by Susan Page Davis, Darlene Franklin, Pamela Griffin, Lisa Harris
“No one’s home?”
She shook her head, and he frowned.
“I hate to think of you out here alone with those robbers about.”
“No one will hurt me.” She had learned how to present a brave front from her days as an assistant teacher with Miss Featherton at Middlebury. Daniel insisted on seeing her to the front door.
“Do you want to come in for a quick cup of hot tea?”
“I’ve got a long ways to go before I sleep.” Daniel tipped his hat, and she could see that the storm had done nothing to dim the fire in his eyes. “Thank you for the offer.”
She shut the door behind her and shivered, whether from the banked fire or from the absence of both Daniel and Lewis, she couldn’t tell.
Daniel climbed onto Spotty’s back and spared a moment to stare at the dark, lonely cottage. He wished he could whisk Clara away to a cozy fireside with the blink of an eye, some place where she could be waited on and warmed instead of having to do the work of two people. That brother of hers never had been much good. Off gallivanting today, no doubt. I hope he’s stuck somewhere cold and unpleasant. Daniel shook the thought off as soon as it occurred to him. Lewis might be no good, but he was all Clara had since her father’s death. Imagine his life without his brothers Hiram or Simeon.
He clucked, and the horse started moving, head bowed into the wind. Daniel debated walking instead—it would keep him warmer—but decided against it. Better to cover the distance in less time.
Thinking of Hiram, Daniel remembered that his brother had invited him to the family farm today, with news of the progress regarding their grandparents’ house. Snow stuck to the brim of Daniel’s hat. Hiram wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t come in this weather. Daniel had asked his nearest neighbor to deliver the news about the bank robbery. With dark falling fast, Daniel would spend the night at the Bailey house in solitude, the way he liked it.
The way he had always liked it. So why did the image of a certain auburn beauty measuring the parlor now intrude on his thoughts? Two lonely hearts—that was all. Snowy winter nights called for cozy couples in front of warm fires. He straightened his shoulders and encouraged Spotty to move faster.
He might paint a pretty picture, but such was not for him. Would never be for him.
No one would want a one-armed man who couldn’t even defend his own bank.
Daniel didn’t make it to see Hiram on Saturday either. In the morning, he opened shutters to a world bristling with ice, although the remains of last year’s grass showed where a dog’s footprint had padded down the snow. A bright sun shone overhead, but that didn’t guarantee warming weather. He cranked the window open and stuck his head out—cold enough to burn his tongue.
Shutting the window, Daniel felt his heart pounding, readying his body and spirit for the coming hunt. Times like this he could almost feel the blood flowing down his left arm into the fingers of his left hand. How could his body deceive him so? He growled at the stump as if it held the answers.
As his usual penance, he shaved his chin with cold water, as if he could force his body to accept the truth by shocking it into reality. Sometimes he added a cold breakfast to his punishment, but not today. Common sense said to warm the body and carry as much warmth as possible with him into the biting cold.
A few minutes later, he had coffee going in a pot—black mud, Simeon called it, but that was the way he’d drunk it in the army, and that was the only way he knew how to make it. Next he started oatmeal cooking, adding a dash of maple syrup into the mix. Sugar heated up a body almost better than any warm drink. He’d learned those lessons the hard way, around low campfires while wearing the thinnest of uniforms.
He slipped biscuits into the oven. Bacon? Yes. He fried up enough for breakfast and lunch and then forced himself to sit still long enough to eat between big gulps of coffee. Only after he emptied the pan of oatmeal and prepared bacon biscuits for lunch did he head to the closet where he stored his winter gear. He fingered the warm wool of his greatcoat. It would hang loose on him now, but worse than that, the left arm dangled where a hand was expected to appear at the cuff. He might let it go except wind would whistle up the emptiness like a chimney vent, freezing his chest along the way. He dug a jar of safety pins from the desk in the study and did his usual awkward job of pinning with one hand.
At last he could leave. Maybe he could borrow one of Hiram’s horses, as soon as he could head out in that direction, and return Spotty to the livery. He kept hoping the robbers would release their horses and that his mare would return home.
