I could never do what you did today.”
Kurt gave a dry laugh. “That’s the truth. You’re hard-pressed to complete a tracing without making a mistake.”
Jessie gritted her teeth to keep from saying something she’d regret. How dare Kurt lash out at Trace like that? She drew in a calming breath. “We all make mistakes. I’ve certainly made my fair share.”
“I make them, too.”
Flynt’s admission took her by surprise. Apparently it had surprised his men, as well, because not one of the three said a word.
He continued. “I’ve always used a penknife to scrape off an errant mark, but Jessie uses a different method that leaves the paper in better shape. I’ll have her demonstrate it for us tomorrow.”
His offhand compliment left her at a loss for words. She’d cringed inwardly when her pen had slipped and she’d been forced to rub off the excess ink with a bit of Oakey’s glass paper. Flynt had watched her carefully, adding to her nervousness. Instead of finding fault with her, though, he’d been admiring her. She peered at him shyly and was rewarded with an understanding smile.
Kurt mumbled something.
Flynt turned to him. “What was that, Kurt?”
“Nothing, sir.”
Very little escaped Flynt’s notice. So he must be aware of the constant interruptions she’d dealt with all day. She’d handled them with a combination of humor and tact, but if nothing was done to put a stop to them, they would slow her down.
Mr. Bishop had gone out in the field quite often, leaving her in the office with the two draftsmen who also worked for the small irrigation company. They’d pestered her every chance they got. She didn’t want to endure that again.
They reached the end of Coon Hollow Road and started down Sacramento Hill. The wagon creaked, which came as no surprise. The grade must be around 13 percent. Jessie clutched the edge of the seat to keep from sliding into Flynt.
George didn’t hold on, and the ten inches that had separated them became two. She doubted that was an accident. He leaned even closer. She had to force herself not to jab him in the side with her elbow. “The fellows and I rent rooms at the Ohio House hotel. Where are you staying, Jessie?”
She kept her answer vague. “In a boardinghouse up on Coloma Street.”
“Ah, yes. That would be Maybelle Monroe’s place, wouldn’t it? I’ll gladly walk you home.”
Before she could reply, Flynt intervened, speaking in an authoritative tone. “That won’t be necessary, George.”
Flynt exchanged a few indistinguishable words with the stoop-shouldered driver straining on the brake and turned toward her. “It’s all settled. Harvey will run you home, Jessie, and then return to Main Street and let us off. He’ll be back to pick you up in the morning.”
“Thank you.” He’d spared her the need to decline George’s offer.
She’d dealt with more besotted men than she cared to remember. They’d flocked to the High Stakes night after night to hear her sing. No. Not her. Jade, as she’d been called in those days.
That part of her life was over, and yet the memories persisted. Men gazing at her with unbridled interest as she entertained the saloon’s patrons with one lively tune after another. Men promising her all manner of things if she’d spend a little time with them. Men refusing to take no for an answer and being tossed into the street as a result.
Barely sixteen when she’d begun singing for Ace’s patrons, she hadn’t known how to handle the attention. She’d received counsel from Miss Maggie, the owner of the brothel upstairs, who’d given motherly advice to all her girls. Although Jessie had never been one of them, she’d learned a good deal from the seasoned woman about how to handle too-friendly fellows.
As unobtrusively as possible, Jessie inched away from George. He hadn’t become too much of a problem—yet—and she planned to keep it that way.
The wagon rounded the corner at the bottom of Sacramento Hill, also known as Sacramento Street, and traveled a short distance along Main. The driver waited in front of the Arch Saloon for his turn onto Coloma Street. A colorfully clad saloon girl shoved her way through the swinging doors and sashayed up the street.
Flynt folded his arms over his chest and made a disapproving sound low in his throat.
Jessie angled toward him. “What’s wrong?”
Before he could respond, George leaned close. “Flynt is no friend of saloons, and he has a strong dislike of saloon girls, too. He makes that same sound whenever he sees one.”
“I see.” She’d have to be careful never to say or do anything that would cause Flynt to suspect she was anything other than the lady she appeared to be. If he were to find out about her days as a saloon singer, his opinion of her would surely change. He might even refuse to work with her.
Minutes later Harvey pulled up in front of Maybelle’s place. George jumped to his feet. “Wait a minute, Jessie. I’ll run and get that chair on the porch for you to step onto.”
Flynt stood. “No need. I’ve got it.”
He held out a hand, helped her to her feet and leaped from the back of the wagon. She waited at the edge of the bed.
“Lean over and put your hands on my shoulders.”
The chair suddenly seemed a much better idea, but she complied. He wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her to the ground. The short flight through the air left her light-headed. Or had her breathlessness come about because he’d raced to her rescue?
Ever since she’d discovered the story of Cinderella as a girl, she’d dreamed of a handsome prince sweeping her off her feet. Flynt might not be a prince, but he was kind, chivalrous and handsome. With his thick, wavy hair and that warm smile...
No. He was grinning. And she was staring.
She mentally shook herself and stepped out of his hold. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. See you tomorrow.” He reached into the wagon for her lunch pail and drawing case, handed them to her and doffed his hat.
She stood entranced as Harvey turned the wagon around and headed back downtown. What would it be like to have a gentleman like Flynt interested in her? A decent man who knew there was more to her than a “pretty face” and a “lilting voice,” the only attributes the men at the High Stakes had cared about?
Because of her disreputable past, she would never know.
There. She’d done her best.
Jessie faced Flynt’s drawing board the next day shortly before noon, studying her most impressive work to date. She massaged her lower back to ease the stiffness.
Footfalls signaled Flynt’s approach. He stopped behind her, and she
