by Jo Goodman
“Ah,” said Buzz. “You heard about the proposal.”
“I read about it. Every word.”
“So, and this is a guess, you’d be against it.”
“Now you’re just tryin’ to rile me. You figure you can make me fail at my first resolution. Well, I’m not spendin’ the night in jail no matter how much I wanna smash your mirror or your face. I’m leavin’.”
“You want someone to walk you home? My nephew will walk with you. You can kick his ass and I won’t press charges.”
Jeremiah didn’t turn on his way out, but he spoke loudly enough that it didn’t matter. “Go to hell, Buzz.”
When Jeremiah was out of sight, Buzz crooked his finger at his nephew, who was returning to the bar with an empty tray. Buzz snatched it out of his hands when Lincoln finally arrived. “Why does it take so long for you to get here when you were already on your way?”
“Could be that inviting Jeremiah Salt to kick my ass slowed me down some.”
“That was just talk. I can do it myself, gouty foot or not.” He put the tray aside. “I want you to go down to the jail. Sheriff’s probably at the Butterworth, but Hitch should be there. Tell him Jeremiah drank more than I promised the sheriff I’d let him, and I’m sorry for it, but couldn’t be helped. Here’s the important part. Tell him Jeremiah was talking a little out of his head. No specific threats, just talk, but it didn’t set right with me. You can remember that?”
“Hmm. Let me see. You served more beer to Mr. Salt than was good for him and now you want to relieve yourself of the responsibility by informing the law about his crazy talk. That about it?”
Buzz struck with the speed of a rattlesnake but without that reptile’s polite warning. He seized his nephew by the collar and pulled him in until they were eye to eye. “Yes, that’s it, and I’m definitely going to kick your ass now.” Satisfied when the young man gulped, Buzz released him and smoothed the collar. “You go on, think about what I said.”
Chuckling, he watched his nephew hurry to the door. He drew a beer for himself and then gave it away, recalling that his true resolution was to treat his gout with more respect. Besides, he was beginning to like his nephew.
* * *
• • •
Ben did not know he was expected to make the announcement until his mother told him while they were dancing. “I probably didn’t hear you right,” he said, but there was no getting around it when she repeated herself and it sounded exactly the same. “Why is now the first time I’m hearing this?”
“Because you had to escort that poor prisoner to Denver and I thought all your attention should be on that. You know how you fret.”
“I don’t fret, Mother. You’re confusing me with you. Is Mr. Butterworth all right with this?”
“He wants you to call him Abe. Can you do that?”
Ben sighed. “Is Abe all right with this?”
“He thinks it’s proper that it should come from you. No one will doubt that you approve; that’s important to him. You do approve, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure how many more ways I can say it.”
“Just one more. Make the announcement.”
So he did. Timed to exactly two minutes before midnight—Ellie’s suggestion—he pulled everyone’s attention away from the clock by inserting his two little fingers into his mouth, setting his lips and tongue just so, and giving one sharp blow. The whistle was loud and shrill, and he suspected that as far away as the livery, Lady Macbeth had stirred in her stall.
“I promise not to do that again,” he told them, “if you will hear me out. I am privileged and proud to announce the engagement of my dear mother, Eleanor Madison, to the estimable Mr. Abraham Butterworth, who I will be honored to call Abe from this point forward. They are happy beyond words, as I am for them, so I ask you to raise your glasses and wish them well in what’s left of this year and in all of the years to follow.”
Ben raised his glass. No one required encouragement to follow his lead. There was a general murmur of approval, warm and polite at first, then a smattering of applause and cheers that soon became a steady percussion that increased in strength and volume. A chant for the couple to kiss started in the back and rose in a crescendo until Ellie and Abe obliged their audience. The humor was sometimes ribald but always good-natured and the clamoring stayed at a rowdy pitch until the twelve o’clock hour arrived. There was marginally less noise then as the other couples in the room exchanged kisses and wishes, mostly with each other. It was encouraging to Ben that so few liberties were taken and that retribution for offenses, real or imagined, would probably occur outside the hotel. If he could avoid breaking up a fight, it would be a fine start to the year.
Ben kissed his mother again, clapped Abe on the back a second time, and then wended his way through the dancers, sometimes around them, until he reached Ridley’s side. She had a glass of champagne in her hand, the perfect complement to her gown.
“You did Ellie and Mr. Butterworth proud,” she said, raising her glass and touching it to his beer. “How did your mother convince you to do it?”
“Equal measures of guilt and guile. She knows I don’t like speaking in public.”
“You ran for office. How could you avoid it?”
“My opponent was long winded and boring. People were relieved when I got up and down in a hurry.”
She laughed.
“Swear to God it’s true. Now tell me that I imagined Mr. Washburn planting his lips on you.”
“It was my cheek.”
“It would have been your mouth if you hadn’t turned in time.”
“He was thanking me.”
“He could have shaken your hand. Where was Mrs. Washburn?”
“In the corner behind us with that bank teller. The tall one.”
“Todd Lancaster?”
“Yes, if he’s the tall one.”
Ben rubbed the back of his neck as he shook his head. “You want to go home soon?”
