Dreams of Gold

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  Ciara gripped her hands into fists and started counting. What was this man saying about her character? Were all travelers who rode into town subjected to a battery of questions similar to what she’d endured? She doubted that was the case. He dared to insinuate she was somehow involved in the mining company scheme. If he implied the people of Bull City blamed her, then she’d set him straight.

  “Did Miss Fairchild have to endure an interview about her intentions in Bull City?” The dull ache sharpened, and she fought back a wince.

  “What?” He leaned his palms flat on the desk. “You’re clouding the issue.”

  She stiffened at the flash of anger in his eyes. And fought her body’s reaction. “I do not believe I am. On two separate occasions since my arrival, you have interrogated me. The first time was about the robbery which seemed logical, the second was about my personal business. Was Miss Fairchild put through a similar set of questions? Did her character come through the interview more intact than mine?”

  He stared at the tips of his boots for so long she thought he might ignore her question.

  “Miss Fairchild had no information about the robbery.”

  His words were flat. Maybe she’d made her point. “Is that so? You interviewed her and discovered she had no details to add?”

  With restrained moves, he crossed both arms over his chest. “You told me she fainted.”

  “That did not occur until the robbers had stopped the coach.” She lifted her chin and met his glare, unwilling to give into the worsening headache. The pain encircled her head and pinched, like a hat several sizes too small. “I believe she comes from a farm in Ohio, and therefore she might have noticed an important detail about the saddles and horses.” Irritation heated her blood, and Ciara purposefully quieted her voice. “Yet, you did not interview her.”

  “No, I didn’t.” He ran a hand through his hair and stared out the window. “But then she didn’t make inquiries about a man who has done these townsfolk a good deal of harm. I guarantee now that their backs are up again over the mining company, the people of Bull City won’t let the issue fade away. Especially if you stay in town.”

  Again, the stubborn man returned to that point. She sagged against the back of the chair and raised a hand to her aching temple. “I have told you several times, I will remain until my business is completed.”

  He settled himself against the desk again and looked at her, one eyebrow raised.

  “I mean until I meet Mr. Mulcahy.” She winced at how her words gave away too much information.

  “Meet him?” His eyes narrowed. “You haven’t met Mr. Mulcahy, but he’s your father?”

  “Until I meet with Mr. Mulcahy. That is what I meant to say the first time.” She stiffened her back and scooted to the front of the chair. “Your veiled accusations are insulting.”

  “They’re nothing compared to what you’d be hearing if the townspeople weren’t abiding by my instructions.”

  “What instructions?”

  “To direct anything or anybody related to the Prosperity Mine or its representatives to my attention.”

  Ah, so that was why the shopkeepers wouldn’t talk. She stood and placed the paper on top of his desk. “If I am to change the townspeople’s opinions of me, I guess I have work to do. I assure you, Sheriff Riley, I have no connection to the Prosperity Mining Company. I have done nothing wrong except believe that you had the information I seek.” She squared her shoulders and stared hard, hoping to impress upon him the serious nature of her next statement. “And I will remain in Bull City until I decide my business here is concluded. Good day, sir.”

  Once out of the sheriff’s office, Ciara’s only thought was to get back to her room before this blinding headache caused her to faint. She snapped open her parasol and walked with rapid steps, wincing with each jarring move, but needing distance from his insinuations, and more importantly, from the man.

  As she walked, she nodded to all she encountered. Most turned away their gazes at the last moment to avoid a verbal greeting. At the boarding house, she moved through the parlor and dining rooms, heading straight for the kitchen.

  Belle and her young helper, Mary, stood at the table, cleaning and chopping vegetables for supper.

  Ciara cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Mrs. Renato. May I get water for tea?” The pain in her head threatened to make her cry out, and she bit her lip. She rested a hand on the counter, coaching her legs to hold her upright.

  The plump woman glanced up and brushed away a graying wisp from her damp forehead. “I don’t serve between meals.”

