by Joyce Armor
“Get me that list. And keep me informed of what progress you are making in your search. I will send some inquiries out as well.”
That made Elias nervous, although he tried not to show it. He would have to move quickly. DeJulius could not beat him to his quarry. That would ruin everything. “Of course. She is meek and will not last long on her own.” That much was true. “She will ask for help, and people will talk. We will find out who is helping her. She cannot have disappeared off the face of the earth. ”
Yet.
* * *
When he had the scent of something he wanted—and he wanted Elizabeth Parminter, or rather, her dowry—Edward Capo DeJulius was like a rabid dog. Yes, he wanted Elizabeth Parminter’s dowry. He needed Elizabeth Parminter’s dowry. Oh, he wouldn’t mind having the shapely young woman herself to dally with for a few days, and punish for her recalcitrance—she was comely enough—but it was the money he craved. Not because he was poor. There just was never enough. Money meant popularity. Money meant comfort. Money meant power. When he left Parminter’s home, he instructed his driver to head for one of the seedier areas of town, where a certain rather unscrupulous private detective operated a store-front office.
And Gilson was in. Despite his shabby surroundings, the man always dressed well and somehow fit in with his betters. DeJulius had used him before and he seemed to have few reservations or standards of behavior, which suited his employer fine.
“Mr. DeJulius. To what do I owe the honor?” the short and stocky Gilson, who had the look of a prize fighter whose nose had been broken more than once, gushed, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I’m in need of your services, Gilson.”
“You don’t say.”
Gilson indicated an old wooden chair across from his cluttered desk, an anomaly in the rather barren office, and DeJulius took out a handkerchief and brushed it off, as if it held some disease, before sitting. Gilson did not take offense. He knew DeJulius was an odd one, but he always paid in full and on time. He could put up with many insults if he had to.
Explaining that his intended bride had become nervous and run off on a lark, DeJulius described his betrothed and impressed the importance of finding her quickly, lest she be in danger, of course. At that Gilson raised one eyebrow skeptically. It annoyed DeJulius how well Gilson knew him. He supposed that was because he was good at his job.
“I also need you to get a complete family background and follow someone for me.” He described Elias Parminter and gave him his address.
“This is going to cost you,” Gilson said, striking a match on his desk and lighting a cheap cheroot.
“You have one week or the deal is off.”
Gilson exhaled a puff of smoke. “I’ll have to hire at least one bloke to follow Parminter.”
“Do it, and follow anyone he hires as well.”
DeJulius got up to leave, brushing his rear lest he carry some contagion with him.
Gilson watched him thoughtfully. “You must really miss your bride.”
The client looked over his shoulder as he departed. “You have no idea.”
* * *
At that moment, Elias Parminter was tearing through his late wife’s bureau frantically, looking for anything related to her previous life. Finally, in a secret compartment of her jewelry box—did she really think she could hide anything from him?—he found a letter written by Jackson Butterman about 15 years earlier. He picked it up, sneering as he read it.
Dear Elinora,
I am writing as a last resort, though I have little hope you are alive or that this will reach you.
I have had eight years to think about how and why you left. For most of those years, I blamed you entirely. You knew I was a rancher and would always be a rancher when you married me. But I realize now I was to blame as well, for I knew you were a city girl who adored your gowns and parties and looking beautiful. You did it well. Truthfully, it was a big part of what drew me to you.
So perhaps we were cattle and sheep and never had a chance to carve out a good life together. But I will always treasure my memory of the few weeks we lived together. Or most of them, anyway. We did have some happy times, when we weren’t arguing.
If I do not hear from you within one month, Elinora, I am going to have you declared legally deceased. I have found another woman I believe I can be content with and will then marry her. If you are still alive, I hope you found your happiness as well. You deserve it.
