“Let me take him for you.” He held out both hands, ready to receive the boy.
She hesitated before handing off her son. “Right kind of you, Stephen. You don’t mind if I call you Stephen, do you?”
“Not at all.”
He settled the boy on his hip, then looked around. The place consisted of only two rooms—the kitchen, in which they stood, and what he assumed to be a bedroom. The boy, perhaps a year old, began fiddling with the buttons on Stephen’s shirt.
“That’s Jasper Junior, but we call him Jesse.” She nodded to the boy. “And this angel is Mabel.” She stroked the girl’s fine blond curls. “Please, come on in.” She glanced out from behind the curtain covering the window. “Where’s your horse?”
Stephen watched the boy pluck at the buttons, fascinated by the dimples dotting his pudgy hands at each knuckle. “I sold it in Ohio. Haven’t bought a new one yet. The walk from town wasn’t so bad. I thought maybe Jasper could direct me to someone with good saddle stock.”
“I’m sure he can. Question is, will they do business with you once they know you associate with us.”
He cocked his head at her. “Why wouldn’t they?”
A sardonic laugh bubbled up. “Half the people in that blasted town won’t so much as look at us, and the other half talk as if they’re holding their noses in disgust. In their eyes, we’re the dregs of society.”
“Well, ma’am, I never thought so.”
She smiled and patted his cheek. “Then you’re one of the good ones.” She swept across the room. “Come in. Sit. Can I get you coffee or tea, something to warm you? If you walked from town, you must be cold.”
“Coffee, please.” Tension eased from his muscles. The nearer he’d gotten to the Harlsons’ homestead, the more he’d become sure they’d laugh and turn him away.
“I’m surprised you didn’t cross paths with Jasper along the road. He should be here any minute. But then, I don’t suppose you know what he looks like, do you?” Mrs. Harlson prattled as he sat at the small table she’d indicated and settled Jesse on his lap. “I had coffee ready, figuring Jasper would want some once he returned with Daisy. These Nebraska winters can be wicked cold, though today’s not as bad as some.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So you said you’ve come west. From Ohio, is it?”
“That’s right.” He bounced the boy on his knee until he remembered something. Then, scooping the child back to his hip, he rose and retrieved his saddlebags. “I brought something for your children, Mrs. Harlson, if you don’t mind me treating them.”
“Please—call me Mary. And what did you bring?” She bustled from the potbellied stove with a tray containing the coffeepot and three cups.
Stephen unbuckled one of the saddlebags, and once he’d removed a half-penned letter to Emma, he produced three white paper cones which he unbound to reveal licorice, gumdrops, and lemon drops. “There’s a confectionary in Mount Pleasant with all kinds of treats. I wanted to bring some of their fancier selections, but I wasn’t sure they’d keep during my travels. Hope I haven’t presumed.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Goodness, no. This is better’n Christmas! How kind of you. The children’ll love you forever for your thoughtfulness.”
Footsteps sounded outside, and a man with light brown hair and a well-trimmed mustache pushed the door open. “Stomp your feet good, Daisy girl. Get the snow off.” He stomped his own feet a couple of times, as did a pretty blond child about nine years old. “That’s my girl. Now go warm yourself by the stove.”
Stephen shot to his feet, his stomach suddenly roiling with anticipation. Jesse giggled at the quick motion.
“You’ll never guess who came to call, Jasper.” Mary took Jesse from Stephen. “Stephen Richards from Ohio.”
Jasper ushered his child inside as he looked from Mary to him, his confusion giving way to surprise. “Richards?” He chuckled, giving Stephen a once-over glance. “What’re you doin’ here?”
The genuine, welcoming tone pumped warmth into Stephen’s extremities. He’d been writing to Jasper since soon after losing his mother—five years or more. It was always a delight to hear of the exciting life he led, and he’d often dreamed of a day he might meet the man in person. He swallowed down his nervousness. “I came west with Roy Munson. He was headed a different way, but I thought if I was this close, I needed to come visit. So we parted company in Iowa.” He shrugged. “I hope you don’t mind me dropping by.”
