by Lisa Harris
He stared at the water flowing slowly toward the south. “I know why you’re here.”
“Excuse me?”
“I know that you’re not really here to take care of the Carpenters.” He turned to face her. “I know about the gold.”
She took a step forward and raised her chin. “The gold?”
“Gold stolen from the US government at the end of the war. That’s why you’re here. To find it.”
“How did you… ? I don’t understand.”
Aaron clasped his hands behind his back. “It’s a small town, Miss Young. One really can’t trust anyone to keep a secret, especially when it comes to gold.”
“Sheriff Morton.” She shook her head and looked up at him. “So what do you want from me?”
He scuffed the toe of his boot against the ground, wishing things could have been different between them. “I want you to give me the information you have and stop looking for the gold. I will pay you for any tip you give me that leads to the finding of the cache.”
“You can’t be serious.” Any feelings of attraction that had glimmered in her eyes a few moments ago were gone. “Why should I do that?”
“Because I’m a lawman who’s qualified to track down the information and who’s working for the government.”
“I don’t see how your qualifications have gotten you anywhere so far.” She shoved her fists against her hips and frowned. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t still be chasing down the rumored gold or trying to extract information from me.”
Aaron felt the veins in his neck pulse. “I’m not—”
“And let me tell you something, Mr. Jefferson.” Her fists balled at her sides. “I have no intention of telling you, or anyone else, the information I have. Do you think I left the comforts of my home in Boston to come to this place and simply give up?”
He shook his head. “You don’t understand what’s at stake here—or the danger your life could be in if the wrong people get involved.”
“No, I don’t think you understand.” Miss Young crossed the grassy knoll to where they had tethered the horses and attempted to mount the mare.
He hurried to her side to help her, but she held up her hand to stop him. “Thank you, but I don’t need your help, Mr. Jefferson. Not now. Not ever. I have proof that the gold exists. Mark my words. It’s only a matter of time before I find it.”
Nine
Tara swallowed hard and forced her horse to sprint faster. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, but she refused to give in to fear. Fear was the enemy, and time was running out. It had taken two weeks, but she’d finally managed to unravel the majority of the clues in her aunt’s journal. She’d also discovered that there were others searching for the gold. Others who would do anything to get their hands on the journal she possessed.
But that was something she’d never allow.
The house loomed before her in the distance. The shabby saltbox structure her aunt had written of was the key to the gold. That she knew for sure. All she needed was to unlock the last few paragraphs and her service to her country would be complete. If her assumptions were correct, she’d be able to secure the gold before the others.
“The masked bullion my comrade holds, remains forever secluded beneath the ring of woody perennials, there to be confined until the adversary is trounced.”
She repeated aloud the phrase from the journal. Masked meant hidden. Bullion referred to the gold. My comrade—
A gunshot ripped through the morning air. She slid to the ground, bringing the horse to an abrupt halt. Then she clutched the journal beneath her arm as she ran to the side of the house for cover. Another shot pierced the morning stillness. The enemy had arrived before her. She caught sight of his black Stetson as he rounded the corner, and her breath caught in her throat.
It wasn’t the adversary from Aunt Rachel’s journal.
It was Mr. Jefferson.
Tara sat up with a start, then lay back down too quickly, whacking her head against the headboard. A rooster crowed outside. The sun had yet to wrap its warm fingers across the acres of farmland and prairies, but already she could hear Mrs. Carpenter bustling downstairs. In a few moments, she’d knock on Tara’s door and announce the start of yet another day.
Tara let out a long sigh. For two weeks now, she’d risen before dawn. Today, she wanted to sleep in. Between morning Bible readings, farm chores, and evening prayers, they’d spent the time cleaning every nook and cranny of the house, an undertaking Tara was convinced hadn’t transpired for at least half a decade. And while she hadn’t been able to talk Mrs. Carpenter into making any major changes in the antiquated furnishings, she had to admit that she was amazed at the transformation that had occurred.