Yours in friendship,
Jackson Butterman
“Friendship, my arse,” Parminter spat out, wadding up the letter, casting it to the floor and stomping on it for good measure. Then he thought better of it. He picked it up and smoothed the crumpled page on the dressing table. Then he turned it over and located the addresses, including Jackson Butterman’s—Deer Lodge, Montana Territory.
He’d always known of the country bumpkin who had deposited his seed in Elinora but had put him out of his mind as best he could over the years. Now such a hatred bubbled within him, he thought he might explode. Elinora had never spoken of him after the first mention, when he struck her, but Elias could see it in her eyes over the years. She had regretted leaving him. She had hidden his letter. Elias knew in his soul that Elizabeth was heading toward this man who had defiled his Elinora and poisoned her mind. Well, if he was killing Elizabeth, and there was no doubt of that at this point, what was one more death? Jackson Butterman could not get away with what he had done. Elias Parminter would see to it.
With that, he began planning his trip to Montana Territory with a fervor he formerly had allotted only to gaming. His preparations included gathering up all of Elinora’s jewels, surprised that his so-called daughter had not absconded with them. What a fool. Next, he hailed his hapless valet and browbeat him into packing for a two- or three-week trip out West, instructing the underpaid servant to book him the fastest and most convenient passage possible. If he had bothered to look in the man’s eyes, he would have seen how he truly wished to inconvenience his master.
Elias Parminter had barely left town before his valet was accepting payment from one of Gilson’s men to divulge his travel plans and destination.
Chapter 5
Trapped in the alley with the red-haired drunk, Libby felt about ready to explode. How dare he grab her? Before she realized what she was doing, she reared back and slugged the man in the chin with all her pent-up frustration. Even then, she was surprised when his knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground. She stood over him, breathing heavily and cautiously looked around to see if anyone had witnessed her attack. Luckily, they were alone. She stepped over him, ignoring the tiny bit of regret for injuring another human being, and headed for the dining hall without looking back, not even feeling her bruised knuckles.
Fifteen minutes later she was back on the train, where she endured another day of bump-and-cringe. She could not wait to ride in a roomy, luxurious stagecoach, at least in comparison to the train.
* * *
Good lord, who ever said riding a stagecoach was comfortable or adventurous? Oh, for those calm, albeit endless and disease-ridden, days on the train. Riding in the torture chamber called a coach was downright painful, is what it was. For the 50th time, she read the notice posted above the motley group of passengers seated across from her.
YOU WILL BE TRAVELING THROUGH
INDIAN COUNTRY AND THE SAFETY
OF YOUR PERSON CANNOT BE
VOUCHSAFED BY ANYONE BUT GOD.
Thank you. As if she did not have enough mental torment already. The stage passengers included a dissipated whiskey drummer who apparently sampled his goods generously; two spinster sisters, one with yellow teeth, who complained incessantly; a foppish gentleman who kept twirling his mustache and staring at her breasts—it was amazing how popular her breasts had become since she left St. Louis—and a blustery white-haired banker who sweat like a pig and kept mopping his face and the top of his bald head with a long-since soiled handker
chief. One well-dressed but dusty man, dressed all in black, who looked like a gambler or a saloon owner or maybe a gunfighter, slept most of the way, his dark hat tipped over his face.
Libby rubbed her injured knuckles, chuckling in spite of her discomfort in remembrance of the disgusting, inebriated ruffian who accosted her at the train stop. When he latched onto her arm, she had felt such an anger bubbling up inside her, and she had lost control. She should not be proud of that. It was definitely a character flaw because she did feel mighty good about it. It might be something one of her dime novel heroines would do. Ouch! The stagecoach hit a rut and jarred her back to the present.
