by Jo Goodman
Mrs. Tyler and Phoebe were once again seated in an alcove in the Boxwood’s large dining room. This time, though, they were alone, as Remington was sitting with Junior at a round table closer to the kitchen. Both men rose as Miss Carolina approached their table on the arm of Deputy Blue Armstrong. Amanda leaned heavily toward Phoebe and whispered out of the side of her mouth. “Not what I was expecting, and I must say, I am a tad disappointed.”
Phoebe gave the woman a gentle push to center her back into her chair. “Don’t stare. We don’t want to attract notice or put notice on them.”
Mrs. Tyler glanced around the dining room. The usual Sunday-after-church crowd was in attendance to partake in the hotel’s fine brunch. The gaming room was quiet and largely empty, but come two o’clock when the brunch was no longer being served, a fair number of men, most of them dedicated churchgoers, would leave their wives and sweethearts at the door and give in to the temptation of cards, dice, and drink.
“No one is paying us the least attention,” she said, raising her teacup to her lips. She continued to speak behind the delicately painted china cup. “Can you see if she is wearing a ring?”
Phoebe refused to look. “No, I can’t see. We will have our chance soon enough.” She broke a crisp strip of bacon in half, took a bite, and surveyed the dining room much as Mrs. Tyler had. “They are making introductions now,” she said. “And a girl has just approached their table to take their orders.” Her eyes moved on. “Where is your daughter-in-law this morning?”
Mrs. Tyler momentarily pursed her lips. “Molly is indisposed.”
“Oh. I am sorry she doesn’t feel well. I was looking forward to meeting her.”
“Hangover,” Amanda Tyler said bluntly. “No head for drink. I sent Handy up to her apartment with the cure. With any luck it will persuade her not to imbibe anytime soon. She is a dear, and I like her very much, but she can be rather full of herself, and in my view, alcohol is the great leveler of puffery. It’s why I never criticize her drinking.” She smiled shrewdly, a little full of herself as well. “And the opportunity to give her cure is frankly irresistible.”
Amused, Phoebe simply shook her head as she did another casual inspection of the room. “Are most of the diners familiar to you?”
“Most, yes, and ‘familiar’ is the correct word. I don’t know them. I am better acquainted with the hotel guests, some of whom were here before I came and will be here after I leave. It astonishes me still that there are men who make a comfortable living at the card table.”
Phoebe’s gaze did not linger on any one diner, and she was only listening to Amanda with half an ear. Out of the corner of her eye, she had seen Miss Carolina open her reticule and produce a small black velvet pouch.
“I think your son is about to have his first look at the ring,” she said. She quickly placed one hand on Amanda’s forearm and cautioned her again. “Don’t stare.”
“Whatcha lookin’ at?” Handy McKenzie pulled out the empty chair at the table and flopped into it. He grinned toothily as both women stared at him, and because his back was to the other diners, he had to go through several contortions to get the same view they had before he joined them. “Oh, her. You like her dress, Mrs. T.? Puts me in mind of the sun.” He swiveled around in his chair. “Probably good for one’s disposition to wear all that yellow.”
Mrs. Tyler ceased looking put upon and waggled a strip of bacon at him. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“Of course I do.” With all the cheek of a young hooligan, Handy plucked the bacon strip from Mrs. Tyler’s fingers and bit down on it. “I’m here, aren’t I? So this must be the somewhere I have to be.”
“Impudent rascal,” she said, picking up her fork. “Did you deliver the cure?”
“Certainly.” He eyed her scrambled eggs. “Are you going to eat those or wave your fork over them?”
“Here.” It was Phoebe who passed her plate, not Mrs. Tyler.
Handy hesitated. “Oh, I couldn’t, ma’am.” But his eyes darted to Mrs. T. for permission. When she nodded indulgently, he seized the plate in both hands before Phoebe could change her mind. There was an extra setting of silverware on the table. He chose the correct fork but not before he carefully spread a napkin over his lap. “I stayed with Mrs. Molly until she drank it all down, just like you said. I think you’re right, Mrs. T., she drinks it a mite quicker when she knows I won’t leave. She says, ‘Thank you very much.’”
