Under Starry Skies

by Judy Ann Davis

  Tye whistled lowly under his breath. “Oh, heaven forbid,” he said with an exhausted sigh. He bent his head, pondering how he could best tell them his unfortunate news. Finally, he looked up. “I hate to be the one to tell you this—but your uncle, Henry McNeil, was murdered over two weeks ago, stabbed in the chest with a dagger which appeared to be from a vagabond Confederate soldier.”

  “Murdered?” both women asked simultaneously.

  Tye reached out to grab Maria’s arm and steady her trembling body.

  “Yes,” he said softly, “truly, I’m sorry.”

  Chapter Three

  While he and Amos walked the O’Donnell sisters up the path toward the station at Pueblo in silence, Tye wondered if they had any inkling about the sad state of affairs at the Mule Shed in Golden. Henry McNeil was, by all means, a most shrewd proprietor, except for his one weakness—his wife, Emma, a beautiful but strange woman.

  Tye also wondered whether he should tell them about the rumors flying about town Emma married Henry for his money. It was said she aggressively pursued the old bachelor after her first husband died and left her in debt. But what purpose would it serve? There was little use in having either niece meet their aunt with a wrong impression. They would hear about it soon enough. There was no shortage of local gossip in Golden.

  Now, after the death of Henry McNeil, many had believed she had gone crazy as well. Late at night, she could be seen seated at the spinet before the old front window of the manse, playing the same Southern tune over and over again by the light of an oil lamp.

  “How could Uncle Henry have died at the hands of a Southerner?” Maria disrupted the silence. “The War has been over for ten years.”

  “For some, the War will never be over.” Tye heaved a disgruntled sigh. “Tensions die hard. I was told he was found in front of the old graveyard with a knife, forged in North Carolina, in his chest and clutching a button from a Confederate uniform.”

  She looked at him with troubled, yet puzzled eyes.

  “I can’t rightly figure it out myself,” he admitted. “Henry was a favored man around these parts. It’s said he gave food and shelter to all poor and hungry, regardless of their skin or uniform color. The Mule Shed Inn’s kitchen was open to everyone, including drifters and vagrants.”

  They stopped outside the station.

  “What do we do now?” Maria wiped a tear running down the side of her face. “It’s almost nightfall. We have no place to stay, little money, and we’re burdened with two heavy caskets of whiskey and wine. And, Uncle Henry is dead!”

  Abigail looked at her with a grim expression. “One thing at a time, Maria. We must find a place to hide the coffins, find a cheap place to stay, rent a wagon, and start out for Golden tomorrow, just as we planned. There’s no going back. I’m hoping Aunt Emma is kind enough to agree to take us in, not being blood kin.”

  A dozen thoughts went through Tye Ashmore’s mind as he listened to the women discuss their plight. If he were a smart man, a thinking man, he and Swamp would abandon these females like scared jack rabbits and be on their way, headed out of town with his sister’s wagon as he had earlier planned. But he was an Ashmore, and Ashmores were honest, honorable men. And how would he ever explain to his oldest brother he dumped the new schoolmarm on the bank of the Arkansas River to fend for herself? The women needed help. Oh, please give me enough strength, he prayed silently as he looked skyward, to collect these women and their worldly belongings and deposit their pretty backsides in Golden as quickly as possible.

  He spoke. “It might be best if we get you a hotel room for the night. Tomorrow I’m headed for Golden with a wagonload of supplies for the General Store. If we rent another wagon, we can take the coffins and head out at daylight. I’m betting a couple of those bottles of whiskey will be more than enough payment for a wagon and team.”

  “How far is Golden?” Maria looked at him with a sad, sorrowful gaze worse than Swamp when he was being scolded.

  “A good five days of travel.” Tye saw sadness turn to weariness to apprehension on her face.

  “We have no supplies, no food.” She told him the obvious.

  “I think I can rustle up enough to get us by.” He looked at Amos and withdrew some coins from the inside pocket of his buckskin coat. “Take the women to the hotel and make sure they get a room and some food, and meet me back at the livery stable. We need to get those coffins undercover before night closes in.” He started to leave, then turned back around. “Oh, and if anyone gives you any problems, tell them you are friends of Betsy Ashmore. My sister is well-known throughout these parts. She now owns the General Store in Golden, has another in Colorado Springs, and does a lot of business here in Pueblo.”

