Fortunately, the interior of the bank was cooler than the air on the street. A wall of tellers behind metal bars flanked one side of the cavernous room. Their jackets hung neatly on wall pegs; the lower halves of their shirtsleeves were protected by black half-sleeves and they all wore matching dark gray suspenders and eye visors. Busy with strong boxes and cash drawers, none took notice of her sudden appearance.
To the left of the entrance a man in a business suit sat at a wide wooden desk. He peered over the top of a thick ledger, through a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles and smiled at Kristen. She returned the nicety, then walked over and stood before the desk.
He stood. “May I help you?”
“I would like to see Mr. Brown, please.” She glanced at the closed door behind the man’s desk. A hand-lettered plaque read “Randall Brown” so she knew she was in the right place. She only hoped this was not an inconvenient time. It would not do to be sent packing now like some ill-timed delivery person.
“Do you have an appointment?”
Her stomach dropped. An appointment? Why hadn’t she thought to make one, instead of barging into the man’s place of business? Back in Boston, she would have secured an appointment, rather than simply expecting someone to be available at her whim.
Oh, well, there was no help for it now. The first fumble had been made, and there was no graceful way to back out of it.
Kristen wanted to slap herself in the head, then melt into the floorboards to disappear, but she did neither. Instead, she swallowed hard and shook her head.
“No. I’m afraid I don’t have an appointment.” To soften the impact of her blunder, she smiled. It was a small smile, but she had learned at a young age that a smile never hurt—regardless of the circumstance.
It seemed she would be turned away. The man stared into her eyes for what felt like forever before his handlebar moustache twitched. A smile! He held up his forefinger, and then turned to the door. One knock gained his entrance. He went inside the office, closing the door behind him.
When the man emerged, he held the door open wide. “Mr. Brown is available, miss.”
Kristen swept through the doorway, nodding her thanks to the man as she passed him. But when she spotted the man whose office she entered, she stopped in her tracks.
The bank owner was younger than Kristen expected. In her mind, she envisioned a man of middle years, maybe balding and with a paunch. Instead, the fellow who rose and came around the massive oak desk in the center of the office looked to be in his early thirties. In addition, where she imagined straining seams and copious jowls, there were even more surprises. The man extending his hand in greeting was clad in denim, and looked so lean, muscular and suntanned that it was apparent he did not spend all of his time behind a desk.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of such a lovely visitor?”
There had to be some mistake. This could not be the man with whom she had corresponded. He was too cowboy-ish to be a banking magnate. How on earth could someone whose spurs jangled when he walked own most of the town?
“Are you Mr. Brown?” Kristen realized she had not moved an inch, so she took a few steps into the room. “Mr. Randall Brown?”
He came closer. “Randall Brown, at your service. And you are?”
Manners. Where had hers gone?
Kristen placed her right hand in Mr. Brown’s and flashed a conciliatory smile. She certainly was making a mess of this employment opportunity!
“I am Kristen Marsh. We corresponded, via telegraph, regarding my settling in Brown’s Point. This, if I may add, is a lovely little town.”
He acknowledged the compliment with a nod as he led her to a brown leather chair. Mr. Brown waited while Kristen sat before heading around the desk and settling himself in an identical chair. It seemed odd that he make his visitors as comfortable as he was, but then there had been many unusual points to ponder on this westward journey.
“Thank you, Miss Marsh. That’s very kind of you to say.”
By the way he spoke, it was apparent that Randall Brown had not been educated in any frontier schoolhouse. His enunciation was as accurate as any Bostonian attorney’s and his deportment showed he had been taught well. His overt assessment of her person was neither insulting nor indelicate.
Kristen suffered his scrutiny in silence. She deliberately kept her features carefully arranged to give the impression she was not unnerved by his appraisal. In truth, she was grateful he could not feel the herd of butterflies galloping in her midsection. They were a dead giveaway regarding the importance of this interview, and the necessity of her securing the teaching position.
