The Blue Cloak

by Shannon McNear

  She could still hardly believe that of all the places across the frontier, unbeknownst to either of them, he’d happened upon her brother’s trading post while she was here.

  It must be the sheer incongruity of it that tied her tongue and snarled her thoughts, because suddenly all she could think to do was turn and indicate the platter she’d just brought in, and say, “Would you like a cake? And perhaps some coffee?”

  The boyish grin returned, his eyes lighting even more. “Both would be most appreciated. If it would not trouble you, given that you are not a tavern or ordinary here.” He glanced around, seemingly for the first time, but his regard was curious rather than critical.

  She waved for him to help himself to the cakes, but he waited while she weaved around the men at the hearth to the coffeepot they always kept warming and poured him a mugful of the steaming but likely too-strong-by-now brew. He cradled the cup in one hand, scooped up a cake with the other, and had just taken a sip and a bite when the door swung open and another man stepped inside. This time, a greatcoat over a hunting shirt and leggings bespoke this visitor’s having more time in the wilderness than Mr. Langford.

  He stepped to the hearth to warm his hands then turned his head to address the room at large. “Been another murder up the Road. Y’all heard aught about it?”

  Instant quiet fell, and even Dan looked up this time. “That’s what—the fourth in a month or so? Not at all uncommon for this area of the country, but—”

  “Waal, they’s saying this one is connected to a ragged bunch that passed this way but a few days ago. Two men, rough lookin’, and three women, heavy with child.”

  Recognition tickled yet again at Rachel. No … truly this time it could not be …

  “Victim is a man they say goes by the name of Langford. Thomas, or Stephen, or somesuch—”

  Rachel’s body went cold, and Mr. Langford wheeled toward the speaker, his face suddenly and completely white. “Which is it? Thomas or Stephen?”

  “Thomas came through here a few days ago,” Rachel said, though she’d already passed that information to Mr. Langford, his cousin.

  “Stephen owns a bunch of land up around Mt. Vernon way,” one of the men playing chess said, slowly. “And I remember that lad, passin’ through the other day.” He exchanged a glance with the other men. “Did seem a mite green to survive the frontier, now that I think about it.”

  Mr. Langford edged nearer the group, looking hard at all of them, but setting his gaze at last on the man who’d brought the news. “Tell me all you know about this, please. Thomas Langford is my cousin.”

  The man gave him a pitying look. “I’m right sorry to hear it. Man’s body was found stripped and right butchered near the Road over past Rock Castle River yesterday. Bunch of drovers said their cattle was shyin’ at a particular part of the road, so they’s went to investigate and found the body. Jim Farris went up to help identify it, said young Langford was staying at his tavern a coupla nights before—”

  Rachel’s knees went soft, and she half-fell against the counter. That was the very tavern she’d recommended to the younger Mr. Langford.

  The man by the hearth continued his tale. “Farris said Langford was waitin’ on more travelers, you know, like folk rightfully oughta. But the travelers what come along—these two men and their pitiful-looking wives, although what kind of men would keep three women and use them in such a way—” He spat into the fire.

  Rachel reached for a chair. The image was branded on her mind of Sally, pulled along between Wiley and the other woman—the woman wearing the cloak Rachel had given Sally.

  Her heart hammered in slow painful beats. For that cheerful, bright-eyed young man to meet such an end … and for Sally to be tangled up in such a thing …

  She looked up at Mr. Langford, standing transfixed, the mug still gripped in his hand.

  “They’re organizin’ a posse,” the man at the hearth was saying. “Farris says he’s no doubt those two rascals are responsible, ill-favored as they were, and lookin’ so closely at young Langford while he was payin’ for breakfast, flashin’ his money about and all.”

  “I want to join,” Mr. Langford said, his voice near a growl.

  The man gave him a long look. “Well, won’t do you any good to go tonight, and you’d be placin’ yourself in grave danger as well, under the circumstances. But Farris’s Tavern is an easy half-day’s ride from here. Tomorrow’s plenty of time.”

