by Judy Duarte
Miss Matheson placed her cane near the armrest of an easy chair, then carefully lowered herself into the seat.
“Thanks for seeing me,” Mark said.
“I don’t get out much,” the older woman said. “So I’m always glad when someone stops in.”
Juliet picked up the teapot that was adorned with a pink floral trim. “What a beautiful china pattern. Is this an antique?”
“Yes, it belonged to my grandmother. And it brings me a great deal of pleasure to use, even more so than having a perfectly steeped cup of tea.” The old woman smiled wistfully. “But you probably won’t understand that.”
“Oh, but I do.” Juliet returned her smile. “I lost my grandmother when I was ten and still have the quilt she made and several other personal items. They each remind me of her.”
“Then hold on to those memories,” the older woman said.
Juliet handed her a cup and saucer. “You have a lovely home, Miss Matheson.”
“Thank you, dear. But let’s not be so formal. My name is Matilda and everyone calls me Tildy.”
Juliet smiled and nodded, but continued to peruse the room.
Next to a Tiffany floor lamp was a bookcase adorned with framed photographs, many of them yellowed by time. Mark suspected they were Tildy’s family members, some of whom had probably passed on, yet remained as precious memories.
He wondered what Juliet was thinking and suspected the two women, one just beginning her life and the other facing the end, had a lot in common.
“I’m glad you came today,” Tildy said. “I’m planning a trip to visit my sister in Billings, and I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone.”
Mark balanced the baby in the crook of one arm, while holding the delicate handle of the china cup in the fingers of his other hand. He studied the hot, amber liquid, but didn’t take a sip. Instead, he addressed Tildy. “Do you know Caleb Douglas?”
“Of course. I’ve known the Douglas family for years. My grandmother used to be a friend of Catherine Douglas.” The elderly woman smiled and added, “Amos and Catherine were the original Douglas settlers in Thunder Canyon.”
Mark hoped he was finally getting somewhere. “Then I’m sure you’re aware that the Queen of Hearts mine is supposed to belong to Caleb.”
“Yes. It’s been in the Douglas family for years.”
“Did you know Caleb is having difficulty finding the deed?”
“No.” Tildy took a sip of her tea. “I don’t have much time to socialize anymore.”
Mark wondered if this visit had been a waste of time. “Do you think it’s possible that Amos may have forgotten to file the necessary paperwork?”
“That doesn’t seem likely. From what I remember being told, Amos was a stickler for details.”
If that was true, then where the hell was the deed? Could one of Amos’s descendants have misplaced it?
He studied the woman who sipped her tea. Did she actually know anything about the mine or deed?
“Who do you believe owns the Queen of Hearts?” he asked her.
“Why, Caleb Douglas.”
That certainly seemed to be the assumption of everyone in town.
Just then the telephone rang, and Tildy reached for the portable receiver resting on a small table to the left of her chair. “Excuse me, please.”
“Certainly.” Mark took a sip of sweetened tea and tried not to grimace at the taste. He preferred a hearty brew of coffee—black and loaded with caffeine.
“Hello?” the older woman said. “Oh, dear. Is today Tuesday?”
Mark wasn’t sure what was being said on the other end of the line, but he figured Tildy had obviously forgotten something.
“What time will you be coming for me?”
So much for the interview.
“Twenty minutes? I’ll have to hurry, but I’ll be ready when you get here.” She ended the call, then apologized. “That was my niece. I’m afraid I’ll have to cut our visit short. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment today.”
“That’s okay,” Mark said. “I understand. But before I go, I want to ask you another question. Have you ever heard of Crazy Red Phelps?”
“The outlaw?” Tildy asked. “Sure, I’ve heard of him. He was before my time, of course. But he once shot up the saloon. And if I remember correctly, he had some kind of feud with Amos, although I’m not sure what it was all about.”
“According to Ben Saunders, Crazy Red once claimed that the Queen of Hearts belonged to him and that he meant to have it, one way or another.”
