Book Read Free

A Cowboy's Pride

Page 9

by Karen Rock


  “Is that Cora’s Tear?” Cole pointed to the brooch pinned to Maggie’s collar.

  “Let’s enlarge the shot.”

  She zoomed in and the teardrop shape of the large, dark stone emerged. “That’s it!”

  For some crazy reason, her eyes stung as she studied the infamous gem causing over a hundred years of strife.

  What happened to you? she thought, staring into Maggie’s forlorn eyes, the familiar urge to unlock long-held secrets, to unravel a mystery, coursing through her. And where’s the jewel?

  Cole whistled. “That’s something.”

  “Worth killing for?”

  Before Cole answered, the museum’s curator joined them. She was a tall, thin, middle-aged woman, with short white hair tucked behind her ears. “Excuse me,” she whispered, despite the otherwise empty, two-story building. “We’ll be closing in five minutes.”

  “May I print this?”

  The curator nodded at Katlynn, smiling. “The printer is by the front desk. Is there anything else I can help with?”

  “Have you got anything on the Crystal River Railroad Company?” Cole asked. “Or its owner, Clyde William Farthington?”

  “We have an entire room devoted to the railroad company, if you’d like to head upstairs.”

  “I wouldn’t want to put you out.” Katlynn eyed an old-fashioned grandfather clock keeping time in the corner. “We can come back tomorrow.”

  “May I just ask—” The curator bounced on the balls of her feet. “Are you Katlynn Brennon from Scandalous History?”

  Cole’s muffled scoff ended when Katlynn elbowed his side as she stood. Honestly.

  “Yes, I am.”

  The woman clapped her hands. “I thought so. I never miss an episode and neither does my husband. It’s the only thing we watch together, besides baseball.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  Again...with the scoffing. She shot Cole a death glare. He was ruining her moment.

  “He’ll be so excited when I tell him I met Katlynn Brennon,” gushed the curator. “If it’s not too much to ask...would you sign something ‘scandalous’ to him? It’s his birthday tomorrow and...”

  “I’d be happy to.”

  “Thank you!” The curator called over her shoulder as she hurried away to her desk.

  “How often does that happen?”

  “What?” Katlynn asked as she scrolled the computer mouse to the print icon and clicked.

  “Getting recognized. People bothering you.”

  She closed out the screen, powered down the computer and straightened. “It’s no bother. Plus, it goes with the job.”

  “No privacy. No downtime...”

  “Growing up, I never had any privacy, and no one noticed me. I guess that’s why when you...”

  He stepped closer until they stood toe-to-toe. “When I?” His voice deepened. “Say anything, Katie-Lynn.”

  She studied his handsome face for a breathless moment, then blurted, “When you noticed me, it was the first time I felt like I mattered to someone. Like I was special.”

  “Katie-Lynn,” Cole half sighed, half groaned, sliding a finger down the side of her jaw. His gaze had a hypnotic, almost paralyzing effect.

  When the returning curator’s boots clomped on the wooden floor, Cole dropped his hand and jerked back. Katlynn released a long, shaky stream of air.

  “Would you make it out to Honey Cheeks?” She thrust a book titled History of Carbondale at Katlynn.

  Sensing an imminent chuckle, she stepped preemptively on Cole’s foot. “Of course.” With a swift, practiced hand, she inscribed:

  To Honey Cheeks,

  Live a scandalous life...make history!

  Katlynn Brennon

  “I’m not sure I’m okay with you calling another man Honey Cheeks,” Cole teased after the effusive curator pointed them toward the railroad room, promising them an extra half hour.

  “You wouldn’t believe the crazy things people ask for.” She strolled to the first glass case and studied maps laying out the railroad’s track.

  “Is it worth it?” Cole asked, joining her.

  She caught sight of her frowning reflection. “I think so.” She bit her lip then added, “Yes.”

  “You think so...yes? That doesn’t sound certain.”

  A sigh escaped her as they moved onto a collection of tools used to build the railroad. “I’d be lying if I said it was everything I dreamed of.”

  “What’s your biggest complaint?”

