Clay took too much pleasure in the man’s overlong glance.
“Emma is home. I’m heading to visit her once I’ve completed my business here.”
“I see.” He resisted giving the other man the same sort of once-over glance and snide remark about his downtrodden appearance that Richards had doled out. “Please, give her and her family my regards. Real nice folks. Leastways, the ones I met.”
“They are … and I will.”
“Thank you kindly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my job’s calling.” Donning his hat, he brushed past.
The man looked almost relieved to be shut of Clay’s presence.
He paused near the door to pull on his greatcoat, still blessedly warm after being draped so near the woodstove.
The waitress reappeared with a small bag. “Here are your sandwiches, sir. I’m told you paid for them last evening.”
“I did, but—” Richards’s voice dropped low as Clay adjusted his collar. Richards fished something from his pocket and offered it to the woman.
“You needn’t do that, sir.”
“I insist. Please.” He thrust the offering toward her.
She took the money, looked at it, and tried to give it back. “It’s too much.”
“Nonsense.” He waved her outstretched hand away. “It’s my pleasure.”
Reluctantly, the woman slipped the folded bill into her apron pocket. “Very kind of you. Have a safe trip.”
Bag in hand, Richards turned toward the door but stopped since Clay had his path blocked.
“Sorry. Guess I’m holding up the show.” Clay opened the door, holding it for the other fella. “Took a minute to get my coat on.”
Richards barely acknowledged him as he strode to a saddled horse. The mount was outfitted with bedroll and heavy-laden saddlebags.
Curiosity nagged, though Clay resisted asking questions. The man’s comings and goings weren’t his affair. Instead, he bid Richards one last farewell and headed toward Mount Pleasant’s only bank to start his investigation.
At the sound of horse’s hooves, Emma laid aside the lovely scarlet-barreled dip pen Stephen had bought her the previous day and peeked out from behind the lacy curtain. A rider came up the long drive and stopped when Wilt Parcell, Papa’s new stable hand, approached. Judging from the rider’s ragged appearance, the heavy pack his horse carried, and the general transient look, it was probably someone down on his luck seeking a job. Such travelers came by from time to time.
Sitting again, Emma retook the pen and carefully scrolled the words of her favorite scripture across the page of crisp, white stationery.
Come now, and let us reason together, saith the LORD: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.
ISAIAH 1:18
Very nice. The pen had good balance, and it fit perfectly in her hand. The sparkle of the cut-glass inkwell and the richness of the carved wood holder, as well as its compact size, would make a fine accent to the items on her small desk. Of all the things Stephen suggested, this had been her favorite. He had seemed far more interested in the expensive silver tea service displayed in the store’s window, but what could she do with that now? It would sit in her room and wait until she had a home of her own in which to use it.
What might life as Stephen’s wife look like? Entertaining her friends or Stephen’s business partners with tea. Tending to their children. It was a pretty picture, one she couldn’t wait to explore. But it would be at least a year yet.
A knock at her bedroom door brought Emma around. “Come in.”
Delia Parcell, the stable hand’s daughter, pushed the door open and curtsied. “Mr. Richards has come to call, miss.”
“Stephen? Now?” She rose. She’d not expected him until evening. The quick twist of excitement gave way as she caught sight of her reflection across the room. Her plain brown skirt and ivory blouse were hardly proper to receive company—rather, not how she preferred to receive his company. “Please tell him I’ll be down in a few moments.” She started toward her wardrobe to select the right dress. Perhaps one of the blues. They always brought out her eyes.
“He says he’s unable to stay and asks that you hurry.”
A frigid wave washed down her spine. “Is everything all right?”
“I wouldn’t know, but—” Her voice trailed to nothing.
“But what? Please be candid, Delia.”
The young woman shifted uncomfortably. “He doesn’t look his usual dapper self, miss. He looks as though he hasn’t slept, and—” She paused. “He awaits you in the parlor.”
Emma flew past the young woman and hurried down the staircase and around the corner.
“Stephen?”
He shot to his feet, eyes wide. Dark circles rimmed his lower lids, and between the scruff on his face and the threadbare clothing, he looked—just like the man who’d ridden up moments ago.
“Is everything all right?” She crossed the room and slipped into his arms. The strong scent of woodsmoke clung to his warm coat, which he hadn’t bothered to remove.
“Yes, fine.” He drew her close, and she pressed her cheek to his broad chest.
“What’s the matter? You look—”
He extracted himself, a serious expression clouding his features. “I’m sorry, love. Under other circumstances, I’d have taken greater pride in my appearance.”
Other circumstances? Her lungs constricted. “You’re beginning to frighten me. What circumstances? There’s not been another death in your family, has there?”
“Death? Oh no.” He waved as if shooing a fly. “Nothing so grim. In fact, what I’ve come to say is a good thing.”
“Then say it, please, so I might stop fretting.”
“Of course.” He motioned to the settee and, once seated, took her hands. “I was awake most of the night considering your father’s words, and I’ve made a decision.”
She arched her brows. “About?”
“I’m …” He shifted uncomfortably. “I’m leaving.”
