If he thought anything about her sending a letter to James McPherson, to his credit, he didn't show it.
Lyda returned with three boxes of boots. Only one pair ended up fitting and they weren't the most stylish. But considering her need, Molly decided stylish wasn't nearly as important out here as it had been back home. She pulled some bills from her reticule. "And would you add a loaf of bread too, please?"
"Oh, I'm sorry." Lyda glanced at the empty shelf. "We've already sold out for the day. But Hank Bolden's sure to have some. He always makes extra when the weather takes a bad turn:"
Molly paid her bill and braved the cold wind again. She needed bread but didn't know if she needed it that badly. Remembering what Lyda said about coming snow, she decided hunger would quickly outweigh the discomfort of seeing Hank Bolden, if it came to that. Carrying her new boots, she covered the short distance to his store, mindful of the time.
The line inside the Boldens' store reached almost to the door. But true to what Lyda Mullins said, his shelves were full of bread, freshly baked and warm. Molly closed the door behind her, wishing she could live with this aroma. Delicious. How could something that smelled so delectable be baked by so rude a man?
She waited in line, sorry to see that Mr. Bolden was the one behind the counter.
The door opened and a rush of wind came with it. Chilled, Molly turned and glanced at the young woman now in line behind her, whose head stayed bowed.
"Do you think it's going to snow?" Molly asked.
The woman looked up. Then glanced behind her and back again. "I ... I couldn't say for sure."
Molly watched a man rush by on the boardwalk outside, holding his hat on his head. "I've never been around much snow." She shrugged. "I'm from Georgia."
The woman nodded, a polite smile touching her mouth. She had a frail look about her, and kindness around her eyes that said she would do whatever she could to help someone, if only asked. "I would've guessed that. From your accent."
"Ah ... true."
"Next!"
Hearing Bolden's voice, Molly cringed and turned to face him. "Good afternoon, Mr. Bolden. How are you, sir?"
His smile was anything but friendly. "Just dandy, ma'am" He gestured. "What do you want?"
Besides manners, or at least customary pleasantries? Molly eyed the shelves behind him. "Two loaves of bread, please. And ... two sweet rolls" She'd had such a craving for sweets recently. She couldn't get enough of them.
Bolden wrapped each of her items. She paid and stepped to the side to slip the coins back into her change purse, the line of customers having deepened.
"I'd like the same thing ... please, sir."
The meekness in the woman's voice drew Molly's attention.
Bolden reached for a loaf of bread and slapped it, unwrapped, on the counter. "You can have one loaf, but that's it. I got other customers in line behind you."
Molly stared, disbelieving. The rudeness of that man! She half expected the woman to say something-but she didn't.
She merely laid her coins on the counter and took the bread, her gaze averted as she walked to the door.
It was all Molly could do not to confront Hank Bolden. But considering their history, she held back. Her gaze swept the other patrons, who, to the very last one, seemed nonplussed. None of them had even looked in the woman's direction as she'd left the store.
Molly hurried outside, searching to see which way she'd gone. There, at the end of the boardwalk. She ran to catch up with her. "Ma'am!"
The woman kept walking, head tucked against the wind.
"Ma'am!" Molly called louder and touched her arm.
The woman turned. Though not really knowing what she'd expected, Molly hadn't anticipated the calm composure on the woman's face.
"Yes?" Silent question lit her dark brown eyes.
Molly motioned behind them. "I'm so sorry about what happened back there. That man-Mr. Bolden-he can be rather ... rude at times. And unseemingly terse:"
The woman smiled. But this time, her face lit with humor. "Hank Bolden can be more than simply `rather rude. He's an insufferable bigot who looks only for what will bring him gain while taking every opportunity to diminish those around him. Especially those he considers less than himself. Which ... is about everyone in town"
Molly stared, realizing too late that her mouth hung slightly open.