  “Shapewear.”

  “Shapewear?” Her body tingled when his eyes dropped to her toes and rose slowly to her face. “Your shape’s just fine.”

  “Because I’m wearing spandex.”

  Speaking of which, she hung back when they strolled to another display, and eased the cursed elastic off her spleen.

  “You looked good wearing jeans and a shirt last night.”

  His compliment set her body alight. “It’s different in Hollywood.” She crouched to examine old documents, including bills of sale and land surveys. “Everyone’s a size zero and I’m—” her voice sank to a whisper “—a six.”

  “A size six in Carbondale might earn you a muffin basket from well-meaning neighbors worried you’re sick.”

  She cast him a quick sideways glance. “Not sure if that’s a compliment. And I couldn’t eat the muffins.”

  “Why?”

  “Carbs. I’m on a strict diet.”

  “Let’s get this straight. You have no privacy, have to write salacious notes to strangers’ husbands and you’re always hungry and judged for still not being thin enough?”

  She grinned, rueful. “Sounds awesome, right?”

  “Well. No wonder.”

  “No wonder what?”

  “No wonder you wanted to come home.”

  She stared at him, mouth agape.

  “I don’t know much about clothes sizes,” Cole continued, blue eyes squinted at her, “but you look perfect to me.”

  Nothing in the world could stop the warmth building in her chest. “If only everyone was that easy to please.”

  “You think I’m easy to please?” Cole protested. “There hasn’t been anyone since you.”

  Her sharp intake of air cracked in the sudden silence.

  “Forget I said that.” Cole stomped to a glass case containing black-and-white pictures.

  “The heck I will. You haven’t dated since we broke up?”

  His chest rose and fell with the force of his exhale. “No. I haven’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Have you?” he countered, dodging her question.

  “Not seriously.”

  “How come?”

  The truth weighed down her tongue: because she was too busy, because she didn’t want to feed the gossip rags material, because...because no one could ever compare to Cole.

  She tore her eyes from his, afraid they’d see too much, and stared at a trio of men posing by a stack of rail ties. The photo was faded sepia and grainy. The edges ragged. Yet a distinctive face jumped from the image. He may as well have been Cole’s twin.

  “Look!” She pointed at the man in the middle. “That’s a Loveland.”

  Cole peered at the photo. “How can you be sure?”

  “Take off the beard and the grime and that’s your face.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Everett Loveland?”

  “Possibly. Only one way to know. We need to see the company’s payroll ledger. Wonder if the museum has it?”

  “Perhaps I can help?”

  They turned at the trembling voice behind them and spied a bent, white-haired man leaning on a cane. A door marked Staff Only yawned open behind him.

  “Hello.” Katlynn extended a hand. “We’d appreciate any help we can
get. And you are?”

  “Clyde William Farthington, the fourth.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “YOU’RE IN TIME for tea.” Clyde William Farthington, the fourth, lifted a small, silver bell from a mahogany side table and rang it a half hour later. “I’d be honored to have you join me.”

  “Pleased to.” Cole perched on the edge of a high-backed chair, a pool of sweat gathering at the base of his neck. In the corner, a fire roared in a marble fireplace, despite the warm spring day. It was hotter than a two-dollar bill in Clyde’s lavish Victorian mansion. Near a hundred degrees, he’d wager.

  “We’re grateful for the invitation.” Katie-Lynn looked right at home in this posh front room. Her platinum hair glowed beneath scrolled sconces hanging from burgundy velvet wallpaper. Her expensive suit matched the elaborate, claw-footed furniture resting on Oriental rugs. Despite the early hour, heavy drapes shrouded a large window combination, leaving the room dim and smelling like his grandmother’s potpourri.

  A woman in a black-and-white maid’s uniform pushed a metal cart through an open pocket door. It held a floral-patterned teapot with matching cups and a three-tiered stand filled with miniature sandwiches and cookies too fancy to eat.

  What he’d give for black coffee and beef jerky.

  Mr. Farthington clasped his hands. “This looks delicious, Renata.”

