Silver Belles and Stetsons

by Caroline Clemmons

  Adaline started a lengthy explanation about the attorney, and how she’d only done what she’d imagined Malloy would have in that situation— a safe place to ensure a financial transfer of the significant dollar amount given them by trusting neighbors, ensuring a credible witness who could sign a document—

  Malloy whistled, once more. He couldn’t help but grin at the four stunned faces looking his way.

  “Ada, darlin’.” He met her gaze and slowly leaned close. “I do remember sometimes the only way to settle you down is to kiss you.”

  “Malloy!”

  He cocked one brow. “Must I kiss you to shut you up?”

  Adaline blushed the most becoming shade of pink.

  “Thank you, darlin’.” He cleared his throat and addressed all four Whipples. “Now, help me to put everything in order. The preacher shows up.” He ticked off one finger. “He gives you the neighbors’ gift of money to cover the back payments.” Another finger noted in kind.

  Juliette raised her hand, like she might do in the schoolroom.

  Malloy nodded to her.

  “Then Mr. Lockhart came. Mama poured tea.”

  “Very good. Thank you, Juliette.”

  Unfortunately, Malloy had a pretty clear mental picture of all this unfolding around their kitchen table.

  “We ate pie,” added Jane.

  “Okay.”

  Jane’s face brightened. “I had to behave like a lady. So did Juliette. But Adaline stood behind Mr. Lockhart and made mean faces.”

  Malloy couldn’t help but chuckle. “Then what happened?”

  Juliette raised her hand. “Me and Jane and Pastor Gilbert—”

  “Jane and I,” Mother corrected, as if by habit.

  Juliette grimaced. “Jane and I had to sit like ladies and be quiet. We waited forever.”

  “I imagine you did.” He found himself smiling at the little firecrackers.

  Adaline touched his arm. “Mother introduced the minister to the banker and the banker to the minister. They drank tea. I lost my seat to Mr. Lockhart, because he apparently missed that lesson in school.”

  “Poor manners, indeed.” Malloy laughed.

  She apparently saw no humor in the situation. “He did all sorts of things with wretched manners. I introduced him to Mother when he arrived, and he immediately repeated his own name with the kind of self-important interest that made me want to roll my eyes. I didn’t, by the way.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “He tried to kiss my newly widowed mother.” Adaline reminded him, disapproval shading her tone of voice.

  “Wretched fool.” Malloy couldn’t help but smile.

  “I know.” Adaline warmed to her topic.

  “What happened after you stepped between the two of them? When he attempted to kiss your mother?”

  “I tried harder to get him to leave. I told him to show himself out.”

  “Spunky.”

  She grinned. “Maybe.”

  “Why’d you do a thing like that?”

  “I didn’t like the way he eyed my mother, touched my mother, looked at her the way you often look at me.”

  “We can’t have that now, can we?”

  “I just remembered something.” She quieted, looked at her lap, then back at him. “He waited to get particularly nasty until I insisted we were no longer in default, that the payments we are prepared to make tonight, at seven-o’clock at the attorney’s, would not only clear delinquent monthly payments but would pay us ‘til mid-February. I was guessing of course—”

  He held up a hand. A couple of puzzle pieces clicked together in his mind. He could almost see them around the table, teacups and saucers, sunlight, Lockhart seated where his back would be to the aisle and Adaline…

  “Why would a banker,” he asked, mostly to formulate the question for his own ears, “wait a day to threaten foreclosure?”

  Wheels turned in his head. Gears engaged. The machinery of problem-solving lined up to assess possibilities, with and without variables.

  Dully, at the periphery of the commotion in his head, he heard Adaline say, “Because he’s not working with the bank’s best interest in mind.”

  “He wanted to prove a point.” Malloy looked up and zeroed in on Adaline’s crystalline eyes.

  “What does a man of his obvious wealth have to prove?” The wheels kept spinning, but no more gears found purchase, no new connections locked in place. “We know he’s working for First National.”

  “He’d rather evict us,” Mother Whipple stated, “and sell our possessions and stock and building than accept payments in good faith.”

