A shriek behind Dash drew his attention. A few boys raced from the schoolhouse as if they’d been released from captivity. Wrapped in a rusty-red shawl that on a sunnier day would bring out the mahogany in her hair, Abby stood in the doorway, assisting a little girl with her mittens.
He turned back and tipped the brim of his hat at the man. “School’s out, so I’ll be on my way.”
“Didn’t catch your name.”
Had Abby called him by name in front of the children? He mentally kicked himself for not having noted it. Well, best assume she had, so he’d have to use his real name now. Usually, he offered an alias when it came to work, not that it mattered all that much. Counterfeiters generally knew the name of the Head of the Secret Service, but not its operatives. “Dashiell Lassiter.”
“Burt Crabtree.” The rancher nodded and scooped up his tools to resume his task.
Dash crossed the snow-dusted schoolyard, and at once a group of children ran at him, heading to the road. He felt like a large, lone fish swimming into a school of guppies. Ahead, Abby rested a gentle hand atop the girl’s cap while her attention fixed on several other pupils. “Bud, you dropped your mitten. Micah, pull your cap down over your ears. Don’t forget about the meeting tonight at town hall, everyone. I’d love to meet your parents.”
Dash stomped snow from his boot against the first step up to the schoolhouse. “May I come in now, ma’am?”
Her head shook in such a way he understood at once: it’s not proper. Not that he had any intention of coming within ten feet of her ever again, but being a gentleman was cramping his ability to relay vital information. “Then if you could—”
Something thwacked the back of his calf. He spun to see a leather ball roll past, chased by a boy who yelled an apology. When he turned back, a girl with brown braids had inserted herself between him and Abby.
Abby smiled. “Oneida, did you need something?”
“I can’t find my ribbon. Mama said if I lost it I don’t get new ribbons again, ever.”
“Ever, eh?”
“Something like that. I stopped listening, but I need the ribbon.”
Abby cast Dash an apologetic look. “If you could wait one more minute.”
“How about I walk you home?”
“I do not walk alone. I board with a family, and their six-year-old is my companion to and from school. Besides, I wouldn’t wish for anyone to see us and think we were engaged in an assignation of some sort.”
She hadn’t minded their trysts in the past. He wouldn’t fight it, though. “One minute’s wait won’t hurt.”
“All right, Oneida, let’s go look for it.” She retreated back inside.
Before he had a moment to breathe, someone tapped his elbow, a pale-haired, freckled girl in a yellow cap. “Who are you?” Her voice was high-pitched as a kitten’s mew, but something sparking in her blue eyes told him she was as curious as the proverbial cat too.
“I’m Mr. Lassiter. Who are you?” He’d been trained to throw off inquisitors with questions, and never had he been more grateful for the trick than he was now.
“Willodean Lisa-peth Elmore.”
“Nice to meet you, Willodean.”
“Why are you here?”
First Burt Crabtree had questions, and now this little wisp of a thing. Well, Dash had expected his appearance in town would draw scrutiny. That’s why he and his supervisors decided to use a teacher instead—before things changed and he had to come to Wells himself. “Business.”
“Mama says adult biz-ness is none of my biz-ness and she tells me no eavesdropping.” She enunciated the last two words, no doubt in imitation of her mother. “But I want to know everything.”
Apparently he had something in common with Willodean. “Curiosity isn’t a bad thing.”
Willodean scooped up snow and patted it in her mittens. “What’re you curious about?”
Killers, smugglers, bad money, and, truth be told, her schoolmarm. “The world.”
“Me too. Like, where do bugs go when it snows?”
“I don’t know the answer to that one, unless they sleep in trees or underground.”
She nodded sagely. “Miss Bracey will know. I like her.”
“I do too,” he said without thinking.
Her eyes took on a suspicious gleam. “Why?”
What did she mean, why? The better question was why he’d admitted to liking Abby, a woman who loathed the sight of him. “Just … because.”
“Mama says because isn’t an answer.”