“I do.”
“You know, if we’d told everyone about us, we could be kissing right now.”
“Go dance with someone,” she said.
“I want to dance with you.”
“I’m promised to Hank Ketchum.”
Ben came close to choking on his beer and just managed not to spill any from his glass as his hand jerked. “I’m going to find Mrs. Rushton.”
Smiling to herself, Ridley watched him go in search of her housekeeper and then went to take the perpetually sour Hank Ketchum in hand.
* * *
• • •
Hitch stood in deep shadow as he watched Jeremiah Salt lurch from his forge to home. Jeremiah had spent a fair amount of time banging around the forge before leaving it for his house, which was what allowed Hitch to catch up to him and follow his progress now. The larger problem for the deputy was that Jeremiah was not empty-handed. Hitch was familiar with the size of Jeremiah’s fists; the man had shaken them at him more than once. When Jeremiah clenched his hands, they were like anvils, and as best as Hitch could determine, he was carrying a hammer in one and tongs in the other.
It was hardly a crime to be carrying tools of his trade, but Jeremiah was drunk and, according to Buzz Winegarten’s nephew, talking nonsense that had Buzz worried. That was at least enough for Hitch to give Jeremiah a holler, wasn’t it? Wish him happy on the New Year and ask him what he was going to do with the hammer and tongs? Anyone seeing him would put the same question to him, wouldn’t they? And Hitch was a deputy, making his rounds, so it wouldn’t be peculiar to ask or expect an answer.
Hitch shook himself loose, shoulders and arms and wrists. He unbuttoned his coat, took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and stepped out of the shadows. The full moon was on the wane, but on this cold, clear night it illuminated sweeping crests of fallen snow and made the shoveled path between the forge and
the house a dark artery that Hitch had no problem following.
“Hey, Mr. Salt,” he called. “Hey! Happy New Year!” Jeremiah turned slowly, so slowly in fact that Hitch suspected he was having trouble with his balance. “Did you get up to the Butterworth tonight?”
“Who is that?” he said, peering bleary-eyed at the figure approaching. “That you, the sheriff’s whelp?”
That offended Hitch, but he answered good-naturedly, “Sure is. Deputy Hitchcock Springer.” When he had closed the distance to ten feet, he stopped. It was clear now that Jeremiah Salt was indeed in possession of a hammer and tongs. “Did you hear the guns going off at midnight? I guess there will always be folks who mark the New Year that way.”
“Guess so.”
“Dave and Ed Saunders promised fireworks but I didn’t see any. Maybe they didn’t arrive.”
“Maybe not.”
Hitch couldn’t think of anything else to say in the way of general conversation. “So I’m noticing the hammer and tongs, Mr. Salt, and I gotta tell you, I’m curious. If you were still in the forge, I wouldn’t have given a thought to them, but out here, well, you probably understand why I’m finding it odd.”
“I don’t understand. Don’t understand at all. But if you have a question, you should probably ask it straight out. It’s cold. I haven’t been drinking so hard or long that I don’t notice that.”
The deputy supposed it was good to hear Jeremiah himself confirm that he had been drinking. “All right. Why are you carrying the hammer and tongs, Mr. Salt?”
“Gotta carry them. They can’t get to the house on their own.”
Hitch chuckled and hoped it didn’t sound forced. “I meant what are you going to do with them?”
“Then you should’ve asked that. My boy’s got a toothache. Complainin’ about it for days. The hammer’s to knock it loose. The tongs are to remove it.”
It was so patently absurd that Hitch had to believe Jeremiah was pulling his leg. Maintaining a straight face, he asked, “Is it Clay you’re talking about or little Ham?”
On any other night, Jeremiah’s belly laugh would have awakened the neighbors. Tonight that sound was merely part of the larger celebration. “Maybe you’re not so green after all, Deputy. Hard to tolerate your ma, but I like your father well enough. Could be you got more of him than her in you.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“Maybe you’ll run for sheriff someday.”
“Maybe I will.” He pointed to each of Jeremiah’s hands in turn. “About the hammer and tongs . . .”
“Gotta rat problem. There’s maybe a family of them, living between the walls. I’ve had enough of their scratchin’ and scrabblin’. Getting rid of them tonight. Knock ’em out with the hammer. Remove ’em with the tongs.”
Now Hitch was not sure if his leg was still being pulled. In Jeremiah’s inebriated state, what he was proposing might seem reasonable. “Maybe you should wait until morning, Mr. Salt.” He glanced toward the house, where only a single window remained lit by a lamp. “Looks like your children are sleeping. Mrs. Salt might be as well. Do you really want to wake them?”
“Got you that time,” said Jeremiah.
It was evident to Hitch that Jeremiah was clearly enjoying himself. “Guess you did.”
“I’m feelin’ just that much sorry for you, so here it is. The boys sleep in an iron rail bed. I got no idea how they shook it up, other than them being boys, but it needs some straightening. It’s a little tippy. Besides that, Ham stuck his head between the head rails the other day and Lily had to call me in to get him out. I aim to fix that problem.”
“Right now?”
