by Cassie Hayes
“Sit!” roared Mason.
He felt a twinge of guilt at her flinch. He’d never shouted at a woman before but he needed her to stay out of the way while he did his job.
~ * ~ * ~
Thirty minutes later, the sheriff had spoken with everyone but Emmy. She was sitting in the jail’s empty cell along with, but not next to, two other ladies. They were whispering to each other and casting vicious glances at her. She felt a bit like a criminal, sitting in a cell — even if the door was open — and her travel companions weren’t making it any better.
Finally Sheriff Wilder called her over. Her pride still stung at being berated for merely wanting to look her best on her wedding day. Most men groveled for her affection, so just to teach this brute a lesson, she would give him the cold shoulder. That would show him!
The sheriff sighed as she sat down primly in front of his wobbly little desk, looking out the room’s small window instead of meeting his gaze. While she was, of course, punishing him, she also had trouble breathing when she looked him in the eye. Something about him made her insides feel funny, and she didn’t like it one bit.
“Miss Gibson, I’d first like to apologize for my outburst earlier. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
He sounded contrite enough, but she wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily so she simply tilted her head in acknowledgement. He sighed again and she felt a little thrill at his discomfort. Served him right.
“So I’m sure you heard everyone else’s stories about the robbery. Is there anything you can add?”
It was true that everyone else had given very detailed accounts of the events, including her temper tantrum, which had embarrassed her more than she cared to admit when she heard it from their point of view. She was used to getting her own way, but it had never occurred to her that she might be putting everyone’s lives at risk by standing up to the highwaymen. A twinge of shame at her selfishness twisted inside her stomach, not that she would ever let anyone know that.
“I can’t recall anything beyond what the others have described, I’m afraid. Everything happened so quickly, that much of it is already fading from my memory.”
“Alrighty then,” he said, scratching some notes down into a ledger. “You said you’re getting hitched tomorrow?”
She flicked her gaze over to meet his for a moment and was surprised by a flash of something there but it was too quick to identify. Averting her eyes again, she nodded mutely.
“It’s downright odd to me that your husband-to-be didn’t come find me when your stage was late.” He didn’t phrase it as a question, but it was a question nonetheless.
“He’s not expecting me until tomorrow morning. I took an early stagecoach from San Francisco. My friends there thought it would be nice to have a day to get rested and freshened up before my wedding.”
She could see him nodding out of the corner of her eye. “Sure, sure. Well, what’s his name?”
“Roy Kirby.”
“I can send word for him to come fetch you—”
Emmy spun toward him, aghast at the suggestion. “Oh no! I couldn’t possibly let him see me like this. I’m hideous! And those ruffians ran their vile hands all over my wedding dress, so that needs to be cleaned up. No, I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”
Sheriff Wilder was dumbfounded at her stubbornness. He stared at her bug-eyed before finally asking, “Where are you going to stay?”
Emmy straightened her back and looked him in the eye. “Just point me to the Bailey House Hotel. My friends gave me a reference letter for the manager. Apparently he’s arranged a special rate for us.”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “Us?”
Emmy blushed, suddenly shy about her situation. “I…I’m a mail order bride,” she whispered, worried the rest of her company would hear and judge her harshly. Appearances meant everything to her, now that she had nothing else.
She hadn’t mentioned it to anyone during her travels from the east coast, not really out of shame, but simply because it didn’t occur to her to share it. Her life in New York was over and this was her best, quickest path to freedom, and she wasn’t ashamed of taking it. She just didn’t see any reason to advertise it.
But now, staring into the depths of Sheriff Wilder’s dark brown eyes, she questioned her choice for the first time. He was looking at her with a mixture of disbelief and disappointment and it made her wonder if she’d made a hasty decision in the face of adversity.
“What on earth…?” he wondered aloud.
No! She would not allow him to second-guess the course she chose for her life. Who was he to judge her anyway? Only some uneducated hick pretending to be the law in a town full of lawlessness. Her resolve strengthened, she cast her most withering look at him.
“I was in an untenable situation in New York and stumbled across a newspaper called The Nuptial News. It was the answer to my prayers. I responded to an advertisement written by a wonderful man out west. During the course of our correspondence, he proposed and I accepted. We are to be wed tomorrow, as I believe I have mentioned.”
Her tone left no doubt her decision was final, and that she was quite happy about it. The sheriff scratched his disgracefully shaggy brown hair and shrugged.
“And your friends?”
“Jack and Dell Dalton. They’re the proprietors of the newspaper in question. It’s become quite popular, not only with miners but with ladies back east. I’m really quite surprised you’ve never heard of it.”
She glanced pointedly at his ringless left hand and returned his raised eyebrow. “I have a copy of the latest issue in my trunk, if you’re in the market for a wife, Sheriff.”
His eyes narrowed and his mouth set into a grimace. He was clearly not amused. She thought she saw something else there, too. Pain, perhaps? But it was gone so quickly she might have easily imagined it. Why was he so hard to read? Most men were quite easy to figure out.