“Isn’t it time you went home, before your mother wonders where you are?”
“I’m gonna play until Miss Bracey’s ready to walk home with me. She sleeps in our attic.”
“Oh, yes, she mentioned she had an escort home.” But an attic? That was a far cry from Abby’s elegant dwelling when he knew her back in Chicago.
Willodean hopped in the snow, making crunching sounds with her boots. “Almos brought a skunk to school today and nobody knew until Miss Bracey saw it wiggling in the sack. I reckon it was sleepin’ all day, because it’s got a hurt leg or maybe because skunks are night critters. I don’t rightly know.”
The canvas sack he’d seen made sense now. “I imagine Miss Bracey didn’t like an animal in school.”
She’d been afraid of skunks when they were younger, shrieking when one crossed their path on an evening stroll. Dash had been grateful for the skunk, though, for the creature had driven Abby right into his arms.
With a scrape, the school door opened again, and the girl with the lost ribbon skittered out.
“Ribbon found?” Dash asked.
Abby nodded. “In her coat pocket.”
The yard had mostly emptied of children. Two boys threw snowballs at one another, and a few of the girls stared at him—just as Burt Crabtree had—but everyone was at a distance now, and none could overhear anything. Except Willodean, who looked up at them, clearly not going anywhere.
Well, neither was Dash.
Abby patted the child atop her capped head. “Would you please erase the blackboard for me?”
“Yes, ma’am!” Willodean shouted like it was a treat before scurrying into the building.
Abby stared up at Dash. “That gives us about ninety seconds, and this is as much privacy as we are bound to get. What’s wrong?”
At last. “You-know-who is coming to Wells.”
Pitch. She mouthed the name and then her lips stayed parted in surprise.
“You recall I have certain … friends who are not of the best character, who speak to me in confidence about delicate matters in exchange for the Service turning a blind eye to their lesser infractions.”
“Informants, you called them.”
“Exactly. One such fellow who’s worked with him in Kansas City says he has learned his son is here in Wells.”
“Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be. I tracked Katherine Hoover to Wells. He could too. My informant said the moment you-know-who saw the name of the town, Wells, he said he should’ve known. I don’t know why, but it was enough to make him think the boy is here and make plans to come here once he ties up loose ends on his current operation. So on behalf of the Secret Service, I thank you for your sacrifice coming here. I can get you on a train back to Chicago in the morning.”
She flinched. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your services are no longer required.”
“They certainly are. I haven’t found the boy yet.”
“It would have been miraculous if you had in only three days.”
“B–but I have work to do. Plans.”
“It can’t be helped. Anywhere that man goes is dangerous, and if he’s coming here, it stands to reason you could be in danger. I won’t have it.”
“You, or the Service?” she muttered.
“Both.” Mainly him.
“I do not see why I must leave. He won’t suspect a spinster schoolmarm, and I can still identify the boy so you can protect him. Pleas
e don’t make me go home yet.”
“What if he comes to the school, Abby? What do you think could happen?”
She looked away and mumbled something.
“Pardon?”
She sighed. “I have a knife tied to my calf.”
A snort escaped him. “Of all the fool things, Abby.”
“You don’t think I’d use it?”
“I’m pretty sure you’d try, to a frightening result. Abby, he’s a mur—”
“I’m not leaving.” Her arms folded. “I signed a contract to teach. I gave my word to Mr. Welch I’d help the cause. And now that I think on it, his coming here might be a good thing. You said it yourself, newcomers stand out in a town like this. You can nab him in an instant.”
“In an instant,” he echoed, disbelieving.
“This is what we will do. I will continue in my role and I will send you a telegraph the minute a new stranger saunters into town—”
“He won’t saunter. He’ll slip in, with a false identity and a plausible-sounding reason for being here. Or he might hide outside of town, watching until he figures out who his boy is.”
“That could take forever.”
“He didn’t get where he is without being patient.”
