by Ann Parker
Inez awakened a few hours later with the sunrise, feeling not altogether of this world. She dressed and dragged herself into the saloon for breakfast. Bridgette, who was in a flurry of flour, pie crusts, and canned peaches, left off to fuss over Inez and fix her an omelet plain with bread, butter, and fried potatoes. “And black coffee for you, ma’am.” Bridgette whisked the eggshells off the surface of the potent brew and handed her a cup.
Abe arrived just as the wagons from Gaw’s Brewery rolled up with the beer delivery. “It’s gonna be another bang-up day, Mrs. Stannert,” he said, checking off the order as the delivery crew brought the barrels in.
The thunderous sound of hundred-pound kegs on the plank floor proved too much for her aching head. “I’ll be upstairs, looking over the books and correspondence. Let me know when the Fairplays arrive.”
Inez fled to the comparative quiet of her office, pausing first to look in on the new gaming room. The walls and ceiling were finished, along with the trim. The sanded and waxed floors awaited rugs, the new chandelier was in place. The room smelled of sawdust and wax. Good! We’ll have the table and other important furniture in place in time for the railroad and Grant’s arrival.
Once in her office, she settled in her chair, pulled out William’s photo, set it before her, and opened the ledger. She reached for a quill pen, then hesitated, hand hovering by the pigeonhole holding Eli Carter’s letters. Inez pulled them out, closed the ledger and set it aside. Feeling a bit like a spy, she unwrapped and untied the bundled letters. A few old, faded newspaper clippings fell out, which she put aside for later. After ascertaining the oldest letters were on top, she hooked her reading glasses over her ears and began to read.
An hour and a half later, she stopped, and rubbed her eyes. Only two envelopes, their contents untouched, remained. The letters were all scripted in tiny, neat handwriting that took up every bit of the thin white paper. All of the letters began, “Dearest Husband,” making, if anything, the sense of snooping even stronger. The letters were clearly one side of an ongoing conversation between Eli and his wife, Lillian.
Early letters were full of reports on daily life in the small Missouri town. How she really didn’t miss the farm now, and how it was nice to have help nearby, what with Eli so far away. Lillian shortened names to mere initials, a shorthand that saved space and that Eli no doubt interpreted with ease, but which left Inez wandering lost in a forest of symbols. Mr. and Mrs. W had invited her for supper on Tuesday. Mr. D was so helpful with taking her letters to the post office on his way to the schoolhouse. How glad she was that Mr. H lived next door now, he had been such help in fixing the leak in the roof. How Mr. K was selling his land, no choice really, and leaving town for good. Repeated assurances that she was well. How she was anxiously awaiting the time when she could join Eli in Leadville. How she missed him so much and cherished the memory of his last visit home to Missouri, five months previous. That the child within her, their first, was growing, “Praise be to God.”
One letter that caught her attention in particular appeared to be one side of a tense exchange about “that horrible gun.” Lillian’s words made Inez sit straighter, a prickle of premonition going up her spine.
“Dearest Husband,” that letter began, just as the rest.
Please, no need for your many exclamation points and underlinings of the last letter. I know how you feel about this dreadful weapon and would not sell it without your consent. I’ve always known, from the time you explained its origin to me, how it is a part of your past, the past that has molded your very soul. I do not want bickering about it to divide us, like the War that divided your family and mine for so long, the War whose memories take you into your black moods and away from me. But I’ll tell you true: I can hardly abide it in the house. I wish it were gone, out of my sight. When Mr. D brought your latest letter from the post office, I had him take it down from its place above the mantel and put it away in its case, for I could not bear to touch it, much less look on it. Every time my gaze crossed it, I thought of the young man, whose body was scarce cold when you took it from him. A trophy of the War, a sharpshooter’s rifle, you told me, made for the killing of men. If you refuse to let me sell it now, I only hope that, when I arrive in Leadville hence, with our baby, our future, our hope, our joy, that I will be able to convince you to put the past behind and this weapon with it. With my love always, Lillian.
