by Merry Farmer
“Why don’t we go over to the hotel for supper tonight,” Solomon suggested after more silence.
Honoria shook her head against his neck. “No, I want to stay here.” The words were more true than he would ever know.
“All right.” He smiled and kissed her forehead. “Are you sure you’re up to fixing supper, though?”
Dredging up every last bit of courage she had, she lifted her head and nodded with a weak smile. “Let’s cook something together.”
His grin widened and he laughed. “Sounds like the perfect activity to bring a little humor into an otherwise gloomy day.”
She did her best to laugh with him, but her heart was breaking into pieces. She would always remember that about him, his optimistic attitude and willingness to see the good side of things. Although she was honor-bound to set him free and lift the pressure of prejudice from his shoulders, she would give herself this one last evening of happiness. One last evening to carry in her heart during all those times ahead when things would be wretched.
“I can try making biscuits again.” She worked to get the pitifulness out of her voice. “I bet I can get them to come out better than last time.”
“There wasn’t anything wrong with them last time,” Solomon laughed. “Well, not much.”
They stood and swayed into motion. Honoria headed to the pantry to fetch flour, lard, and salt for the biscuits while Solomon stepped outside to the root cellar to bring up the chicken they’d bought the day before. For just a while, it was easy to pretend that nothing was wrong, that the world hadn’t just come crashing down, and that Solomon’s feelings toward her wouldn’t change completely as soon as he found out what she’d done.
“What do you think?” he asked after settling the chicken in the roasting pan. “Just salt and pepper and a little olive oil, or should we try out that spice mix you found in the cookbook the other day?” His smile was so genuine, so relaxed.
“Whatever you want,” she replied, trying not to break down into tears as she did. If this evening was meant to be the memory she took with her to warm the rest of her dark days, then it should be the kernel of goodness Solomon could hark back to in the moments that he wasn’t cursing her name for ruining him.
Unaware of her thoughts, he nodded. “Spices it is.”
They went on with their cooking, Solomon chatting animatedly about everything going on in town except the trouble at his bank. He mentioned a story Luke Chance had told him about his and Eden’s son. He recounted the positive developments in keeping the peace that Sheriff Knighton had shared with him. He even had a cute story about some trouble Athos Strong’s children had gotten into while pretending they were musketeers. Honoria smiled and laughed along, but inside she wilted.
When they finally sat down to eat, Solomon reached for her hands across the table. He lowered his head and closed his eyes before saying, “Lord, we thank you for the boundless gifts you’ve given us. We thank you for the beautiful time we have together, no matter how short it might be.”
After that, Honoria could barely choke down her food. The only thing that consoled her was knowing that after she left he would see that she was truly sorry and had never meant any harm. If she was brave, she would tell him right away, as they cleaned up their simple feast, but that one last, selfish part of her craved a final memory to take away with her.
“If you’d like, we can keep reading Around the World in Eighty Days,” Solomon suggested once the last dish was dried and put away. He slipped an arm around Honoria’s waist and drew her close. “I, for one, am desperate to find out if Phineas Fogg is able to rescue that Indian princess,” he added with a fond grin, kissing her lightly, then taking her hand and leading her down the hall to the parlor.
As Solomon fetched the book and walked back to join Honoria on the sofa, her heart wilted within her. How was she ever going to summon the courage to do the honorable thing? And how would she bear Solomon’s wrath once he learned the truth?
“What if the Indian princess was lying about having to throw herself on the raja’s funeral pyre?” she asked, her voice choked.
Solomon furrowed his brow, giving her a strange look. “But she wasn’t. It’s the custom in India for the wife of a royal man to die with him.”
“Is it?” She lowered her head, clenching her hands in the fabric of her skirt on her lap.
“I think so.” He didn’t sound so certain. “I’ll admit, I don’t know much about the Hindu religion.” He brushed his fingers under her chin and lifted it so that she faced him. “What is that question all about? Are you worried I’ll fling myself into your grave when…” He swallowed.
Honoria squeezed her eyes shut. She could easily argue that he’d already done something destructive for her sake. How would he feel once he’d jumped into her grave only to discover the coffin was empty?
“Maybe we should start another book,” he said, a touch of humor back in his voice. “Something by Mark Twain.”
Honoria shook her head, gazing up at him. “This one will be just fine.”
But if she was being honest with herself, it wouldn’t. Her beautiful, perfect dream of being married to the man she’d loved for so long wouldn’t even last eighty days, and it was painful to read about Princess Aouda continuing on with Phineas Fogg when she would have to leave Solomon.
Chapter 13
For the first time in more than a week, Solomon woke up with a deep confidence and a sense that the worst was over. The WSGA had made their crooked determination about his business and he’d paid their fine, even though it was extortion. His assets had been obliterated. There was nowhere else to turn for cash. But at least the bank had made it through the storm. He ran through the list of his remaining customers as he dressed for the day, certain that no one left would demand to withdraw all of their money.
Now he could focus on his real purpose—at least his purpose for as long as it lasted. He said a quick prayer for God to show him the way and help him to be the man he knew he could be. It was time to do his utmost to make Honoria happy and comfortable to the end.