“Mind?” Jasper swore softly. “Not a bit.” He darted past Daisy and pulled Stephen into a bear hug, chortling. “I always pictured you as a little whelp of a thing.” Jasper released him. “But you’re bigger’n me.”
Heat warmed Stephen’s cheeks. “I grew—just took me a while.”
The man cuffed Stephen on the arm. “I do believe I told you that’d happen, didn’t I, son?”
Son. The endearment set his senses abuzz. His own father never seemed so affectionate. “You did, thank you. Your encouragement helped me through several hard years.”
“And you made it to the other side.”
“Look what Stephen brought for the children, Jasper.” Mary, who’d finally set Jesse down to play with his sisters, held out one of the cones to her husband.
Upon peeking inside, Jasper nodded in approval. “ ‘Round these parts, that’s an extravagant gift. Real thoughtful. Thanks.” He plucked several pieces from the cone and handed a gumdrop to each of his girls. They cooed their delight and offered timid thank-yous. Jesse’s eyes rounded, and he grunted for one of his own.
“You’re too little to eat gumdrops, boy.” Jasper ruffled his son’s hair with affection.
“More, Papa?” Mabel asked around the half-chewed gumdrop.
“Ask your ma, baby girl.” He sidled up closer to Mary and gave her a tender peck on the lips, then turned Stephen’s way. “Walk with me. I need to put my horse away.”
As they retrieved Stephen’s coat and stepped out, Mary handed the girls each another candy. “Last one for now, understand?”
Outside, he and Jasper were both silent until Stephen shrugged into the garment.
“Real glad you came, Richards. It’s good to meet you face-to-face. C’mon.” Hands crammed deep in his pockets, Jasper set off again, rounding the far side of the house and heading toward the barn at the back. “How’s Munson? I ain’t heard from him in a while.”
“Good.” Stephen took several long strides to catch up. “We’re planning to catch up with each other in a week or two. How’s business?”
Jasper chuckled. “Guess you could say it’s the slow season. Don’t expect it to pick up until the weather warms.”
Confusion clouded Stephen’s thoughts. “But trains still run in winter.”
“Of course they do, but it’s hard to rob one and make a clean getaway with a foot or more of snow on the ground. You leave a trail a mile wide.”
Stephen laughed, disappointment lodging in his stomach. “I suppose it’s better not to get yourself caught and have to explain to your wife, either.”
“Oh, Mary knows my line of work. The kids don’t, though, so don’t say nothin’ around them.” A faraway look crossed his face. “Take it from me, Stephen. Don’t be with any woman you gotta hide your life from. Ain’t worth it.”
Oh, his Emma was worth it. She was pretty and sweet, naive and trusting, and far too much of a lady to trouble with the particulars of his business. He would have no issue keeping her in the dark.
Mount Pleasant, Ohio
Clay savored the last bite of chili and set the bowl on the far corner of the table, out of his way. After sipping his coffee, he spread his investigation notes in front of him. He’d reread them so many times, they were all but branded in his mind.
It was troubling. Very troubling. He was certain Richards was passing counterfeit banknotes. The easy assumption was that he’d received them in conjunction with the inheritance Emma Draycott mentioned days earlier. However, he’d finally cau
ght Stephen Richards’s father at home early that morning, and Mr. Richards had, in fact, contradicted Emma’s story. There’d been no death in the family, nor even the existence of a family member named Alma Simpson. Richards lied to Emma about his whereabouts and how he’d gotten the big stack of banknotes both Draycott gals reported him carrying.
More troubling was the continued appearance of the names Mundy or Mull when he interviewed people on his lists. Those that recalled the stranger consistently described both Mundy and Mull as a tall, thin redhead with muttonchop whiskers. The same man used two different names and typically paid for small purchases with a large banknote. Both were sure signs something was amiss.
Store owners said they’d seen the fella around town for a week or two, but no one recalled seeing him lately. Did Mundy’s disappearance coincide with Richards leaving? The niggling thought wouldn’t leave him be, especially since Rachel Kendrick mentioned Richards had a traveling companion.
