Rachel chuckled. “About the same as one would expect,” she said with a shrug. “I wish I knew where your sister got her energy.”
“Many’s the time I’ve asked myself the same question,” he admitted with a grin, looking and sounding rather rueful. “She’s been running circles around me since we were children.”
“And it would appear Jesse inherited that trait from her.”
He burst out laughing. “That he did. That he did.”
It was difficult to imagine Phoebe ever having been locked up in one of the dark, sparsely furnished cells behind Rance. That was how they met, when a case of mistaken identity had left Phoebe taking the blame for a stolen wallet. The fact that she had refused to explain the situation or describe the unfortunate young woman who had thrust the wallet into her hands meant there had been no releasing her, even though Rance had never truly believed her to be the thief.
Rachel secretly wondered if Phoebe had not deliberately withheld the truth when she discovered how handsome and kindly sheriff was. If she had schemed to remain in his presence longer than was strictly necessary.
She would never know, for she would never dare voice her question to Phoebe, and if that were the case, Phoebe would never admit it.
Rachel patted the lid of the dinner pail her sister had entrusted to her. “Your wife advises you to finish every drop of the soup in this pail,” she reported with a stern expression. “She says you’ve not been eating nearly enough as of late, and spending far too much time here at the jailhouse. You’ll need your trousers taken in if this goes on much longer.”
His face flushed, and the sudden need to clear his throat spoke of his surprise at her frankness. “Truth be told, there’s little else for me to do when she is staying at the ranch,” he admitted. “Returning to an empty house at the end of the day was one thing before I knew what it meant to go home to a family.”
She understood this. He had grown accustomed to arriving at his sister’s after a long day of work, to the smell of supper on the stove and the sound of his nephew’s laughter ringing in his ears.
Now, with Phoebe maintaining partial residence at the ranch so as to obey the terms of the will and make it possible not only for herself but also for her sisters to inherit the property, he was lonely. Little wonder, then, that his clothing had begun to sag on him.
Little wonder, too, that his demeanor brightened knowing they would spend the next three days together. It seemed cruel that he need stay in the jailhouse during the day when he might be spending the time with his bride, but his deputies were all off taking care of other matters.
“It will only be a matter of another eight months,” she reminded him, knowing how hollow the words rang but feeling as though she ought to offer something. Eight months. That was a very long time, especially to a newlywed. Even more so when the newlywed in question was so deeply in love with his bride, and she with him.
“I’m all but counting the days,” he admitted with a wink and a grin, pulling the pail closer and lifting the lid. “And I’m sure it will be easier as the months go on, that we’ll adjust. Just the same, between you and me, I can hardly wait for it to be over.”
It was touching, really. And it stirred something in her, a tendency to look for the romance in a situation. Perhaps it was silly, perhaps it was none of her affair, but the love her sister shared with her husband gave her hope.
Perhaps one day she would find the same for herself.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” she said as she gathered her reticule and the bundle of papers which Molly had entrusted to her care. “I one more stop to make.”
“Let me guess,” Rance managed around a mouthful of fragrant soup, along with one of the biscuits his sister had taught Phoebe to bake. “The newspaper office.”
“The very same.” Molly had been a regular contributor to the Carson City paper since their arrival in town, drawing upon the experience she had gained while working at the Baltimore Sun.
Now she enjoyed the added benefit of having her own name attached to each piece she wrote. No more hiding behind a man’s name for the sake of her work being published.
“Take care on the drive home,” Rance advised. “And be certain you don’t linger in town longer than necessary. We wouldn’t want you to run into trouble after dark.”
She laughed merrily at this. “You know as well as I there is no real danger. I’ve made the drive back and forth so many times over the last several months, I might attempt it while blindfolded next time. Just for a bit of excitement.”
Rance failed to see the humor in this, his gray eyes darkening. “I hope you would never take it into your head to try something so foolish.” He sounded every inch the concerned sheriff now.
She chuckled, waving a gloved hand. “Of course not, do you think Molly would leave a scrap of skin attached to my flesh if she ever got word that I had attempted something so brazen? Or Lewis, for that matter?”
“Or myself for that matter?” Rance lifted one brow, smirking. “You may not know this, but I’ve come to think of you as a sister. I hope you don’t mind.”
Mind? She beamed. “Nothing would please me more.”
Rance kept a neat and orderly jail, but that didn’t mean the breath of fresh air Rachel enjoyed upon stepping outside wasn’t welcome. She breathed deep, then nodded in acknowledgment as several of the town’s citizens greeted her on-site.
“Why, good afternoon, Miss Reed.”
Rachel did her best to place the face before her, one attached to a gentleman of roughly 40 years and a rather portly frame. He had a friendly smile, and seemed genuinely pleased to see her. If only she could remember his name. Was he affiliated with the bank? Or with the stagecoach office? She couldn’t place him.
There were so many faces, and the Reeds lived so far from town. It was impossible to keep everyone straight.