A bittersweet grin touched his lips as he straightened his tie and headed out of their bedroom and downstairs to the tempting smell of bacon. “Good morning, sweetheart.” He greeted his beautiful wife with a kiss as he entered the kitchen. Honoria was already setting plates heaped with bacon and eggs and buttered toast on the table. She’d become an amazing cook in just two weeks, but then, he figured Honoria was clever enough to become an expert at anything she set her mind to.
“Coffee will be done in just a second,” she murmured and turned away from him.
Solomon’s joy flattened. He grabbed his chair but studied Honoria before sitting. Was she looking a little pale today? She was certainly avoiding his eyes. Maybe he had been too exuberant last night after all. She was ill, after all. He cursed himself for not being more careful.
“I was thinking that we could go for a long drive and a relaxing picnic closer to the mountains on Saturday,” he said, sitting and taking up his fork. “With all the fuss here in town, it would be nice to go somewhere where it could just be the two of us.”
She didn’t answer. She kept her face turned so that he couldn’t see, but it was obvious that her shoulders were rock hard. If he wasn’t mistaken, she lowered her head and gulped as if…as if holding back tears. Concern that bordered on panic gripped him.
“Honoria, are you sure you’re feeling all right?” he asked, hoping his tone was tender and not overly anxious. “Maybe you should go talk to Dr. Meyers.”
“I’m fine.” She sucked in a breath and straightened all at once, twisting to face him. The smile she wore looked brittle enough to snap, and her eyes were glassy. “Let me get your coffee.”
Deep foreboding settled in Solomon’s gut, making even the delicious breakfast Honoria had prepared taste like ash. Something was wrong, more wrong than he knew what to do with. Honoria brought his coffee and some for herself and sat across from him, but she did
little more than push her food around her plate with her fork. Her cheeks were alternately pale and flushed as the thoughts he could see but not name flashed across her features. He had to be able to do something about this, anything.
“Do you want me to come over to Wendy’s at lunchtime to take you for a walk?” he asked lamely, bristling with the need to do something.
Honoria shook her head, not meeting his eyes. “No, that’s all right, I’ll be fine.” She choked on the word “fine” and pressed her hand to her mouth.
It was her illness. It had to be. Somehow it had gotten worse and she hadn’t been able to tell him about it. She was scared, obviously. Anyone would be.
When he finished his breakfast, he reached across the table to take her hand. He had to pry her fingers out of a tight fist to hold it. “I would keep the bank closed or let Horace run it himself today if I could,” he said, twining his fingers with hers. “I would let it all go to spend my day in your arms, if not for those blasted WSGA men.”
Honoria squeezed her eyes shut and nodded, though she turned her face away from him.
His heart ached and twisted in his chest. “Honoria, are you certain there’s nothing you need to tell me? Are you sure you’re all right?”
She took a long time to reply…a long time in which she held herself so tightly that she wasn’t breathing. At last she gasped for breath and looked at him. “Please go to work.” Her plea was wispy and hoarse. “I know how important your bank is to you. You need to make sure that it’s safe.”
He wanted to argue with her, to tell her that, first and foremost, he needed to make sure she was safe. But he could see the determination in her eyes, sitting just beyond whatever else was bothering her. If he tried to argue, she would dig her heels in. Maybe she needed a little bit of time to think things through or to rest.
Reluctantly, he let her hand go and rose. “Promise me you’ll take it easy today, sweetheart.” He stepped around the table to kiss her forehead. It was hot. Did she have a fever? “Wendy can spare you for one day. Why don’t you stay home and nap?”
She didn’t answer, but he thought that her slight nod might have been agreement. He debated staying home to help her and ignoring the consequences, but she was right about his bank needing him.
“Take care of yourself.” He kissed her one last time, then retrieved his jacket from the back of his chair and put it on.
All the way to the bank, he replayed breakfast, looking for hints about Honoria’s health that he hadn’t seen before. She hadn’t been that shy with him since before their wedding. Had he said something wrong, either that morning or the night before? He second-guessed everything he’d done, every word that he’d spoken to her in the last day and more. Something wasn’t right, as if there was a detail out of place. She was keeping something from him.
“Ah, Solomon, thank heavens you’re here.” Horace snapped up from the work he was doing behind the bank’s counter as soon as he walked through the door. “I’ve been reviewing the remaining accounts, and I think I have some good news.”
Solomon’s worries about Honoria were pushed to the side as he dove into work for the day. Horace had opened a whole new ledger and begun to record the cash on hand versus the remaining accounts. Though things were bad—no two ways about that—there was hope on the horizon. God was answering his prayers. Not only were the vast majority of the accounts remaining held by customers who Solomon was certain would never turn on him, the morning newspaper—or rather yesterday’s newspaper from Denver, brought in on the late train the night before—had good news about the handful of stocks Solomon hadn’t sold.
He was just beginning to think that the storm was past and he would be able to recover when the door flew open. Solomon’s heart sank as the WSGA men sauntered into the lobby.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” He stood, keeping his back straight and clasping his hands behind him. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Nope,” Eastman answered with a smirk.