Father, where do I go from here? I’ve talked to everyone I can talk to, and my trail has gone cold. Show me where Richards and Mundy are. He swirled the last of his coffee in his cup and swallowed it. And, Lord, how much do I reveal to Emmitt Draycott about Stephen Richards’s falsehoods?
He didn’t want to crush Emma Draycott’s heart, but the more Clay learned about Richards, the more disturbed he was, from the odd exchange in Melcher’s Emporium to the inconsistencies in the stories he’d told Emma, and especially this supposed inheritance.
Tears have welled in that little gal’s eyes too often already, Lord. I don’t want to cause more. Seeing her cry did funny things to him. It turned his guts to mush and made him ache to hold her again like he had the night she’d choked. As wrong as it was, she felt soft and warm and right in his arms.
Clay cleared his throat to dislodge the memory, then scooped his coffee cup from the table. Bringing it halfway to his lips, he recalled he’d already drained it. He set it down again.
Forgive me, Father. I’m treading a dangerous path lately, aren’t I? Help me scrub Miss Emma Draycott out of my head, please.
The waitress—not Miss Kendrick, for once—approached with a coffeepot in hand. “Would you like more?”
“If you don’t mind.” He held up the cup, away from his papers, as she poured the steaming liquid. Behind her, the door opened, allowing a gust of frigid air into the cozy restaurant to rustle the notes on his table.
“There you go. Can I get you anything else?” The waitress fluttered her eyelashes at him.
“This’ll do nicely.” He replaced the cup.
She almost curtsied before she walked toward the next table. He straightened a couple of his papers, and when he looked up again, two more bodies stood in her place.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Timmons.” Cynthia beamed, holding a stack of schoolbooks. “May we sit with you?”
Behind her, a pleasant, if wavering, smile flitted across Emma Draycott’s features. Yet her blue eyes sparkled in the afternoon sun streaming in the window. Lord have mercy—she was pretty.
“He’s busy, Cynthia. Let’s not disturb him.” She motioned toward a table on the far side of the room. “How about over there.”
“No need for that. I’d be right pleased if you’d join me.” Scrambling to tuck his notes into his coat pocket, he kicked himself mentally. This was not the way to keep his distance or scrub Emma Draycott from his mind. “You done with school already, little lady?”
Cynthia took the chair directly across from Clay, setting the stack of books in front of her. “For a half hour now. Emma was running late, so I walked over to pick up the mail from the post office, then talked to a couple of friends.”
“I wasn’t that late.” Annoyance lodged in Miss Draycott’s features as she also sat, kitty-corner from him.
The younger Miss Draycott’s eyes rounded, and she turned to her sister. “Speaking of mail …” She opened the cover of the top book. “Guess who wrote you?”
Miss Emma perked, and her cheeks grew rosy.
“Steeeee-phen!” Cynthia suspended the envelope in front of her sister. When Emma reached for it, Cynthia swung to dangle it in the aisle. As she did, her elbow bumped Clay’s freshly filled coffee cup, sending it twirling on its saucer, slopping coffee onto table and floor before it settled again. The passing waitress stopped short, hot coffee also sloshing from the spout of the pot she carried.
Clay grabbed Cynthia’s wrist in time to prevent her from hitting the half-full cup again as she drew her arm back. Red-faced, the girl looked up at him then at the waitress. “I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t get you, did I?” The woman pulled a cloth from the pocket of her apron. “Did you get splashed?”
“No.” Cynthia’s small voice was tinged with … what? Fear? Embarrassment? “I really didn’t mean it.”
“It’s all right, darlin’. It’s just a little spilled coffee.” He gave the girl’s wrist a comforting squeeze. “Looks like the corner of that letter got a bath, though.” He turned to the waitress and indicated the towel she held. “May I?”
The woman handed it to him, and he blotted the coffee-dampened corner, noting the postmark. Steubenville, Ohio. February 2. A week ago, but at least it was a new direction. Just what he’d prayed for. Thank You, Lord! Clay turned the letter over and blotted the back side, hoping for any other clues as to where Stephen Richards might have headed, but there were none.
“Reckon it’s none the worse for wear. I believe this is for you.” He handed the missive to Emma.
