The Scarlet Pen

by Jennifer Uhlarik

  He laughed. He’d talked to the gal one time, and his noggin was spinnin’ with all kinds of ideas.

  At the back of the building, he dismounted beside the only bush he saw. Stooping, he peered in through a bare spot in the foliage. The kittens were exactly where Miss Cynthia told him they’d be. He extracted all six and took a long look at each before placing them in the sack.

  There wasn’t a bite mark anywhere on them, despite the blood matting their fur. And their necks weren’t just broken—their skulls were crushed.

  Whatever beast had done this, it had two legs—not four.

  The bell on the door to Walsingham’s Confectionary jingled, and Stephen hopped down from the buggy’s seat.

  “I’m sorry.” Emma offered an apologetic smile as she exited. “You were right. They aren’t here.”

  “I tried to tell you, love.” He kept his tone pleasant, squelching the irritation growing in his gut. If she’d only listened…. Nothing had gone right—not since Hester opened her fat mouth the day before. He helped her into the buggy.

  “I know, but I also know Cynthia. She’d rather spend her money at Walsingham’s than anywhere else. The girl loves their lemon drops.” She seated herself and laid the blanket across her lap.

  Stephen climbed aboard. “I told them to meet us at Melcher’s.” He tucked the blanket tighter about her and smiled, his face only inches from hers. She stared back, blue eyes glittering as a smile played at the corners of her lips. The urge to lean in and kiss her plump red lips flashed in his mind. The idea drew him like a magnet, but the bell on Walsingham’s door jangled, breaking the spell. Best not to give the townsfolk reason to talk. Mr. Draycott already hated him, no matter what Emma thought.

  The feeling was mutual.

  “Let’s head that way.” He straightened and pressed the team into motion.

  Emma slid nearer, looped her gloved hand into his arm, and snuggled close, porcelain cheek against his shoulder. “I am sorry, Stephen. I know this wasn’t how you’d hoped our day would go.”

  Not at all. From the Draycotts’ rebuke, to Cynthia insisting on visiting those dratted cats, to Hester Blakely’s unexpected appearance, time with his beloved Emma was waning.

  They rode in companionable silence until he drew the buggy to a halt. Then Emma pulled the blanket off and scrambled down.

  “Emma!” He set the brake and jumped down. “Please, let me help you.” He was, after all, expected to act the gentleman.

  She beelined inside, straight for her brother and sister, voice muffling as the store’s leaded glass door swung shut.

  Stephen bit back a curse. Always, those brats were underfoot. Always near. And when they were, Emma’s attention was forever divided. Never was he her sole focus. Stephen jerked the door open.

  Not five feet in front of him, Emma held her sister at arm’s length, concern etching her fine features.

  “Mr. Timmons said he’d bury them,” Cynthia said.

  “Mr. Clay Timmons?”

  Stephen shut the door a bit too hard. “Who are you talking about?”

  A rosy flush colored his beloved’s cheeks. “The gentleman you saw riding away from the churchyard. He’s new to town and stopped to ask for directions.” She turned again to Cynthia. “He said he would bury the kittens?”

  The girl fiddled with the end of her braid. “It was so nice of him, Em. I wouldn’t have slept tonight, thinking some animal would get them.”

  “I hope you thanked him.”

  “We both did,” Thomas volunteered.

  “Very good.” She motioned toward the store. “I understand Stephen gave you money to spend. Why don’t you both look around. We haven’t much time before we need to return home.”

  As the younger Draycotts headed off, Emma stepped close. “Why didn’t you offer to bury the kittens?” She smoothed his coat lapels.

  Her tone held only curiosity, yet the question stung.

  “I was distracted. It’s been my intention all afternoon to celebrate our coming nuptials, yet everything has gotten in the way of it.” Everything and everyone.

  “Celebrate how?”

  He spun her to face the store, and dipping his mouth near her ear, spoke. “Show me what you like.”

  She drew away, glancing over her shoulder as an awkward smile captured her lips. “What do you mean?”

