by Cassie Hayes
Colton stuck his hand out at the man, who stared at it for a beat before grasping it and grinning.
“Aw, you were just doing your job,” Farnsworth said. “I’m real sorry for causing so much trouble.”
“We know that, son,” Mr. Harper said from behind them. “Just don’t go getting any ideas or I’ll sic the constable on ya.”
His tone was teasing, but Colton sensed the truth in his words, and so did Farnsworth.
“I won’t, sir. I promise. I never done nothing like that before, and I won’t shame my family like that again. I thankee for giving me a second chance.”
Colton left the store a few minutes later wrapped in warmth the cold day couldn’t douse. Malcolm had been right. Not everything in life was cut and dry. Just because someone broke a law didn’t mean the best solution was to punish him to the fullest extent. Colton had no intention of letting lawbreakers get away with whatever they wanted, but each case needed to be dealt with individually, rather than using the same hammer of justice on everyone.
“Well, how’d it go?” Malcolm asked when he returned to the station.
Malcolm had taught Colton so much, such as how to spot a liar and trust his own instincts. They told him that Farnsworth would never do something so foolish again, and that made him happy beyond words.
“Good. I think you were right. My gut says he won’t do something so foolish again.”
“Mine too. You’ve made great strides, Colton, and your willingness to learn is a testament to your character. A lot of men would rather dig their heels in than admit there might be another way. You’re a fine Mountie, and you’ll only get better.”
Colton tried not to grin with the pride he felt at the compliment, but he failed miserably. It had been a good day. The best part was that he felt closer to Gemma than ever before.
Unwrapping his sandwich, he took a big bite, then stopped chewing. He suddenly felt uneasy, and he wasn’t sure why. Something about Gemma. No, not Gemma, but Mr. Kirk, the fur trader.
“Malcolm?” he asked as he sat at his desk, completely confounded.
“Yup?”
“You say I should trust my instincts.”
“Yup.”
“You also say that if something doesn’t make sense, it probably isn’t true.”
Malcolm glanced up from the paper he was reading. “That’s right.”
“So what am I supposed to do if my instincts don’t make sense?”
Malcolm raised his eyebrows and listened as Colton explained seeing Kirk and Gemma outside the station. “I got the feeling Gemma didn’t like the man, yet she still agreed to let him escort her home. It doesn’t make sense.”
“I think your instincts are spot on, at least in regard to Gemma not liking Kirk. I don’t much care for him either.”
Colton started. “Really? He seems like a good man.”
“Colton, there’s a big difference between congenial and good. Something’s off about Kirk, and Gemma obviously picked up on it.”
Worry gripped him. “Do you think she’s safe? Should I go check on her?”
“She’s fine. Annie brought me lunch while you were gone and said she saw a big man dressed in furs walk Gemma home, then he left.”
“Thank goodness!”
Malcolm stood and perched on his desk, as was his habit. “The question I have is what is Kirk up to? Aside from buying furs. Maybe you should ask around the village to find out if the Indians know anything.”
Colton didn’t relish the thought of going door to door in such freezing weather, hoping someone would be willing to talk to him, but he’d have to do it sooner or later. Besides, it was that or do a bunch of busywork. Shoveling the rest of his lunch into his mouth, he threw on his coat and headed for his horse.
Colton spent the better part of the afternoon asking around in the village about Kirk. The men who knew him, only had good things to say about his trading practices. He always offered fair prices for good pelts. After hearing the same thing at least ten times, he decided his and Malcolm’s instincts had been wrong.
It was possible the men in the village weren’t being forthcoming — he’d noticed a few of the men’s wives frowning when Kirk was mentioned — but it was just as possible they didn’t like the man’s bombastic personality. Whatever was going on, no one was talking.
Light was growing thin by the time he decided to call it a day. It would be dark by the time he reached the station. That was the worst part of winter — the short days. He looked forward to seeing what the area was like in the summer, when the days stretched out twice as long.
