The Telegraph Proposal

  She beamed. “That they are. Mrs. Zoe Gunderson is going to teach me how to make pie crust in exchange for a couple of them.”

  Jonas pulled up next to the split-rail fence bordering her property. “What have I missed in the last month since I’ve been gone?”

  “You heard about the Popes?”

  “I did. Was it ruled an accident?”

  Mrs. Oren frowned, the expression unflattering on a woman with her angular features. “Why wouldn’t it be an accident? You know something I don’t, Judge?”

  He smiled down at her, cursing himself for the slip. “I’m sorry. I was confusing them with a case I heard up in Lincoln. When I’m tired, the things I hear at work and what I’ve left behind at home tend to blend together.”

  “Like eggs and cream in custard.” Clearly the woman had cooking on her mind. “I guess the only other real big news is that Sheriff McCall’s mother is buying him a new horse to replace the one that was killed.”

  “A terrible business,” Jonas replied, meaning every word of it. The counterfeiting operation was already aflame when the sheriff and his deputy arrived in Bear Gulch. There was no reason for his men to exchange gunfire. Worse than unnecessary, it combined with Lombard’s stupidity to make Marshal Valentine suspicious. What had he discovered during the past three weeks while Jonas was out of town? Perhaps the widow knew. “Is there any news about who killed Deputy Alderson and injured Sheriff McCall?”

  “Not yet, but whoever he is best not come near me or I’ll”—she stabbed the dirt—“his miserable neck.”

  Jonas felt the jab in his throat.

  Mrs. Oren leaned on the shovel, pressing it deeper into the earth. “I understand a mother wanting to help her son recover after losing his horse—although I think it’s more about buying her way back into Sheriff McCall’s favor after she went and replaced him by adopting that Nico—”

  She had? How very interesting.

  “—but why didn’t she go to Wichita herself? Why send Jakob Gunderson?”

  Jonas barely managed to keep hold of his horse. Madame Lestraude had sent Jakob on an errand for her? Why? As revenge for what had happened to Mac?

  “I won’t keep you any longer, Judge. I know you want to get home now.”

  “Yes,” he managed. “It was ... nice talking with you.”

  If she noticed his hesitation, she didn’t let on. “Give my best to your missus.”

  He reined his horse to the left and kicked him into a gallop. As he raced toward town, Jonas pictured charging straight to Madame Lestraude’s brothel and letting his horse’s powerful hooves trample through her doors, across her furniture, and over her wretched, miserable body until everything lay shattered.

  He’d miscalculated. Badly. Green wasn’t her weakness, that street urchin was. And she’d revealed it the day she declared war between them. Jonas had failed to notice because he was so taken aback that she’d figured out his part in Finn’s death.

  Stupid, stupid mistake.

  But now that he knew, he would make her pay. Jakob was more a son to him than that insignificant brat she’d adopted would ever be to her. What had she said? Their deal was not that no harm would come to their family but they were not to even be threatened.

  Involving Jakob in the periphery of her little rescuing ring was one thing. Sending him out of town under a pretense so flimsy it would disappear with a huff of breath was quite another.

  Zuzim’s powerful stride ate up the miles. Named for a race of giants, he inspired envy wherever Jonas rode him. On the edge of town, he drew the horse into a sedate walk and ran a hand over the sides of his hair to smooth down the tufts of gray.

  He stopped to chat with several people—casually mentioning that he was headed to Maison de Joie to inform the madam of a new business opportunity in Butte per her request. He’d used the same excuse to good effect with Hale after Sheriff McCall was shot. Jonas hated using it again, but it couldn’t be helped.

  Mrs. Nanawitty asked why he was going to the brothel instead of home. “The opportunity requires immediate action,” he replied, but the truth was, he’d not sully his wife’s home. His current clothing needed to be burned. He’d not wear the filth of the road—or of a brothel—in front of Lily for longer than it took to change into a gentleman’s attire.

  He dismounted Zuzim and tied him to the hitching rail outside Maison de Joie. The three-story brick building looked exactly like what it was—a combination of store and hotel. Jonas made a show of removing a notebook from his saddlebags so everyone in the street could see he was there on business.

  Mr. Lui answered Jonas’s knock. The giant Chinese man stared down from his superior height, not a muscle in his face moving or offering any hint of his thoughts.

  Just as Jonas was about to demand the madam’s presence, the wall of flesh stepped aside, allowing him entrance.

  Madame Lestraude was standing at the head of a long table, the wooden stick in her hand pointing at a movable chalkboard. The black surface was filled with basic addition and subtraction equations. “Judge Forsythe. What a pleasure to see you this afternoon.”

  He bowed to acknowledge her greeting. “A moment of your time, madam. We have some business to discuss.”

  Lestraude quirked one eyebrow higher than the other. “If you mean about the ‘Vote for Hale’ ribbons my girls and I have been wearing, Mr. Adams realizes they have done him no harm.” Was that a sly way to say Jakob was in no danger?

  “While that’s most gratifying to hear, I’m here about that business in Butte you asked me to look into while I was away.” Jonas repeated his story in case any of her girls gossiped with their clients tonight. “By the way, I offer you my congratulations.”

  Her eyebrow lowered.

  Good. He had her wondering what he meant. “I hear you are a proud mother. Again.”

  Her expression froze for an instant. She recovered quickly, but it was enough to let Jonas know his arrow had struck true. “I’m soon to be a grandmother too.”

  “My goodness. I have missed a great deal while I’ve been out of town.” His patience with their banter was growing thin. “I suggest we withdraw to your office where we can discuss specifics in private.”

