The Scarlet Pen

by Jennifer Uhlarik

  The man unfolded the story of how he’d seen Stephen Richards unwrap what appeared to be a gift—a fancy scarlet-barreled pen and ink set, which Gemge had become fascinated with.

  As he finished detailing the encounter, Clay shoved his hands in his pockets. “He cut you because you took an inkwell.”

  The man’s eyes drooped heavily. “It was real pretty. Cut glass. Caught the light real fancy-like.”

  Hardly the type of thing he’d expect a man on the move to take in his saddlebags. It sounded far too delicate to travel well.

  “I admired it, and I wasn’t thinkin’ too straight with that much whiskey in me.” He shrugged. “So I took it, and some money—a couple twenties. He had a whole mess of ’em. Didn’t figure he’d miss ’em, since he had so many.”

  “This is wearing on him. Mr. Gemge needs to rest now,” the doctor said, stepping forward to shoo them both from the room.

  Clay braced his feet to resist being herded. “Sir, do you still have those banknotes?”

  Gemge shrugged. “I shoved ’em in my trouser pocket. They might still be there.”

  Clay met the doctor’s eyes. “Where are his trousers? I need to see those banknotes.”

  “Downstairs.” The doctor positioned himself between Clay and his patient. “My wife has tried to wash the blood from his pants without much luck. The banknotes were stained badly as well. If you’ll accompany me, I’ll show you.”

  Clay craned his neck to see around the doctor. “Do you know where the men were headed, Mr. Gemge?”

  He rolled his head from side to side against the chair back. “All they said was west.”

  After thanking Gemge, Clay followed the doctor and Petry to the first floor, where the doctor produced the two notes in question. Despite the stains, Clay was able to see enough to be sure they were counterfeits like those passed in Mount Pleasant. That fact, paired with the descriptions Gemge provided and the date of the attack, was enough for Clay to be fairly sure Richards and his unknown partner were the culprits.

  A liar and a counterfeiter was one thing. A man who’d gut another over something so trivial as an inkwell was a completely different animal. Surely not the type of man Emma Draycott thought she would be marrying.

  Outside, Petry started toward his office. “My officers have checked around town for these two, but the most they’ve discovered is that a red-haired man sold two horses and saddles to one of the stables about a week ago. We only found that piece of news this morning.”

  “Then they’re either on foot or traveling by train. And if Gemge is right, I’d guess the train. Figure I’ll stop at the depot to ask a few questions before I find a place to settle for the night.”

  “You want company?”

  Clay glanced at the chief. “I’m sure a man in your position’s got plenty to do, but if you want to come, I won’t stop you.”

  They headed the several blocks to the train depot, and once there, Petry stepped up to the counter.

  “Afternoon, Silas. I was wondering if you remember two fellas who might’ve bought train fare about a week ago.”

  “A lot of people bought train fare a week ago. You got something else to go on?”

  Clay stepped forward then. “Two men traveling together.” He repeated their descriptions.

  Silas glanced Petry’s way. “He a new officer?”

  Clay flashed his badge. “Clay Timmons, Secret Service. Do you have any recollection of these men?”

  Silas’s eyes narrowed. “Timmons, you say?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  He crossed to the telegraphy desk on the other side of the small office. “Message came in for a C. Timmons this morning.”

  Silas handed him a paper with only a brief message.

  STEPHEN TO NEBRASKA stop DRAYCOTT stop

  A grin sprouted, and he tucked the paper into his coat pocket. “Do you recall the men I described?”

  Silas thought a moment. “I might recollect a pair like them. The red whiskers stick in my mind.”

  “Good man. Where’d they go?”

  “I hope you had a nice time.” Stephen set the buggy’s brake and turned toward pretty Dolly Gillis. The visit over coffee had turned into a pleasant ride around the countryside as he’d tried out his newly purchased team.

  “I did, Mr. Richards. Thank you.” The young woman smiled shyly. “I wasn’t expecting I’d find anyone so like-minded on this visit. I love visiting my cousin, but she and I are as opposite of thinking as we can be.”

