by Rachel Bird
Her heart beat faster as she traced the pin’s face, two entwined braids of hair behind the glass, one light and one dark, made of locks taken from her brothers after they drowned. Another sign from Matthew and Mark?
“That was my treasure,” Naomi said. “Ma didn’t take anything for herself. I knew she’d want this, so I chose it for mine. I was going to give it to her on her next birthday. I should have placed it in her coffin, but I wasn’t thinking.”
“Oh, Naomi.” No matter how she tried, Charity could never be so thoughtful—or so generous.
Pa had sold all their belongings in Minnesota to raise the funds needed to homestead in Colorado. But he’d allowed each of them to select one cherished thing to keep and take to their new home. Luke’s was his half eagle.
Charity had taken her most precious object, the journal she’d kept for years filled with tokens of various and sundry memories. A pressed bunch of violets. The last leaf of fall. Accounts of goings-on in the town, observations regarding the foibles of human nature, and samples of her somewhat dubious hobby—copying other people’s handwriting, inspired by Pa’s joke that she’d make an excellent forger.
Charity was neither thoughtful nor generous. Even if she had remembered Ma’s brooch, she still would have chosen her journal. But she wasn’t surprised Naomi had chosen for someone else. How noble—and how typical.
Charity sometimes wondered if Naomi had any dreams or desires of her own. She rarely frowned, but she smiled even less. Maybe that explained her unlined face and youthful looks, despite her twenty-five years.
But a vague memory teased Charity from long ago: Naomi dancing with some young man, her dress swinging jauntily with the steps to the reel, her dark hair let down and flowing. Had her sparkling laughter filled the air?
How strange. Naomi having fun. Unbelievable, and yet Charity would swear it had happened. And come to think of it, at Belle’s wedding Naomi had smiled while dancing with their new brother-in-law.
Naomi should dance more often. She should—
“Shouldn’t we be getting on with our day?” Naomi deftly retrieved the brooch and returned it to the dressing table while pointedly raising an eyebrow at Charity’s wrapper.
With their places of employment not a three-minute walk, Charity and Hannah were always last to leave in the morning. Charity still had plenty of time, and before getting dressed she went downstairs for coffee. Faith was at the front door, waiting to walk with Naomi and Luke as far as the sheriff’s office.
Charity called to Luke, “Wait there a minute.”
She hurried to the kitchen and wrapped a couple of biscuits left over from last night’s supper in a napkin, then rushed back to the vestibule.
“This will tide you over on the way.” She handed the packet to her brother.
“Thanks. At least we don’t have to walk today.”
While Belle was gone on her honeymoon, she’d lent her wedding present to Naomi—a carriage with spring wheels and a matched pair of palomino ponies, the rig Red John had talked about. It was currently stabled up at the livery in town.
“I wonder what mess I’ll walk in on today.” Faith lifted her Stetson from a hook in the vestibule. “Polk is a terrible slob. If I don’t follow him around with a broom and a dustpan, Fontana will come back to a jail teeming with vermin.”
“Ugh.” Naomi handed Luke his hat, a gift from his new brother-in-law. “How can you bear it?”
“Therefore they did set over them taskmasters to afflict them with their burdens.”
Charity burst out laughing, her sister’s sigh was so full of woe. “I’m sorry! But great thunder, Faith, that was hardly consoling.”
Chapter 8
Faith filled two mugs, grumbling under her breath the whole while. “Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him.”
But it wasn’t the Lord she was waiting for! Belle and Brady wouldn’t be back from their honeymoon until the end of July—and it was only the twentieth of June.
She set one of the mugs on Polk’s desk—no.
Fontana’s desk.
“Two spoons of sugar, sweet cakes.” Polk pushed the coffee toward her and grinned. There were crumbs all over the desk from the biscuits he’d chowed down. “Unless, of course, you want to stir it with your finger. That’ll make it plenty sweet.”
She didn’t groan over the feeble joke, and she didn’t smile. Any response would only encourage him. Fret not yourself over the one who prospers in his way, over the man who carries out evil devices!
