"At eight o'clock," she replied, patting Sinclair on the back as she rocked him.
"And when are you off?"
"At four."
Coco nodded. "That means we need four nannies for Baby Sin." She drew four lines across, making rows. "That makes me, Maxine, Jake and Dessie the caregivers. Right?"
As all of us who were mentioned gave a nod, Roxie waved her hand. "If you need somebody for a substitute, I can help on Wednesdays and Thursdays when I'm off."
"That's wonderful because I'm sure we'll need backup sometimes, especially if somebody becomes ill or an emergency comes up. Now, who can care for Sinclair in the morning, starting at eight?"
"I can," Dessie Angel said. "My shift at the mines starts later in the morning."
Maxine knew Dessie served the miners food at the chuck wagon during their break at the mines.
She scowled at Jake for being such a perfect man who loved dogs and babies. In response, held up his hands, eyes wide, as if it were a robbery or something. Dessie and Coco tittered behind their hands at him.
With a roll of her eyes, but secretly chuckling to herself over Jake's antics, Maxine turned to Coco who was writing in the columns. "I'll relieve Dessie at ten."
"Then I can take over at noon," Jake offered.
"And I'll start my shift at two," Coco finished, beaming. "Florida, you can pick up Sinclair here at the shop at four o'clock."
"That is marvelous," Florida said, and then burst into tears.
"What's wrong? I thought us helping you with little Sin would make you happy." Coco looked helplessly at Maxine.
"Oh it does," Florida said with a sniff. "It's—It's nothing." She cast a sideways glance at Maxine, then her gaze skittered away and latched onto Jake. "But I would like to talk to Mr. Stark in private, please."
The fine hairs on the back of Maxine's neck rose in dread. She wanted to talk to Jake? Oscar was Florida's husband. He was gone a lot because he transported supplies and inventory from San Francisco to Blessings. Did it have something to do with Oscar? Or with Florida's job? Because Maxine was certain that Florida's tears had to do with Pasley.
Jake's lips thinned for a brief instant before he relaxed his mouth. "Of course. Anything I can do for you or any of Maxine's friends."
"Thank you. You were so good to help Roxanne with that con artist, and you helped Timmy and Worley, too. Oh, they told me," she added when she saw Jake's puzzled expression.
"I know about the whole mess, too," Coco claimed. "I saw it in a dream."
"What mess?" both Roxanne and Dessie asked nearly at the same time.
Obviously Florida referred to Jake giving the pair jobs in taking Geary Pasley down. She, too, had taken measures, although she wasn't about to admit that to anybody. Why? Because she felt ... betrayed, ashamed at being gullible enough to get betrayed, and hurt. Because yesterday, after she'd overheard Jake's discussion with Worley and Timmy, she'd felt as if the wool that had been covering her eyes, had suddenly lifted. She realized she'd been dreaming up this uncle who'd supposedly rescued her.
And somehow Jake had known. She knew because he'd asked pertinent questions about her uncle, and the fact that she hadn't ever seen Geary Pasley until he'd arrived in a timely manner in Montana to claim her after her parents had fallen to their deaths. He'd asked her about the possibility of an extended family. Jake, who'd had a brother with dreams—an inventive brother—one who'd gotten conned out of an invention that she somehow knew were the miner hats to which Geary Pasley now laid claim.
Yesterday, she'd telegraphed her father's former partner, Eugene Penham, and had asked him about the balance in her trust. He'd responded shortly afterward, and had told her the monies were gone; that her uncle had cashed out the fortune. Another blow against her so-called uncle's honor. She didn't care so much about the money—well, maybe she did, if she was truthful—but she cared more that he'd taken advantage of her, an orphan of tender years. He'd exploited her affection for him. That hurt.
As an afterthought, she'd also asked Mr. Penham if he knew of any other relatives she might have. As of yet, he hadn't responded.
"If you would like some privacy, you can go to the kitchen in the back," Coco offered. "Here, give me the baby."
Florida stood and handed Sinclair to the hostess.
"Varney, stay with me," Roxanne ordered the dog. She swept the terrier up into her arms and then sat in her cameo Victorian chair again.