Mrs. Carpenter continued to sing her praises, claiming that she’d never have had the energy to accomplish such a feat without Tara’s help. But for a city girl who’d never placed one foot on a farm before arriving in Iowa, the housework hadn’t been the only challenge. From milking the cows to collecting the eggs to ensuring the new lambs didn’t escape from their pen, she’d fallen into bed exhausted at night. Even the last of the pickles had been sealed in mason jars yesterday afternoon and lined up in neat rows in the cellar until the next church social. And all of this had given her little time to pursue the gold.
Tara reached over and lit the kerosene lamp beside her bed before pulling out her aunt’s journal from beneath her pillow. Stifling a yawn, she opened the pages to the one she’d marked. Aunt Rachel’s handwriting was easy to read, but the meaning behind it was often coded. In her dreams the meaning seemed clear, but in real life the answers were far less easy to interpret. She was sure she was missing something important in her aunt’s writings, but exactly what, she didn’t know.
One thing was certain, however. Mr. Jefferson was not mentioned in her aunt’s journal. But that didn’t stop him from plaguing her dreams. She’d seen him twice since his insistence that she stop her search. Both times had been at church, which wasn’t a setting where she could openly speak her mind. So, instead, like any proper lady, she’d made sure that she was well mannered and cordial as she greeted him. But that was it. She refused to be taken in by his enchanting eyes or his smile that set her heart to racing, not once forgetting that he had become her opponent.
She pulled her robe closer around her shoulders. She hadn’t forgotten Pastor Reeves’s words, either. His convicting sermon from the book of Colossians had lingered with her, reminding her that she wasn’t to serve men, but God. And once again, her motives for coming to Iowa came into question. Trying to please others while proving she could do something valuable with her life perhaps wasn’t as noble as she’d once thought.
Shoving aside feelings of guilt, Tara fingered the edge of the journal and read once again the entry for April 17, 1864.
“Received word from MS today. Further contact unsafe.”
Tara squeezed her eyes shut, wishing her aunt Rachel were here to explain the words she’d penned. Tara missed her so much. But crying certainly wouldn’t accomplish anything. From an earlier entry, she knew that MS stood for Mr. Schlosser, and that he had been one of her aunt’s contacts. Aunt Rachel herself had once confided some of the secret code that had been used and had told her that the bullion referred to the government’s gold. But secured where?
She needed to speak to Mr. Schlosser. Mr. Martin, her only connection to Mr. Schlosser, had been away for the past month and was planning to return today. Somehow, in the middle of laundering the bedding and washing the feathers from the mattresses and whatever else Mrs. Carpenter had planned, she was determined to slip out of the house and find a way to pay a call on the man.
She’d made several friends in town, including Constance Van de Kieft and the pastor’s wife, Mary, but telling the Carpenters she was going visiting at one place while actually calling on Mr. Martin wasn’t an option. Neither was taking Mr. Carpenter with her this time. The older man was feeling somewhat under the weather, and Mrs. Carpen
ter was insisting he stayed at home until he felt better.
Tara quickly changed her clothes. Then she tugged on the bottom of her short cape with determination. She would just have to take a chance and go by herself, and hopefully, she’d be able to find answers to her questions.
She opened the door to Mrs. Carpenter’s cheery grin. “Good morning, Miss Young. I was just about to knock. You’re up bright and early.”
Tara forced a smile, feeling anything but chipper at the older woman’s greeting. “Good morning, Mrs. Carpenter.”
“I’ve brought you something more suitable to wear.”
Tara’s brows rose in question as she took the calico garment that was thrust into her hands. For the past few weeks, she’d donned two of her own simpler dresses while working. Neither was fit to wear in public anymore, but they’d been suitable for the work they had done.
Tara held up the plain dress that had to have been made decades earlier. “What am I to do with this?”