“I’m sure she did,” Mrs. Tyler said.
Handy jerked his head backward to indicate the table that had interested the women. “So what’s the law doing here?”
Phoebe blinked. “Mr. Frost is not the law.”
“Not him. The other fellow. The one I don’t know. He’s the law.”
Mrs. Tyler returned to staring at young Handy. “How could you possibly know that?”
Handy shrugged his bony shoulders. “I been scrappin’ with the law since I was a young’un. You get a feelin’ for it. Where’s he from?”
“A little town north of here called None of Your Business.”
He laughed appreciatively. “You tickle me, Mrs. T. That’s a good one. And I suppose that woman with him works at the Never-You-Mind cathouse.” He cast an apologetic smile at Phoebe. “Sorry, Miss Apple. Probably shoulda said ‘brothel’ instead of the other. I got a feelin’ for those places, too.”
Mrs. Tyler spoke before Phoebe could. “Not the time for your life story, Handy. Take your plate, napkin, and silverware to the kitchen and don’t let Mrs. Anderson put you to work before you’ve finished eating. If it’s a problem, send her to me.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry to you, too, about the cathouse comment. I figure my tongue outruns my manners most every time.”
Mrs. Tyler nodded. “We will keep working on that.”
Phoebe noticed that Handy did not seem at all displeased to hear it. He jumped up from the table, caught his napkin before it fell, and cleared his place. He wended his way through the dining room with the agility of a little monkey until he came to the table occupied by Remington, Junior, the law, and the whore, and then didn’t he just manage to knock everyone about so that he had a good look at what they were inspecting. He retreated quickly when Junior threatened to cuff him and backed through the swinging kitchen door. In spite of his rushing, he still had time to catch Mrs. T.’s eye and gave her a crafty, face-splitting grin.
Mrs. Tyler sighed and sat back. “Isn’t he a one? What can I do but have a soft spot for him? God help us all if he pinched the ring.”
“He wouldn’t.”
“No, not so he’d keep it, but—” She stopped because there was a scramble at the other table as the men ducked and Miss Carolina rose and it was obvious from their postures that everyone was looking for something. “That’s what I mean,” she said with considerable composure. “Give them a moment. Someone will find it.”
It was Blue who came up with the prize. Pleased with himself, he held the ring aloft and showed it off. It was only when the diamond sparkled in a ray of sunlight that he realized that the attention he had called to himself was not solely from his table companions. He sat slowly, took the velvet pouch that Miss Caroline held out to him, and dropped the ring inside.
Phoebe breathed more easily once the ring was confined to the little drawstring bag. “Is it yours?” she asked Mrs. Tyler. “Could you tell?”
“Not from here, but I am confident my son knows. I am less confident that Miss Carolina intends to give it up. I had not considered a reward, but there should be one. I will offer it myself if he does not have the good sense to do so.”
As it happened, Junior showed good sense and made his mother proud. It was he who escorted Miss Carolina to his mother’s table and pulled out a chair for her after making introductions. Remington and Blue remained at their table, but Phoebe saw they were watchful.
Junior sto
od behind and slightly to one side of Miss Carolina. Except for his eyes, which were like silver coins, he possessed a less rounded countenance than his mother. He was also more severe in his dress, his posture, and his presentation.
