An Impossible Price: Front Range Brides - Book 3

by Davalynn Spencer

  “Ja, I think it is Cade Parker. He has been waiting for a stallion.”

  The news surprised Clay, for Parker hadn’t been at the depot. “He’ll need to be told the horse is here.”

  He pulled two newly minted Morgan dollars from his pocket. “Until the owner shows up, this should cover boarding for a couple of days.”

  Erik shook his head and stepped back. “Nein. It is gut. You are here. The horse is here. I have much to do. Settle with me for your horse later.”

  On the surface, the old softy was as tough as the thick leather apron he wore. He returned to his forge, where the ping of hammer on anvil again sang a familiar tune.

  Erik’s helper approached. “Does your gelding need anything other than the usual?”

  Clay held his hand out, inviting the boy to respond in kind, and dropped a dollar in his palm. “Nothing other than good food and care.”

  The kid looked at the dollar as if there were fifty of them lined up, all gold.

  “What’s your name?”

  “John Borden, sir.” The boy pocketed the coin. “And thank you.”

  “I used to work here, John. Erik’s a good man, and he’ll treat you right if you hold up your end of the bargain.”

  John studied his boots longer than necessary, seeing as how he’d probably been wearing them for a year or two.

  “You have a question?”

  “Uh, yes, sir.” He met Clay’s eye with open honesty. “Are you one of those veter … veter-an…”

  “Veterinarian.” Clearly the boy had a little more respect for the profession than many folks Clay had encountered. Quack horse doctor was the term he’d heard most often.

  “I thought so. It was mighty impressive the way you calmed that stallion, then sewed him up.”

  “Appreciate it, John.” He swung the bags over his shoulder and reset his hat. “Let me know if anyone comes in looking for a veterinarian. Or horse doctor, as the case may be. I’ll be in town for a while, staying at the hotel, but I’ll check in every day, see how things are going.”

  “Yes, sir. I will, sir.” John bobbed his head.

  Clay touched his brim. “Obliged.”

  The hotel was at the opposite end of town, giving Clay a chance to see how things had changed. He couldn’t have missed the Olin Springs Hose & Reel Company if he’d wanted to, housed across the street in a red brick building right next to the feed store. Definitely a necessary addition since his earlier days here. The tailor shop had a fancy sign painted on the window and looked to be faring well, and the Olin Springs Gazette was still churning out weeklies. A block down, Bozeman’s Café was doing a hearty business, though the blue-checkered curtains were gone from the windows. He caught a good look at himself in the glass.

  He hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours, but he couldn’t very well sit down in a public place covered in blood and grime as he was. No wonder people were eyeing him on the boardwalk and whispering among themselves. He looked like he’d been dragged up the side of a mountain, and the ache in his leg said he had.

  The jail sat ahead on the left, but he wanted to clean up before he saw Sheriff Wilson. He needed a hot bath, a good meal, and a clean bed. Hopefully in that order. He’d never had occasion to visit the hotel, but the way things stood, it’d be his lodging until he found a place of his own.

  The ornate front door opened without a squeak or a bell, and the place seemed quiet and proper, with parlor chairs and tables set up on one side of the lobby. Fancy green-and-gold flocked wallpaper raised his hopes for a bath. He hit the brass call bell on the registration desk.

  A narrow door opened behind it, and a man came out, spectacles riding his nose. A quick appraisal lifted his head a notch, and Clay got the impression the man’s nose turned up a notch as well.

  “How may I help you?”

  Clay thought it obvious, but he’d give the fella the benefit of the doubt and hope the favor would be returned. “I need a room for at least a week.”

  A hasty once-over. “That will be five dollars. In advance.” He didn’t offer the registration book or dip pen until after Clay laid a Garfield note on the desk.

  “That includes baths, correct?”

  The clerk opened his mouth and closed it before the words on his face fell out between his teeth. He took a key from a rack next to the door and exchanged it for the five-dollar bill.

  “It does. The bathing room is at the end of the second floor on the right.”

  Clay looked to his left. “Is that a café?”