“I wanted to surprise you.” Mrs. Carpenter held up a worn cookbook.
Tara frowned. A calico dress, a dog-eared cookbook…and a surprise? Something worse than making pickles? Tara wasn’t sure she was ready for one of Mrs. Carpenter’s surprises.
The older woman hugged the book to her chest. “I’ve been wanting to make a wool sweater for Mr. Carpenter, and thought what better time now that you are here. You can help me with the dye bath and the spinning—”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Carpenter.” Tara held up her hand in protest. “I have never spun wool let alone dyed wool—”
“You mustn’t worry.” She shot Tara a broad smile. “I’m going to teach you.”
❧
Tara set the gallon pot full of the used dye bath on one of the porch steps, then headed toward the clothesline with the wool. After a morning of washing and rinsing the wool, then making a dye bath and coloring the wool, she was ready to crawl back into bed. Still, she had to admit that the rich plum color of the yarn would make a stunning sweater. If she only knew how to make such an item—which she didn’t.
Of course, that was bound to change. Mrs. Carpenter planned to teach her not only the dyeing process of the wool that she’d learned today, but also the spinning and actual crafting of the garment. While she could embroider and do other simple forms of needlework, such a task was not something she’d ever attempted. Nor had wanted to. That was the very reason she enjoyed the ease of readymade fashions from the city where she could purchase the costumes featured in Harper’s Bazar with little effort.
While Mrs. Carpenter went to start lunch, Tara had simple instructions to hang the dyed wool out to dry in the shade before fetching a few potatoes from the cellar. She was hoping that as soon as lunch was over, she’d be able to pay Mr. Martin a visit.
One of the lambs bleated behind her, and Tara spun around to shoo the young animal back into its pen. How it managed to escape from the confines of its enclosure she had no idea, but it wasn’t the first time she’d had to chase the little animal back to its mother.
“Now, Cotton Ball.” She placed her hands on her hips and spoke sternly to the lamb. “I don’t have time for any nonsense today. I’ve got to finish up here so I can go and meet with Mr. Martin.” She leaned down to whisper the last sentence. “He’s going to help me find the gold.”
Cotton Ball skittered to the right. Tara lunged for the lamb and missed. He went to the left, and she followed his move, before he made a quick maneuver toward the house…and the tub of dye.
“No…no…no.” Tara’s eyes widened in horror. “The dye is for after you’ve been sheared, not before…”
She picked up her skirts and ran after the lamb. All she needed was a plum colored lamb in the sheep pen. What would Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter say to that? The lamb continued toward the tub at a brisk pace with Tara right behind. If she could stop the lamb before it tried to run up the stairs…
Tara didn’t see the stump until it was too late. Tripping across the lawn, she fell flat on her face at the bottom of the staircase. Frightened by her scream, the lamb tried to run up the stairs and landed in the pot of dye.
Tara looked up in horror. The tub teetered on the edge of the stair while the lamb struggled to get its footing. Tara tried to get up, but she was too slow. Cotton Ball moved forward, and the entire contents of the tub, sheep and all, dumped on top of Tara’s head.
❧
Aaron stuffed the telegram into the pocket of his denim pants and frowned as he walked down the crowded boardwalk toward the livery. For two weeks now he’d followed every lead he had, and his superiors were not going to be pleased with his findings. His discrete conversations with three suspect people in the area, had, like the rest of his efforts, turned up no new leads. His opinion now was that there was no proof left the gold ever existed. And it if did, no doubt it had been broken up into smaller lots and spent years ago.
Now they wanted him back in Washington by the end of the month. With answers. One would think that the government, with its recent establishment of the Department of Justice and other political concerns, would be less inclined to worry about a cache of lost gold. But apparently that wasn’t the case.
Wiping the sweat off the back of his neck with his hand, he longed for a tall glass of lemonade to quench his thirst from the hot and humid afternoon. Maybe when he returned from Mr. Martin’s, he’d stop by the hotel restaurant. But because his superiors wanted answers, he was determined to follow through on the assignment until he found the gold—or until he uncovered solid evidence that the gold was gone.
