“Sorry, Ashmore, but I have a card game to finish here. And it looks like I’m ahead.”
“No, it looks like your luck’s run out.” Tye crossed the distance and grabbed him by the front of his shirt and yanked him upward as if he was tossing a sack of feed. The other men at the table scrambled up, reaching for their guns.
Brett stepped forward, his gun already drawn. “Easy, easy, gentlemen.” He trained his revolver at them. “This is a friendly discussion between Tye and Redford.”
“Get your hands off me, Ashmore!” Lang Redford spit out. He pushed himself away, straightening his suit coat. “Such uncivilized behavior! Is this about the little schoolmarm you’ve been keeping company with?”
“Stay away from Maria and Abigail,” Tye ordered. A muscle flicked angrily on his jaw.
“Is this a warning, Ashmore? Or a threat?”
“Call it what you want, but stay away from the women if you know what’s good for you.”
“What? You keeping both of them for yourself?” Redford grinned. “Isn’t that a bit greedy? Maybe some of us would like a little whirl with them. They sure are lookers, and I aim to have a look under their skirts myself.”
Before Brett could even utter the words, “Your goose is cooked.” Tye stepped closer, and his right fist came flying up, hitting Redford’s left check with a solid, bone-jarring crack. He followed it with a quick left hook that caught Redford on the right side of the face, below his eye, and sent him tumbling backward and onto the floor with a heavy thump. The man lay unconscious in a heap at his feet.
Tye’s icy gaze circled the wide-eyed men at the table. “You tell Redford, if he comes close to either of those women again, the next time I see him, he’ll have a choice of knives or guns—and I’ll make sure he won’t be able to open his eyes to look at anything except Lucifer. And the warning goes for all of you.” Tye stalked to Brett who was backing slowly out the door with his gun still drawn. He snatched his hat, jamming it on his head.
“Well, I wouldn’t certainly call that your best diplomatic moment, Tydall,” Brett muttered under his breath and followed him toward the hitching rail and their mounts.
Chapter Twenty-One
It was Friday, but there was no school. Maria arose and began to tidy up the cottage and kitchen while an applesauce cake finished in the oven and a pan of cornbread cooled on the counter. The whole town was in a state of constant motion, and excitement was high as they prepared for their annual harvest celebration to be held on Saturday. Farmers from around the area would be bringing in livestock and fall vegetables to sell, and the women of Golden were making baked goods to sell and cakes to auction off to the highest bidders. A variety of music would be presented under the trees near the blacksmith shop, and a barn dance was planned for later in the evening. During the week, Maria had helped the children organize a small parade through the town at noon complete with wagons, homemade flags, and songs.
Late last night, Abigail had left for the Mule Shed, a bundle of quilts under her arms, determined to find whoever was stealing from the safe. She intended to sleep on the floor of the barroom after it closed for the evening. Normally, Maria would have been worried, but when Brett heard about her antic, he insisted upon accompanying her. Maria hoped Abigail furnished him with some good whiskey while they sat on the hard wooden floor waiting for a thief who might never arrive.
The wuffle of a horse outside the door brought the puppy to attention, and he started yapping at the door, tail wagging.
“Shhh.” Maria tried to hush the dog dancing excitedly around her feet.
She opened the door to find Swamp and Tye standing on the porch.
“You should at least ask who’s there before you open your door,” he scolded, a frown on his face.
“Emerson knew it was someone friendly,” she shot back with an indignant look.
“Emerson?” He removed his hat and a flash of confusion crossed his face.
“The pup.”
“You named the dog Emerson?”
Maria smiled. “Yes, after—”
“After Ralph Waldo Emerson, I presume. The poet and writer. Good thing you didn’t force the poor little guy to respond to Waldo.”
“I knew you’d get it!” She grinned. “Come, come in. Bring Swamp. I’ve fresh coffee on the back of the stove and a pan of cornbread cooling. Abigail spent the night at the barroom trying to chase down the safe thief, and she’s not back yet. I have some blackberry cobbler left from last night, too.”
