No deaths in the—She jerked free of his grasp. “If Mr. Timmons told you that, it’s only because he’s waged some personal crusade against my intended. Perhaps because of the way Stephen teased him the day we met. Stephen was gone a week for the reading of the will and to tie up loose ends.” She swallowed hard. “I implore you, Papa. Quit listening to that man. You’re choosing his word over mine and Stephen’s, and you’ve known the two of us far longer!”
“I have done my own checking, child. Stephen’s sister, Martha, and her husband came in the bank a month after Mr. Timmons’s departure. I asked them, and they confirmed there’d been no death in the family. Worse, they don’t even have a relative named Alma Simpson.”
She shook. “Lies! All lies!”
“Yes, lies have been told—but by Stephen. Not by Mr. Timmons.”
“I don’t believe you.” Fuming mad, she spun toward the doors but stopped. “Tell me, Papa—” She faced him again. “If you’ve known all this time, why haven’t you spoken to me about it before now? Why put my brother and sister up to spying, rather than speaking to me outright?”
“I’m in a delicate position, Emma. Like your mother, you’re bold and headstrong. Those qualities enabled her to handle the questions and sidelong glances people gave her at marrying a man so much older than herself. That personality serves you both well, but it is a double-edged sword. You’re both fierce and unafraid, but the moment someone crosses you, you’ll fight to the death, even if all that’s needed is a simple discussion.”
Pride and shame warred within her.
He sat on the edge of the desk. “If I’d told you my concerns about Stephen, of the feeling I’ve carried in the pit of my stomach since the day you two became engaged, I feared you’d run after him all the more. If I’d said I wouldn’t give my blessing for your marriage like I wanted to, you mother warned I would lose you forever. We decided it best to give a tentative blessing but to pray that the truth would come out.”
A knot lodged painfully in her throat. “Perhaps it would’ve been better if you’d just told me your feelings. You’ve not been good at hiding your dislike of Stephen.”
Papa closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead as if trying to ease a pain. “I know you think I am trying to ruin your happiness. I assure you, I am not. Quite the contrary. I’m trying to protect you from anything or anyone who might steal it. The more your mother and I pray about this, the larger our concerns grow.”
She heaved a breath to quell the uneasiness in her stomach. “How much does Clay Timmons have to do with your concerns about Stephen?”
“I’d be lying if I said he hasn’t played a part.”
“What has he told you that’s added to your hatred of Stephen?”
Wide-eyed, he jerked his attention to her. “Hatred is a strong word, Daughter. Whether you believe it or not, your mother and I care for Stephen. We’re concerned for him. We pray for his well-being.”
“Yet you don’t want to give me your blessing to marry him.”
“Caring for him and giving you to him in marriage are two very different matters.”
Feeling suddenly ill, she started toward the door again. As she jerked it open, she faced him. “Stephen is the right man, Papa, and I will marry him—with or without your blessing.”
Chapter 10
Near Kearney, Nebraska
The next day
What you did ain’t honorable.”
Stephen looked up from his half-rolled bedding at the man standing several feet away. “Pardon?”
“Last night.” John bristled. “You took near all my money.”
Near all his money … He’d left the man some after his streak of good luck?
“We may as well settle this matter between us, here and now.”
Stephen pinned the bedding under one knee and sat back on his haunches. “In what way?”
“You cheated. Make it right and give back my money. All of it.”
“That’s an audacious claim. I did nothing of the sort.”
John cursed bitterly. “Either give it back, or fight.”
Stephen resumed rolling his blankets. “I’ll do neither, thank you.”
The man charged in and grabbed Stephen by his coat’s lapels, hauling him from his place on the ground. “You lousy, good-for-nothin’—”
For an instant, Stephen fought to get his legs under him, but as quickly as he did, he struck. His fist landed hard along John’s jaw. The man’s head snapped sideways, and his body followed. Stumbling, he went to a knee, back to Stephen.
“I didn’t cheat you. That’s the truth!”
