"He has before," noted Boxcar. "And he always manages to rile up any small war party that has managed to escape incarceration. And there are plenty of them about, judging on the number of attacks over the years on the settlers and against the stagecoach lines."
"Just the same, the day of the Indian is numbered," replied Holden with a fatalistic air. "With the gold strikes and mining camps in the southwest territories and settlers coming into the area, the landscape is changing and the Indians are slowly getting rooted out. It's just a matter of time before the army finally gets them under control."
Thorn cleared his throat, his stomach rumbling like it was trying to eat itself inside out. "Anything else you can tell us about this ruby? Was it a pigeon's blood?"
Boxcar looked impressed. "How do you know about pigeon's blood rubies?"
Thorn shot him an exasperated look. "I don't know a lot about them, I just know that pigeon's blood are some of the darkest red and the most expensive."
The sheriff pointed to an old wooden filing cabinet leaning heavily against the wall with papers sticking out at odd angles. "In there is a flier with a picture of the ruby that the Santa Fe Diocese put out years ago. I kept it, in case I ever needed it."
Boxcar eyed the cabinet dubiously. It looked ready to fall down any minute. He opened the first drawer and found it full of files that seem to be in alphabetical order, although it was stuffed full of all sorts of paper, some dog-eared and yellowed.
"What's it filed under?" he finally asked, not sure where to start.
Holden rolled his eyes and snorted. "Try the second drawer—under R for ruby, of course."
"Of course," echoed Boxcar, grinning at Thorn. "Why didn't I think of that?" He rifled through the papers and finally pulled out a faded and yellowed paper with the name of the Santa Fe Diocese across the top. He rubbed his chin. "Well, I'll be darned if it doesn't actually look like the shape of a human heart!"
Thorn peered over Boxcar's shoulder. "So this ruby is about an inch and a half tall and an inch expanse across the middle," he mused. "That's a pretty good sized ruby, not easily hidden, if someone was wearing it."
Holden nodded. "They would really like to get their hands on that ruby, it would pay for a lot of expansion work and such that they want to do in this area. Father Vincent said it's not meant for wearing, it's never been drilled. So seeing it on someone would probably never happen. They figure someone has it in their possession, either knowing what it is and not planning on giving it up, or not knowing the value and it's just lying around with their belongings because it's pretty. Most likely a woman, men don't keep baubles like that."
Boxcar fingered the small slip of paper from the dead man's hat. "Well, someone must know something about it," he replied thoughtfully. "Maybe someone has finally gotten a lead on it, maybe this girl they are looking for."
"Maybe," echoed Holden.
"Can we hold onto this flier?" he asked, folding it and sticking into his vest pocket.
"Sure, take it with you. Just don't lose it." Holden leaned back in his chair once again and waved them out. He closed his eyes and groaned slightly as he lifted his bum leg to the chair beside him. Damned heat's making my leg swell, he muttered to himself. It made him feel like kicking the dead man with his good leg just for the hell of it.
Thorn pulled the brim of his Stetson down slightly against the brilliant sunlight as they stepped out of Holden's office and onto the boardwalk. Above his head, the rusty hinge of the Sheriff's office sign creaked gently in the arid breeze that cooled the mounting heat of the midday. His sharp eyes missed nothing as he noted the tumbleweed rolling their way on the far side of the dusty dirt road running through the middle of Potluck.
There weren't a lot of people about, but then there usually wasn't during the middle of the day. The hot Arizona sun drove them inside to seek rest and shelter for a few hours before opening up again for the afternoon and evening business. It was late August, the hottest part of the year. Temperatures could reach a hundred and fifteen in the shade and only the lack of humidity made it bearable.
His stomach rumbled again, reminding him that he still hadn't eaten yet today. They had ridden hard to get back early because he missed Clary. The little brat was a part of him, and he missed her more and more when he was away. He tried not to be obvious with his visits to her, and he still rented a room at Martha's when he was in town to protect her reputation. Even so, the crumpled letter inside the pocket of his duster lining still rankled. Her father, Charles Robert Worthington, had written to him, demanding to know when there was going to be a wedding. He warned that he wouldn't put up with Thorn sullying his daughter or her reputation and that his intentions had better be honorable or he would be coming west with a shotgun and a preacher in tow. That was three months ago, and he still hadn't written him back. His musings were interrupted abruptly by Boxcar's question.