He stepped inside, put his hat on the peg beside the door, and motioned to Swamp who sat quietly at his side even with the puppy tumbling around their feet. “It’s ok, boy. You can tangle with the little scamp.” He pointed to the pup, and Swamp went over to it, nudging it as it rolled over submissively onto its back, but then brazenly started to bat a paw at the older dog’s muzzle.
Tye pulled out his chair, but before he sat down, his arm snaked out and pulled Maria into his lap. “It’s not often we have any private time to ourselves, Miss O’Donnell.” He stole a quick kiss. It quickly grew into a more demanding one before she pushed at him.
Breathless, Maria struggled to her feet. She felt her face grow hot as she stepped away and poured him some coffee. “Cornbread or blackberry cobbler? Which do you prefer?”
“Which one is sweeter?”
“The cobbler.”
“The cobbler then.” He grinned. “If I can’t have you.”
“Tydall Ashmore, you have a sweet tooth.” She spooned some cobbler on a plate, then cut some squares of cornbread, and put them on another one. He grabbed her around the waist again and pulled her back down. “The cobbler can wait. Time alone with you is so very, very scarce.” He reached up and tucked the errant lock of hair that always fell into her eyes behind her ear. “When are you going to marry me?”
She kissed him and scrambled up, laughing. “You just sweet talk me, Tye, when you know the kitchen is full of good things to eat.”
“And I’ll sweet talk you some more since we have the entire cottage to ourselves, praise the Heavens above!” He looked over at the stove. “Is the applesauce cake yours or Abigail’s?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does if I’m going to lay down money tomorrow at the auction to get it.” He took a spoon and stirred some sugar into his coffee.
“It’s mine. I seriously doubt Abigail even plans to bake today.” She looked at the knuckles on his right hand. They were swollen and bruised. “What happened to your hand?”
“Nothing.” He scowled. “It was a diplomatic moment needing a tad bit of persuasion.”
“A tad bit?” Maria frowned.
A knock on the door made Tye groan as both their gazes flew to the front door. “Don’t open it,” he whispered. “Please, don’t open it. This is the only time we’ve had to ourselves for days. They’ll go away if we’re quiet.”
Laughing, Abigail moved to the door and behind her, she heard Tye heave a long disgruntled sigh. She was surprised to find River Roy Sanderson standing on the other side, hat in hand, and holding a small wooden box. His face was ruddy from the cold ride down the mountain. His clothes were washed, his hair neatly trimmed, and his face, clean shaven. Around his neck, he had a new russet scarf, and Maria recognized the yarn from the lot Millie kept on hand. They stared at each other for a moment before Sanderson broke the uncomfortable silence.
“I have to deliver a load of wood to Millie Hanson, and I saw Tye Ashmore’s horse outside your cottage. I figured I needed to thank you and him for rescuing my son yesterday.”
Maria stepped back. “Please come in where it’s warm. I was just cutting some fresh cornbread and have coffee already made.”
“I don’t want to be no bother.” He looked at the floor.
“I assure you, Mr. Sanderson, you are no bother. Now, come and sit. We are warming the outdoors standing here with the door ajar. Hang your hat and coat on the hook there.” She motioned to the coat rack beside the door. �
�How’s Lenny?”
Sanderson nodded. “Fine, just fine. A few scratches is all. He’s running some errands around town for me.” He walked to the table and pulled out a chair. “I’m beholden to you, Ashmore, for going down the mine to get those boys.” From behind him, Emerson came bounding over, but Tye scooped him up, reached back, and dropped him in the crate beside the stove. He signaled to Swamp, lying beside the back door. The older dog moved next to the crate and lay down, head on his paws, guarding the rambunctious pup unsuccessfully trying to crawl out.
“It wasn’t me alone,” Tye admitted. “Brett and Maria helped. It was clever of Maria to decide we needed two lanterns. One to keep a glow at the entrance of the tunnel.”
Maria handed Sanderson a cup of coffee and set a fork and a plate with a piece of cornbread in front of him.