The woman's laugh held apology. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken my mind so completely. We don't even know each other:"
Molly stared. "Which I would quickly like to remedy, seeing as we have such congruent opinions of the man:" She smiled. "My name is-"
I know who you are, Dr. Whitcomb. Everybody in town knows who you are, ma'am. I'm Miss Matthews, and it's indeed a pleasure:'
The woman spoke with such eloquent confidence, yet Molly would never have guessed as much from her behavior back at the store. Molly turned her coat collar up against the wind. She liked this woman. Her candor. Her quick wit. Her honesty. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Matthews:" She reached into her sack and proffered one of the sweet rolls. `And I will not entertain refusal:'
Miss Matthews held her stare, then slowly accepted the offering. "Thank you"
Aware of the time, Molly knew she needed to be on her way. "I'm sorry, but I've got an appointment to keep. Perhaps ... we could have coffee sometime:"
Miss Matthews nodded. "Perhaps," she whispered, her tone kind but noncommittal.
Molly hurried back to the schoolhouse, wondering how she'd not seen the woman in town before. And wishing she'd asked where she lived. She found Charlie Daggett sitting on the front stairs.
"Mr. Daggett! I'm sorry I'm late. Why didn't you go on in?" She opened the door.
"You're not late, Miss Molly. I'm early." He stepped inside and looked around. "I didn't want to bother nothing."
Molly deposited her items. "You wouldn't have bothered anything. I've been looking forward to this. It's been ages since I've danced!"
The mere mention of the word seemed to cause him unease.
"Here-" She motioned. "Let's scoot these desks back. It'll give us more room.
Together, they moved the desks. Then he stood in the middle of the room, staring. Looking shy and awkward. And huge.
Molly realized again just how large a man he was, and how massive his boots. "The most important thing for you to remember, Mr. Daggett, is not to step on your partner's feet:"
He looked down, murmuring, "Don't step on her feet:"
She touched his arm. "I'm only kidding, Mr. Daggett. That's not the most important thing. Although"-she looked up at him, brow scrunched-"it might be in your case"
That drew a smile from him.
"May I ask you a question, Mr. Daggett?"
He nodded again.
"Have you asked this lady you're wanting to dance with to the town celebration yet?"
His eyes widened. "Oh no, ma'am. I wouldn't think of doin' that. I'm just hopin' to dance with her once. If she'll have me:'
Such humility and sweetness. "May I ask her name?"
The ruddiness of his face deepened. "Lori Beth:"
"Lori Beth;' she repeated. "That's a beautiful name."
"She's a beautiful lady."
Molly smelled the bourbon on him, though not as strong as before. What made a man as kind and good as Charlie Daggett drink the way he did? "I think you should consider asking her to the dance right and proper. I can't imagine Lori Beth saying no to you, Mr. Daggett" She squinted. "May I call you Charlie?"
He ducked his head. "I think that's fittin' enough. Recollectin' all we been through, and that I already call you Miss Molly."
"Well, all right, then ... Charlie. Let's get to dancing:"
James knelt to inspect the area again. Blood was all over the bushes, heavy in places. Twigs were broken and bent. Blood spotted the trail. But not a lot, and there were no drag marks. The dirt was smooth. Too smooth. It was as if the mountain lion had just leapt up into the trees with its kill. Which was impossible.
He turned his collar up against the cold and wind and studied the terrain. Overcast skies settled over the valley, and clouds shrouded the mountain heights. But the heavens had yet to unleash those storerooms, which had worked out well, since he'd escorted Molly to Little Italy yesterday. They'd delivered food to families, and the people all greeted her warmly, obviously having met her before. Angelo hadn't been there, but his mother and sisters had.
He'd invited Molly to have dinner with him tonight, but she'd said she had a "previous engagement" He determined again not to think about who she might be with.
Careful where he stepped, he moved over a couple of feet and peered closer. No blood on the boulders beside the bush. And none on the evergreens that lined the-
That's when he saw it.
He edged the foliage back to get a better look, and to make sure the afternoon sun wasn't playing tricks with the shadows. But there it was, outlined clearly in the dirt. A boot print, underneath, near the base of the bush, beyond where someone would walk. But not if someone had knelt there, hiding.
