If only she might one day understand his actions. The drunken man, after all, had gotten into his saddlebags and taken the gift she’d given him. Broken the pretty inkwell. Spilled the ink he was to use to write her. So Stephen had spilled the man’s blood in retribution.
No matter how he wanted her to understand, he would not tell Emma the unvarnished truth. She was far too much a lady for that. He drew a piece of writing paper from the stack he’d bought in the store down the street, then inked the pen from the new bottle he’d gotten.
My dearest Emma,
The ride north was uneventful. Quite boring, actually. After a long day in the saddle, I found a safe place to camp for the night, sharing afire with two other men. It was a frigid night, despite the flames—as I said, unexciting.
Feeling his blade slice flesh hadn’t been boring or uneventful. Quite the opposite. Empowering. Thrilling. A rush far greater than smashing kittens’ heads against the church wall.
I dreamed of you last night. The two of us were bundled together in a sleigh, sun sparkling on the snow, riding somewhere. The image was so vivid, it made me ache to be with you again. Yet I know this trip must happen if I am to prove to your father that we are ready to begin life together. Today I catch the train to Nebraska where I will meet with my potential business partners and start this new venture. I will write again in a few days, hopefully with good news.
With all my love, Stephen
He laid aside the pen and reread the note. Surely the mention of the dream would please her. It was a fiction—he never remembered what he dreamed—but such a reference would keep her happy.
As he laid the paper aside, a buggy stopped in the middle of the street. The driver jumped down and barged into the restaurant, causing the bell above the door to jangle furiously.
“This town have a doctor?” The fellow belted the words, eyes darting.
“Several.” The speaker stood and reached for his coat. “Your wife having a baby, mister?”
“No. I found a horse outside of town, blood slopped over the saddle, its rider lying unconscious on the ground. The man’s half frozen with a belly wound.”
Stephen cocked his head. “What kind of belly wound?”
“A stab wound. He’s been laid open.”
Several folks gasped, and the restaurant patrons gathered to gawk through the large window near Stephen’s table. He also stood and leaned to see past the edge of the window. There the drunken idiot’s brown horse was tied behind the buggy. A blanket-clad lump lay across the back seat of the buggy, the form deathly still.
How had the sot survived? Hadn’t he killed the man?
“I’m heading toward Doctor Abner’s office, if you want me to show you the way,” the one fellow said.
The Good Samaritan turned toward the door. “Please!”
As the two men exited, Roy Munson entered, saddlebags and two bedrolls in hand. Brow furrowed, he glanced over the room as the sudden crowd filtered back to their tables. Focus finally settling on Stephen, he approached his table and sat.
“Morning.” Stephen turned a placid grin his way. “Get some sleep?”
Munson glanced around, confusion etching his features. “What happened?” He took a long look out the window at the buggy.
“Um …” The buggy moved, drawing the bloodied horse into plain view. “Just someone asking about—” Stephen bumped his mug, sending a flood of lukewarm coffee across the tabletop.
Munson lunged up as Stephen scrambled to move his writing paper and the freshly penned note to Emma.
“Sorry. Did I get you?” He threw his napkin across the worst of the spill, the brown liquid seeping into the light-colored cloth.
Munson stared first at the spill, then at Stephen. “You’re a public menace, Richards.” He plopped back into the chair.
A waitress approached, carrying towels to help with the spill. “Are you both all right?”
Noting that the buggy and bloodied horse were safely out of view, Stephen grinned at the woman. “Fine, thank you. Wasn’t a bad spill, thankfully.”
She mopped it quickly and rushed the dirtied cloths to the kitchen.
“I said, did you sleep?” Hopefully, the coffee spill had distracted Munson from asking questions.
“A little, no thanks to you.” He muttered a foul name under his breath, which Stephen ignored. “You pull that sort of trick again, and we’ll part ways. You understand me?”
Stephen forced a smile. “Understood.”
