The Blizzard Bride

by Susanne Dietze

  “It is. So you know for a fact Isaac went to be with Micah?”

  “Yes.” Her brow furrowed.

  “Then Micah will be home shortly, I’m certain,” Dash insisted.

  Abby didn’t look convinced, though, as she laid a hand on the woman’s arm. “We need to discuss something else with you.”

  “You’re scaring me. What’s this about?”

  “I—haven’t been truthful with you. I didn’t come to Wells just to teach. I came on the behest of the Secret Service.”

  Dash withdrew his commission book from his pocket, opening it to reveal his badge. “We’re desperately looking for a woman named Katherine Hoover. Is that you?”

  “Me? No.” Geraldine’s eye twitched, just as it had at the schoolhouse when Dash wondered if it indicated she lied. Then she jerked her arm, twisting to run, but Abby clutched her. “Geraldine, please. Fletcher Pitch is probably in Wells. We need your help before it’s too late.”

  “Here? No, I—you’re Secret Service?” Her eyes were like a wounded deer’s.

  “Yes, and I’ve been hunting Pitch for a long time,” Dash said.

  “He wants Micah.” Her voice rose in pitch. “I need to get him home.”

  Dash returned his badge to his pocket. “I’ll bring him back, I promise, but I ask you not to run again when we return. We can protect you, and with your help, we can prosecute Pitch. Will you stay?”

  She stared at him, breathing hard. “It was you, looking for me in Missouri?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought it was him. I thought—never mind. I won’t go anywhere without Micah, so no, I won’t be leaving. Is your name really Lassiter?”

  “It is.”

  Abby looked apologetic. “I’m Abby Bracey. I didn’t lie about that.”

  “So it seems we were honest with each other about something, at least.” Geraldine stared at Dash. “You’ve got to find Micah.”

  “I will. Abby, stay with her.” Don’t let her leave.

  She understood. He could tell because the last thing he saw before the door shut was the resolute set of her jaw.

  CHAPTER 19

  Abby poured two cups of tea into delicate china cups and offered one to Geraldine. “Should I call you Geraldine or Katherine?”

  “I haven’t been Katherine in a long time. I don’t think I’d answer to it anymore.” Geraldine looked as if she might faint into the depths of the parlor couch.

  Abby shifted closer and slipped a supportive arm around Geraldine. “Pitch’ll be in jail soon.”

  “He’ll get out of it somehow, and we’ll always be looking over our shoulders.” Geraldine rubbed her eyes. “I promised Nancy I’d protect Micah with my life, but during the storm, I didn’t know where he was, how he was. The waiting about ate me alive. I felt so helpless.”

  “Nancy? That’s your sister’s name?”

  Geraldine nodded. “I failed her, though, by spilling our secret. I told a friend why I was running away after Nancy died. That’s how you found me, isn’t it?”

  “It started Dash on the path, yes.”

  “I should’ve known not to come to Wells.”

  “Why?” Abby sipped her tea.

  “Wells was my father’s name. Wells Hoover. I saw it on the map and couldn’t resist its pull—but that was foolish, because Fletcher would have known my father’s name too.” She glanced up from her tea. “I fibbed to you about a friend inviting us to join her in Nebraska.”

  “I understand.” Abby set down her cup with a soft plink. “What did Nancy tell you about Fletcher?”

  “Most of what I know comes from the letters she sent me during their courtship and early marriage, how they met and all that. She waited tables at a restaurant he frequented, harboring no idea of his arrangement with the restaurant owner to pass along his counterfeit bills. All she could see was his winsome smile.”

  “He sounds refined.”

  “On the contrary, he was shy. Awkward. Stepped on her feet when they danced, fumbled for the right words. He wasn’t the sort of man who plied her with compliments or candies, so when he drew a picture to let her know how he felt, my sister knew he meant it.”

  “I’ve never thought of a man stepping on your toes as endearing, but I suppose if he’s not accustomed to dancing but makes the effort, it could make a good impression.” Abby certainly hadn’t held it against poor Burt Crabtree at the mayor’s birthday party.

  Her mouth went dry.

  “He drew her a picture?”