Tildy took a sip of her tea. “I’m afraid my memory isn’t what it used to be. But from what I was told, that outlaw was as crazy as they made them and twice as ornery. He might have imagined that he had a prior claim on the mine.”
“That’s possible. And maybe he stole the deed from Amos.”
“I have no idea.”
Mark sat back in his seat. Tildy Matheson hadn’t offered him anything new or solid, but she’d sure set his mind spinning.
“Maybe we ought to let Tildy get dressed for her appointment,” Juliet said, picking up the teacups and placing them on the tray. “I’ll just carry these into the kitchen for you.”
“Thank you, dear.” The older woman slowly got to her feet and pointed a crippled finger toward the dining room table and beyond. “It’s through that doorway.”
Mark stood, too, and waited for Juliet to return from the kitchen. Researching Crazy Red Phelps would be his top priority.
And maybe, in the process, he’d learn who held the deed to the Queen of Hearts.
The next afternoon, Mark drove out to the Ranch View Estates on White Water Drive. He turned into the entrance on Stagecoach and followed the flags to the models at the end of the cul-de-sac.
A sales rep looking like a dime-store cowboy in a pair of shiny boots, a bolo tie and a black hat handed him a brochure, along with a map of the subdivision. “Just take your time. And if you have any questions, or if I can help, just let me know. My name is Bill Jarvis.”
Mark nodded, then set out on the walkway to look over the professionally decorated houses.
Wouldn’t Juliet be surprised if he handed her the keys to one of these new homes? A small one, of course, although they all looked fairly big, especially to a man who’d lived out of a suitcase and spent most of his nights in a hotel.
As he wandered through the first couple of models, he wasn’t sure what he was looking for and wondered if he should have brought Juliet with him. But in the third home, the decorator had made one of the smaller bedrooms into a nursery.
The walls had been painted an airy, cotton-candy pink. A crib, made out of light wood, sported a fluffy comforter with pretty, pastel-colored butterflies. A matching frou-frou over the window was a nice touch. And so was the toy box full of stuffed animals and the baby doll perched on the dresser.
Yeah, Mark knew that decorator stuff wasn’t included in the house he planned to buy. But that didn’t mean this model wouldn’t be a great home to raise a little girl in.
He strolled through the last two, but by the time he entered the sales office, his mind was practically made up.
Or should he include Juliet in the decision?
After all, she and the baby would be the ones living in the house.
The wannabe cowboy/sales rep was busy talking to a silver-haired lady who was visibly shaken.
She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “Bill, I don’t understand why you can’t let me out of the deal. I don’t need the house now. My husband passed away last Friday, and my daughter wants me to move in with her in Colorado.”
“Ma’am, I’d like to help you. I really would. But your escrow closed two weeks ago, and it’s out of my hands. That house is your problem.”
The woman, her eyes red and watery, sniffled. “I don’t know anything about real estate, or escrows or mortgages. My husband and I were married for nearly fifty-two years, and he always handled those sorts of things for me.”
When th
e lady wiped her tears again, the dime-store cowboy rolled his eyes and flashed a can-you-believe-this-old-lady? look at Mark before continuing. “I’m sorry to hear about your husband, Mrs. Grabowski. But I sell houses. I don’t buy them back. Now, why don’t you go home, skim the yellow pages and find yourself a good Realtor?”
Mrs. Grabowski sniffled again and lifted her chin, then as Cowboy Bill opened the door and ushered her out in a manner that was just a tad more polite than booting her in the butt with those fancy boots, she turned to him.
Her tired blue eyes flashed a look of betrayal. “You were sure fussing over us when you wanted us to buy the house, saying things like, ‘If there’s anything I can do to help, anything at all, you just give me a whistle.’”
He lifted his palms in a slick, don’t-get-me-dirty manner. “My hands are tied, Mrs. Grabowski.”
She shook her head, then walked toward her car.