Munson reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew a stack of folded banknotes, peeled off a couple, and slid them across the table. “I sold the horses like we discussed. There’s your part.”
“Thanks.”
Munson pulled out his pocket watch and flipped open the cover. “You about ready? Train leaves within the hour.”
With the table clean and dry again, Stephen addressed the letter to Emma and stashed the writing utensils and paper in his saddlebags. “I am now. Let’s go.”
Clay exited the harness shop and looked again at the lists from Melcher’s Emporium and the bank. In his meetings with local businesses so far, the one curious detail he’d found was that two stores had logged receipts to someone with the singular name Mundy, and another to a person named Mull. In each case, Mundy or Mull was described as tall and thin with reddish muttonchop whiskers.
Mull and Mundy were probably the same person, though no one had any inkling of where to find him.
Clay checked to be sure he’d jotted those details into his notes, then searched the street for the next business he needed to visit. As he did, a familiar voice rang out above the din.
“Mr. Timmons?” The bank teller, Frederick Smith, waved as he hurried in Clay’s direction. “Mr. Draycott asked me to find you. We have need of your services at the bank, please.”
Tucking the lists and papers into his pocket, Clay nodded in the direction the man had just come. “Another note came in?”
“Yes, sir.” They set off. “Just now. Rachel Kendrick brought it in. We’ve asked her to wait so you can speak to her.”
“I appreciate that. Thank you.” Perhaps this was the break he was waiting for.
As they walked, Frederick told him how the transaction played out, finishing as they reached the bank. “Mr. Draycott is expecting you.” The teller motioned to a wide-open door at the back.
Inside, a young lady waited, back to the door, while Mr. Draycott talked with her. As Clay neared, the banker beckoned him in.
“Mr. Timmons, thank you for coming. I trust Frederick explained why I called for you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, good. Please meet Miss Kendrick.” Mr. Draycott nodded in the young woman’s direction.
“Miss.” Clay faced her, and a smile came to his lips. “You work in the restaurant.”
“I do.” She folded shaking hands in her lap as she sat down.
“My name is Clay Timmons, miss. It’s a pleasure.”
Her mouth twitched but failed to form a smile. “I’d say the same, but this feels like I’m in some kind of trouble.”
This was a difficulty of his job. Where counterfeit money was concerned, all too many innocent people were caught passing it without realizing it was fake. They received it as change or were given it by nefarious-minded people intent on defrauding others.
“I understand, but let me assure you, as of this moment, you are in no trouble.”
“Then why was I asked to wait until I could speak with you?” Her voice shook.
Mr. Draycott stood and motioned for Clay to sit in his chair. “Miss, I assure you, Mr. Timmons means you no harm. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to step outside so he can ask you a few questions in private.”
The woman darted a panicked look at him as he exited. “Please tell me what’s going on.”
Clay took Mr. Draycott’s seat. A solitary two-dollar note, still unblemished except for the crease marks where it had been folded, sat on the desktop. He gave it a curs
ory glance, front and back, before laying it aside to look at her. “Miss Kendrick, I’d prefer you keep this between us for now.” Clay kept his tone pleasant. “I’m with the Secret Service, and I’m trying to get to the bottom of who’s passing counterfeit money here in Mount Pleasant.”
“Then that’s not real?” She sighed. “I should’ve known it was too good to be true.”
“What do you mean?”
Miss Kendrick shifted toward him. “A man from town—I’m sorry, I’m new to town, so I don’t know his name—he gave me a tip. Two nights ago, he requested we have several sandwiches made for him the next morning, as he was going on a trip.” Her features grew thoughtful. “It was the man you spoke to on your way out the door yesterday morning. He gave me that banknote when I brought out the food he’d ordered, but other than to hand over the sandwiches, I hadn’t done anything to warrant such a tip.”
Clay’s jaw hinged open slightly, and he leaned in. “You’re sure the man I spoke to is the same one who gave you this banknote?”
