by Jo Goodman
Thaddeus nodded slowly. “I see.”
“I don’t know if you do, Thaddeus. I don’t know if I do, but I take heart when I consider that while she plans to stay, it is not her desire to do so.” Phoebe let the words sit there and knew the impact of them when Thaddeus turned his head in her direction and two vertical creases appeared between his eyebrows. “Yes,” she said. “You heard me correctly. I truly believe she wants to remain with you. I’ve never known Fiona not to fight for what she wants, but then she has never had to fight to keep a man. If there was competition, there was always someone waiting for her quite literally in the wings. This is outside her experience. She’s afraid and she wants to run.”
“Keep a man?” Thaddeus quietly echoed the words, adding the disbelieving inflection that made them a question. “You’re talking about me? I’m the man she has to fight to keep?” When Phoebe nodded to all of it, he asked, “Who the hell does she think she has to fight? Who is her competition?” His eyes widened fractionally as he stared at Phoebe. “You! Jumpin’ Jesus. Of course it’s you. That I should have to be led like a horse to water is humiliating. When I think back on how I enjoyed your company in New York, and then invited you to come here, it’s clear that Fiona must have misinterpreted my interest. And you, merely a young woman and one she calls sister, it never occurred to me once that she would embrace such a cock-eyed notion. No wonder she is pressing you to leave. And apparently she’s taken it in her head that she has to stay behind to make certain you stay away.”
Thaddeus shook his head. “There is no greater mystery than the bent of a woman’s mind.”
Unsure whether she wanted to laugh or cry, Phoebe bit down on her bottom lip so she could do neither. “It is perhaps premature for you to think you understand the bent of this particular woman’s mind.”
“What do you mean?”
“Only that I am not the other woman.”
“But—”
She put up a hand. “You need to speak to Fiona. Make her tell you. I think if you take her away from here, it will be easier for her to talk. The Butterworth perhaps. Or the very nice hotel in Liberty Junction. You could go there. There is nothing so critical to be done here that you cannot be gone for a day and a night or even two. You were weeks away when you visited New York.”
“Remington was here then.”
Phoebe watched Thaddeus closely as she said, “And I am certain that set your mind at ease, but shouldn’t Ben have an opportunity to take responsibility? He must be ready.”
“He is. You’re right. And this is important. Fiona’s important.”
“Yes.”
“You recommend the Boxwood?”
“I do.” She smiled, reached for his hand, and gave it an encouraging shake. “Be sure to make the acquaintance of one Handy McKenzie, although for the life of me, I can’t imagine how you could avoid it.”
• • •
Ellie Madison sat at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a mug of black coffee, and allowed herself these few quiet moments to simply breathe in the aroma without thinking once of what she needed to do next. She closed her eyes and raised the mug to her lips. Her slight smile was one of regret, of infinite sadness, but it vanished as though it had never been when the back door opened behind her.
Without turning around, she asked, “What do you need, Ben?”
He did not bother asking her how she knew he was the one at the door. Even when he tried to disguise his footfalls, she was never wrong. Sometimes she confused Thaddeus and Remington, especially when Remington got older, but she never mistook him for anyone but himself. “Don’t need a thing,” he said. “Came to see how you are doing.”
He bent, kissed her cheek, and took a seat in the chair at a right angle to her. Almost immediately he bounced back up to fetch a mug of coffee. “Les burnt the coffee this morning. Scooter and Ralph drank it, but Arnie and I couldn’t stomach it. Don’t worry, I won’t tell them you have good, fresh brew in here.” He returned to his seat. “Did you see Thaddeus and Fiona leave?”
Ellie nodded. “I made breakfast for them.” She had stood at the window to watch the buggy pass the house and roll on down the road. She did not mention this to Ben. It sounded wretched when she thought of it and too unbearably pathetic to speak aloud. “Do you think you have it all in hand? I heard Thaddeus tell Phoebe he had quite a list of responsibilities for you.”