  “He’s an excellent artist, which makes sense, since he’s an engraver. She said he had an amazing memory and could draw anything after only seeing it once.”

  Like a Goose game board?

  Burt, who was so helpful during the blizzard.

  Burt, who didn’t know much about horses, which he’d need to run a successful ranch. Whose house was sparsely furnished, his pantry near bare, his knives dull … because he hadn’t really been setting up a home, because he had no plans to stay in Nebraska. All he ever did was repair a fence.

  And watch the school.

  Geraldine talked on. “That was in the beginning, of course, before Nancy realized who she’d married. That he wasn’t just a counterfeiter. He killed two men.”

  “More since then.” Abby willed her heart to slow to a steady pace. “Dash believes you have a tintype. Fletcher and Nancy’s wedding portrait. Did you keep it or destroy it?”

  “Oh, that.” Geraldine stood. “I kept it so one day Micah could know what his mother looked like. His father too, I suppose. I still don’t know what I’ll tell him about Fletcher. I’ll fetch it, since I’m sure you’d like to see it.”

  Geraldine retreated into one of the bedrooms. She returned a few minutes later with a muslin-wrapped packet that fit on her palm. Resuming her seat, she handed it to Abby, who untied the ribbon around it.

  The thin metal plate affixed to a brown mounting board was small enough she could tuck it into a pocket. Micah had inherited the bride’s intelligent eyes. Her husband was handsome, clean shaven, and his eyes smiled even if his mouth was set in a serious line.

  Her skin crawled, like spiders crept over her. “You haven’t seen this man anywhere? Maybe looking a little different, after ten years, like with a beard.”

  “No, never.”

  How was that possible? Abby revisited events in her mind. Hildie said Burt kept to himself, which was true. He didn’t attend church. But wouldn’t their paths have crossed in town?

  He left the mayor’s party before Geraldine and Micah arrived, and the day after the blizzard, he left the Knapps’ store before Geraldine came to collect Micah. Perhaps they truly had missed one another all this time.

  “Keep this safe.” She passed back the tintype.

  “Of course. Will it help convict him?”

  “It’ll help identify him, but it won’t prove he counterfeited anything. Or murdered anyone.” For that, a different type of evidence was required. Did the Secret Service have definitive proof against Pitch, something that would sway a jury? Abby’s stomach clenched with fear that they didn’t. Pitch had been so careful to hide his face, change his name and tactics. Even Dash’s informant knew little of Pitch. So how could they prove he was the so-called Artist who ran a counterfeiting ring and killed numerous people, including her father?

  Lord, I know vengeance is Yours, but I’d like to see him receive justice for killing Father.

  Burt was among the group of men occupied with repairing the schoolhouse, wasn’t he? This was the perfect time to find evidence—if she hurried. “There’s something I must do. Would you like someone to stay with you?”

  “I want to be here when Micah returns but … I don’t want to be alone, either. I need a few things from the general store. There are always a lot of people there, so I’ll do that. If you can wait a moment for me to leave a note for Mrs. Leary? She can direct Dash and Micah to me there.” Geraldine bent over the desk by the window and pulled a few sheaves of writing p
aper toward herself. A few scratches of the pen, and she plugged the ink bottle. “Done. I’ll fetch my coat. One moment, please.”

  The moment Geraldine slipped into her room, Abby rushed to the desk. She didn’t wish to frighten Geraldine by telling her about Burt Crabtree—Pitch—especially when he was at the school and of no immediate threat to her or Micah. But he would be a threat quite soon, and she couldn’t allow the opportunity to search his property pass by. If she waited, there might never be another chance.

  Abby scrawled a few lines on a blank sheet, but the note was messy from her haste. And wet. She didn’t have time to blot it. Blowing on the damp ink, she turned her back.

  With a rustle of fabric, Geraldine reappeared. “Ready.”

  Abby shoved the note into her pocket. She waited while Geraldine left her brief note for her employer on the shop counter, locked the door behind her, and started toward the general store. “Why are you walking with me?”

  “I want to ensure you arrive in one piece, is all.”

  “You’re trained, like your operative?”