“Yes. He handed me a folded banknote—the only one I received like that.” Miss Kendrick tapped the edge of the money, drawing Clay’s focus back to its creases.
Stephen Richards. “By any chance, did he happen to say where he was heading on his trip?”
“No. Only that he needed sandwiches enough for himself and his traveling companion. Six, if my memory serves.”
“Did he mention the name of his traveling companion?”
“I’m sorry, no.”
He chuckled. “Didn’t figure you’d know, but I had to ask.”
The comment seemed to relax her a little.
“You say he paid for the sandwiches the previous evening?”
“Yes.”
“Did he pay with coins or banknotes?”
Miss Kendrick shook her head. “I don’t recall offhand.”
“Reckon I’ll need to speak to your employer, then, just to be sure there’s not another counterfeit note in the restaurant’s till.”
Her eyes widened. “By this time of day, we’ve done enough business that if there was one, it could be anywhere.”
“That’s precisely why tracking counterfeiters is so difficult. Innocent folks like yourself wind up with the notes through no fault of their own, which leads to exactly these types of conversations. I hope you believe me now—you’re not in any kind of trouble.”
“May I go, then?”
“Yes, miss, but I’ll have to keep this.” He tapped the banknote.
She bid him farewell and let herself out of the office, closing the door behind her.
Clay stared at the counterfeit note. Just how was Emmitt Draycott going to feel when Clay drew a direct link to his daughter’s intended in the case of this two-dollar note and a possible link to one of the twenty-dollar notes from Melcher’s Emporium? Worse, how would Emma react? Of the two, the latter concerned him more.
“Lemon drop?” Cynthia dangled the paper cone filled with the confection in between Emma’s face and the book she was attempting—and failing—to read.
Unfolding her stockinged feet from the roomy leather chair she’d curled into, Emma glanced at her sister. “Where did you get those?”
As if she didn’t already know.
“I stopped by Walsingham’s Confectionary on the way home from school.”
Emma cocked her head. “And what—Maggie gave you a bunch of lemon drops because she likes you?”
“No, silly. I bought them with the money Stephen gave me.”
For the hundredth time, loneliness stole through her. She hadn’t allowed herself any tears today, though she’d fought to keep them at bay. It was nearly the supper hour, and she’d been of no use to anyone for a second day due to her moodiness and moping. “Of course you did.”
“Would you like one?” Cynthia rattled the candies in their wrapper.
Emma took one and popped it in her mouth, puckering at the first taste of its sweet-sour tang. “You better not ruin your supper.” Her words slurred around the candy.
“I won’t.” Cynthia took one more and folded the top of the paper down. “What did you think of Mr. Timmons this morning?” She placed the candy on her tongue.
“What do you mean, what did I think of him?” Embarrassment wheedled through her at Cynthia’s pointed question. The younger girl couldn’t possibly know Emma had thought entirely too much of Mr. Timmons throughout the day. Of his handsome features, kind actions, and ever-so-charming accent. And the conversation over the breakfast table had been intriguing. For as long as she’d known Stephen, she’d never heard him quote a single scripture the way Mr. Timmons had—and so easily too.
Cynthia wedged herself into the roomy chair and laid her head on Emma’s shoulder. “I like him a lot, don’t you?”
“He seems nice enough.” She rolled the lemon drop to her cheek.
“I wanted to cry when he told us about his family. How awful to be so alone.”
“Yes.” She had also empathized with their guest, though she’d tried not to show her interest.
“What do you suppose happened to them?”
Emma nudged Cynthia with her elbow. “I’m sure I’d have no idea, silly girl. You’ve been privy to all but the first conversation I had with the man.”
“I hope he’ll be back for supper tonight, don’t you?”
She wasn’t about to encourage her own traitorous thoughts on that topic. She shouldn’t be contemplating family dinners that included a man other than Stephen—especially since she found him so pleasing to look at. And listen to. “I haven’t given it any thought.”
Cynthia laughed. “I think you’re fibbing, Em. Your face is as red as a bright, shiny apple.”