Dixon had arrived at the jail ahead of him. “Figured you’d need me today. I doubt many people will make it to the store. My wife gave me a proper scolding for going out.”
Daniel smiled. Dixon’s wife was one of the sweetest souls in Maple Notch. If anybody wanted to feel better, they just went to the mercantile and sat down with a cup of tea and conversation with Mrs. Dixon.
Unlike the opinionated, vocal, particular Miss Farley. The reminder of her theory stirred uneasily within him.
“I heard an interesting idea about the robbery last night.”
“From Miss Farley, I suppose.”
Daniel cocked an eyebrow.
“Don’t look so surprised. I know you took her home last night, and she has an opinion on everything.” Dixon sounded like he didn’t often agree with Clara’s ideas.
“Is there something wrong with that?” Daniel took out his Remington, checking the cylinder and the action.
“Well, Captain, I mean no offense. It’s just that she has opinions about things best left to the menfolk.” Dixon ran his finger along his mustache. “I guess that’s what comes from growing up in an all-male household. Mr. Farley treated the girl as if she were his oldest son.”
“Anybody can tell God gave her a sharp brain. I’m sure He intends for her to use it.” Daniel put the pistol down with more force than he intended. “This latest notion of hers does make sense. Those men yesterday didn’t look like any rebels I ever encountered.”
“Of course not. They wanted to blend in.”
“Then why sew a Dixie flag on your jacket? Clara—Miss Farley—thinks they could be locals. And I’m thinking she’s right.”
“Impossible!” Dixon’s eyes grew as wide as the penny candy he sold at his store.
“Hear me out.” Daniel laid out Clara’s reasons for thinking the criminals were local.
“I suppose she handed you the names of the suspects while she was at it?”
Daniel acknowledged the jab with a half smile. “No, she was as blinded as the rest of us because these may be people we know. They could even be people we like. People we’ve gone to church with.”
Dixon slumped back in the chair. “There was a time around these parts that if you were looking for trouble, you’d head over to Whitson’s farm straightaway.”
Daniel waved that away. “I’ve heard the stories, too, but that’s all in the past. Young Baruch is as sound a man as there is. He even got injured defending the bank.”
“He’s got four brothers.”
Daniel glared at Dixon, who lifted his hands in defense. “I’m not pointing fingers. I’m just saying Baruch is the best of the bunch. Not going to be your family—you’d be shooting yourselves in the foot to do that.” He grimaced. “Sorry.”
Daniel waved it away. “Let’s not worry about motive. Pretty soon we’d eliminate everyone in the county because we know them. Let’s think about what we observed about them.”
“I didn’t see them, remember? I can’t help.”
Someone nudged the door open. “Is this a private meeting, or may I join you?” Pastor Beaton’s thin face appeared at the door, and Daniel remembered he had been part of the cavalry before becoming a pastor.
“Come on in. I’m glad you could join us. You were there and might help me remember something I missed.”
Beaton took the only remaining chair in the jail and pulled up next to Dixon. “Have you considered
the possibility that locals committed the robbery?”
Daniel shot an amused glance at Dixon. “Actually, I have.” Honesty compelled him to add, “Miss Farley suggested the idea. What did you notice about the men who were there yesterday? How many of them?”
“Four, maybe more.”
Daniel nodded. “All men?”
Dixon raised his eyebrows again, so high that Daniel was afraid they’d creep into his hairline and disappear.
“We don’t want to assume anything. If one of them was a woman, that would be another reason not to open their mouths.”
Beaton drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I suppose it’s possible, but I doubt it. They were too tall.” His lips twitched. “Besides, they didn’t look like any women I’ve ever met.”
“My thinking, too.” Daniel closed his eyes, picturing them in his mind. “They were all right around five-nine, on the tall side for a woman.”
“Any chance it could be a family? Them Whitsons have more sons than you can shake a stick at.” Dixon addressed his question to Beaton.
