“Things aren’t much better,” Houston said, toying with her meal. “And you?”
Blair hesitated. “Lee will get over it, I’m sure.”
“Over it?”
“He’s a bit angry with me right now. I, ah . . . made a journey in the back of his buggy. But let’s talk about you.”
“Let’s talk about the magazine. I have two new articles for you.”
On Sunday, Kane roused Houston from bed, remaining far back from her, not getting too close to her sleepy form inside the warm bed. He tossed on the bed a dress of deep rose zephyr-gingham that was trimmed with narrow bands of black velvet ribbon. “Wear that and get dressed as fast as you can,” he ordered before leaving the room.
Minutes later, he returned wearing corduroy trousers, a bright blue flannel shirt and navy suspenders. He stood for a moment looking at Houston in her underwear, the tight corset pushing her breasts up above the lace-edged chemise, her legs encased, from the knee down, in black silk stockings with little butterflies going up one side, and wearing tiny black leather high-heeled shoes.
He gaped at her for a moment, then turned and left the room as if, if he stayed any longer, he might not live through it.
Houston dropped the robe she’d grabbed but not bothered to cover herself with and let out a sigh. She told herself that it was a sigh of relief and not the sigh of regret that it sounded like.
He didn’t tell her where they were going when he lifted her into the buggy that he’d given her, but started driving. Houston didn’t ask him where they were headed, but her face showed her surprise when they turned up the road to the Little Pamela mine.
The guards allowed them to pass without so much as a challenge or a question and, once through the gate, people came out of the houses and began following them. Houston started to wave to a few women she knew.
“They don’t know you when you’re clean,” Kane warned her.
She couldn’t help looking around, as more and more people began following them, and there were enormous smiles on the children’s faces.
“What have you done?” she asked.
“There,” he answered, pointing. In front of them was the only open area in the camp, the mine mouth in the background. In the center of the dirt field were wooden crates.
Kane halted the buggy and two boys with black-rimmed eyes held the horse as he helped Houston down. When they were standing on the inside of the circle of people who had gathered around the boxes, Kane grinned and said loudly, “Go to it boys.”
As Houston watched the boys tear into the crates, Rafe walked up behind them.
“The boxes came two days ago, and I didn’t think you’d mind if I told ’em what was inside. They’ve been dancin’ around and nervous with excitement since then,” Rafe said, as he put his hand on his nephew’s shoulder.
Houston looked at that hand on her husband’s shoulder with astonishment before turning back to see what the boys had found in the crates. They withdrew baseball equipment: uniforms, bats, gloves, balls, catchers’ face masks.
Kane turned to Houston, his face showing his expectation.
Had he done all this just to impress her, she wondered. She looked about the circle of parents who looked on their sons adoringly. “And what did you get for the girls?”
“Girls?” Kane asked. “Girls can’t play baseball.”
“No? What about tennis, archery, bicycling, gymnastics, fencing?”
“Fencing?” Kane said, his face turning to anger. “I guess nobody can please you, can they, Miss Ice Lady? Nobody’s up to your standards, are they?” he asked before turning away and walking toward the boys, who were swinging bats and tossing balls in the air.
Houston moved away from the crowd. Perhaps she had been a little too hard on him. Perhaps she should have said something nice about his trying to help the boys. It was what she’d always wanted to happen and, when it did, she was ungrateful.
At least, she could make the best of the day and not stand sulking in a corner. She stepped forward and spoke to a little girl near her and began explaining some of the rules of baseball. Within minutes, Houston had a crowd around her of women and girls, and even some men who had never seen the game before. By the time Kane and Rafe had organized the boys into teams, Houston had started a cheering section to applaud the boys’ progress, no matter how inept it was.
Two hours after they arrived, a four-horse wagon came barrelling into the midst of the people. Everyone stopped dead still, thinking that it must mean that a disaster had occurred.
The driver, red-faced and sweating, was Mr. Vaughn, who owned the sporting goods store. “Taggert!” he yelled at Kane as he controlled the sweaty horses. “This is the last time that I make an order like this for you. I don’t care if you buy my whole store, I ain’t workin’ on Sunday for nobody.”
“Did you bring everything?” Kane asked, moving to the back of the wagon that was covered with canvas. “And stop bellyachin’. With the prices I’ve paid you in the last months, I do own your store.”