Miss Carolina’s demeanor was polite, but she did not engage in pleasantries. “I understand this may well belong to you.” She passed the pouch to Mrs. Tyler without opening it. “I am disappointed, of course, but your son has offered me a handsome sum for its return and I am not in a position to refuse it.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Tyler. “Yes, of course.” She opened the drawstring and turned over the pouch so what was inside fell into her palm. The pear shape diamond winked at her before her fingers folded around it. She nodded. “It’s mine.” There were tears in her eyes when she looked at Miss Carolina. “Thank you. It’s not merely the diamond that makes me know it.” She opened her fist and allowed the other woman to look at it again. “Do you see the deep scratch in the gold band? Yes? I did that slicing onions with a very sharp knife. The tears, you know. I could not see properly. My knife hand slipped and this ring saved my finger.” She slipped it on. “This finger.” She reached for her son’s hand and took it in hers. “He’s heard the story, haven’t you?”
“Too many times,” he said dryly.
“Yes. Probably.” She smiled at Miss Carolina. “But that’s how he could identify the ring. There’s no doubt.” She released her son’s hand and showed off the ring to Phoebe. “You didn’t know about the cut.”
“No. This is the diamond I remember, but I didn’t know about the other.”
Mrs. Tyler took Miss Carolina’s hand in both of hers. “You are very good to do this.”
“Not that good,” she said candidly. “I really had no other choice.”
“There are always choices. You made the right one.”
Miss Carolina nodded faintly. She took back her hand, stood, and raised her hand to bring Blue Armstrong to his feet. “My escort is waiting for me.”
“Oh, but don’t you want to—”
“It’s better if we leave.”
Mrs. Tyler nodded. “Jake, you’ll be a dear, won’t you? See that she has her reward before she leaves the hotel.”
“Right away,” he said, holding out his elbow. “Come with me, Miss Carolina.”
Phoebe watched them walk toward the entrance to the dining room. Deputy Armstrong cut a diagonal route to meet them. Remington rose, and in movements that mirrored Handy McKenzie’s earlier ones, took his plate, napkin, and utensils and followed a meandering path among the tables to reach her side.
“May I?” he asked, indicating Miss Carolina’s vacant chair.
“Of course.”
Mrs. Tyler’s greeting was more effusive, and she got the attention of a girl who was pouring coffee to bring the pot around to the table.
Phoebe noticed that Remington took the fussing in stride. She smirked, communicating clearly that he should not ever expect the same of her. She might fuss from time to time, but he should not expect it.
“What happened to your plate?” asked Remington.
It was Mrs. Tyler who answered. “She gave it to that young scamp Handy. He pleaded hunger and she believed him. He’s probably eaten three times already.”
Remington grinned. “Soft touch, is she?”
“The softest.”
Phoebe pointed a finger at each of them in turn. “I’m right here.” The girl with the coffeepot arrived, and Phoebe ordered another breakfast for herself. “It seems to have gone quite smoothly,” she said when the girl was gone. “What did you learn about the man who gave Miss Carolina the ring?”
“John Manypenny. He’s a whiskey drummer. Takes orders from saloons and certain private individuals. Collier is on his regular route and she generally knows when he’ll be coming through. She thinks he lives in Denver. He won’t be hard to find. If the ring did not pass through too many hands before it got to his, we should have a good description of the seller soon, perhaps even a name to go with it.”
“You’re confident,” said Mrs. Tyler. It was not a question. “I approve of that. It’s an attractive quality as long as it does not drift sideways into arrogance. I do not approve of that at all.”
“Good to know,” said Remington. He drizzled honey on the open face of a sliced biscuit and noticed that Phoebe seemed oddly fascinated. He replaced the honey wand in the jar and held out the biscuit to her. “Would you like it?”
Phoebe shook her head. “You applied the honey in a spiral. I don’t believe I ever noticed that before. You are truly your father’s son.”
Remington corrected her. “My mother’s son. It was her way. Thaddeus and I adopted it.”
“Then I won’t mention it to Fiona.”
“Better you don’t.”
Mrs. Tyler was at a loss to understand the conversation but that did not stop her from inserting herself into it. “If there is a question before you, why not let the judge decide? He is coming toward us now.” She cast a mischievous glance at Remington. “Shall I be witness to a marriage today?”