  If only this intense headache were due to the elevation as the sheriff suggested. The thought of that arrogant man put strength back into Ciara’s limbs. “I understand. I wish to brew an infusion for my headache. If you point out the pan and teapot, I will do it myself.”

  Belle squinted in her direction, and then hastened forward. “Mary, grab the china teapot from the parlor and bring it here. Miss Morrissey, you look like you need to sit.” She grabbed a wooden stool and set it close by.

  Ciara sank with a sigh. “Thank you. My body is not adjusting well to this climate.”

  “You’re not fit to climb the stairs.” Belle rested a hand on Ciara’s shoulder. “Where are your herbs? Mary can fetch them from your room.”

  “The herbs are in a wooden box in the bottom bureau drawer.” She reached into her reticule. “Here’s my room key.”

  Mary took the key and hurried from the room.

  Belle set a glass of water on the counter. “Sip on this until she gets back.”

  “I appreciate your understanding. I don’t believe I’ve ever had a headache this severe.” The water felt good on her parched lips and tongue, but she needed the herbs now. With elbows on the counter, she cupped her forehead in her hands, covering her eyes to keep out the light.

  Footsteps announced Mary’s return, and with a soft thud, she set the box on the counter at Ciara’s elbow.

  “Thank you, Mary.” Ciara slid the clasp to the side and opened the lid. Inside was the collection of herbs and elixirs she’d been using since her mother first became ill.

  She lifted out several bottles and peered at the labels until she found the one she wanted, and then she picked up the spoon Belle had placed next to the teapot and measured the required amount. Before she could stand, someone set a kettle of steaming water on the counter. Ciara glimpsed Belle’s retreating form and murmured her thanks. She poured the water and waited, closing her eyes and rubbing her temples. If only the sheriff hadn’t peppered her with questions.

  “What is all that?” Belle’s curious voice interrupted.

  Ciara struggled to open her eyes and turned toward the woman who eyed her box with arched eyebrows. “These are dried herbs and elixirs I’ve prepared.”

  “Are you a healer?” Mary asked, wide-eyed, her hands clasped at her waist.

  “I have no formal training.” Ciara waved her hand in dismissal. “My grandparents were tended by a physician, but they weakened and took to their beds, never to improve. When Mama became ill, she insisted I read all I could of herbal and folk remedies and use only those to treat her symptoms.”

  “And she got better?” Mary whispered.

  “For a while. I believe the herbs relieved her pain longer than the standard medicine had for my grandparents. But she passed away, too.” Ciara’s throat felt dry as she fought against the rush of emotion threatening. “Just a few months ago.”

  “My condolences, miss.”

  At the comforting note of Belle’s voice, tears stung Ciara’s eyes. “Thank you.” She poured a cup of the brew and slowly sipped the hot tea.

  Noises of food preparation sounded from the other side of the room. Belle and Mary continued their conversation in hushed tones.

  Ciara was content to sit, relaxing in the quiet company of women performing work that had been done thousands of times through the ages. For her, kitchens represented places of community and sharing. Mostly, she
enjoyed the respite of being away from Sheriff Riley’s presence. She drained her cup and refilled it, the restorative powers of the meadowsweet tea beginning the healing process. Only a dull ache that no longer threatened her vision remained. She opened her eyes, looked around, and connected with two curious stares. “I feel much better. Thank you for your assistance.”

  The women resumed their duties. Belle jerked her head in the direction of the wooden box. “You got herbs in there for the woman’s curse? Sometimes I can barely stand when my courses come on me. The doctor says it’s just the way of women.”

  Ciara cringed at the doctor’s strict thinking. “Mama received relief from tea steeped from chamomile flowers.” Glad she had helpful knowledge, she reached into her box and pulled out another bottle. “I have some here and would be glad to show you the proper way to brew it.”

  The thud of footsteps on the back stairs and a knock at the door sounded.

  Belle crossed the room with heavy footsteps, wiping her hands on her apron. She opened the door to a young boy with a wooden box of cans and sacks. “Here’s a coin for your trouble, Johnny. Tell Mr. Riley I appreciate the last-minute delivery.”

