She was surprised that he knew. Everyone else in Kingman knew, so why not this stranger? He was eating a buttered roll. Taylor did not believe in bread and certainly not butter. “I’d rather not talk about her.”
“I understand. When did she die?”
“Die?” Amanda asked. “My mother is not dead.”
“But she doesn’t live with you, then?”
“My mother stays in her room. Perhaps, Dr. Montgomery, we should change the subject.”
She turned her head away and Hank sat there, eating, and watched her. Seeing her profile in the moonlight made him remember his first impression of her, as if she came from another time and place, as if he’d known her before. But her coldness, her haughtiness, her snobbery made him know he was mistaken. He wondered if her thin little body was capable of emotion.
He turned at a noise and saw the cook coming through the darkness and bearing two plates, each heaped high with three slices of cake.
“Thought you might like a little something else,” she said, setting the desserts down and taking Hank’s empty plate, then leaving.
Hank offered a plateful to Amanda, but she shook her head. “Suit yourself, but it’s awfully good.” Little prude, he thought, too cool to even accept a piece of cake. No doubt she thought her purity would be threatened if she touched devil’s food cake. He wondered if she and Taylor kissed at all. Probably it would be a kiss as tasteless as that afternoon’s fish.
Amanda didn’t dare look at him while he was eating the cake. Her stomach was rumbling and the smell was making her mouth water. But she didn’t dare eat any because Taylor might smell it on her breath or see bits of chocolate between her teeth. He wouldn’t like her if she were so weak-willed as to eat cake that wasn’t on the schedule.
“Better,” Hank said as he put his cleaned plate aside and leaned back against the post, his legs stretched out. “What do you have planned for us tomorrow? I assume you do have my day planned.”
She frowned at his tone then began to quote Taylor’s schedule. “We go to the Kingman Museum in the morning, then home for luncheon, and then a scenic tour of the area. That should take us to dinner time.”
“What do you do for fun?”
“I do watercolors and sew,” she answered, smiling to herself. Taylor gave her excellent grades on the watercolors and they were used as a reward for other subjects well done.
“How do you stand the excitement?” he murmured. “What do you and your lover do on nights on the town?”
“We do not go into town,” she said, confused. Taylor said Kingman was too provincial to be worthy of his time, that he’d not visit a city smaller than San Francisco, where he went once a year to buy clothes and other necessary items. Other than those two weeks, he rarely left the ranch.
“Too good for it, are you?” Hank asked and realized he was getting nasty. Something about her primness, her smugness, her refusal to even bend enough to eat a piece of chocolate cake, brought out the worst in him.
He stood. “I’m going to bed. You coming in?”
“Yes,” she said softly, and gave one last look at the shadow that she knew was the second plateful of cake.
Moments later she was in her room, and on her desk were pages of notes on the history of Kingman that she was to commit to memory before going to bed. She sat down heavily in her chair and wished for the thousandth time that Dr. Montgomery had never come. For some reason he seemed to dislike her a great deal, more with each passing minute, and to earn this dislike she was having to work twice as hard, miss meals, and repeatedly incur Taylor’s wrath.
So tonight she would have to stay up late studying, and tomorrow she’d have to take him to a museum, and no matter how hard she’d try to be a good guide, she’d no doubt displease him. Why was he so hard to please and Taylor so easy? If she did what Taylor had written down, in the exact order, exactly on time, Taylor was happy. Perhaps she should ask Dr. Montgomery what he wanted of her. But no, that wasn’t a good idea, because if it conflicted with Taylor’s schedule, she’d have to ignore Dr
. Montgomery’s wishes.
She glanced at the clock on the wall and thought she’d better stop pondering and get to work.
Hank stood on the cool balcony, looking at the stars and smelling the rich fragrances of the night, and wished he had a whiskey. To his left was Amanda’s room and he could see a light through the curtains, could even see the shadow of her sitting at her desk. He knew he could step off the balcony onto the verandah roof and walk right across to her window.
And then what, he thought. Have Miss Amanda tell him how many feet it was from his balcony to her window? He wondered what she’d do if he kissed her. Tell him the history of kissing?
He went back into his room, took off his clothes and climbed into bed. He went to sleep right away, but a couple of hours later he woke and, on impulse, put on his robe and went to the balcony. Amanda’s light was still on and she was still hunched over her desk.
Frowning, he went back to bed. However much a prude she was, she was certainly diligent at whatever she did.
When he woke the next morning it was late and he sensed that people were already up and at work. He dressed hurriedly, then raced down the stairs. Amanda and Taylor were standing in the doorway to the dining room, Taylor looking at his pocket watch, Amanda obediently behind him.
“I guess I’m late again,” he said without concern, and walked past them into the dining room. On the sideboard were silver servers full of scrambled eggs, biscuits, gravy, ham, sliced pineapple, waffles and syrup. “Ah,” he said in the tone of a hungry man confronted with delicious food.
He filled a plate and sat down, then looked up to see Taylor and Amanda watching him. There was a sneer of disgust on Taylor’s coldly perfect features but on Amanda’s…It was just fleeting, but he almost thought he saw wistfulness or maybe it was true hunger, but the look was gone instantly and she looked down at the watery poached egg in her cup.