Tara's Gold

by Lisa Harris

  “I’ll handcuff him and take him to the sheriff.” He dug into the pouch attached to his saddle and pulled out a pair of metal handcuffs.

  Her eyes widened. “You’re a lawman?”

  “Something like that.”

  She wasn’t surprised. He’d taken control of the situation as though it were an afternoon stroll in the park, while she, on the other hand, had managed to lose all sense of propriety and had panicked. As always. She shivered as she watched him take the stairs up to the station platform. Of course, her shaken nerves had nothing to do with the fact that she’d just gazed into the eyes of one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen. His eyes were brown, but not just any shade of brown. They were a rich toffee color with flecks of gold around the rims.

  She shot another glance at him as he secured the prisoner’s hands behind him. She barely saw the drunken cowboy. Instead, she noticed the lawman’s coal black hair curled slightly around the nape of his neck. Stubble on his face gave him a rugged look, but the gentleness she’d seen in his eyes caused her pulse to quicken. She picked up her handkerchief, now covered with dust, crammed it into her bag, and bit her lip. Her rescuer’s solid stature and strong jawline certainly weren’t the reasons her heart was pounding. No, it had to be from the drunken man who’d left bruises on her forearms.

  “I shouldn’t have panicked.” She grabbed the last item and shoved it into the bag, speaking her thoughts aloud. “I should have held my head up and demanded he leave me alone.”

  “Pretty hard to do with a man who’s not only twice your size but also drunk. You had every right to be afraid.” He dragged his prisoner to his feet. “And hitting him over the head with your bag took a bit of courage if you ask me.”

  Tara frowned. There was a big difference between courage and reacting out of sheer terror. Clutching her bag with one hand, she tried to straighten her bonnet, which was now completely askew. “I thought I left behind the high crime of the city, but I must have been mistaken.”

  He led the man down the stairs. “Where are you from? Des Moines?”

  “No. Boston, actually.”

  “Unfortunately there’s a bad egg in every lot whether you’re in Boston, Philadelphia…or Browning City, Iowa.” His grin left a dimple on his right cheek. “Let me be the first to properly welcome you, as most Iowans would, and assure you that not all of us are like this ruffian. Some of us are actually quite…well…quite nice.”

  “I’m sure you must be right.” A shadow crossed the man’s face, erasing his pleasant smile, and she wondered if she’d said something to offend him. “So you live here?”

  “Originally, though I haven’t lived here for a number of years.”

  “Then I’d say we’ve both had quite an interesting welcome to Browning City.”

  He raised his Stetson and scratched his head. “Can I take you somewhere? I don’t think it’s safe for you to be here alone.”

  “That has become perfectly clear. But I…” Tara paused. Where should she go? She could take up Mrs. Meddler’s hospitable offer and stay the night at the hotel. But what would Mr. Carpenter think when he eventually showed up, and she wasn’t at the station? If he showed up at all.

  She turned at the sound of a squeaky wagon coming toward the station. “Perhaps that’s Mr. Carpenter now.”

  “For your sake, I certainly hope so.”

  A moment later, the wagon pulled up beside her, and a man who looked to be as old as Moses stepped on the brake. “Miss Young?”

  “Yes. Mr. Carpenter?”

  “Welcome to Browning City, young lady. It’s mighty good to see you.” His wrinkled face was swallowed up by a toothless grin as he slapped his hands against his thighs. “And right on time, I might add.”

  “Right on time?” Tara’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “As always.” Mr. Carpenter pulled a gold watch out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Five o’clock on the dot. Last stage pulls through here at this time three days a week.”

  “But Mr. Carpenter, it’s well past five—”

  “A fine piece of work, isn’t it?” He stared at the engraved picture on the outside of the watch. “My father bought this beauty in London before immigrating to America in 1793. Gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday, only two weeks before he was killed by a bull in our back pasture.”

  “Oh my. I…I’m sorry.” Tara glanced at her toffee-eyed hero, who looked to be as taken aback as she was by the eccentric man in denim overalls and a starched shirt.