Sanderson nodded his appreciation. He pulled the box he had balanced on his lap and handed it to her. “These are letters I received from the U.S. government after Walt died. I don’t rightly know what they say, since I can’t read. They’ve been lying in my cupboard for years now.” He blushed a bright red and hung his head in shame. “But I’m guessing at least one of these has to do with Brett Trumble, since it has a government look to it. It would be a kindness to me if you would read them and tell me what they say.” He hesitated. “When I lost Walt, I had no desire to find out what the U.S. government or anyone else had to tell me.”
“I can understand your pain.” Maria removed five letters from the box, handed two to Tye and put two in front of her, and laid the last in the middle of the table. While Sanderson tackled his cornbread, she and Tye glanced over the papers.
She opened the first envelope and withdrew a letter, taking time to read it twice before she looked up, her eyes misty. “This is from the government telling you officially of your son’s death,” she said quietly and looked up into the man’s sad eyes. She picked up the other letter, withdrew it from the envelope and quickly scanned it. “This one says your son, Walter, died a hero’s death trying to save others and was awarded a medal for his bravery.” She looked over at Tye.
He cleared his throat. “This one here explains that your son never collected his final wages, and there is money owed to you.” Tye set the letter aside. “Maria, perhaps, can help you write a return letter. This other letter states the government had lost contact with Brett Trumble who enlisted with Walt. These are Trumble’s orders from the Union Army and sent to your son’s address to be forwarded to Brett.” Tye let out a long breath of air and leaned back in his seat. “Brett has been looking all over the countryside for these orders to prove he was not a deserter from the Union Army when he went behind Confederate lines to spy for the North.”
“Can you see that Trumble gets it?” Sanderson asked. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think the man would enjoy seeing me.”
They stared at each other for several moments. Tye waited for him to continue.
“It was too painful. Losing a wife and son.” With callused fingers, Roy Sanderson toyed with the rim of the plate. “Lenny was only a little boy, and there I was without a wife to help raise him, without a grown son to help me make a decent living. I hated Trumble for coming home without Walt. When I got these letters, I just dropped them in this box and shoved them on a shelf.” He picked up the last envelope and withdrew two sheets of paper and handed them to Tye. “I think these are important. Henry McNeil gave them to me a few months before his death and told me to keep them in case something happened to him.”
Pensively, Tye shuffled through the sheets, glancing at them, then handing them to Maria. She scanned them and looked curiously at Tye. “This looks like the deed and information for the Irene M mine that Abigail and Brett have been searching for.” She smiled at River Roy. “Did you know you had the deed to the mine Henry McNeil bought for his brother-in-law, himself, and Brett Trumble?”
“I knew it was a deed for the Irene M, sure,” River Roy admitted. “Henry bought the mine years ago and set me up with mules and equipment to check it out and see if it was showing any color.” He paused. “In return for my work, he said he’d give me a cut of the mine’s worth, once it was decided when operations should begin. It was rumored they were planning two stage roads into the area, and the railroads were itching to get connected to Victor and Cripple Creek.”
“He gave this deed to you?” Maria looked puzzled.
“Henry told me he didn’t trust anyone with the deed. Said he didn’t want to leave it in his office and would never leave it in his house.” He paused. “Whenever he was talking about Emma, he acted nervous-like. You know, as if he didn’t quite trust her. Around town, it was said she was spending every nickel he made. I don’t think he wanted her to know about it. Then he added the second sheet to the deed. Even rode up the mountain to give it to me.”
Maria nodded. “Yes, here it states Henry, Brett Trumble, and our father owned the majority shares, and you would have ten percent, but in the case of his death, his shares would be equally divided to you, Brett and my father, giving you 20 percent, and Brett and my father each a total of forty percent each.”
Tye grinned. “If the mine pans out, Roy, you will be able to have a very comfortable life and will not need to work the woods or mines again.”
A knock at the door interrupted them.
“You planning on having the entire town drop in today, Maria?” There was a mischievous glint in Tye’s eyes when he glanced at her. He rose, went to the door, and opened it. “Well, well. If it isn’t the little mischief-maker himself. Come on in, Lenny. Maria has fresh cornbread. You hungry?”
