The Scarlet Pen

by Jennifer Uhlarik

  She didn’t push him but sidled up closer, laying her head on his shoulder.

  “He murdered ’em in their beds then buried the bodies.”

  Emma clamped a hand over her mouth. Stephen had intended on taking her to see the Harlsons. If not for Clay and PJ, she could easily have been there with Stephen. Would she have become one of his victims?

  “I knew somethin’ was wrong. The house was standin’ open. So was the barn. But I wasn’t expect—” He sucked in a breath and blew it out again before he continued. “I walked into the room, and it took me back to my own family’s deaths. From the moment I saw the blood, smelled it, I was that thirteen-year-old kid again. All the memories came flooding back. All the fear.”

  “Oh Clay.” Lord, this has to be incredibly hard. How do I help him?

  He was silent for a time, and when he continued, his voice was gravelly and hoarse. “If PJ hadn’t been there, I don’t know what woulda happened. He helped me pull myself together and got us looking for the bodies. We found ’em not far from the house. A shallow grave covered over with hay from a nearby haystack. He murdered ’em with an ax.”

  For several minutes, they were silent, Emma’s own thoughts spinning with the gruesome details of Stephen’s actions—and her gratefulness to Clay and PJ for rescuing her. When finally she could find her voice, she sat up and looked at him.

  Once again, she brushed his cheek with gentle fingers. “I need to tell you something. Something happened to me early yesterday morning.”

  The look of dread in his eyes tore at her, and she pressed on.

  “I woke from a dream at about dawn, and it was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Something very dark and evil had settled over me. My heart pounded, and I could scarcely breathe. I was shaking.”

  He raked a concerned gaze toward her.

  “I couldn’t remember what I’d dreamed, but it had to do with you, and I knew something terrible had happened. I could feel the terror and oppression, and the only thing that brought peace was to pray—scriptures, just like I’ve been doing for you for months.”

  “You were praying yesterday morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time?”

  “All day, from dawn forward. Even throughout last night.”

  “What were you praying?”

  “Scriptures. At first, it was the verse from chapter one of Joshua. ‘Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee withersoever thou goest.’ ”

  He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath.

  “As the day went on, other verses came to mind. From Romans—‘Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.’ The one from Isaiah—’They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength.’ And there were others.”

  He gripped her fingers a little tighter, a small chuckle bubbling out of him. “Thank you.” He sat up and pulled her into his arms, resting his cheek against her hair. “Thank you. Yesterday was so hard, but in the midst of it all, those very verses came to my mind.”

  Unshed tears burned her eyes as her heart swelled with love for this man.

  He pulled away just a little and looked at her. “Make me a promise, Emma Draycott. Tell me you’ll always pray for me, please.”

  “Every day of our lives.”

  Chapter 18

  Red Oak Junction, Iowa

  December 9, 1877

  Let me finish up with this last table, and I should be past the busy spell.” The waitress motioned to the one other occupied table in the café. “I’ll be able to talk with you, then.”

  “Take your time, miss.” Clay spread out the notes on his latest case. The local bank had discovered counterfeit currency in the deposits from several local businesses, and he’d come by train from Juniata to investigate. The confiscated money was the same as what had been passed in Mount Pleasant almost two years ago and what had been found on the bodies of several of Stephen Richards’s suspected victims. Was Stephen back to his old tricks? The man had seemingly disappeared since January.

  Father, You know who’s behind this. Is it Richards? You know right where he is. Would You be so kind as to show me—and quick? He was itching to get home to Emma, though he didn’t pray the words. As if God didn’t already know his heart.

  In their nine months of marriage, he’d found it harder and harder when work took him away for days or weeks at a time. They’d been considering whether he ought to retire from the Secret Service and find something closer to home. He and PJ had discussed expanding the farm or PJ buying him out so he could find a place to run cattle instead. Perhaps take a lawman position if one came open in the towns near Juniata. Emmitt once threw out the idea of opening a bank in Nebraska and having Clay run it. And Emma had encouraged him to consider reading law and one day opening his own law practice. There was much to contemplate.