Remington turned to Phoebe. “Will she?”
Phoebe stared at him. Shock left her cold.
“Phoebe?” Remington set the biscuit on his plate. “I thought last night . . . you said . . . you said it wasn’t your secret to tell, so I told it to you. I thought it was settled then.”
Phoebe rose to her feet stiffly. “You thought wrong,” she said tonelessly. “It was not your secret to tell either.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Two days after Remington and Phoebe returned to Twin Star, there was still nothing settled between them. There were apologies, politely accepted, but they changed very little. Phoebe was ashamed that she had left the table so abruptly that she failed to make the acquaintance of the judge and had left Remington and Mrs. Tyler to offer excuses for her. Remington deeply regretted that he had misunderstood their conversation and believed that with his secret revealed, Phoebe meant to marry him before they left Liberty Junction. He was no closer to understanding what it was that she needed to hear before she would marry him, but he was clear that whatever it was, she was not expecting to hear it from him.
Perhaps he should have been relieved to know it, but what he was, was frustrated, and he did not take any particular pains to hide it.
“He’s showing himself,” Fiona told Phoebe.
“What?” Distracted, Phoebe looked up from her book and saw Fiona was intending to join her in the parlor. She managed to keep from sighing and closed A Tale of Two Cities around her finger. “I’m sorry, Fiona. I didn’t hear you.”
Fiona chose to perch in the middle of the sofa. Out of habit, she smoothed her gown and set her hands in her lap. “He’s showing himself. That’s what I said.”
“Who?”
“Remington, of course. Really, Phoebe, you can be obtuse at times. Or is it simply that you do not wish to see?”
“Oh, I think it must be that I’m obtuse.”
“And now you are being perfectly disagreeable.”
Now Phoebe did sigh. She removed her spectacles, carefully folded the stems, and placed them on the table at her side. “Is there something in particular you want to say? Perhaps explain what you mean by Remington showing himself?”
“Why, he’s positively surly. I’ve seen the like before, of course, but not since you arrived. It is quite an achievement that he maintained that façade of cheerfulness for as long as he did.”
“Cheerfulness? I believe that is overstating his general disposition.”
Fiona waved aside the objection. “You know what I’m saying. He is unpleasant to everyone. I am rather more immune than others, but he set Ben back on his heels this morning, pinned that young Johnny Scooter fellow to the—”
“Johnny Sutton,” Phoebe said. “Or Scooter Banks.”
“Does it
matter? It was one of them pinned to the corral by Remington’s abusive language. He has barely spoken to Thaddeus in spite of several overtures, and last night he went straight to the bunkhouse after dinner and slept there.”
Puzzled, Phoebe frowned. “Are you pleased? Satisfied? Concerned? Or simply the harbinger of doom?”
“There is no need to wax dramatic. I want you to know him for what he is, Phoebe. I could see you were developing an attachment. I can’t say what I thought he was doing because it would not be polite, but I believe your feelings were becoming fixed. If something happened on your trip to Liberty Junction that changed that, then I, for one, am glad of it.”
Phoebe did not respond immediately. Her quiet had a purpose. She needed it to preface what she wanted to say to Fiona, and she needed Fiona to hear her. When she saw Fiona lean slightly forward in anticipation of her reply, Phoebe judged she could speak. “Nothing happened on our trip,” she said. “My feelings for Remington have not changed; they are as fixed now as they were before we left. As to the composition of those feelings, it is not for me to say to you before I have said the same to him. You should leave it at that, Fiona.”
Phoebe watched with jaded amusement as Fiona flung herself backward on the sofa. She stopped short of placing her wrist against her forehead and a hand over her heart, but otherwise was the embodiment of waxing dramatic. Phoebe was tempted to applaud, but that would have been giving the performance approbation it did not deserve.
“You are in love with him,” said Fiona.
It was no mere statement Fiona flung at her. It was an accusation and it was all Phoebe could do not to recoil. “Am I?”