The Telegraph Proposal

  But the newspaper correspondent had been too good at his job. He’d uncovered the counterfeiting operation and that the Honorable Jonas Forsythe was behind it. Needing a distraction from the truth, Jonas stirred up hatred against the reporter in the one quarter of town where the residents would do more than silently fume—the red-light district. He’d merely stretched the truth about Hendry’s involvement in the rescue of brothel girls, and those already losing money because of the man’s articles calling for stricter enforcement of the laws against prostitution were primed for murder.

  Jonas mentioned it to Lestraude to scare her into backing away from her declaration of war, but it seemed he’d achieved quite the opposite.

  If only he could get Green to cooperate.

  And then there was the matter of Yancey Palmer. Last time she’d spouted her suspicions that Joseph Hendry died because he’d uncovered a counterfeiting operation, Jonas silenced her by convincing her parents to send her to Denver for a few months. That option wasn’t open to him now. The girl was too valuable to Hale’s campaign.

  But she needed to hush.

  Later that day

  Yancey searched the crowd for Isaak Gunderson’s blond head. The tall man should be easy to find, but the turnout for Hale’s dinner was twice what they’d expected. There were places where people were so thick, it was difficult to see three feet in front of her. She kept moving toward the food, the place they’d designated for changing who was escorting Hale from group to group. Her turn started in two minutes.

  She kept her eyes ahead as she excused herself, hoping to see Isaak’s black bowler come into view.

  There it was. And sure enough, Hale stood beside him checking his pocket watch.

  Last year, Yancey would have sighed to think he was anxious for her arrival. But now? It was just Hale through and through. If someone said they’d meet him at eight in the evening, he expected it meant seven fifty-nine.

  She smiled, proud of herself for yet another instance where she’d not made too much of his gesture. It was proof she could be his friend, as he’d suggested that morning.

  Someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around to see Windsor Buchanan. “Windy? How on earth did you sneak up on me when your shadow is big enough to encompass both of us?”

  He shrugged. She waited for him to speak, but he stood mute, twisting the bottom edge of his long beard into a roll.

  “Did you want to ask me something?” Yancey prompted, hoping it had something to do with Carline Pope now that she’d launched Operation Mrs. Buchanan, which they had come up with four days ago.

  “I . . . uh . . .” Windsor kept twisting his beard until it pulled tight against his chin like an upside-down funnel.

  Yancey’s eyes were drawn to the puckered skin snaking up his neck and disappearing into the beard. Windsor had been burned. And his long hair and beard were his way of hiding it.

  He let go of his beard, combing it out quickly to cover up the scar.

  Yancey rearranged her expression to hide her surprise and met his eyes. “Tell me what I can do to help you.”

  “I was thinking it might be time for me to . . . but I’m out of practice. You . . . know what I mean?” His hesitancy reminded her of Isaak at the train depot before he ran after Zoe.

  Whoever had captured Windsor’s heart, he was already in love, whether he knew it or not.

  Please let it be Carline, oh please, oh please, oh please.

  Yancey took a moment to untangle his words. “If I understand what you’re”—not—“saying, you want to start courting a woman, but you’re out of practice. Is that right?”

  He nodded his shaggy head.

  “Then I suggest you start small. Ask the girl out for a buggy ride.” When what she could see of his face turned ashen, she placed her hand on his forearm as a gesture of reassurance. “Any girl. It doesn’t have to be the one who is making you so nervous right now.”

  Windsor’s color returned. “Just for practice, you mean?”

  “That’s right. Just get the words out so the next time they aren’t so difficult.”

  He grinned, and Yancey wished Carline was around to see it. He really was handsome under all that hair. “Then, Miss Palmer, may I have the pleasure of your company on Sunday after church?”

  She gave him her brightest smile. “It would be my very great pleasure to go on a Sunday drive with you, Mr. Buchanan.”

  A growl from behind her spun her around. Isaak stood there with Hale in tow. The first looked ready to wring her neck, the second . . . ? She’d seen that expression on Hale’s face too many times not to recognize it immediately.

