“Thank you for waiting, Mr. Timmons. I wanted to introduce you to my partner, but he is heading out of the bank for a meeting. However, he has a small guesthouse on his property. It is not being used, and he would be happy for you to stay there. It will be far more comfortable than the stable. It is yours as long as you need.”
“I …” He grasped for a proper way to decline without offending, but one thought of the bone-numbing cold of the previous night, and he changed his mind. “That’s … unexpected. And very kind.”
Mr. Berglund grinned. “I do not expect him back before the close of business today, but he looks forward to meeting you this evening when he gets home. Until then, he asks that you give the lady of the house this note. Directions to his property are here.” He pointed to the outside of the note as he handed over the paper. “As soon as you are done speaking to Sarah and Frederick, I will begin working on the list of our bank clients, and I will send it with him tonight.”
“That’ll be fine, sir. Much appreciated.” He tucked the note into his suit coat.
Chapter 5
Outside Steubenville, Ohio
Hello, friend! Mind if we share your fire?” Munson’s voice pierced the dusk and startled Stephen.
Ahead, a slovenly man’s head bobbed up, his mouth open. He squinted glassy eyes in their direction. The fool was probably drunk, if the almost-empty bottle clutched tight against his chest was any indication. Across the fire from him stood a dreary brown horse, looking rather long in the tooth, its head also drooping.
“You sure this is a good idea?” Stephen hissed, skin prickling at the look of the man. After a long day in the saddle, he had no interest in making friends. In fact, he’d rather push on the last couple of miles to Steubenville and find a hotel and a hot meal.
“It’ll be fine,” Munson answered under his breath.
The man’s words slurred as he welcomed them from afar.
“Fine?” The roiling in Stephen’s gut might indicate otherwise.
His traveling companion snorted softly. “You want to ride with me, then quit your bellyaching, Richards. This old sot won’t be any trouble.” Munson urged his horse in the direction of the camp.
Stephen bristled at the rebuke but touched his heel to his horse’s side. He’d bow to Munson’s wishes … this time. Depending on how it turned out, they might part ways.
“You two got the look of traveling men,” their campfire host slurred. “Where ya headed?”
“Oh, west. Wherever the wind blows.” Munson dismounted and extended his hands toward the fire.
Stephen followed suit. After minutes of small talk, Munson rose and nodded toward Stephen to help with the horses.
“See, harmless.” They stripped saddles and gear from their mounts and turned them loose near the man’s sorry little horse.
Once they’d spread out their bedrolls, Stephen retrieved the small gift Emma had thrust into his hands that morning. He’d been happy to wait to open it. As much as he would’ve liked to stay and revel in her tearful devotion, he was anxious to be off, starting his future. No—their future, for one day he would marry her.
A gentle tug on the ribbon’s end unraveled the whole odd-shaped package. The colorful bit of grosgrain fell away, and the white papers flittered loose, one falling to his bedroll, the other dangling from his fingers as they revealed the dainty scarlet pen set he’d bought her the day before. Confused, he set the carved wood holder aside, careful not to break the cut-glass inkwell as he looked at each sheet of paper.
“Whatcha got there?” the drunken man mumbled.
Stephen gave him only a glance before he set all his attention on the two pages. One contained several lines of writing, the other a hastily scrawled note addressed to him. He read the latter first.
My Dearest Stephen,
My heart is breaking. How am I to be without you for months? I will miss you fiercely and long for the day when you will make me your wife. Hurry back, and in the meantime, write often.
Until I can hold you again, Emma
Ah, she was his. This note proved it, and any concerns about leaving her were assuaged in his reading of it. Her request was a simple one—write often. A letter a week should keep her firmly entwined. It was a small sacrifice.
“Look at that grin yer friend’s wearin’!” the drunken man bellowed, reducing himself to laughter. The idiot lurched sideways, grabbed the pretty inkwell from Stephen’s bedroll, and held it up to the firelight. “Must be some letter!” Another laugh, this time resolving into a wet cough.