“Thank you, Mr. Timmons.” Her mouth pulled into a sweet smile.
He wiped the coffee from the table, then stood. Finding himself overly close to the waitress, he stared at her for one awkward breath until he found his voice. “Pardon, miss.”
She flattened herself against the empty table across the narrow aisle, and he scooted past her. Once clear, he dropped the cloth on the hardwood floor near the spill, and nudged it over the puddle with the toe of his shoe.
“I—I’ll get that,” she said.
He waved her offer away. “I’ll not have you doing extra work on our behalf. That spill was our fault.” Clay stepped on the cloth and wiped the floor to be sure he’d gotten it all, then bent to retrieve the soiled towel.
“Thank you, Mr…. Timmons, was it?” She smiled sweetly, eyelashes fluttering as they had moments ago.
“That’s right. Sorry about the fuss, miss.” He held out the wet cloth to her.
“It’s fine. I’ll bring you a fresh cup.” She reached past him to retrieve the one that spilled, careful not to drip coffee from the nearly overflowing saucer. “Would you two care for anything?” She directed the question to Emma and Cynthia.
“Hot chocolate, please.” The younger Miss Draycott bounced in her seat.
“Tea … please.” The elder Miss Draycott’s request was curt, and the “please” added almost as an afterthought.
The waitress nodded to the ladies, then shot an overly friendly smile Clay’s way. “I’ll have that right out to you.”
Heat crept up his neck. “Thank you kindly.”
As he maneuvered back toward his chair and the waitress scurried off toward the kitchen, Miss Emma glowered, first in the waitress’s direction and then at the unopened letter before her.
Clay sat. “That was right nice of her, offering to get me a fresh cup.” He watched the woman disappear into the back.
Those pretty blue eyes turned his way, nearly sparking. “I can see why you’d think so.”
Confused, Clay sat back, draping his arm across the empty chair next to him. “Is something wrong, miss?”
She pressed her lips together and, after glancing out the window for a moment, returned her focus to him. “Not at all.” A docile expression replaced the previous look of—had it been annoyance?—and she folded her hands on the table. “How has your day been, Mr. Timmons?”
“Productive. Leastways, as productive as I coulda hoped for. I spoke to all but one of the people on my li
sts to interview.” Leastways? Coulda? He cringed inwardly as the words rolled over his tongue. Since when had he started letting his Texas roots show so much in his speech?
He knew exactly when—the moment he held Miss Emma in his arms and imagined spending enough time here to get to know her better.
Lord, I’m not helping myself. I asked You to help me scrub her from my mind, yet all I seem to be doin’ is thinking of all the reasons I want to know her more. Like protecting her from the man he was increasingly coming to see as a scoundrel.
“What does that mean?” Cynthia asked.
“Reckon it means I’ve got a bit more work here, then I’ll be headin’ wherever the trail takes me next, missy.” He wouldn’t say so to either of them, but come morning, he’d be heading twenty miles north, to Steubenville.
“You’re leaving?” Disappointment pulled Cynthia’s features into a frown.
“Reckon I am. I have a job to do.”
So why on earth did it please him to see the same disappointment flash in Miss Emma’s eyes?
“Stephen, I’m so sorry. Mabel knocked your papers to the floor and Jesse mauled the pages before I could get them out of his hand.” Mary Harlson nodded toward the table as he and Jasper entered the soddy again.
Seeing his carefully penned note to Emma rumpled and sodden in one corner, irritation blanketed him. Those were his. Could Mrs. Harlson not keep her brats under control for even a few minutes?
The woman cast a conspiratorial look his way. “I didn’t mean to pry, but I happened to see it’s a letter. Who is Emma?”
Pride and embarrassment vied for space in his chest. Given Jasper’s warning, what would he think? There was no help for it if he disapproved. He’d not give up his beloved. “My intended, ma’am.”
“Oooh.” She cooed the word as she stirred something on the stove, her excitement evident. “As handsome as you are, I bet she’s a real pretty thing. You’ll have to tell me all about her.”
The Scarlet Pen Page 10