  Amos nodded, picked up their traveling bags, and herded the cheerless women toward town.

  Tye looked at the bottle of whiskey he still held in his hand and smiled ruefully, glad he wouldn’t have to drop any money in the saloon later on. He headed in the opposite direction toward the end of town where the livery was located. Maybe he’d uncork it early and have himself a few swigs to calm his jangled nerves. After all, he needed to know how good it might be if he was going to barter for a wagon and a team. And hellfire, he needed something to help him forget the silly notions racing through his head about courting the schoolmarm once they reached Golden.

  ****

  In spite of Tye’s earlier trepidation, the trip northward to Golden was uneventful as the group covered ground quickly, stopping only long enough to eat and rest. Both women were silent, almost brooding, never complaining about the dust, hot sun, cold food, uneven trails, or long hours. Tye suspected they were mulling over in their minds the sudden death of their uncle and wondering what might happen with their grieving aunt in charge.

  They reached Golden in late afternoon on the fifth day and stopped at the edge of town, outside the huge, three-story inn. The women paused to stare at the monstrous structure before they alighted from the wagon and climbed the wide front steps. Solidly built of weathered gray timbers, the Mule Shed Inn boasted a railed porch on the front and both sides. It was deserted and quiet, obviously shut down since Henry’s death. To the left and behind it, several yards away, an expansive, squat stable sat among a stand of towering pine which protected it from the winter snows and shaded it from the summer sun.

  Tye followed the women up the steps. They were surprised when they pushed at the thick entrance door to find it unlocked. Maria and Abigail moved silently inside, past the large entrance hall and dining room on the left where rows upon rows of windows, framed with dusty, threadbare curtains, faced Main Street and allowed diners a view of the town’s activities. Beyond the dining area, a large office and another lobby guarded one corner of the room while on the right side through an arch, a barroom occupied three quarters the length of the establishment and served whiskey and all varieties of ale from the same two barrels. Between the dining room and barroom, an ornate staircase led to the rooms above. Along the entire back of the Mule Shed, a well-equipped kitchen and pantry opened onto a spacious back porch leading to the outside.

  The second floor, just as spacious, was divided into two bedrooms, a Ladies Parlor, an Arbitration Room for settling minor disputes among townsfolk, and a sitting room for the guests of the house. Higher on the third floor, a long hall carved a path in front of a row of sleeping chambers capable of easily accommodating a dozen or more guests. The entire structure was dusty, worn, and in need of paint, wallpaper, and lots of soap.

  Maria and Abigail said little as they walked about the quiet, lifeless structure, ending at the main floor again. Finally, Maria sighed and spoke, “Well, it appears we can’t stay here. Maybe we can use the little cottage Uncle Henry wrote about in his letters. He said it was located back in the grove, between the manse and the inn’s private stables, and would be a perfect place for us to live.”

  Tye could see the utter disappointment and dismay in the women’s faces at the sorry state of the structure.
“The War was hard on everyone,” he pointed out. “Brocade drapes were not a priority, and fancy furniture was difficult to come by. Yet, the West and rural areas had the advantage.”

  Maria stared at him wordlessly and looked confused.

  “These were the people who had food,” he said quietly and ushered them out back and down a soft slope with Amos trailing behind.

  Even before the group reached the front door of the cottage, it was evident they were not about to fare much better. From a distance, the roof was tattered, many of the shingles ripped free by brisk winds. Once a white structure, the blistered cottage had faded to a milky gray. Its tiny porch was rotted and in sad need of repairs. The only beauty amid the decrepit structure was a rambling rose climbing lazily up one side of the rickety porch and spilling over in riotous red blooms.