After that, Lillian’s letters became briefer, darker. She feared the smallpox sweeping their town would find her. “But I keep myself apart, as much as possible. Our good neighbors have been kind enough to bring me what I need, so that I can avoid the contagion. Mr. D has been a godsend, helping me and others as well.”
Then, the neighbors. “Mrs. H and the boy have been stricken down and are in a bad way. I pray for them both.”
Finally, the last two letters. The one on top was addressed in a different hand. Dread and a sense of the inevitable weighted Inez’s shoulders. She told herself that it was a story done, that nothing could be done to change its already completed course, for Eli or Lillian.
Inez drained the dregs of her cold coffee, steeled herself, and pulled the letter from the envelope. The pressure of pen on paper was light and the script small and tight, making the words difficult to render. She put her reading glasses on again and squinted to make them out.
After a brief salutation, it continued, “It’s my duty and sorrow to inform you that your wife contracted the pox and passed this last week.”
Inez pulled off her glasses and closed her eyes. She could imagine the pit of anguish and despair that must have opened beneath Eli, reading the news in a stranger’s hand, far from home, far from all that had transpired. Unable to say a final goodbye, to close her eyes, kiss her cheek, even cold, one last time. And the unborn baby….
She took a deep breath. Opened her eyes, replaced the glasses, and scanned the rest hurriedly, rushing past the extended condolences. The word “Colorado” flashed past. She returned to the sentence, hunting down its context.
Please advise if I can assist in the selling of your property, shipping of household goods, etc. I may even act as delivery agent myself as I, having heard much of Colorado and her opportunities, have quit my post as schoolmaster and will be heading that way along with fellow travelers, your neighbors, who also are coming West for her opportunities.
The handwriting, which had become more hurried and tiny as the letter progressed, was nearly unreadable at the signature line. A “B” started the first name and a “D” started the last. But the rest was undecipherable.
The schoolmaster, this Mr. D., he came here? Is here still? She folded the letter and stacked it on top of the others. Perhaps he brought the Sharps to Leadville. And Eli, perhaps as a last gesture of respect to his wife, because he was sick of it all…the War, its lingering effects…sold the gun to Evan. Next time I’m in Evan’s store, I’ll have a word with him about this.
The last letter rested on the blotter before her. She picked up the envelope and knew immediately that it was different. There was no address. Something thick was enclosed, not paper, but something bulkier. And the envelope was sealed. Inez stared at it, loath to violate its confidentiality, but knowing she’d not put it aside unopened. The letter opener slid through the envelope easily, then snagged partway through on the contents. Inez forced it to the end, tearing a ragged rip in the envelope, reached inside and pulled out a length of loosely woven cloth—red, white, and blue.
I’ve seen this before.
It was a cousin to the one she found by the river.
Chapter Thirty-Four
A knock on the door shattered the moment.
Inez dropped the cloth with a start to the blotter. “Who’s there?”
“Mrs. Stannert?” It was Maude Fairplay.
“Just a moment.” Inez hurriedly tucked the letters back into the pigeonhole and wound the cloth around her hand like a skein of yarn.
Maude Fairplay e
ased open the door and strolled in, her maid behind her, struggling to pull the hand trunk over the sill. “No, no, please don’t rise. If I might use your back room to prepare?”
“Let me be sure it’s ready.” Cloth balled in her fist, Inez left her chair and hurried to the door leading to her dressing room. “I won’t be a minute.”
Once inside with the door shut behind her, she feverishly yanked open the dresser drawer and pulled out the other strip. The cloth pulled from the riverbank was dirty, stained, and worn. The one from Eli’s envelope, less so. Yet, it was the same color scheme. The same pattern. Only Eli’s was longer, complete, two white stars set in blue, equal distance from the banded narrow ends. “Eli and the railroad man knew each other!” Inez said fiercely to herself. “Rio Grande business or not, I’m going to find out who the man was with Eli!”
Inez wound the two strips of cloth together, put them in the very back of the drawer, and gave the washstand’s accoutrements a perfunctory inspection. She opened the door, intending to announce that the room was ready, and found Maude standing by her desk, holding William’s photograph. “So.” Her voice, usually so melodramatic, was soft, wistful. “Your son?”