“So how will you protect the boy and his mother, then? Visit each widow and say, ‘Ma’am, if you used to go by the name Katherine Hoover”—she whispered the name—“your brother-in-law is about to come calling.’” Her mouth softened. “Actually, I wonder why you don’t do that. This is a matter of life and death. Visit the families who fit the description and tell them the truth. I can provide their names. The mother will help you.”
“Or deny it and then run away again, which is why Welch has forbidden me to speak to the families directly. This is the closest we’ve ever come to apprehending this man, and my superiors want to keep things as quiet as possible. They want the mother positively identified before I confront her, so she cannot lie about who she is.”
Abby’s eyes were pleading. “If I leave, how can you know who she is?”
“Figuring this mess out is not your job. It’s mine.” And he had to do it fast.
She shook her head. “There’s still time.”
“Not much, though. A day, perhaps a week or two since he said something about putting his affairs in order. But it doesn’t matter. Welch gave the order. You’re to be paid for the term, but your help is no longer requested.”
The door opened and Willodean’s chalk-smudged face poked through the gap. “I’m finished.”
“So are we. Gather your things to go home.” The gentleness of her tone for the child contradicted the iron-hard glare cast at Dash.
Pity surged through him. “Finish out the week, if you must.”
“I shall finish out the term. I am not leaving Wells.”
“Yes, you are.” His whisper came out like a hiss.
“I shall send a telegram when I’ve concluded my investigation, as discussed.” She re-entered the schoolhouse. At least she didn’t shut the door in his face this time.
Dash stood in the schoolyard, incredulous. No, furious. What was she thinking? She had no idea what could happen here. But there was no use arguing now, with Willodean hopping down the steps and Burt Crabtree no longer even pretending to work as he watched Dash.
There was nothing for it but to go back to town, where he’d left his baggage and intentions to whisk Abby away from here at first light.
Marching the snowy road back to town, he only thought of one thing. Abby’s well-being.
It was paramount, more so than apprehending Fletcher Pitch. She would be kept safe.
He’d die if he had to, to keep that promise to her father.
CHAPTER 4
At half past five that evening, Abby perched on the hard stool at the maple bureau in her room and pinned her hair into a tight bun for the meeting at town hall at six. Hopefully the severe style communicated schoolmarm to everyone who looked at her, including her hostess, Hildie Elmore, whose disbelieving blue-eyed gaze flashed in the mirror’s reflection.
“That feller sounds like a suitor to me, Abby.”
“I assure you, he’s not. Just an old acquaintance, passing through town.”
Naturally, the moment Abby and Willodean came home from school today, Willodean had told Hildie and Bynum all about the man who visited Abby at school—and that he’d called her Abby and not Miss Bracey, a veritable felony in her thinking. And he took her arm like he was going to escort her somewhere fancy.
Also naturally, Hildie and Bynum had gaped at Abby.
She’d offered the half truth that she used to know Dashiell Lassiter and he was merely being courteous in coming by. She hoped—almost prayed, before she reminded herself she didn’t do that anymore—that her host family would accept her feeble story and leave it at that. Alas, they didn’t. After supper, Hildie had followed her upstairs to continue questioning her.
“Willodean said he looks like the prince in her fairy-tale book. Tall and dashing.” Hildie grinned from her perch at the foot of Abby’s bed, directly behind the bureau.
“He might be tall, but he’s no prince.” Abby reached for her brown bonnet.
“It ain’t any of my business, I know, and I shouldn’t tease. But your color’s high, and it’s clear as well water that this Lassiter was once a beau of yours. Maybe he’s here to woo you back.”
Abby tugged her bonnet bow too hard, pinching her neck. It ached already anyway from the inside—lies never sat well in her throat. But these lies were spoken to protect the investigation. They were necessary.
Nevertheless, it would be a relief to tell the truth about something.
“You’re right. He was my beau once.” Her heart gave an odd thump. “But seeing him today was a complete surprise. I haven’t heard from him in six years.”