  Chilly politeness.

  Isaak stomped forward and gripped her bicep. “A moment of your time, Miss Palmer.” He pulled her aside without waiting for her permission.

  “Whatever is the matter with you?” She yanked her arm out of his grasp, rubbing the pain away.

  “Me?” Isaak’s displeasure was as loud as his voice was soft. “I’m not the one using Windsor to make Hale jealous.”

  “I did no such thing.” Yancey kept her words quiet, her desire to avoid another public scene strong. She hadn’t even been thinking about Hale while talking to Windsor. Only about helping him so he and—hopefully—Carline could have their own happy ending. “How dare you.”

  “How dare I? Because you promised me you wouldn’t play any of your games.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  Isaak crossed his arms and stared down his nose at her.

  Yancey made a fist, tempted to plow it into his shoulder. “Oh. You are impossible, Isaak David Gunderson.” She marched off, not caring that she was neglecting her shift with Hale. Let Isaak do double duty. She wanted nothing to do with Hale.

  Because what really hurt was the look on his face. This morning he’d asked her to be his friend. They’d talked about Joseph. They’d talked about Luanne. And he’d said they should put the past behind them.

  Well, he certainly hadn’t. And it wasn’t just her feelings overruling logic. The look on his face was as readable as a sign. He saw her chatting—not flirting but chatting—with a friend and immediately jumped to the conclusion that she was breaking her promise to never be the silly girl who’d chased him in the past.

  Isaak had drawn the same conclusion, but as she strode through the crowed, it was Hale’s face she pictured as she pounded a fist into her palm.

  She searched the faces around her for Carline. Whether she was the object of Windsor’s carriage ride invitation or not, she needed to be forewarned. And Yancey needed her best friend beside her if she was going to keep from breaking down in tears or screaming with rage.

  Both were viable options at the moment.

  Several startled looks were directed at her, so Yancey fixed a smile on her face lest she—once again—be the subject of gossip.

  She passed Royal Easton, who was chatting with Luci Stanek and Melrose Truett. Melrose had longing written all over her face as she stared at Royal, but she seemed incapable of doing anything but fiddling with the navy-blue satin ribbon tied in her red-gold hair. Her navy-and-white-polka-dot dress was accented with a wide red sash, a testament to her parents’ wealth and patriotism. Luci’s dress, a plain navy, was the poorer version—as was the red cotton ribbon in her dark hair—but she looked just as pretty in it. At least Royal appeared to think so. His gaze never left Luci’s face.

  Poor Melrose. Yancey knew what it was like to have the man she desired ignore her. Oh, how she knew. At least Melrose wasn’t suffering the indignities of having Royal believe she was a lying, manipulative, scheming promise-breaker.

  Yancey spied Carline talking with Emilia McCall. Both of them had concerned looks on their faces.

  Carline kept turning her head left and right.

  Yancey waved to catch her attention.

  The instant their eyes met, Carline broke away from Emilia, pushing past the ten or eleven people in her way. “Yancey, thank goodness you’re here.”

&n
bsp; All her frustration disappeared at the frantic look in Carline’s eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “Check your pockets.” Carline reached out and patted Yancey’s left side.

  “Why?”

  “Just check them.”

  Patting the other side of her skirt, Yancey felt a slight irregularity. She slipped her hand inside and pulled out a slip of paper.

  Carline gasped.

  Emilia stepped close, both hands over her stomach. Her light brown eyes were filled with anxiety.

  Her heart picking up speed, Yancey unfolded the note.

  STOP TALKING ABOUT PHONY MONEY OR YOU’LL BE SORRY.

  Carline took the paper from Yancey’s hand. “Mine’s the same.”

  “Yours?” Yancey snapped her focus to her friend. “You have one, too?”

  Carline opened her fist to reveal a crumpled scrap. She peeled it open. The words and handwriting were identical.

  Yancey stared at the notes. Over the years, she’d received hundreds, if not thousands, of handwritten messages. Was the penmanship of this one recognizable? And even if it was, would anyone in law enforcement believe her? “We need to show these to Marshal Valentine.”