  “Not to worry,” Mr. Carpenter said. “That was over five decades ago, I’d say, and a body has to eventually go on with his life.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Tara quickly calculated the man’s age. She knew her grandmother’s second cousin had been older, but this man had to be close to seventy. “In any case, it is good to finally meet you.”

  “Hop into the wagon then. My Ginny has chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes on the stove and hates it when I’m late for supper.”

  Tara’s mouth watered. Hopefully Mrs. Carpenter’s cooking was better than her husband’s sense of time. She paused, glancing at the platform. “I do have two trunks.”

  “I’ve got ’em.”

  Mr. Carpenter nodded his thanks to the lawman, who picked up the first one and set it in the wagon bed. “Sampson will take care of them once we get to the farm.”

  Tara fiddled with one of the beads on her bag, wondering if she dared ask the obvious question. “Who’s Sampson?”

  “A fine man, he is. Lost his hearing in one ear when a cannon exploded beside him during the war, but other than that, the man’s in perfect health. A good thing now that my Ginny and I are getting a bit up in years.” He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “Canning pickles tomorrow.”

  “Sampson is?” Tara shook her head, trying to follow the conversation while her trunks were being loaded.

  “Of course not. The missus. She thought you might enjoy such a task. Nothing like a crisp, firm pickle.”

  Pickles? Tara scrunched up her nose. Did she dare tell her new employer that the only pickled fare she’d ever tasted had come straight from her grocer’s shelves? She’d understood her job description to be more refined, like answering correspondence, reading pages from Charlotte Brontë or Henry David Thoreau, and perhaps a bit of simple cooking. Pickles weren’t included in her definition of a cultured supper or dinner.

  Tara climbed up into the wagon, wondering if she’d been a bit hasty coming to Iowa. Certainly finding the stash of gold would be worth any inconvenience, but beside the fact that Thaddeus Carpenter happened to be her grandmother’s cousin, it occurred to her how little she knew about the man and his wife.

  “Been some trouble?” Mr. Carpenter pointed a bony finger at the prisoner who lay hunched over on the stairs. “You must be the new deputy.”

  “He’s not the new deputy.” She sat down on the hard seat. “But that man tried to attack me, and this other gentleman came to my rescue. He’s a lawman.”

  “Then I appreciate your kindness, sir.” Mr. Carpenter handed Tara the reins and slowly started to climb out of the wagon. “I’d like to get down and shake your hand for taking care of this young woman.”

  Something cracked in the old man’s joints. Tara winced as she watched him ease his way toward the side of the wagon.

  “Mr. Carpenter…” Her voice trailed off as he slowly lifted one leg to the edge of the wagon.

  “Sorry, but I’m not near as spry as I was a few years ago. Takes me a bit of time.”

  “Please, don’t worry about getting down.” With his Stetson between his hands, the stranger hurried over to the wagon to shake Mr. Carpenter’s hand. “The trunks are in the back of the wagon, and I’m headed for the sheriff’s office. No doubt this young woman is ready to get home.”

  “Once again, then, we’re in your debt.” Mr. Carpenter took the reins once more and winked at Tara. “I’d say it’s time to get home, missy.”

&
nbsp; Hanging on to the edge of the seat with her fingertips for balance, Tara braced herself as the horses started down the dirt road at a steady trot. She turned back to take one last look at the lawman who’d rescued her as they made their way out of town and realized she’d forgotten to ask him his name.

  ❧

  Aaron escorted his prisoner through the doorway of the sheriff’s office, thankful the woman’s attacker was too drunk to have put up a real fight. He knew he was far too tired to deal with the scoundrel.

  “What have we got here?”

  At the sheriff’s question, Aaron shoved the prisoner into a wooden chair and stepped up to the sheriff’s desk. The uniformed lawman sat with an apple in one hand and a newspaper in the other, apparently feeling as if there was little need for him to be patrolling the streets of this cozy community.

  “My name’s Aaron Jefferson. I’ve got a letter of introduction.”