Inez walked over, her first inclination to rip the case from Maude’s hands and slam it closed. But Maude’s tone, combined with the lingering sorrows from Lillian’s letters, stopped her. Instead, she held out her hand. “Yes. That’s my son, William.”
She gave the photocase to Inez. “So like his father.”
Inez snapped the case shut, still looking at Maude. “Dodge City.”
Maude backed up a step. “So you knew. All along.” Her face twisted. “You look as if you wish to stab me through the heart. But truly, since we are both here, through some horrible trick of fate….‘The wheel is come full circle.’ Edmund, from King Lear. Fathers and their children. Oh, Lear had his. You have yours. But I, I have none. And my heart will never heal from that sorrow.”
“That’s no excuse for what you and Mark did.”
“Of course not.” Maude sank onto the loveseat. “I cannot dissemble. The name Stannert…I thought, it’s possible there are many Stannerts. What are the chances that it would be him and you? When you said he was dead, I thought, maybe I could avoid you, since you seemed intent on avoiding me. But it isn’t possible to avoid the past.” Maude’s eyes were tired, haunted. “Well, we’re alone now, Mrs. Stannert.”
The maid by the door stood still as a statue, frozen with an expression of dread etched on her features.
“So I suppose this is the proper moment to say I’m sorry. That what occurred between your husband and me was—” Maude fluttered her fingers. “A dalliance, on his part. Clearly, he’d no intention of it being more than a single encounter. My reasons were, alas, complicated, and far from noble. I hoped that, by clearing the air, we might make peace between us. If you wish, Mr. Fairplay and I will cancel the rest of our appearances here at your saloon. I’ve no desire to put you through an excess of pain. The decision, Mrs. Stannert, is yours.” Maude settled back into the curve of the small sofa.
Inez had crossed her arms fiercely during Maude’s speech, holding herself together by sheer will.
But in the silence that prevailed after Maude’s words, something curious happened. The knife of anger, which had twisted its point into Inez’s heart, melted, and left a sensation that Inez had trouble identifying at first.
Rather like sorrow. Tinged with fatigue, and a lingering sense of loss.
Forgiveness.
Inez finally released a sigh. “Oh heavens, Mrs. Fairplay. All that was long ago. It probably would be no surprise to you that Dodge wasn’t the first or last time my not-so-sainted husband strayed. Please, no dramatics in my office. Save your energy for your performance.” She held out her hand.
Maude said, “Thank you, Mrs. Stannert,” took Inez’s hand, and stood.
“There now,” Inez said briskly. “Much better. You seem a bit unsteady. I have a special stock of brandy that should settle your nerves. Send your maid downstairs if you’d like some, and I’ll arrange it.”
With a tremulous smile, Maude murmured her thanks again and moved to the back room, her beribboned skirts swishing softly over the floorboards.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The bell tinkled over the front door of Susan’s studio as Inez entered. The studio appeared empty—not, Inez hoped, an indication of the current state of Susan’s business.
Susan popped her head out of the back room, looking expectant, then surprised. “Hello Inez! I’ll be there in just a minute.”
She disappeared into the back.
Inez sat down in the waiting area, set a pine gun case on the floor, and flexed her aching fingers. She’d lugged the heavy case from her home to the post office, where she’d mailed a letter addressed to “Postmaster” at Eli and Lillian’s small Missouri town. Inez had included information of Eli’s almost-certain demise—at least, she felt, deep down, that Eli was dead, no matter what others said—and asked about the identities of the mysterious Mr. D and Mr. H of Lillian’s letters. If I can get a name, perhaps I can move another step forward in all this. Or maybe not.
Anxious for a distraction from Eli and the mystery of his life and death, Inez picked up a copy of E. Butterick and Company’s summer catalogue. She flipped through it, pausing to examine the walking skirts.
Susan reappeared, wiping her hands on her stained apron. “I was just gluing some prints to their mounts. I expect the customers will be around for them later today.”