John tottered to his feet, giving his head a mighty shake.
“Are you done?”
When he didn’t respond, Stephen turned toward his bedroll, finding the blankets twisted into a mess. He grumbled at the added work and knelt to straighten things.
As he did, a savage cry pierced the air. Stephen flattened himself against the ground as John lunged. The other man tripped and sailed over him, landing face-first in the dirt beyond.
Cat-like, Stephen sprang to his feet, hand sinking into his coat pocket. At the same time, John pushed up, spitting blood.
As the other man stood, Stephen split the air with a sharp whistle. “Hey!”
John turned, face twisted into a snarl. As another litany of curses tumbled from between his bloody lips, Stephen drew his small Blue Jacket pistol and fired.
His heart pounded with excitement as John’s words strangled in his throat. The fella blinked once, the animal-like snarl giving way to utter confusion. His legs went soft then, and ol’ John hit the ground, not to move again.
Lightning coursed through Stephen’s veins. A smile tugged at his lips as blood pooled under the dead man’s noggin, soaking the thirsty ground. Crossing to his side, Stephen turned him on his back and watched the crimson trails of blood dripping from the bullet wound and his nostrils as they raced toward the side of the dead man’s head.
He cocked his head to watch two blood trails race each other toward John’s ear, then smiled at the outcome. He patted the corpse’s bloody cheek. “I’d say maybe next time you’ll listen better when someone tells you they won’t do something … but you won’t be hearing anything, will you?”
Stephen took another long look at his handiwork, then stood, hoisted John’s flaccid corpse, and wrestled it toward the edge of the Platte. He pitched the body into the water. It submerged, bobbed back to the surface, and finally, the current caught it and pulled it downstream.
“Farewell, friend.”
Drying his hands on his shirt, he trudged back to his messy bedding and sat. Opening one side of his saddlebags, he withdrew paper, pen, and ink. As he prepared to write Emma, he swore. A bloody fingerprint marred the right edge of the page. Again, he wiped his hands on his shirt, more thoroughly this time, then wiped at the stained paper with his sleeve.
Emma tugged the blankets up around her chin. Her thoughts had swooped and spun like birds of prey throughout the night. Papa’s words still knotted her stomach. Her home, always a place of ease and refuge, now felt like the den of the enemy. How could she possibly trust her family if they’d spy on her so flagrantly?
Papa hated Stephen. He didn’t admit to it, but his actions showed it. If only Stephen would get this business up and going, he would show Papa he was the right man. If only she could help him …
The swooping and spinning stopped. Of course! She should help him.
Tossing back the covers, she rose and pulled on her robe, then crossed to the desk. There, she retrieved a fresh piece of stationery and her pen, then opened the inkwell. As the metal nib scratched, the tension in her shoulders drained.
Stephen, my love,
I received your last letter yesterday, and I am disturbed that you feel so insecure in our love that you fear I’ll find another. You needn’t worry. It will never happen.
I miss you terribly, and I hope you might agree to an idea. What if I come for a visit
and help you start on your venture? We can either marry when I arrive, or if you prefer, once the business is going, I’ll return home and let you continue working until you’re ready. You needn’t do this on your own. Many hands make light work. Please consider it.
I have much more to tell you, among them: there are prying eyes in my house. Please send all correspondence to me, in care of Hester Blakely. She will hold your letters so that I can’t be spied upon any longer. I will explain once I see you in person—hopefully soon.
With much love,
Emma
Rereading the last part, she hesitated. Should she involve Hester? Could she trust that her friend wouldn’t turn on her as her own family had?
Lord, I hate this! I shouldn’t be questioning every relationship. Who can I trust? I would have thought my own family, but …
After a moment’s contemplation, she sealed the letter into an envelope. Hester wouldn’t deny her request to receive Stephen’s letters and pass them along at church. It was a simple favor. After addressing the letter, she set it aside and went to her washstand to prepare for a drive into town. There she’d visit Hester and ask the favor, then mail her note.