“Oh you!” She jabbed her index finger into Cynthia’s ribs, and the girl darted out of the chair, cackling.
Emma lunged after her and swatted at Cynthia’s backside with the leather-bound book. As she did, the lemon drop jiggled loose from her cheek and onto her tongue where she inhaled it. The instant it hit her throat, a relentless fit of coughing overtook her, and she fell forward onto all fours.
“Em!” Cynthia squatted beside her before she lunged up again. “Mama! Help!”
Emma pawed at the painful lump blocking her airway. All around her, the surroundings darkened and her senses faded. No conscious thought pierced her mind—only fear and the primal instinct to expel the candy.
Someone grabbed her and smacked her hard between the shoulder blades, then again. On the third strike, the lemon drop came up with a mighty cough, and she fell forward, this time slumping across the person’s arm. She clung to him, gasping and gulping air, until her panic subsided. Only then did she blink her eyes open.
Facing her from a couple steps away, both Mama and Cynthia stared back, their expressions fixed with concern.
“You all right, miss?” Mr. Timmons crooned.
Emma glanced sideways, her whole body quivering. His face was inches from hers, his left arm wrapped across the front of her body, holding her like one might a fussy baby. His right rested in the same spot he’d just slapped.
“Miss?” His breath fanned her cheek.
She loosened her death grip, though she couldn’t pull away. “I think I’m fine.” Her voice rasped and her heart pounded as she stared deep into his green eyes.
Kind eyes, full of concern.
“Thank you, Mr. Timmons.” Mama’s voice broke the spell, and Emma raked her gaze toward her. “Your quick thinking saved my daughter.”
He extricated himself from her, though he continued to crouch beside her. “Wasn’t nothing, ma’am.”
“I disagree. Please, if you would, help Emma to the chair.” Mama turned toward Cynthia. “Go ask Saundra to put the kettle on to warm. Some hot tea will help soothe her throat.”
As Cynthia darted up, Emma waved her hand. “Mama, don’t make a fuss, please.” Only the first two words sounded before her voice reduced to gravel.
“C’mon, miss.” Mr. Timmons ro
se and offered Emma his hand. As he helped her up, her stockinged toes flashed under her dress’s hem, and heat washed through her. She really should have slipped her shoes on when Cynthia came in.
“I’ll get you a glass of water while we wait on the tea.” Mama hurried from the room, leaving them alone.
Mr. Timmons helped her to the nearest chair, and she once more tucked her shoeless feet out of sight.
“Thank you.” Muscles still jittering from the recent panic, she wobbled a smile his way. “Mama was right about you saving me.”
“Just glad I was here to help.”
Lifting her hand to her throat, she cleared it softly. “Why are you here?” Papa had allowed him to stay in the guesthouse, but he wouldn’t have been given the run of the place. “In the main house, I mean. I didn’t hear you knock.” She huffed. Even with clarification, the question sounded far ruder than she intended. “Oh, I’m not trying to be impertinent. I simply mean—”
“I was coming to talk to you.” Amusement sparked in his handsome features.
“Me?”
“Mr. Parcell said he thought you were inside, and if I’d knock at the back door, either your ma or one of the servants would let me in.”
Ah, so there was a reason, but … “Why were you wanting to talk to me?” And why in heaven’s name did that make her happy?
“I was hoping you might help me. I need to speak with your intended.”
“Stephen?” Her throat ached, whether from the near-fatal lemon drop or her loneliness, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps both.
“Yes, I have need to speak with him about a matter. I know he’s left recently on a trip, but when I—”
“How did you know he’d gone on a trip?” Surely word hadn’t traveled that quickly.
“I, um …” He shot her a quizzical look. “I ran into him in the restaurant in town yesterday morning, and I overheard the waitress wish him safe travels. She confirmed to me earlier today that he’d ordered several sandwiches for a trip he was taking.”
“Oh.” It sounded innocent enough.
The Scarlet Pen Page 8