He sighed and nudged his hat back, experiencing that same feeling he'd gotten out at Spiveys' weeks before. He'd found a carcass that day, but he would bet his badge he wouldn't find one today. Not from this. Because this wasn't a cougar killing. It was cattle rustling. Yet someone had gone to a fair amount of trouble to try to make it look like a mountain lion's kill.
Walking back to the barn to speak with Glen Paulsen again, James decided not to reveal his hunch to the rancher just yet. Because that was all it was-a hunch. A boot print in the dirt didn't prove anything on its own. The new governor in Denver was pushing hard to put an end to cattle theft. Town council had received a recent report from the governor's office stating that the punishment for cattle rustling had been raised from one year in prison to three. And James knew that if Davenport got wind of cattle rustling in Timber Ridge, the man would try to use the opportunity to impress the new governor. All the more reason to keep things quiet until evidence was in hand.
Paulsen met him by the corral. "I told you. Cougar, right?" He gestured toward the barn. "One of my hands scouted the hills this morning. Didn't find a thing. The cat must've drug it off the path somewhere:"
James nodded toward the mountains. "I want to take another ride up through there, see what I can find. If I come across something, I'll stop back by." He shook the man's hand.
I appreciate that, Sheriff."
"Other than this-" James untethered Winsome from the post. "How are things going for you?"
"Going fairly well. Had a good summer:" Paulsen laughed. `And fall, what little there was of it. I just hope the winter's mild. I don't know if I'll make it through another one like we had four years ago:'
James remembered that particular winter. Snow fell in mid-September and didn't melt until April. Thomas and Rachel lost twenty head of cattle. Yet heavy snow in the mountains meant life-giving water to lowlands when the spring melt flowed into creeks and streams. It was a balance, and one of the ... dichotomies of living in the mountains of Colorado. James couldn't help but smile to himself, looking forward to using that big word on Molly. He'd found it in the dictionary late last night. He was determined to stump the woman.
He slipped a boot through the stirrup and swung into the saddle. "I'm praying it's a mild one too. For all of us:"
Angelo Giordano walked out of the barn, carrying a crate.
James nodded. "How's the boy working out for you?"
Paulsen looked in that direction. "Real well. I wasn't sure at first, like I told you. But he's a hard worker. And now that he can speak some English, that helps a lot:"
James paused. "He's speaking English?"
"Yep, he says that new teacher's giving him lessons:"
"Really?" Molly had failed to mention that to him. "I appreciate you giving him a chance, Paulsen. Means a lot to him and his family, I know."
As Paulsen walked back around the corral, James headed toward the road, trying not to dwell on what certain members of the town council would think of Molly's teaching Angelo English. There was nothing wrong with her doing that-in his book. But it would be in others'. He waved to Angelo as he passed, and the boy stopped to put down the crate he was carrying and waved big in return.
James smiled, glad the situation was working out. For everyone involved.
He scoured the mountainside for over an hour, looking for any sign of a carcass. But came up with nothing. He did find the remnants of a still, however, which he'd known was hidden away somewhere up in this area. Charlie Daggett had mentioned its vague whereabouts late one night after tying on a good one.
The wind died down, which helped with the chill, but the pewter blue-gray sky kept the promise of moisture close at hand.
On his way into town, James passed a trail leading to the creek that ran behind the schoolhouse, and he caught a flash of something through the trees. He slowed up. Just a couple of kids, looked like. Sitting on a boulder. Reminded him of when he and Daniel Ranslett used to sneak off as boys to try their father's tobacco or drink the last nips of whiskey from a pilfered bottle. He shook his head. That felt like a lifetime ago.
He started to ride on past when one of the boys turned and looked back. James tugged on the reins. Elijah Birch and ...
Elijah nudged Billy Bolden in the arm, and Billy turned. James would've waved and ridden on by if not for the guilt lining both their faces.
He dismounted, feeling an obligation to make sure the boys weren't doing something they ought not, and walked down the trail. "Afternoon, Elijah, Billy. How are you?"
"Fine, Sheriff, sir." Elijah's eyes were wide.