  Mr. Langford glanced about, as if undecided as to his course, and Rachel found her strength and voice again. She rose from her chair. “I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t lodge tonight with our family, Mr. Langford.” His gaze shifted to her and he started to shake his head, but she hastened to add, “’Tis the least we can do for a friend of a friend, in your grief.” She swallowed. “And—I have a request to make of you, if you’ll be riding out with the posse.”

  Chapter Four

  Thomas, murdered. He could not believe it.

  He would not believe it, until he saw evidence.

  And yet the certainty that his careless cousin had met a terrible end soaked into his very bones, stealing all rational thought.

  Merciful God, what shall I tell Uncle Ben?

  He’d say nothing until he’d further investigated the matter.

  Miss Taylor led him through the smallish back room of the trading post, stacked high with goods on one side and empty crates on the other, to a staircase that led to a tidy apartment above. A young woman, dandling what looked to be a newborn babe on her shoulder, peered at him with wide and frazzled eyes while Miss Taylor explained, but her smile was kind once she understood her sister-in-law’s request on Ben’s behalf. “You are welcome, of course, and no mistake. We turn away no one on the Road, if we can help it. And friends are always welcome, no matter the need.”

  Ben sketched her a bow. “That’s very kind of you, Missus Taylor. I’ll not forget your hospitality.”

  She dipped her head in response and patted the baby’s back. “What a terrible thing, about your cousin. I am so sorry to hear of it! Kentucky is less wild than it once was, but travelers must still be wary.”

  He nodded. That fact was well known.

  Miss Taylor directed Ben to set his baggage over by the hearth then helped her sister-in-law lay the trestle table for supper, and while Ben stood, wondering if he should offer to help, Daniel Taylor came through the door and approached, offering his hand. Ben shook it.

  “Your horse is well tended for the night,” Taylor said. “I’m most regretful to hear about your cousin, and you are welcome to share whatever we have.”

  “Thank you,” Ben said, and meant it more deeply than he could say.

  Taylor took the baby from his wife so she could finish with supper, and shortly the meal was set upon the table. Ben sat down with them, taking the seat next to Miss Taylor at her invitation. “’Tis but simple fare,” she said, but surveying the venison roast, sweet potatoes, winter squash, corncakes, butter and jam, he shook his head.

  “On the contrary, this is as fine as any I’ve seen offered in stations along the Road so far,” he murmured.

  Finer, perhaps, for being given in simple hospitality, and in light of his fresh grief.

  In his cradle, the baby began to fuss. Missus Taylor sighed and rose from her bench. “He always knows when we’re about to eat.” She shot Ben and the others a tired smile. “Pray continue without me.”

  Picking up the little one, she tucked herself into the rocking chair in the corner and prepared to feed him. As Ben straightened in his seat, Miss Taylor’s gaze lingered fondly on mother and babe before lifting to his as she reached for the platter of corncakes. “Do you have family, Mr. Langford?” She faltered, her cheeks coloring. “I mean, aside from your cousin, of course.”

  He took one of the cakes and passed the platter to her brother. “If you mean a wife and children, Miss Taylor, I do not.” He accepted the bowl of squash, fragrant and dripping with butter and nutme
g, and spooned some onto his plate before speaking again. “Thomas was the youngest of a rather large family, all of whom are married and moved away, and his father and mother were kind enough to stand in for my own, who died several years ago. I was their only surviving child.”

  He stopped, holding the sweet potatoes this time, spoon in hand, and swallowed back the thickness of his throat. Pray God these tidings would not fell his uncle and aunt.

  A light touch landed on his sleeve, and he looked from Miss Taylor’s small but square hand to her gaze, full of moisture. “I am so very sorry for your misfortune,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “And unfortunately what I have to share may make it worse yet.”

  Her brother frowned, cutting a bite of his venison. “Are you talking about Sally?”

  Miss Taylor nodded. Her brother’s expression deepened to a scowl. “I knew those fellows could be no good.” He shook his head, once, before popping the chunk of meat into his mouth. “Can’t understand what Preacher Rice was about, letting Sally marry that one.”

