The Scarlet Pen

by Jennifer Uhlarik

  But Clay had shown her who the true fool was. The discovery was heartrending.

  What had Stephen been thinking, stabbing that man? Gemge had no right to rifle through someone else’s things and take what wasn’t his, but to stab a man for an inkwell? She couldn’t comprehend the action—or how the Stephen she thought she knew was capable of such a deed. As she’d fought to grasp the truth of this episode, of who Stephen was and not her perception of him, an overwhelming anger came upon her, and with it, an urge—to confront him, make him look her in the eye and explain himself.

  It had seemed so right—so easy—in that moment of decision. She’d already asked Thomas if she could wear a pair of his old trousers under her dress—an added layer of warmth for the long, cold ride. All she needed to complete an appropriate disguise for traveling alone was a man’s shirt, hat, coat, and footwear. After asking at the desk about the next train’s departure, the clerk had graciously given her a key to Clay’s room where, she said, her traveling companion had accidentally stashed some of her belongings before he left. It was easy enough to slip his spare shirt from his pack. And once she’d turned him away at the door that morning, she’d sneaked from the hotel and purchased a heavy coat, hat, and footwear from the mercantile two doors down. The worst part of it all was returning to her room to don the disguise, praying Clay wouldn’t inadvertently check on her then. He hadn’t, and she’d been able to flee to the train station unnoticed.

  She inhaled deeply, and for the hundredth time since attiring herself in Clay’s shirt, the scent of woodsmoke, leather, horses, and manliness washed over her. Each time, it brought back memories of his stolen kiss. The tender moment had been delicious and terrifying all at once. The instant their lips met, every feeling she’d fought to ignore for months bubbled to the surface. No longer could she pretend he didn’t set her heart aflutter with his thoughtful and encouraging scriptures. He not only knew the verses by heart but lived them every day. He worked in an honorable profession, serving his country. Oh, she’d hated him for pursuing Stephen, though it was becoming all too clear that his pursuit wasn’t a frivolous one meant to anger her, but an honest pursuit of a bad man.

  But how bad?

  Another hint of the woodsmoke, and her thoughts shot off again.

  Her family had loved and respected Clay from the moment they’d met him, and he returned that affection with a charming warmth that had drawn her in, in spite of her attempts to fight it. She couldn’t say the same for Stephen’s reception among her family. There’d always been an underlying tension between them.

  Did she feel as much warmth and affection for Stephen as what she suddenly realized she did for Clay? The answer struck like a mule kick, stealing her breath. No! What she had with Stephen was history and familiarity, but not warmth, comfort, or respect. She could build a familiarity and history with Clay, but could Stephen ever achieve the easy like-mindedness and sincerity that seemed to overflow from Clay?

  The train stopped at a town along the line, and passengers filed in and out. A woman about Mama’s age came to stand beside her.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  Emma shook her head. The woman sat, dug into her carpetbag, and produced a bright red apple. “Hungry?”

  Homesickness swept her. Emma twitched a smile at the woman but shook her head. She could purchase food for herself. While Papa had given Clay plenty of money for their trip, he refused to give her any for her own pocket, saying it would be safer to let Clay carry it. So when she’d asked Thomas for a pair of trousers, she’d also asked him to lend her the money he’d been saving, and he’d done so without question—all he had. Over a hundred dollars. However, her appetite still hadn’t returned. With so many conflicting thoughts vying for her attention, it might be a while before it did.

  Father, I am so confused. Stephen isn’t at all who I thought him to be, and Clay is proving to be better than I dared to admit. She lifted the fabric of the shirt to her nose and breathed in its scent again. I have to be the biggest fool in the world. In all my infinite wisdom, I’ve run from a truly wonderful, godly, handsome, and caring man to seek out and confront a murderer.

