to fleece a well-heeled woman.”
Jonah leaned back against the wall behind his bench, folded his arms across his broad chest, and swept his eyes over her in
critical assessment. His inspection made her uncharacteristically aware of her appearance—the damp, wrinkled skirt and jacket,
the soiled cuffs of her shirtwaist, the straggling wisps of hair that had escaped her coiled braids. “Katy, my girl,” he announced,
“even with a wad of money in your hand, you wouldn’t come close to looking well-heeled. They’ll know something’s up.”
She merely smiled. “I may not look like a gold-plated easy mark now, but I will.”
In two hours’ time, she did. For an outrageous amount of five dollars, they purchased from one of the town’s clothing shops
a used dress that fit Katy well enough that it could pass for tailor-made. The dress was silk, with a high neckline and a
row of interminable tiny pearl buttons running from the stiffly laced collar to snug vee waist. The skirt was narrow and very
effectivein emphasizing Katy’s slender figure and youthful grace. It even had a hint of a bustle in the rear. The dress would have
been modest enough if not for the color, which was a flamboyant red. The hue set off Katy’s coloring in a most spectacular
way. When she looked at herself in the clothing shop dressing room mirror, Katy scarcely knew herself.
She called Jonah into the dressing room. “What do you think?” she asked as she pirouetted before him.
His brows shot up, and his eyes widened momentarily. “I’d hardly recognize you.”
“Is that good?”
He chuckled. “In this case, I think it is. You look like a woman who might consider a poker game an evening’s entertainment.
You need to do something with your hair, though. Braids are definitely not the style a sophisticated gambling woman would
choose.”
Katy stared at her reflection in the mirror. The red dress made her look older. Her eyes looked larger, her hair blacker,
her skin smoother. She felt every inch a woman—feminine, powerful in a way she didn’t understand. The feeling was disconcerting.
“What would rich gambling woman choose?”
“Do you have a comb in that valise?”
“A brush.”
“Then I’ll show you.”
For the next twenty minutes, Katy struggled to tame the heavy waves of her hair into one of the current fashions. Katy had
no idea what current fashion was, but Jonah had a sister, he told her, whose primary task in life was to not let the fashion
world move an inch without her following. So Jonah assumed the mantle of supervisor to Katy’s efforts. The result was less
than haute couture, for, unlike Jonah’s sister, Katy did not have the advantage of a dressing table full of curling irons
and hairpins. They made do with a brush, the few pins she had used to anchor the coils of her braids, and ingenuity. Katy
did the work herself, and only permitted Jonah the job of critic. She didn’t want him to touch her hair—or, perhaps, Katy
admitted to herself, she did want him to touch her hair—for no good reason she could understand. When she had loosed her braids and he’d
drawn her brush through the kinked mass that fell to her waist, a vibrant shock had run through her. She didn’t like it. Jonah
Armstrong could keep his shocks to himself, fashionable sister and all, and she would do her own hair.
Katy managed finally to concoct a style that left a gentle fullness around her face and gathered the rest of her hair into
a large, heavy coil at the back of her head. If she relaxed her neck for a single instant, her head would tip back from the
weight of her hair and she would spend the rest of the evening staring at the sky, Katy was sure. As soon as this charade
was over, her hair was going into braids again.
“Am I presentable?” she asked irritably.
A slow, disconcerting smile crinkled Jonah’s eyes. “More than presentable. You’re beautiful, Katy O’Connell.”
His
Jonah leaned back against the wall behind his bench, folded his arms across his broad chest, and swept his eyes over her in
critical assessment. His inspection made her uncharacteristically aware of her appearance—the damp, wrinkled skirt and jacket,
the soiled cuffs of her shirtwaist, the straggling wisps of hair that had escaped her coiled braids. “Katy, my girl,” he announced,
“even with a wad of money in your hand, you wouldn’t come close to looking well-heeled. They’ll know something’s up.”
She merely smiled. “I may not look like a gold-plated easy mark now, but I will.”
In two hours’ time, she did. For an outrageous amount of five dollars, they purchased from one of the town’s clothing shops
a used dress that fit Katy well enough that it could pass for tailor-made. The dress was silk, with a high neckline and a
row of interminable tiny pearl buttons running from the stiffly laced collar to snug vee waist. The skirt was narrow and very
effectivein emphasizing Katy’s slender figure and youthful grace. It even had a hint of a bustle in the rear. The dress would have
been modest enough if not for the color, which was a flamboyant red. The hue set off Katy’s coloring in a most spectacular
way. When she looked at herself in the clothing shop dressing room mirror, Katy scarcely knew herself.
She called Jonah into the dressing room. “What do you think?” she asked as she pirouetted before him.
His brows shot up, and his eyes widened momentarily. “I’d hardly recognize you.”
“Is that good?”
He chuckled. “In this case, I think it is. You look like a woman who might consider a poker game an evening’s entertainment.
You need to do something with your hair, though. Braids are definitely not the style a sophisticated gambling woman would
choose.”
Katy stared at her reflection in the mirror. The red dress made her look older. Her eyes looked larger, her hair blacker,
her skin smoother. She felt every inch a woman—feminine, powerful in a way she didn’t understand. The feeling was disconcerting.
“What would rich gambling woman choose?”
“Do you have a comb in that valise?”
“A brush.”
“Then I’ll show you.”
For the next twenty minutes, Katy struggled to tame the heavy waves of her hair into one of the current fashions. Katy had
no idea what current fashion was, but Jonah had a sister, he told her, whose primary task in life was to not let the fashion
world move an inch without her following. So Jonah assumed the mantle of supervisor to Katy’s efforts. The result was less
than haute couture, for, unlike Jonah’s sister, Katy did not have the advantage of a dressing table full of curling irons
and hairpins. They made do with a brush, the few pins she had used to anchor the coils of her braids, and ingenuity. Katy
did the work herself, and only permitted Jonah the job of critic. She didn’t want him to touch her hair—or, perhaps, Katy
admitted to herself, she did want him to touch her hair—for no good reason she could understand. When she had loosed her braids and he’d
drawn her brush through the kinked mass that fell to her waist, a vibrant shock had run through her. She didn’t like it. Jonah
Armstrong could keep his shocks to himself, fashionable sister and all, and she would do her own hair.
Katy managed finally to concoct a style that left a gentle fullness around her face and gathered the rest of her hair into
a large, heavy coil at the back of her head. If she relaxed her neck for a single instant, her head would tip back from the
weight of her hair and she would spend the rest of the evening staring at the sky, Katy was sure. As soon as this charade
was over, her hair was going into braids again.
“Am I presentable?” she asked irritably.
A slow, disconcerting smile crinkled Jonah’s eyes. “More than presentable. You’re beautiful, Katy O’Connell.”
His
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