  “From what Hugh said,” Miss Taylor said, “it was—needful.”

  Another shake of the head. “Figured.”

  Miss Taylor glanced up at Ben. “A year ago last June, my good friend married the younger of the two men they suspect killed your cousin. Hugh and I stood up for them.”

  Ben laid down his knife and fork. “That was the wedding you spoke of earlier?”

  She nodded, stirring her squash with the tip of her spoon but making no move to eat. “Nothing seemed greatly amiss, at first—other than they courted and married in about, oh, six weeks’ time, but such things aren’t unheard of on the frontier.” She flicked him a glance. “Next we know, the older brother had married as well, but what times as they’d come to town, it would be in the company of Sally and two other women.” She hesitated. “Word got around, early last year, that the brothers—Micajah and Wiley Harpe, they’re called, though they often go by Big and Little—were doing a bit too well in their hog-selling business. Folks’ barns burned mysteriously. Then one of our neighbors found his horses missing and tracked and arrested the Harpes, only to have them disappear into the wilderness. A bit later, we heard of a murder west of Knoxville—gruesome bit, that. Some said it was done by the tavernkeep at a particular rowdy groggery in the area, while others said it was the Harpes, who’d showed up there a few days before and gotten themselves into a scrap. The Harpes themselves disappeared, until—” She drew a deep breath. “I saw them, not a handful of days ago, passing through the station here.”

  Her brother lowered both hands to the table. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “There was nothing to tell,” she said, her voice somehow at once thickened and sharp. “It was late evening and I was sweeping the floor, but caught a glimpse of the cloak I’d given Sally for a wedding gift. It was blue,” she explained to Ben. “No missing it—nor mistaking Wiley and Micajah. But when I called out to Sally, it wasn’t her wearing the cloak at all, but one of the other women. Sally herself turned around—she’d only a blanket to serve as wrap against the cold.” Miss Taylor’s voice broke again. “Wiley and the woman wearing her cloak grabbed her and forced her along before she could say aught to me.”

  Taylor returned to cutting his meat, but more slowly. “There were three other murders on the Road as well, all within the past few weeks. I wonder if they’re connected.”

  Miss Taylor’s already-pale cheeks went even more bloodless, and her eyes shut tightly. “I’d not thought of that.”

  Ben looked at her, and at her brother, and the spread before them. Over in the corner Missus Taylor rose, tucking the babe into his cradle, and returned to the table, but no one else spoke or moved for a moment.

  With a sigh, Ben lifted his fork and dredged it through the sweet potatoes. “You say your friend’s father is a preacher?”

  With the question, everyone else was back in motion. Miss Taylor nodded stiffly but still did not take a bite. “Of the Baptist persuasion. They were but recently come to Knox County as well, but folk have been hungry to hear the Gospel. And well they might, with how wild Knoxville herself is.”

  He shook his head slowly. It was nearly beyond comprehension. Not only Thomas falling to such a fate, but a young, innocent girl entrapped in such a situation.

  “Baptists are known to be a lively bunch,” Missus Taylor said.

  A slight smile curved Miss Taylor’s lips. “They are. And it is, if I might say so, a refreshing change from those stern Presbyterians.” She cast Ben a quick glance. “My apologies if you are yourself a Presbyterian. Some have even said, though, that it served Preacher Rice right, teaching a way that alters from the tried and true, to lose a daughter in such a way.”

  Ben chewed and swallowed a bite of venison. “Rather mean-spirited of them.” He’d refrain from specifying his own denominational leanings in the moment.

  “But true enough to human nature,” Mr. Taylor said.

  “Very true.” Ben took a bite of squash. “So, Miss Taylor, you mentioned a favor.”

  “Aye.” She straightened a little, her eyes lifted to his once more, imploring. “If you ride with the posse, and—you do catch up with the Harpes—please tell Sally that—that I am still praying for her. If,” she added softly, “you have the opportunity.”

  “I will make every effort to see that I do,” he said. “And—I’ll also do what I can to see to whatever needs she has.”

  The color came back into her cheeks. “Thank you.”

