“Just how do you plan to go about that?” Mr. Thurgood asked.
“I have a few ideas. First of all, though, I’ve been thinking about pastries ever since you mentioned them. Why don’t we head out and find ourselves some refreshment, gentlemen?”
“Yes, let’s,” Mr. Thurgood said, coming to his feet. “And this will give me the chance to introduce you to my lovely bride, Ariadne.”
Chapter Three
Mary sat on the front porch, a bowl of green beans on her lap, snapping off the ends. Patty was inside kneading dough for a fresh batch of bread. She’d told Mary she’d do the beans while the loaves rested, but Mary had volunteered. She liked sitting in the calm of the afternoon, watching people pass by on the street below, saying hello to the ones she knew and speculating about the ones she didn’t.
Reverend Bing and his wife, Celeste, had passed by, giving her a nod and wave. It was always a pleasure to see them when they came in from Bachelor for supplies or on church business. She’d also seen Dr. Thomas drive down the road, his head bent in concentration as his buggy took the corner a little too fast, and she sent up a silent prayer that wherever he was going in such a hurry, he’d make it there on time.
Now she glanced up as Mr. Hoffman approached, his thumbs in his belt loops, looking as though he’d had a very pleasant afternoon.
“Hello,” she greeted him as he climbed the porch. “Did you find Mr. Thurgood without too much trouble?”
“I did, and he was very helpful.” Mr. Hoffman lowered himself into the other rocking chair and took off his hat, resting it on his knee. “In fact, I enjoyed meeting everyone I encountered. You were right—this is a nice community.”
“We’ve had our share of lawbreakers and so forth, but our sheriff and his men keep things running smoothly,” Mary replied. She noticed the little curls of hair along the nape of his neck that had likely been caused by the humidity in the air. “We’ll have supper on the table in about an hour. I hope that’s all right.”
“Of course. In fact, Mr. Thurgood took me over to his wife’s tea shop and treated me to a scone. I must say, it was a real delight.”
“Yes, Ariadne and her sister, Regina, are wonderful cooks. I’ve enjoyed everything they’ve served me.”
“Mrs. Thurgood mentioned that several of the ladies in town get together on Tuesdays and have tea together. Then she mentioned that you aren’t one of her regulars. I was curious about that—not that it’s any of my business, of course.” He held up a hand. “You can forget I asked if I’m being impertinent.”
Mary smiled. “It’s all right if you ask. They’ve invited me, but I feel as though we’re separated by a chasm of life experiences. Most of them are much younger, and they’re beginning families and so forth. I’m a widow who never had children, and I feel so much older and yet so much less knowledgeable. When they talk about diapering or burping or walking the floor with a child, I sit there with a vacant smile on my face, knowing I don’t have anything to add to the conversation. Or when they talk about darning their husband’s socks or enduring his loud snoring, I bite my tongue so I don’t reprimand them for taking their husbands for granted.” She paused. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hoffman. You were likely just trying to be friendly, and I said far too much.”
“No, not at all. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t care about the answer.”
She didn’t know what to make of that response, so she decided to ask. “And why do you care, Mr. Hoffman? We’ve known each other less than a day—less than half a day, and you were gone for most of it.”
“I like your forthrightness, Mrs. Olson.” He played with the brim of his hat. “You might say that I’m a student of human nature. I’m fascinated by people’s actions and reactions, and I’m always curious to know why they do the things they do. For instance, I might be walking down the street and see a mother slap her child’s face. I’m instantly curious to know if the child was being impertinent, if the mother was being cruel, or if a bee had just landed there and she was saving him from a sting. We tend to judge the actions of those around us rather quickly without investigating their motives, but motives make all the difference.”
“You’re right,” Mary replied. “I find myself far too guilty of that. I’d likely see that mother and think the worst of her without contemplating all the possibilities.”
“I was that way myself once, but then I met a young lady who introduced me to this new way of thinking, and it’s become rather an obsession of mine. An annoying obsession, I admit, if you’re the one I’m questioning.”
