For Such a Time as This: A Women of Hope Novel

by Ginny Aiken

Mr. Metcalf raised his hands and took a small step back. “Oh, no. I’m not about to step into that hole. If my missus hears me say something like what you just said, Adam, I’ll be eating hay with the horses for the next six months.”

  The man from the railroad chuckled. “Well, I don’t have to worry right now. With my wife back East, I can compliment your excellent meal, Mrs. Whitman. Made me feel right at home. Thank you for all the trouble you’ve taken to make this evening a pleasant experience.”

  By the time he was done, the heat of Olivia’s blush reached her hairline. “Thank you, but you’re all too kind. I didn’t come to fish for compliments. I need a word with the marshal, so I’ve come to borrow his attention for a moment.”

  Polite murmurs followed, and then Olivia led the lawman to a quiet corner.

  “As nice as I’m sure a conversation with you would be, Mrs. Whitman,” the marshal said, “I don’t suppose that’s what you have in mind, now, is it?”

  “No, sir. Mr. Whitman asked me to alert you that at some point this evening he might find himself in need of your services. Would you kindly stay for the next hour or perhaps even a bit more? Even after most guests have left?”

  “Now, ma’am, you’ve managed to intrigue me, all right.” He crossed his arms and studied her, a wide smile on his face. “A lawman’s curiosity is something he values. I’ll be happy to lend you and Eli a hand. Just be sure to fetch me right away. Wouldn’t want to miss a bit of whatever he’s cooked up.”

  Relief lent her a responding smile. “I’m much obliged, sir. It likely will turn unpleasant at some point, but we want to keep it as quiet as possible. We just don’t want to let lawbreakers go without bringing them to account.”

  He tapped his forehead with two fingers. “I salute you, ma’am. Too many look the other way. Evildoers who go scot-free will be back at their tricks in no time at all.”

  The marshal rejoined his conversation, and Olivia checked on the other guests. She had just said good night to the Bowens when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Eli approach Mr. Holtwood. With a nod toward her, he led the man toward the kitchen.

  Mr. Holtwood. It seemed impossible. A part of her still hoped it was all a misunderstanding, that all Eli obtained was information from his right-hand man. Then they would confront the actual culprit. But her gut said otherwise. Eli’s reaction had been immediate and decisive, not to mention what Papa had said. She trusted Eli’s instincts, especially in this case.

  Olivia scurried after the men, unwilling to miss a moment more than necessary.

  “Good,” Eli said when Olivia entered the kitchen. “I’m glad you’re here.” He turned to his assistant. “Mrs. Whitman and I have a few questions for you, Holtwood.”

  The bank’s head cashier paled. “What kind of questions, Mr. Whitman?”

  Olivia stayed near the door, in case Eli indicated the time to fetch the marshal had arrived. Her husband took his time unfolding Papa’s letter. Eli held out the paper and Mr. Holtwood took it.

  Before the man had a chance to read a word, Eli spoke again. “What is the meaning of this?”

  When Olivia followed him and Holtwood into the kitchen, Eli felt capable of handling anything life—or his traitorous right-hand man—might throw at him. She hadn’t been seeking his downfall, as Victoria had done not quite three years earlier. Her determination to do the right thing, by her family as well as by him, was something to praise, not put off.

  God had truly blessed him when He’d brought Olivia into his life. Now if the Father would bless Eli with the wisdom and discernment needed to bring to justice the guilty party in this many-layered swindle, he would do everything in his power to mend the tattered edges of his marriage.

  Eli leaned against the frame of the back door, hands in his pockets, right ankle over the left, eyes fixed on Holtwood. He wasn’t about to let even a flicker of reaction from his head cashier go unnoticed.

  The clock ticked the seconds away. Eli watched Holtwood read. As pale as the cashier had grown when he’d been handed the letter, he’d continued to lose color as he stared at the paper that shook in his hands.

  Since there wasn’t much to read on the page, after five minutes Eli grew impatient. “So, Holtwood. What do you have to say?”

  Holtwood looked up, lips pinched. “I don’t know, sir. Perhaps you should confer with Mr. Parham. He’s the one who prepares the bank’s correspondence for your approval and signature, isn’t he?”