  Another once-over, this time with a sniff. “It is the restaurant. Our dinner specialty today is seasoned roast beef, glazed carrots, and julienned potatoes.”

  Clay picked up the key with a nod. The fella would likely faint dead away if he knew Clay thought slivered spuds didn’t live up to that highfalutin’ name.

  At the stairs, he waited for a man descending, who stopped and looked at him curiously. No wonder, considering Clay’s blood-smeared shirt. He thought the gent was Clarence Thatcher, though he’d grayed some at the temples and had a hard look around his mouth.

  “Welcome to my hotel.” His eyes said otherwise.

  Clay didn’t take kindly to liars. “You have a question, Mr. Thatcher?”

  The man’s white hands took hold of his lapels and his gaze narrowed. “I usually remember a face, and something about you is familiar. Have you stayed here before?”

  “I’m staying for a while this trip.” Since he’d signed the book, he didn’t see the need to repeat himself, especially since he was now giving serious consideration to the lodging at the livery instead.

  “Very good.” Doubt flickered, and Clay saw the question before the man voiced it. “Did you by any chance come in on the train this morning—with a horse?”

  Good old Olin Springs. Didn’t take long for word to spread.

  “After that trip, I’m looking forward to a hot bath.” He stepped up one riser.

  “Yes, of course. As I’m sure my clerk told you,”—he cut a look to the front desk—“the bathing room is at the end of the hall on the right. Running water is piped into the room. Just light the gas heater under the tub and it will quickly warm.” He looked at his pocket watch and glanced toward the dining room. “We will be serving dinner in an hour and supper at six.”

  “I hear roast is on the menu.”

  The man’s chest puffed against his green brocade vest, remarkably like the wallpaper, and he offered a polished smile. “Indeed. I hope you’ll join us.”

  Clay continued up the carpeted stairs, certain he’d be visiting Hoss Bozeman before he’d eat his potatoes julienned. He preferred ’em mashed with gravy.

  ~

  Maggie Snowfield did not wake before Sophie left for home, so she stopped by Doc Weaver’s office and asked him to check on the elderly woman. More than likely, it was merely the years creeping up on her, but there was no reason not to take every precaution.

  Temptation pulled hard as Sophie rode through town. The livery called. She was itching to know how the situation had worked out with the stallion and the stranger, but what would she say if she bumped into him? Best let things play out in their own time and not set herself up as a busybody.

  As she passed the hotel, she looked squarely at the sheriff’s office across the street, avoiding any chance sighting of Clarence Thatcher. She wouldn’t put it past the man to be standing at his overly large front window, hoping to snag her on her way out of town so he could further discuss a railing to the Eisner’s apartment.

  “Miss Price!”

  Lord, help her. Hurried footsteps followed his voice into the street.

  Heeling the mare for a fast getaway would only land her in the back of a slow-moving farm wagon ahead. Could she simply ignore the man? Pretend she hadn’t heard?

  He reached for the mare and it shied to the left, into the path of several riders who yelled at Sophie for not watching where she was going.

  Digging her heels in, she turned the mare’s backside
against the interfering oaf. He stumbled back.

  As annoyed as she was, Mama hadn’t taught her to be rude. “Mr. Thatcher—I didn’t see you.” Which was true at first.

  He gathered himself, tugging on the bottom of his waistcoat, clearly put out and a bit unbalanced. “I hoped to speak with you before you left the tailor shop.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek, stifling words that rushed toward escape.

  He reached again for the mare’s headstall, and she reined back. “Please don’t grab her, Mr. Thatcher. It makes her nervous when strangers do that.” Which was not true at all. It made Sophie nervous, though irritable was a more accurate word.

  “My apologies.” He raised both hands shoulder high, as if being held at gunpoint.

  She stifled the image.

  “What do you need, sir?”

  “Please, call me Clarence.” He pushed up a stiff flap of fading hair that had fallen across his forehead. “I thought we could discuss the Eisner’s need for a handrail over dinner at the hotel. I don’t believe you’ve had the pleasure of dining here, and today’s specialty is most delightful.”