Whether it was because of the drunken imbecile’s laughter or his manhandling the inkwell from his beloved, something went cold in Stephen’s gut.
“Listen here, mister,” Munson warned from the man’s other side. “You might want to give that back to him.”
“Yes.” Stephen held his hand toward the fool, waiting. “Give it to me, now.”
The humor in the man’s demeanor faded. “I didn’t mean any harm. I just like the way it catches the light.” He again held the bottle toward the fire, squinted at it a moment, then slapped it into Stephen’s hand.
“Don’t touch it again,” Stephen growled, then placed it in its wooden holder.
Under his breath, the man mumbled something in a mocking tone.
“What’d you say?” Stephen arched his brows.
“Oh, both of you, settle down. There’s no cause to fight.” Munson motioned to him. “You got any of those sandwiches left?”
Stephen glared at the drunken man a moment longer, then folded both the papers, the second still unread, and shoved them into his coat pocket. Placing the pen and inkwell inside his saddlebags, he retrieved the bag with the last two sandwiches and tossed it Munson’s way.
“Leave me one for later. I’m going to sleep.” Before the drunken fool angered him any further.
Clay rapped on the grand door and immediately turned to stare across the lawn. Only a small patch of the yard was illuminated by the two lanterns flanking the front door. Even in the dark, Berglund’s partner’s property was quite a place.
For the umpteenth time that day, sheepishness overtook him. He’d been so focused on his investigation, and so taken aback by the offer of alternate lodgings, he’d neglected to ask the family’s name. Not wanting to impose more than he already was, he’d stopped again at the restaurant for a quick supper before riding to the home. That choice put him arriving as dusk faded into full darkness. Probably not his wisest decision.
Behind him, the door opened, casting light across the doorstep. Turning, Clay found a white-haired, white-bearded gentleman wearing costly trousers, shirt, and vest, a gold watch chain draped across his slight paunch. Certainly not the servant he expected might answer.
“Good evening. Are you Mr. Timmons?”
Clay swept off his hat and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Good, good. Please, come in. We’ve been expecting you.” The gentleman beckoned him inside. “I’m Olin Berglund’s partner, Emmitt Draycott.”
The request he’d practiced, to be shown to his quarters, died on his tongue. “Did you say Draycott?”
“Emmitt Draycott. Is there a problem?”
Clay stifled a laugh. “I met Emma, Thomas, and Cynthia Draycott yesterday afternoon in town. I assume they’re relations?”
A smile bloomed on the man’s lips. “Are you the one who buried the kittens for my Cynthia?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Please, do come in, then. My two youngest will be quite happy to see you. They haven’t stopped talking about the stranger from out west since they arrived home yesterday.”
But not the eldest Draycott daughter. Disappointment nibbled at him.
Clay cursed himself roundly. She was spoken for—by the arrogant Stephen Richards.
He resisted the urge to laugh. His dislike of the man was probably unfounded. Their first interaction left something to be desired, but for his own sake, he needed to give Richards a second chance, especially if he w
as going to continue bumping into the Draycotts while in Mount Pleasant.
“I should see to my horse, first, sir.”
“I’ve already sent word to the stable hand. He’ll make sure your belongings are placed in the guesthouse as well.” He again stepped out of the way to make room for Clay’s entrance. “Besides, I would like for you to meet my wife, and I have the information you requested. It’s in the other room.”
Whether he intended to or not, it appeared he would spend at least a few moments with the Draycott family before he retired to review the day’s findings. He shouldn’t be upset. At least he might glimpse the beautiful Emma Draycott.
Since Stephen’s unexpected departure, Emma had spent the bulk of her day in tears, begging the Almighty to send him back even that day. The fact that Delia knocked on her door moments ago to announce she was needed downstairs for a guest sent her heart racing. She’d hurriedly tidied her appearance and descended the stairs.
At the base of the steps, disappointment welled, nearly smothering her. The parlor stood empty and dark. Why hadn’t God answered her prayers to return her husband-to-be to her home today? For the hundredth time since Stephen’s departure, emotion knotted her throat. She ducked through the doorway of the parlor and out of sight.
