by Cat Cahill
He was like a dress that had been made over—a veneer that appeared well-to-do, but remained poor under the surface.
She took a tiny step backward from him, instantly wary. “I’m Celia Thornton.” Using her previous name separated her from Jack, which felt like a wise thing to do at the moment—at least until she found out what this man wanted.
“Ah, Mrs. Thornton! My colleague and I were hoping to meet you.” He grinned with those teeth, and Celia’s heart thumped hard against the walls of her chest. She glanced toward the front desk, but Mr. Foster had gone elsewhere. She was alone here with this strange man.
“You were?” she tried to say lightly.
“But of course, you knew that. Else why would you have come to visit me?” He kept the grin in place, but his words had grown a slight edge.
“Oh, well . . .” Celia’s mind tumbled through everything she could possibly say, finally landing on the truth. “One of the shop owners told me you were asking after Jack Wendler.”
“Indeed we were. In fact, we learned just this morning that he’d married a lady in town. A Mrs. Thornton.”
“Yes,” she said, her throat growing dry as she spoke. “We were married.”
“Were?”
Her choice of wording hadn’t been intentional, but now that Mr. Jones questioned it, she decided immediately upon the lie she would tell. “Yes. He left town the day after Christmas, without a word. I was gravely disappointed, as you can imagine.” Her voice shook a little, but she hoped Mr. Jones would presume that was because she was still mourning her husband leaving her. She’d never been so thankful that snow had kept them from services the prior Sunday, and that Jack had been too hard at work to make either this journey or the one she’d made a few days before into town. No one here had seen him since they’d delivered Faith home on Christmas Day.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Thornton, but I’m not surprised. He’s got a knack for running off,” Mr. Jones said. “He didn’t mention where he might be headed?”
She shook her head. “Not at all. It took me quite by surprise.” She chewed on her lip, praying the man believed her.
“All right. Thank you kindly for letting me know.”
“Mr. Jones?” she said as he turned to go back up the stairs. Almost against her better judgment but unable to restrain herself, she asked, “May I ask why you’re looking for him?”
He paused. “We’re old friends.”
Old friends. Somehow Celia didn’t think that was the case. As she slipped out the door and walked quickly back to the mercantile, worries crowded in from every direction.
And try as she might, Celia couldn’t shake the sense that her new husband was in danger.
Chapter Nineteen
“Jack!”
Celia’s voice, plain as day, came from outside the barn, and the alarm in it was evident. Jack tossed aside the old, worn shirt in his hand that he’d been using to clean the sawdust off the small box he’d made. Then tossed on his coat and raced outside to find Celia jumping down from the wagon.
“Jack, oh, thank goodness.” She flung her arms about him, breathing heavily.
He rested a hand on the back of her head and wrapped his other arm around her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“There are men in town—two men—wanting to speak with you.” She looked up at him, the breath from her words lingering in the air.
His entire body went cold. He dropped his hands to her arms and took a step back to see her better.
She went on. “I was at—oh, never mind that. I found them, though, at the hotel, and spoke with one Mr. Jones.”
“Jones?” He pondered that until he realized what exactly she’d done. “Wait, you sought them out?”
Celia nodded. “It was so odd, but I thought that maybe they had something to do with how hard you’ve been working out here lately. I thought I could pass along a message. But Jack, the man I met with . . .” She shuddered.
“What did he look like?” He gripped her hands.
“Big. He was well-dressed, or so I thought, until I saw him closer. It was as if his nice clothing had been worn frequently for years. He was very polite, almost too much so. He had a funny way of speaking, and—oh!—gold set between his teeth. He was . . . unsettling.”
Jack’s stomach seemed to lurch up to his throat, and he closed his eyes briefly.
It was Garrity Shane.
“Do you know him? He said you were old friends, but honestly, Jack, I had the strangest sensation that he wasn’t much of a friend at all. He felt dangerous.”