  “Not quite. But I’m not defenseless.” Her knife was where it belonged, tied snug to her calf.

  The general store bustled with activity, but once Geraldine found a group of women to join, Abby caught Mr. Knapp’s attention. She held out the folded note. “This is for Dash Lassiter. It’s imperative that he read it the moment he arrives.”

  “Which will be?”

  “Soon, I think.”

  His head tipped to the side. “I’m not the post office, you know.”

  At his mention of the post office, guilt prickled her skin. She’d been wrong about Isaac, but there wasn’t time to address it now.

  “It’s important, Mr. Knapp. Important and private. I trust you to see he gets it.”

  He stuffed the note in his apron pocket. “No one’s dying, are they?”

  Not yet. “Thanks, Mr. Knapp.”

  Halfway to Burt Crabtree’s, she remembered Dash’s word blindness. How could she have forgotten, even for a moment? She’d shared ideas with him on how to approach reading, but they hadn’t had time to practice. How foolish she’d been.

  She didn’t have time to go back, though. All she could do was pray and trust the Lord would help him read it, or that he would show it to someone he trusted. She mounted the horse Dash had brought her to ride. “Well, Number Five, it’s up to you and me now.”

  “Isaac, hey, come here a minute.” Dash had years of practice sounding calm when he felt anything but. His attempt at a measured tone seemed to work yet again, because Isaac grinned as he descended one of the ladders propped against the back of the schoolhouse.

  “Ready to lend a hand?”

  “Not quite.” God, Isaac is my friend. Thinking he might be Fletcher Pitch? It’s eating me up. But I have a job to do. Help me do it to the best of my ability.

  “I need to talk to you.” He led Isaac behind the school, away from the horses. If Isaac was Pitch and he ran, Dash would catch up before he reached the horses or the road. Fletcher Pitch would not get away today.

  “I wanted to talk to you too.” Isaac swiped perspiration from his brow. “I may need your room back. Not in the next few weeks or anything, but I’ve asked Micah Story for permission to court his mother. Thought it would be a nice touch, him being the man in her life and all. He said yes, and if all goes well, I hope to marry her.”

  “You asked him today?”

  “Yeah. He came out here with his friend Kyle to watch us work.”

  “But he’s not with you now?”

  Dash’s question managed to swipe the grin off Isaac’s face. “I went back to work, he returned to town.”

  “Actually, he didn’t.”

  “Where is he?” Isaac craned his neck and looked around.

  “We don’t know.”

  Isaac’s head jerked back. “What? What do you mean, we?”

  Was this the reaction of a concerned friend or a faked response by a guilty party? Time to change tactics … and positions, in case he needed to subdue Isaac. “Are you sure you didn’t take him somewhere? On a walk or—”

  “Why are you asking that? In that tone like you … like you don’t even know me? I didn’t do anything but tell him goodbye.”

  Dash nodded as if he completely believed it. “What’d you do as soon as he left?”

  “I went back up on the roof, where I’ve been ever since. You can ask any of these fellas. Dash, I don’t like you interrogating me, especially if Micah didn’t go back with Kyle. He could be missing or hurt. There are snowdrifts and ice patches. We’ve got to look for him.” A note of panic rang through his speech.

  He could fake his concern, but he couldn’t fake witnesses to account for him having been on the roof all this time.

  “We’ll look. I have to ask first: Do you know a woman named Katherine Hoover?” His arms tensed if Isaac—maybe Fletcher—ran or fought. Dash had done this too many times not to be prepared.

  “I know Hoovers in Sewickley, Pennsylvania. They’re my mother’s kin. Those who you mean? I don’t remember a Katherine, though. What does that have to do with anything?”

  Dash scarcely listened to the words. He watched Isaac’s eyes, the direction of his gaze, the muscles in his jaw. Isaac gave no indication he lied. He did not know the name of Katherine Hoover.

  “What about Fletcher Pitch?”

  Isaac’s hands lifted in impatience. “Who are these folks? Did they complain about me being here instead of the post office? Because if Micah’s lost or hurt, it’ll be a lot longer before I get back to work.”

  Relief flooded Dash’s veins.