  “May I get you or your guests anything else, sir?”

  Mr. Farthington’s teeth appeared in a reserved smile. “That will be all, thank you.” He lifted the porcelain teapot. “How do you take your tea?”

  After fixing them each a cup, Mr. Farthington settled back in his chair with a sigh. “It’s a treat to have company.” He lifted his cup and regarded them over the brim as he sipped.

  Cole struggled to grip his cup’s fragile handle without breaking it. Even his pinky was too big to slip through. Fussy places like this made him feel like a bull in a china shop. And claustrophobic. His neck strained against his shirt collar.

  “I believe I’ve seen you before.” Mr. Farthington settled his cup in its saucer with enviable finesse while Katie-Lynn held hers as delicately as a newborn chick. Cole downed his tepid tea in one gulp. The cup rattled when he placed it—gently, he thought—back down, earning him a sharp glance from his host.

  He stopped himself from apologizing like a schoolboy.

  “Have you seen my show, Scandalous History?”

  “I only read books.” Mr. Farthington gestured to a glass cabinet filled with leather-bound tomes. “Though I am a bit of a history buff. I believe I saw you at a yacht party... St. Tropez?”

  “St. Barts?” Katie-Lynn queried after a dainty sip.

  When Cole reached for a cookie, she subtly shook her head then pointed her chin at a pair of tongs.

  Tongs.

  Sheesh.

  Despite taking care, he left a trail of crumbs as he deposited shortbread on a scalloped plate no bigger than Sierra’s old toy set.

  After a pointed look, Mr. Farthington continued. “Yes. I believe you were with Seth Rutherford. Owner of Ultima Productions? He’s quite a catch.”

  Cole swallowed a bite of cookie wrong and choked.

  Katie-Lynn peered at him, eyes wide. “Are you okay?”

  He nodded once the coughing fit subsided, although he wasn’t okay. He considered himself a mild-mannered person unless provoked. And it was uncomfortably provoking to imagine Katie-Lynn out with some big-shot yacht guy who owned a company.

  Earlier, she’d insisted love mattered most and everyone wanted to find a special someone. Yet this proved she spent time with rich men who enjoyed the lifestyle a broke, soon-to-be homeless cowboy like him couldn’t provide. It burned his chaps, no denying it. Proof he still carried a torch for Katie-Lynn?

  Darn straight. And stupid as all get out.

  “Mind if I smoke?” Mr. Farthington flipped open a thin gold case and extracted a cigar.

  “Not at all.” Katie-Lynn reached for the cookie tongs, hesitated then lifted her teacup again instead.

  What kind of place made beautiful women insecure about their weight? That quarter-size cookie couldn’t contain more than fifty calories tops, and that was being generous considering it tasted like nut-flavored cardboard. Next chance he got, he’d grill her a thick rib-eye with foil-wrapped potatoes, extra butter and two dollops of sour cream.

  “Mr. Loveland?” Mr. Farthington extended the cigar box.

  “No, thanks.” Cole shifted in his chair. Sitting so still made his legs grow numb. “You said you’d help us find the whereabouts of a relative of mine. Everett Loveland.”

  Mr. Farthington nodded as he struck a match and held it to the tip of a cigar clamped in his mouth. A couple of quick puffs, followed by a white, cherry-scented exhale, then—“I have payroll records from the Crystal River Railroad Company. When did he work for the company?”

  Cole swallowed a dry mouthful of almond-flavored shortbread. “Not sure, but it’d be no later than May 31, 1907.” The date of Maggie’s death and Everett’s hanging.

  Mr. Farthington tapped ash into a yellow-glass ashtray. “He would have been laying track from Placita on to Marble.” After another long inhale, he continued. “The route hauled marble out to market, as well as supplies into town.”

  Katie-Lynn leaned forward. “What happened to the line?”

  “Scrapped it in 1943 when Yule Marble shut down.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  Mr. Farthington waved his cigar. “No matter. My family always lands on its feet.”