  “I intend to treat you. Pick something. Several somethings. Whatever you want, and don’t worry about cost.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Of course you can. You’re to be my bride. I’ll spare no expense.”

  “Stephen, no.” A fetching pink flushed her cheeks. “You know I respect you, but a farmhand’s pay isn’t the greatest. I would rather we save our money for life after our nuptials.”

  “I haven’t told you where I went last week, have I?”

  “No. All you said is it was an important matter.”

  “My great-aunt Alma Simpson died ten days ago and left my sisters and me quite a tidy sum.” He pulled a wad of bills from his interior coat pocket and fanned one corner of the stack. “I’ve plenty to lavish you with gifts today and set us up in our future.”

  Her eyes widened, and she stepped close, pushing his hands closer to his body. “Put that away before someone sees it.”

  He tucked the money once more into his coat’s inner pocket.

  “You should deposit that in the bank rather than carry it with you. It’s not safe. Men have been robbed for less.”

  Annoyance swelled in his chest. “Let them try. I’m not the weak, scrawny boy I once was.” And he wouldn’t be picked on without retaliation any longer.

  “No one thinks that, least of all me. You’ve grown into a strong, strapping, and handsome man.” She dipped her chin in the most winsome way, though the look quickly gave way to seriousness. “But I do wish you’d deposit the money in the bank. It would be far safer there.”

  He wouldn’t trust this money to any bank. Particularly the one in Mount Pleasant.

  She sighed. “And why didn’t you tell me sooner about your aunt? I could have been praying.”

  Stephen drew back a bit. “I would hope you were doing that anyway.”

  “Of course I was praying for your trip and your safe return, but if I’d known you’d lost a loved one, I would’ve been praying for God’s peace and comfort as well. You and your family must be grieving.” A hint of indignation—or was it hurt?—flashed in her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I—” He shrugged. “I didn’t think it that important.”

  “Not important? Stephen! A member of your family passed. If I’m to become your wife, I would hope you’d share such events with—”

  His firm look paused her reprimand. At her silence, he gave a conciliatory nod. “I hope this won’t sound unfeeling. Her death was unexpected, but our grief is minimal. We’d seen her only a handful of times before my mother’s passing five years ago. None of us expected her to remember us in her will, but she was a spinster and we were her only relatives, so her worldly goods came to the six of us.”

  “I understand that she was a stranger to you, but why didn’t you tell me the purpose of your trip? If we’re to be married, you must share such things.”

  Anger surged through him, and he leaned closer, dropping his voice to a hiss. “Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

  Her lips parted, and confusion knotted her features. “I said no such thing.”

  “Then why are you pressing me so?”

  “I’m not pressing you. I mean only to say there should be no secrets between us. Especially once we’re married.”

  He huffed. “This is hardly the place for such a discussion. Besides, I asked you out so we might celebrate a bit. The last thing I want is to argue.”

  “I’m not arguing.” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “And I never said I didn’t believe you. I was taken by surprise that you wouldn’t have shared the loss of your great-aunt.” She swallowed hard. “I did
n’t mean to upset you. Please accept my apology and extend my condolences to your father and sisters.”

  His ire stirred, though her tears forced him to stuff it down. “Thank you. I will.” He bobbed his head. “Now, before any more time slips away, please, might we get to our true purpose?”

  “Are you sure? Wouldn’t it be best to—”

  He took her dainty hands in his. “Come, love.” He guided her farther into the store, heading toward one of the glass cases on the nearest counter. “I saw a few things recently that I thought you might like.”

  Shiny things. Beautiful things. Things that would make her forget this meaningless spat and the unreasonable expectation of hers that spawned it. And now that they’d reconnected—now that he’d finally drawn her eye as a beau and not a scrawny, sniveling little imp to be pitied—he’d teach her she could accept his word. Trust it unequivocally. He’d make sure.

  It took Clay only minutes to dispose of the kittens. Once he’d tamped the dirt back in place, he took another look around. Perhaps two feet off the ground, a spot on the church’s white wall was caked with fur and blood. His mind raced with the image of someone crushing the helpless creatures against the boards. But why? The kittens couldn’t have been more than two weeks old—not yet walking. What purpose would anyone have to kill them, especially in such a cruel manner?