  “Glad to provide you a pleasant diversion, then.” Her kind words tasted as sweet to his soul as warm syrup over flapjacks. “May I take that to mean you’d welcome my visit in Hastings?”

  Her cheeks flushed, and the sparkle in her brown eyes did pleasant things to him. “I’d like that, especially if you’d accompany me to the concert.”

  “Indeed I will.”

  Stephen bid her farewell at her cousin’s door. He climbed into the buggy again and turned his new team of horses—a pair of beautiful blacks—on a meandering path through town, watching to see if anyone noticed the sharp-looking rig. After enjoying the appreciative glances from several of the men, and still enjoying the heady pleasantness of time spent with Miss Dolly Gillis, he walked the team toward Jasper’s soddy.

  A mile past the edge of town, the sound of a fast-moving horse met his ears. Scanning the road ahead, he saw no one, so he hugged the edge of the road to allow the rider to pass. As the pounding hooves neared, they slowed, and the rider came up from behind him and drew alongside.

  “Hey, stop!” The young man he’d bought the team and buggy from snarled the words. “I got something to say to you!”

  When Stephen didn’t halt the team, the young man lunged ahead, grabbing hold of the nearest horse’s reins.

  “I said stop!” He drew back, causing the team to slow.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Stephen stopped and set the brake.

  “We got an issue, mister.” The young man dismounted his horse. “I tried to break a couple of those twenty-dollar notes you gave me in town. The bank says the money you gave me is no good.”

  “I paid you a dear sum for this rig. Don’t you come back now and say I owe more.”

  “Oh, you paid—but about all that money’s good for is burnin’ on a cold winter’s night!”

  Stephen’s heart rate quickened, and his body thrummed. Up to now, no one had detected the banknotes as being fakes.

  “You better give me some real money, or I’m takin’ my horses and buggy back.”

  “You’ll get neither from me. I paid you, and that’s that. Move out of the way.” He reached toward the brake lever.

  The young man swatted Stephen’s hand aside, and his boyish features twisted into an angry mask. “You lie, mister. Get down here so we can work this out.”

  “Don’t call me a liar.”

  At Stephen’s warning, the man half climbed into the buggy and grabbed Stephen by the front of his thick coat. “You are a liar, and a no-good one at that.”

  Seeing the move coming, Stephen braced against the kid’s attempt to pull him from the buggy. They grappled a moment before momentum carried the young man back to the ground.

  “Confound it, mister. You owe me—either proper banknotes or my rig.”

  Aggravation gnawing at his bones, Stephen wrapped the reins around the brake lever and held up his hands. “Settle down now. You’re obviously upset. Let’s talk about it.”

  The man cursed him. “I am upset. You come down here, and I’ll show you how this is going to go.”

  Stephen huffed a loud breath. “Give me a minute.” He slid to the opposite side of the buggy and climbed down there, attention fixed on the man the whole time. Once Stephen’s feet hit the ground, the fella circled behind the buggy. Stephen also started in that direction, his gloved hand sinking into his coat pocket.

  As they rounded the corners and faced each other again, Stephen withdrew his hand, and with it his small Hopkins &
Allen Blue Jacket .32 Rimfire. The other fella’s eyes rounded as Stephen raised the gun. Before the man could change direction, Stephen pulled the trigger.

  A loud pop shattered the stillness, echoing on the frigid air across the open expanse. One dark hole appeared, slightly off-center, in the kid’s forehead. For the barest breath, he stood, eyes wide and face pale, then took one shaky half step backward before he crumpled to the ground.

  Stephen’s stomach churned and his pulse pounded. Gaze fixed on the hole an inch above the man’s eyebrow, he cocked his head to the side as a tiny trickle of red trailed across the deathly white skin. The man didn’t move, didn’t blink, only stared, sightless, toward the afternoon sky.

  Gulping a breath, Stephen fought back the uneasy feeling threatening to make him expel the contents in his stomach, though all it took to rid himself of the sensation was to close his eyes and take a few even breaths. Once it passed, he stepped to the corpse’s side and squatted down.