“My, that is a long time.” Hildie’s eyes grew wide. “But if he’s here, maybe he has intentions—”
“I assure you, he said not a word about resuming any sort of friendship with me. Besides, I signed a teaching contract. No beaux.”
Hildie shrugged. “Perhaps you’ll meet someone else in Wells and choose to stay when your contract is finished.”
“Goodness, no.” Abby reached for her coat. “About the meeting someone, that is.”
“The new postmaster, Isaac Flowers, is Wells’s most eligible bachelor, in my opinion. Have you met him?”
“I posted a letter yesterday.” The black-haired man behind the counter was around thirty, with dimpled cheeks and a dandy way with a necktie.
“What did you think of him?”
“He was courteous.”
Hildie cackled. “He’s handsome.”
“You’re married.”
“Not dead. Isaac Flowers has the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. But if he isn’t to your liking, then the second most eligible fellow in Wells would be Burt Crabtree. Just after harvest, he bought the Gibbon farm, the one by the schoolhouse. Have you seen him yet?”
“Nearly every day. He’s replacing his fence.”
“I can’t say I’d like to see you with him, despite his handsomeness. He’s awfully shy and I have never seen him in church. Oh.” Hildie grimaced and rubbed her rounded belly. Abby didn’t know much about expectant women, but it looked as if Hildie had smuggled a watermelon under her apron. Surely that meant the baby would come soon.
Abby didn’t dare ask about something as private as a baby’s estimated arrival, however, even though Hildie had insisted they toss formality to the snow outside and use Christian names. “We’ll befriends, I am sure of it,” Hildie had said the day of Abby’s arrival.
But even though Hildie couldn’t be much more than Abby’s twenty-five and was open to friendship, Abby was a spinster who didn’t dare ask about delicate things like babies or marriage, no matter how confused she was about how an unborn baby could get hiccups, like this baby had done, or if it really hurt to give birth to it, as she’d heard whispered by others.
She could show compassion, however. “Are you uncomfortable?”
“Always, this close to the birth.” Hildie shoved a loose tendril of dark blond hair behind her ear. “It’s hard to breathe tonight.”
Abby’s mouth went dry. “Do you need the doctor? I’ll go. Or Bynum can fetch him and I’ll stay here with you. I’ll put Willodean and Patty to bed.” At six and three, the girls were not difficult to tend. She hopped up, ready for action.
“The meeting at town hall is for folks to meet you, remember?” Hildie waved her hand in dismissal. “It’s not like I can’t breathe a’tall. It’s just a little strained at the moment. The baby’ll move in a minute and I’ll feel better.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. I’ll be fine if you and Bynum go into town for a few hours. Besides, I wouldn’t dare keep you here when you have a suitor in town. I mean, former suitor.”
“He won’t be at the meeting.” He had no reason to be.
Hildie followed her out and down the narrow staircase to the lower floors of the cozy farmhouse. Bynum stood in the narrow foyer by the coat tree, donning his scarf. “Ready to leave, Miss Abby?”
To meet the parents of her pupils? In particular, to get a good look at the widowed mothers of the eight-year-old boys in her class, one of whom was Fletcher Pitch’s sister-in-law, Katherine Hoover? “Oh yes, I certainly am.”
She wrapped her green scarf about her neck with the determination of a medieval knight donning his helmet. She was a warrior, prepared for battle. Against Pitch, of course.
And maybe against her pattering heart too. She mustn’t allow fear to niggle its way into her brain, but with Pitch coming … what would she do in the coming days or weeks if she came face-to-face with him?
She brushed her legs together, feeling the hard ridge of her knife tied to her stocking. She was ready for Pitch.
She’d been unprepared to see Dash again, though. But it was not worth another moment’s thought. She would never have to see him and his lying, oh-so-handsome face again.
Which was why it was such a shock during her town hall speech to see Dash lurking beside a potted plant in the back corner, silently toasting her with a cup of coffee.
The Blizzard Bride Page 4