A soft knock at the door intruded. “Em?” Cynthia’s soft voice muffled through the door. “Are you up?”
She tugged the robe’s belt tight again and held her breath, hoping her sister would go away on her own.
“I heard you moving around. Can we talk?”
“I have nothing to say to you, Cynthia. Please go.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry.”
Frustrated tears welled and her throat knotted. Was it fair to take her anger out on her sister? It was Papa who’d put her up to it.
But Cynthia had agreed.
“You didn’t come down for dinner last night.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“You missed hearing Clay’s latest note.”
She didn’t care one whit for anything that man might say. “I asked you to go.”
“All right.” Despite the door between them, the tears were evident in Cynthia’s voice. “I love you, Em.”
For the space of two breaths, nothing sounded. Then a paper fluttered under her door and footsteps retreated. She collected the single, folded sheet. Probably an apology. Cynthia had slipped such things under her door before.
Emma unfolded the note, but rather than finding Cynthia’s girlish handwriting, she found another’s.
And for you, Miss Emma, here’s my prayer:
Father, may the peace of God which surpasses all understanding, guard Miss Emma’s heart and mind through Christ Jesus. Amen.
I’ll write again soon. Thank you, everyone, for your continued letters. It’s nice having friends who feel like family.
Sincerely,
Clay Timmons
She sniffed. Papa admitted that whatever lies Clay had told him about Stephen had colored his judgment. Those were not the actions of a friend.
Her anger sparking, she grabbed her Bible, stomped back to the desk, and sat to write. Flipping to the passage she wanted, she copied the verses.
Mr. Timmons,
Here is the scripture that comes to mind for you today.
These six things doth the LORD hate: yea, seven are an abomination unto him: A proud look, A LYING TONGUE, and hands that shed innocent blood, AN HEART THAT DEVISETH WICKED IMAGINATIONS, FEET THAT BE SWIFT IN RUNNING TO MISCHIEF, A FALSE WITNESS THAT SPEAKETH LIES, AND HE THAT SOWETH DISCORD AMONG BRETHEREN.
Stop lying to my father about Stephen, and please quit stirring discord between my family and me.
Emma Draycott
She shoved the note in an envelope and jotted Clay’s address on the exterior. She’d mail both on her trip into town.
Kearney, Nebraska
Two days later
Clay drew his horse to a stop outside the sheriff’s office and dismounted. In the last six months, he’d traveled the countryside, forewarning bankers to be on the lookout for counterfeit currency. In the last two days, he’d crisscrossed the same land between Juniata and Kearney, asking every lawman about unsolved crimes. He’d netted quite a list of crimes to consider. Sorting out whether any were Stephen Dee Richards’s bad actions or someone else’s wasn’t going to be easy, but PJ had promised his help.
After tying Rio to the hitching rail, he strode into the office. The sheriff, a man in his early forties, and a younger deputy both hunched over a cluttered desk.
The sheriff straightened. “Help ya?”
“I hope so.” As Clay approached the desk, he introduced himself and flashed his badge.
“Secret Service, out here?” The lawman looked surprised but extended a hand. “Sheriff Tab Keough, and that’s Deputy Sol Varden. What can we do for ya?”
“I was curious whether you’ve had any unsolved cases of a violent nature in the past half year or so.”
“That’s a strange request.”
“I’m followin’ an Ohio man who’s passed bad money. About six months ago, I tracked him out here, where I promptly lost his trail. He’s had me buffaloed since. Thing is, he’s accused of stabbing a man in Ohio—pert near killed him. I’ve spent the last few days tryin’ to track his movements through other crimes.”
“I came on as sheriff about four and a half months ago, so I’ll have to defer to Sol for anything older’n that.”
Clay nodded his understanding.
“If you’re looking for other stabbings, there’s been a couple of knife fights in a saloon, but nothing unsolved that I recall.”
“Not just stabbings. Shootings, beatings, harm done to animals. Anything.”