  Abigail was the first to reach the porch, swinging the door open, its rusty hinges whining and complaining. Inside, dust covered the floors and furnishings. Furry occupants had gnawed holes in the upholstered chairs and left evidence of their presence on the floor, fireplace hearth, and table. She moved to the back door, hanging by one hinge, and pushed it open to reveal an overgrown, generous back yard. Once planted with herbs, it was now growing wild and full of weeds. It was an ideal private area, ringed by the dense forest beyond. A small springhouse stood to the left of the backdoor, and at the back of the yard, a large shed with a chicken coop attached to one side fought for space with a lean-to stable barely big enough to shelter a few cows or horses. A small path on the left side of the property wound through a grove of bushes and pines and ended at private stables situated far below the manse.

  Tye heard Maria give a disenchanted sigh.

  “It can be restored,” he said and glanced at Amos whose old eyes widened in dismay. “Well, maybe you had better see if Emma McNeil could keep Abigail and you for a few days. At least until we get the inside in better order.”

  Maria pushed a tendril of dark hair from her face. “Without money? We have nothing except what the wine and whiskey might bring.”

  “No, oh no, we’re not selling the liquor and wine.” Abigail didn’t try to keep the sharpness from her voice. “It would bring twice the amount inside the barroom once the inn was reopened.”

  Leaning on the doorjamb, Tye pursed his lips. “I don’t believe your aunt has any plans to reopen the place.”

  “For heaven’s sake, why not?” Maria squinted up at him. “Uncle Henry mentioned it in his letters. He was looking forward to working with Abigail who used to help Papa with his store.”

  “It would be quite an ambitious undertaking, and I fear Emma doesn’t have the business sense your uncle Henry had. Word’s out she’s looking for a buyer.”

  “Why, there’s a fortune to be made now. Settlers are pouring into the West, and gold and coal are enticing others into the mines,” Abigail said.

  Tye shrugged. “Maybe your aunt wants no part of the toil and sweat.” He gave them a sympathetic smile. “You know, that’s what I like about you, Abigail; you can’t resist the sound of coins jingling in another man’s pockets and not wonder how you might lighten the poor fellow’s load.” He watched her mouth twitch in amusement, then turned to Maria. There was tenderness in his eyes when he spoke, “I’ll wager Golden’s school board could give you an advance on your wages if it would help.”

  Maria shook her head. “No, thank you. Although I can guess which member might vote in my favor.”

  His answer was merely another smile. “I wouldn’t spend time chewing on it; we’ll figure it out. The school board does pay for a place for the teacher to stay. This cottage is easily renovated, and my brothers are easy marks for free labor. I’ll notify the mining company about the crates at the dock and make certain dear cousins, Joshua and Adam, are laid to rest in the inn’s cellar.”

  His gaze caught hers and held it. She looked fragile, exhausted, and drained. Her eyes were red-rimmed and beneath, dark circles were forming. She had not slept most of the journey northward. At night he heard her move from her bed underneath the wagon and sit with her back against a wheel, knees clasped to her chest as she stared at the stars and wept. But he didn’t dare disturb her. He knew from experience all people grieved in their own way. Some openly. Others, silently by themselves.

  “You need to get a good night’s rest,” he said.

  “I’ll try.” She smiled wanly.

  He turned, clambered down the rickety porch steps, and started toward the inn before he halted, turning back. “Amos, I could use some help at the ranch, if you’re looking for a warm place to spend a few nights.”

  “I’d be obliged.” The old man nodded from the porch.

  “Meet me at the Mule Shed once you help the ladies get their baggage up to the manse. I’ll deliver my sister’s wagon to the General Store.” Nodding in farewell, he started back up the slope toward his wagon, his limp growing more pronounced.

  ****

  As soon as Tye headed up the path, Maria hurried to the window and brushed aside the tattered curtains. She watched his tall, dark image fade in the dim light. She scolded herself for feeling attracted to his rugged good looks and quiet strength. He was obviously not a man to shirk his duties. He could have dropped all three of them like a hot potato straight out of the fire, yet now he was talking about helping with the cottage renovations. She wondered if his broad shoulders ever tired of the many burdens he carried.

  “Maria, Maria. You know it’s bad luck to watch someone walk out of sight,” Amos scolded, hurrying to where she stood. His old arthritic hand moved to sweep the curtains back into place.

