by Kit Morgan
“And after they died, you became a mail-order bride?”
“Yes. I did.”
He studied her with such compassion that she thought she’d slide off her chair. Worse, he leaned toward her. “And to survive you came out here, only to discover your husband had been brutally murdered. Great Scott, you’ve really been through the wringer, you poor beautiful thing.”
His last words were almost a whisper, but she’d heard them well enough. She sat back, having realized she’d been leaning toward him too. Beautiful? She stared at him, her heart beating like a thundering herd of horses. She didn’t wonder if he could hear it.
Thankfully, Darcy returned to their table right then with their meals. She set the plates down and, completely ignoring Sophie, focused her attention on Fletcher. “Can I get you anything else?” Sophie notice her eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed. Oh yes, definitely a crush.
Fletcher pushed his spectacles up his nose and smiled at the girl. “No, just bring us our pie and ice cream when we’re done with our sandwiches, will you?”
The girl nodded, sighed and turned away to check on her other patrons.
Sophie couldn’t help but giggle.
“What?” Fletcher asked with a smile.
“It’s obvious you have an admirer.”
He swallowed hard as his face sobered. But rather than say anything, he stared at her.
Chapter 8
It was all Fletcher could do not to gawk at Sophie Baxter like a poleaxed steer. Sure, he’d seen the cow-eyed expression Darcy had given him earlier – it was no secret she’d set her cap for him. But now he was doing his darnedest not to look at Sophie the same way Darcy looked at him.
The more time he spent with her, the more he liked her, admired her, wanted to protect her … he could go on and on. But what was the point? He couldn’t allow himself to get distracted, not with the murderer still out there. What if he discovered they were snooping around and tried to hurt her? For that matter, what if they caught him? At that point he definitely couldn’t afford any distractions.
But as he sat across the table and gazed into those beautiful eyes, he realized something. He was lonely.
He’d never thought of himself as lonely before – he was always far too busy. But Independence didn’t have the hustle and bustle of Portland, and right now he didn’t have a job. Except representing Sophie, which was pro bono, and hunting down Jasper’s murderer, which would yield him nothing except the satisfaction of justice. And getting to know Sophie – a side benefit he hadn’t counted on enjoying so much …
“Aren’t you going to eat your sandwich?” she asked.
Fletcher shook himself and glanced at his food. “Oh yes, of course. I was … thinking.” He picked up his sandwich.
“About what?”
“About this whole case.” He took a bite and started to chew.
“I think it’s all either of us have thought about. How could we not?” She started to eat, but watched him over her sandwich.
Great Scott, she even made that sandwich look good! If he wasn’t careful, this would be a very long day. “We’ll try a few other places after lunch and see if anyone knows anything more about this fellow.”
“We should really ask Mrs. Bee, don’t you think?”
“Of course, but I’d still like to check around.” He took another bite, chewed, swallowed, then licked his lips. He had the sudden urge to kiss her. How foolish was that? He shook his head as if to dislodge the thought.
“Is something the matter?”
“Ah, no, no – just thinking too hard, I guess. A bad habit of mine.” In truth it was, but he’d also never thought about kissing a woman with such intensity.
She took a sip of her tea, never taking her eyes from his. When she set the glass down she smiled. “I can’t thank you enough for helping me. You’ve been so kind, you and your family.”
He shrugged. “It’s what we do here in Independence.” He played with the sandwich a moment before gazing into her eyes again. “You should consider staying on.”
She swallowed hard as her eyes widened.
“Does that scare you?” he asked. “It shouldn’t. Independence is a nice town full of good people.”
“To be honest, I don’t know what I’m going to do. None of this was expected.”
Her words sent his protective instincts through the ceiling. He reached a hand across the table and put it over hers. “I’ll see you through this, Sophie. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
“You keep doing that,” she said in a small voice. “Using my Christian name.”
He removed his hand. “I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“No. As a matter fact, I rather like it.” She looked at him shyly. “Do you mind if I call you Fletcher?”
He smiled back. “You already have.” He watched her take a quick breath, looking delicate, feminine and maddening. He had to take a deep breath himself. Egads, if this kept up he’d kiss her before the day was out!
“Two pies and ice cream!” Darcy slammed the plates on the table, making them both jump.
“Jumpin’ Jehosaphat, Darcy, you scared the tar out of me!” Fletcher said. He looked at Sophie to make sure she was okay. She had one hand to her chest, the other fanning her very red face. Had she been thinking about kissing him too? No, she had more important matters to dwell on, like survival. But he’d make sure she didn’t starve. How, he’d worry about later. His savings would suffice until then.
Darcy slapped their bill on the table, glared at Fletcher, turned on her heel and stomped back to the kitchen. A few patrons chuckled as they watched her go. Apparently her infatuation with Fletcher was more public than he’d known. He sighed and turned back to Sophie. “The pie is quite good.”
She stared back as her lower lip trembled. She wasn’t about to cry, was she? For Heaven’s sake, it was only pie. “I’m sure it is.”
“Sophie, what is it? You look upset.”
She shook her head. “I’m just … overwhelmed.”
He scooted his chair back. “We can leave if you’d like – I’ll escort you home.”