  He handed the bearded man the letter. The sheriff lowered his glasses to the tip of his nose and peered over the top of the octagonal lenses. “Says here you’re working for the United States government.”

  “Yes, sir.” Aaron rotated the brim of his Stetson in his hands. “Hadn’t meant to meet you under these circumstances, but not only is this man drunker than a passed-out coon, he attacked a woman tonight at the station.”

  The sheriff gave a cursory glance at the accused before setting down the letter. “Bud Pickett’s about as harmless as they come. All talk and no action.”

  Aaron shook his head. “Not this time. He’s drunk, and I’m certain he left marks on the woman’s arms.”

  “Bud, what have you gone and done?”

  Bud banged his head against the brick wall behind him. “I ain’t done nothing but try and talk to a woman. Nothing against the law about that, is there, Sheriff Morton?”

  “It is when you grab her and scare the living daylights out of her,” Aaron countered.

  “I said, I’s just trying to talk to her, but then he comes and handcuffs me like I’m some criminal.”

  Aaron rocked back on his heels. “There happens to be a big difference between talking and attacking—”

  “All right, enough, you two.” The sheriff held up his hand. “Normally I wouldn’t take kindly to someone cuffing up one of my citizens and dragging him in here, but if you’re telling the truth, Mr. Jefferson, I suppose you didn’t have a choice. Now, what was the woman’s name?”

  Aaron stared at the wanted poster hanging behind the sheriff’s desk and drew a blank. Had he even asked her? Surely he’d remember something as simple as whether or not he’d asked for her name. He lived his life paying attention to detail and drawing information from people without them knowing what he was doing. He stroked his chin and felt its rough stubble. Obviously, blue eyes and long, dark lashes had not only left him tongue-tied, they had rendered him temporarily senseless as well.

  He rested his hands against the desk and leaned forward. “I…I don’t know what her name was.”

  “You don’t know her name?” The sheriff balanced his chair on its back legs and eyed him warily. “And how do you propose I follow up on this incident when you don’t even know the name of the woman involved? Seems like for a lawman you’re a bit lacking in your investigative skills.”

  Aaron’s fists tightened at the comment. “She’s staying with the Carpenters on a farm outside of town.”

  The sheriff nodded and set his glasses down on the desk before rubbing his eyes. “Ol’ Thaddeus Carpenter and his wife Ginny. Heard they had some relative coming from the big city. Hope she knows something about farmwork and making pickles.”

  “Pickles?” Aaron leaned forward. “Why’s that?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, we all love the couple, but Thaddeus can be quite a character. I hope she knows what she’s getting into.”

  One didn’t have to be a genius to pick up on the fact that Mr. Carpenter might have been a bit senile, but he also couldn’t quite picture the man’s newly hired help canning pickles and assisting with the farm chores. While her dress might have been a bit weathered from the trip, she certainly hadn’t bought it at a small town mercantile. She’d been poised and educated, and he was quite certain that the woman had been raised as anything but an Iowan farm girl.

  Aaron cleared his throat. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know, I just…” He shook his head. It wasn’t his place to worry about someone he hadn’t even properly met. “Never mind. Listen, I’ve been on the trail all day and need a bite to eat and a good night’s sleep. If you don’t mind taking care of Mr. Pickett—”

  “Not at all. I’ll keep him here overnight so he can sleep it off.”

  Aaron put his hat back on and turned to leave. “Good night, then.”

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, he left the sheriff’s office, disturbed over his own behavior. For a man intent on leaving a professional impression, he’d certainly messed up this time.

  No matter what his usual resolve, his brief encounter with the young woman had left him daydreaming of auburn hair and striking blue eyes. In the past, he’d never had trouble ignoring most women, spending his time, instead, putting everything he had into his assignments. And certainly no woman had ever gotten in the way of career. He had no time for love and courtship. Maybe one day, when he’d finally proved he was just as competent as his father and his father’s father, he’d settle down and start a family. Until then, he’d stick to chasing down leads for the United States government. Besides, most of the pretty girls he managed to meet weren’t exactly the kind he imagined himself marrying.