  “Oh, don’t be a simpleton, Amos.” Abigail rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and sighed. “Look around you. Can our luck get much worse than this? Please see to poor Joshua and Adam’s safety. Maria and I can take what we need for the night up to the manse in a carpetbag.”

  Later, after Amos had left, Maria and Abigail moved out into the yard, following a small worn footpath winding its way past the cottage and stables and up to the huge house perched on a knoll above the town. The door opened before they barely set foot on the flagstone stoop, and a middle-aged woman with iron gray hair timidly greeted them.

  “Oh, my, the O’Donnell sisters! I’m Millie Hanson, the housekeeper, pleased to meet you. You’re exactly like dear departed Henry described you. I’m so sorry for your loss. Your uncle was a good man.” She led them to a badly lit parlor, promising to fetch their aunt and return with tea and cookies.

  Maria stared at the dim, almost eerie room and shivered as if an army of tiny spiders were creeping up her back. The parlor was nothing like she had ever imagined. Every shade had been lowered, except for a corner window where a ray of light shed its faint beams onto the furniture, draped with white sheets like ghostly second skins. Only a lone, blue velvet love seat and a cream brocade chair, to the right of a spinet, was bare of any covering.

  On one side of the room, a massive stone fireplace inlaid with Dutch tile crawled up a wall covered with a flocked gold wallpaper. Bookcases flanked either side of the fireplace, and above the mantel, a huge gilded frame held a portrait of a man who bore a striking resemblance to the McNeils and their deceased mother with his square high cheekbones and angular jaw. She instantly knew this was her late uncle at a much earlier age. Across the room, hanging from a gold cord, another similar frame held the portrait of a much younger, lusty Aunt Emma, similar to the small daguerreotype their father had once shown them. But in this portrait, she was heavily rouged, and she wore a revealing, low-cut lace-trimmed blouse magnifying her already ample endowments.

  Moments later, amid the sound of ruffling taffeta, Aunt Emma swept through the archway and into the room. She was a tall, regal-looking woman with gray blonde hair. It was evident she had taken all precautions to disguise any hint of aging. Her face was generously powdered, and her hair was swept up into a youthful mass of ringlets and curls. A single diamond pendant hung from her slim neck, and matching earrings glit
tered like ice chips from each ear lobe. Her Venetian lace shawl pulled together with an opal and diamond-studded pin fell elegantly over a black mourning dress.

  Maria rose first, extending her hands. “We’re so sorry to hear of Uncle Henry’s death. It must have been a devastating shock.”

  Emma grasped them graciously, then removed a delicate linen handkerchief from her sleeve, and dabbed at her eyes. She moved to the portrait of Henry McNeil above the fireplace. “Ah, poor Henry, such a good man…to everyone.” She sniffed, then glided silently about the room until she took a seat in a draped armchair, instead of the brocade one. She motioned to the girls to be seated on the love seat across from her.

  “Do the authorities have any idea who might have killed Uncle Henry?” Abigail asked.

  “Authorities? Heavens, child, there is only one sheriff here, and he’s inebriated most of the time!” Emma laughed a high, nervous laugh. “Why, the nearest law is a U.S. marshall who covers almost the entire Colorado Territory.” She twisted the gold band on her finger round and round. “No, no one seems to know anything.”

  “What shall you do now?” Maria’s gaze slowly skirted the room, taking in the fine layer of dust on the rich oak floor rimming an expensive Oriental rug beneath their feet. Earlier, she had noticed the spinet in the front window wore a meticulous shine, and the brass oil lamp was polished to a brilliant sheen. A small crystal dish with an elaborate lid sat behind the oil lamp and held a solitary button. She suspected it was the one found at the scene where her uncle was killed.

  “I shall have to carry on without dear Henry,” Emma lamented with a dramatic sigh. Her hand fluttered to her breast. “Someday, perhaps, when Henry’s death is not so heavy on my heart, I may return to my beloved hometown in Georgia to live.”

  “What about the Mule Shed Inn?” Abigail resettled herself more comfortably on the loveseat.

  The woman lifted her thin shoulders into a shrug. “I’ve given it deep thought these past few days, and I’ve decided to sell.”