The banker finally broke the silence. “If memory suits me, you’re from back east, aren’t you?”
“I am, sir.”
A chuckle filled the air. He sat forward, put his elbows on the desktop and threaded his fingers together. The nails were neatly filed and his hands scrubbed. So, even though he looked like a cowboy he cleaned up like a gentleman.
“Please, call me Randall. Every time I hear someone—especially someone as fetching as you are—call me by my formal name I expect to see my father walk through the door.”
His compliment fitted so easily into the conversation that Kristen merely smiled an acknowledgement. He was kind, but she needed more than someone to blow sunshine up her dress. What she needed was a job—and quickly!
“Randall, then. Your memory serves you well; I am from back east. But now I’m here, and hopeful the position we discussed is still available.”
The banker was not prepared to discuss teaching, apparently, because he steered her back to her history.
“And you traveled all this way on your own? Without a chaperone?” He creased his brows so tightly they looked like a brown caterpillar marching across his forehead.
Kristen nodded. “Yes, I did. It wasn’t as bad as one would imagine, really. I met quite a few nice people, and the journey gave me lots of time to think. I also saw many lovely sights, and took the opportunity to sketch them.”
“Ah, an artist?”
“Hardly.” While her watercolors were passable, they were certainly not spectacular. They were, as were all her other talents, satisfactory. “I enjoy sketching and painting, but my efforts are for family, friends and, primarily, my own pleasure. Therefore, as you can tell, the traveling was not a real trial. In fact, there were several points I found exciting. Others, enjoyable. Very few were unpleasant. And, having said that, I am most pleased to finally be here in Brown’s Point.”
“Good to hear. I would hate to think you didn’t like being here with us.” His brow eased. “Not good for public relations, you know, if visitors are unhappy upon arrival.”
Time to push the point home. “I don’t consider myself a visitor. I plan to settle awhile in Brown’s Point. Therefore, as you can plainly see, I am highly desirous of securing the position we discussed. Schoolteacher—remember?”
“Of course I do,” Randall said smoothly. “And now that we’ve met, and chatted a bit, I see you are the ideal replacement for our Mrs. Handel. She and her husband, Ernie, intend to begin a family of their own on a tract of land just outside town. While we are happy for Lorelei and Ernie, it leaves us in a bind—that is, until now. What would you say to stepping into Lorelei Handel’s position next week? I know she’s anxious to get out of the schoolroom and into the homestead. Does the timing suit you?”
Kristen could not agree quickly enough! “Yes, it suits me perfectly! I am so grateful for the opportunity, Mr. Br—uh, Randall. Thank you.”
Conscious of the possibility that the man could change his mind at any moment, Kristen stood. She moved toward the door, and then waited while he came around the desk to open it for her.
“Again, thank you for this opportunity. You won’t be sorry you’ve hired me for this position.”
“I’m quite sure I won’t be.” Randall walked her to the bank’s exit. Chivalrously he reached out and held the door wide, bowing slightly as she pas
sed into the bright mid-morning sunshine.
Every throb of her pulse in her temple seemed to say “A job! A job!” over and over in her head. She couldn’t have wiped the satisfied look off her face if she had tried to do so—which of course she didn’t.
When Kristen spotted Jack coming toward her, she broadened her smile to show her pleasure at the unexpected meeting. For her trouble, she got a less-than-friendly nod and a startled half-glare.
Judging by the frown on his handsome face, the bank business Jack was on looked disagreeable. Had she been less jubilant by her own morning’s business, the stormy set to Jack’s face might have brought her spirits down. But Kristen was over the moon about this latest turn of events and nothing—not even Jack Sterling’s moodiness—could bring her down. Nothing.
****
Jack strode into the bank with one thing on his mind: Justice. He refused to let the unexpected meeting with Kristen, or the quickening of his heartbeat in response to her nearness deter him from his errand. Later, alone in his rented room and more able to give it the attention it deserved, he would try to figure out just what his fair companion had been doing in a scoundrel’s lair.