Billy scooted to the edge of the boulder and climbed down, holding something behind his back. "We're not doing anything wrong, Sheriff McPherson:"
One of the last things James expected from either of these boys was trouble. Another was seeing them together. "I'm not accusing either of you of doing anything wrong, Billy. I was just passing by and saw you. You know.. " He allowed a faint smile. "When I was a boy and got caught with something I ought not have, I always kind of... hid it behind me. Like you're doing now, son:"
Billy hesitated, then pulled his arm from behind his back. He held a book. "It's Dr. Whitcomb's, but she said we could borrow it"
"Yes, sir, Sheriff, that's right;' Elijah said, perched on the rock. "She says we can get whatever we want from her shelf"
James angled his head to read the title, and before he could catch himself, he smiled.
"See!" Elijah slid off the boulder. "I told you it was a girl's book!"
Billy's face reddened. "I didn't know. Dr. Whitcomb said it was her favorite. And she liked those other books we read:'
James remembered seeing this book on Molly's desk. "Little Women," he read aloud, and watched the boys cringe. If he wasn't mistaken, Rachel had a copy of the book at home. And if it was Molly's favorite, it might be good for him to give it a try.
Looking at Elijah and Billy, he found himself grateful for their friendship. Not just for the benefit to them both, but for what the friendship represented. Then he thought about how angry Hank Bolden could getthe man reacted first and asked questions later-and about what Bolden would say, and likely do, to Billy if he found his son befriending a Negro boy. Josiah Birch would be cautious, with reason, after what happened to him in town last summer. But he wouldn't have the same objections as Bolden.
But bottom line, the boys weren't doing anything wrong, and James had no reason to interfere. It was his job to keep townspeople safe, not mandate whom they spent time with.
"So you boys read a lot of books, do you?"
"Yes, sir;' they said in unison.
"Dr. Whitcomb has shelves of them;' Billy added.
"Well, I think that's a real good thing. And I'm glad we've got a teacher who encourages that. For you both:"
Back in town, James stopped by the office. It was nearly five oclock, and Willis was already gone. Deputy Stanton was out making regu
lar rounds in the saloons and gaming halls, serving as a visible reminder. A U.S. marshal by the name of Wyatt Caradon had picked up the three prisoners first thing that morning, so the place was quiet.
James tossed his hat on the desk and started to sit, intending to get some work done, then turned to watch folks pass by on the street outside.
Little Italy ...
Molly had such hopes of making a difference there, which he was all for. But the changes she talked about yesterday-wanting better houses, more food-all that took money. Money his lean sheriff's budget didn't have, and the town's budget didn't either. Not that Mayor Davenport would have approved of it if it did.
Brandon Tolliver had the money, but he wasn't about to let go of it. Tolliver should be building those people houses for free. They were building his resort for practically that.
Needing to think things through, James grabbed his hat, closed up the office, and started walking. He always thought better when he walked.
He took the long way around town, checked on some of the buildings going up, and spoke with a couple of shopkeepers. Seemed everyone was getting excited about the statehood celebration coming up next Saturday night. He hoped the snow would hold off. A chill in the air was good, made the spiced cider taste all the better, but moisture wouldn't be welcome with the festivities being outdoors.
He chose the path leading around Maroon Lake and debated for about five seconds on whether or not to knock on Molly's door and see if she'd changed her mind about dinner.
He knocked.
But no answer. Apparently she was busy being "previously engaged:"
It was getting dark and he continued on around the lake. While he'd been honest with her about his feelings, and she'd seemed touched by his admission, even pleased, she hadn't reciprocated. Not in words anyway. Still, he sensed it. Or thought he did.
Passing the schoolhouse, he saw pale lamplight illuminating a side window and a curl of smoke rising from the chimney. Then he heard soft laughter-and voices-coming through a partially opened window.
"I'm sorry, ma'am!"
"No, no, that's all right:" A soft mumble. "Let's try it again. Ready? One, two, three. One, two-Ouch!"
Tamera Alexander - [Timber Ridge Reflections 02] Page 28