  “Never mind, they’re not important. Let’s go find Micah now, though he could be back in town, for all I know. I think we should drop by the seamstress shop, and if he hasn’t returned, we’ll get some help to join the search.” Dash clapped an arm around Isaac and drew him around to where the horses waited. “I’ve got a lot to tell you in a short amount of time but here’s a start.” He tugged his commission book from his pocket and, since they were hidden from the men by the horses, flashed his badge at Isaac.

  Isaac’s eyebrows lifted, disappearing beneath his hat brim. “You’re a sheriff?”

  Dash couldn’t help but smile. “Not quite. United States Secret Service, Treasury Department.”

  “Why’d you take a job as a hostler, then?”

  Dash climbed into Six’s saddle. “Long story, but it starts with Abby.”

  Passing the school, it was hard for Abby to tell which man was which, up there on the roof. She waved nevertheless, praying she looked like the grateful schoolmarm on her way back to the Elmores’ place.

  Someone waved back. Hopefully not Burt Crabtree. It’d be horrible if he saw her sneak into his house.

  She looked straight ahead, focusing on the road as she passed Burt Crabtree’s house. Then she doubled back and urged Five over a low-lying beam of Burt’s Virginia rail fence. Five landed knee-deep in a snowdrift, jostling Abby, but she held on to the reins. “That’s a girl,” she whispered. “I’ll give you something sweet back at Mr. Yates’s. All right, here. We can stop.”

  Five turned her head as if to ask why Abby had chosen such an unpalatable spot as this, a patch between the cottonwoods behind the barn. It offered a sheltered spot to tether Five, though, and it was hidden from the house as well as the road.

  The snow was six inches deep between here and the house. It sucked at her boots and dampened her skirts, increasing the difficulty of her march with every step. Her toes burned, but soon this would be over, and she’d be snug and warm, with evidence against Pitch that would make him sorry he’d ever come to Wells, Nebraska. Or poked the likes of her by killing her father.

  She pressed on, rounding the barn to the side of the house. Movement shifted in the kitchen window—he was here? Not at the schoolhouse? She froze—she’d make up a story. Say she’d come to thank him for his hospitality—Thank You, Lord, that Geraldine didn’t bring h
im muffins yet, or she would have had the worst surprise of her life.

  But Burt passed the window again, slowly, his head bent down as if he was reading something. Sure didn’t seem like he’d seen her. She wouldn’t loiter, though. A few steps and she slipped inside the barn.

  It didn’t smell like any barn she’d ever been in. Oh, there was the faint smell of horse—singular. No others. Jasper was his name, wasn’t it? Burt only had one horse? Who would believe he intended to ranch with one horse?

  This barn also smelled clean, like window washing day. Light poured through the two large south-facing windows, illuminating a dustless desk—no, not a desk. A drafting table? She’d never paid attention to what they looked like before, but she’d seen one years ago. One of Father’s friends was an architect, and his table was wide, deep, with no drawers. This was similar, but a bag lay on top.

  There was no cincture for her to open. She poked it. It yielded to her touch like sand.

  The only other thing on the table was a weathered wood box. Abby fumbled with the latch. Inside were tools she couldn’t identify, but their metal points might well be used for engraving. A soft red cloth encased a heavy magnifying glass. Would these be enough evidence to convict him?

  There had to be something else around here. Her gaze scanned the floor, landing on a roll of tracing paper, of all things, and a crate beneath the table. It looked like it could be heavy, so she knelt before it to examine the contents.

  Metal plates. Many, many metal plates. Some plain, some etched with vignettes like the pictures she recognized on bills. Some were two by three inches, some smaller, but all were exquisite, expertly detailed. Abby had no idea how it was accomplished, but she was certain these small engravings somehow came together to form a plate for printing bogus currency.

  Now this, this was evidence.

  She couldn’t carry it all, but she could take a few in her pockets. That wouldn’t be considered tampering with evidence, would it, if she used it to lead Dash here?

  There. Ready. Now all she had to do was sneak out and get to Five.

  Scritch. That sure hadn’t sounded like a mouse. Abby turned. Nothing there, nothing anywhere—