Jack nodded slowly, opening his eyes. “No,” he said quietly, “we are not friends.”
“Who is he?” Celia peered up at him with those trusting pale green eyes.
“What did you tell him?” He needed to know, right now. He had to make a decision.
She chewed on her lip. “That you’d run off right after Christmas. I don’t know why I lied, but I felt as if I should.”
“That was good.” He dropped her hands and began to pace.
“Jack?” Celia pressed her arms to her sides. “You didn’t tell me who he is.”
He stopped and rested a hand against the side of the barn, trying to keep his thoughts in order. “A man who believes I owe him money.”
“He invested in one of your businesses?”
“No, his boss did. And he was quite unhappy that it failed.” Jack glanced up at Celia. “He’s the reason I left when I did.”
She blinked at him. “I thought you said you left to seek new opportunities here.”
“I did.” Guilt welled up inside him. “That’s the truth, but . . . Shane was also on my heels.”
Celia frowned. “His name is Shane, then? What do you mean, he was on your heels?”
Jack dug his fingers into the wooden post of the barn, ignoring the cold that had begun to make them go numb. He didn’t want to tell her. It was shameful. And he supposed that was why he’d kept it from her before. But if Shane was in town, she needed to know. “His boss demanded I repay him the money I’d lost. I couldn’t, and so he sent Shane and his men after me.” He looked up at Celia, who was watching him with disbelief in her eyes.
“I’d written that letter and wound up climbing out the window of my flat with it. I left that night, and came here.”
She shook her head slowly, as if she was trying to make sense of what he said. “You’re in danger. We’re in danger.” The words were accusing, and it took all of Jack’s willpower not to try to smooth the situation over with pretty words and reassurances.
“Yes,” he said shortly, before glancing around at the house, the horses still hitched to the wagon, the flat land that led northward to the river. “We need to leave.”
“No.” She stared at him, incredulous.
“Celia. We have to go now. You don’t know what these men are capable of.” Should they take the wagon? No, going on horseback would be faster. Where would they go? His mind spun.
“I can’t believe you. But perhaps I should.”
“What do you mean?” Impatience leaked through his words. They needed to leave, now. It was only a matter of time before Shane discovered that what Celia had told him wasn’t true. Before he rode out here himself to find out for certain.
“That’s what you do. You run away. You ran from your investors into the next project. You ran from New York. And now you want me to run with you, away from my home and Faith.” She stood defiant, arms crossed. “I won’t go.”
Her words couldn’t have hurt more if they were bullets piercing his skin and lodging into his heart. “But . . .” He didn’t finish.
Because she was right.
What kind of a man was he? His father would be ashamed. He’d always said it was best to face your troubles head-on. But Jack hadn’t done anything of the kind. Ever.
A sort of self-loathing took hold of him.
“You can run if you’d like,” Celia said. “But I’m going inside to pack a bag. Then I’m riding into to
wn to stay with Faith. I fear those men will pay her a visit next, and I don’t want her to be alone.”
“Celia—” But it was pointless. She was already to the door.
She couldn’t go to town—he couldn’t let her willingly walk into danger alone. Jack squeezed his eyes shut, willing the answer to be easier, less terrifying. But it wasn’t.
He wasn’t good enough for Celia. He never had been. If she didn’t want him anymore, she was right.
Without thinking, Jack unhitched the horses and put Tiny into her stall in the barn. He took one glance at the house, with Celia safely inside, and then climbed atop George and rode away from the farm.
Chapter Twenty
Celia emerged from the house twenty minutes later, an old carpetbag filled with necessities to last however long she might need to stay. She’d have to ask a neighbor to care for the chickens and cow, presuming Jack ran, that is. She squeezed her eyes shut at that thought. She couldn’t let herself cry over it now. She needed to be brave, which meant she couldn’t let herself think about the fact that he’d kept something so important from her. Or that despite how much she’d believed in him, he’d shown himself to be a coward.