  Steubenville, Ohio

  Hours past nightfall, Clay paced his hotel room, thoughts churning. He’d notified Chief Petry on the discovery that Emma was gone. While Petry had gotten his officers searching, Clay had gone to the livery to see if their horses were still in their stalls—not that Emma had known where he’d stabled them. And they’d checked at the train station to see if anyone matching her description had boarded the train. Nothing had turned up any leads, so he’d wired the Draycotts about Emma’s disappearance then spent the balance of the day walking every street in Steubenville, ducking into businesses and asking all who would listen if they’d seen her. He’d discovered she’d purchased a few men’s clothing items from the nearby mercantile—a coat, hat, and boots, but not a shirt or trousers. How did that make any sense?

  A soft knock stalled his pacing, and he jerked the door open. He’d expected Petry. Instead, he found Emmitt and Alice Draycott, their faces haggard with worry.

  Lord God above, help me.

  He stared at the floor, unable to meet their eyes. “I am so sorry. I should never—”

  Alice engulfed him in a hug, and Emmitt clenched his shoulder with a firm grip. Surprise flared, and he risked a look at Emma’s father.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, son.”

  He gave a derisive snort. “I lost your daughter.”

  Alice released him. “Emma chose to run. You didn’t force her.”

  “Thank you for that, but I should’ve kept a closer eye on her.” As much as he appreciated their absolution, he’d still failed to protect their firstborn child. He motioned them inside. “I haven’t been able to figure out where she’s gone. I can place her at the mercantile down the street not long after I spoke to her this morning. Apparently, she bought a man’s coat, hat, and boots, so I’d naturally think she was attempting to dress herself as a man—but she didn’t buy a shirt or trousers. And I didn’t give her any money, which leaves me to wonder how she paid for—”

  “She asked Thomas for a pair of his old trousers—and for money,” Alice whispered, wide-eyed. “He said she was worried about the cold during your ride to the city and thought the additional layer would keep her warmer. She gave no explanation for the money, and he thought nothing of it and gave her a goodly sum.”

  “Did she ask for a shirt too?” That would explain a lot.

  She shook her head. “I think he’d have told us if she did.”

  All right. Since she’d asked her brother for the other items, Clay would go with the assumption she’d not then stolen a shirt from him. While Emmitt Draycott wasn’t a huge man, any shirt of his would swim on Emma. She’d need the duds of a boy or a smaller … man.

  Clay ran a hand over his own clothes, then darted a glance toward his saddlebags, tossed on the far side of the bed. He reached for them, unbuckled one pouch, peeked inside, and rolled his eyes. “My shirt is gone.” He resisted the urge to fling the saddlebags at the wall and instead tossed them back on the mattress. “I’m startin’ to wonder if that girl of yours tricked me into bringin’ her here just so she could run off and find her fella.”

  “I seriously doubt that.” Emmitt shook his head.

  Alice turned a pleading look his way. “Our daughter is impulsive, not devious.”

  “Then why would she run from me?”

  “Emmitt said you brought her here to give her proof of some crime Stephen committed?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m not sure what you revealed to her, but if you finally pulled back the veil and helped her to see what we’ve all sensed might be there, she’s likely livid with Stephen, and she’s bold enough to confront him about it.”

  Bold enough to dress in men’s clothes and travel several states away? “You raised quite a spitfire.”

  Alice’s cheeks reddened. “She comes by it ho
nestly.”

  “Son, tell us what happened Christmas night. How did this idea to come to Steubenville transpire?”

  Clay offered the Draycotts the two chairs before he sat on the corner of the bed to unfold the events of Christmas evening. He expected they’d balk when he mentioned kissing their daughter. Instead, a slight smile and a knowing glance passed between them. Alice’s face paled as he revealed how Stephen stabbed Gemge, and they both looked disturbed at Clay’s account of Emma’s deep emotion after talking to Petry.

  “And she was gone this morning?” Emmitt asked.

  “Yes. She got on the train.” He dug the toe of his boot into a crack between floorboards. “I’m sorry I didn’t do more to help her. Maybe if I’d—”

  “Clay.”

  He swallowed the unfinished thought and looked up at Emmitt.

  “In spite of the mountain of good qualities my daughter possesses, she can be immature and impetuous. Probably nothing you did would have swayed her.”