Daniel’s lips quirked. “And they’re tall. That’s why we asked Baruch to guard the bank. Figured he’d frighten robbers away.”
Beaton shook his head. “They wouldn’t shoot their brother.”
Daniel wasn’t sure about that. Not after fighting in a war that divided families in half as surely as the Revolutionary War had divided Patriots and Tories back in his grandparents’ time. “Right now I’m not putting names to paper. I want the best description we can get.”
“I can’t say who was tallest. They never stood together.”
“The one who held me was the biggest.” Or did Daniel want to think so, a small ointment to sooth his injured self-esteem? “But not by much.”
“Clothes? Of course, they could have changed,” Dixon said.
“I didn’t take notice,” Beaton admitted. “I took my lesson to look beyond the outside all too literally. I saw inside their black souls.” Bitterness edged his voice. “God forgive me and help me to forgive them.”
“They were dressed like most people around here, farm folk.” Daniel’s laughter rang hollow. “Between the wide brims of their hats and those bandannas pulled up to the top of their noses, I couldn’t see their eyes or their hair.”
“That probably means their hair was cut short.” Dixon smiled at their surprised expression. “As a haberdasher, I notice where a man’s hairline falls below his hat.” He held his hand up before them. “Your descriptions could fit half the men of Maple Notch. So they look pretty average.” He turned down one finger. “We don’t know what their voices sound like, because they didn’t speak.” He turned down a second finger. “And we certainly don’t want to know what they taste like.” His middle finger joined the others flat against his palm.
Daniel smothered a laugh. “That leaves smell and touch. The guy who grabbed me had gloves on.” He made himself remember the sensation of the leather touching his skin.
“Roughened. They’ve been used a lot. From cowhide, I’d guess.” The smell of pungent manure and clean dirt filled his nostrils, and he almost gagged.
“What is it?”
“Cow manure. He hadn’t bothered to clean up.”
“Did you notice any other odors, any resembling a shaving cream?” Dixon prodded.
Daniel shook his head. “They smelled like they hadn’t had their weekly bath for a month.”
“That’s not entirely true.” Eyes closed, Beaton rocked back and forth on his chair. His nostrils twitched as if trying to track down an odor to its source. “Spicy. It reminded me a bit of church, and of a home kitchen at the same time.” He opened his eyes. “I smelled an unusual scent, some kind of hair tonic or possibly cologne. It could have been one of the customers, of course. But I smelled it most strongly when the man passed in front of me to take my valuables.”
“He didn’t come near me. That might explain why I didn’t notice it.” Daniel worked his tongue over his teeth before turning to Dixon. “Do you sell anything that might smell like that?”
Dixon frowned. “Spices, church, and a kitchen? Are you sure you don’t mean one of Mrs. Beaton’s Sunday dinners?” At Daniel’s glare, he said, “Of course not. But what kind of spices? Shall we repair to the store to smell all the spices I have in stock?”
“So we’re looking for a farmer who uses fancy cologne. Great.” Daniel snorted. “We might try your test tonight, but let’s make use of the sunshine and cover the roads we didn’t check out yesterday, starting with the one going east.”
“The snow’s not so bad,” Clara informed Pooches, who gamboled at her feet. “We should have come out long ago.”
He barked as if to say, “It’s wonderful!” He fell on his back and rolled, matting his golden fur with mud and slush. If the snow were deeper, she might have joined him and made snow angels. But this snowfall was so shallow a blade of grass could still stick through.
Lewis might not have stacked wood by the fireplace before he left, but he had prepared a cord of wood and left it in the woodshed. More remained to finish. Perhaps she could work on it later today. Maybe the exercise would work its wonder on her mind and keep her from worrying about Lewis.
Where was her brother, anyhow? Had he found a warm and dry place to stay when the weather hit? If he didn’t come home tonight, she might ask the constable to keep an eye out for him.
After getting wood stacked in the kitchen, Clara went back outdoors to split more firewood. Miss Featherton had believed in exercise for her girls and wanted them to be independent. More than once, Clara had found herself grateful for the practical instruction her professor had included in her preparation for life in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and sixty-odd.