She opened her eyes and stepped off the front porch. The wagon and the horses were gone from the yard. Jack must have put them away, not believing what she’d said.
Which was fine. It wasn’t as if she were incapable of saddling a horse herself. She strode across the yard, her unbuttoned coat flying out behind her, trying to figure out what she’d say if Jack attempted to stop her from leaving.
But when she entered the barn, he wasn’t there. Everything else was in order—the wagon, the cow, the horses . . . No, one of the horses was missing too.
Celia dropped her bag and ran outside. Jack and George were nowhere to be seen. An aching sadness overwhelmed her. Had he run already?
But that didn’t make sense. He hadn’t come inside, hadn’t packed a thing. If he were going to take off for good, wouldn’t he have at least grabbed some extra clothing and some food? She ran back into the barn. The old canteen still hung from a peg. He hadn’t even brought water.
Celia stood uncertainly in the middle of the barn. He hadn’t run, then. But the only other place he could have gone was . . . to town.
She thought she might be sick. He’d taken her words to heart. He wasn’t running away from danger, but toward it. To do what? Her stomach flipped. What might those men do when he found them?
She had to get to him. She didn’t know what she could do. Maybe convince those men to leave him alone, promise them they’d get their boss’s investment returned. All she knew was that she needed to see Jack again. He’d done this because of what she said, and she couldn’t bear it if anything happened to him.
In no time at all, she had Tiny saddled. Her carpetbag forgotten on the barn floor, Celia raced to town. The cold bit at her face, but she didn’t feel it. Reaching the road that led into town, she kept the frozen river to her left and tried not to push Tiny.
After what seemed like hours, she finally reached the outskirts of Last Chance. The hotel seemed the most likely place to start despite the fact that George was not tied up outside. Jack might have taken him to the livery. But Celia didn’t want to waste time checking on that possibility. She tied Tiny to a post outside and entered the place for the second time that day. She spotted the same clerk behind the desk.
“Please,” she said, somewhat out of breath and certain she must look a complete mess. “That man I met here earlier, Mr. Jones? Is he available?”
Mr. Foster shook his head. “No, ma’am. I saw him and his companion leave about a half hour ago with another man.”
Jack. Celia clenched the edge of the desk to keep her fingers from shaking. “Do you know where they went?”
“They didn’t say. Now, I’m sure if you’d like to wait—”
Celia didn’t let him finish. She thanked him and ran from the building. Untying Tiny, she pondered where to look next. Where would a couple of men out for revenge go with the man they were seeking? She glanced around, taking in the diner, the mercantile, a warehouse, Faith’s post and telegraph office. None of those seemed a likely option.
Where could they have gone? Panic danced a jig in her heart. Just as she was about to collapse in a heap of tears and frustration, she spotted Penelope Purcell, wife of one of the lawyers in Last Chance, and one of the ladies Celia had delivered clean laundry to just that morning. If anyone might know Jack’s whereabouts—along with what every soul in town was up to—it was Mrs. Purcell.
“Celia? Are you all right?” Mrs. Purcell noticed her immediately and came racing over.
Celia tucked a few curls back under her hat in a fruitless effort to appear less harried. News of her search for Jack would be all over town in no time flat, but she’d happily trade that to learn where he might be. “I’m looking for my husband. He came into town not too long ago and met up with a couple of men from New York. I don’t suppose you’ve seen him?”
Mrs. Purcell nodded vigorously, apparently very happy to have her talent at gossip put to good use. “I did, in fact.” She leaned in closely. “Those men he was with didn’t look like very upstanding sorts of people. He’d do well to stay away from them.”
“Yes,” Celia agreed impatiently.
“They were headed toward the ferry. But it was strange—none of them had horses. I don’t know where they’d go once on the other side of the river without horses.”
“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Purcell! Thank you!” Celia wanted to embrace the woman, but she was in far too much of a hurry.