"So, if you're the sheriff, how come we're standing out here and he's sitting in there?" His thumb jutted backwards towards the door of the jail as the men turned and headed down the boardwalk towards Clary's place.
Thorn shot him an amused glance. "You know as well as I do that in his mind, he's still the sheriff. I'm just a stand in. Besides, do you really want to sit in that sweatbox instead of being out here, where there's at least a breeze? His prisoner is already getting ripe, just waiting for the undertaker."
Boxcar's nose crinkled in disgust. "Yeah, I noticed that too, old buddy. So where we headed?"
"I'm going to Clary's to get something to eat," declared Thorn. "Why don't you go over to Fanny's place and see if you can find out anything? I'll meet you back at the Sleepy Inn later."
"Tell Clary to meet us for supper at the Chuparosa tonight," replied Boxcar with a knowing grin. "I may be at the Silver Slipper for awhile with my interrogations."
Thorn's eyebrows raced each other up his forehead. "And what about Tilly?"
Boxcar shrugged his shoulders and shot his friend a mocking look. "It's a tough job, but somebody has to do it." With a jaunty air, he set off across the dirt street towards Madame Fanny's on the next block over.
Thorn watched him go, wondering once again why Boxcar didn't bring Tilly to heel. For all his friendly demeanor and easy laughter, his old friend still played his cards close to the vest. All he would say is that Tilly wasn't ready for a committed relationship and neither was he. Still, she was the first person he visited whenever they returned to Potluck. For Thorn, there had never been anyone but Clary. He'd met a few women in his travels and he wasn't a celibate, but that was it. No one could hold a candle to Clarice Allison Worthington. And now, he would finally get to try her blackberry cobbler! With a low growl in his throat, he hastened his speed until he was flying up the wooden steps to the second level of the Silver Thimble.
After Thorn left, Clary was too wound up to rest so she made her way downstairs into her shop to work on her bookkeeping. She loved her dress and milliner's shop, and she was making pretty good money with it. So far, the residents of Potluck, the women of ill repute and the respectable ones both placed orders with her. In fact, Madam Fanny's girls were her best customers.
They plied their trade happily with would be miners and young men headed west looking to make a fortune. Not to mention the cattle drovers, when they were in town. As a result, they had plenty of money to spend on pretty things.
She had met Fanny when she first came to town and elected to stay at the boarding house portion of her place just to show Thorn he couldn't tell her what to do! The front portion was respectable—kind of. At least, the girls' portion was off the back door in the alley.
When Thorn had met her stagecoach and chased off the would-be robbers just outside of Potluck, he hadn't been too happy with her coming west. Hardheaded as ever, he had demanded that she go to Martha at the Sleepy Inn and get a room until he got back from El Paso. But thanks to a young man on the stage, Mike Cavanaugh, who had introduced her to Madame Fanny, she had boarded there instead. They had
both paid for her stubborn actions. Mike had been punched in the jaw, and Clary had gotten her bottom spanked by the resolute Paddington Jersey Thorn.
But while Thorn was gone, Fanny had helped her purchase her building to set up her shop and living quarters. She had made her permanent plans to stay, with or without him. She and Fanny had become fast friends.
Business had been good the past two years, and she was hard put to keep marketable ready to wear goods on hand because of the wagons, stagecoaches, and miners' families headed west to make their fortunes. It seemed there was always some love struck male wanting to buy his lady a new dress. It was funny the matches fate often came up with in this uncivilized territory, but she wasn't complaining.
There was one thing she was going to change, though, and that was the name of her shop. She already had the new sign ready to go up. It would no longer be the Silver Thimble, it would now be the Golden Thimble. After seeing all the places that had the name silver in them, including Fanny's Inn, the Silver Slipper, she decided she wanted something different.