  Yet one thing kept him hanging on to his current position. That one loose thread he couldn’t leave untied. Richards.

  The bell on the door jangled, and the pair from the other table exited.

  The waitress held up the pot for him to see. “Would you care for more coffee while we talk, Mr. Timmons?”

  “No, thank you.”

  She approached, so Clay gathered up his notes and set them on the corner of the table.

  “Thank you for speakin’ with me. You were the one who received the five-dollar banknote yesterday in payment for a meal.”

  “Yes, sir. It seemed odd to me because it was a sizable payment for such a small bill. I wasn’t sure we’d be able to make the change for it.”

  “That’s understandable, miss.” And exactly how so many counterfeiters worked—overpaying in counterfeit money so they could receive good currency in change. “Do you happen to remember the man who paid you that money?”

  “I remember him clearly. He was tall and slender with red hair and a beard. But not a full beard. His chin was shaven.”

  “So he had muttonchops?”

  “Yes.”

  Not Richards. He pushed aside the disappointment.

  “Did he happen to mention his name?”

  “No. With this bein’ a railroad town, folks come and go, and I never see them again. Unless they live around these parts, too many are just faces.”

  “I can see how that’d be true in a rail town.” He smiled. “Thank you for your time, miss. I don’t have any other questions for now, but if, by some chance, you happen to see this man again, would you do me a favor? Send for me or the sheriff.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  “I’d be cautious—don’t let on. Just get word to us.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do that.”

  “All right, then. Do you mind if I sit a few minutes more and jot some notes?”

  She glanced around the empty dining room. “I don’t exactly need the table space right now. Take all the time you need.”

  Unfolding his notes, he jotted the information the waitress had given, then read over all the pages again. A single name kept coming up—R. Moss—a name written on several receipts around town. He’d not yet had time to interview all the business owners, but he was guessing, once he did, he’d find that Mr. R. Moss was a redhead with muttonchops.

  “Um, Mr. Timmons?”

  He glanced to where the waitress was clearing the other table near the window.

  “I just saw him. The redheaded man. Across the street.”

  Surprise needled him, and he quickly tucked his notes into his coat pocket, then tossed a coin on the table. “Where?”

  She stepped out the door, looking off to the right. “He came out that third door and crossed the street.”

  Clay scanned the crowd and just caught sight as the man turned down another street.

  “Thank you so much!” Darting after, he rounded the corner, followed a short way, and watched as the fella entered the livery.

  Lord above, please. Please let me finally get him.

  It took him onl
y a moment to find the fella standing near an out-of-the-way stall at the back of the stable. Clay loosened his Peacemaker in the holster, took out his commission book, and approached. The gent looked up when he stopped a few feet away.

  “Pardon, but your name wouldn’t happen to be Moss, would it?”

  “Who’s askin’?”

  He flashed his badge. “United States Secret Service.”

  Muttonchops’s eyes grew huge, and he made a dash for freedom, though Clay was ready. Stepping in, he slammed the man with a wicked fist that toppled him into the straw, and while he lay stunned, Clay drew.

  “You are under arrest for passing counterfeit banknotes, Mr. Moss—or do you prefer Mundy? Or is it Mull?”

  His nose bloodied, Muttonchops glowered but didn’t speak. Clay tucked the commission book back in his pocket and searched the man, confiscating a derringer pistol and a stash of banknotes to look at once the fella was secured.

  With a little assistance from one of the livery’s hostlers, Clay hauled his man to the sheriff’s office and locked him in a cell. There he looked at the money and found that slightly less than half the notes were counterfeit.