  At the sheriff’s name, goosebumps skittered along Ciara’s skin. When she realized Belle referred to the owner of the mercantile instead, she relaxed. Was the sheriff always in her thoughts? She quickly finished her tea, rinsed the cup and pot, and gathered her box. “Mrs. Renato, you tell me what time is convenient, and I will show you how to brew the tea. I will retire to my room until supper.”

  “You’re still pale. You look like you could use a lie-down,” Belle called out.

  Again, Ciara’s eyes stung at the woman’s caring comment. She’d missed the feeling of another person showing concern for her welfare. Swallowing hard against a dry throat, she wondered how long she would be on her own.

  ****

  An hour had passed since Ciara swept out of his office, backbone held ramrod straight and eyes flashing with indignation. Quinn’s blood still pumped hot and fast through his veins. That woman was gorgeous when her temper was up. He’d had to use all his self-control to keep from hauling her close and kissing that sassy mouth of hers.

  But Ciara Morrissey was Mulcahy’s daughter…and a potential accomplice.

  He’d reminded himself of that fact several times since she’d made that proclamation in the café, but his body refused to listen. What explained her arrival other than to help in her father’s scheme?

  Quinn’s instinct told him something different—that the news of the mining company surprised her, but she’d keep seeking what she’d come for. If only he could figure out what that was. He stared out the window, mulling over the puzzle the petite woman represented, when the door opened and his deputy, Bud Forrester, sauntered into the office.

  “Hey, boss. Catch me up on today’s news.” Bud grabbed a straight-backed chair, turned it around, and sat, resting forearms across the back. “What more have you learned about the robbery?”

  “Not much to tell.” Unless you counted the fiery-haired woman. He banished the tempting image and turned to his deputy.

  “You didn’t find anything when you rode out to where it happened?”

  Quinn cut him a sharp look. “What makes you think I did that?”

  “Because that’s how you work. You’re a bloodhound on the scent when it comes to puzzles.”

  Quinn waved a dismissive hand. “All I found was a scrap of a letter. Might be from the robbery. But the paper was old and wrinkled, like it had been in the elements for a while.”

  “Maybe.” Bud scratched at his whiskered chin. “Or like it was read and folded a lot. My wife does that with the letters she gets from her sister in Illinois.”

  Quinn hadn’t thought of that. The wording of the letter flashed before him: I’ve encountered a tight spot in my current business dealings and could use a speedy loan. I am chagrined, my dearest, at having to ask you to withdraw funds from our special account. Wiring instructions will follow.

  “At the mercantile, your pa was going on and on about how that gal who drove in the stagecoach started asking about Mulcahy.” Bud scratched at his reddish beard.

  Quinn’s mind flashed back over his encounters with Ciara in front of the jail, their shared meal, his increasing frustration over her refusal to answer his questions, and finally the scene in the office about the mining company. Had all that happened in the span of only a few hours?

  He rubbed a hand over his jaw and told his deputy about the latest developments regarding the Prosperity Mine. “But she denies recognizing the signature on the phony certificate.”

  “You know what sounds fishy to me?” Bud scraped a nail on a light spot on his dark trousers. “I can’t remember the last time we had so many people with Irish accents through this town.”

  “I had those same thoughts, but I can’t make a connection.”

  Bud’s habit of working out his reasoning aloud sometimes brought out a detail Quinn had overlooked. He chanced this might again happen. “What do you make of it?”

  “So if the gal…what’s her name?”

  “Ciara Morrissey.” He fought the kick to his heart rate speaking her name caused.

  “So, if Miss Morrissey came to Bull City to meet with Mulcahy, he must be coming back. And if he is, he has to know he can’t show up in this town without bringing along that mining equipment.”

  “You’re right, Bud.” Quinn set his jaw. If he hadn’t been distracted by her green eyes, he might have figured that fact out for himself.