She was just finishing adding up a row of figures when she heard it. A small rustling sound that put her senses on high alert and made the hair on the back of her neck stand straight up. Without moving her head, she cautiously reached for the pistol she had tucked into her right hand drawer, her fingers closing silently around it as she moved it to her lap. Then she raised her head to look around, ears straining for the slightest sound, eyes darting here and there while holding her breath. Her chair was to the wall so no one could sneak up behind her but how did someone get in the shop? Had she left the front door open when she left to get the cobbler from Tilly? She didn't think she had. Her heart pounding and the blood pumping in her ears, she finally got up the courage to address the now eerie stillness. "Who's there? Is someone out there? If so, show yourself or I'll start shooting!"
"Don't shoot—please," squeaked a high-pitched voice.
Clary stood up, her knees trembling. Whoever it was, they didn't sound very dangerous but she held her gun close to her side just the same. "Come out where I can see you," she demanded.
She saw movement behind the table in the corner where bolts of fabric were stacked beneath and on top of the table in a colorful array of patterns. Riotous red curls appeared first, and then a pair of matching emerald eyes wide open and staring fearfully at her. Hands went high in the air, and her female intruder stood up slowly, the white cotton dress with the sprigs of green clovers tightening in beneath a small set of breasts denying that she was just a kid. The small trim figure was quaking, and she looked ready to burst into tears at any second.
"Are you alone?" asked Clary, her eyes darting back to the shop, straining to see if there was someone else about. Her eyes narrowed as she suddenly recognized the dress. It was one she was making for a customer, but the hem wasn't finished.
The girl nodded vigorously, her curls falling over her shoulders, escaping the clips determined to hold them in.
"Do you have any weapons?" Clary asked, proud of herself for being so cautious but already feeling sorry for the pretty young thing. She had never seen her before.
"No, I have no gun," the girl replied tearfully. "Please, Senorita, don't tell anyone I'm here. Please? Just let me hide here for a few days and then I'll get out of your way."
Clary's heart melted. "Put your hands down, honey, and come over here and talk to me. What's your name? How did you get in here?" She slipped the gun back in the drawer.
"My name is Mary Margarita Vargis," replied the young girl. "I came in here yesterday, just before you closed the shop. I sneaked in and hid."
Clary was shocked. "You've been here all night and all morning? But how..." She trailed off, wondering many things about how the girl had managed to care for herself. She had a sneaking suspicion before she even spoke.
Mary had the grace to blush. "When you went out last night, I sneaked upstairs and stole some food and...and..."
Clary nodded. "Go on."
"And then again, this morning, when you left, I did the same thing. I'm so sorry to steal from you, really I am." She sat up straight, her hands balled into fists on her lap. "I am not a thief, and I will pay you back for the food and for the clothes, I swear it!"
Clary studied her small passionate intruder. Her breast was heaving with emotion she was obviously trying to control, and there was stubbornness and determination in her eyes. The girl had spirit, there was no doubt about that—and probably a temper to match. Did anyone with hair that beautiful wild red not have a temper? Mary didn't look a day over fourteen, but the maturity in her eyes told Clary a different story. Her accent had a Spanish flare, although she didn't have the coloring to go with it. It was incongruous but somehow it worked.
She leaned forward, interested to find out more about this young woman. "Who are you hiding from, Mary? Maybe I can help."
"I am hiding from bad men, they are chasing me," she blurted out. "My stepfather, he beat up my mama and then try to hurt me. My mama, she told me to run and hide somewhere that he can never find me." Tears were trickling down her smooth young cheeks. "I know my mama is dead, she was hurt bad, very bad."
Clary gasped. "I'm so sorry, Mary. Where did this happen? Who is your stepfather?"
"My stepfather is Frank Ventermin, he owns The Tarnished Rose in El Paso," she replied bitterly. "It's such a stupid name for a whorehouse. It's like he is rubbing their noses in their profession when most of them can't help it." She threw her arms in the air in an exaggerated question. "What woman would be a whore if she had any other choice?"
