Lessie_Bride of Utah

by Kristin Holt

  “It’s sealed.” As if Trengove hadn’t had the time to open it. “That’s odd. Usually, the mail arrives, is distributed in the mess hall at breakfast and supper, the men pounce on their correspondence and read it then and there.”

  “Maybe Mr. Trengove was late for his shift?”

  Or late to meet whoever had thrown the fatal punch?

  Questions that had no answers and might not matter, in the end.

  Richard opened the fold, expecting to see an address, postage stamp, all the usual.

  But the front of the envelope was clean. Nothing written on it and no smudges.

  He tried to see through the paper of the sealed envelope to better determine the contents.

  “Open it,” Lessie urged. “Mr. Trengove won’t mind.”

  Not one to rip envelopes, and without his bone-handled letter-opener, Richard reached for the next best thing. Trengove’s knife also tucked in his back pocket. He opened the Opinel blade from the handle and slit the envelope seam.

  “Look at the handle.” Lessie reached for the knife but knew enough to stay away from the blade.

  The wooden handle had been etched with the Opinel company name, but far more had been added by a different blade. Someone had carved letters into the handle.

  Three stocky, crudely formed letters. M.T.G.

  Lessie nudged him and he met her eye. “Some fancy monograms have the last name initial in the middle. The Mill hemmed handkerchiefs once.”

  “I don’t think this is Trengove’s.”

  M.T.G.

  Maurice T. Gibbons.

  A guess, but a valid one.

  He had no idea if Gibbons had a middle name or if said hypothetical middle name began with a T. But he wouldn’t put it past him.

  Perhaps Gibbons had sold the knife to Trengove.

  Then again, there might be half a dozen men in Big Ezra with the initials M.T.G.

  Could be Trengove had picked up the knife long before coming to work for Cannon Mining and it had no connection to anyone within a hundred miles.

  He really needed to talk to Edgar Kerry, Trengove’s shift supervisor, and ask him what he knew of any relationship between Gibbons and the dead man.

  Richard pushed the blade back into the hardwood handle and dropped it on the blankets spread across their laps. He’d find Kerry in the morning, but first, he needed to know what paper the dead man had carried in his pocket in a sealed envelope.

  My dearest Emilie,

  The moment you open this missive, you’ll become immediately aware I have enclosed no money. I’ve done my best, precious wife—

  “Read aloud.” Lessie nudged him. “I do better with typeset than handwritten, but I don’t read well.”

  “I forgot. I apologize.” Lessie didn’t seem the slightest bit uncomfortable with her near-illiteracy, so he refused to make it an issue. He could read aloud, and he would.

  He began at the salutation, his heart breaking for Herman Trengove, his bride Emilie, the infant son he’d never met…

  …and his urgent need to send money home for the care and keeping of his family.

  He read to the end, though the letter contained highly personal declarations of love, longing to see her once more, promises to find a way to gather the necessary cash money.

  Herman’s letter referenced the need for funds several times, but never disclosed why. Obviously his wife understood, and waited with

  “I’ll write Mrs. Trengove tomorrow.” He’d find her address, somehow. Someone on this mountain had to know Trengove left a wife and where she might live. “She needs to know her husband has died.”

  Better yet, Trengove probably had a small trunk or case containing personal belongings. He might find letters from his wife bearing a return address.

  He tucked the letter back inside the envelope, folded it with care. This letter he’d not taken the time to address would find its way to the intended recipient, within an official letter from Cannon Mining.

  No young wife wanted to learn of her husband’s demise.

  Somehow, Lessie found her way into his arms, burrowed her face into the hollow of his throat. She clung to him with a fierceness he’d not expected. Almost as if her compassion for the widow and infant caused her acute pain.

  “Tell me something.” Lessie blotted her eyes against her sleeve, as if tears had formed but she refused to acknowledge them as such. “When was payday?”

  “Payday? On the first of the month.” He hadn’t thought of it because— “We pay in scrip. Not cash.”

  Lessie stilled. “Then where was Herman Trengove hoping to obtain cash?”

  As Adam would say, the thousand-dollar question.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why would he work for you for scrip, if his family needed cash for some reason at home? Why didn’t he leave your employ and find work somewhere that pays in currency?”

  “I don’t know.” Maybe no one at Big Ezra knew. Miners, for the most part, kept their business to themselves.

  “If a man like Herman Trengove received scrip on payday, and if he had a need for United States currency, how would he go about making an exchange?” Lessie’s eyes nearly sparkled with excitement. “That person just might know more of Mr. Trengove’s situation. Might even know—”

  Lessie hauled up short, so short she must have realized something of significance.

  Good thing, too, because he didn’t want to tell her that company scrip wasn’t exchangeable for cash. It was in lieu of currency. Spendable at the company store, covered rent of houses or a bed in the bunkhouse. The system was in place because the system worked. Not all mines were near enough to a town to make United States currency a viable option.

  “Might even know what?” he asked.

  “Might know what Trengove was willing to do, in order to obtain the money his wife and child need.”