  “Ridiculous.” Malloy searched his memory for anything like this, any similar mortgage write-up he’d come across in a decade of accounting. He came up empty.

  Lockhart, an obvious egomaniac, might simply enjoy harassing women.

  He might, Malloy conceded, not actually be in town under the bank’s full-knowledge. Who knew what kind of story he told in Denver to put himself in Mountain Home on a weekend, when no one would be at the bank to verify his claims?

  But why the Whipples?

  What possible reason could Sheridan Lockhart have to single out this fine family and focus his energy on the grieving widow— though lovely… and near Lockhart’s own age? Had he moved on to Miriam Whipple after Adaline proved resistant?

  Something didn’t add up here.

  But Malloy was so very close to lining it all up. The tingle in his fingertips and toes told him so.

  This had to hinge on Mrs. Whipple. She’d been Lockhart’s focus, though hidden behind initial questions about Thaddeus Whipple, from the moment he walked into the bakery.

  What could Lockhart want from Mrs. Whipple? Appreciation? Adulation? Maybe.

  The way he repeated his own name, even after Adaline had properly introduced him, could indicate he’d been trying to ensure Mrs. Whipple heard his name.

  And made a connection from her past?

  Recognition.

  Recognition of authority, power, control?

  Recognition of Sheridan Lockhart, by name?

  Tumblers clicked into place. The gears engaged. And like a puzzle box, the contraption finally had all the intricacies aligned and opened easily, revealing all secrets within.

  Chapter Eight

  Malloy waited until he heard the back door close, trusting Adaline had indeed taken her two sisters outside for fresh air. He’d asked Adaline, “Do you trust me?”

  She’d answered in the affirmative, right quick, and it’d take a long time for him to stop glowing with pride.

  He figured he already knew Mrs. Whipple’s answer, but he had to ask.

  Everything could go wrong if he assumed incorrectly.

  He needed to know for sure.

  “Mrs. Whipple?” He sat beside her on the sofa, avoiding direct eye contact to make this easier for her.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  A beat slipped past. “Y-yes.”

  “I guarantee, ma’am, anything you tell me I’ll hold in strict confidence.”

  She nodded, but he couldn’t determine whether she understood the depth of his commitment to her family. “Allow me to explain. I love your daughter. She is what I couldn’t find in ten years traveling through a hundred cities, towns, and settlements.”

  The enormity of his good fortune overwhelmed him.

  “I didn’t know what I was missin’ ‘til I came in your shop one morning and pretty much never left.”

  He risked a glance at his would-be mother-in-law. A tear trailed down her cheek. He reached for her hand and held it in quiet companionship.

  “I want to marry her. But that means I need your permission to join the family— ‘cause where Adaline is concerned, marrying her is marrying the whole family. An appealing gift I need.”

  Mrs. Whipple squeezed his hand.

  The warmth, inclusion, and sense of family filled him right up. For the first time, he just might belong somewhere,
to somebody.

  “I’ve been alone so long, I don’t know how to go about asking, with humble sincerity, if you’ll take me in.”

  She looked at him then, turning her whole body on the sofa to better see him. “Oh, Mr. Malloy, absolutely yes, without hesitation.”

  His smile erupted from somewhere so deep and released an uncommon amount of pressure. Like a geyser he’d seen in Yellowstone a couple summers back. Beautiful, awe-inspiring, memorable.

  Life-changing.

  “I’m grateful for your blessing. And your trust.”

  “Our Adaline has chosen well in you, Mr. Malloy.”

  “About that, it’s… just Malloy. I’ve only got the one name. I guess my childhood has more blank spots than not, and…” He shrugged. Sometimes, when it mattered most, explaining this oddity proved darn-near impossible.

  “Thank you, Malloy. It matters not to me what you call yourself. I’ll call you Son, if you don’t mind.”

  “Thank you, Mother.” He watched her face. Would she allow him to call her Mother?

  “Would you mind, Son, very much, the more endearing ‘Mama’?”

  Malloy pressed a kiss to the forehead of the only mother he’d ever have.

  Emotion filled him to overflowing, forcing him to wait on it to run its course.

  “Do you trust me with Adaline?”

  “Yes.”