“No, Fletcher, you don’t have to do that. Let’s enjoy our pie.”
As much as he hated to do it at that moment, he signaled for Darcy. She reached their table, a hopeful gleam in her eyes, and he tried not to grimace. “Could you bring us a couple of cups of coffee, please?”
Darcy’s face fell, as if hoping he’d say more. “Sure.” She trudged towards the kitchen again. At least it made Sophie smile.
“What’s so amusing?” he asked.
“It’s just that she’s so obviously enamored with you. Anyone can see it.”
“I know. But there’s nothing I can do about it except break her heart.” He placed both hands over his own heart for emphasis.
“Stop that,” Sophie scolded. “Besides, if she’s seventeen that means soon she’ll be eighteen, old enough to marry. Then what will you do?”
“Me?” he asked in surprise. “Nothing – I have no interest in Miss Templeton. She’s too young for me regardless.”
Her eyes darted to her pie as she picked up her fork. “How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Twenty-five.” He took a bite of his dessert.
She poked at the ice cream. “I’m twenty-two.”
He stopped, a forkful halfway to his mouth. “And you never married.” He paused, then added, “Because you were always taking care of relatives. The ones who took you in. Or moving from pillar to post.”
“You were listening.”
“Of course. I always listen. But I must say it’s a shame that after your last set of relatives passed on, you were forced to become a mail-order bride to survive.”
She set her fork down and put her hands in her lap, her head bowed.
“I’m sorry, Sophie, I didn’t mean for it to come out that way.”
“No, it’s true. I didn’t know what else to do.” She raised her head and their
eyes met. “If I’d had a choice, I …” She didn’t finish.
He leaned slightly toward her. “You’d much rather have been courted by a gentleman, correct?”
She closed her eyes a moment, nodded and dug into her pie.
It was all Fletcher could do to swallow his next bite. Good Lord, he wanted to kiss her. But now was not the time – he couldn’t afford to be distracted in any way, shape or form, not with a murderer on the loose! He’d need his wits about him in order to protect her. He wasn’t handy with a gun, but he was quite adept at using his fists. He’d won several boxing trophies in college.
Sophie smiled weakly. “You’re right, this pie is good.”
Fletcher watched her, his mind putting every scrap of information he now had on her together. Here was a woman who’d spent most of her life getting passed from relative to relative, each set becoming ill (at least he assumed that was the case) and she in turn having to take care of them until they went on to glory. She’d given of herself for years, but no one had given back, at least not that he could see. After seeing her reaction to him buying her a few necessities, he was pretty sure of it.
But he also had to look at the current facts. Her future husband had been murdered in cold blood, in full public view. The murderer, for whatever reason, had tried to make it look like Sophie had paid to have the deed done. She was a scapegoat, a decoy – that was obvious. But why? To buy the murderer time to get out of town? And why would a middle-aged small-town blacksmith be a target? What was Jasper Munson doing in Independence other than shoeing horses?
A shiver ran up Fletcher’s spine. There were too many questions and not enough answers, and poor Sophie was caught in the middle of it all. She was also rattling his nerves – in a good way, but it made it difficult for him to do his job. He would have to make a decision and make it fast.
He took another bite of pie, chewed, swallowed and said, “Why don’t you help Gran Mercy with the Fourth of July celebration, and let the sheriff and I handle the case from now on?”
Sophie could only stare. He wanted her to help his grandmother? It took her a moment to gather her wits. “I don’t understand. You don’t want my help anymore?”
“That’s not it at all, Miss Baxter. I don’t need your help anymore. After all you’ve been through, you don’t need the burden. And it’s probably safer if you’re not seen with me or the sheriff. If the murderer is still around, he’ll know his plan didn’t work. You’re not exactly locked up, after all.”
His words became a jumble in her head. Only her name stood out: she was Miss Baxter again. What happened to calling her Sophie? Her heart sank in disappointment. She liked being with him. She was even starting to have fun, even if it was while trying to solve Jasper’s murder. Was this how Darcy the waitress felt?
Fletcher Vander was the first man she’d taken a liking to in quite a while. She’d had suitors over the years, but never time to let things develop with them. She was always too busy moving in, moving out or taking care of sick relations. But this time, she had all the time in the world to be courted by a gentleman.
Preferably this one, now that she thought about it. Fletcher was handsome, smart, decisive and forthright and had genuine concern for her, something she hadn’t seen since her parents passed. Her other relatives cared about her, but not necessarily in a loving way. Her life had been rather sad, really, but she hadn’t had time to think about it. And she didn’t now. “Maybe I’d better concentrate on figuring out where I’m going to go when all this is over.” It wasn’t what she had in mind to say, but it came out anyway.
His face went blank, a look she’d seen far too often over the years from relatives. They always looked that way when pulling away from her emotionally, when they didn’t want to deal with her. Now Fletcher was doing it and she knew what that meant. He’d figured out she wasn’t worth his time.
Or had he? “What will you do?” he asked.
She looked away to stare at a picture on the café wall. “I don’t know. I’ll need a job, a place to live.” Tears stung the back of her eyes as she returned her attention to him. “I think it best I concentrate on that rather than help your grandmother out with a picnic.”