“We fished a body out of the Platte this morning,” the deputy blurted.
“Yup. There’s that.” Keough nodded at the deputy.
The deputy piped up again. “A farmer from outside of town a good ways—his boy went to fish about dawn. Said he kept smellin’ something awful. Once the sun came up, he found a body hung up on a sandbar not far off. Gunshot to the head.”
Clay’s skin crawled. “A robbery, or—?”
“Nope.” Keough folded his arms. “He was still wearin’ his gun, boots, clothes, a little money in his pocket.”
“Anyone you know?”
“He wasn’t familiar. We ain’t buried him yet. They’re buildin’ the coffin now. You want to see the body, now’s the time. But be prepared—he don’t smell pretty. Looks even worse.”
“The personal effects are with the body?” It was a long shot, but he should take a look at the money, just to be sure.
“Ride with me. I’ll show ya.” At the door, Keough stopped to look at the deputy. “While we’re gone, think on whether there’s anything else that might fit what Timmons is askin’ for.”
“Will do, boss.”
Clay and Keough rode to a tumbledown soddy outside of town. As they approached, four boys and a girl darted away from the structure, running across the grassy land.
“I told y’all to git!” Keough shouted after them. “I find you around here again, I’ll ride out to talk to your folks!” The lawman shook his head and lowered his voice. “Why’re kids so attracted to death and evil?”
Clay dismounted, the stench of human decay hanging in the air despite the soddy’s padlocked door. “I s’pose they think seeing death will grow ’em up before their time.” He’d once thought so too. When death came to his doorstep, it changed him, all right—but not like he’d expected. It left him terrified, alone, and on the run.
“Reckon you’re right.” The lawman unlocked a padlock on the door. “You ready?”
Clay withdrew a folded handkerchief from his pocket and took a deep breath, then covered his nose and mouth. At his nod, Keough opened the door and folded back the tarp covering the body on the floor.
It took only moments for Clay to see what he needed—a bullet wound to the forehead. No other apparent wounds, though the buzzards had picked at the fella, so it was hard to tell.
Clay pull
ed the tarp back in place and stood. “His effects?”
“On the table. You can take ’em back to the office, if you want.”
Clay scooped up the small canvas sack Keough indicated and strode out, anxious to be away. Keogh shut the door behind him.
After collecting himself, Clay looked at the things inside. A nice compass, a deck of soggy cards, a stubby pencil, and a two-dollar banknote. He plucked that from inside and gave it a hard look. His shoulders slumped.
“Not the money you’re lookin’ for?” the lawman asked.
“It’s exactly the money I’m lookin’ for.” Clay dropped the wet banknote back in the sack. “But I’d rather this gent be alive.” Should he assume Stephen was the one who murdered him, or had the fella accidentally come into possession of the same counterfeit notes? It was suspicious but far from substantial enough to link Stephen directly.
“Are you aware of any counterfeit money that’s been passed in the area?”
Keough shook his head. “This is the first I’ve heard of it, but like I said, I haven’t been sheriff but a few months. The former sheriff died of illness.”
“When was that?”
“Five, six months ago.”
“Your deputy was around then?”
“Yes. He’s a good man.”
They rode back to the office, and as they entered, Sol Varden looked up. “Got something for you, Timmons.”
He pulled a small sack from a desk drawer and dumped the contents on the now-neatened surface. Out spilled banknotes in various denominations. Clay picked up one of the notes, immediately observing the telltale discrepancies in the printing.
“I was lookin’ for unsolved cases, and I remembered this one. I was home sick at the time it happened. But from what the other deputy told me, in February, a young fella, maybe twenty, came to town tryin’ to sell a fancy team and buggy. The former sheriff got called to the bank when that gent attempted to break some large banknotes into smaller ones.”
Clay picked up two other banknotes and looked each over. All counterfeit, seemingly from the same batch Stephen had.
“All right.”
The Scarlet Pen Page 15