“Do the marbles in your head rattle when you walk, son? Never mind. I’m not doin’ anything but fallin’ into my bed once I get inside. Thought about Ham and the rails on my way home and figured I’d take in the tools I needed so I could attend to things in the morning. That satisfy you?”
“You could have said so straight off.”
“You’re right, Deputy. I could’ve. Now, if you don’t have another asinine question for me, let’s end it at good night.”
Feeling vaguely unsettled, Hitch nodded reluctantly. “Good night, Mr. Salt. If you don’t mind, I’ll wait right here, make sure you get in.”
Jeremiah Salt shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Hitch did. He not only waited until Jeremiah was inside, but walked the perimeter of the house afterward to assure himself that the interior remained quiet. He felt marginally better about leaving but not so easy that he could let it go without saying something to the sheriff. With that in mind, he headed straight to the Butterworth.
* * *
• • •
“Excuse me,” said Ben, easing himself away from the tight circle of the Fishes and the Hennepins the moment he saw his deputy standing at the entrance. He hurried toward Hitch, apologizing as he squeezed past folks on his way to the front. “Let’s step outside before your mother sees you, unless you’re here for her. Are you?”
Hitch shook his head and ducked back out. He stared at Ben, taking in his attire from neck to tails to toes. “Well, aren’t you turned out like Mrs. Astor’s pet horse?”
“You want to keep your job? Shut up.”
Hitch grinned. “Guess you heard that a couple of times tonight.” When Ben merely raised an eyebrow, the grin vanished. Hitch cleared his throat and launched into the reason for his visit.
Ben listened to the whole of what Hitch had to say and then he moved them to the boardwalk in front of the hotel as Sam Love and his wife stepped out onto the porch for some fresh air. The couple did not attempt to engage them in conversation, which suited Ben but prompted Hitch to frown. “Plenty of time to chat later,” said Ben.
“Chat? No. Seeing Sam reminded me I need to get a haircut.”
“Jesus.”
“Sorry.”
Ben simply shook his head. “What do you want to do, Deputy?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe make a couple more passes by the house?”
“Couldn’t hurt.” Ben was struck by how young his deputy looked in the silvery blue moonlight. He thought of Amanda and Jim inside, both of them perfectly, blissfully ignorant of the danger their son had faced tonight. One throw of the hammer, one swipe with the tongs, and Hitch could have had his skull crushed. “Listen, how about you give me a minute to get my gun belt and an overcoat and I’ll go with you?”
“Didn’t come here to trouble you,” said Hitch. “Just thought you should know what happened.”
“And you were right. I need that minute now.” He was on the point of leaving when he realized that Hitch was no longer listening to him. The deputy’s head was raised at an angle and he was peering narrowly into the distance. “What is it?” Ben asked even as he turned to look for himself. Hitch didn’t answer, probably the shock of recognizing what he was seeing left him speechless, but Ben had no such difficulty. He saw the orange and yellow flames licking the night sky and immediately raised the alarm.
“Fire!” he yelled. “Fire at the forge!” It made no difference that the flames were at the far end of town; Ben experienced them as if they were licking his skin. A thin line of heat parted his hair all the way to the scalp and spread across the webbed scars on his neck and shoulders. This pain, this fraying of every nerve ending, the smell of burnt hair and burnt flesh, this was what he had known only in the aftermath of the barn blaze, but he was conscious now and it felt as if he were being burned alive.
Sam Love separated himself from his wife and charged back into the hotel. “Fire!” he yelled above the din. “Sheriff says there’s fire at the forge!”
Ben sent Hitch to the church to ring the bell. It had rung in the New Year, and Ben had to hope people would understand this was not more of the earlier celebration. Every hand would be needed.
He glanced behind him w
hen he reached the apothecary. Men and women were exiting the hotel like army ants on the move, organized and driven for a single purpose. Ben slipped inside the Songbird to pass on the alarm. By now he knew the fire was not at the forge. Not yet. The angle was wrong and the flames were too high. It was the Salt home that was burning, and the fire was likely rising from the second story. The bedrooms, Ben thought. The children, Lily. He ran faster.
Ben had wanted to be wrong about what he would find, but his worst fears were realized when he arrived. Flames were spilling out of the upper-floor window at the front of the home and had broken through the roof. He ran to the back of the house and was astonished to see Clay leaning out a window holding his brother by the hands and preparing to drop him. The drift of snow beneath the window was as good as anything Ben could provide to soften the fall. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled up to Clay. “Let him go! Now!”
Clay did.
Ben scooped the terrified boy out of the way and hollered to Clay to make the same jump. “Your turn! Come on.”
Clay shook his head and didn’t waste a breath to explain. He ducked back inside and disappeared.
Ben’s heart dropped to his stomach, where it churned until bile burned the back of his throat. He set Ham down and tore off his coat, swaddling the child. He hunkered in front of Ham and took the trembling boy by the shoulders. “Help is coming! Go around to the front of the house. Tell them I went inside to help Clay.” There was no time to wait to see if his instructions were understood, but this was a boy who walked on broken glass, and Ben kept that in mind as he pushed Ham in the direction he wanted him to go.