Worried, somehow knowing that their discussion involved her uncle's underhanded dealings, Maxine rose from the sofa and moved closer to the back, straining to hear through the partially closed door. She could hear them, but not the words.
"Shame on you, Maxie, to be eavesdropping," Coco admonished.
Unperturbed, Maxine shushed her. Then she glanced at Roxanne. "Give me Varney."
Expression puzzled, Roxanne did as asked. Maxine whispered, "Go find Jake," before putting the dog down on the wooden floor. Varney bounded forward and pushed open the door.
"... can't get another beating. This time he was knocked unconscious."
"Timmy, Worley and ... tomorrow night ... all be over by then."
So. The time Maxine had to prove Geary was a fraud before Jake beat her to it was short. Why was she making this into a challenge? Because it was a matter of honor—her honor. She knew Jake probably planned to catch Geary's men sabotaging the inventory. Or catch Geary's men robbing other cargo. But that wouldn't be enough. At least, not in her estimation.
She would find more dirt on Uncle Geary; dirt he couldn't wash away. No. Not Uncle Geary. He wasn't her uncle. Just Geary. For she would never refer to him as her relative again. She would find out who he really was—and she could discover his true identity through Sheriff Seth Bullock of Lewis and Clark County in Montana. He had a reputation for being one of the best at his job. If anybody knew Pasley's past, it would be him. She would telegraph the Sheriff a daguerreotype of the man claiming to be Geary Pasley to see if anybody who was wanted from Montana matched his likeness.
"What are you two whispering about?" Coco called out.
"Nothing," Florida replied as she threw Jake a grateful smile and returned to the make-shift parlor. "Everything is fine."
"Mr. Stark?" Coco said, her cornflower blue eyes inquisitive as she turned toward Jake.
Jake shrugged and grinned. "Anybody up for a game of poker?"
"Not me," Maxine said as she rose from the Victorian couch. "But go ahead and show the ladies some of the card tricks to look for in case there's ever a need to catch a card sharp—including the trick of pretending you know nothing."
Roxanne laughed and then launched into the story of how Jake won back her money.
With grim resolve, Maxine left to expose a weasel.
Chapter Ten
Standing under a tree in the middle of camp, Jake leaned over the map he'd drawn of Blessings, with the Sierra Nevadas to the north and San Jose to the south, specifically the old drover's trail that supply wagons took leading from Geisinger Manufacturing to Blessings. Timmy had helped draw the map since Worley claimed he didn't have the talent. But he critiqued and added his opinions about the surrounding towns all the way to San Francisco.
Jake looked at his pocket watch. Almost three o'clock. Time was running short.
Although Florida had offered to take the afternoon off to look after Sinclair, Jake had insisted that she needed to go to work, to make the day look like any other day. So, he'd cared for the baby until two o'clock, which was when Coco took over. Thankfully, Coco took in Varney, too.
"So you say the wagon with the shoddy pick-ax heads will stop here?" Jake indicated a rooftop that signified a building next to the old drover's trail.
"Yep," Worley replied. "The supply wagon with the pick axes from Sheffield Manufacturing— who has a great reputation for making quality tools— will also stop there. Sheffield wagons usually drive down this path." With a large finger, he indicated a line drawn to the south of Blessings. "But the wagon wi
ll come up along this other fork in the path to meet Geisinger's supplies this time. Men who are driving the Sheffield wagon accepted Pasley's bribes. The shed is where they will mix the bad product with the good. I heard Pasley say his goal was to drive Sheffield out of business so Geisinger could take over the sales territory to the south."
"Then we'll stop them from making the swap." He exchanged glances with all the men present— Worley Bodman, Timmy Turner ... and the most recent member of their group, Oscar Crow. "We'll break every one of Geisinger's inferior metal tools before they can be delivered. We'll relieve the crooked drivers of their jobs." He gestured toward Oscar and Timmy. "You two, drive the wagon with the good inventory to San Jose. Worley, you and I will drive the Geisinger wagon to Blessings. Then, when the wagon rolls into town and to Pasley's business, we'll have the sheriff there to witness for himself the shoddily-welded tools that Pasley sells."