  “The question is, when?”

  “And where?” Quinn thought back to her questions. She was asking about Mulcahy’s office, as if she expected to find him there. In a flash, Quinn stood, grabbed his hat, and strode toward the door. “I’m headed to the stage depot to talk with Joe Bardan. Maybe he has word on an incoming shipment.”

  Chapter Five

  Quinn Riley sauntered through Bull City, a light-hearted spring in his step that hadn’t been there several hours earlier. Bardan had supplied no information about incoming shipments, but had invited Quinn to share supper. Susannah Bardan made the best pot roast in town, and Quinn found no reason to refuse the invitation. After the tasty meal, the two men enjoyed a few rounds of darts in the freight office. The time away cleared his mind of a bewitching green-eyed woman.

  Purple sky clung to the mountain ridge and pinpricks of light dotted the heavens. Time to make his evening rounds. His boot heels thudded a steady cadence as he strode the boardwalk. Most folks must be in for the evening, as it should be, but he wondered at the number of darkened windows. At each business, he paused to test the door knob to be sure it was locked.

  Tinny piano music grew louder as he approached the center of town. At the Red-Eye Saloon, he stepped inside the swinging doors and scanned the room. The bartender, Don Gibson, wiped a towel over the wooden counter and dipped his chin in acknowledgement. Two poker games were in action and several men stood at the bar. Miss Josie leaned on the shoulders of a well-dressed man with chips stacked high in front of him. Near the piano, Miss Lucy joked with a couple of cowboys. All looked in order, and he slipped out the door.

  “Sheriff Riley. We’ve been looking all over for you.”

  At his name, Quinn turned and spotted Nathaniel Piper, a member of the town council, hurrying across the packed dirt street. “Evening, Nate. What’s the problem?”

  “That easterner has the womenfolk all riled up.”

  At the word “easterner,” Quinn tensed and his light-hearted mood disappeared. “Explain that.”

  “You’ve got to come to the church.”

  “The church? Why?”

  “She’s up there right now, holding a suffrage meeting, and the men aren’t happy.” Nate fell into stride beside Quinn. “I heard Bart Holling complaining that his wife demanded to know about their finances.”

  “His missus?” The image of quiet, unassuming Marta Holling flashed through his mind and disbelief quickly f
ollowed. “Asking a forward question like that?” More curious was why the Hollings’ financial discussion concerned Nate Piper?

  “Did you hear Miss Johnson turned down Mike Thompson’s proposal of marriage this afternoon?” Nate’s heavy footsteps clomped out his displeasure. “When Mike asked what had changed her mind, Miss Johnson told him the cards were all wrong.”

  Cards? Queasiness grabbed his stomach. He’d spied Ciara and Belle with an array of cards this morning. Quinn wrinkled his brow. Ciara, a fortuneteller? Was there a town ordinance against the practice? He’d have to check later.

  So this was why the houses were dark and the streets were so quiet. Side by side, the men headed up the street, and Quinn looked ahead to where lights blazed from the church windows. “What’s your concern in this, Nate? You’re a bachelor.”

  “At supper, I heard Belle thank Miss Morrissey for some type of infusion she’d provided.”

  Ah, a concern that dealt with the man’s livelihood. That made more sense.

  When they reached the mercantile, Quinn glanced at the store’s darkened windows. Guilt shot through him that he hadn’t checked in to see how Miss Morrissey’s actions had affected his folks. Tomorrow, he’d make that visit.

  His boots crunched on the rocky dirt when he stepped off the boardwalk. Within the last hundred feet from the church, he heard the low rumble of men’s grumbling voices and spotted a group huddled in the churchyard.

  “Here he comes.”

  “Let’s see what the sheriff will do.”

  Bodies circled him and swathes of light from a few lanterns held aloft swept across the crowd. Concerned expressions on most of the town’s men hinted at the scope of the problem. He raised his hands and waited for the buzz to quiet. “Gentlemen, I’m sure this can be handled in a few minutes.”