  Of course Miss Cynthia was upset. It was bad enough to think an animal had killed these defenseless kittens. The level of rage it took to inflict that kind of harm was unnatural, and such deviance bewildering.

  He extracted a wadded bandanna from his saddlebags and grabbed his canteen from around his saddle horn. Biting the fingertip of his glove, he pulled his hand free of its warmth and doused the cloth with water. He scrubbed the evidence of the kittens’ murders from the building. No sense in leaving it for Cynthia or others to find. It would only upset any who saw it.

  Clay stashed his gear and mounted, shovel in hand, and turned Rio back toward the store. The hour was growing late. If he didn’t hurry, he might as well plan on bunking in the stable. He scanned the street for the brick home with three attic dormers and white picket fence. Seeing it, he headed there first.

  He tied Rio outside the fence, stashed the shovel on the ground just inside the gate, and went to the door. He pulled the glove from his hand again and knocked. An apron-clad older woman with gray-streaked hair answered.

  “May I help you?”

  “Are you Mrs. Mills?”

  “Yes.” She flashed a welcoming smile.

  “My name’s Clay Timmons. I’m in need of a room, and I was told you might have a vacancy.”

  The woman’s expression turned apologetic. “I’m so sorry. I took in a long-term boarder last week and filled my only empty room.”

  Clay shook his head. “Just my luck.”

  “There is the hotel on the far end of town.” She motioned down the street.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m aware of it.” And he’d rather bunk with Rio than risk an infestation of bedbugs. “Thank you for your time, ma’am.” He touched the brim of his hat and excused himself. Picking up the shovel on his way back out the gate, he mounted and guided his horse toward the emporium.

  Through the shop’s large window, he noticed Miss Emma Draycott talking to a stocky, dark-haired fella. Clay paused, took a slow drink from his canteen to allow himself a moment to watch the pretty young lady. She was a classy one, dressed in her fancy finery and shopping in the upscale store.

  Far too classy for him.

  He huffed. “What’re you doin’, thinking such thoughts, Timmons?” It was ridiculous to imagine a lady like her ever considering someone like him.

  “Mr. Timmons!” Cynthia Draycott peeked around the leaded glass door, brows arching.

  Clay looped the canteen’s strap over the saddle horn and, taking up the shovel again, turned her way. “Howdy, little lady.”

  “Did you bury them?” She angled to let him through the door.

  “Sure did. Said a prayer over ’em too.” He clamped the shovel’s long handle against his side and stripped off his leather gloves. Lord, please don’t let her ask details. I got no desire to traumatize the child further.

  “Thank you so much!”

  “Real glad I could help.” He winked and headed toward the store clerk. Right where Miss Emma Draycott and—he guessed her beau—were standing.

  “Where’d you bury them?”

  “In the shadow of the bush.” Easier than hunting a place, especially given the startling details of their demise.

  “Thank you again.”

  “Yes, Mr. Timmons.” The elder Miss Draycott beckoned Cynthia to her as he stopped at the counter feet away. “Thank you. My sister told me what you did. I hope this sad business hasn’t kept you from something important.”

  Her sparkling blue eyes and beautiful smile made his insides wobble. “No, miss. Didn’t take any time at all. Like I told Miss Cynthia, I was happy to help.”

  “I am sorry. This wasn’t the best first impression of our town.”

  The gent at her side cleared his throat. “Emma, dear. Are you going to introduce me to your … friend?”

  The word was loaded and aimed straight at Clay. He knew a shot fired when he heard it.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Forgive me. Stephen, please meet Mr. Clay Timmons. He’s come to town on business. Mr. Timmons, this is my intended, Stephen Dee Richards.”

  Not just a beau, but her intended. Even back east, all the pretty gals were spoken for. Clay shoved aside his envy and nodded a greeting. “Pleasure, Mr. Rich—”

  “Just what type of business are you in?” The gent looked Clay up and down, from boots to hat and back, a smirk on his lips. “Cowboying?”