Standing, the sheriff cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry your arrival in Nevada County was spoiled by this robbery. I truly hope it doesn’t tarnish your opinion of our otherwise beautiful home. You’re free to go about your business. My deputy and I will do everything we can to get your property back, but with such a cold trail, I don’t hold out much hope.”
Everyone turned to glare at Emmy one last time as they pushed past her to get to the door. When they were all gone, she turned to the sheriff questioningly.
“Yes?” he sighed as he and his deputy started collecting guns and ammunition for the ride out to the abandoned coach. For a man with such a formidable stature, he certainly did sigh a lot.
“The hotel?” she asked.
“Right. Four doors down and across the street.”
She didn’t move, waiting for him to realize his faux pas.
“What now?” he grumbled.
“My trunk.”
“What about it?”
“Aren’t you going to help me with it? Or perhaps your man there?”
Both Sheriff Mason and his deputy stopped what they were doing to stare at her. Finally, the sheriff chuckled and set back to work.
“Lady, you dragged it here five miles. What’s another four doors?”
She was flabbergasted! Did he not have a chivalrous bone in his body? First of all, the men in her party had carried her trunk to town, not her. What did he think she was, a porter? Secondly, after all she’d been through, the least she deserved was a little help with her luggage. But no! She knew the west was populated with scoundrels and ruffians, but she’d never expected such uncivilized treatment from a peace officer.
She tugged and huffed and scraped the trunk to the door, but before she managed to get out of the office entirely, the sheriff mumbled something. Poking her head back in the room, she said, “Pardon me?”
“I said, I wish your new husband good luck.”
CHAPTER THREE
Emmy had barely dragged her heavy trunk out of that rude sheriff’s office before five s
trapping young men had run to her aid. That was more like what she was used to. She’d always attracted quite a bit of attention from the men in New York, and she’d used it to her advantage often enough.
She had enjoyed the company of a number of men back home, but her father had steadfastly refused to allow her to formally court any of her gentleman callers. It had never occurred to her to wonder why, mainly because it didn’t bother her too much at all. Most of her would-be suitors were either too old or too boring. Oftentimes both. It was great fun teasing them, though, pretending she was head over heels for them, all the while knowing they had no future. Plus they would bring her all manner of presents.
Most of the time, she played them against her father so he’d buy her pretty new things when she was ‘distraught’ over having to end things with her latest beau. He never denied her anything she wanted, and it was obvious he carried some sense of guilt over not allowing her to marry, so she rather ruthlessly abused that guilt whenever possible. It was a game that worked well, until he died nearly a year earlier, leaving her penniless and with no prospects for her future.
Now she was in what amounted to a foreign land, unsure of the customs and unsure of herself. The latter was a first for her. She’d always been so confident and self-assured, but now…now she was simply afraid of everything. Maintaining a brave front was her only protection.
She did, however, regret saying those awful things to the sheriff about Nevada City. She’d just tromped through town after an interminable five-mile hike and had been in a black mood. Now that she’d had time to rest and clear her head, she saw the little community was quite pleasant, if rougher than she had imagined.
New and old buildings lined Broad Street which, she learned on the long walk into town, had mostly been spared by April’s fire. Wagons trundled along every which way, carrying goods and lumber and people. Women were scarce and when she spotted one, she was bustling along toward a shop in what could only be described as a practical dress.
Fashion didn’t seem to be as high a priority for the ladies of Nevada City as it was for those in New York, or even San Francisco. That would take a little getting used to but she was up to the task. She’d always secretly found shopping and all the fuss and bother that went along with high fashion to be altogether tedious. Dressing plainly would be a refreshing change.
The excitement and energy of the town was infectious, and almost made her want to head off to the gold fields herself. There was no question the town was inhabited by a much rougher quality of people than she was accustomed to, but they were also much tougher than anyone she knew back home. Most of her family friends would not have been able to endure the journey west that she’d completed, to say nothing of living in the wild mountains of California while trying to hit paydirt. No, other than a handful of bad apples, she admired the grit of those who embarked on this grand adventure.
If only her friends back home, the ones who abandoned her when they discovered she was destitute, could see her now, striding into one of the two largest hotels in town, the Bailey House Hotel. They would be impressed by her mettle, she was certain, and that was something to hold onto, something to remember during the dark moments.
If she could maintain a facade of confidence, perhaps one day she would actually feel it deep inside. But for now, no one needed to know that, after so many years of having everything she wanted, she was mortified and terrified that she only had a few meager coins left to her name. Never before had she been expected to make her own decisions, but since her father passed, her days had been filled with nothing but. These last several months had been the most trying of her life.
“Miss Gibson, it’s my pleasure to meet such a lovely young lady,” said a portly gentleman as he walked out from around a corner. He was dressed in a fine suit, and his salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back with some kind of greasy pomade. His round face beamed with a joy that was contagious. Despite her worry that he wouldn’t honor the rate Jack and Dell had quoted, she couldn’t help smiling back at him.
“My name is Mr. Portnoy, and I understand you have a letter for me from the Daltons?”
“Yes, I have it right here.”
Emmy hadn’t read the contents of the letter because it was sealed and addressed personally to Mr. Portnoy, but whatever was in there made him chuckle and, if she wasn’t mistaken, blush ever so slightly.