But she couldn’t help fretting. Still simmering inside, she took the mug to the counter near the stove and added two stingy spoons of sugar. She’d already overboiled the Arbuckles’ enough to ensure it was bitter, and not really on accident.
It was dispiriting to find out she could be so petty.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Before heading back East, Fontana had written to his counterpart in Greeley, requesting Deputy Gideon Polk to come fill in for him while he was away. He’d met Gideon in Denver in the days before statehood and had assured Faith the man was as steady, capable, and inoffensive as could be.
Harman Polk, Gideon’s older brother, showed up instead.
Two days late.
Strutted into the office two days ago, just when she’d been about to lock up, called her a little lady, and laughed like a loon. I heard there was a girl deputy in Break Heart—who wore trousers, no less—but I didn’t believe it. I thought Fontana ran things strictly by the book.
She arrived this morning to find him poring over paperwork he’d swiped from her desk, sensitive information she’d been assembling meticulously over the past week. While she started the fire in the stove, put on the coffee, and swept the floor, he’d read through the particulars, commenting aloud on the listed valuations of various establishments in the town.
Offensive could be his middle name.
She gave him the sweetened coffee and scooped up the documents to take back to her desk. “There’s more to be done before these papers can be legally served.”
The town council had voted a new tax on the businesses in Break Heart to pay for a schoolhouse—and a teacher, too, as soon as one could be found. Though it was true Fontana loathed all paperwork to the highest heaven, that wasn’t why he’d handed the tax collection details to Faith. He was actually doing her a tremendous favor in giving her the task.
In Break Heart, one of the sheriff’s duties was collecting taxes, and as part of his compensation, Fontana got to keep ten percent of the receipts. He’d told Faith she could have the sheriff’s fee on whatever she collected.
It was perfect. Now she could pay him for Dodger.
Fontana had tried to give her the spectacular seven-year-old buckskin gelding, foaled at Nighthawk and currently boarding at the Break Heart livery. But she could only accept so much generosity, even from her brother-in-law, and she’d insisted on paying for the quarter horse over time. Now she’d be able to do so outright—pay for Dodger and all his tack and his livery fees besides.
The clang of an iron door echoed from the back of the jail.
“What’s that?” Polk’s eyes went wide. “You didn’t say we had a prisoner.”
“We don’t. It’s just—”
“You let me stay here all night with an outlaw down below?” Polk was supposed to be sleeping in the guest room upstairs. She hoped Fontana had remembered to lock the door to his personal quarters.
The door that led to the cells opened abruptly and a tousled, angelic-looking man emerged, yawning and blinking as if trying to orient himself to the new day. He must have had a particularly bad night last night if he was waking up only now, at half past ten. He ran a hand through his fairy-light blond curls, scratched his scalp, and blinked again.
“Morning, Doc. Coffee?” With a look, Faith warned Dr. Declan off the nasty brew.
“Doc, huh.” Polk frowned. “Don’t you have your own place to sleep?”
“No professional courtesy then.�
� Doc squinted at Polk as if examining something morbid under a microscope. If he’d been close enough, Faith would’ve kissed his cheek. “I’ll remember that when there’s a slug in your gizzard that needs removing.”
“Now, now. No offense meant. Let the little lady bring you a cup.”
Doc ignored Polk, and gave Faith a look that bordered on sympathetic. He pretended to smooth out his finely tailored, hopelessly rumpled, waistcoat. “Thanks for the offer, Deputy Steele, but I’ll head on over to the Lilac for breakfast.”
Break Heart’s only physician ambled out the door and across Main Street. Polk stood at the window, watching Doc go, a calculating expression on his face.
In that moment, Faith understood Harman Polk. He was a man who valued others to the degree they could help him. He hadn’t come to Break Heart to serve, but to be served. Doc was a conundrum to him. Polk didn’t yet know whether the man would be of use or a nuisance.