  “Stephen!” Miss Draycott spun, her face blanching at the question.

  “Pardon?” Was the man poking fun, or was it a serious question?

  “Emma said you were here on business. We don’t see many people dressed quite like this in Mount Pleasant. Are you a cowboy?”

  “Stephen, don’t be rude,” Miss Draycott whispered.

  “It’s all right, miss.” Clay held the man’s eyes. “I’m sure I do look a mite out of place in my traveling clothes.” He darted a glance her way, then speared Richards again, this time with a smile. “Fact is, I work for the United States government.”

  A hint of surprise flashed on Richards’s face, though he schooled his expression so quickly Clay might’ve missed it had he not been watching closely. “Well then, I guess I had it wrong.”

  “Well then.” What in heaven’s name did a lady like Emma Draycott see in this sanctimonious dolt? “I reckon you did.”

  Her eyes wide, Miss Draycott looked at each of them before finally settling her attention on Clay. “Welcome to our town, Mr. Timmons. Right, Stephen?”

  The young lady shifted her weight ever so slightly, and Richards flinched, then forced a stiff smile. “Yes. Welcome.”

  Clay wouldn’t embarrass her by looking, but he guessed she’d just stepped on her intended’s foot.

  Good for her.

  “Thank you both. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way. It’s been a pleasure.” At least dealing with Miss Draycott had. There’d been nothing pleasurable about the smirking idiot accompanying her.

  Clay brushed past them to the young lady behind the counter as she tallied Miss Draycott’s and Mr. Richards’s purchase—some kind of a pen set. With a quick word of thanks, he passed the shovel back and headed out, pausing long enough to wish Miss Cynthia farewell.

  Stepping into the cold evening air, he put on his gloves again and risked one sideways glance at the unmatched pair inside.

  Father in heaven, forgive me for speaking my mind, but a smug nitwit like him doesn’t deserve such a charmin’ lady.

  Chapter 3

  Stephen fumed. Thank goodness the trip from town went quickly. He couldn’t take much more. The whole ride home, Thomas and Cynthia had sung the praises of Mr. Clay
Timmons, fawning over his kindness in burying the kittens. His riding for the Pony Express. And Emma had fawned right along with them, her attention on her family’s praise of a stranger rather than on him and the pretty trinket he’d just bought her.

  “I doubt very seriously that man rode for the Pony Express,” he grumbled. “He’d have been a young child then. Perhaps not even as old as Cynthia.”

  “His horse wore the XP brand, just like the Pony Express used.” There was a challenge to Thomas’s words.

  “I saw it too,” Cynthia added.

  “He could’ve branded those letters on his horse’s rump himself. Horse thieves often doctor existing brands with nothing more than a running iron and a hot fire.”

  “Stephen Richards, what has gotten into you today?” Emma put a little distance between them on the buggy seat. “You’re not acting yourself at all. First you speak rudely to the man’s face, and now you call him a horse thief and a liar? What reason would he have to bend the truth?”

  “To make himself memorable. To seem more interesting than he is. I’m certain his story about the Pony Express is nothing more than tall tales.”

  Emma tapped her foot against the buggy’s floorboards, only stoking his anger.

  “You and I both know the stories. All the posters said the Pony Express was looking for young, skinny, wiry fellows, orphans preferred. Papa read us stories from the newspaper about children as young as eleven riding for them. Perhaps Mr. Timmons was one of those children.”

  “Why did they prefer orphans?” Cynthia asked.

  “Oh, um—” Emma drew out the second syllable a moment too long and turned a pleading look his way.

  He knew just how to end this topic quickly. “So when they were killed by bandits or mutilated by Indians, there’d be no one to miss them.”

  Cynthia gasped, and Thomas chuckled, though his mirth died with one withering glance from Emma.

  “You needn’t put such coarse images in my impressionable sister’s mind, thank you very much.” Emma reached back to hold Cynthia’s hand, and for one blessed moment, all conversation stopped.