, abruptly belying her fierce display of independence. Well, I’ll be damned, he thought. The rowdy little faker wasn’t nearly as tough as she’d like him to believe. He took a good, hard look at her.

  She was a funny-looking little creature: all lips, eyes, and hair. Her wide, mobile mouth was a feature she’d probably grow into one day, but right now it was too large for her round little face. And, good God. That hair. She possessed the wildest hair he’d ever seen. Thick and corkscrew-curly, it was the color of a copper penny that had been kicking around in a farmer kid’s pocket. God knew she was grimy. But her hair’s untamed mass seemed to possess a life of its own, and he would stake his life on it glowing like a bed of coals once the dust was washed out.

  Her eyes were huge and round and the amber hue of a good whiskey, ringed in a deeper shade of brown and fringed with thick reddish-gold lashes. They were framed by even thicker golden-red eyebrows, which resembled commas rocked onto their sides. He wasn’t certain how, but those eyes managed to convey defiant fearlessness and a frightened vulnerability at one and the same time. It was the eyes, in the end, that really got to him.

  “Whatchu starin’ at, mister?” Hattie demanded belligerently, drawing herself up. Normally, her skin was what her mama used to call alabaster pale beneath scattered dustings of freckles. But Hattie felt heated color burn along her cheeks, and her shoulders twitched in annoyance. Horace had once described sideshow attractions to her—and she didn’t enjoy being gaped at as if she were one.

  Ever since leaving Nevada on this trip north to Oregon, she’d been stared at as though she were a freak of nature. It had been a long, arduous journey, first by mule, then by rail. She would never admit this, but it’d been sort of scary to go so far all by herself. And for some dang reason, all along the way people had gawked at her, whispering behind their hands and pointing.

  Well. She tossed her hair. She had not suffered their regard in silence.

  “Not a thing.” Jake smiled. He reached out a hand to touch her hair, biting back a laugh when Hattie jerked her head out of reach and swatted at his fingers. “I was just admiring the color of your hair. It’s very pretty.” The brief touch confirmed his suspicions: the texture had felt aggressively alive beneath his fingertips. He watched hesitant pleasure shine in Hattie’s eyes.

  “Yeah? You think so?” she asked. “Sonovabitchin’ lady on the train said it’s heathen hair, sign of the devil’s handmaiden. Horace always said it was the hair of angels, though.” She pinched a strand, studying its color uncertainly.

  “I’d believe Horace if I were you,” Jake advised, wondering if Horace was also the person responsible for teaching her to swear with such conviction. “Whoever he may be.”

  “Horace was my friend,” Hattie snapped defensively, afraid there had been a criticism somewhere in that sentence. “He lived with me ’n’ Papa in Nevada.” And her brief pleasure in Jake’s compliment was abruptly buried beneath the renewed misery of her enforced separation from Horace. She had begged him not to send her away, but he’d been adamant.

  “Ain’t right for a young lady to grow up in these here hills with no female for guidance,” he’d said. “’Twere different when yer pa was alive, but he’s gone now. Yer ma was a gen-u-wine lady, and it’s only ’cause of her you can read and write so good.”

  “She told me it would give me a rare freedom.” Hattie had never forgotten those words.

  Horace had nodded. “You’re already way past what I can show ya. It’s time you go to her people. I already writ ’em, Hat, so it’s no use tryin’ to change my mind.”

  Hattie hadn’t missed Papa all that much when he died a few months back. Since Mama’s death he hadn’t shown much interest in anything, anyhow, ’cept prospecting and whiskey. But Hattie sure did miss Horace. And she knew he was missing her, too. She’d seen the tears in his faded blue eyes when he’d put her on the train in Silver City—and she’d seen him slip money to that sonovabitchin’ porter to watch over her. Big waste of his hard-earned money that had been!

  Jake watched the sudden, dejected slump of her shoulders, the fire in those big, lawless eyes suddenly quenched, and experienced another uneasy sensation, as though his stomach suddenly dropped out of place. For all Hattie’s bravado and tough talk, she was only a child.

  A child who’d clearly had a fair share of upheavals in her young life. “Come on,” he said gruffly and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, surprised when she allowed it. He’d half expected her to shrug it off. “Let’s go home. Mother and Mirabel are anxious to meet you.” He guided her through the station house and out to the open buggy.

  She was quiet on the ride through town, staring down at her scuffed boots, and on impulse Jake pulled up before Bigger’s Saloon. “Be back in a jiff, kid. Stay put.”

  He was in and out in minutes. After pulling himself up into the open buggy, he handed Hattie a bottle with a straw bobbing in its opening, then unhooked the reins.

  “What’s this?” she asked, sniffing the neck of the bottle suspiciously.