He’d spent his entire life working to get ahead, trying to live up to the name his parents had bestowed on him, Aaron Thomas Jefferson, and to the high standards of his family lineage. This assignment was no different. He might not have forgotten his grandfather’s spiritual nurturing, which tried to teach him to rely on Christ alone, but those words had faded as the years progressed and had been replaced by a determination to forge ahead on his own.
“Mr. Jefferson?”
Aaron stopped in front of the barbershop. He’d almost walked by Pastor Reeves without even seeing him. “It’s good to see you again, Pastor.”
The man stood before him with a few pieces of mail in his hand. “My wife wanted to invite you to supper, but you always slip out of church so quickly, we haven’t had a chance to ask you.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Aaron tipped the brim of his Stetson to block the sun. “I’m not planning to stay in town much longer, I’m afraid.”
The friendly preacher laughed. “Hope it isn’t my sermons that are running you off.”
Aaron couldn’t help but like the man and his sense of humor. “Not at all. In fact, your lessons have been quite timely.”
Enough to prick his conscience and to cause him to reevaluate his life and the motives behind what he did. The man had a point when he pressed that service to God had to come before trying to please man. It wasn’t a thought he planned to brush off without some serious consideration.
Pastor Reeves tapped the mail against the palm of his hand, seemingly in no hurry to end their conversation. “I heard you were interested in buying a farm in the area. Does that mean you might return soon?”
“Buying a farm? I…I’m honestly not sure at this point.”
Aaron frowned. Perhaps it was time to go back to Washington. There was no telling what other rumors regarding why he was here were circulating in this small town. News that he was searching for the gold was the last thing he needed right now. And if Miss Young had been involved—
“Either way, I hope to see you at church on Sunday.” Pastor Reeves reached out to shake his hand. “And don’t forget, you’re more than welcome to stay for lunch afterward. My wife makes the best dumplings this side of the Mississippi.”
Aaron forced a smile and shook the man’s hand. “I appreciate your kindness, Pastor Reeves.”
Aaron watched the man of God make his way toward the small church building that sat on the edge of t
own. While he honestly did value the man’s kindness, thoughts of food, no matter how delicious, were low on his priorities right now as he strived to stay focused on the job at hand.
He’d even managed to forget about Miss Young. At least most of the time.
She, though, was the reason he was in such a hurry today. Rumor had it that Mr. Martin had arrived home late last night from a trip to see family members. And Aaron was determined to talk to Mr. Martin before Miss Young had a chance to show up and ruin everything.
Securing the feisty stallion he’d rented from the livery while he was in town, Aaron followed the road until Mr. Martin’s worn saltbox house came into view. Little had changed since his first visit two weeks ago when he’d encountered not only an empty house, but had also learned the identity of Miss Young. He scanned the horizon and the unspoiled land, thankful there was no sign of the woman today. Luck must be on his side. Mr. Martin sat out on the front steps.
He stopped in front of the house and dismounted. “Mr. Martin? Name’s Aaron Jefferson. I was wondering if I could speak to you for a moment.”
“What do you want?” The balding man took a swig of whatever he was drinking.
“I won’t take much of your time, but I’m trying to find out about the—”
Mr. Martin turned away at the squeaky wheel of an approaching wagon.
Aaron followed his gaze, his heart plummeting when he realized who was driving the wagon. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Why? You know the woman?”
“Yes, in fact, I do.” Aaron dipped his head to block the sun. Miss Tara Young sat erect in the wagon, heading straight for Mr. Martin’s house. “It would seem as if you have quite a number of visitors today.”
The man set his drink down and stood. “Strange. I’m not used to company.”
“Mr. Martin, I really would like to speak to you, but would you excuse me for one moment, please?”