Funny how Kristen had gone so quickly to being “his” in his mind. Jack had not planned for it to happen that way, but it had.
His boot heels sounded like shots in the large, quiet room. Instantly his notice was drawn to two men standing to his left. One looked to be a ranch hand, clad in dungarees, denim shirt and leather boots. The other, wearing a suit and bolo tie, had to be the banker.
Jack walked right up to the suited man and wasted no time on preliminary small talk. Idle chitchat was for social occasions, which this was definitely not.
He held out his hand. “Jack Sterling. I have some business to discuss with you, Brown. I don’t imagine you would care for your employees to hear what I’ve got to say, so perhaps we should find somewhere private where we can speak freely.”
Wordlessly the man took Jack’s hand and gave it a limp shake. He stared into Jack’s eyes with a look of complete bafflement.
The cowboy cleared his throat. “I believe you’re looking for me, Mr. Sterling. The man whose hand you just shook is Mr. Griffin’s. Ted is my secretary.”
One of the things he hated most was feeling foolish, and that’s precisely how he felt now. His hot-headedness had made him rush to judgment, something he knew better than to do but had done anyhow. Before he could open his mouth to speak, the banker went on as smoothly as if having his employee mistaken for himself was something that happened on a daily basis.
Jack had to hand it to him. The man was as swift as a rattler crossing a stretch of hot sand.
“If you like, we can conduct our business in my office.” Holding his hand out and gesturing to the open doorway, Randall Brown effectively gained the upper hand.
Jack let him have it—for now—and brushed past him into the office space. He kept his back turned while Brown closed the door behind them.
Gauging a man’s character on first sight was something Jack typically did easily. It had been a major mistake to underestimate Brown, giving his garb far too much weight. It was an error Jack did not plan to repeat.
Time to take back what’s mine.
He waited until his opponent stood behind his desk before he spoke.
“So you’re Randall Brown?” He ignored the offered hand. He had already shaken a hand. Now it was time to get down to business.
To his credit, Brown recovered from the slight without overt annoyance. He stuck his right thumb beneath the top edge of the gun belt he wore low on his hips. The gesture was not lost on Jack, who had already taken note of the blued revolver in the black leather holster.
“I am. And, as you were so quick to point out in the outer office, you are Jack Sterling. Would you care to have a seat?”
Brown folded himself into the chair behind his desk but Jack remained on his feet. He thought better with his boots planted firmly on the ground.
“I’ll stand.”
“Suit yourself. Now, what exactly do you so urgently wish to discuss with me? I hate to be—” He raised one eyebrow so high it nearly disappeared into his hairline. The motion made a jagged scar at the man’s right temple prominent. The half-sneer he gave when he paused was not lost on Jack, either. “—rude, but I must point out that you don’t have an appointment, Mr. Sterling. Or are we on a first-name basis, considering the way you so informally made you way in here?”
“Sterling will do just fine.” The man’s tone irritated Jack so much that his words dripped disdain. Had it not been for this banker’s thievery he would not have the misfortune to be in this stuffy office. He fisted his right hand by his side.
“Fine, if that’s the way you want it, Sterling.”
“It is.” Jack forced his fingers to relax, and then flexed his hand. Every muscle in his body was tense, but he made himself appear calm. Letting this land thief know how much he was affected by their meeting would be a mistake. Jack wasn’t willing to make any errors where this banker was concerned. Not if he could help it.
“I’m a busy man. I don’t have a great deal of spare time, so if you’ve got something to say I’d appreciate you just saying it. What brings you into my office?”
“You’re a bigger thief than I thought you would be.” Jack spat the words. He had not planned to get his back up but the hurry-up-and-get-out attitude brought his annoyance up a notch. Maybe two.
Brown’s expression hardened. His lips turned down at the edges, and all semblance of friendliness disappeared. “Those are fighting words. You had best be able to explain yourself.”