No matter.
“And good afternoon to you too, sir.” She nodded, touching the tips of her gloved fingers to the brim of her hat, before ducking her head and hurrying away. There were times when feminine modesty came in handy, and this was one of those times. It helped when a woman could disguise the need to get away by pretending to be shy, modest and retiring.
Anyone who knew Rachel would know nothing could be further from the truth.
Not that she was ever immodest, exactly. But she had never been one to swoon faint or carry smelling salts in her reticule, the way so many young women of that day and age tended to do.
Then again, this was Carson City, not Baltimore. The finer rules of society tended to matter much less here than they did back in the East.
Especially when one came from a fine, old family, such as the one Rachel had been born into.
No one in Carson City expected airs and graces from her, of course. No one who would know her father, who by all accounts had been a mean, rather disagreeable man. The fact that Lewis had stayed on at the ranch as long as he had was nothing short of a small miracle, though from what she understood her father had taken him in and provided a home for him after he’d been orphaned in a fire on the property.
From what she’d heard, it more than likely surprised the townsfolk that Richard Reed’s daughters had any manners whatsoever. Like so many things, this could be attributed to their mother's training.
No one would deny that the death of their mother was a tragedy. Still, Rachel sometimes wondered what life would have turned out to be had she not succumbed to the disease which had ravaged her at such an early age. Would they be back in Baltimore, perhaps married off to one of the so-called eligible gentlemen they had so energetically pursued?
Would she be burdened at that very moment with a husband she did not care for?
She could not have explained if given a hundred years why the notion disturbed her so. The memory of her dearest friends returned to her sometimes, and she had only just that morning dropped letters off at the Post Office for them.
Sarah, Elizabeth, Rose. The girls w
ho she had clung to just as tightly as she clung to her sisters. Girls she might never see again, and if she did, they would be so dramatically changed as to defy recognition.
They had all married, naturally, being of the same social background. While Rachel was in the midst of securing a position in a telegraph office, all three of them had been in the midst of courtship, then the planning of their nuptial ceremonies, then the setting up of housekeeping.
She had watched from afar, wishing them all the best. Telling herself, as they more than likely told themselves, that happiness was indeed possible even when one’s husband had been chosen for them.
Perhaps watching them force smiles, witnessing the strain they had been under while pretending to be as happy as a new bride ought to be, was what haunted her still. She would never turn out like one of them. Even if it meant having to fend for herself until the end of her days.
Her romantic nature had something to do with this as well. Why would a person accept anything less than complete and utter love? Now that she’d seen it possible for both Molly and Phoebe, there would be no settling for second best.
They had only reinforced the romance she had always carried with her. How their mother would have rolled her eyes in dismay at the thought of a daughter marrying for the sort of mad, breathless love that had led her to an ill-fated marriage with Richard Reed.
The newspaper office, which sat on the other side of Carson Street, was nowhere near as busy or hectic as the offices of the Baltimore Sun. She had visited there several times while Molly was in the paper’s employ, bringing her dinner and even supper on some late evenings when a deadline loomed.
During those visits, it had been easy to understand why Molly had been drawn to that world. The excitement, the energy. The sort of environment only men were supposed to enjoy.
No wonder Molly had felt it necessary to lie. No wonder she had been willing to work until her fingers cramped, only to see her work attributed to a man.
Earning a wage that she might share with her sisters was one thing. Her involvement with the newspaper had meant so much more than that.
“Mr. Grant.” Rachel favored him with a warm smile while stripping off her gloves. “I’ve brought my sister’s latest piece for the paper.”
“It’s good to see you, Miss Reed.” He always looked a bit vague, as if he’d only just finished scrambling about or was on the verge of doing so. His having so much work to do and so few hands to do it had made it easy for Molly to earn a position on the writing staff.
“She asked me to bring along any work which you saw fit to be edited. She said she’d be more than happy to do so, a minor illness has confined her to her bed for the last two days, and she is in need of something with which to busy herself.”
Mr. Grant appeared stricken. “And you’re certain it is only a minor illness?”
“Oh yes. Perhaps a touch of the grippe, but nothing more.” She managed to conceal her amusement. Anyone unfamiliar with the situation might believe him truly concerned as a friend, or even as a vague acquaintance might, for the sake of propriety, ask after the health of another.
She knew better. Molly did, too. Mr. Grant needed her badly. Upon her first visit to the newspaper office, Molly had described the man as “running about like a chicken with its head cut off.”
“Is there anything I might take her?” she prompted. “A time-sensitive piece could be returned tomorrow, whereas anything that might wait will take three days. I shall drive into town to fetch my sister, Mrs. Connelly, when it comes time for her to return to the ranch and could easily stop in then.”
Mr. Grant shook his head, clicking his tongue in a sympathetic matter. “It might not be my place to say so,” he murmured as he gathered a stack of paper, “but I do feel rather sorry for the sheriff. This is the time when a husband and wife ought to be together.”