She was again grateful for Break Heart’s real sheriff. Fontana wasn’t an easygoing man—far from it, having the highest moral standards both for himself and those around him—but he took people as they came. His first question was, How can I help? not, What can you do for me?
“For the life of me, I can’t figure how that fella got back there,” Polk said. “Place was empty when I locked up last night.”
“On occasion, Doc likes to sleep in one of the cells. It’s his business why.” There was no reason to tell a stranger about Doc’s demons. That he locked himself in a cell on nights he feared he’d consume his entire supply of laudanum. Not that Faith knew any more to Doc’s story than that. “Sheriff Fontana gave him a set of keys ages ago.”
“Huh. Not the way I’ll run this place.”
She drew in a breath. “What does that mean?”
Polk looked at her like she was hopeless. “You think, now that Fontana’s a married man, he’s going to stay on as sheriff? He doesn’t need this.”
The world closed in on her.
“From what I hear, he’s got quite a spread south of town. I also hear that, aside from that Morgan fella up at Morning Star, there’s no one richer in these parts. My thinking, Brady Fontana’s tired of being a suitcase rancher.”
Faith knew Fontana was of comfortable means, but she hadn’t thought about it beyond that.
“Mark my words—at the end of his term, he won’t run for another. He’ll go back to his own place, spend his days building up his ranch and his nights keeping his bride happy.”
Everything Polk said rang true, and it felt like a fatal wound to her fine new world.
She never should have been a deputy anyway. A series of chance events had led her to it. When she first saw the disarray of Fontana’s office, she’d bullied him into giving her a job as his clerk. Gradually, he’d seen she could ride and shoot and wasn’t afraid of cajoling a man in his cups into a cell for the night. And then Belle was kidnapped, and Faith had helped with the rescue.
She’d never meant to stay on. She hadn’t expected to enjoy the work so much. But it was only fun because she had a decent boss who didn’t treat having a female deputy as a joke.
“You bet I pounced when Gideon couldn’t take this assignment,” Polk went on. “There’s nowhere for me to advance in Greeley. I figure this is the opportunity to let the good people of Break Heart get to know me, and then I intend to run for sheriff when Fontana bows out.”
He certainly thought highly of himself, and with no measure of the shoes he presumed to fill. But no other man in Break Heart clamored to take Fontana’s place. The sad fact was Harman Polk had every chance of achieving his desire.
Chapter 9
Charity and Hannah made a quick breakfast of the last of the coffee and cold biscuits with butter and jam, then Charity went up to get dressed.
Of course nothing she had was clean enough to wear to work, and laundry day was tomorrow. She raided Naomi’s closet again and borrowed her least favorite dress. Great thunder, how did Naomi keep her things so nice when she worked every bit as hard as Charity did?
After a quick check to be sure all the windows were closed and the fire in the stove was out, they left the house for the day.
Hannah was unusually quiet, but when they turned from Church Lane onto Main Street, she stopped and looked at Charity. “Why do you always take Naomi’s things without asking?”
“I’m just borrowing it. Naomi and I are the same size.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I know, I know.” Charity hated having to defend herself—especially when she was in the wrong! “I… I’ll buy a new dress when I get paid, and another and another every month until I have enough to last between laundry days.” As for today, she’d be sure to return it to Naomi’s closet before she got home.
She stopped in her tracks.
“I just remembered something,” she told Hannah. “You go on ahead.”
She ran back to the house and upstairs to Naomi’s bedroom. The mourning brooch was still there, lying on the top of the dresser. Charity stared at it seemingly for ages, though it must have been mere seconds.
Everybody dies.
She pinned the brooch to the inside of her camisole. Just for one day, she would have them all with her again, Matthew, Mark, and even Ma. She’d return the mourning brooch along with the dress before Naomi got home this evening.
Hannah had already stepped inside the modiste when Charity got there. Through the window, she watched Jane Stedman greet her sister with a bright smile, as though Jane’s life hadn’t nearly been forfeit not twenty-four hours ago.