  “I told you not to call me a liar.”

  He studied the hole another moment. So small. Round and perfect. He’d made that tiny but formidable opening and caused a man to breathe his last.

  The power was intoxicating.

  It would be a shame to bury that handiwork—but bury it he must. Surely Mary Harlson would have supper on soon, and perhaps Daisy, Mabel, and Jesse would be of a mind to play or cuddle with him while he and Jasper talked. And if he caught a moment in the midst of all that busyness, perhaps he could jot off a short note to Emma. She would want to know he’d found himself such a fancy team and buggy.

  Chapter 9

  Mount Pleasant, Ohio

  Fall 1876

  Guess who sent a letter.” Cynthia’s exclamation, whispered from some unseen spot in the foyer, diverted Emma’s attention from the gathering of friends she had in the parlor. Her heart leapt.

  Stephen! She’d not received word from him in two weeks.

  “Show me,” came Thomas’s equally secretive response. “C’mon. This way.”

  As quickly as her heart soared, it fell again. If they were fawning over something that arrived in the mail, it must be one of Clay Timmons’s frequent notes. But Papa would be upset if they opened it without the whole family present.

  “Please, ladies. Excuse me a moment.” She nodded at the group who’d come to plan the annual Christmas dance. “Keep talking, and I’ll catch up when I return.” She hurried from the parlor and found the two huddled at the far end of the library near the window, backs to her, as they whispered together.

  “What does it say—Iowa?” They tipped one of the sealed missives toward the afternoon light. “The postmark is smudged.”

  Emma planted her hand on her hip. “If that is what I think, you’d better not open it. You know Papa’s rule.” He’d decided six months ago at the arrival of Clay Timmons’s first letter, that they would read his notes as a family after the evening meal.

  Thomas spun, hiding the mail behind his back. Skittish as a newborn fawn, Cynthia tucked herself half behind him, lips pressed together as she darted a glance around the room before focusing on Emma with an awkward smile.

  “Let me see.” Emma beckoned for the letters, and Thomas reluctantly handed her the pile.

  The first letter in the stack was, indeed, Cl—Stephen’s? She squinted at it, then crossed to the desk and lit the lamp. Yes, Stephen’s. And the postmark was smudged, though readable. Iowa …

  Ire sparking, she turned on Thomas and Cynthia. “Why are you so concerned with my mail?”

  Thomas shuffled his feet. “No reason.”

  Her indignation grew. “That’s a lie, and you know it.” When he didn’t attempt to deny it or to answer her in any way, she focused on her sister. “Cynthia?”

  The youngest Draycott again pressed her lips into a firm line and shifted an uncomfortable look around the expansive room.

  Emma slapped the mail down on the desk and crossed to her sister. “Tell me what’s going on, or I’ll—”

  “Papa said to,” the girl howled.

  “Cynthia!” Thomas pinched the back of her arm.

  She jerked away, rubbing the offended spot. “Stop it, both of you!”

  “Papa said to what?” Emma glared at them each in turn.

  After an uncomfortable silence, Cynthia raced from the room, tears flowing.

  Emma turned her ire on Thomas. “Papa said to what?”

  Thomas scowled right back. “Ask him.”

  “He’s not here right now.” And it would be hours until he was.

  “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “It’s not my place to say, Em. Sorry.” He also left the room.

  An exasperated screech teetered on her lips, though she suppressed it. Her friends needn’t know there was strife brewing. But with this strange turn of events, the furthest thing from her mind was planning the Christmas dance. Since they’d already been together for over two hours, she’d end the meeting early and excuse herself to deal with this issue.

  Emma tucked Stephen’s letter safely into her pocket, then leafed through the rest, finding a letter from Clay Timmons as well. Her brother and sister had ignored Mr. Timmons’s missive to look at Stephen’s? Whatever might be going on, it must have to do with his investigation.