  Emilia was pursing her lips. Quinn Valentine wasn’t her favorite person. He’d wrongly arrested her and her brother, Roch, for murdering Edgar Dunfree. Yancey never quite understood why, and no one had ever answered her questions about it to her satisfaction.

  Carline stretched tall. “How are we ever going to find the marshal in this mob?”

  Yancey stood on tiptoe. “If he took off his hat, his red hair should be easy enough to see.”

  Emilia, who was only five feet and a few inches and wouldn’t have been able to see much no matter how tall she stood, was on her toes and looking around anyway.

  “There he is.” Carline grabbed Yancey by the arm and started pulling her forward.

  They soon outdistanced Emilia, but she waved in what Yancey hoped meant, Keep going. I’ll catch up.

  As soon as she and Carline got close to Marshal Valentine, Carline held out the notes. “Look at these.”

  Quinn Valentine was the rare redhead who didn’t have freckles. His eyes, an icy blue at all times, seemed particularly cold now. Although Yancey suspected she mistook the chill in his eyes for the one in her bones and needed a reason other than the note he’d taken from Carline’s hand. “Who gave these to you?”

  “I don’t know,” Carline answered first. “I found a penny on the ground and put it in my pocket. That’s when I discovered mine.”

  Quinn pulled a notebook from his inside jacket pocket. A short pencil was tied to the binding with a strip of leather. He opened the notebook, tucked the scrap of paper in the binding, and took up the pencil. “When was this?”

  “Five or ten minutes ago.” Carline pressed two fingers against her forehead. “I can’t quite remember.”

  Quinn scratched something in his notebook. “What about you, Yancey?”

  “A minute ago. Maybe two.”

  “And neither one of you saw or felt anything?” He looked at Carline first. When she shook her head, he shifted his gaze to Emilia who had just caught up to their group. “Did you get a note, too?”

  “No, but I was there when Carline discovered hers.”

  “How about you, Yancey?” Quinn looked at her expectantly. “Did anyone bump into you or get suspiciously close?”

  “I’m not sure how to judge suspiciously close in a crowd this size.” She swung her hand to encompass the park. How proud she’d been of the huge turnout. Now it seemed threatening.

  “Good point.” Quinn tapped his pencil point on the open page. “I imagine the reference to ‘phony money’ is because the two of you have always thought Joseph Hendry’s death was tied to counterfeiting.”

  Emilia crossed her arms over her stomach. “And you should also know that my husband secured a search warrant this morning and left town a few hours ago because he thinks he’s found a counterfeiting operation down in Bear Gulch.”

  Yancey nodded. “He came to the brunch at Mrs. Hollenbeck’s house to ask Judge Forsythe to sign it.”

  “Who else was there?”

  Yancey listed off the names of the twenty-five couples while Quinn scribbled in his notebook. She then told him about her conversation with Hale. “No one else could have overheard us.”

  “Hm.” The unhelpful sound made Yancey want to shake the marshal into revealing his thoughts. Quinn finished writing and looked up. “Outside of Hale, have you been talking to lots of people about the search warrant?”

  “Goodness, no.”

  Quinn appeared to weigh her denial. She was about to declare her innocence again—she’d had quite enough of people believing the worst of her—when he swung his gaze to Carline. “What about you?”

  She shook her head, and then gasped.

  “What?” Yancey and Emilia asked in unison.

  Carline scattered looks around the circle. “Mrs. Hess approached me as we were setting up the tables. She asked if I’d heard about the search warrant, and then if I thought it was connected to counterfeiting. I said I hoped it was because if—and I distinctly remember saying if—it was connected to Joseph’s death, it would prove Yancey and I had been right all along.”

  Quinn looked at his notes. “Mr. and Mrs. Hess’s names aren’t on here.”

  “But she and Mrs. Watson are close friends.” Yancey pictured the two women in the church yard as they whispered about her. “Whatever one knows, the other does as well.”