Lord God, forgive me if this is wrong to say to You, but I don’t understand. So many of my friends paired off and began marrying two years ago, yet You’ve allowed me to languish, forgotten and overlooked. How many times had she questioned whether there was something wrong with her, when no one paid her any lasting attention, even when so many of her friends seemed to find their mates. Finally, You remedy that by bringing Stephen to me, but now You’ve allowed him to run off to only-You-know-where. I know I should trust Your timing, but … I don’t.
The admission—the most honest prayer she’d prayed all day—broke something loose in her, and she fought to hold the tears at bay. A vain attempt. They flowed freely, and she gulped big breaths to keep from releasing the sobs that threatened to boil out of her.
After moments of fighting, she pulled herself together and, sighing, followed the sound of Papa’s jovial voice. At least he was in a good mood tonight, if his repeated laughter was any sign. Light spilled from the library’s doorway.
As Emma entered the room, her entire family looked up from their seats. One suit-clad stranger rounded out the group, and he shot to his feet as quickly as she appeared.
“Miss Draycott.” A familiar drawl soothed her frayed nerves in unexpected ways. “Pleasure to see you again.”
“Mr. Timmons!” Heat crept up her neck. Just as handsome as yesterday—but in a far different manner. She smiled. “I … didn’t recognize you in your suit.” He cut quite a fine figure, even if smaller than Stephen in both height and girth. The two men were different indeed. She’d have to work at not staring.
“Like I told ya yesterday, those were my traveling clothes. I do make more of an effort when I’m working.” He glanced back at the leather chair he’d occupied. “Please, miss, sit.” Without waiting for her response, he crossed to the wall of bookcases to stand beside Papa.
“Thomas.” One word in Papa’s firm tone sent her younger brother scurrying from his chair, leaving it open for their guest. Once Emma took Mr. Timmons’s seat and he’d taken Thomas’s, Papa looked at all three of his children in turn.
“Mr. Timmons will be staying in our guesthouse for the time being.” His gaze lingered on Cynthia. “There will be no taking your friends back there to hide away and play, young lady.”
“Yes, Papa.” Cynthia’s face reddened under everyone’s scrutiny.
Everyone’s but Mr. Timmons’s. He was watching Emma from his new position across the room, an obvious question in his eyes. Was he pondering why she hadn’t said anything about the guesthouse the previous afternoon? Or was he wondering what malady had befallen her to cause the wretched redness she was sure afflicted her eyes. She should have taken the extra moment to wash her face after that most recent bout of tears.
Why was she so concerned with what he thought of her appearance anyway?
“Have you eaten, Mr. Timmons?” Mama asked. “I can have Saundra, our cook, warm something for you.”
“That’s kind of you, but I don’t want my stay to be a bother.”
“It’s no bother. What would you like?”
He shook his head. “Thank you, ma’am, but I stopped at the restaurant in town. I won’t need a thing until morning, and I’m happy to eat at the restaurant again then.”
“Nonsense.” Papa shifted. “I understand you may not wish to take your meals with us, but there’s no need for you to ride into town to eat, either. Saundra will be preparing our food. We’ll have someone bring you a tray in the morning, if that would suit.”
“Please, Mr. Timmons.” Thomas shot the man a hopeful look. “Won’t you eat with us? I’d love to hear some of your Pony Express stories.”
“Please!” Cynthia added her agreement.
A charming awkwardness blanketed their guest. Head bowed ever so slightly, he gave a little laugh and an embarrassed smile. Looking up again, he directed his focus to Emma. “Miss, I’ve heard from the rest of your family. Would it bother you if I joined you for breakfast?”
“Why would it?” The words snapped quickly from her tongue, sounding more defensive than intended. Her own awkwardness settled like a cloak, a combination of her ragged emotions, Mr. Timmons’s captivating green eyes, and that honey-smooth drawl. “Forgive me. That didn’t come out how I intended.” She spoke more slowly and kept her tone light. “I meant to say I don’t mind.”