“He went over everything last night. Twice. But that’s his way. He still does it with Remington. There is nothing to do that I haven’t done before. It’s being in charge that’s different. He expressed his confidence in me.”
“He should. You’ve earned it.”
“Have I?” It was an earnest question. His mouth twisted to one side as he scratched behind his ear. “I wonder.”
Ellie firmly set down her mug. “You shouldn’t question yourself. Not only have you earned his confidence, you deserve it.”
Ben regarded his mother candidly. “I know you think so. You’ve always thought so . . . but at least one of us has to admit that our situation is different than it was.”
“I don’t want to hear it. Did you eat breakfast? Or did Les burn that, too?”
“I’m good.”
In spite of that not being an answer to her question, Ellie stayed where she was. She said, “Phoebe’s still abed. I don’t think she slept a wink last night. I heard her get up several times. Once she stepped outside. I think she’s worried about him.”
“And why shouldn’t she be? I am. After what happened to Blue, we should all be worried.”
Ellie’s fingertips whitened where she pressed them against her mug. She cast her eyes down. “When I think about Blue . . .” Her voice trailed off and she shook her head.
“I know,” said Ben.
“I never, never, imagined this. His duties . . . perhaps I should have realized . . . but I didn’t. I never did, Ben. I wish I had been kinder to him, more attentive. Did you know he liked my apple pie?”
“I think everyone knew that.”
She laughed softly, ruefully. “Probably so.”
“He understood you did not return his feelings, not in equal measure.”
Ellie still did not look at her son. “I suppose I can tell you now that once upon a time he proposed.”
Ben’s dark red eyebrows climbed his forehead. “He did?”
“You were in your middle years. Eleven or twelve, I think. Blue saw us every Sunday back then because he went to church regularly in those days. Do you recall that he sometimes invited us to dinner at the Butterworth afterward? It’s all right if you don’t, but it was on one of those occasions that he asked me to marry him.”
“Where was I?”
She looked up. “You had wandered off to sit with Thaddeus and Remington. I could see where your affections were attached.”
Ben’s eyes widened. “Did that influence you to turn Blue down?”
“No . . . well, perhaps a bit . . . but mostly it was because of me. I couldn’t marry him. I loved your father. I know you don’t understand. I’ve told you things, and perhaps I should not have. He was not perfect, far from it, but the love I bore that man . . . that was perfect.”
Chapter Thirty-four
John Manypenny carefully closed his suitcase so the small bottles of sample liquors inside were not thrown together. He tipped his bowler and thanked the owner of the Angel’s Rest Saloon for placing an order for two cases of rye, a case of gin, and three cases of whiskey blends, and then removed his wares from the polished surface of the long mahogany bar. The suitcase was heavy and he was not a large man, but experience had taught him how to shift his shoulders and heft the case so it did feel less of a burden to carry than it was. He was not a drinking man himself, but on occasion he liked to take a chair at a table and sip a sarsaparilla while he observed others enjoy the fruits of his labor, so to spe
ak.
The owner had invited him to sit a spell, and John had declined, but he changed his mind before he got to the swinging doors. Collier was the next stop on his route, and for the first time in recent memory, he was not eager to go there.
The Rocky Mountain News had reported on the gruesome murders of Deputy Buford “Blue” Armstrong, late of Frost Falls, and Miss Caroline Carolina, born in Monroe, Louisiana, and now laid to rest in Collier, Colorado. The Rocky had treaded carefully around the profession that called Miss Carolina to any man’s bed, but John Manypenny believed that was in deference to Deputy Armstrong and not indicative of the newspaper’s respect for Miss Carolina. He had been on the train between Denver and Jupiter when he read the account, and he had a clear recollection of neatly folding the paper and placing it on the empty seat beside him. He’d reached for his suitcase, then, and without thinking twice, or thinking at all, he had opened it and quickly downed four sample bottles of his finest Kentucky bourbon and one bottle of gin. The recollections that followed were hazy at best, but he knew he missed the stop in Jupiter and ended up in a hotel in Lansing nursing a sore head the morning after.