  Dread inched its way in. Could Trengove had been so desperate for cash he’d work for the traitors within the company? The timing was questionable, given no one knew for sure when he died. But he might have been the linchpin for the episode when the morning muckers cleared rock away and found themselves bludgeoned by late fall rubble.

  Ideas swirled. Possibilities shifted in his head.

  He wished he had Adam’s sharp mind and his tablet to write it all down and come up with a conclusion.

  The sun had set so long ago, Richard had lost track of the time. This time of year, the sun set at half-past five. Twilight lingered until closer to six. A little earlier in the mountains though. He opened his watch.

  “What are you thinking?” Lessie’s soft touch to his arm brought him back.

  “Is it too late to corner Edgar Kerry?”

  “The big black man? Trengove’s shift supervisor?”

  “That’s him.”

  She tipped his watch to she could see the face. “Nine-o’clock isn’t too late. But consider the only rule you gave me when we left home. We absolutely cannot tip our hands. If you speak to Mr. Kerry about what Mr. Trengove may or may not have been willing to do for money, he’ll know you’re curious.”

  “I’ll be careful. Address it all in concern about sending word to his widow, forwarding the letter and his belongings.”

  “And if Kerry is the one who murdered Trengove? Do you really want to speak to him in the dark, alone? He might assume more than you carefully disclose. Or what if he’s not involved, but believes you are? You have to realize many of the men in camp blame you and Adam for the many deaths.

  He pocketed his timepiece and looped his arm about her shoulders. “I don’t like sitting on this information until morning, but I understand what you’re saying.”

  “Thank you. I can’t help but feel Trengove’s widow’s pain. I’d never be the same if anything happened to you.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Is it possible… to send Widow Trengove money? Call it the wages he had coming or just a king gesture.”

  Not a bad idea. Actually— a ver
y good idea… and he was falling in love with her passion and compassion even as shame raced through him.

  Sixty-one men had died in the past week at this location alone, and he hadn’t thought to offer any sort of financial compensation to the families left behind.

  He’d brought her out her for a reason, and he needed to remember that. He needed to use her talents and quit trying to bumble his way about without listening to her advice.

  “We’ll do it.” He’d figure out a way to make it happen for all the widows.

  The decision felt good, but still an uncomfortable thought nagged. “What if he was one of the turncoats?”

  “He may have been. But his wife probably wasn’t. I doubt she knew what her husband was up to. And that baby is innocent.”

  He kissed his bride’s temple, softened by her compassion and loving her tender heart.

  She yawned, big and long. “Let’s go to sleep. We can pursue this in the morning.”

  They did their best to get comfortable on the pallet. He snuggled her close, enjoying the way she fit against him. Just right. The floor beneath them might be hard, but the joy of falling asleep with her in his arms was worth it.

  In the midst of darkness, death, loss, and worry— she proved herself to be capable of providing the kind of help he needed.

  Somehow, Adam’s carefully worded advertisement had netted the perfect companion, the best possible wife. Richard could only hope Adam felt half as blessed, half as confident in his own bride.

  Gratitude lessened Richard’s angst, tempered his guilt, and abated his impatience.

  Yes, Mrs. Lessie Anne Cannon was a very good fit indeed.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cannon. Thank you for your help.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Lessie and Richard joined the unmarried men in the mess hall for breakfast. The long log building was crammed with men filing in to fill their plates. Some sat on benches at tables or set against the walls while others carried their empty plates back outside.

  How her husband would locate Edgar Kerry in such a mass of humanity, she didn’t know. Nearly every miner dressed in dusty trousers and coats, wore hats, seemed fully interchangeable.

  But Richard did find Kerry, maybe because he stood several inches taller than Richard, who was otherwise one of the tallest men in the room. Kerry balanced a tin plate full of flapjacks and ham slices in one hand two apples in the other.

  Lessie noticed Kerry’s unease, but no one said no to the boss. Richard asked to see Kerry for a few minutes.

  “Yes, Boss. But, if it’s all right with you, I prefer to have this conversation without an audience.” He flicked his dark eyes at Lessie.

  No hostility, no threat.

  The man was watching his back— something Lessie understood fully. She could see Richard did, too.

  “I’m fine here, Richard.” She glanced about the busy room, certain of it. No women about, as the men who’d brought their wives and children with them to Big Ezra likely ate in their individual cabins. But the men were so focused on their meal, no one paid her any attention.

  “You’re coming with me.” Richard had yet to release her hand since they’d removed their bedding to the wagon and set out through the dark mountainside toward the mess hall. “I’ll set you up a ways away where I can keep an eye on you while Mr. Kerry and I visit in private.”

  His protectiveness really was sweet. “I’ll be perfectly safe here. I’ll eat and stay inside this building. I promise.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “You’ll be back before I’m through the line with our breakfast plates. I’ll hold you a place. Go on now. Mr. Kerry’s waiting.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Several days later, Richard and Lessie had fallen into a comfortable routine. They slept snug in the office, rolled up their bedding, ate in the mess hall and in the evening did it all in reverse.

  In the absence of any further incidences, no more accidents, and very little progress made in gathering information from the few men who would confide much to him, Richard would leave her in the company of the women while he continued interviewing the men.