Mary grabbed another handful of beans and began working on them. Mr. Hoffman reached into the sack and took some as well, surprising her by joining her in her task.
“And this young lady?” Mary asked. “Who was she? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Not at all. If I’m going to pepper you with questions, I should expect to answer some of my own.” He dropped a few beans in the bowl before he went on. “Her name was Astoria Smith, and she was my fiancée. This was many, many years ago—I was only twenty at the time, and she was but eighteen, but she was an angel, Mrs. Olson. I’d never seen such a lovely creature, and she was pure goodness to match. She had a way of reaching into the heart of a matter and extracting goodness from it, no matter what it was. She could visit with a felon in a jail cell and come away convinced he was the funniest man she’d ever met—she had that kind of charity.”
“She sounds wonderful,” Mary said. “You speak as though something happened to her.”
“None of us knew it, but she had a weak heart, and a month before we were to get married, she passed on,” Mr. Hoffman said. “The shock was horrible. Her parents never did move past their mourning, and as for me, well . . .” He reached for more beans. “I did my best, but it took something out of me, and I’ve never had any desire to marry since then. Oh, I’ve had a fulfilling life—my career has kept me busy, and I’ve traveled and met any number of interesting people, but my goal of being a husband died along with Astoria.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that, Mr. Hoffman,” Mary said. “I’m glad that your work has kept you busy.”
“It most certainly has. Everyone should have something to keep them busy, and I dislike being idle—which is why I’ve found it a pleasure to sit here and snap beans with you. You’re most kind to share.”
Mary laughed. “I’m likely shucking corn tomorrow, if you’d care to join me.”
“I just might.” Mr. Hoffman stood, his hands full of beans, and poured them into the bowl. “I’ll head up and rest for a few minutes before dinner. Thank you for letting me share my burdens with you, Mrs. Olson. You’re a gracious conversationalist.”
“Beans and burdens—it was a fair trade,” she told him, and he smiled again before heading inside.
She’d felt sorry for herself earlier, thinking about losing her husband so prematurely. She’d felt justified in whatever sorrow she chose to keep bottled close to her chest, and yet, here was a man who’d never been married at all. She’d had ten years with her husband, and Mr. Hoffman had nothing. She knew it wasn’t fair to compare their situations—there were so many variables to each—but she couldn’t help feeling a renewed sense of gratitude for the time she did have with Vernon Olson, and that her life now was complete and satisfying.
She gathered up the bowl and carried it to the pump, where she rinsed the beans thoroughly. Then she carried them in to Patty, who had just gotten the water started for them.
“Your timing is impeccable,” Patty told her. She took the beans and dumped them into the pot. “You know, with these windows open, I could hear your conversation with Mr. Hoffman. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, mind you—it just happened.”
Mary smiled. Of course it wasn’t on purpose—Patty would never intrude on someone’s privacy like that, not unless she had a good reason or happened to have her ear pressed to the wall. “And what do you think?”
“I think he’s an interesting man. The real quest
ion is, what do you think?”
“Probably the same thing I thought earlier—that he’s a nice man, he’s a boarder, and he’ll be leaving as soon as his business is concluded. Let’s concentrate on getting dinner ready, shall we? This is the Roundys’ last night here, and I want them to leave with good memories.”
Patty had never put an unsatisfactory meal on the table, but she didn’t remind Mary of the fact as she picked up a fork to poke the chicken. Mary appreciated her forbearance. She wanted the subject changed from Mr. Hoffman and so changed it was, and she wasn’t interested in continuing to deflect Patty’s attempts at matchmaking.
***
Christopher hung his hat on the nail behind his door, then took off his jacket and draped it across the foot of his bed. He liked this room. It was bright and cheery, mostly white with touches of yellow, and a vase of daisies stood on the small table next to the bed. He wondered if that had been Patty’s doing or Mrs. Olson’s.