Inez nodded, then frowned at the catalogue. Rows upon rows of tiny engravings of skirts bedecked with tucks, horizontal folds, pleats, shirring, flounces, and other draperies marched across the page. “The skirts are narrower every season. It’s beyond me how we’re to walk around in skirts so tight they don’t allow one to take a decent step.”
Susan crooked her head to see what Inez was looking at. “Oh yes. A customer recently arrived from New York brought that in. I thought some of the ladies would like looking through it while waiting.”
Inez tossed the catalogue onto a nearby low table. It slid across the surface, coming to rest at the farthermost edge. “How nice it would be if there was a single catalogue that would allow one to buy all kinds of things—clothes, rugs, cabinets, watches, stoves—all from the comfort of one’s home and deliver them as well!”
“Are you thinking of buying a new stove, Inez?” Susan dropped into a nearby chair.
“Eventually. Certainly before winter. We’re finishing the gaming room upstairs in the saloon. Besides the warming stove, I’d like a new sideboard. And a cabinet. I was lucky enough to find suitable rugs at Daniels, Fisher and Company. A mine manager had placed an order and then left town after the strike, so I was able to buy them on the spot. But ordering furniture is likely to take quite a while. Although the railroad’s arrival will speed the delivery.”
Susan half rose. “Would you like some tea?”
“No, no. I’m just making my rounds. I need to stop at Evan’s store next. But I have something to show you.”
She pulled the vaguely ominous missive to Eli from her pocket. “This came to Eli Carter, who owns the C&H Livery with our own ex-marshal, Bart Hollis. Eli was probably one of the fellows you saw on the track. He rode the horse from his own stable and was apparently leaving town for good that day.”
Susan read the scrawled note and frowned. She handed it back. “An oath. What kind of oath?”
“I’m not certain. But I do think it’s significant that it mentions a general. Particularly given the ‘kill the generals’ statement you heard before your accident. Had you ever met Eli?”
Susan shook her head. “When I hired the horse and burro, I spoke with Mr. Hollis.”
“So you wouldn’t have recognized him if you saw him on the track,” Inez said, more or less to herself.
Susan played with one of the curls fringing her forehead, pulled it straight and allow
ed it to spring back into shape. “I can’t remember what they looked like anyway, so it wouldn’t help even if you described him. Sorry, Inez. Are you going to show the note to Marshal Ayres?”
“I’m afraid he’d just pooh-pooh it all. As he reminded me, without a body, there is no crime. And I don’t think he’s in town at present.”
“How about the city marshal? Or someone at the railroad?”
“The city marshal could care less since this whole business happened outside city limits. But the railroad. Now that’s a thought. I wonder who would be the right person to notify. Mr. McMurtrie? He’s chief engineer. The lawyer, Mr. Snow? He’s out of town, I gather. Maybe the professor—he works for the lawyers. Hmmm. Mr. Holt.” She perked up. “He’s a payroll guard, but I get the definite impression that’s not all he does. In any case, he might know who would care about this note. If anyone would, that is.”
“Oh!” Susan jumped up. “Speaking of the railroad. Let me show you something before you go.” She hobbled into the back room and returned, holding a stack of cardboard-mounted cabinet cards. “It’s my latest work. Here are a couple of the boarders.”
Inez recognized Terry O’Loughlin next to an urn set on a pedestal. She rested an elbow on the urn, which trailed ivy and held a plant with spiky fronds.
“Mrs. Flynn had her sitting recently.” Susan half smiled. “She brought a half dozen outfits, all very up-to-date and proper, and wanted photographs of herself in each and every one. It took nearly an entire day to do them all and paid for a good portion of a week’s room and board. I haven’t mounted those photographs yet, but I think I’ll put a couple in my display window when they’re done. They should be a good draw for the genteel women in town. Mrs. Flynn’s very photogenic, what with those dark eyes and brows, and her light hair….Oh! Speaking of very proper, you’ll never guess who’s been at the boardinghouse ‘to call’ twice this week. With calling cards flying back and forth and all.”