She grabbed a pair of gloves and settled her feet about a shoulder’s breadth apart. She checked the first log for knots. Not finding any, she aimed for a spot slightly off perpendicular. Sliding her hands down the axe, she swung it down with a satisfying thud. A chunk fell on the ground, and the scent of wood chips exploded in the air. A few chops later, she was done with that log. The second log went just as quickly. The sun was shining, and her heart singing as it often did when she spent time out of doors. She tied a bandanna around her head to keep hair and sweat out of her eyes. If she kept moving this fast, she wouldn’t have to trouble Lewis for some time yet.
What will I do if I’ve lost all my money? The question refused to leave her alone. She and Lewis already lived simply. They never wanted for anything; they could change their menu to go without meat one day a week and make their clothes last another year. Since her return from seminary, they had taken care of all repairs themselves, although she had hoped to hire help once she started the school. If they didn’t have the money for that, she’d find another way. She jutted her chin out. She’d work longer hours—or find a better solution—and Lewis could pitch in more as well. He knew how important the school was to her, to them.
Does he?
Clara chose to ignore the doubts that wanted to creep into her mind. She set the next log on the stump and brought down the ax.
If Lewis doesn’t understand, Daniel does.
The thought halted Clara’s momentum. Why did she think that? Daniel seemed to be dragging his feet about selling the house, although he did have a lot of other things going on. She had seen the amused look on his face as she measured the rooms the other day.
Come Monday, she would see the Bailey Mansion, or know the reason why not.
The longer she worked, the slower she moved, and she had to push to finish the last few logs. The ax shuddered against the wood, and she had to swing it an extra time or two to get it to split right. Clouds filled the sky, and she shivered inside her sweat-soaked chemise. A cool breeze blew through the blowsy sleeves of her dress. She hurried to put the ax in its proper place, to stack the wood for easy retrieval before loading the carrier to bring back inside. Only then did she head inside for comfort. She fumbled with starting a f
ire in the stove and heated water for tea.
Lewis didn’t come home Saturday night, but Clara didn’t much care. Sunday morning she woke up with a fever and cough and made the rare decision not to go to church that day.
Monday morning dawned, the sun clear and bright. Clara’s bout with illness had disappeared except for a minor sniffle. Lewis’s continued absence bothered her more. She settled her cape over her shoulders and considered whether to walk or ride into town. As soon as she stuck her nose out the door, she sneezed and decided she should take Misty—or stay home, which she refused to do. What will Daniel think if he encounters me on horseback? The question made her smile. The guards remained on patrol, for all the good they had done last Friday. Then again, the robbers might have been apprehended by now, and she hadn’t heard the news.
That was the most likely story. Every person in Vermont looked for the Confederates who had stormed into St. Albans last week. By now, everyone must have heard about the Maple Notch robbery as well, whether or not the same gang pulled both jobs. No one could escape detection that long, could they?
Clara had traveled halfway to town when a familiar figure on a familiar horse approached her. Lewis, coming home at last. She nudged her mare into a trot and came alongside him.
He stared at her through bloodshot eyes, and her heart sank. Oh, Lewis. Not again. He had taken off like this after Papa’s death, but he had promised never to do it again. The greeting on her lips faltered, and she sat in the saddle without saying a word.
“Go ahead. Tell me how despicable I am and how disappointed you are. The trees are ready to hear all about it.” His arms swept in a wide arc, and he swayed before wincing with pain. “Why does the sun have to be so bright today?”
The scolding fled from her tongue. She turned her mare to their farm, and Lewis’s horse followed. At least Shadow looked well. Wherever Lewis had been, his animal had received proper care.
How Lewis could be drunk on a Monday morning perplexed Clara, since taverns closed on Sundays. Perhaps he had stayed in a private residence that kept spirits on hand. Once at the house, she helped him from the horse. The muscles in her shoulders, still sore from overuse on Saturday, protested, but she could do most anything when she set her mind to it. Once Lewis landed on the ground, he could walk on his own two feet by leaning on her.