Patty was a fascinating woman. Her movements spoke of a grace that had once lived in her limbs, even though she was now older and moved slower. She kept her hair tied up in a brightly colored turban, and while she hadn’t said it, he guessed she was from Jamaica. He had traveled there and was familiar with the culture and customs, and while Patty had conformed in many ways to her surroundings in Colorado, there was a spice to her that he figured would never be washed away. And a good thing, too.
Mrs. Olson, on the other hand, needed her spice brought out of her. She could learn a thing or two from Patty, who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind. Christopher wondered if Mrs. Olson had ever shouted from the rooftops or danced wildly in the streets or done anything that would be considered outlandish. He smiled, thinking about it. He could sense a free spirit deep inside her, but he doubted it had ever been allowed to wander free. That was a shame for sure.
He needed to concentrate, though—he was here for a reason, and he couldn’t let himself become distracted even if the distraction was most delightful. He pushed the thoughts of Mrs. Olson to the side and sat down at the desk in the corner, glad to see pen and paper already there waiting for him. It was time to jot down some notes.
He’d known when he arrived in Creede that Thomas Wells was no longer there. Ranse Hawkins had sent him a telegram immediately after arriving and informed him of the current situation. Hawkins had agreed to stay on and investigate Wendell Thurgood, all the while holding down a regular job with the marshal as well. He hadn’t caught wind of Wells’ present whereabouts, and Christopher wasn’t surprised. Men like that knew how to keep a low profile.
Because none of the surrounding law enforcement agencies had any record of Wells being in their custody, Christopher had a series of assumptions he could make. First, Wells could have been released long ago, either through a plea bargain or fulfilling his sentence. It seemed the courts would have better records of this, though, leading Christopher to his second thought—perhaps the clerks answering his telegrams hadn’t investigated the matter as carefully as he would have liked. Perhaps because they didn’t have Wells in custody at that moment, they thought they’d answered the question as much as it needed to be answered.
Christopher sighed as he wrote down the possibility. Would he have to travel to each of these places in person and insist that they look in their records? How much time would that take, and what else could Wells get into before they caught him?
Chances were that Wells had found a place to settle in and let everything blow over, and that he wasn’t actually involved in anything at the moment. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t start something else given a chance, and he still needed to be punished for everything he’d already done.
Wendell Thurgood was holding several expensive properties for Wells—a great deal of money had been put into Creede. Christopher doubted that Wells could afford to walk away and leave it indefinitely, and his employer—if he even had an employer—couldn’t be so rich that it wouldn’t matter to him either. One way or another, sooner or later, Wells would need to liquidate those assets.
Christopher sat back and tapped his chin with one finger. What they needed was to flush Wells out of the bushes, so to speak. But how could they be sure the man would take the bait . . . how would they ensure that he even saw the bait?
He sat there, mulling things over, until he heard the sound of a bell coming from downstairs. Rather than being the loud clang of a triangle, it was the soft tinkle of silver, and that made him smile. Mrs. Olson was a genteel lady with genteel tastes. A silver bell seemed appropriate for her.
He pushed back his chair and stood up, then took a moment to wash his face and hands. He had a lot of puzzling left to do, but first, he’d get a good meal inside him, and hopefully a bit of good conversation, too. That would set his mind right for everything else he had to do.
Chapter Four
“And that’s how I became addicted to big game hunting,” Mr. Roundy said to the table of awe-struck listeners.
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Mary replied, trying to maintain her composure. The thought of traveling around the world for the chance to shoot something out in the wild—it was quite astonishing.
“Well, it’s not something everyone can do,” Mr. Roundy said modestly. “There has to be a certain amount of skill involved, not to mention the financial outlay. One might consider it a gentleman’s sport.”
“I see,” Mary replied for lack of anything better to say. From Mr. Roundy’s description of the process, there wasn’t anything gentlemanly about it, but she could be envisioning it wrong. “And you, Mrs. Roundy? What did you do while your husband was having these adventures? Did you go along?”