With that in mind, John Manypenny carried his case to the nearest table, which happened to be a few feet from the door, and called to the barkeep that he would have his usual.
He was close enough to the window that his view of the street was unimpeded by patrons at neighboring tables. When his drink came, he cupped it in his hands but didn’t raise it. Occupied as he was with watching passersby and his own mawkish thoughts, he failed to notice the arrival of the pair of men who walked right past his table and went straight to the bar, and he failed to hear the barkeep call out his name or see the man point in his direction. It was only when they were standing so close to his table that their shadows darkened his vision that they finally had his attention.
“Mind if we join you?”
John Manypenny blinked owlishly behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. The lenses magnified his rheumy blue eyes. He looked from one man to the other, vaguely aware of familiarity with one but not able to place him in a particular situation or in a particular moment in time. He dragged his case from the seat of one of the chairs and set it on the floor. He turned over a hand, inviting them to sit.
“John Manypenny,” he said as they each took a chair. He noticed that neither was drinking. Not troubling himself to hide his puzzlement, he addressed the man who had spoken. “Do we know each other?”
“Haven’t had the pleasure, Mr. Manypenny. Remington Frost.”
John shook the hand Remington Frost extended and then he rose slightly from his chair as he held out his hand to the other man. “Now, you and I, I think we’ve met. I’m good with faces.”
“Jackson Brewer.” He released John’s hand and opened his jacket to reveal the tin star on his vest. “Sheriff Brewer. Frost Falls.”
John Manypenny’s gaze narrowed a fraction. He lifted his spectacles and resettled the stems on his ears and the crosspiece on the hooked bridge of his nose. His face cleared as the occasion of their meeting came to him. “On the sidewalk outside the Songbird Saloon. I believe I caught you in the knee with the corner of my case as I was hurrying out. Had a train to catch. I didn’t know you were the sheriff or I expect I would have been more mortified.”
Brewer dropped a hand to his knee and rubbed it absently. “I recall it now. You walloped me good with that thing. Wish we had exchanged names. That might have helped some.”
“Helped? How?”
Remington said, “We have a matter to discuss with you, Mr. Manypenny.”
“John. What sort of matter? Have I done something?”
The sheriff shook his head. “Not at all, or at least not that I’m aware. We’ve been trying to cross your path the last couple of days. We missed you in Jupiter and again in Collier. I wasn’t confident we’d run you to ground here, but I don’t mind being wrong. We have a few questions for you. You’re under no obligation to tell us anything, but Remington will empty every bottle in that suitcase if you don’t. One. By. One.”
Manypenny did not react to what the sheriff said. He reacted to the sheriff. “You’re Jackson Brewer,” he said. Even to his ears, the revelation sounded more like an accusation. “Buford Armstrong was your deputy.”
“Blue,” said Brewer. “He hated Buford.”
Aware that Remington Frost had fixed his dark gaze on him, Manypenny shifted his attention. He resisted the urge to take a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe his brow. His stomach clenched under the deputy’s implacable stare. “What is it?”
“I’m thinking you might have some idea,” said Remington. “The connection you made between Jackson and Blue is telling.”
“I read the Rocky same as a lot of folks. It just came to my mind.”
“Uh-huh.”
Jackson removed his hat and set it on the table. He raked his mostly graying hair with his fingers, slouched casually in his chair, and then folded his arms across his chest. “Seems to me you might be coming around to the notion that we’re here because my deputy is not. Miss Carolina, too, is likewise gone. Murdered. You read that.”
Manypenny did not deny it.
Remington said, “Tell us about the ring you gave her.”
He couldn’t help himself. He stuttered. “The r-ring?” He saw Remington’s eyes dart to the suitcase at his feet. He tried to push it under the table, but the deputy pushed his foot forward and stopped him. He inhaled and the breath whistled softly through his teeth. “What do you want to know about it?”
“A good place to begin is where you got it.”
“Do you know the Sweet Clementine Saloon?”