  She’d not heard any news on that in months, and she’d grown complacent, allowed herself to believe Mr. Timmons had found another trail to follow. What if he hadn’t? Was he still tracking Stephen? Would Papa be so bold as to ask her family to spy on Stephen through his letters to her? Her mind spun with the possibility.

  Cynthia had slipped into Emma’s room several times lately, supposedly searching for stationery to write Mr. Timmons. Another time, Mama had let herself in, she said to find old dresses that might help a family in need. Emma had thought it odd that Mama had looked through her things but left with only one frock, despite her mentioning several she’d be willing to part with.

  Lord, they’ve been lying to me, haven’t they? They’ve been looking for information on Stephen’s whereabouts.

  She stalked to the parlor and, from the doorway, explained that something had arisen. As her friends departed, Hester Blakely hung back.

  “Is everything all right?” Hester asked once the others were gone.

  Emma drew in close, looping her arm in Hester’s. “I believe my father is having Thomas and Cynthia pry into my letters from Stephen. Perhaps Mama too.”

  Her friend’s brows furrowed. “Whatever for?”

  Still fuming, she gritted her teeth. “Do you remember Clay Timmons, who approached us in the churchyard just after Stephen and I became engaged?”

  “Oh yes. He was handsome—and that accent!” Hester fanned herself.

  “He was a Secret Service agent, come to town on an investigation.”

  “Him?” Her eyes lit with surprise, but the look gave way to confusion. “He seemed far more suited for a vagabond than the Secret Service.”

  “He stayed a week in our guesthouse, and when he put on a suit, he cut a much different figure.”

  “That man stayed in your guesthouse six months ago, and you’ve only now thought to tell me?”

  Embarrassment washed through Emma and set her stomach on edge. “I didn’t tell you because he accused Stephen of being involved in whatever nefarious acts he was investigating. I was mortified and angry.”

  “Oh Em.” Hester pulled her into a hug. “What on the great green earth could he possibly think Stephen has done?”

  “Passed counterfeit money.” She clung to her friend. “If he did, it wasn’t purposeful. Stephen wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “Of course not. He’s Stephen.”

  “He’d just received an inheritance from his great-aunt’s death, so perhaps some counterfeit banknotes were mixed into the money he received.”

  “That would make sense.” Hester drew back, holding Emma by the shoulders. “What has you upset over all of this now?”

  “Mr. Timmons has been writing to us t
his whole time—Thomas and Cynthia really took a shine to him.”

  “And?”

  “I just discovered they’re watching my mail, taking note of where Stephen’s letters come from. And when I attempted to press them on why, Cynthia whined about Papa telling her to.”

  “But why?”

  “Don’t you see? They might very well be feeding Mr. Timmons information so he can harass Stephen.”

  “Has Stephen mentioned being harassed?”

  That stopped her. “No.”

  For months now, his letters mentioned his job in Iowa, one he’d taken while he awaited his winds of fortune to turn. He told her of the group of doctors he worked under, the hospital itself, and about some gatherings or social events he sometimes attended with friends. Most often he wrote about how much he missed her and hoped she wasn’t too disappointed in his failures. Not once had he mentioned being harassed.

  “Maybe it’s not what you think, Em. Talk to Cynthia again when you’re not so angry and she’s not flustered. You know you can get that child to talk.”

  Had she conflated Cynthia’s and her family’s odd behaviors into them spying? “Perhaps you’re right.”

  Hester gave her another hug. “Let me know what you find out.”

  “I will.”

  “And … if some handsome, eligible man stays in your guesthouse again, invite me over for tea.” Hester’s sly smile and fluttering eyelashes made Emma giggle.

  “I promise.”

  Hester excused herself. Alone in the parlor, Emma withdrew Stephen’s letter.

  My sweetheart,

  I have been missing you fiercely of late. While I have settled awhile and begun to develop friends—some nice folks from the church I’ve attended as well as a couple of the doctors at work—it is hard to be without you. Most of the doctors are married with families. One of the men from church just wed his intended, and it made me even lonelier for you. I find myself dreaming of the day I will return and make you mine for good.