  “I’ve been lookin’ for you for quite some time, and with information I have and the amount of counterfeit notes you’re carryin’, this could be a real easy case to win. You’d go to prison for years.” Clay leaned against the sheriff’s desk. “But there’s two pieces of information I want from you, and if you’ll give them up, I’ll recommend you not be put on trial for the charges I have against you.”

  Muttonchops’s brow furrowed. “What’s the catch?”

  Clay shrugged. “No catch.”

  “What’re the questions? I want to know before I make any agreements.”

  “Of course. The questions are what is your real name, and where do I find Stephen Dee Richards?”

  “That’s all you want—and I go free?”

  “You heard what I said. Of course, I will add that you’ll remain in jail until such time as I capture Richards—so your information had better be accurate.”

  Muttonchops rose from the cot in his cell and walked to the bars. “You put that in writing, and you got yourself a deal.”

  The sheriff, watching with interest, provided a pen and paper. Clay jotted the agreement and signed it, then handed the paper off to Muttonchops.

  The man read over the page. “Fine. My real name is Roy Munson, and last I met up with Richards was several months back. We met further east, here in Iowa. He said he’d been in Chicago with Jasper Harlson.”

  At the name, Clay’s mind shot back to the soddy outside Kearney. He shut his eyes against the memory that still haunted his dreams. “He went to visit Harlson.”

  “Not to visit. He’s been stayin’ out there for months.”

  Clay scrubbed the back of his neck. Lord, does the depth of his evil know no bounds?

  “Where in Chicago am I going to find Richards?”

  “That, I’m not real sure of. Never been there except passin’ through on a train. But I have it on good authority that he’s been writing to a gal in his hometown in Ohio—Esther somebody. I think her last name started with a B. He was thinkin’ about going back to see her at Christmas.”

  His belly clenched. “Hester. Blakely.”

  Munson nodded. “That could be it. Mount Pleasant area. He said something about surprising her for some holiday party or dance or something.”

  The Christmas dance. The fact that Munson knew about the annual event lent a ring of truth to his story. “You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Munson.”

  “So you’re gonna let me go?”

  “Like I said—I have to be able to capture Richards, so I hope your information’s correct. Once he’s in custody, I’ll make good on my word.”

  Munson offered a smug grin. “Thank you, Mr. Secret Service. Pleasure doing business with you.”

  “The name’s Timmons, and the pleasure’s mine.” Clay thanked the sheriff with a firm handshake. “Oh, just so you know, I’ll be wiring the sheriff in Kearney, Nebraska. Tab Keough is his name. Munson here was an accomplice in a jailbreak about a year ago where Keough and his deputy were almost killed. I expect they have an attempted murder charge or two waitin’ on him, and they should be anxious to come and take this prisoner off your hands real soon.”

  “You said I’d go free!” Munson cursed him as he turned to face the man again.

  “No sir. I said I’d see you’re not held to account on the counterfeiting. I didn’t say anything about any other charges.” He winked. “Have a nice life, Munson, whatever’s left of it. And thanks for the help with Richards.”

  Mount Pleasant, Ohio

  December 19, 1877

  “There you are!” Emma drank in the sight of her husband sitting in her favorite reading spot with his Bible open. She glanced around the library. “Where’s PJ?”

  Clay closed the Bible and looked up. “Ah, how long ago did breakfast finish?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “If I had my guess, he’s been in the barn workin’ alongside Wilt Parcell for the last four.”

  She giggled. “In the barn? I thought he would join us when Hester visits.”

  “Come on, darlin’. You know him. He’s a simple man, and all this finery is too much for him.” He waved at their grand surroundings.

  Perhaps too much for PJ, but thanks to Seth and Deborah Quinn’s kindness after the Pony Express shut down, Clay had tasted a few years of a comfortable life. Not the lavish one Emma had known, but opulent in comparison to his much humbler beginnings. That had allowed him to transition between their worlds as he’d needed.