Traveling five miles an hour on a good day, the stage had bounced Libby so much in the last several days she thought surely her bones and organs had rearranged themselves into a new configuration. And she wore what felt like a permanent layer of dust that had seeped into her skin. Several times, when the terrain got rough, the driver ordered the passengers to get out and walk, sometimes for miles. She had broken a heel on one of her shoes and now walked lopsided. The outrage of walking had sent the spinsters into the vapors, but stretching her legs was a welcome relief to the young woman from the Midwest, whose biggest worry a few days ago was what color her new gown should be. Not counting, of course, the fact that her father (stepfather now) treated her so poorly and her mother barely noticed her. She honestly had not dwelled on that for several years; it was just a fact of life she had long since accepted.
“A portion of our fare should be refunded,” sniped Yellow Teeth on one of these long treks. “We did not pay to walk to Washington territory.”
“I’m enjoying it,” said Libby. “I think it is nice to stretch and get some fresh air. It gets stuffy in the coach.”
“A young lady should not be traveling without a chaperone,” chided the other spinster.
“My husband will be meeting me in Deer Lodge in Montana Territory,” Libby lied. Funny, lying had become easier on this sojourn. She still didn’t like it, though. She never had, but now, as always, it was a matter of survival.
“Still, it is not right.”
“Oh, leave her alone, you old biddy,” said the gambler/saloon owner/gunfighter.
“Well!” huffed the spinster, striding off to commiserate with her equally unhappy sister.
“Thank you,” Libby smiled.
He just tipped his hat and moved on.
He could be her ideal man, she thought, amused. Helpful, respectful, a man of few words. And gone.
The stagecoach stopped twice at way stations to change horses. At these stops, the passengers were fed quick and crude meals of such delicacies as raw onions, jerked beef and wormy crackers. Lord, would this trip ever end? And when it did, what then? She remembered that old adage: Be careful what you wish for.
And just like that, Libby realized she needed a plan. What would she do when the trip did end, when she arrived in Deer Lodge? Get directions to Jackson Butterman’s ranch and hire a rig or rent a horse to get her there? No, she could not just show up at his door. She definitely was not ready for that. So what was the alternative?
Deer Lodge must have a hotel or boardinghouse where she could stay and get her bearings for a few days. She could talk to some of the locals and find out what kind of reputation Jackson Butterman had and maybe a little of his history for the last 21 years. Maybe she could find employment in town so she would not have to deplete her funds. And her job skills would be what? Oh, dear. She was never very good at sewing and was not a very experienced cook. She had no experience with children, but she could play the violin. She was a good conversationalist. She could read. She knew how to do chores. Oh, good God. She was in trouble.
Oh, ow again! Did these stagecoach drivers seek out every rut in the road? And did that loathsome fop just watch her breasts bounce and lick his lips? She had finally fallen asleep on the second day, only to wake up leaning and drooling on the whiskey drummer, who, thankfully, was apparently oblivious.
“We’ll be comin’ up on Deer Lodge in about five minutes!” shouted the driver.
“Thank you, God,” Libby whispered, and the gambler/saloon owner/gunfighter smiled.
She put on her blue bonnet, which was bedraggled and in as bad shape as her dusty blue gown, which she was going to burn at the earliest opportunity, and tied the ribbon securely. No one bothered to tell her she had a dark smudge across one cheek. It would not have mattered anyway; she was carrying half the dust of the Western states.
Yellow Teeth looked out the window as they approached the town. Aghast, she stared at Libby. “You are not getting out in this Godforsaken place?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Your husband is here? What does he do?”
“He is a rancher.”
“Oh.”
How she could make that one syllable sound so disdainful, Libby did not have a clue. It was a skill she somehow envied.
Minutes later the stagecoach stopped with a jerk.
“Deer Lodge!” shouted the driver, right before he spit out of wad of who-knew-what.
“Excuse me, excuse me, please,” Libby murmured as she tried to climb past the whiskey drummer and the gambler/saloon owner/gunfighter, who had the decency to disembark and assist her out. She thought the fop may have brushed his hand across her arse as she exited the conveyance but was too tired and too happy to be at the end of her journey to take out her pistol and shoot him.
“Good luck, ma’am,” said the gambler/saloon owner/gunfighter, tipping his hat before re-entering the stage.