  “Sarsaparilla.”

  “Sass-prilla? Never heard of it.”

  Jake nudged the bottle toward her mouth. “Try it. I think you’ll like it.”

  Picking up the reins, he watched from the corner of his eye as Hattie took a cautious
sip through the straw. A look of wonder crossed her features and she drew on the straw eagerly. As she savored the drink, her natural curiosity seemed to reassert itself, and she sat up straighter.

  Looking from side to side, she took in the sights of the busy town. By the time they stopped in front of Jake’s home, she was almost what he assumed was her normal, pugnacious self again. It had been all he could do not to laugh out loud as he’d listened to her return a rude remark to two boys on the walkway who had yelled insolent commentary on her attire.

  She wilted a little, however, as she stared up at the large, ornate house. Even as her chin jutted out stubbornly, she shifted a little closer to Jake on the leather seat. “So, who is this Mirabel?” she asked.

  “She’s my mother’s friend and housekeeper.” Jake looked down at her, thinking of the likely reaction she was going to get from the women. “Let me give you a little friendly advice, Hattie, gained through my personal experience. Don’t even think about swearing in front of Mirabel. She’ll wash your mouth out with soap quicker ’n you can shake a stick. She’s done it to me and, believe me, it is not an experience you wanna court.” He swung out of the buggy.

  Hattie didn’t reply but her chin jutted up farther yet. Clutching her carpetbag, she disdained Jake’s extended hand and jumped to the ground unaided.

  He opened the front door and ushered Hattie into the foyer. “Son of a bitch,” she whispered in awe, turning in a slow circle as she stared up at the high ceiling with its crystal chandelier, at the open staircase with its curving, carved-wood banister and faded tapestry runner. She peered through the open French doors on either side of the foyer, gaping at the ornately furnished dining room on one side and the parlor on the other.

  “Jacob? Is that you, dear?” His mother’s voice came from within the parlor, and Jake turned Hattie in that direction.

  For just a moment she balked, staring up at him with wide, frightened eyes. Then her mouth set, her chin jutted even more, and she swaggered ahead of him into the room.

  Augusta rose gracefully from a horsehair settee and crossed to meet them. Mirabel tucked the feather duster she’d been unnecessarily dusting the piecrust table with into the pocket of her voluminous white starched apron. She stood ramrod straight, her hands crossed at her waist.

  Augusta stopped in front of the young girl. “You must be Hattie,” she said warmly.

  “Yes, ma’am, guess I must,” Hattie replied, clutching her carpetbag and the empty soda bottle. She stayed close to Jake’s side.

  “I’m your aunt Augusta.” When Hattie just stared at her without speaking, Augusta elaborated. “Well, perhaps I’m not an actual aunt; the relationship is a bit convoluted. But I would like it very much if you would honor me with the title.”

  Hattie continued to stare at the older lady, hiding her awe. She’d never met anyone so clean. Well, perhaps Mama had been, for Hattie’s memories were of someone sweet-smelling and soft-spoken. But her recollections had grown hazier with each of the four years that had gone by since her mother passed. She hated that she couldn’t always remember Mama’s face.

  Augusta turned slightly to indicate the woman behind her. “This is Mirabel.”

  Taking one look at the severe features of the woman in the starched white apron, Hattie’s chin, which had relaxed beneath Augusta Murdock’s kind-eyed regard, shot up once again. At the same time, she took a cautionary step backwards. “I know about you!” she said in alarm. “You’re the one who washed Jake’s mouth out with a sonovabitchin’ bar of soap!”

  With Jake’s warning still ringing in her ears, her reaction to the stern-faced lady was instinctive and involuntary. But she was thrown into a state of confusion by the three disparate responses it elicited as they aired simultaneously, tumbling and overlapping one another.

  “Young lady!” Mirabel snapped repressively. “Oh, my dear child,” Augusta murmured faintly. Jake roared with laughter. Fortunately for Hattie, it was Jake who reached her first, for Mirabel was advancing with a gleam of battle in her eyes, which Jake knew from experience meant being led by the ear to the nearest water closet for the aforementioned mouth washing. He wrapped his arm around Hattie’s shoulders and whisked her out of reach.

  “Now, now, Mirabel,” he coaxed, unable to erase the bit of laughter still lurking in his tone. “It’s her first day. Let the kid shake some of the dust from her trip before you start rearranging her manners.”

  Hattie craned her head back to peer into his face, her amber eyes filled with genuine bafflement as they met his. “What’d I say, Jake?” she whispered. “How come everyone’s got their tails in a twist?”

  It was the utter lack of comprehension over her words’ effect that ultimately lightened the atmosphere in the parlor. Mirabel’s face softened slightly; Augusta suggested temperately that Hattie must be hungry after her long trip and proposed she accompany Mirabel to the kitchen.