“Oh, goodness no,” Mrs. Roundy said. “I stayed in the cities and shopped at the bazaars. I brought back some lovely gold pieces and some exquisite fabrics. There are such lovely things to be seen all over the world.”
“I’m sure there are.” Mary sent a helpless glance to Patty, who had just entered the dining room with a tray of dessert. “Won’t you help yourself? I know Patty’s gone out of her way tonight.”
Everyone took a plate of cake, and then Mr. Roundy turned to Mr. Hoffman, who had been sitting rather quietly through dinner. Of course, Mr. Roundy had been doing so much talking that everyone had been sitting rather quietly out of necessity.
“And you, sir? What do you enjoy for sport?”
Mr. Hoffman finished chewing his bite of cake, wiped his mouth, and sipped his water. He was moving deliberately, and Mary sensed that he was stalling. “I enjoy birdwatching,” he said at length. “You might say that we both appreciate animals, just in different ways.”
“Birdwatching? Where’s the fun in that?” Mr. Roundy shook his head. “All right, I suppose that not everyone has to be cut from the same cloth, but I’d go stark raving mad just sitting there. I’m a man of action—I’m constantly on the go.”
“And he means that, too,” Mrs. Roundy said, turning to Mary. “He’ll sometimes wander off while I’m talking to him. I’ll be in the middle of a sentence, and suddenly he’s not there anymore. Holding still simply appalls him.”
“Hmm.” Mary smiled and nodded. The conversation had stayed cordial, even though her guests didn’t share the same interests, and that was always a relief. Some nights, she had to intervene when her guests decided to take offense at each other’s comments.
The Roundys said goodnight after finishing their dessert, reminding Mary that they’d be taking the first train out of Creede in the morning. She bid them sleep well, then stepped into the kitchen to dry the dishes while Patty washed. Mr. Hoffman had gone into the parlor to read the newspaper.
“That was a most interesting meal,” Mary said, taking a dripping plate from Patty’s hand. “Can you imagine traveling out into the jungle and hunting the animals? It seems . . . oh, I don’t know. So barbaric.”
“People have done all sorts of things in the name of sport,” Patty replied. “I can’t say what’s right or wrong, or what they should
find entertaining. All I know is, when it comes to relaxing, I’d rather have a book and a cup of tea than just about anything. I’m done with my world traveling.”
“Don’t you ever want to go back to Jamaica for a visit?” Mary asked. “I’ve often wondered what it looks like, and in the back of my mind, I envisioned you taking me there someday and showing me your home.”
Patty’s eyes grew soft. “You’d want to see that with me?”
“Of course. Your stories have made it sound like a beautiful place.”
“It is beautiful. It’s had a long, hard history, but little by little, it’s recovered.” Patty handed Mary the last of the plates to dry. “Slavery, drought, starvation—those are just some of the things my country has experienced. Our people are strong, though, and we have moved on and become even stronger.”
Mary put the dish on the shelf, then touched Patty’s shoulder. “Let’s plan on the trip. I would love to see it for myself.”
She knew she didn’t mistake the sudden tears in Patty’s eyes as the woman turned back to the washtub.
Once everything was cleared away for the night, Mary stepped out to the porch, eager for some fresh air. A breeze kicked up as soon as she lifted her face to the sky, and she inhaled, closing her eyes.
“It almost makes the heat of the day worth it.”
She opened her eyes to see Mr. Hoffman sitting in one of the porch chairs. She smiled. “Almost, but not quite. I’ll certainly be glad when fall comes.”
“And when does that happen around here?”
“It changes its mind. Autumn is like a temperamental woman—it can never decide.”
He laughed. “I don’t often hear women speaking ill of other women.”
“Well, when it comes to changes in the weather . . .” She sat down in the other chair. “Birdwatching? What sorts of varieties do you most enjoy?”
“I don’t, actually. I was having fun teasing Mr. Roundy. All his talk of the hunt and what he did with the trophies—I wondered how he’d react when faced with a pacifist.”
Honoring Her Heart Page 3
