"I'm Kathryn de Longe, and you hired me."
At that Cole's smile returned. "Oh, I see. So who put you up to this? Henry Brown? Or was it someone else? No, no, don't tell me, it was Lester and that bunch."
"I really have no idea what you're talking about. You put an ad in the Philadelphia paper, and I answered it. After the exchange of two letters, you hired me."
"Sure I did," Cole said with a voice dripping sarcasm, then he straightened and walked back around the desk, opened a drawer, and took out a large leather book--a book filled with bank drafts. "How much do you want?"
"I want what we agreed upon," she said, puzzled. "Mr. Jordan, I really do apologize for this morning, but--"
"You must be one of the players from Denver. Out- of-work actress, are you? Or just a prostitute with ambition?" He said the last with a slow look up and down her form.
Kathryn started to count to ten to control her temper, but instead she opened her case, pulled out papers, and began to put them before him on the desk. "Here are your two letters to me, and here are copies of my letters to you stating my qualifications. Here is the contract you sent me, and I believe that is, yes, I do believe that is your signature just above mine." She could not resist some sarcasm of her own, then, suddenly, doubt filled her mind. "Is that your signature? Did you write those letters?"
For a moment he looked at her in bewilderment, and she could tell by his expression that he had indeed signed the contracts. But then that knowing little smile of his came back. "How did you get these papers?"
"Through the United States mail service," she said in exasperation. "What is the problem? If you'd tell me what is wrong perhaps I could find a solution."
At that he opened a desk drawer and withdrew a piece of folded cardboard and tossed it toward her. "Open it," he said. "Go on. I think you should see it since you sent it to me."
Picking up the folder, she opened it to see a photograph of a stern-looking woman in her fifties, steel gray hair pulled back into a tight knot at the base of her neck. She had narrow eyes, a lipless mouth, and from her expression she had never smiled in her life.
"Seen that before?" Cole asked.
"No, should I have seen it?" she asked, putting the folder back onto his desk.
"That, Mrs. de Longe, or whatever your real name is, is you. Or who you wanted me to believe is you."
"I can assure you that I sent you a photograph of myself, not of anyone else, and I also sent you a full list of vital statistics, just as you asked for. I lied to you about nothing, not my age, my looks, or the fact that I am a widow with a nine-year-old son who will be living with me."
"Is this the list you sent?" he asked as he slammed a paper onto the desk.
As soon as Kathryn saw it she knew it wasn't her writing, for the letters were formed with a sharp angularity that her writing did not have. But when she saw her name at the top of the page, she picked it up and looked at it. According to the paper, Kathryn de Longe was fifty-one years old, five foot nine inches tall, and weighed a hundred and eighty-five pounds. She had never been married, had no dependents, and had taught school for nearly thirty years. Kathryn's mouth dropped open when she saw that all the schools "she" had taught at had been correctional institutions, mostly for "incorrigible" boys, but she'd also worked at a place for women who were "criminally insane."
With the paper were two testaments from former employers stating that. Miss de Longe could control any boys, no matter how deviant their behavior.
Kathryn put the pages back down on the desk. "I have never worked with deviants or the insane," she said with a slight curl of her lip. "I was under the impression you wanted a teacher for your son, not a jailer."
He didn't respond to her barb, but instead picked up one of the pages she had put on his desk. "And is this your true list of qualifications? Miss Satterly's School for Young Ladies and Gentlemen? And what about this?" he said as he began to read. "Miss Kathryn de Longe, aged twenty-six, widowed with a nine-year- old son named Jeremy." He glanced up at her. "Started very young, didn't you? A nine-year-old at twenty-six, that would make you... how old when he was born?"
Kathryn didn't answer him, but stood straight, her fists clenched at her sides.
"Seventeen," he said as though he'd struggled for the answer. "Were you married at sixteen? I don't suppose you have your marriage license."
"Destroyed in a fire," she said automatically, glaring at him.
"Just what I would have guessed," he said snidely. "Or lost at sea."
Kathryn moved in a way that she knew would make her corset stays stick into her ribs. She wanted to remind herself of the wanted poster hidden there. Legend was indeed a horrible place, but that was what was so good about it: No one in his right mind would look for her or anyone else here.
"Mr. Jordan," she said, working to control her growing anger at his implications. "I have no idea how you received another woman's photograph and resume in place of what I sent. All I know is that I have a contract signed by you. The contract guarantees me a job and living accommodation for two years. It further states that if I am not satisfactory, then you will pay me two years' wages in full."
To her consternation, the man threw back his head and laughed. "So that's the game, is it? Really, you have to tell me who set you up with this. Was it Ned or maybe oP Hog's Breath, as we kids used to call him?" "I really have no idea what you are talking about. I would like for you to honor your contract: Either give me the job, or pay me so I can leave this town. One or the other would suit me."