  When it grew clear that Hattie thought going with Mirabel was a plot to trap her alone with the woman, giving Mirabel a chance to carry out her nefarious deed, Jake gave her shoulder a gentle nudge. “There will be no mouth washing with soap today,” he promised solemnly.

  Hattie studied him for a moment, then nodded and left with Mirabel. Jake watched her go, smiling at the way she appeared to be on the alert but apparently cautiously prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt.

  The parlor grew quiet as Jake and Augusta were left facing each other. A moment passed before Augusta turned away and resumed her seat on the settee. She watched Jake cross over to the mahogany sideboard and pick up a decanter. “Really, Jacob,” she said faintly. “Must you grin like a ninny? I’m sure I do not comprehend what you find so amusing.”

  Jake looked at her over his shoulder. “Yes, you do, Mother.”

  Augusta was silent for a moment. She accepted a small goblet of sherry from her son, took a tiny sip, and sighed. “Yes, all right. I am getting precisely what I deserve, I daresay. I don’t know what I expected—”

  She correctly interpreted the meaning of Jake’s raised eyebrow and smiled wryly. “Oh, very well. I guess I expected a sweet little girl to dress up in flounces and ribbons. I also suppose it’s fair to say I willfully disregarded the possible complications, even when you persisted in trying to present them to me. Of course Hattie’s a bit uncouth: she’s lived out of touch with the world as we know it since she was seven years old. In the company, moreover, of two men who obviously didn’t see fit to guard their language in her presence. Goodness gracious, Jacob, they dressed her like a boy!”

  “The kid has guts, Mother.”

  “Honestly, dear, can’t you say ‘intestinal fortitude’? ‘Guts’ is such a repulsive word.” She looked down into her wine and then back up at her son. “Yet, I daresay she does, doesn’t she? Those eyes . . .” Augusta took a sip of her sherry. “Jacob, when she walked into the room her eyes were so scared, and yet she faced everyone so bravely.”

  “Yeah. She’s a pistol. I know I argued against her coming here, Mother. But I’ve changed my mind. You’ll both be fine.”

  Augusta smiled and finished her sherry. “Yes, I’m sure we shall,” she agreed. “The girl is a firebrand; there’s not much doubt about that. But I believe she is also quite sweet. Mirabel and I will teach her what she needs to know.”

  A short while later Mirabel joined them. “I declare,” she said in amazement. “That child doesn’t even realize what she’s saying when she curses. Every other word out of her mouth was . . . well, it was—”

  “Sonovabitch,” Jake supplied helpfully, hiding a smile at Mirabel’s repressive glare.

  “Precisely,” she agreed crisply. “Praise the Lord it appears to be the only swear word she knows. And her table manners are simply deplorable.” Her expression softened. “She’s a bright one, though. And willing. When I explained the rudiments of proper table behavior, you could practically see the wheel
s turning in her head as she concentrated on doing it exactly right.”

  “Where’s Hattie now, Mirabel?”

  “I left her taking a bath. Judging by her griminess, I thought she’d go screaming and kicking into the tub. But she was tickled pink at the prospect, particularly when she discovered the water would be hot. It seems a Saturday night bath was her biggest entertainment up in those hills.” Mirabel smiled softly. “You should have seen her reaction when I threw in a handful of my heliotrope-scented Epsom salts and swished some soap around to make bubbles. You would have thought I was Santy Claus himself. That young’un hasn’t had an overabundance of treats in her life, I’ll be bound.”

  Jake glanced at his mother. “How do you plan to dress her once she’s done bathing?”

  “Oh my.” Augusta set her wineglass on the nearby table. “I don’t imagine she has anything suitable in that satchel she was carrying.” She gave the matter a moment’s thought, then with brisk decisiveness began issuing orders. “Jacob, ride down to the modiste on Commercial Street. Tell her what needs to be done and do your best to persuade her to accompany you back here. Have her bring anything ready-made in Hattie’s approximate size.” She was already turning to Mirabel with further instructions as Jake left to do her bidding.

  On the short trip into town, Jake realized he hadn’t felt so entertained since returning to Mattawa three months ago. Although glad to be home, he’d had a difficult time readjusting to the slower pace and more restrictive social conventions of his hometown after four years in Eugene.

  It wasn’t that he particularly missed studying at the University of Oregon or the apprenticeship he’d served with a Eugene lawyer. By accepting a limited partnership with Roger Lord, the Murdock family lawyer, he’d begun the process of launching his career in Mattawa. And in truth, that was a challenge he much preferred to the role of student or of newest hire in a city firm. He had plans for his career, plans he figured he would one day realize.