“Leaving?” A weight settled in her chest, constricting her breathing. Hadn’t Papa’s softening yesterday been enough to suit him? Papa and Mama had granted them a tentative blessing, after all.
“Yes. To begin our future.”
Muscles quivering slightly, Emma willed the tremor to stop. “I—don’t understand.”
“I’m not explaining myself well. Let me start again.” He tightened his hold on her fingers. “As I mentioned, I’ve been corresponding with some men about a prospective business opportunity.”
“Yes.” She too had lain awake much of the night, recalling every turn of the conversation and pondering what opportunity Stephen might be considering. Yet even with her, he’d not shared details.
“I realized that if we hope to start a future, I must talk face-to-face with these men. It’ll take months to arrange through letters, but if I go now, we can start making serious plans. We’ll set things in motion and get this enterprise off the ground soon.”
Once the words sank in, Emma jerked her fingers from his grasp. His explanation. The smoke-scented attire. The heavy-laden horse he’d ridden. They could all mean only one thing. “You’re leaving immediately?”
Relief and reticence warred on his face. “I am. As soon as I leave here, I’m headed north for the railroad.”
Lord above, no. His absence last week about did her in. She’d missed his evening social calls, the games of chess, playing the piano while they sang their favorite hymns together. Papa was correct they’d not courted for long, but since they’d begun, she’d spent few evenings without him until last week, and now he was leaving again.
“For how long? Another week?” Please, say only a week.
“Longer. Months.”
“Months?” Dread settled across her shoulders like a sopping quilt.
“Remember, love. If my plan succeeds, I’ll gain my fortune, and we’ll have the rest of our lifetimes together.”
A lifetime with Stephen sounded wonderful, but he’d given her no warning of his departure. Instead, he’d made the announcement with no time for her to acclimate to the news. Where was he going? Who were the men? What sort of business? Did he intend to move her away from her family? And what, in heaven’s name, did gaining his fortune mean? Yet when she opened her mouth to voice them, not a single one of those questions came out.
“What am I to do without you for months?”
“You’re strong. You’ll carry on as you have before.”
Before? Back to her mundane existence of needlepoint, reading, social gatherings, an occasional horseback ride, and weekly church services. She’d never thought of it as mundane until he’d begun calling on her. Then life before him seemed all so uneventful.
His gray eyes sparkled with excitement. “Before you know it, we’ll be starting our marriage and family.”
“But I’ll miss you.” As quickly as she said the impetuous words, she wished she could recall them. It wasn’t becoming to whine, especially when he was trying to fulfill Papa’s expectations.
Once more, he took her hands. “And I’ll miss you, but this must happen if we hope to marry.” His voice dropped to a more confidential level. “Your father is all but forcing my hand.”
The weight in her chest grew to that of a boulder, and she coughed. He was correct. This must happen, but why so suddenly?
Stephen sat back and drew her to his side. With his arm around her shoulders, she laid her head against his chest and fought the emotion welling within her.
Father, please—I want my husband-to-be at my side where I can further get to know him. Can’t You do something?
He planted a tender kiss on her hair. “I promise you. My time away will be productive. I’ll make my fortune and do you proud.”
Didn’t he know—she was already proud. Stephen was a fine man. Perhaps not rich according to her father’s standards, but a churchgoer, handsome, and charming. Kind to her and her brother and sister. Wasn’t a man’s character more important than how thick his wallet was?
Emma listened to the beat of his heart as she soaked up his warmth and closeness. Oh, she would miss him.
All too soon, he stirred. “I should go.” Reluctance tinged his words. Again, he kissed her hair.
Tears threatening, she stood. “Will you wait a moment? I need to get something from my room.” At least she could escape long enough to collect herself. Perhaps delay him a few moments longer.
“Hurry. I’ve a long ride ahead.”
She headed to her room and shut the door as a sob broke loose. Lord, help. How am I to say goodbye? Any long-winded farewell would leave her in tears, and she couldn’t bear the thought of seeming weak to him.
Emma dabbed away the tears, though they rested just below the surface. She crossed to her desk and reached for the last sheet of stationery in the drawer. She blurted her feelings onto the page, blotted them dry, and recorking the ink bottle, overlapped the hurried letter with the paper she’d scribbled on earlier. With deft fingers, she wrapped the pretty pen and ink set in the crisp, white pages and tied them with an old red hair ribbon.
Breathing deeply, she willed herself not to cry as she once again descended the staircase.
Stephen waited at the bottom, grinning. “There’s my girl.”
She thrust the gift toward him, fighting to hold back the torrent of emotion. “Please don’t open this until later. Tuck it somewhere safe until you’re a good distance away.”
Mirth crinkled the skin around his eyes. “You’re being so serious. We’ll make it through, my love. I know we will.”
Ignoring the gentle chiding, she squared her shoulders. “Once you’ve opened it, I expect you to use it. Often. And think of me when you do.” Her voice cracking with the last statement, she stood on tiptoes, gave him a peck on the cheek, then attempted to slip into his arms for one more long hug. “I love you.”
Quite unexpectedly, he gave her a quick squeeze then weaseled out of her grasp. “And I you, my sweet. Don’t worry. When you see me next, I’ll have made a name for myself.”