Leaning forward, Jack placed his palms flat on the desk’s surface. He looked straight into the other man’s eyes and said, “That’s what you need to do. Explain yourself, Brown. Explain why you think it’s a good idea to steal deeds from honest families, and then send them off in a strongbox in the dead of night. Why is it that you think a person’s refusal to do your bidding gives you the right to bend their wishes to suit your purposes? Explain yourself, man! Then, when you’re done, you can just march over to your wall safe—or wherever it is that you keep stolen property—and hand me back the deed to my family’s land.”
The banker stood. He stared silently at Jack, a muscle in his jaw tensing, then releasing. His gaze strayed down, slowly raking Jack’s person from head to toes, then back up again. The assessment was open and measured, and Jack stood stock-still while the other man looked him over.
Jack had to give the man his due. If someone had brazenly walked into his office, accused him of stealing, then demanded restitution, he would be more unnerved than this banker seemed to be.
Maybe he’s so used to cheating people it hardly rattles him anymore.
Finally Brown spoke. “I have no idea what you’re talking about but since you don’t appear to be mentally incapacitated I’m going to investigate the charges you’ve brought against me. Then, and only then, will I address your concerns. Does that sound like a fair arrangement?”
Jack was not unreasonable. He was willing to give the man a chance to redeem himself by returning what was not rightfully his.
He nodded. “I don’t want to turn this fiasco into a slugfest or shootout. I just want what’s mine, and I’m giving you the chance to do the right thing. Investigate—but don’t waste time over it. My patience only stretches so far, Brown.”
“Fair enough. I assume this ‘land theft’ has something to do with property in Kansas. Am I correct?”
Jack turned for the door, anxious to be out into the heat of day and away from the unsavory businessman’s den.
“Don’t play dumb with me. You and I both know you’re raiding the Kansas plains like an Indian on the warpath.” He paused, one hand on the doorknob, and looked back at Brown. “You’re cutting people’s hearts out, one home at a time. I don’t know if that’s worked for you before, but I assure you the people of Carroll’s Junction won’t stand for it. We want our deed
s—and we’re not going to wait long for you to make things right. It’s in your best interest to deal with this—quickly.”
“Is that a threat?” Brown’s hand went to his holster but he didn’t unsnap the pistol strap.
Jack adjusted his hat, deliberately keeping his own shooting hand far from his Peacemaker. If he wanted to he could blow a hole in the other man’s thumb but that would only confuse matters.
“Not a threat, Brown. A promise.”
Chapter Six
Four days after she fled Boston, Kristen had written her mother a letter. It hadn’t been a letter in the true sense of the word. Rather, a hastily jotted jumble of lines designed to calm her mother’s nerves. It went, of course, unsaid that her mother would be beside herself with worry over the sudden disappearance of her only child but Kristen didn’t need to hear the words to know the truth. And while she had been angry, frustrated and a whole host of other emotions when she’d packed her valise and crept out of the house, Kristen hadn’t been so heartless that she didn’t take her mother into account. Therefore, the short missive sent from the road.
It wasn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, the sort of letter Kristen had been taught to write at The Boston Academy for Young Women. There was nothing newsy or cheerful in the words. Even her penmanship was poor, something that writing on her lap in a cramped coach rumbling along a rutted track was impossible to avoid. But the object hadn’t been to produce a tidbit of charming correspondence. Kristen had only wanted to allay her mother’s fears, and hoped the note had been successful in that regard.
Now that she had reached Brown’s Point, it seemed fitting that she compose a proper letter to Mother. She had no intention of giving away her whereabouts. There had to be a way to post the piece of mail without doing so.
Her room held the most essential furnishings. A bed, chest of drawers, night table, oil lamp and chamber pot, all sturdy and somewhat shabby. The only item out of character in the no-nonsense décor was a ladies’ writing desk tucked under the lowest part of the sloped ceiling. It sat beside a small, round window which looked out onto Main Street and was Kristen’s favorite spot in the room.
Sterling's Way (Lawmen & Outlaws) Page 4