  Alice reached for her husband’s hand. “Now we need to focus on getting her back.”

  “Yes, ma’am. The question now is where to head. Richards has been hauntin’ around Kearney some. I can start there, but for all we know, Emma could get off in Omaha or anywhere in between.”

  “She left one of Stephen’s letters out on the table recently,” Alice said. “Not long enough that I could read it, but the postmark. It started with …” She pressed her eyes closed. “With an H, I think. Haspel?”

  “Hastings?” Hope sprouted in his chest.

  “Yes. I think that was it.”

  “My friend PJ is a deputy in Hastings. I know it well.”

  “Good. When does the next train leave?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  Alice tugged Emmitt up with her. “Then we’ll be ready first thing.”

  Clay rocked to his feet as well. “No, ma’am.”

  She cocked a defiant look at him, eyes glistening. “She’s my daughter.”

  “I understand why you want to go. But if we’re wrong and Emma is here, she’ll need you. I know Nebraska—the lawmen, the terrain—and I’ve got enough friends to help me find her. No offense, ma’am, but you’ll be a distraction.”

  Emmitt settled an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “He’s right, Alice. Our girl will be safe with him, and he’ll bring her back to us.”

  “I give you my word.”

  Dobytown, Nebraska

  The abandoned town lay still, the adobe buildings dark but for one, where a soft glow of firelight spilled through the broken window. Underwood drew up outside it.

  Before they could dismount, the door creaked open, and a gun barrel slid into view.

  “Who’s there?” Jasper called.

  “Just us, you ol’ coot.”

  Jasper opened the door, grinning at them. “ ‘Bout time you two made it. I was beginnin’ to worry some.”

  Stephen slid off the horse and untied his saddlebags. “Underwood took a meandering path getting here.”

  “It’s called bein’ careful, you fool. Keeps you alive.” Underwood glanced around. “Where you got the other horses stashed?”

  Jasper directed the outlaw to a large adobe building across the way, and he rode off.

  “Come in out of the cold, son.”

  Stephen ducked through the low doorway and dropped his saddlebags beside it. Mary Harlson sat on the floor near a roaring fireplace, her children asleep on bedrolls around her. At the rickety table against the wall, Nixon nursed a cup of coffee.

  “Mary.” Stephen nodded, polite as could be.

  “Stephen. Thanks for helpin’ Jasper out.”

  “My pleasure.” She made a pretty picture, her with her little cherubs bathed in the golden glow of the fire.

  Jasper swatted him. “What in tarnation was that deputy talkin’ about this afternoon? They’re after you for murder?”

  Stephen’s skin prickled. “I’ve no idea.” He crossed to the fire and poured himself coffee. “Mistaken identity, I guess.” He took a sip.

  Mary eyed him, her glance lingering longer than usual before she turned to stroke little Mabel’s hair.

  “Peculiar.” Jasper grinned. “Don’t think you’ll have to worry about either of them comin’ for ya, though.”

  “No, sir, thanks to you. Although you had me sweating a little. Wasn’t sure if you were gonna come through or not.”

  “I wasn’t gonna leave you danglin’. Just had to wait for the right moment.” He dug into his coat pocket. “Here’s your gun, by the way.” Jasper handed him the Blue Jacket.

  As Stephen retrieved his saddlebags and walked to the table, Jasper sat behind his wife, wrapped her in his arms, and unabashedly nuzzled her neck. Nixon rolled his eyes and turned away. Ignoring the scene, Stephen replaced the two spent shells.

  He’d pondered long and hard on the comments from the deputy since escaping with Underwood. How had the two lawmen tied any murder to him? And just what did Clay Timmons have to do with anything? Emma hadn’t written anything about the cowboy in so long, he’d nearly forgotten him. But if the Kearney lawmen knew him, Timmons might be more of a threat than expected. He’d need to keep a more watchful eye.

  Underwood entered and fetched a cup of coffee, giving Jasper a rough nudge as he did. “Where’s Munson and the others?”

  Stephen dropped the gun into his coat pocket. “They’re not comin’ this way. Figured it’d draw too much attention, so many of us meeting up here.”