“Well, then, I’d be real happy to join you folks.” His focus didn’t shift from her until Thomas and Cynthia voiced cheers. Then he turned to Mama and Papa again. “I’m humbled by your generosity. Thank you both. I hope I won’t seem rude, but I’ve a few things to wrap up tonight. Would someone mind showing me to the guesthouse?”
“I’ll take you!” Thomas launched himself into the center of the room.
Papa came to stand beside him, surely a silent warning to temper his enthusiasm. “We’ll both go.”
Mr. Timmons rose, bid them all good night, and followed Papa and Thomas out.
Once they exited, Mama turned, her expression a mix of understanding and firmness. “I know you’re upset, but I was relieved you apologized to the man for your sharp answer.”
Emma sighed. “I’ve been out of sorts all day. I should have stayed in my room.” And she would have, except that she’d been summoned. “Forgive me, Mama.”
“Your father thought this was the best way to alert you all that we had a guest on the property.” She rose and, crossing to Emma’s side, gave her a kiss on the forehead. “I do hope you might be in better spirits tomorrow. I would prefer you not snap at our guest over the morning meal.”
Emma sniffed, a half-hearted smile forming at the veiled hint. “Yes, ma’am. With that in mind, I think I’ll turn in early.”
“A fine idea. Rest well.” Mama stroked her cheek, expression full of compassion. For all her firmness, she really did try to understand.
Emma bid both Mama and Cynthia good night and slipped off to her room. Rather than turning up the lamp, she headed to the doors leading to the small balcony overlooking the back of the property. There she stepped out and stared up at the twinkling night sky.
“Lord, where is my groom tonight?” Was he staring up at the same stars and thinking of her?
From down the back path, the sound of a man’s voice floated on the cold air, his words lost to the space between them. What wasn’t lost was the enchanting Texas twang that sent pleasant shivers through her every time she heard it.
Stephen roused as a full-body chill gripped him. Blinking, he stared toward the campfire as his thoughts began to flow—no faster than frozen molasses, but they did flow. What had been a roaring fire was now a pile of glowing embers with only a few sprouts of flame. A bitter curse rose to his tongue.
He rolle
d out of his blankets and pulled on his boots, scanning the campsite for more wood to rekindle the fire. If their camp companion had laid in such supplies, he’d hidden them well. He took the one longish branch they’d used to stir the fire, about as fat as three of his fingers, and poked the flames to life again. With a hint of light, he turned.
“Hey!” He crossed to the slovenly man’s bedroll and nudged him. “Wake up.” No response. Stephen nudged him again.
On the third try, the man finally opened still-glassy eyes.
“Where is the woodpile?” Stephen overenunciated his words.
“Hmm?”
“You heard me.”
“What woodpile?” The fellow’s eyes drifted closed again.
Anger flared, and Stephen hauled the man into a sitting position. “Are you telling me you didn’t lay in extra wood for the night?”
“Hey!” The idiot dropped something to claw at Stephen’s wrists, the item catching the firelight as it fell.
The tink of glass stilled him and, at the edge of the man’s bedroll, flames reflected off the jagged edges of a familiar glass bauble. Surrounding the broken inkwell, a dark blot spread across the gray blankets and soaked into the hard-packed earth.
Stephen lurched to his feet to stare at the spreading stain, a cold nothingness seeping through him in much the same way. From somewhere far away, the sound of the drunken man’s voice droned.
“Sorry. Sorry. I’ll get ya a new one. I’ll head into Steubenville first thing.”
The words barely penetrated as the ink spot widened, creeping slowly toward the man’s rotund form. When it reached the man’s leg, Stephen looked from the stain, up the man’s fat body, to his face.
The fellow’s lips moved, and as if speaking from outside the campsite, his voice followed. “You’re not angry, are you? I didn’t mean any trouble.”
In practiced motions, Stephen drew the knife from his belt and sank it into the man’s belly just above his belt buckle.
The Scarlet Pen Page 6