Remington shook his head, but Jackson nodded and said, “Harmony, right?”
“Yes. Harmony’s on my regular route, but usually I’m there early in the day and I move on. It’s rare that I spend the night. I took a lot of orders that day and I missed a train in the morning and another in the afternoon. That’s how I ended up staying at the Harmony House. Sweet Clementine has nicer rooms, but it was full up, so after I made my sales there, I went over to the Harmony House and settled in.” He stopped abruptly, seized his glass, and took a deep swallow of the sarsaparilla.
“And?” asked Remington.
“And I had dinner in the restaurant. I sat alone and ate and observed. I do that frequently. Observe.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “It passes the time.”
Jackson said, “Go on. If you tell us what you had to eat, I swear I’ll start drinking out of your case myself.”
Manypenny decided it was better to ignore the threat. “I observed money and goods exchanging hands and my curiosity got me noticed. I was approached, much as the two of you approached me. Only one question, though. Was I interested in buying a bauble or two? I thought of Caroline so I said I was. I looked over earbobs, hair combs, stickpins, brooches, and rings.”
Remington asked, “What did you think you were seeing? Did it occur to you the items might be stolen?”
“Stolen? No. As a matter of fact, that never occurred to me. I figured the gems for paste and the rest for cheap metals. I had no reason to think otherwise, not for the asking price. Are you telling me different?” When neither the sheriff nor his deputy answered, he went on. “I fancied the ring. Pear shape cut. Thought I could see a hint of blue in the facets, like smoke. It was probably a trick of the lamplight and the smoke in the restaurant, but I wasn’t really thinking about that. I knew I wanted it. I paid fourteen dollars.” His mouth was dry. He took another large swallow of his drink. “That’s it.”
Remington shook his head. “Not quite. Not even close. Who sold it to you?”
“Oh, I should have supposed you’d want to know that. Afraid I can’t help you there. We didn’t exchange names.”
“You said you’re good with faces,” said Remington. He removed a small notepad and pe
ncil from his vest pocket. “Prove it.”
• • •
Phoebe saw him coming when he was still more than a mile away. It was the height advantage at the top of Boxer’s Ridge that gave her the splendid view, not only of the verdant expanse of Twin Star Ranch, but also of Remington’s rapid approach. It looked as if horse and rider were flying, and she thought it suited them, all speed and power unleashed like great mythic creatures of another time. Perseus, perhaps, and Pegasus coming to the mountaintop.
Boxer’s Ridge was not nearly a mountaintop, and Bullet and Remington were hardly mythic creatures, but all the same, Phoebe soared above the ground on a flight of fancy that made her laugh aloud. She hoped her voice carried down the ridge and over the sound of Bullet’s pounding hooves. She hoped Remington heard it above the beating of his heart because it was in his heart that she wanted her laughter to live.
Phoebe moved side to side, ducked and weaved, trying not to lose sight of him as he began to climb. It was not possible to follow his route. Fir trees and limber pine, rocky outcroppings and hairpin curves, thwarted her again and again. She grabbed Mrs. McCauley’s bridle and urged the mare to a flat patch of grass where she could be tethered to a scrub pine so she wouldn’t wander off. “He’s coming, girl,” she told the mare. “Your friend, too. They’re coming back to us.”
• • •
Remington did not so much dismount as throw himself from the saddle. He let Bullet find his own way to Mrs. McCauley; he wanted Phoebe and made no apologies for it.
He caught her by the waist, pulled her close, and kissed her hard, kissed her breathless, kissed her quiet. What movements she made were those meant to keep him locked in the embrace. At first, surprise kept her arms loose and limp at her sides, but then she raised them, folded her hands behind his neck, and rose against him instead of leaning away. Her breasts flattened against his chest. Her fingers flicked his hair where it lay against his nape. It was when she removed his hat and flung it sideways that she realized he had already done the same to hers. His fist was wrapped around the rope of her braid. He controlled the lift of her head by tugging on it. She controlled the slant of his mouth by cupping his face in her hands.