  Until tonight.

  Aaron kicked at a loose rock on the boardwalk, even more determined to put the fair lady out of his mind. He hurried down the street toward the hotel. Ten thousand dollars in gold lay somewhere between here and the Mississippi River, and all a woman would do would be to get him into trouble. No, Mr. Carpenter’s newly hired help could stick to making pickles and slopping the hogs for all he cared. He had to get back to work.

  Three

  Tara groaned at the insistent knocking on her bedroom door. She rolled to her side, drawing the covers over her head. Light had barely begun to filter through the window, and she had no plans of rising before the sun did. She rolled onto her back and frowned. Something was wrong. The bed was lumpy, the sheets were scratchy…

  The past few days came rushing to her like a whirlwind. Her long trip to Iowa, Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter, and the cramped room on the second floor that would be hers as long as she stayed with them. She yawned, willing whoever was at her door to go away. She’d spent half the night tossing and turning on the uncomfortable mattress, and the other half dreaming about the handsome lawman rescuing her from the hands of a ruthless villain.

  Someone knocked again.

  “Miss Young?” Mrs. Carpenter called to her.

  Tara sat up, trying to determine if she’d heard an edge of panic in the older woman’s voice. What if one of them was sick? Nursing had not been one of the requirements for the job she’d taken.

  She pulled the covers up under her chin. “Is something wrong?”

  Mrs. Carpenter seemed to take her question as an invitation, because she crept into the room, moving directly to tug back the patterned curtains hanging along a small window. “I do hope you got a good night’s sleep, Miss Young, because it’s going to be a beautiful day.”

  Tara frowned and glanced out the window tinged with the faint light of dawn. Besides its pale yellow glow, the only other light came from the candle stub the woman held. Certainly these farm people didn’t actually rise before dawn.

  Tara worked to stretch a kink in her neck. “What time is it?”

  “Five thirty.” Light from the candle flickered across the older woman’s face, catching her widening smile. A rooster cried out in the distance, but other than that, the morning lay shrouded in a canopy of stillness. “Thaddeus and I always rise
by five, but I let you sleep in a bit today, as I know you must be tired from your long journey.”

  Tired from her long journey? As if that were even in question. Tara had just spent the past four days battling overloaded trains and coaches, sick passengers, and bad food, and now Mrs. Carpenter wanted her to jump out of bed and face the world before she’d had sufficient time to catch her breath.

  “I am a bit tired.” Pulling the edge of the thin quilt around her, she worked to keep the frustration out of her voice.

  In all good conscience, it wasn’t Mrs. Carpenter’s fault that Tara’s expectations of living on a farm had been too optimistic. Such a place could never compare to the modern conveniences of her home in Boston, where they had amenities like piped-in water and an indoor necessary. Perhaps she’d simply always taken for granted her own amply stuffed feather bed and linen sheets along with the many other things farm life obviously lacked.

  Tara stifled another yawn. “I’m just not used to waking quite so early.”

  “Don’t you worry about a thing, dear.” Mrs. Carpenter tugged on the top of her mobcap, with its puffed crown and ribbon trim—a fashion that should have been disregarded decades ago, in Tara’s opinion. “You’ll get used to it. Early rising is good for a body. You’ll sleep better at night, as well.”

  Tara bit her tongue at the string of complaints that threatened to erupt, trying instead to focus her mind on what her Aunt Rachel had taught her from the Bible. He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city. Or in her case, better a woman who doesn’t complain about a little hard work and lack of sleep than one who loses all sense of propriety while attempting to uncover a lost fortune of gold for the United States government. Pulling her robe around her shoulders, she sent up a short prayer that God would find it within Himself to grant her both an extra measure of patience and the cache of gold.

  Mrs. Carpenter set the candle on a dresser covered with framed daguerreotypes, bric-a-brac, and a thick layer of dust. “I’ve got breakfast on the stove. Didn’t want you to have to worry about that on your first morning here. Then we’ve got a busy day ahead of us. We’re in the middle of pickling, you know.”