  “And to protect and support and look after the children, as well as you?”

  “I do.”

  “I know I’m mighty new to the family, Mama, but I’m hopin’ you’ll answer just one question, something I vow to safeguard. My respect for you will never diminish.”

  She nodded, with less hesitancy than he might have expected.

  “Did you know Mr. Lockhart when you were in St. Louis?”

  She paused, fiddled with the brooch at her throat. “I… I don’t believe so.”

  He waited, allowing that thought to settle before offering the obvious. “Any chance you knew a young man by the name of Sheridan Lockhart?”

  The hand he still held twitched. “Yes.” She spoke so low it came out as a whisper.

  “Is there a chance the banker and he are one and the same?”

  She shrugged. “It’s been nearly thirty years. It’s hard to say.”

  “Your Sheridan Lockhart, the young man you knew in St. Louis— he’s the one you’re glad you passed by as he wasn’t right for you. Your wisest decision, I recall.”

  Mama looked him in the eye. “Yes.”

  “I need you to write to Lockhart and ask him to meet you in the hotel dining room.”

  ***

  Malloy could clearly see the hotel’s main entrance from his seat in the dining room. His two dining companions would provide all the support he needed to see this plan succeed.

  Liam Talmadge, the gray-haired old coot who’d retired a year ago and passed the tin star on to the current sheriff, August Rose. Sheriff Rose was more than tied up with takin’ care of the Ruffian Gang.

  Talmadge might be elderly, but from their conversation, the man was sharp as a tack. And he had more authority to arrest Lockhart than anybody else currently inside city limits.

  Roderick Van Pletzen, an attorney who’d hung his shingle in Mountain Home a couple summers back, served as third witness. Just in case Lockhart knew enough to recognize Van Pletzen, the attorney had taken the seat that wouldn’t easily show his face.

  “Here she comes.” Malloy kept his attention on his soup course but saw Mrs. Whipple enter the building, make her way to the counter, and hand an envelope to the desk clerk.

  Fancy evergreen garland and bright red satin bows decorated the lobby. A hired pianist played Christmas melodies on an upright grand situated next to the French doors separating dining room from lobby.

  The music set the mood for the holidays. If he’d been there celebrating, the setting might be enjoyable. Unfortunately, the piano would make it harder to overhear the conversation. Just how well could old Liam Talmadge hear?

  As planned, Mrs. Whipple entered the dining room. “May I please have the table nearest the fireplace?” she asked of the waiter. “It’s bitterly cold out today.”

  Malloy couldn’t help but smile. She played it up superbly, right down to the nearly palpable giddiness as she anticipated seeing Lockhart.

  Talmadge shook salt onto his soup. “Staircase.”

  Without raising his head, Malloy took note of the gentleman hurrying down carpeted stairs, then striding toward the main door. His overcoat cost twenty dollars if it cost a penny, and he was in a hurry.

  Yep, that was Lockhart, all right.

  “Sir— sir!” The clerk trotted after him, carrying the note Mrs. Whipple had just delivered.

  Van Pletzen asked Malloy, “That him?”

  “Yeah.”

  Lockhart halted, accepted the envelope, noted the handwriting and opened it in haste.

  Suspicions confirmed.

  “Just in time.”

  Talmadge scowled. “Watch the excitement, boy.”

  “Sorry.” Malloy lifted a spoonful of cooling broth to his mouth. He’d told the waiter to bring their courses nice and slow as he’d had no idea how long it would take Lockhart to receive and answer Mrs. Whipple’s invitation.

  Easy as pie.

  Lockhart strode into the dining room and scanned the dozen or so tables. At the current time of ten minutes past two, only four tables were occupied.

  Malloy took note in his peripheral vision the moment Lockhart’s gaze landed on Mrs. Whipple. Happiness, hope, surprise— and doubt.

  “He’s seen her,” Malloy said.

  As hoped, Lockhart didn’t spare Malloy and his comrades a second glance.

  They’d surmised Lockhart didn’t know he was linked to the family, hadn’t seen Malloy following him to this hotel yesterday morning, and had no reason to acknowledge him.