Ice must run through the seamstress’s veins. No wonder Mrs. Vanderhouten hadn’t been able to interest her in finding a husband.
Oh, thunder. Husbands! In all yesterday’s excitement and terror, Charity had forgotten to tell Naomi about Mr. Overstreet’s mail order bride letter. If it was true Abigail had found him a wife, Naomi would be free to look for other employment without guilt.
But thinking about it now, Charity was glad she’d forgotten. She didn’t want to get her sister’s hopes up based on an assumption. After all, the letter she and Mae saw might have been a refusal of poor Mr. Overstreet’s suit. Before saying anything, she’d better find out for certain which way the wind blew.
When she got to Tagget’s, the store’s big delivery of the month was just being delivered by a teamster from the train station. All morning long she and Mae were kept on their toes by a stampede of customers eager to claim a share of the Arbuckles’ before it ran out.
One truth about Break Hearters couldn’t be denied—they esteemed their coffee. Morning until night, they drank the brown gargle in whatever degree of strength was available, from belly wash to six-shooter brew.
That is to say, when they could get it.
No surprise the one-pound bags were so popular. Whoever (the Arbuckle brothers, apparently) had thought to sell perfectly preroasted coffee beans was a genius. Yet, just like condensed milk or Fleischmann’s yeast cakes pressed in little individual packets, the innovation was so obvious—now that it had been achieved!
These were remarkable times. What wondrous new development would the world learn of next?
When things quieted down, Charity went to the storeroom to put away remaining supplies of flour, sugar, bolts of fabric, incidental dry goods, and the bags of Arbuckles’ they always saved for certain customers.
Out front at the counter, Mae replenished the big glass jars of butterscotch, saltwater taffy, and peppermint candies near the register while she and Charlotte Gensch debated the merits of tea versus the brown gargle. If Abigail Vanderhouten showed up, the Main Street Trio would be in full force.
That’s how Charity thought of the three ladies—Mae, Charlotte Gensch, and Abigail Vanderhouten. They were all of a certain age, had been friends for years, and ran successful businesses in town Charlotte had her husband to help, but everybody knew she was the brains of the outfit.
For the first time that day, Charity had time t
o think. How was she going to bring up the subject of Jonathan Overstreet’s possible bride with Mrs. Vanderhouten?
It would have to be done delicately. Abigail loved to talk about the successful matches she had made and the ones she dreamed of making—her desire to find a bride for Preston Morgan of Morning Star Ranch was legendary—but like a poker player, she kept the cards she currently played close to her vest.
Also, she wouldn’t be likely to share a client’s business with the sister of that client’s housekeeper! Mr. Overstreet wouldn’t want Naomi knowing she might soon be out of a job, at least not until he was ready to let her go.
Charity, however, was more concerned about her sister’s needs than his. She had to know: was that letter to Mr. Overstreet a refusal or an acceptance?
“In the morning, Teddy and I have to have our coffee,” Charlotte was saying. “And at night I like a cup of chamomile.”
“There are so many choices these days,” Mae said. “I get a great variety of tea from China, you know. Long about four in the afternoon, nothing beats a nice cup of oolong, brewed strong with milk and sugar.”
“What an age we live in! The railroad has made the world a much smaller place.”
“And a safer one too.”
So true. Charity sighed and tried not to feel bitter. Her family’s tragedy would have been avoided if only Pa had stayed away from the river and kept to the train. The bells out front chimed. Another customer. She stopped shelving cornmeal and listened to see if Mae would need her.
“Good day, Charlotte.” Abigail Vanderhouten, the very person she wanted to see. “Mae, I only this moment heard the Arbuckles’ came. I hope I haven’t missed out.”
“Not to worry,” Mae said. “I always set some aside for you. Charity, dear—”
“Be there in a jiffy!” Charity called out. She grabbed three bags of beans and brought them to the register.
“While you’re here, Abigail, Gil’s been and gone.” Mae retrieved an envelope from one of the many pigeonholes behind the counter. “There’s something for your Break Heart Brides—”
