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“What do you want to know?”
“How did you get them? Why? When? What are the designs…you know…everything.”
“My curious kitten,” he drawled.
“I am, so, tell me. How old were you when you got your first, or did you get them all done at once?”
“My sleeve? That’s come together over ten years. I get some new ink every year, usually on or around my birthday.”
“When is your birthday?”
“End of this month.”
She sat up straighter. “We’ll have to celebrate!”
He laughed and shook his head. “Not necessary.”
“Oh, but it is. I love birthdays. Let me plan something for you…please?”
“We’ll see.”
“Bad answer. You’re supposed to say yes, and mean it.”
He gave her an amused look but didn’t argue. “I got my first tattoo when I was eighteen. It was the bird here.” He tapped the design she’d been looking at.
And she’d been right. It was a wing. Jet leaned towards him to get a better look. “It’s a raven,” she said, skimming the beak, the eye, the tight wing. She looked up at him. “Like your raven story.”
He nodded.
“But I thought your raven became a swan?” she asked.
“That’s here.” He turned his arm, shifting to show her the inside of his wrist. A swan had been worked into other swirls and shapes, many of them reminiscent of Native American designs.
She turned his arm, following one of the shapes, coming to a long feather. “Is this an eagle feather?”
“Could be. It’s also a quill.”
“Because you write.” She continued to trace the birds and feather and black ink that turned into a burst of orange. “What is this one, though? I can’t tell. Your sleeve is in the way.”
“It’s a flame. The glow of fire.”
“What does it mean?”
“It’s to remind me to be careful. To not let my anger burn. The sun can burn. Fire burns. But it’s destructive if I do.”
“Why tattoos?”
“They tell a story. They are, I suppose, the story of me.”
His words made her heart hurt a little bit and she ground her back teeth together to hide the fact that he made her feel so much. He was independent and tough, and yet his need to be tough made her feel protective.
He caught her expression. “You don’t need to be sad. Not for me. I’m good. I promise.”
“But these past few months in Marietta haven’t been easy for you. The book’s been a struggle, too, hasn’t it?”
He didn’t immediately answer. “If I had to do it over again, I wouldn’t.”
That surprised her and she wanted to ask more but it didn’t seem like the best time, not with the exit for Butte on top of them and she still hadn’t figured out where they were going to stay.
“You can trust me,” she said quietly, reaching for her phone to have one more look at hotels, realizing they’d maybe just have to stay at a chain place rather than the interesting place her heart desired.
“I believe that,” he answered.
“Good,” she said firmly. “Because if you share something with me, I won’t blab to Harley…or to anyone. I have your back.”
“I know.”
And from his tone, she knew he meant it, too.
Maybe they were finally getting somewhere.
In downtown Butte, Jet stood in line to order coffee from a funky, little coffee house while Shane made a series of quick phone calls. He was off the phone by the time their coffee was ready and they spent the next forty-five minutes walking up and down the historic neighborhoods with names like Granite, Idaho, Washington, and Broadway. There were huge mansions that had been preserved, and smaller Victorians that were still inhabited, and then there was a string of mansions for sale, as well as a series of older brick buildings a few blocks east that were vacant and had seen better days.
“I wish I could fill these buildings up with families and businesses,” Jet said as they started back for Shane’s car. She was keenly aware of the past, and how Butte had gone from nothing to grandeur—it was one of the first cities where all its citizens had electricity—to a community still struggling to preserve the past while moving forward into the future. “It’s hard to see so much standing empty.”
“Was it what you expected?” Shane asked, unlocking the car doors.
It was nearing dusk and night was rapidly falling. “Yes, but it makes me uncomfortable.”
“Uncomfortable?”
“It was once so beautiful. And it’s not anymore. Many of these big houses need owners to love them, and right now it should be rush hour with cars and traffic, at least cars returning home from work, but the streets are empty and too many houses are dark. And even though there is a new Butte, and the university, Montana Tech, this historic district isn’t considered desirable anymore, and I can see why. Families want to raise their children in neighborhoods with other children.”
“Should we push on then? We don’t need to stay the night here. We didn’t end up booking anything.”
Jet turned to look up behind her at the hill with the line of tired Victorians and further to the east was the ruined mountain, once known as the richest hill on earth. “Maybe we go,” she said. “Since we don’t have rooms here.”
“Well, we do have rooms, if we want them. They’re available and I just need to confirm or let them go.” He pointed to a huge brick and stone house on the corner one block over. “That’s where we’d stay if you were interested.”
“Another one of the Copper Kings’ mansions?”
“Yes. Frasier Mansion.”
“Is that one a bed and breakfast, too?”
“Like the Clark mansion, it’s usually just open in summer, but I made some calls and they could accommodate us if we were interested.”
“Just like that?”
“I have connections.”
“Impressive.”
He let this slide. “They agreed to let us have two rooms, but we’d be the only ones there, after they let us in.” He hesitated. “I should warn you that many people claim it’s haunted.”
She stared across the street, fascinated but even less comfortable. Butte was not sitting well with her. She’d expected to love it, but instead she was really ambivalent. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“I’ve encountered paranormal activity.”
Her eyes widened.
His broad shoulders shifted. “Native American culture recognizes spirits. Maybe that’s why I’m sensitive to it.”
She eyed the hulking brick and stone mansion with the turrets and numerous narrow windows on the upper floors. “I don’t know…it was more inviting earlier. Now that it’s getting dark it’s giving me the creeps.”
“It’d help if they turn on lights.”
She turned to look at him and then back at the three story mansion. “I could have sworn Paradise Valley’s first teacher was a Frasier. There’s a plaque commemorating a Miss M. Frasier on the wall in the small staff room, but probably no relation.”
“It’s not just a relation; McKenna Frasier was copper baron Patrick Frasier’s middle, and only surviving, daughter.”
“McKenna?” Her eyebrows arched. “Seems to be quite a popular name in Paradise Valley.”
“Maybe that’s because McKenna Frasier was the great-great grandmother of McKenna Douglas, Trey’s wife.”
“Wouldn’t McKenna Frasier have been an heiress?”
He nodded. “She was one of the wealthiest young women in America. Highly educated, very beautiful, and very privileged, she left Butte for the East Coast with big dreams, but fell in love with the wrong person, had an affair—details are contradictory, but it was enough to ruin her. Her father cut her off, leaving her penniless, and she had to return to Montana, as a teacher in remote Paradise Valley.”
“How old was she?”
“Close to your age, I think. Twenty-three, maybe
.”
“Did they ever patch things up? Between her and her father?”
He shook his head. “Her father never spoke to her again.”
“Horrible.” She hated Butte now. “Do you mind if we pass on the night in the historic, but possibly haunted, house? I’m glad you’ve had experience with ghosts, but I’m not sure I’m ready for that, particularly if the ghost belongs to Patrick Frasier. He does not seem like a nice old man.”
“I agree. Let’s continue to Missoula. I’ll call the manager and let her know we won’t be staying after all.”