“Who were those men?” Mrs. Purcell asked as Celia left Tiny tied to the post and ran toward the ferry dock on foot. “Where did they come from? Does Mr. Wendler know them well? Is he in some sort of trouble?”
Celia waved behind her, hoping Mrs. Purcell wouldn’t think her too rude. Between the hotel and the depot, she moved across the flattened snow-covered ground carefully so as not to lose her balance on the slick surface. Reaching the riverbank, she scanned the area. The ferry was tied up to the dock, the ferryman standing alone near his craft. To the left where the road followed the river and various businesses overlooked the Grand Platte, there wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. To the right, the river made a slight bend around the ferry depot and moved away, eastward from town. It was hidden from sight, and no one went that way, except for a picnic in the summer or when the fish in the cleaner part of the river west of town weren’t biting.
She followed the riverbank around the rear of the ferry depot, past where Main Street ended. The snow here was higher, but more importantly, footsteps led the same direction. She paused, the town behind her and the frozen river to the left, and stood perfectly still, willing her ears to take in all possible sound. Above the occasional shout from town, she could just barely hear voices. She searched the trees that lay ahead, the ones that began to obscure the river from view. The ones into which the tracks she’d been following led.
Not pausing to think about what she’d do or say, or what she could possibly be walking into, Celia strode toward the trees.
And that was when she heard his voice.
“Now just let me think a moment and—” Jack’s words cut off abruptly from somewhere just ahead. There was a grunting sound, and then a man said, “You’ve had plenty of time for thinking. Mr. Sullivan wants his money, not your thoughts.”
Celia gripped the closest tree, a fir with needles that pricked the sleeve of her coat. It was him, Mr. Jones. Or Mr. Shane, if that was his true name. She’d recognize that musical-sounding voice anywhere. She drew in a great breath and stepped silently through the snow until she saw them.
There, just beyond a couple more trees and in plain view of the frozen river, Jack was doubled over. A tall, slim man Celia hadn’t seen before, but assumed was the other man Mr. Talley had mentioned, leaned against a leafless cottonwood, examining a pocket watch. He looked as if the entire situation bored him. A shiny pis
tol sat holstered on his hip. Mr. Shane, however, was standing over Jack, his formerly fine jacket covered with a coat of equal quality. His hat sat tipped back on his head, as if he didn’t want it getting in his way.
“If you’d give me—” Jack sputtered as he tried to rise, but Mr. Shane seemed to have no patience for his words. He raised a fist.
Celia covered her mouth. She couldn’t stand by and let this happen. Without thinking, she burst out from her hiding place. “Stop! Please. I’ll help you.”
The man lowered his fist and whirled around. Even the bored-looking fellow looked a bit more interested at her appearance. And Jack looked up, struggling to stand when he spotted her. The side of his face was already turning an ugly shade of red and purple.
“Celia,” he said, his breath wheezing. “Go. Go home.”
Her heart ached for him. Despite what he’d kept from her, here he was. He hadn’t run this time.
And she was terrified that it might kill him.
“Mr. Shane?” Celia forced herself to look away from Jack’s anguished face.
“Mrs. Thornton.” He gave her a benevolent smile, as if he were here to help her in some way. “Or is it Mrs. Wendler? I find this all so confusing. As you can see, we found your wayward husband. Or rather—” He looked down at Jack in disdain. “He found us.”
“Please, let him be. I can help you.” Celia didn’t think about the words as she said them. All she wanted was for them to leave Jack alone. “I can see that you get paid.”
Mr. Shane sneered at her. “Pardon me, ma’am, but I don’t believe a word you say. Your husband here has quite the way with words, and forgive me for assuming that you must also.” He glanced at his colleague. “Mr. Fain, if you will assist here. We ought to keep this moving along. I’d like to be out of this godforsaken place by morning.”
The tall man peeled himself off the tree and stepped toward Celia. She took a step back, alarmed. “I promise you he will pay it back. We will pay it back.” But her pleading words fell on deaf ears.