“I’m looking for my pa,” he said, “but cornbread does sound mighty good.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place for both.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Brett and Maria sat on the floor of the barroom, hidden back in the far corner, both awake, but sleepy and disgruntled. They had spent the night on the hard, cold, wooden floor and shared a bottle of the best French wine and waited and waited and waited. Inside, it was still dark, but outside the night was beginning to fade from black to dark gray.
Earlier, when they arrived, they found Charlie Haney closing up the bar and restocking the wine and liquor beneath the bar. When questioned about the barn, the trunk, and other belongings in the stables, Charlie said the only people storing possessions there were Lang Redford, the stable master, or Big Jake, the bouncer. Will Singer, the old stable master and handyman, lived in a house outside town and stored his belongings there, he told her. Abigail surmised the trunk had to be Lang’s. When asked about Big Jake, Charlie told her he always had his clothes specially made to fit his huge, robust frame, and Abigail immediately concluded the Confederate uniform was way too small for him. Charlie reluctantly left them then with a tray of food from the kitchen, wine glasses and wine—and a stern warning to not get shot.
“Well, it looks like no one is going to show.” Brett yawned and stretched, raising his arms above his head.
“I was certain with everyone getting ready for Saturday’s big Harvest Festival someone would try to get money from the safe.” Abigail frowned, removing the ribbon from her hair. She gathered the errant locks into a smooth bunch and retied them at the nape of her neck. She was just about to stand up, when the hinges on the door leading into the barroom from porch squealed. The door opened slowly and a burst of cool breeze followed the figure who slipped inside and headed behind the bar. Abigail heard the scratch of a match against a surface, smelled the phosphorous, and saw the glowing tip quickly disappear to be replaced by the low shine of a lantern sitting atop the bar.
From her seat on the floor, Abigail felt Brett’s hand come around and cover her mouth just in time to prevent her from gasping at the sight of a woman. “Shhh,” he whispered in her ear, “let her open the safe first and withdraw some money so there will be no doubt she’s caught in the act.”
Abigail nodded and Brett removed his hand.
Minutes later, whe
n the bills were on the bar, Brett stood. “The last person I expected to find stealing from anyone would have been you, Millie Hanson.” He strode toward her, his large frame casting eerie shadows on the wall.
Millie’s face in the dim light faded to a ghostly white as she stared at him.
Abigail rose and followed Brett.
“I…I…I can explain,” Millie replied. “She made me do it.” Her gaze flitted fitfully from Abigail to Brett.
“Who made you do it?” Abigail’s tone was quiet, but firm.
“Emma. She gave me the combination and told me if I wanted to keep my job, I would do as she requested. She threatened to fire me if I didn’t.” Millie hung her head, and her hands came up to cover her face. She started to weep. “I had no choice. She said when I threatened to quit, she’d make sure no one in town would give me a job. I have no way to support myself. I have no husband. I have to do whatever she asks.”
Abigail heaved a long sigh. “Why is Emma stealing the money, Millie? She could have asked me if she needed some. Heaven knows I already give her more profits from the inn than she’s entitled to, and I’ve been stuck with some of her bills around town, just to save face.”
“I…I don’t know.” Millie shook her head. “What are you going to do? Are you going to tell the sheriff?”
“She should,” Brett snapped.
Abigail heard the seething anger in his voice and laid a restraining hand on his arm. Something about Emma McNeil didn’t make sense. The woman was a puzzle. A nasty one, she reminded herself, but a puzzle nonetheless. “Tell me, Millie, did Emma ever come down here and take money from the safe herself?”
Millie nodded. “Yes, a few times, but then she decided to send me. She was afraid to get caught.” Still visibly shaken, she said, “Please, please Miss Abby. Please don’t get the sheriff. I’ll lose my job. You don’t know how mean Emma can get. Last time I displeased her and baked the wrong pie, she threw the pie at me and threatened me with a butcher’s knife.”
Under Starry Skies Page 22