  “And whatever Mrs. Watson knows—as well as anything she suspects—she’ll tell to anyone who’ll listen.” Emilia spread her hands. “I’m sorry to say it, but I’ve seen it over and over again when she shopped at The Resale Company.”

  “Meaning”—Quinn picked up the note again, squinting at it as though something about it puzzled him—“the list of suspects is everyone who’s been here between setup and three minutes ago.”

  “So what do we do now?” Yancey put her arms around both Carline and Emilia.

  “There’s not much I can do at this point, but I’ll tell my men to be on the lookout for any suspicious characters or activity.” He was still staring at the note. “It just says to stop talking or you’ll be sorry.”

  Yancey glanced at the other two women to see if either of them understood why that seemed to bother the marshal.

  “Doesn’t that seem rather vague?” He looked at each of them in turn, as if he expected an answer.

  Emilia frowned at him. “I’m not sure we know what you’re trying to say, Quinn.”

  He set the note in the binding of his notebook again. “It sounds like whoever wrote this didn’t intend you any specific harm.”

  Yancey tapped her finger against her lip as she considered his assertion. “You mean like when we were in grade school and wanted Billy Sexton to stop picking on us—”

  “—but there was really nothing we could do because he was so much bigger than we were—” Carline inserted.

  “—so we just told him to stop it or he’d be sorry?” Yancey finished.

  “Exactly like that.” Quinn snapped his notebook closed. “Again, I’ll tell my men to keep an eye out, but I don’t think you’re in any real danger.”

  Maybe he was right, but Yancey didn’t want to be at the park any longer. All her joy over the large turnout was gone. She just wanted to go home.

  And it had less to do with the notes than the expression on a certain mayoral candidate’s face.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Across the park

  Hale stood alone on the edge of the crowd. He checked the time. Eight twelve.

  Yancey wasn’t back.

  He’d started after her as soon as she turned on her heel and stomped away from Isaak, but the gawking stares of the people around them convinced Hale to turn around. Jakob said gossip ate at her. There was already going to be some after the red-faced argument between her and Isaak, so Hale wasn’t going to add more by
running after her. Instead, he’d smiled, looked over the crowd, and struck up a conversation with the closest person he knew.

  Who happened to be Zeb Inger.

  The bootmaker had a long list of items to discuss. By the time he was on his twelfth, Hale had stopped listening and was envisioning Yancey—fingers wagging at him—saying, Three things. Just three.

  He’d suppressed a grin, nodded his head, and said, “Mm-hm. I see. Yes, I understand,” until Inger finally ran out of complaints and moved on. Hale had retreated to the edge of the park to await Yancey. Was she coming?

  He checked the time again. Eight thirteen.

  Windsor Buchanan and Isaak returned from wherever they’d gone. Buchanan was Hale’s image of Sampson—lots of muscles and lots of hair with a heart for God. Was Yancey interested in him? It certainly appeared as though she was enraptured with the man.

  Hale snapped his pocket watch closed and stuffed it in his vest. He’d stopped cold at the sight of her hand on Buchanan’s arm. At her obvious delight in accepting his invitation to take a buggy ride with him. Hale had smiled to cover his shock—or had his face just frozen with the smile he’d worn all day?

  As they came within earshot, Hale heard Windsor say, “. . . always told you I have your back, but not this time.”

  Isaak’s lips were pressed into a flat line.

  Hale waited for the two men to reach him. He turned his attention to Windsor first. “Why don’t you have Isaak’s back this time?”

  “Because he’s wrong about Miss Yancey making me think it was all my idea to ask her on a buggy ride.”

  Isaak inhaled and opened his lips, but Hale put a hand up to stop him. “In a moment.” Aware of how overbearing the gesture was, and not caring one whit, he addressed Windsor. “I’m not sure I follow. Please start from the beginning.”

  Windsor crossed his arms over his chest, lifting his chin until his beard came free. “I aim to start courting Miss Carline Pope—even though Isaak wrongly insists she likes Geddes.”