"Will that ruin Pasley?" Oscar asked. His dark skin had purpled around one eye and the side of his jaw. His split lip was still swollen from his beating three days ago, courtesy of Pasley's thugs. But his green eyes glistened with determination. "Don't forget that Florida plans to report Pasley's shady inventory tracking system to the sheriff, too."
"Yes, Pasley will pay for his crimes— eventually," Jake replied. Too, there was the evidence of the secret ledgers that Pasley kept, locked in Maxine's desk drawer that included stolen inventory. Although Maxine hadn't as yet indicated she wanted to expose Geary Pasley to the law, he was certain that, given time, she would accept the truth about the man who claimed to be her uncle. He didn't want to rush her though. He didn't want to see her hurt.
A fierce protectiveness toward her swept over him— so fierce that he almost had to sit on the tree stump behind him. The stump that he'd shared with her. He treasured that memory, could almost see the way her warm chocolate eyes glistened with bright strands of caramel as the morning sun cast a buttery ray across her face. He cherished the way she smiled— her coral lips curving to cause a slight dimple in the cream and rose-like skin. The snappy retorts she gave when he teased her ... or when she protected the ones she loved. Pasley didn't deserve her loyalty, or her love. But it didn't matter. Pasley didn't matter. Only Maxine mattered. And he wouldn't force the truth of Pasley on her until she was ready to accept it. Hopefully she would let him be there for her when that truth hit.
Because he loved her.
Admitting the truth of his feelings to himself caused a joy to burst forward from deep inside his heart. The darkness that had been caused by David's death seemed to grow a lighter shade of gray. He realized that his revenge didn't matter. The only thing that mattered to him now was Maxine. He would protect her—her feelings and her life. And he would love her. He didn't want to roam anymore. Nope. He wanted to stay right there in Blessings and watch over Maxine, to be with her every day of his life. Even if she didn't love him, he would love her and accept whatever she was willing to give him. For he was hers, in whatever manner he could serve her. Forever.
Worley cleared his throat, interrupting Jake's reverie. "I've decided to go to Sheriff Jones and tell him about Pasley ordering me to rough up any miners who haven't paid their debts. Timmy is going to step forward, too."
"Right. I am," the smaller man replied, his eyes narrowed with determination.
"That's good," Jake said as relief washed over him. The testimony would cause the sheriff to look into Pasley's activities more closely, which would, hopefully, result in prison time for Pasley. "We'll see what happens. Maybe even more abused miners will step forward. At the very least, he will lose customers, once word spreads that Pasley sells inferior products."
The sun was sinking. Jake took out his pocket watch. "We better get going. According to Oscar, both wagons will arrive at the shed in an hour or so."
As Jake headed for his bay horse, Tenax, a sense of impending doom swept over him. Why was that? He shook it off. No, this had to be done.
And he would keep a close eye out for any danger.
MAXINE SLIPPED INTO Geary's study. She realized she was rarely invited into this chamber, so she never trespassed. She was trespassing now, because it was her right to do so. She must learn the truth ... all of it.
It was masculine, with a dark mahogany desk that was much more elaborate than the one she always sat at in the office. The high-back, Georgian-styled chair had gilded legs, engraved wooden backs, and rich-looking leather squabs. When she sat in it, she felt as if she were wrapped in cushy clouds. The man who claimed to be Geary Pasley had the finest items that money could buy. Her money.
Again, why hadn't she realized what kind of man he was? She had been only eight years old, and so traumatized after seeing her beloved parents fall to their deaths in that canyon that she'd yearned for stability, for somebody to fill in that hole in her heart. It was a horrible thing to lose her innocence in such a manner. For she had been innocent. She hadn't known about duplicity. And familiarity bread content. She had been content and had assumed the best in him. After sending off her telegraph to the Montana sheriff, she'd gone by the Crows to check on Oscar. He'd been severely beaten. After much badgering, Maxine had discovered the truth— three days ago, Geary had hired thugs to beat Oscar and to guard the shipments from Geisinger Manufacturing.
Too, the Blessings blacksmith had told her that Geisinger was using inferior metal that would break after using the tools for a short time—maybe a week, give or take.