  “Thank you, but I’m on my way to an appointment. Perhaps another time.”

  She squeezed her legs, signaling the mare forward.

  Mr. Thatcher hopscotched ahead.

  “But doesn’t Mrs. Eisner need the railing as soon as possible. I thought you said—”

  Her glare cut him off, and he fumbled for his verbal footing.

  She did not consider herself mean or cruelhearted, so she regrouped, shortening her hold on the reins as well as her manners. “Mr. Thatcher, it would be best if you discussed this with Mr. Eisner. He can show you the stairway and work out a time schedule with you. As you say, sooner would be better than later.” He clearly missed her darted look. “Your concern for Mrs. Eisner’s safety is noted. Good day.”

  The mare sensed her eagerness to leave, but Sophie held a tight rein, walking rather than galloping away from the fuming man standing in the middle of Main Street.

  Chapter 4

  From the window of his hotel room, Clay had a good view of several businesses, as well as the saloon, jail, and Clarence Thatcher running out in front of a horse on Main Street.

  Sophie’s horse.

  Protectiveness fired through Clay, hot and hair-triggered.

  Was Thatcher a fool?

  Sophie Price knew how to sit a horse, and she handled the situation well, though he couldn’t be sure if she’d deliberately turned the nag’s hind quarters into the man or not. The idea brought a smile to Clay’s lips.

  He ran his fingers back through his damp hair and over his shaved chin. It felt good to feel clean. He hadn’t seen a laundry on his walk from the livery, but he’d ask around. He’d also pick up a copy of the latest paper and inquire about available land in the area. Not inclined to open an account at the bank, he left his money in a hidden pocket of his saddle bags, grabbed his hat, and set out for Bozeman’s.

  As he closed the hotel’s front door behind him, Sheriff Wilson came out of his office. Clay adjusted his course and crossed the street.

  “Sheriff.” He stepped up onto the boardwalk and offered his hand. “Good to see you again.”

  Garrett Wilson gave him a guarded look, taking in his boots, clean shirt, and lack of a sidearm. “Do I know—” His expression relaxed, and he gipped Clay’s upper arm and tightened his handshake.

  “Clay Ferguson.”

  His obvious pleasure struck a note of welcome. The second one that day.

  “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”

  Clay swallowed the knot trying to block his words. “It’s good to be back.”

  “I’m headed to Bozeman’s. Care to join me?” Garrett slapped him on the shoulder and took a step in that direction.

  “Don’t mind if I do. I’m goin’ the same way.”

  At the top of the noon hour, Bozeman’s was brimming over. Apparently, not many locals took to glazed carrots and julienned potatoes. Even so, Garrett found a table in the corner and took the seat with his back to the wall.

  “I thought you’d be goin’ home for dinner,” Clay said, hanging his hat on his knee.

  Garrett did the same and uprighted his cup on the table. “I do about half the time. But Olin Springs is growing fast, and I’d just as soon keep an ear to the ground and an eye peeled. This is about the best place to do it.”

  Hoss Bozeman approached with his camp-sized coffee pot, and Clay turned his cup over.

  “I got beans with side pork and hot buttered cornbread, Sheriff.” He nodded at Clay, then took a harder look.

  “You remember Clay Ferguson?” Garrett grinned like he and Clay were blood kin. In Clay’s book, they might as well be.

  The cookie’s face split with a wide grin. “I thought you looked familiar. Had me goin’ for a minute there. I pride myself on knowin’ everyone who eats here.”

  “It’s been a few years.”

  “I seem to recall how you cottoned to my bear sign, but I’m fresh out today. Come back tomorrow for breakfast and I’ll fill your gullet.”

  Clay nodded, spilling a smile. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

  After Hoss left, Garrett took a swig of hot coffee and winced. “His cookin’s passable, but his brew gets a might thick by dinner.”

  Clay lifted his cup. The smell alone could sterilize his surgical instruments.

  “When did you get in?”

  “This morning on the train.”

  Garrett’s attention slid to a man cutting through the tables toward them.