  He knew she’d done interviewing of her own. She’d talked to every woman in camp under the pretense of checking on their living conditions and then charged him to make their lives easier.

  He’d seen a lot of the Bossy Miss he’d first met at the train depot. And he rather liked pleasing her.

  Meanwhile, he’d talked to every man who’d known Herman Trengove— and not one had known he’d been married. All Herman had left behind in the way of worldly possessions was one change of clothing, the pocket knife and the ten dollars he’d had in his pocket— curious he hadn’t tucked that money inside the letter to Emilie, now wasn’t it?

  The office door banged open. Maurice Gibbons dragged mud inside on his boots. “Your wife’s a menace, Boss. In fact, I heard one of the men referring to her as Loose Cannon.”

  Richard stilled. He fought the sudden urge to grab Gibbons by the collar and demand an explanation. Keeping his voice as level and calm as possible, he forced the knot in his shoulders to ease. “Come again?”

  “That pretty young thing, your wife.”

  “I’m full aware who my wife is, Gibbons.” And just how young and how pretty. Mine. “I’m waiting for an explanation.”

  “That woman of yours is all over this camp, asking questions. First, of all the women, and I don’t have no problem with all that. Women talk to each other and that’s just how things are. But then she cornered a couple of the boys we got workin’ the stables, but the Ferrier and blacksmith? She met the night shift leaving the digs and asked them twenty questions on the way in to breakfast.”

  Richard’s jaw ticked. The soreness and overriding ache in his molars warned him he’d been clenching his jaw, more or less, since arriving in Big Ezra. “Such as?”

  “I dunno.” The foreman lifted one thick shoulder. “I heard she’d asked them what caused cave-ins. She wanted to know what we did to prevent such occurrences.”

  Play dumb, Cannon. If his wife were really asking about the incidents as the foreman believed… at least one of them had to sustain the myth of obliviousness. “Why would she ask the blacksmith and ferrier about tunneling?”

  “What gets me is she asked them about the men who died. It seems she thinks somebody targeted them, particular.”

  “Huh.” Richard kept his attention squarely on the books spread open on the scarred table in a pool of lamplight. To meet his number one man’s eye would threaten exposure. He couldn’t risk it. “Doesn’t make much sense, now does it?”

  “Not to me, but I never pretended to comprehend a woman’s mind.”

  “The only reason I bring this to your attention, Boss, is the men are jawing about it. I heard ‘em over morning grub complaining about her meddling. One of ‘em asked if she was impersonating a proper newspaper reporter.”

  He shook his head, doing his best imitation of a man mystified by all that made a female tick.

  Not good. Not good at all. He’d have to talk to her, and fast. Whatever she was up to, it had to stop. What on earth had happened for her to so quickly forget his earnest instruction to mind everything she said and everything she did? If he didn’t intervene, something a whole lot worse than a supposedly random attack could happen.

  I can’t lose her.

  “Any idea where she is?” Richard pushed away from the table.

  The other man shrugged. “Probably down in the mine harassing the working men by now.”

  “I take your point. I’ll talk to her.”

  Your wife is a loose cannon.

  Loose Cannon. The nickname seemed right fitting for a woman named Lessie who didn’t seem to comprehend she’d crossed the boundary from obedience into serious danger… or if she did, didn’t care. She charged right in, did just as she pleased… and carelessly risked the Cannon legacy.

  Panic skittered through him, like a horse spooked by a nest of rattler
s.

  He had no doubt she believed herself safe enough in this little community. But there was so much about mining towns she didn’t understand.

  Men operated under a whole different code out here. Territorial law meant nothing, given the closest tin star couldn’t get here for hours, if summoned, and the way things operated year in and year out suited them all just fine.

  Rarely, if ever, was the law summoned. As the foreman had the ability to fire any worker, he was the law as far as the men were concerned.

  The camp took care of its own.

  But Lessie, as the owner’s wife, was in a class by herself. Apparently, even the foreman didn’t dare chastise her.

  Whether she liked it or not, she was Richard’s to protect. The woman wore his ring on her finger, his name, for Pete’s sake. She didn’t know the first thing about mining camps, the rougher elements the work attracted, the lack of the law hereabout. Why she’d not realized that after finding a murdered man, he didn’t understand.

  He found her in the company store, questioning the shopkeeper.

  He’d intended to overhear at least one question, and any answer the shopkeeper disclosed, but that plan had blasted straight to dust when the clerk met his gaze with a hint of fright in his eyes, cleared his throat, and fumbled a few cans of chew he must’ve been arranging on a shelf when Loose Cannon had cornered him.

  Damn if the nickname didn’t fit.

  Richard flexed his hands once, twice. He strode directly toward his wife whose eyes slowly widened. “Good afternoon, husband.”

  Ensuring his touch was as gentle as could be, Richard took Lessie’s upper arm and walked her to the door. This conversation wouldn’t happen where a soul could overhear them.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I have a hankering to spend some quality time alone with my wife.”

  “What do you mean, quality time?”

  “We’re taking a ride.” He ushered her inside the stables, nodded at one of the roughly twelve-year-old boys who kept the mules and horses. “One saddle mare, quick.”