Mark couldn’t help sympathizing with the grieving widow. He knew the sales rep couldn’t very well buy back her house, but he didn’t have to roll his eyes and make light of the poor woman’s dilemma.
In fact, Mark wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with a guy who couldn’t be more sensitive, more respectful than that. So he sidestepped ol’ Cowboy Bill and followed Mrs. Grabowski to the parking lot, watching as she climbed into a late-model Chevrolet.
She probably hadn’t thought about things like probate, either. It could take a long while for her to sell the house. And Mark sympathized with her.
His grandma hadn’t had much business sense, either. And when his grandpa had died, she didn’t even know how to write a check or drive the car. That was one reason he’d resented moving from El Paso to Thunder Canyon and leaving his grandmother to fend for herself.
And that move to Montana, he realized, at that particular time, had been the turning point in his relationship with his dad. The moment when teenaged rebellion turned to resentment and disrespect.
Mark couldn’t imagine how difficult it would be to survive the loss of a spouse and be slapped with financial decisions and problems all at once.
As he prepared to slide into the driver’s seat of his rented sedan, he heard the woman’s engine grind. Battery problems, he guessed. Car trouble was obviously something else she wasn’t used to handling.
Mark couldn’t very well leave her stranded like that. Cowboy Bill would probably tell her to call the automobile club, then make her hike to a payphone to do so.
The jerk.
So Mark climbed from the car and walked to her vehicle. “Sounds like you’ve got a bad battery.”
“Oh, dear.” The look on her face was enough to make a guy’s conscience squirm.
“Do you have jumper cables?” he asked, knowing there weren’t any in the sedan.
“I don’t know. But my husband always kept tools and whatnot in the car.”
“Let’s look in the trunk.”
With a little encouragement, she managed to flip open the lid. Sure enough, her husband had thought of everything—except ensuring his wife could get by without him. But Mark kept quiet about that.
Moments later, with her standing beside him and peering under the hood, he got the engine running. “You probably ought to drive straight to a service station and have someone check your battery.”
“I will.” She offered him a weepy-eyed smile. “Thank you, young man. I was just sitting there, praying that the engine would start. You’ve been a real blessing, an answer to a prayer.”
Mark didn’t know about that. He and God had never seen eye to eye, so he couldn’t imagine The Man Upstairs using a hard-ass reporter to answer a grieving woman’s request. But if she thought so, what the heck.
“My name is Iris Grabowski,” she said.
“Mark Anderson.” He reached out a hand to shake on it, and the woman offered him a hug instead, like he was some kind of hero.
“Bless you, young man. I’m going to be praying for you and your family.”
Don’t bother, he wanted to tell her. But he held his tongue. He sure as heck didn’t need the poor widow to start crying again. “Thanks.”
After she drove off, he climbed in the sedan and drove back to town. In the stillness of the car’s interior, a pensive mood settled over him and he pondered all kinds of things—like widows and grandmas who’d been looked after all their lives and then thrust into a world they weren’t prepared to handle. Of a stubborn son who shouldn’t have moved his family thousands of miles away, leaving his widowed mother to fend for herself. Of an angry teen who resented leaving his grandmother all alone in the last years of her life.
Of the way a man’s guilt and remorse seemed to ease when he helped someone less fortunate.
Then his thoughts took a philosophical turn.
If a guy did enough good deeds, could he eventually right his wrongs?
Not the unforgivable ones.
Chapter Twelve
After feeding Marissa, Juliet turned on the radio and found a classical station.
Music, she’d read, was good for babies. Maybe, with an early introduction, her daughter would grow to appreciate lyrics and rhythm and become a singer or musician someday.
Hey, it could happen. Papa had played the guitar, and Juliet, who’d sung in the high school choir one semester, had been invited to sing in the Troubadours, an elite high school group that performed in the community. She’d had to decline because of her job, but it had been an honor to be chosen.