  Maybe that had been the only redeeming quality of missing this bully’s appearance at the bakery a couple hours earlier.

  “How’s the soup?” Talmadge asked.

  Malloy took the comment for a gentle reminder to play his role. Malloy nodded. Message received. “Good. Real good.”

  The old sheriff grunted.

  “Why yes,” Van Pletzen commented. “Very good.”

  Malloy spooned soup and listened as Lockhart reached Mrs. Whipple’s table, not five feet away.

  “My dear Mrs. Whipple.” Lockhart swept his top hat from his head and bowed. “What a lovely surprise to see you here.”

  “Mr. Lockhart. Please, do sit down, won’t you?”

  Lockhart removed his heavy winter coat, and with no waiter nearby, draped it over an empty chair and set his hat on the seat.

  For a moment, neither of the lead characters in their little play spoke. Malloy noticed Mrs. Whipple’s broad smile, ladylike posture, and the tip of her head that tilted her hat brim into a flirtatious angle.

  Lockhart said, “I’m most surprised to receive your note. Am I to understand you have reconsidered?”

  She nodded. “I believe I must have been in shock. Such a surprise it was to see you this morning.”

  “I did wonder.” Lockhart propped his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand. “Did you recognize me?”

  A tinkling laugh, so much like Adaline’s evoked a smile Malloy couldn’t quite squelch but fought into submission.

  “You don’t look much like your twenty-year-old self.” The pleasure in her voice surely stroked Lockhart’s ego.

  Malloy wouldn’t be surprised, not one bit, if Mrs. Whipple’s gaze caressed Lockhart with appreciation.

  “Madam, you wound me.” Lockhart chuckled and sounded truly happy.

  “Of course I recognized you, darling.”

  The woman sounded convincing, so convincing, Malloy choked on his soup. He widened his eyes at Van Pletzen, blotted his lips with his napkin. “Bones in this soup, I swear.”

  “I dare say it took you a minute or two.” Lockhart’s
tone put Malloy in mind of an irritated child. Petulant. Cranky. In need of a nap.

  “Well, yes. You’re far more… appealing than I remembered. The years have been kind to you. You’ve grown more handsome.”

  Lockhart made a satisfied sound, deep in his throat. Malloy couldn’t be sure without turning his head to gawk. Out of the corner of his eye, it sure looked like Lockhart leaned in to whisper.

  Not good. He needed the attorney and retired sheriff to hear anything incriminating Lockhart said. Whispers between lovers would not do.

  Thank goodness he’d covered this subject when coaching Mrs. Whipple.

  Come on, come on, let us know what he said.

  A second or two passed and Malloy nearly snapped his spoon in half.

  “Why yes,” Mrs. Whipple said, hopefully in repeat, “it has been far too long.”

  Thank you, Mrs. Whipple.

  Now, if only the pianist would move on from Angels We Have Heard on High to something a bit more mellow, Malloy might be able to hear properly.

  Mrs. Whipple replied, but her words were lost in the segue from one Christmas melody to another as the pianist swelled into God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. Malloy considered paying the man on the piano stool handsomely to go outside and smoke for a quarter-hour.

  “…that husband of yours.” Lockhart said in a tone that implied he’d spoken unkindly of the dead. “Proved himself less…”

  Malloy met the attorney’s gaze. Could he hear better?

  Van Pletzen shrugged.

  Surely the old sheriff, sixty if a day, couldn’t hear a thing.

  “Finished with your soup, sir?” The waiter collected bowls from Talmadge, Van Pletzen, then Malloy. “Ready for your roast beef, gentlemen?”

  “Yes.” Van Pletzen shooed the waiter away.

  “…do you say, Miriam?” Lockhart sounded happy, like a kid in a toy store.

  “Do you honestly mean it?” Mrs. Whipple’s voice carried clearly now, and Malloy wanted to cross his fingers that Lockhart would follow suit.

  “Do you suppose I’d make an offer and not follow through? Of course I am most sincere, my dear.”

  What had Lockhart offered? Malloy split a weighted glance between his companions. The sheriff shook his head in the negative and Van Pletzen held up a single finger as if to say wait.

  Blazes!