  “Excuse me, Sheriff.” He turned to Clay. “Ain’t you the fella led that locoed stallion off the train this mornin’?”

  Garrett’s eyes narrowed a degree.

  “He’s not locoed. Just scared and hurt is all. We got him settled down.”

  The man stuck his hand out, and Clay shook it.

  “Fine job is all I can say. I was there. I seen what you done. So did half the town, I’d say, by the crowd. It’s an honor to meet you.”

  Unfamiliar words, at best. “Appreciate it.” Now was as good a time as any. “If you know of anyone needing a veterinarian, leave word at the livery. I’ll be checking in there a couple times every day.”

  The man chuckled, then cut it off as if caught making a rude joke. “Sorry, son. But most folks around here do their own horse doctorin’. But if I come across a snot-slingin’ bronc, I’ll be sure to stop by.”

  He stepped back and nodded at Garrett before going back to his table.

  A few stares followed him, then swung back to Clay. He went for his coffee again.

  “So you’re the one.” Garrett’s gray eyes smiled a little, and he leaned against the back of his chair. “Heard all about what you did.”

  Clay took a swallow and let it burn a path to his empty stomach. “I’m sure the story grew by the time it reached your ears.”

  “You singled-handedly dragged a bleeding, screaming stallion off a cattle car and through a crowd of onlookers without injury to yourself or anyone standing by. Made quite an impression on folks. I’m sure it made the paper too.”

  “I didn’t exactly drag him, but I have Deacon Jewett to thank for that skill.”

  “So what really happened?”

  Clay leaned his arms on the table. “Someone put that hot-blooded horse on a stock car with no handler. Tied it to the wall for who knows how long, and by the time the train pulled in this morning, it was terrified, frustrated, and kicking at anything it could reach, including the louvered car walls. I think I might have been lathered up too if I’d been in that condition.”

  Garrett’s low laugh revealed his agreement. “So why were you on the car?”

  “With my horse. I wasn’t about to leave him in there unattended.”

  The sheriff’s keen eyes skimmed the room, and he deftly switched leads on the conversation. “So you finished school.”

  Not a question. A man like Garrett Wilson knew everyth
ing about his town, so he probably knew who’d paid for Clay’s schooling. “And worked a year in St. Louis with a veterinarian there who taught me more than I learned in two years at Iowa State College.

  “Why’d you leave and come back here?”

  Clay didn’t mind the sheriff’s third degree, but he was happy to see Hoss bring two plates of beans and cornbread. The smell of it settled in around him like a promise kept.

  They set to, and talk gave way to hungry men enjoying a hot meal. A better meal than Clay’d had all the way from Kansas City. But from what he remembered about the Snowfield place, where Garrett and his wife were living when Clay left, Bozeman’s cooking more than likely came in just under the high-water mark.

  Before they finished, three more men stopped by the table to comment on the morning’s excitement at the depot. The last fella congratulated Clay on his skill with a needle, and he wondered if Erik was charging admission to see the sutured stallion.

  By then, his cornbread was cold and Garrett’s eyes were permanently crinkled from holding in his thoughts. “Next time, we’ll go home,” he said with a teasing edge. “Less traffic.”

  The reference jerked Clay’s mind to the near collision this morning in front of the hotel. “Speaking of traffic, there was a close call earlier in front of the jail. You happen to see it?”

  Garrett filled his mouth with the last of his cornbread and nodded, then washed it down with coffee. “Sophie Price is more horsewoman than most, and Clarence Thatcher is lucky she didn’t run him over. He’ll do just about anything to get her attention.”

  Clay’s jaw clenched.

  Perceptive as always, Garrett registered the reaction. “So that’s why you came back.”

  “Not entirely.” Clay took another swig of coffee. He owed Garrett Wilson. The man had saved his young stubborn hide four years ago.

  Works on horses and dogs—it’ll work on you, Garrett had said of the ointment he spread on a sixteen-year-old’s torn flesh. From what Clay knew now about infection, the sheriff literally as well as figuratively gave him a fighting chance. And he’d trusted Clay when he didn’t have to.