“We’re just here to monitor,” Lamb added, his expression as suspiciously giddy as Eastman’s.
“I can assure you that the bank’s business practices will continue today as they have every day, as you’ve already observed them,” Solomon answered, willing himself to keep calm. Clearly the men were up to something.
“We’ll be the judge of that,” O’Brien added with a sniff.
They stood there. Just stood there, staring at him. Solomon stared right back, working to figure out what kind of intimidation technique this was. They didn’t appear to be armed. Even if they were, Trey Knighton and Travis Montrose were “on duty” outside of the bank that day. There were no customers in the bank either, though it had been open for more than an hour. The money was all counted and accounted for. Everything seemed fine.
Which didn’t explain why the hair on the back of his neck was standing up.
He had to wait another half hour, until it was past eleven o’clock, to discover why the men were there. At first, it was just one man, Matthew Bolton, the saddle-maker.
“Morning, Matthew.” Solomon greeted him with a smile as he entered, head lowered. “Come to make your weekly deposit?”
“Uh, no,” Matthew mumbled. He shuffled up to the counter, shoulders stooped. “I, uh, I gotta withdraw all my money from your bank.”
Alarm bells sounded in Solomon’s head. Matthew was one of the Haskell tradesmen he never would have imagined turning on him. In fact, he didn’t believe Matthew had turned of his own free will. His body language told another story.
“Horace has the appropriate forms for you to sign,” Solomon said, nodding to Horace.
Matthew muttered his thanks, then filled out the form as Horace counted out enough cash to cover the withdrawal, face drawn. Solomon crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at the WSGA men. They didn’t seem at all surprised by the turn of events.
If Matthew had been the only one to turn on him, Solomon would have considered it a minor disappointment, but a few minutes later, two more of Haskell’s tradesmen—John Bimeney, the cooper and Paul Lindy, the carpenter who split his time between several towns in the county—dragged themselves in to withdraw everything. These were men Solomon would never have guessed would betray him, men he considered his friends. It was small relief that he was able to pay out what needed to be paid out.
“I don’t like this at all,” Horace muttered once the two men had gone. “It ain’t right.”
“No, it isn’t,” Solomon replied. He sent another look to the WSGA men. Their silent waiting took on a more sinister feel. They were waiting for the money to run out, waiting like they knew it would happen soon. Once it did, they would arrest him. He wasn’t fool enough to think that he’d be able to get out of that.
The door slammed open in the middle of his grim thoughts, and Sam Standish marched in. “It’s an outrage!” he hollered.
Of all things, Sam’s indignation came as a relief to Solomon. He was certain beyond any shadow of doubt that Sam would never, ever betray him. But if he knew what was going on—
“Bonneville’s sending his thugs around to all the local businesses,” Sam told him, marching up and gripping the edge of the counter. “He’s threatening to take his business elsewhere and to tell his friends and neighbors to do the same if they continue to use your bank.”
“He can’t do that,” Horace gasped.
The WSGA men grinned from ear to ear, as if none of this was even remotely a surprise.
“That’s a lot of business for the tradesmen of this town to lose.” Solomon sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. It was all beginning to make sense. If Rex Bonneville couldn’t destroy him one way, he would find another. “Men like Matthew and John and Paul can’t survive if they’re blacklisted by Bonneville.”
“It ain’t right,” Horace wailed.
“Oh, look,” Eastman blurted, craning his neck to look out the window at the front of the bank. “There’s a whole bunch of them coming.”
/> Solomon swallowed, balling his hands into fists. This was it. This was the end of his bank, and quite possibly the end of his life.
“Want me to fetch Howard?” Sam offered. “Or Gunn?”
If the end was coming, then Solomon was determined to face it head-on and not run crying for help. “No.” He straightened his back as the bank door opened and more than half a dozen men shuffled in. “I’ve asked them for too much already. It’s time I faced this on my own.”
“But—”
Sam was cut off when Eastman stepped forward. “You gents here to withdraw your money?” He looked as though he was having the best day of his life.
“Yes,” one of the tradesmen answered.
“Mmm hmm,” another one mumbled, looking as though he might be sick.
Solomon knew each and every one of these men. They were entrepreneurs, friends, men who had come West to build their fortunes, the same as he had. They worked hard, played for the Haskell baseball teams, went to church with him. Not a single one of them could survive if Bonneville and his cronies stopped doing business with them.
“Gentlemen,” Solomon addressed them grimly. “I understand. And I’ll do my best by you.”
He was met by guilty silence and a few grunts of grudging appreciation. None of the men looked at him, and none of them looked at the smiling, smug, supercilious WSGA men.
“Horace, give these men withdrawal forms,” Solomon ordered.
“But, Solomon…”
Solomon sighed and thumped his faithful employee on the back, then answered in a sad voice, “Just do it.”
Horace lowered his head, knowing full well what it meant as he reached for the forms with shaking hands. “It ain’t right,” he muttered as he distributed the forms to the men who lined the counter.