  “Funny you’d say that. I’ve been pondering how I can feel so at home and so out of place all at the same time.” She stared at the books that filled Papa’s library. “This used to be my favorite room.” She touched the spines of her beloved stories, then circled around to sit next to Clay in the wide leather chair. “I would disappear in here for hours. Curl into this chair and read. Drink tea someone else made for me.” She nodded toward the table across the room. “I’d play chess with Papa or Thomas right there.” So many memories—like the time a handsome stranger with a honey-smooth drawl held her for the first time after she’d choked half to death on a lemon drop.

  Clay took her hand and twined his fingers with hers. “I’m sorry I can’t provide all this for you, darlin’.”

  “I didn’t say that to make you feel bad. Quite the opposite. After eleven months of living in Nebraska, nine of those as your wife, my life couldn’t look more different. And I love it.” No longer was she used to someone waiting on her every whim and wish. No grand and stately home. No servants to cook meals and clean up afterward. She had a simple three-room frame house—shared with her husband and his best friend. “I love the simplicity. Learning new things. How to cook and keep a garden, take care of the animals, and gather eggs. It’s challenging, and I don’t get bored.”

  Bewildered, he twisted slightly to stare at her. “Did you get bored before?”

  “Often.”

  He laughed. “I’m sorry, darlin’. I’m not tryin’ to be rude, but I can’t think of a day in my life when I ever felt bored. There was always work to be done.”

  She tugged her fingers free of his grasp and swatted him across the chest. “That’s my whole point, Clay Timmons. There’s something wonderful about being busy and working hard and living this very different life than how I was brought up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” A wide smile still on his face, he pulled her to him and kissed her.

  Emma melted into his arms, content to stay there forever. Her hand drifted up to his cheek, and a happy sigh escaped her. This was where she belonged. Yet sooner than she wanted, he pulled away.

  “Did I just hear a knock at your front door?”

  Had he? She’d been oh so pleasantly distracted.

  “It’s not my front door. Remember?” She rose anyway and hurried to see.

  No sooner had
she pushed the door open than Hester Blakely squealed and pulled her into a hug.

  “You’re back, you’re back! It’s been too long!”

  Emma giggled at Hester’s giddiness. She’d missed it. “It’s good to see you too! Come in.”

  Grabbing Hester’s hand, she pulled her longtime friend to the library. “Hester, you remember Clay, don’t you?”

  Clay stood and nodded. “Miss Blakely.”

  “It’s only appropriate the husband of my best friend should call me Hester. And yes, I recall meeting you briefly in the churchyard. Pleased to see you again.” Hester swung her way. “But there’s a whole lot between that day and now that you haven’t shared with me, Emma. Do tell. As I recall, you were engaged to Stephen at the time.”

  Emma shot a concerned look Clay’s way, and he gave her a discreet nod.

  “We’ll tell you everything soon. I promise. But since you brought Stephen up … Please, sit.”

  Sobering, Hester did, and Emma retook the seat she and Clay had shared moments ago. He moved to lean against the desk.

  “As one of my oldest and dearest friends, please tell me—are you corresponding with Stephen?”

  Surprise then guilt flashed in her eyes. “How in heaven’s name did you know? I haven’t told anyone.”

  “I stumbled across that fact in a real roundabout way, miss.” Clay shoved his hands in his pockets. “In Iowa.”

  “Iowa! I don’t know anyone in Iowa. Stephen’s in Chicago.”

  Lord, help Hester see the gravity of this circumstance! “Hester, Stephen is not the man he presents himself to be. He’s very dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” She laughed. “You’re teasing.”

  “No. He’s killed multiple people.”

  Hester drew back, her jaw slack. “Emma, that’s not funny. How can you say such things. You know Stephen wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “He has hurt people. He shot Clay and attempted to kidnap me, and where he was planning to take me, he murdered four people—a woman and her three young children. With an ax.”

  Inhaling sharply, Hester bolted to her feet. “This is entirely too outrageous and grotesque to be true. I won’t stand for you spreading such lies.”