He sat back in his chair as if to put as much distance between them as possible, and her heart sank another notch. “On the contrary, most of the prominent ladies in town will be helping. Who better to talk to about a job?”
Sophie stared at him, unable to think of anything to say. All she could do was nod. She felt protected with Fletcher, safe, and now he was taking that away. Maybe being surrounded by a bunch of cackling old hens was what she needed. At least she’d be able to get her mind off things, if only for one afternoon.
“Finish your pie and we’ll head over to the church,” Fletcher said. “I’m sure a few of the ladies are still there, working on projects.”
She nodded again and finished the last of her dessert. Fletcher paid the bill – much to poor Darcy’s dismay – and they left the café. On their way to the church he made small talk and pointed out City Hall and a few other buildings. They passed people who tipped their hats and greeted him with warm smiles, her with curious looks. A few pointed and whispered. Obviously they knew about the murder and her connection to it.
When they reached the church, Fletcher’s grandmother hurried over to them, clapping her hands and wearing a huge smile. “Fletcher! Miss Baxter! Whatever are you two doing here?”
“I thought it would be nice if Miss Baxter helped you and the other ladies with today’s planning,” he said.
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” His grandmother turned and waved at a small group of women clustered together. “Oh Maude, Mahulda, Daisy! Come here, meet Miss Baxter!”
Two of the women were older, at least as old as Gran Mercy. The third had to be Daisy Tindle, Morgan’s wife – Sophie remembered Martha saying that she was helping out. She gave Sophie a warm smile as the little group approached and held out her hand. “Hello.”
Sophie shook it and smiled tentatively in return. “Hello.”
“Mrs. Vander – we all just call her Mercy – was telling us all about you.”
Sophie felt herself go pale.
“Yes,” Mercy said. “I was saying what a lovely time we had at supper last night and that I was hoping you’d come join our little party.”
“Party?” Fletcher said with a laugh. “More like a council of war.” He turned to Sophie. “You should see them during the Christmas pageant. It’s much the same, only this is more intense.”
Sophie smiled. Maybe she was overreacting and Fletcher really was just trying to keep her out of harm’s way. “What can I do?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” said one of the other women – Maude or Mahulda? “There’s plenty!”
“Mahulda’s right,” Mercy said. “We desperately need help with decorations. How good are you with a pair of scissors, dear?”
“Scissors?” Sophie asked, bemused. “I can cut as well as the next person, I guess.”
“Perfect!” said the other woman – Maude, presumably. “We need all the help we can get.”
“Well, then,” Fletcher said. “I’ll leave you in my grandmother’s capable hands.”
Sophie felt another pang of disappointment, but she couldn’t very well ask him to stay and help her cut out paper flowers. She smiled stiffly and nodded instead.
He, on the other hand, turned and hurried out the door as if he couldn’t wait to get away from her. The action made her feel suddenly alone, enough to force her to sit in the nearest pew.
“Mercy, who do we have here?” another woman asked.
Sophie glanced up in time to see several more women gather around her. “Hello,” she said nervously.
“Oh, Winnie, I’m so glad you’re here,” Mercy said. “This is my grandson’s … er, case.”
“Case?!” several of them repeated.
Mercy smacked her forehead with her hand. “I mean, this is the young lady Fletcher is
representing in that whole Munson mess.”
“Oh, I see,” said a pretty blond woman. She was older than Sophie, probably in her mid-forties. “I’m Winnie Adams, Pastor Adams’ wife. And this is Ellie Smythe and …”
“Bernice!” Sophie said with a smile. Thank heavens, a familiar face.
“You two know each other?” Winnie asked.
“We met on the train.” Bernice Johnson sat down sideways in the pew in front of Sophie’s so she could look at her. “How are you doing?”
Sophie rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“That good, huh?” Bernice said. “Then maybe spending an afternoon with us is just what you need.”
“It is?” Sophie said. “I might just get in the way.”
“Nonsense,” Ellie Smythe replied. “There’s plenty to do, especially with the decorating. For some reason, this year everyone’s volunteering to bake and cook, but no one to decorate.”
“Last year it was the other way around – no one wanted to cook,” Winnie said.
Sophie smiled as their banter brushed away her recent disappointment. Maybe Fletcher was right, and she did need this. “Well, give me a pair of scissors and let’s get started.”
Chapter 9
Sebastian Cord paced in front of the Independence train depot. Priscilla was due to arrive at two o’clock and he didn’t want that big mouth of hers to get them into any trouble. The town was already in an uproar over the murder of their precious blacksmith. The last thing he needed was for his fiancée to blabber about their recent good fortune. That is, once he found it.
And therein lay his problem. He’d come into a bit of money, not to mention the means to get more, but couldn’t transport it without suspicion. So he did what any other self-respecting crook would do: paid an unsuspecting idiot to haul it for him. Unfortunately, said idiot got himself killed before he’d had a chance to deliver the goods to the appropriate party. Said party, in turn, wasn’t happy at not receiving it, especially since they were to get a percentage for keeping it safe. This put Sebastian in a fix.