She searched in the drawers only to discover, like the desk drawer in the office, a drawer was locked. After searching for the key and not finding it, she realized she would have to jimmy the lock again.
Three hairpins later, she managed to open it. Inside she discovered papers indicating Geary owned half of Geisinger. So. Not only was he making money from miners being forced to purchase shoddily-forged tools multiple times, but he was making wholesale profit. In addition, he had control over the raw materials; he could make a superior batch of tools and sneak in a bad batch ever so often to keep merchants mostly satisfied, and to hide what he was doing.
She dug deeper into the drawer, and was about to give up until she saw an aged sheet of paper that didn't match the other documents. She retrieved it and realized it was a schematic, a blueprint for the miner hats. At the top was the name David Stark.
Her heart froze. Jake's brother, David, had been the one to design the miner hats ... not Geary. Her intuition had been right. That morning when Jake had told the grief-ridden tale of his brother's dreams being ripped away by a conman, the dream had been to make miners hats to better protect the men under the ground.
Wrecker of Dreams, was how Jake had referred to the man who pretty much murdered his brother. And that man was Geary. Her so-called uncle was a WOD. She would take the blueprints to Sheriff Jones, along with the evidence. She folded up the blueprint and slipped it in her skirt pocket, and was stooping down to secure the lock again when she heard the door to the study, creak.
"So my ruse is up."
Maxine jerked her attention to the man she'd thought she'd known for nearly fifteen years only to discover she hadn't.
"Sixteen years was a good run. What am I going to do with you?"
"What do you mean?" She looked down at his hand and realized he held a gun pointed at her. The moment was surreal. Even though her knees wobbled like Yorkshire pudding, she met his stare and raised her chin. "I'll give you an hour to turn yourself in to Sheriff Jones."
Although he laughed, his nearly black eyes were hard. "I should get rid of you for good, but the thought turns my stomach. You see, I still view you as my niece, and I've grown rather fond of you. So. I'll lock you in the basement. By the time somebody finds you I'll be long gone."
The idea of being in the cold, dank basement sent shivers of dread down her spine. It was too much like the darkness of the canyon.
He set down the gun and withdrew a small bottle. Uncorking it, he poured it in a glass and added the dark amber liquid that he kept in a dec
anter, then held it out to her.
"What is that?"
"Laudanum mixed with my favorite brand of whiskey. It's for the best. I know you despise dark places such as basements, so this will put you to sleep and you won't even know your environment. Until you wake up, that is. Too, I can't have you yelling and drawing attention. And don't think of resisting. If you do, I'll have my boy here ..." he gestured toward the doorway and a squat, boxy man came into view at the threshold, "... hold you down."
Her shoulders slumped at the determination that gleamed in Geary's eyes. There was no way she could fight him or his thug. But she rallied. Surely she could find a way to bring him to justice, to beat him. After all, she was smart. She could be conniving if she put her mind to the puzzle. She took the proffered glass. "What is your real name? After all these years, don't you think I should know? And what did you do with the real Geary Pasley and my Aunt Harriet?
"Oh, nothing. They died in a remote cabin in Canadian territory. Pasley died of a fever, and Mable's heart stopped working, I believe. Even though it had been a couple of years before I took over Pasley's identity, word hadn't spread that he'd died. Communication across the border isn't good, which turned out well for me."
She took a small sip and managed to keep from grimacing over the strong, bitter flavor. "So? What is your real name?"
He tilted his head and tapped his jaw, as if considering. "I would rather you remember me as your dear ol' Uncle Geary."
"No, I will always think of you as an immoral weakling who took advantage of an eight-year-old girl."
He paced the floor, not bothering to look at her, and not seeming to care what she thought of him. "Drink up, my dear. I'm in a hurry."
Reluctantly she did so, but only half. The liquid burned her throat and she resisted the urge to cough. Immediately the room warped as if she were in another world, the walls caving in and then expanding.
The scapegoat pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it, then turned to his accomplice and said something like it's time. Even as she wondered what he meant, she took advantage of his distraction by pouring the rest of the concoction back into the decanter. He turned toward her. "Oh, and you might as well start looking for another beau."
Sweeten the Swindler Page 9