Not far outside the village, the little white fox the brides had taken to calling Finnegan darted out from under a bush and ran down a faint trail into the woods. The sudden movement startled Colton, and he laughed at himself for being frightened by such a small animal.
He very nearly missed a second set of tracks — tracks made by a much larger animal. Big human feet had made those tracks, and judging by the sharp edges embedded in the snow, they’d been made recently.
Colton couldn’t recall hearing of anyone living out in the woods, at least not this close to a village. Glancing up at the sky, he judged he had about fifteen minutes of good light left. Plenty to see where the tracks led.
It didn’t take long for the tracks to fade, along with the snow. He wasn’t about to wander around the woods at night searching for some mysterious man who could have easily simply been out for a walk. If Colton was still curious come morning, he’d make a point of exploring the woods a little more then.
He turned to head back the way he’d come when he heard a series of soft yips. Finnegan sat in the middle of the path, bold as brass and staring at him. Colton took a step toward the fox, which then jumped up and ran ten feet down the trail. Then he did the darnedest thing. He sat down and stared at Colton again. As soon as Colton got within a few feet, Finnegan would repeat the process until they were deep in the forest, where night fell early.
“Oh, forget this!” he grumbled, then stopped cold.
What was that?
Listening hard, he heard the noise again. A soft humming, along with the sound of glass clinking. Now that was curious. The hum was coming closer, so Colton stepped off the faint path and hid behind a tree. He carefully avoided stepping on twigs or anything else that might alert the person to his presence. He finally spotted movement just ahead.
Crouching low, he watched as a tall man he recognized as Shamus Davidson pushed a wooden wheelbarrow along the bumpy path. Glass clinked together, and after bouncing over a protruding rock, a Mason jar filled with clear liquid fell out of the back and shattered. Even at a distance, Colton could smell the sharp scent of pure alcohol.
He'd found the bootlegger!
His heart raced as he tried to decide how to proceed. The safest path would be to return to the station, get Malcolm, and come back to arrest Shamus. But that might give Shamus the chance to escape. Besides, he couldn’t stop picturing the expression on everyone’s faces when they learned he’d captured an infamous criminal no other Mountie had been able to track down. Imagine how proud Gemma would be!
Leaping out from his hiding spot, Colton shouted, “Shamus Davidson! You’re under arrest!”
Chapter 9
Shamus Davidson was a local trapper who’d made Reindeer Rock home a couple years earlier, which also happened to be around the time the bootlegging operation had started up. He hadn’t put up any kind of fight when Colton had arrested him the night before, but he also hadn’t said a word since Colton locked him in the station’s small holding cell. The other Mounties had congratulated him, but Colton had been sorely mistaken when he’d thought Gemma would be happy he’d nabbed the bootlegger.
“What’s for breakfast?” he asked as he sat down at the table, only a little alarmed to not smell bacon crisping in the skillet.
Without a word, Gemma set a bowl of gooey oatmeal in front of him, then hurried over to where Lizzy was quietly sitting on the bed,
her children clinging to her. The bed curtains were parted enough he could peek at the mysterious mourning going on inside.
Colton tried not to take it personally, but he simply couldn’t figure out why everyone was in such a mood. Ever since he’d walked in the door the previous evening, the buttons on his red serge practically popping off from the pride he felt over his first legitimate arrest, Gemma and Lizzy had seemed preoccupied, at best. Gloomy, more often than not. When he’d told them his good news, Lizzy had blanched and run to the relative privacy the bed curtains offered.
As he choked down his bowl of oats, Colton wondered what the two women were whispering about. John and Mary even sniffled as if they were crying. When he’d asked Gemma after everyone had turned in the night before, she’d hinted at ladies’ troubles…but with three sisters, Colton knew women sometimes used that excuse to scare men away from prying. He suspected this was one of those times, and as Malcolm had taught him, he would trust his instincts. Of course, if they wouldn’t tell him, he couldn’t do much about it.
“Well, I guess I’ll head to work,” he called.
The only response was more whispering.