“Oh, how I enjoy those two,” he said as he tucked the letter back in its envelope and into an inner coat pocket. “I had the great honor of meeting them a few months ago when they delivered my Jacqueline to me.”
“Your…Jacqueline?” Emmy wondered if that was some kind of musical instrument or piece of furniture she’d never heard of.
“Yes, my wife. I was lucky enough to find my bride through their newspaper, you see. They were kind enough to make the journey to Nevada City as escorts to bring her to me almost two months ago now. That’s when we negotiated our bargain for a special room rate for their, um, clients.”
“Oh!” Emmy cried. For some reason, she almost believed she was the only person in the world to have met her match through The Nuptial News. It was comforting to realize she wasn’t alone. “Well, congratulations, Mr. Portnoy!”
He dipped his head, clearly pleased as punch at his good fortune. “Now let’s get you a room, shall we? I understand from the letter that you’ll be with us only one night, yes?”
“That’s correct,” she said, smiling brightly. “My intended, Roy Kirby — do you know him? No? Anyway, he expects to meet me at the station at eight in the morning. I was hoping to sneak in a bath today in preparation for our wedding tomorrow.”
Mr. Portnoy clapped his hands happily. “But of course!”
He turned to a young porter standing nearby. “Son, please go instruct Celia to prepare a bath in room fourteen. And then take Miss Gibson’s trunk to her room.”
“Oh, but these fine men…” Emmy turned in time to see the backs of the remaining strapping young men heading out the hotel’s front door. They obviously heard the discussion about her impending nuptials and took off for more fertile ground. No matter, the porter would handle her luggage.
“Jacqueline and I would be honored if you would join us for dinner at six, Miss Gibson, and then after, perhaps you would enjoy the show,” Mr. Portnoy was saying.
“Show?”
“Oh, yes! Yankee Robinson has brought his troupe here and tonight is their premier. Have you heard of the man? He’s a very entertaining and funny performer.”
Emmy had been escorted to many theatrical performances in New York and was curious to see what the west had to offer in the way of the performing arts. At the very least, it would be a fine way to pass what would otherwise be an anxious evening alone.
~ * ~ * ~
“I dunno, Mace, do you really think it could be the same fellers?”
Mason’s lead deputy, Fred Merchant, wasn’t much of a thinker but he was dependable and as honest as the day was long. A widower with no family, he’d traveled to California with the first wave of Argonauts in ’49. After his trip around Cape Horn, he made it as far as Nevada City — then called Caldwell’s Upper Store, after a mining camp built up around Dr. Caldwell’s general store near the Dry Creek diggins — before realizing he was too old and tubby to work a claim.
Fred managed to keep himself fat and happy by working odd jobs, using his carpentry skills to get by, until Mason brought him on to help keep the peace in town. It was no easy task but Fred had a calming way about him.
When Mason was elected sheriff, he made it his top priority to hire Fred as his right-hand man. He didn’t need the man to be so smart as much as he needed him to have a strong moral code, and Fred had that in spades.
They were at the scene of the hold-up, seeing what they could see. The road agents knew what they were doing, that much was certain. They were waiting for the stage as it rounded a tight bend in the road, where the whip had to slow the horses to a walk so the box wouldn’t tip
over. They would have had no problem finding a place to hide, since chaparral and boulders as tall as a man lined the road.
“I’m starting to think so,” Mason replied. “The witnesses from that robbery six months ago said there were five of ‘em, just like this one. They barely said two words the entire time, just like this one. And look here…”
He hunkered down and pointed to a patch of disturbed red dirt off near the edge of the road, where three lines intersected crudely. “What’s that look like to you, Fred?”
Fred scratched what was left of his hair, trying to read the dirt. Finally he shrugged and said, “I dunno, a star?”
Mason nodded. “That’s what it looks like to me, too. I saw it at the last hold-up, too. Looks like it was done on purpose, don’t it?”
A cold settled in Mason’s bones as his brain scrambled to remember something. He’d seen that same star somewhere else and, for a moment, his instinct for self-preservation refused to allow himself to think about it. But this was too important to push away. Breath caught in his throat as he recalled another robbery, one where the same star was scraped into the dirt.
“Last two hold-ups,” he said quietly. Fred’s concerned gaze burned the back of his neck but he brushed it off. “I didn’t think much of it at first, but now it seems to mean something. Can’t make head nor tails of it, though.”
“Hmm…it’s sorta like they want us to know it’s the same gang,” said Fred. “Like their brand or somethin’. Don’t make no sense, though. Why would a band of highwaymen want to advertise which jobs they done?”
The truth of Fred’s words slapped Mason in the face. That symbol was the crew’s mark. He silently chided himself for not catching the clue before now, and for thinking his deputy was anything less than brilliant. He jumped to his feet and clapped Fred on the back.
“Darned if you aren’t right. Good thinkin’, Fred. Who cares why they’re doing it, just that they done it.”
Fred glowed with pride for a moment before a deep groove furrowed his brow. “But what good does it do us? So what if we know’d they got all three coaches? Don’t help us catch ‘em.”