  “Indeed, Holtwood. But after all these years we’ve worked together you know as well as I do that is not my signature.”

  “Are you sure, Mr. Whitman? It looks like your penmanship. Perhaps Mr. Parham has learned to approximate a good facsimile of your handwriting and signature, and signed these missives for you.”

  Olivia inhaled audibly.

  Eli closed his eyes momentarily as he shook his head in her direction.

  He turned back to his head cashier. “I must ask you to stop right there, Holtwood. Although he’s only worked a short time for me, Mr. Parham will not even draft a letter from a handful of ideas I give him. He insists I hand him my written notes or dictate the body of the missive. He’ll then turn what I’ve given him into a letter that he’ll wait until I read word for word. He watches like a hawk until I sign each and every bit of correspondence that leaves the bank. This is not his doing, nor is it his penmanship.”

  “You scarcely know him, not long enough to know what he might or might not do. They do say there’s always a first time for everything.”

  “There’s also the fact that he has no direct access to mortgage information, foreclosure possibilities, or deeds, never mind the most important matter we have yet to discuss.”

  “What would that be?”

  “It has not escaped my notice how these false foreclosure letters are dated from immediately after we began to look into the possibility of bringing a spur line through town. Whoever ends up with his name on the deeds to these properties, even one or two, stands to gain a respectable sum from the railroad.”

  Eli met Olivia’s gaze.

  Mr. Holtwood’s eyes narrowed. “It’s the bank calling in defaulted mortgages. Only the bank stands to gain from the reversion of the deeds. It’s always good when the bank realizes a tidy profit, is it not, sir?”

  “An honest profit, Holtwood. I’m afraid that detail has escaped your notice. But it won’t slip that of the authorities.”

  The man’s demeanor began a subtle but distinct change. “The first group of landowners will default come January first unless they pay. The bank is in its legal right to foreclose at that time. When the deeds are processed, the new owner can approach the railroad and negotiate a profitable sale.”

  Eli had to leash his temper. He narrowed his gaze and took a step toward his assistant. “But the bank’s not the only ‘owner-in-the-making’ as a result of these foreclosures, is it?”

  Holtwood’s wiry body tensed and his nostrils flared. “I don’t understand. It says right here”—he waved the letter at Eli—“the bank, in its position as lien holder, is entitled to take possession of the land and all improvements upon it. The bank is the lien holder. I don’t know what you are trying to imply.”

  From his pocket, Eli withdrew another set of papers. “Here are more letters. I don’t have to imply anything. A number of deeds are missing from the bank. I suspect when I do locate them, the bank will not be named as the owner, now will it? The same with the lien documents. They’ll also reflect a new lien holder, won’t they?”

  Holtwood stepped forward and snapped the papers from Eli’s hands. A shot of pain struck his gut. A wave of nausea rose to his throat. All these years, and now it seemed Holtwood had played him all too well.

  Another betrayal…

  He forced his injured feelings aside and focused on the moment of truth. That was when he caught a flash of cunning in Holtwood’s gaze. Eli wondered how many times something like that had slipped his notice over the years.

  A guttu
ral sound from Holtwood’s throat broke into Eli’s thoughts. “Despicable!” Holtwood said. His eyes darted from Eli and Olivia, as though gauging their reaction to his outburst. “Someone has indeed taken liberties with your signature.”

  Eli’s patience was gone. “We both know who. I imagine when the marshal searches your home, he’ll find your name on those documents.”

  He glanced at Olivia and nodded. She turned toward the door.

  Holtwood lunged.

  Before Eli realized what had happened, his head cashier came for him. On the man’s way across the room, he grabbed Cooky’s sharp knife from the work table where she’d left it. He aimed the slick blade right at Eli’s throat.

  He dodged the attack, then called out. “Go, Olivia! Bring Blair now!”

  But Olivia had already left, most likely the very second before Holtwood had reached for the knife. Now Eli would have to fend off the enraged man’s attacks, if only for a handful of minutes, minutes during which that sharp steel blade could do a world of harm.

  “Out of my way,” Holtwood ground out from between clenched teeth. His goal was to reach the back kitchen door against which Eli had leaned, and in front of which he still stood.