Sighing heavily, he went to the door and jammed his hat on his head. This should have been the best day of his life. The womenfolk should have been happy, not inconsolable. Whatever was going on, he’d have to figure it out later. He had more important work at hand. As he was shrugging into his winter coat, Gemma hurried through the curtains. Smiling too broadly, she reached up and hugged him.
“Good luck today,” she said, straightening his already straight collar. “I suppose you’ll continue trying to interrogate Mr. Davidson?”
Her smile seemed exaggerated, but he was just glad she was finally showing interest. “Yup. After a night in the cell, I’m hoping he’ll be ready to talk.”
“Didn’t you catch him red-handed with alcohol in his wheelbarrow? What more information do you need?”
“His accomplice’s name, for starters.”
He thought he heard Lizzy sob from behind the curtains, but it could have been one of the kids. Dropping his voice low enough Lizzy wouldn’t hear, he asked, “What’s going on in there?”
“Nothing,” Gemma said quickly. “Why do you think there’s an accomplice?”
“I’d call it instinct, but really it’s just common sense. A white man selling liquor to Indians would stand out like a sore thumb. He’s got to be working with someone in the village, and I’m going to find out who it is.”
Gemma looked suddenly unwell, as if she might faint.
“Are you okay?” he asked, reaching for her.
She waved away his hands and headed for the kitchen. “I’m fine. Just wait a moment, please.”
Colton watched as she pulled food from the icebox and placed it in a big basket Lizzy had woven. Leftover meatloaf, the rest of a loaf of bread, roasted root vegetables, and a big hunk of cake. Now that was what Colton called a lunch! Smiling, she handed him the overloaded basket.
“Would you mind giving this to Mr. Davidson, please?”
Colton frowned, thinking he’d misheard. “Excuse me?”
“Mr. Davidson. Please give this to him. It’s my duty as a Mountie’s wife to feed your prisoners.”
“You’re sending him all this food, and nothing for me?” he balked.
“Oh! How stupid of me!”
Gemma scurried back to the kitchen for a minute or two and returned with a square brown-paper package. It looked just about the size of an average sandwich. He scowled as he stuffed it in the basket with the much more appetizing food destined for a criminal. He trudged out the door like a petulant child, not even going in for a sweet kiss as he normally did.
His grumpy mood faded with each step he took toward the station. He felt certain with all of them working on Shamus, they’d get to the bottom of the matter quickly. Stomping the snow off his boots felt quite gratifying, shedding snow as he shed his frustration. Heaving the basket onto his desk, Malcolm gave him a questioning look.
“Big appetite today?” he asked with a smirk.
Colton rolled his eyes. “Gemma sent it for Shamus.”
Malcolm shrugged. “That’s kind of her. He’s probably hungry. Better take it back.”
“Maybe I’ll just give him the sandwich she packed for my lunch instead. What do you think?”
“I think that’s pretty cold-hearted.”
“Fine.” Colton grumbled and snatched up the basket again.
Shamus Davidson lay on his back with his feet dangling off the short bunk and his forearm covering his eyes. A thin wool blanket covered most of him.
“Morning, Shamus,” Colton said, lifting the towel that covered the contents of the basket. “Sleep well?”
Shamus opened one baleful eye, then closed it again and grunted.
“Ready to tell me who sold that hooch for you in the village?”
The man rolled over with his back to Colton.
The last thing Colton wanted to do was reward the man for not talking, but he couldn’t very well let him go hungry. “My wife sent this for you, but I’m not sure you deserve it.”
Shamus took his time sitting upright, then simply stared at his shoes. “You’re right about that, Constable Leeds.”
The man looked positively miserable, and Colton got the sense it wasn’t just because he’d been caught. Something else hovered underneath, something much darker and more personal. If he didn’t know any better, Colton might think it was shame. But if Shamus had ever felt an ounce of shame for breaking the law as he had, he certainly would have stopped making the moonshine.
Colton unlocked the cell and placed the basket just inside before locking it up tight again. Shamus just stared at it. Finally, he looked up to meet Colton’s gaze with a misty expression.
“That’s a nice basket.”