“Thank you,” she smiled as he retook his seat. “Enjoy your journey.”
He just nodded, leaned back and tipped his hat over his face.
The driver tossed down her satchel, which landed with a thud at her feet, and a moment later the stage was off, nearly running over her left foot and depositing more dust on her as it passed. Perfect. She blew some strands of hair out of her face and looked up and down the street. Deer Lodge was small, dusty and did not appear to be particularly populous. The main road was fairly wide, and while dry, it sported deep grooves from muddier times. She spied a livery stable and a ways away Finn’s Mercantile, a café, a feed store, a dress shop and several other buildings in one direction and a few residences in the other direction. She did not see a hotel, but there had to be a boardinghouse or someone who would take in a boarder.
Libby wearily picked up her bag, which was nearly as dirty as she was, and trudged toward the mercantile, so exhausted she could barely make it up the steps and through the door. The store was small by St. Louis standards but well stocked with food items, tools, yard goods, clothing, and tons of sundries, as well as jars of a variety of candies. Before asking the proprietor directions to a boardinghouse, she browsed the aisles, fascinated yet almost too tired to think about what she was seeing. If she had spotted a full bathing tub, she would have climbed in, clothing and all.
As Libby perused the merchandise, picking up a rag doll and studying it wistfully, another shopper, a big-breasted young woman in a satin magenta gown with lace trim, with a lot of curly blond hair piled atop her head, eyed her curiously. She did not quite look like a soiled dove, yet she was painted and feathered just on the edge of vulgarity. Libby smiled at the woman, but she simply continued to stare. Just then a cowboy burst through the door, wearing black trousers that hugged his thighs and a blue shirt open at the neck, revealing a little sandy chest hair. His tanned face was almost classic with its square jaw, prominent cheekbones and inviting lips. His eyes were a mesmerizing chocolate brown. Even as exhausted as Libby felt, she couldn’t help but take notice of the handsome, exceedingly masculine Garrett Winslow, but she tried to hide her attraction. The buxom blond had no such problem.
“Garrett!” she called, sashaying over to him.
“Hi, Cindy Lou, how are you?”
He smiled, and Libby felt suddenly hot all over. What was wrong with her? Was this heat stroke? Though she knew she shouldn’t be watch
ing the cowboy and the borderline harlot, she couldn’t help herself.
“Lonesome,” Cindy Lou purred, rubbing up against him like a cat, and Libby snorted.
Garrett glanced at her, eyebrow raised. She ignored him.
“Whaddya say, handsome? Wanna come over to my place?” Cindy Lou smiled.
“Sorry, darlin’, I’m on ranch business today.” He gently removed her arms from where she was clutching him and strode over to jolly old Parley Finn, an aproned, portly and personable older man with thinning brown hair who was cleaning the large mirror behind the counter.
“Hey, Parley, I need five pounds of flour for Carmen and a box of three-inch nails.”
“Sure, Garrett.” The store owner walked off a few steps to retrieve the items.
“Oh, and Jackson is in need of a housekeeper, if you know of anybody.”
Libby’s head whirled. Jackson? How many Jacksons could there be in Deer Lodge that had Mr. Cowboy working for or with him? She had to make a split-second decision. This could be her chance to get on the Butterman ranch and observe without Jackson Butterman knowing who she was. And it would solve her problem of where to stay. She took a deep breath and walked up to Garrett.
“I’m a housekeeper,” she said, trying to appear more professional than she knew she looked, wrinkled and covered in dust.
The cowboy eyed her skeptically.
She shifted her weight uncomfortably under his gaze. “I just got off the stage. I’ve been traveling for weeks. I’m usually much cleaner. And starchier. Honestly.”
“If you say so,” he drawled.
She waited for him to say something else, but he continued to study her. She broke the silence before he could turn her down. “I’m a hard worker and very reliable.” She hoped he didn’t hear the quaver in her voice.