  “Can’t do that, my man. Hand over the knife. You’ve made too many wrong choices, and now you’ll go nowhere but Marshal Blair’s jail cell.”

  “Never. Not even if I have to make my way out over your bleeding body.”

  For Eli, the moment felt like something out of a fantastical dream. Nothing seemed real, especially not the enraged creature coming at him. This was a stranger, not the man he’d trusted for so long.

  He stayed ready on his feet, hands up to present a defense.

  Holtwood paused, biding his time, but when footsteps approached from the dining room, he bolted, knife leading the way.

  “I meant it,” he said, teeth bared, eyes wild, blade at Eli’s throat.

  The sting of the steel sliced into his skin. The thrust of Holtwood’s hand met his healing bullet wound. Pain stole his breath.

  “Now. Or the next cut will go all the way through!”

  Eli did the only thing he could. Father, help! Not now. Not when Olivia and I have a chance to make things right between us.

  He realized then he’d never told her he loved her.

  Chapter 25

  When Olivia saw blood on Eli’s neck so soon after he’d been shot, she lost all sense of fear. Ignoring Papa’s and Marshal Blair’s cries behind her, she flew at Holtwood and grabbed the back of his shirt collar. She pulled—hard. He gasped when it did what she wanted and cut off his breath.

  She prayed the buttons holding the collar to the shirt’s banded neck stayed tight.

  Eli took the opening to grab Holtwood’s hand and twist. The man made a choked sound, reached up to loosen his collar, but didn’t surrender the knife.

  “Drop it!” the marshal ordered.

  Holtwood ignored the command.

  Olivia pulled harder, but heard a button pop off.

  The collar loosened.

  The cashier paused in surprise.

  Eli renewed his fight for the knife.

  Holtwood kicked Eli’s knee.

  Eli went down clutching his leg.

  The traitor turned on Olivia. He grabbed her arm, trying to bring the knife around to her throat.

  “Move, and she’s dead,” he told an angry Blair and her horrified papa less than five feet away.

  Olivia fought, wriggled, bucked, kicked, and tried to bite any flesh that came near. It wasn’t enough. Although thin, Holtwood had a wiry build that now, in his moment of rage, offered him enough strength to immobilize her. He countered her every move.

  Unwilling to distress her father any further, Olivia donned as calm an expression as possible. She held herself immobile, praying.

  What came next happened in a blur. From behind her and Holtwood, she heard Eli’s growl followed by a thick, metallic thud. Olivia’s captor let go. Her husband had attacked. Holtwood dropped onto her from the back, a string of curses on his lips.

  In front of Olivia, Marshal Blair aimed his gun at Holtwood while Papa ran to her side. Before either man could reach her, Holtwood’s knife hand moved. Olivia tucked her head into her shoulder and ducked to escape the gleaming blade, but she wasn’t fast enough. While she did keep her throat out of the murderous thief’s reach, he struck her temple, the top of her arm, and then sliced across her shoulder blade.

  She screamed. The pain made her knees buckle. She collapsed in a heap.

  Activity flurried around her, but she never had a chance to watch the commotion. As she lost consciousness, she prayed. She didn’t want to die. Not yet.

  She wanted the chance to hold her children, to lie in Eli’s arms again, to tell her husband how much she loved him.

  As everything turned from gray to black, she whispered. “Eli…”

  When Olivia regained consciousness, silence reigned around her. While she was overjoyed to be alive, still the pain from her injury nearly made her black out again. When she forced her eyes to focus she realized someone had carried her to the parlor and settled her on the sofa. Now she lay propped on her good side with her hurting arm immobilized tight against her ribs.

  She saw no one around her. “Eli?”

  “I’m here with you,” he said. “You’re going to be fine. I’ll make certain of that. Your father’s gone for Doc Chambers.”

  “Did… Marshal Blair… get Holtwood?” she whispered.

  “They’re on their way to the jail.”

  She pushed past the pain and smiled. “Good.”

  Mama walked in, a large basin in her hands, a tight, pinched look on her face, tears in her eyes.