This caused her to bristle in discomfort, though she knew better than to voice her opinion on this stranger voicing his own. He knew little of the situation, only as much as the people in town had shared with each other, no doubt.
“If it were not for her sacrifice—and for his—none of us would be eligible to claim our inheritance. The ranch would need to be sold, the men working on it sent off to find other employment. Believe me when I tell you that none of us takes their separation lightly.”
While she had made certain to couch her rebuke in soft tones and gentility, there was no missing the steely message at its core. The Reeds were family, whether they married and took the names of their husbands or not. They did what needed doing for each other.
And it wasn’t the fault of any of them that their father had crafted so short-sighted a will. Why in the world he hadn’t taken marriage and family into account was still beyond them. Perhaps because his own marriage had ended badly.
“Of course, of course. I beg your pardon if my observation was ill-considered.” His ruddy complexion darkened further as he all but thrust a thick envelope her way. “If Mrs. Sutton can look these over and mark them up within the day or so, I would much appreciate it.”
She made it a point to smile in the hopes of reassuring him. “You know my sister. She works until the oil in the lamp has burned itself out, and then continues because the sun is already on the rise.”
With nothing else to be managed, it was time to drive home. The loneliest part of her day, to be sure, with no one to talk to but the pair of lovely chestnut mares pulling the buggy. But she had come to appreciate the hours she spent alone. She seldom had the opportunity to hear herself think when surrounded by sisters and ranch hands.
“Well, now, ladies,” she murmured, patting the necks of the prancing chestnut beauties tied off in front of the jailhouse. “It’s time to go home. I hope you’ve had your fill of rest while I’ve been visiting.” A silly tendency, speaking to the horses as if they could understand, but one she couldn’t seem to break herself of.
She was chuckling at her flight of fancy as she looked up over the backs of the team, down the street.
At first sight of the tall, bearded man who walked down the opposite side of the street with a suitcase in each hand, she nearly lost leave of her senses.
Her hand tightened around the horse’s bridle until her knuckles ached, yet she could not loosen her grip.
She knew him. She’d seen that man before. Beard or no beard, he had a pair of strikingly blue eyes she would’ve known anywhere. Eyes like the autumn sky.
She’d admired them while seated behind the counter at the telegraph office. In Baltimore, all the way on the other side of the country.
And oh, goodness, was he tall.
Like Tall Man, who haunted her dreams.
The suitcases he carried told her he’d just come to town. But why?
Never had she thought to connect the tall, charming, handsome gentleman who’d visited the office so frequently in the weeks preceding her departure with the tall figure who’d lurked in the alley that last night. Such a connection had never occurred to her.
Now? Seeing him walking down Carson Street, with a beard disguising his features? She had no choice but to ask herself if they’d been one and the same all the time.
And hours, alone, in which to ponder what his arrival meant for her.
She’d never leaped into the black buggy so quickly, nor had she ever forced the team to trot away at such speed without first warming them up. Nothing in the world mattered as much just then as getting away.
Far, far away.
3
Carson City was like another world.
Mason Murphy had long prided himself on being well-traveled. After all, his job required it of him. Boston, New York, Philadelphia, even Washington. He was a regular train traveler, and he’d visited them all on numerous occasions.
His position required him to fit in anywhere, and as such, he’d learned to blend in among even the upper crust just as seamlessly as he blended with those of decidedly lesser means.
He’d read of cities
such as this, cities which had sprung up seemingly overnight once prospecting and, later, transcontinental rail travel, had become popular. Cities which had served the men looking to find their fortune, and the women who’d come out in search of husbands whose fortune had already been found.
Reading about it and seeing it with his own eyes were two different matters.
From the train window, he had noted the presence of farms and wide, flat expanses of land on the outskirts of the more densely populated section of the city. Now, striding down the wide street named after the city itself, or, he supposed, the man who had founded it, it was the energy of the place which captured his interest.
To say nothing of the kindness and pleasantness of the citizens he passed on his way to the hotel. He would have been hard-pressed to find a man or woman willing to look a passing stranger in the eye as they tipped their hat or nodded in acknowledgment.
Strangers were nothing new in a large city such as New York, for instance. There were simply not enough hours in the day to take notice of all that went on around a person as they walked the streets, and that included the many dozens or even hundreds of passersby.
This friendliness boded well for him. It might lend itself to an eagerness to share once questioned about the presence of certain individuals in the city.
It would be strange, not reporting directly back to the field office with his findings every day. Being entirely on his own was a first. The fact that his uncle felt him up to the challenge was gratifying, though he very much sensed the need to prove himself.
Otherwise, he might be demoted, left shuffling papers behind a desk. He’d done enough of that in his early years with the agency, after his mother’s death left him in the care of an uncle for whom work had always taken precedence over all else.
He’d come too far to allow this to happen, and he had sacrificed too much.
An Undercover Detective's Bride Page 2