She glanced at the small, plastic Tiny Tot mobile that rested on the dinette table. Mrs. Tasker had come by earlier today and brought the toy for Marissa. She’d told Juliet that her last grandson had used it when he was an infant, lying underneath it for hours and watching the colorful stuffed animals dangle overhead.
Juliet laid a quilt upon the living room floor, then after kissing Marissa’s cheek, set the baby down and carefully placed the mobile-on-stilts over her.
Marissa blinked several times, noticing the movement of zoo animals that dangled over her head.
A knock sounded at the door, but before she could answer it, Mark let himself in.
“It’s me,” he said.
She could see that. A smile tugged at her lips as she admired his masculine form. He wore a pair of khaki slacks, a lightweight black sweater and a crooked grin that turned her inside out.
His hair was windblown, and he looked a bit tousled, in a most attractive sense. But then, everything about him seemed to appeal to her these days.
He held a maroon-and-green file of some kind at his side. As he opened his mouth to speak, his gaze landed on the baby. He cocked his head. “What’s she doing on the floor?”
“She’s playing. The child development book I checked out of the library said she’d stay awake a little bit more each week. So I thought it might be nice to offer her some stimulation. See how she tries to focus on the little animals?”
He nodded and studied the colorful zoo mobile. “Then I guess it’s time we went shopping for some baby toys.”
We?
Oh, cut it out, Juliet scolded herself. She shouldn’t try to read into things Mark said.
“I imagine she’ll need a lot more than toys,” he added.
“You’re right. And guess what.” Juliet grinned, eager to share her good fortune, her acceptance in the community. “Mrs. Tasker came by to see us this morning. And she accidentally let it slip that on Saturday morning, before The Hitching Post opens, she’s having what used to be a surprise baby shower for me. Isn’t that sweet?”
“Yeah. That’ll be nice.” He looked up from the floor, where Marissa lay with her eyes closed, and flashed Juliet a smile. “Looks like Sweet Pea played so hard, she fell asleep.”
“I suppose she’s a little young for toys yet.”
As Mark eased closer, she thought about giving him a hug in greeting, but kept her hands to herself.
Their relationship was at an awkward stage. She knew where she wanted it to go, but she had no idea how he felt
, so it was probably best to let him take the lead.
For now, anyway.
He nodded toward the bookshelf, where the radio softly played a concerto. “Do you like this stuff? Or is the classical music for Marissa, too?”
“I want to introduce culture into her life early, and I don’t think it’s too soon.”
He smiled, then lifted his free hand and ran his knuckles along her cheek, jump-starting her pulse and sending a rush of warmth through her veins. “You’re going to make a great mom, Juliet.”
Her heart soared. Did he think she’d make a good wife, too?
He dropped his hand, as though he’d done something out of line. He hadn’t, though. And she wished she were bold enough to reach for his fingers, replace his touch and caress his face, too. But she decided it was best to wait until he gave her more encouragement.
So she asked, “Would you like something to eat or drink? I have iced tea and can make burritos with the leftover meat from last night.”
“Not now. I ate while I was out.”
All right. She’d try again. “How’s your research going?”
“I’m plugging along. I talked to Ben Saunders earlier this morning, and he said various newspapers from the late eighteen hundreds were placed on microfiche and left in a box at the museum, although he couldn’t remember where. He’s going to call me when he finds it. The article he told me about, the one in which Crazy Red was quoted, is supposed to be in there somewhere.”
Like a supportive wife who was interested in her husband’s work, she asked, “What else is new?”
He flashed the file he’d been holding at his side, a brochure of some kind.
“What’s that?”
He held the cover so she could see the words. Ranch View Estates.
“I’m thinking about buying a house in that new development.” His words opened the floodgates, releasing a rush of hope in her heart.
Her unfulfilled dreams soared.
Had Mark changed his mind? Had he decided to stay in Thunder Canyon?
Apparently.
Did his plans to buy a house have anything to do with her? With them?
Oh, Dios mio. Could he be falling in love with her?