Clary thought it best not to enlighten the young woman at this point; she had enough to worry about. In spite of being raised in or near a brothel, she seemed pretty naive. "And who is your mother?" she asked gently.
Mary's shoulders slumped, and she sighed heavily, the tears forming in her eyes once again, sparkling off the beautiful gem like color. "Her name is...was...Maria Antonio Vargis," she choked out.
"I thought you said she was married to your stepfather?"
"He says they are married and that he is my stepfather, but it's not true," she retorted fiercely. "He only said that because he wants to...to use me. Mama was a cook in the kitchen, and they had what she called an understanding. He was supposed to protect me in return for her favors, but I overheard him planning to sell me as a virgin to the highest bidder! I told my mama what I had heard, and he starting beating her in front of me. She told me to run...to run as far away as I could get," she finished miserably. "But he has sent men after me, I know he has. I dressed as a boy and rode all the way from El Paso behind a couple of wagons headed west. I gave them my horse and I stopped here in Potluck, hoping the men would follow on after the horse's trail. The people in the wagons did not know I was a girl, I told them I was meeting family in Potluck."
Clary sat back and studied her. Mary was leaving out quite a bit of the story, she could tell. She almost got the feeling that some of it she was making up as she went along. But she could feel the sorrow in her voice when she spoke of her mother and, for that, she had her sincere sympathy. But what was she going to do with her?
"Why didn't you go to the sheriff in El Paso?" she asked finally. "If Frank Ventermin killed your mother, it should be reported."
"Pah, the sheriff, he will do nothing," exclaimed Mary. "My mama has tried to complain before, but the sheriff, he tell her to go home to her man and be thankful she wasn't one of his whores!"
"But they weren't really married, right?" asked Clary, trying to clarify the story.
"Si, he just tell people that so he can control my mama and me," she replied hotly. "No one cared enough to check into it, and no one listens to a kid!"
"How old are you?"
"I just turned eighteen a few weeks ago." Mary's fingers picked at an invisible piece of lint on the dress, and she wouldn't look up. Her tone was very sad and Clary knew her stepfather still had control of her until she was twenty-one...if he actually was her stepfather.
She was just contemplating what to do when she heard footsteps above her head in her living quarters. Thorn was back!
Chapter Three
Mary jumped up, her slender frame quaking in fear as she dived for the table with the fabric bolts once again. "Please, do not tell anyone I am here! Please," she begged, ragged sobs escaping her throat.
Clary was caught between a rock and a hard spot. She really needed to tell Thorn about the girl. What if there was more to the story than she was telling? And even if there wasn't, someone had to look out for her and not let her stepfather have her, if he really had killed her mother. She needed someone on her side, and Clary knew Thorn could get to the bottom of it.
Quickly, she stepped to the staircase leading up to her apartment and called up the stairs, "Thorn? Is that you?"
The door at the top opened, and he stared down at her. "Yes, I'm here. What are you doing down there? I'm hungry!"
She laughed at his tone. He was hungry for more than just food, she could tell. "I'll be up in just a few minutes; your lunch is still on the table. Start without me."
"Hurry up," he groused as he shut the door.
Clary hurried over to the table and knelt down to take Mary's trembling hands and press softly. "Mary, it's okay, honey. I want you to come and meet Thorn. He is a very good man, and he will help you."
Mary wasn't going for that at all. "N-no, I don't want to! I don't trust any man! I'll get out of your way, now, just let me go." She tried to pull her hands away from Clary but she held them firmly.
"Mary, Thorn is a detective, a lawman of sorts, he can help you and protect you," she said firmly. "Please, let me take you to him. You can stay here with me while he investigates your situation."
Mary was shaking her head frantically, her riotous curls bobbing across her back in a flashing blanket of fire. "No," she insisted, her eyes getting wider. "Please, please let me go. If he is a lawman, he will just take me back to my stepfather, and Frank will hurt me! He will say it is the law!"
The Heart of Mary: A Thorn Novel Page 3