  Cole glanced at the room’s thick crown molding and the gilded light fixture hanging from a coffered ceiling. The Farthingtons were in tall cotton, no mistaking. “The first Clyde Farthington was engaged to a local woman, Maggie Cade.”

  Mr. Farthington dragged on his cigar again before resting it in the ashtray. “Indeed, though such a match was quite out of character and would have been most unfortunate. Farthingtons have married distant New England relatives for generations.”

  “Here’s their engagement announcement. Maggie died the day before their wedding day.” Katie-Lynn passed over the paper.

  After donning a pair of reading glasses, Mr. Farthington scanned the piece. The printout trembled slightly as he lowered it. “She looks decently respectable, for a frontier woman.” Mr. Farthington sniffed. “I believe she was at the root of some sort of family feud or local kerfuffle.”

  Cole and Katie-Lynn’s eyes met briefly. Disbelief drove light furrows into her brows. Mr. Farthington may not watch television, but he didn’t live under a rock. Everyone knew about the Cade-Loveland feud. Especially locals. Why act as though he wasn’t familiar with it?

  Katie-Lynn cleared her throat. “I’m investigating the Cade-Loveland feud for Scandalous History.”

  Mr. Farthington paled. “And you’re connecting it with my family?”

  “Should we?” Cole asked, bristling for no good reason except something felt off.

  “We’d only reference your ancestor in terms of his engagement to Maggie. What can you tell us about him?”

  Mr. Farthington snatched up his cigar and inhaled so deeply a half inch of ash formed on its tip. White rings of smoke peeled from his mouth before he spoke again. “His father squandered the family shipping fortune with bad investments and gambling debts. After marrying Amelia Griswold, heiress to a banking empire, he invested in railroads and built this home for her. Sadly, Amelia died when she tumbled down those stairs and broke her neck.”

  Cole followed Mr. Farthington’s finger point and a chill ran down his back when he glimpsed a scrolled, mahogany balustrade through the pocket door.

  “His second marriage also ended tragically. He lost his second bride, Rose Webster, heiress to her family’s gunpowder fortune, during a picnic outing. While rowing her across a pond, the boat tipped, and Rose fell o
verboard and drowned. Clyde was left bereft.”

  “And loaded,” Cole added.

  Katie-Lynn shot him a quelling look. “It makes sense he’d want another bride, like Maggie Cade.”

  Clyde tapped his cigar against the side of the ashtray. “He would have had his pick of pedigreed ladies. This engagement may have been coerced.”

  “Forced?” Katie-Lynn gasped.

  Mr. Farthington coughed lightly into his hand. “Miss Cade may have been in the family way. It wasn’t uncommon for women to target men of means.”

  “Or older men to prey on vulnerable young women.” Cole recalled Clyde William Farthington’s possessive grip in the old-time engagement photo, the sadness in Maggie’s eyes. If coercion had been at play, his money was on Clyde doing the forcing.

  “This tea is delicious,” blurted Katie-Lynn, breaking the sudden tense silence. She settled her empty teacup in its saucer and set them back on the tray. “If you have time, would you kindly show us the railroad’s logbooks?”

  Mr. Farthington stubbed out his cigar, rang the bell and stood. “Follow me.”

  They trekked down a long hall. Mr. Farthington’s cane thumped against black-and-white diamond-patterned tiles. Gleaming side tables, set with lavish flower arrangements, stood beneath mirrors ornately framed in gold leaf.

  Cole glimpsed his ragtag appearance in them. Faded Wranglers, scuffed boots and a plaid shirt, his hair flattened by his hat. He resembled a hayseed ranch hand, which he was...and proud of it... Yet seeing himself this way reminded him that he didn’t belong in Katie-Lynn’s world. Never had. Never would.

  She was as untouchable as the marble bust Mr. Farthington paused beside.

  “This is Clyde William Farthington, the first.”

  Cole squinted at the writing engraved in a gold plaque and noted the dates 1860 to 1931. “He lived a long life.”

  Mr. Farthington leaned on his cane and peered up at him. “But not a happy one. He lost his third wife in childbirth when he was forced to choose between his unborn heir and his wife.”

 

‹ Prev