“Nice basket? You know there’s some delicious food inside that basket, right?”
The cell was small enough that Shamus only had to reach forward at the waist to grab it. Setting it on his lap, his fingers traced the geometric pattern woven into the front.
“Your wife cooked all this?”
The odd man hadn’t even looked under the towel to see what was in there. “She had help from Lizzy. You remember her? You fetched me when her house burned down.”
“I remember,” Shamus said quietly. “Please thank her for me as well. I will never forget the kindness.”
Then he did the strangest thing. He laid back on the bunk and set the basket on his chest, cradling it instead of digging into it. Colton shook his head and went back to his desk. He crossed his arms and scowled at the wall of wanted posters because he couldn’t very well scowl at his commander.
“How are we going to make him admit the truth, Malcolm?”
“We might not be able to.”
“Is it possible he doesn’t have an accomplice, like he claimed last night?
Malcolm looked thoughtful. “Anything’s possible, but it seems to me like he’s protecting someone.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Colton was too anxious to sit still. He moved around the station, adding wood to the little cast-iron stove, tidying up stacks of papers, even straightening the wanted posters. Some of the criminals depicted were wanted for things like murder and bank robbery, while a handful seemed to be wanted for lesser crimes, but a lot of them. He glared each criminal in their fuzzy, printed eyes, silently warning them not to step foot in his territory if they wanted to ever leave.
Maybe going out on his rounds would help burn off the excess energy that had built up in Colton. He half-turned to tell Malcolm when something caught his eye. Someone had tacked one poster on top of another, obscuring the one underneath. Strange. He’d put these up himself and was certain he hadn’t made an error like that. As he looked closer, he realized it couldn’t have been a mistake — both posters had their own tacks, so it wasn’t as if the bottom one had simply stuck to the top one unnoticed. No, someone had purpose
ly covered the bottom poster, but he couldn’t imagine who, much less why.
Tugging the hidden poster free, he was startled to see a woman’s face peering back at him. He must have been so preoccupied talking to Malcolm as he'd posted the flyers that he hadn’t noticed a woman was among them. Unusual, but female criminals seemed to be on the rise, so it wasn’t completely rare.
Bronwen Spurting. Wanted for multiple counts of grand larceny. Known to frequent Ottawa. Often accompanied by a girl or small woman purported to be her daughter (name unknown).
The woman’s eyes had a familiarity to them, though Colton had never seen her before. He’d spent a grand total of two days in Ottawa, and the only ladies he’d met were Miss Hazel the other brides. Regardless, Mrs. Spurting — what a funny name — almost certainly wouldn’t find her way to Reindeer Rock anytime soon.
Colton reached to tack it into an open spot when he noticed the T in the woman’s name had been smudged in the printing process. Looking closer, he saw it wasn’t a T at all. It was an L.
Bronwen Spurling. The name sounded familiar. Spurling, Spurling… He opened his mouth to ask Malcolm if he recognized the name when it hit him. His mouth hung slack as his vision narrowed to a fine pinprick, until all he could see was “Spurling.”
Gemma’s maiden name.
“Do you think Mr. Davidson will tell?” Gemma asked Lizzy.
Lizzy shook her head furiously as she stuffed Mary’s spare dress into a bag. “No.”
“Even if not doing so only makes it worse for himself?”
In her experience, criminals would do just about anything to save their own hides, including handing over any and all accomplices. Lizzy had more faith than Gemma.
“He will not betray me.”
Gemma shrugged and returned to the satchel she was packing, hoping for Lizzy’s sake she was right.
“Are you sure you want to move out? I thought you didn’t have anywhere to go.”
Lizzy paused, swallowed hard, then answered. “I have a place now.”
Always enigmatic, Gemma thought. She didn’t really want Lizzy and her children to leave, but it was probably safest to put some space between them and Colton. That would also give Gemma and Colton the opportunity to live like a real married couple, which sent tingles of anticipation skittering across her skin. Of course that was assuming Kirk didn’t spill her secret and ruin her life.