  “All right, then. What’re our plans?”

  Nixon leaned back against the wall, arm slung over the back of the creaky chair. “I figure to go to Colorado, further west.”

  “I’ll join ya.” Underwood looked Jasper’s way. “You?”

  “Think I’ll head back home to Chicago.” He pinned Stephen. “Where’ll you go, Richards?”

  “Think I’ll stay awhile.”

  “That’s nervy.” Nixon grinned.

  “Let’s just say I haven’t made my mark on Nebraska yet.”

  The men laughed, and when the sound petered out, Jasper turned his way.

  “Mary and the kids are stayin’, at least until we prove up on the homestead in another couple months. Will you look in on her from time to time? Make sure they’re safe?”

  He smiled at the pretty woman. “I’d be honored.”

  Chapter 14

  Hastings, Nebraska

  Early January 1877

  All around her, people bumped and jostled. As quickly as she could, Emma ducked through the crowd and moved to an out-of-the-way corner of the train platform. Oh, it felt good to be free of the crowded and uncomfortable confines. She ached from the long, rattling ride.

  At the edge of the platform, she peered toward a street beyond. Hastings was larger than Mount Pleasant, though not nearly as bustling as Steubenville. Hopefully, somewhere in this town of a few thousand, she’d find a decent hotel. And Stephen’s friend Gillis. That was the only way she could think to find Stephen himself.

  Behind her, the crowd thinned, but she still couldn’t bring herself to move. Fatigue and dread pulled at her. Why had she thought this was a good idea? What if she couldn’t locate Stephen’s friend, and what if Gillis was of a bad ilk? Dare she pray and ask God’s protection on this folly?

  Stephen deserved a chance to explain himself, to show that he was still the man she’d always known—didn’t he? She’d been so confused since learning what he’d done in Steubenville. Angry at him one moment, worried for him the next. When she was able to set aside the knowledge a man died by Stephen’s hand, she could still find his letters charming—though laced with inconsistencies and half-truths.

  And none of that began to address her increasingly conflicted thoughts about Clay Timmons.

  Fiery shame burned through her. She’d pledged to marry Stephen. Either he was worth risking everything for or he wasn’t. Though what did it matter? She’d already ventured everything. Mama and Papa would be livid. Clay would likely
never speak to her again. She could only hope they would find it in their hearts to forgive her one day.

  “You waitin’ on someone?”

  Startled, Emma turned. A man—small and compact with brown hair and a full beard—sat on a bench about ten feet away.

  “No.” She kept her voice low and her answer short, not wanting her feminine voice to give away her true identity.

  “Lost, then?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then why’re you gawkin’ at the town like a statue?”

  “I need a hotel and the post office.”

  A wry grin curved the man’s mouth. “You ain’t likely to find either standing there on the edge of the train platform.”

  She stifled a giggle. The man’s teasing comment sounded a lot like something Clay would say.

  “I can show you a decent hotel, iffen you want. About a block away.”

  She cast him an unsure glance. Could she trust this stranger? “Just point me there, please.”

  “All right.” He led her out onto the street. Icy wind whipped around them, and he hunched against it. “Is it bitter like this where you’re from?”

  Bitter. Surely, yes, since she’d run away. Would she ever undo the damage she’d caused? Her heart ached to see home again—or something familiar.

  No, not something. Someone. She ached for Clay’s steadiness, goodness. His gentle teasing. While she’d often felt he wasn’t telling her things, she’d realized on the train ride that he wasn’t telling her about Stephen. He’d always shared his heart openly with her family in his letters, but he’d kept quiet about his work where it dealt with her intended. Whether he was respecting her relationship or guarding against information being leaked to Stephen, she could understand his hesitance where she hadn’t before. She couldn’t say as much in the many areas where Stephen hadn’t shared things.

  The man stopped on the street corner and pointed. “Head straight down there, and you’ll come to the Roaring Gimlet hotel on the left. The desk clerk can prob’ly point you to the post office, though you might want to wait for mornin’. It’s near closin’ time today.”