  After dinner, while the women cleared the table and washed dishes, Ben helped Taylor carry up water and haul in wood for the night and next morning. “Please, call me Dan,” his host insisted. “No need for formalities here, and under such circumstances.”

  They stoked the fire, and Ben bedded down in front of the hearth, with extra blankets offered him by Anne Taylor. With a last glance his way, Rachel Taylor lingered in the doorway of a side room that was apparently hers. “Good night, Mr. Langford.”

  Did the lack of formality extend to her as well? “It’s Ben. Please.”

  Her dark eyes widened a little, then with a nod, she disappeared inside and closed the door.

  He stretched out and lay for a long time, staring into the near-darkness, listening to the settling of the building and the wind howling outside.

  Ah Thomas! What last predicament did you put yourself in that was your undoing? And was it something I could have prevented had I been there?

  Rachel readied herself for bed, her hands going through the motions of undressing to her shift, then taking down her hair and brushing it, while her heart continued to beat painfully and her stomach did tiny flips at the thought of the terrible end Mr. Langford’s cousin had met with.

  And Sally …

  Oh Sally.

  Could any of this have been different if Rachel had prayed more? Harder?

  And why hadn’t Sally asked for help?

  As quickly as that thought came, Rachel shivered. There was not only Thomas Langford but the matter of those other recent murders. And all the barn burnings that had taken place around Knox County not long before Rachel had made the journey to stay with Daniel and Anne.

  It was possible Sally hadn’t felt safe confiding in anyone, under the circumstances.

  The tears came then, and Rachel pulled up her quilt to stifle the sound of her weeping.

  When Rachel rose the next morning, their guest was already up, his things neatly piled near the door, himself seated next to a fire stoked and ready for the day, and a pipe in his hand. He looked up from his contemplation of the flames as she crossed the room. “Good morning, Mr. Langford,” she said, softly.

  Sounds of the baby fussing came from the next room, but neither Daniel nor Anne had made an appearance yet.

  He nodded and lifted the pipe. “Good morning. I hope you don’t mind—”

  “Oh—not at all.” The fragrance of pipe smoke reminded her of Daddy.

  “And I believe I asked you to ca
ll me Ben.”

  Measuring roasted coffee beans into the grinder, she threw him a thin smile over her shoulder. “Then I expect you should call me Rachel, given that we’re thrown together as friends in such an unexpected way.” Her smile faded, and she applied herself to turning the crank. “I hope you slept well.”

  She looked up to find him suddenly beside her. “Well enough,” he said. “Might I help?”

  “Oh, I’ve—got it. But thank you.” She angled him another look, one that she hoped conveyed sympathy if naught else. “Ben.”

  He watched her grind the coffee with nary a flicker across his grave, handsome features. “You and your family have been very kind,” he said, softly, once she had finished.

  A lump rose in her throat. “How could we not? Hugh spoke very highly of you, and any friend of his is a friend of ours.” She fought for more words. “And this—this must be unspeakably difficult for you.”

  His blue gaze held hers for a moment before he turned half away and leaned against the counter. “I cannot help but wonder, if I’d been there—”

  She tapped the coffee grounds into the pot and laid her fingertips lightly on his arm. “If what Dan said is true, and those other murders are also the Harpes—” She clenched her teeth on the words. Oh Sally! “Well then, they killed two men, or several, and likely would not have hesitated even were it both you and your cousin.”

  A muscle flexed in his cheek, but he made no further comment.

  She poured in water and went to hang the kettle over the fire.

  “What else can you tell me about these Harpes?” he asked.

  Thinking, she measured out cornmeal and reached for two eggs out of the stoneware bowl on the back of the counter. “They weren’t the wildest around Knoxville, by a long shot. At least—not at first. They wagered a heap on a horse race earlier in the year and lost. I’m sure that didn’t help their humor any, but those two were both so ill-favored …” Rachel bit her lip, stirring. “I often wondered what Sally saw in Wiley. She went on about how sweet he was, at least before they were married. After … I suppose it’s telling that I’ve only had occasion to speak with her once since.”