Tapping his finger on her nose as he’d done so often before, he turned and pushed out the door. Her last glimpse of him blurred with tears.
“Mr. Timmons?”
At the young, dark-haired woman’s call, Clay looked up from the newspaper he’d started—and nearly finished—reading.
“Forgive the delay, sir. Mr. Berglund will see you now.” She beckoned him to follow.
He collected his things and trailed after her to one of the doors to the right of the tellers’ windows. She pushed it open.
“I have Mr. Timmons to see you, sir.”
“Ja. Send him in.”
A portly man with dark hair rose from behind the desk.
“Mr. Timmons, welcome. I am Olin Berglund, part owner of the bank.” The gentleman’s voice was thick with a Swedish accent. Once they shook hands, he waved at a chair. “Please, sit. How may I help you?”
Clay draped his greatcoat across the chair and took the offered seat. “Reckon it’s more how I can help you, sir. You contacted the Secret Service about some possible counterfeit money?” He produced his commission book to reveal the star-shaped badge pinned inside.
The man’s eyes widened. “Ja. We come across some banknotes in the past weeks. I have them set aside for you.”
Berglund spun the dial on the safe in the corner. As he did, Clay extracted the small magnifying glass and his pad and pencil from his greatcoat pocket. Once the banker locked the safe and returned, he laid five US banknotes in varying denominations across his desk. Three fives, a ten, and a twenty. Clay picked up the largest denomination.
The note was new and crisp. Virtually unblemished. The average merchant wouldn’t think anything looked out of place. But to his trained eye, the minor variances were quickly evident. He took a closer look through the glass to be sure. The red ink was just a shade too light, and the green too dark in a couple of spots. There was one slight variation in the pictures on the bill’s face—a man’s arm outstretched rather than bent.
He angled the bill toward the light. Yes, the period after the word Washington was missing, a tiny detail easily missed, since the serial number was printed over it. He rubbed the note between his fingers. The weight and texture of the paper was off. Slightly too heavy and smooth. He set the twenty back in place and repeated his assessment on the other banknotes. Laying aside the final one, he took another long glance, mentally logging the issuing bank on each. First National Bank of Newark. The same as various other counterfeits they’d come across in recent months.
He met the banker’s gaze. “Good eye. They’re all forgeries.” Good ones, but for those few details.
The man huffed. “Not good enough. Except for with the twenty-dollar note, my tellers did not notice until they counted their drawers after we closed.” He pointed to the largest denomination. “That one came in yesterday, and Sarah noticed it right away.”
“Tell me about that transaction.”
“Liza Melcher brought it in with her father’s deposits last night.”
“Melcher.” He jotted the name on his pad. “As in Melcher’s Emporium?”
Mr. Berglund nodded. “Ja. The Emporium, and his flour and sawmills too. They bring three separate deposits each time they come.”
Disappointment needled him. A business deposit would mean more work ferreting out where the forged note came from—but the large denomination might make it easier. “How often does Melcher make a deposit?”
“About once a week. Sarah can tell you more. Shall I have her come in?”
“Once I’m done with you, yes.” He watched Berglund closely as he made the next request. “Also, I’d like to stand behind the counter and watch your tellers work for a while.”
Unfazed, the man nodded. “This is no problem. We will help in any way we can.”
The man’s willingness was a good sign. “As far as these four ban
knotes, you said you don’t know who brought those in?” He motioned to the smaller denominations.
“No. No one noticed the money was wrong until the end of the day—mmm, about two weeks ago. That day we found three of the notes, and we sent word to your office. Four days later, we find the other five-dollar banknote at the close of the day.” He shrugged. “The tellers should have been more watchful.”
“Are you certain you’ve not taken other forged notes?”
“Both times we found them, we all stayed late to check every banknote in our safes. These are the only ones we have now, though we do not know if we might have given some out to our customers before we noticed.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d heard such a sentiment. “It’s not just your tellers who’ve overlooked things. We’ve been investigating counterfeit notes like these in various banks across several states.”
Mr. Berglund clucked his tongue. “I hope you can solve this mystery soon.”
“We’ll solve it. You can be sure of that.” Just a matter of time. “To finish up, sir, do you recall which days these bills were found among your tellers’ transactions, and can you possibly get me a list of anyone who deposited money on those days?”
“Ja. I can have a list delivered to the hotel by the end of business today. Is this acceptable?”
Awkwardness overcame him, and he hung his head. “I’m not staying in the hotel.”
“The boardinghouse, then.”
Heat crept up his neck. “I slept in the stable last night.”
“The … stable.”
Such an occurrence wasn’t an odd thing out west, but here people tended to look a little sideways at it. “I was told by someone in town that the hotel is having a problem with bedbugs, so—”
“You will stay there again tonight?”
“Unless I can find someplace warmer.”
The man thought a moment before a broad grin broke across his face. “Please. Wait here a moment. I think I can help.”
The banker exited the office. While Clay waited, he scribbled notes on the information he’d gathered, then stashed his magnifying glass and the counterfeit specimens for safekeeping. Minutes later, Berglund returned with a piece of paper in hand.
The Scarlet Pen Page 5