  She set the bowl on the table next to the sofa. “Doc will want this as soon as he gets here.” Then, when she noticed Olivia’s open eyes, she let out a cry and crumpled down at her daughter’s side, sobbing.

  “Thank you, Father.” She held on to Olivia’s hand. “Oh, Livvy, honey. I was so afraid we were going to lose you.”

  “I’m so sorry… Mama. I hate… to see you… cry.”

  “Don’t apologize, my dear. It’s that animal who has so much need of forgiveness. How dreadful to think there are those in this world who can do such things to others.”

  Eli reached out a finger to smooth a strand of Olivia’s hair away from her forehead.

  A knock at the door startled them. Eli started to stand, but Cooky, running down the hall, stopped him with tear-wobbly words. “Don’t you go moving from our angel’s side, Mr. Whitman. I tell you, I may be old, but I can still do something helpful tonight yet. Lord, have mercy on the black soul who’s done this.”

  Muttering as she went, the cook answered the door. A moment later, Olivia heard male voices out on the porch.

  “Railroad or no railroad, gentlemen,” Cooky told the newcomers, “we’ve had us a tragedy here in this house tonight. That’s all what matters, I tell you. Now go on, get along with you. I reckon you can take yourselves on over to Mr. Whitman’s office straight away when it opens again, if it’s business you’re wanting to do with him. Let the poor man see to his dear wife for this little whiley, now. Won’t hurt you none to think of things from above at Christmastime, I tell you. It’ll do your souls a world of good to ponder on the miracle of the sweet Baby Jesus’ birth, it surely will.”

  “Oh, Eli…” Olivia said, feeling sympathy toward the men at the door. “Let them in… they’re important.”

  “You’re much more,” he answered, his blue gaze intent.

  “Please?”

  He sighed. “I can see life will never be boring again.” He walked to the front of the house. “I’ll take care of our visitors, Cooky. Go ahead. Keep Mrs. Moore and Olivia company in the parlor. I expect Doc to be here any minute now.”

  Although the railroad officials tried to keep the volume of their conversation pitched low, Olivia heard every word. In spite of her conflicted feelings about the planned spur line, she kne
w how important striking a deal with these men was to Eli. So when she heard what they’d come to say, dread struck, filling her with misery.

  She hadn’t been able to avert this disaster.

  “Under no circumstances,” the gentleman told Eli, “can our good name be attached to anything so sordid as a scandalous swindle. We’ve decided that, in view of the cloud of suspicion that now sits over the Bank of Bountiful, we must withdraw any offer for the proposed spur line. We will not be running our track through your town.”

  A tear rolled down Olivia’s cheek. “Mama, don’t let the men leave. Make sure… Papa helps Eli when he gets here. They have to… listen to them.”

  “Oh, Livvy, dearie,” her mother said, “don’t fret about any of that tonight. I’m sure your father, Eli, and the railroad men will come up with the best way to smooth out all these tangles Mr. Holtwood left behind.”

  Papa and Doc Chambers finally returned. To the background sound of ongoing male conversation, Olivia surrendered to the haze of pain while the doctor began to patch her back up. It all improved when the physician administered a welcome dose of laudanum, and she dozed off.

  Christmas was a day for the children. From her vantage point on the parlor sofa, between doses of laudanum, Olivia watched Luke and Randy give their father the gifts they had for him.

  Randy glowed at his praise for the gray wool socks she’d knitted for him. Luke clapped when Eli’s eyes lit at the sight of the finely bound copies of James Fenimore Cooper’s popular The Deerslayer and The Last of the Mohicans.

  Happy, and enjoying the peace that reigned over her family on such a blessed holiday, Olivia dozed off. Next time she awoke, she found Luke engrossed with his new train set, running the detailed cars over the carpet, as she and Eli had done the lovely night Tom Bowen had brought the gift from his workshop.

  “Mama, Mama! Thank you so very, very much,” the boy cried. “It’s the most perfect present—the most perfect Christmas gift a person could ever and ever want.”

  Her pain still controlled by the dregs of her last dose of medicine, Olivia smiled. “You must thank your papa. He’s the one who had the splendid idea of a train for your gift. Don’t forget to thank Mr. Bowen the next time you see him. He’s the one who did the excellent carving.”