  “Susan”—Lestraude turned to a striking redhead seated close to the chalkboard—“please continue our arithmetic lesson until I return.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The girl rose and took the wooden pointer from Lestraude’s hand.

  “This way, your honor.”

  Did she think he missed the mockery in her tone? Or that she was safe to taunt him because Jakob was away doing her dangerous business? He would teach her to respect him. To fear him now that he knew which piece to play in this game of theirs.

  He followed her to her office, brushing dust from his jacket as they walked.

  “Might I offer you something to drink? You look quite parched.” She closed the door and all pretenses dissolved. “How dare you come here with your threats? My son—my oldest son—is still recovering from the wound that nearly killed him seven weeks ago.”

  He stretched to his full height and leaned marginally closer. “So you retaliated by sending Jakob into harm’s way?”

  She took a step back, the fear that flashed in her eyes a small reward. “He’s in no danger, I assure you.”

  “As though your assurances mean anything.”

  She spun away, the stiff taffeta of her skirt swishing as she hurried to put distance between them. When she was behind her desk, she pulled back her heavy chair and sat. “I am not the one who broke our agreement. You are.”

  “In so convoluted a way, only a disordered mind could follow it.” Jonas held back a smile. Not so long ago, he’d been the one sitting while she towered over him. The tables were reversed, and he intended to make full use of his advantage. He walked to the opposite side of her desk, placed both hands on the smooth surface, and leaned over her. “I have you now. You will abandon this little war of yours or I will find a way to implicate Ni
co in a crime. It shouldn’t be too difficult, given his confession to vandalism.”

  She eyed him, measuring his sincerity. “Then you leave me no choice.”

  He straightened, satisfaction filling his frame. He’d finally bested her.

  Only ... she didn’t look bested. That smug superiority he despised so much was back. She removed a gold necklace from around her neck, a small key the only pendant. After unlocking the top drawer, she withdrew a page torn from a ledger. “Before you burn buildings, my dear Jonas, you might want to be sure the evidence you wished to destroy wasn’t already removed.”

  He stumbled back, catching himself against the chair behind him before he fell into it.

  “This”—she waved the paper—“will find its way to Marshal Valentine if you so much as breathe another threat against my Nico.”

  Jonas wasn’t taking her word that she’d torn the page proving his former associate, Edgar Dunfree, had purchased the printing press from The Resale Co. Before it became necessary to eliminate him, Dunfree used to brag about his close relationship with the Honorable Jonas Forsythe. With Marshal Valentine already suspicious because of Isaak’s too accurate description of why the printing press was purchased—and that Finn Collins was killed for repairing it—Jonas couldn’t take any chances that Madame Lestraude held evidence in her hands which could be traced back to him. He reached across the desk. “Let me see that.”

  She snatched it back. “Oh no. You are too close to the door. I’ll not have you run away.” Like a coward was insinuated in her tone of voice.

  “And I’ll not trust the word of a woman such as you.”

  Her face suffused with red at the insult. “Of the two of us, I am the one with the greater honor, your honor.” She returned the page to the drawer and locked it. “Believe me when I say my threat is not idle. You will leave Nico alone or I shall ruin all you hold dear.”

  Jonas slapped his hands on her desk and leaned as far as his six-foot frame allowed. “I swear to you on all I hold dear, if any harm comes to Jakob Gunderson or anyone else I love, I won’t even bother accusing your precious Nico. I will string him up from the nearest tree and watch him swing.”

  “You wouldn’t.” But she was shaking. “I will expose you as the base, vile criminal you are.”

  “And who’s going to believe you? Hm? I am a sitting judge. A personal friend of the President of the United States of America. You”—he summoned every ounce of his considerable disdain—“are nothing but a prostitute.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hale left the Palmers’ porch, his mind racing.

  The day had not gone as planned. He’d intended to enjoy a special meal prepared by a trained French chef—also known as Zoe Gunderson—burn the letters with Yancey as a symbol of leaving the past behind, and then declare his affection.

  The logical part of him knew she was right to say he needed to forgive his mother. In truth, he’d been thinking about doing that for some time. But his father?

  No and never.

  And yet Yancey made it abundantly clear that her terms were nonnegotiable.

  What should he do?

  Going back to his office was out of the question. He would go crazy replaying what he said, how she responded, what he should have said, and how the better choice of words would have resulted in a better outcome.

  After returning Windsor’s carriage, Hale set out toward City Hall. Perhaps Mac would have some sage advice.

  He continued walking and thinking until he stopped cold at the sight of Uncle Jonas stomping out of Madame Lestraude’s Maison de Joie, his face shiny red and his neck veins visible from a block away. His suit was covered with dust, a sure sign he’d just returned from his three-week trip.

  Hale ducked into an obliging alley between two buildings he didn’t recognize. He’d never been through the red-light district, and only came today because he’d been so lost in thought over Yancey, he wasn’t paying attention.

  What was going on between his uncle and the brothel owner? No business transaction would make his uncle go directly to Madame Lestraude rather than his wife after weeks of travel.

  Hale peeked around the corner of the brick building. Uncle Jonas mounted his big black stallion, reining him in the direction of home rather than City Hall. As soon as he was out of sight, Hale jogged to the end of the block, watching until he was sure his uncle was gone. He looked over his shoulder at Maison de Joie. His inclination was to confront the madam on his own, but although he’d never been inside her establishment, he knew well that she employed a Chinese man so large, he’d intimidated Isaak Gunderson and, last year, had picked up and tossed both Mac and Quinn Valentine into the street.

  Hale needed reinforcements if he was going to confront Madame Lestraude to find out what scandal she was threatening to expose. Or—more likely, because it involved Uncle Jonas, who was as upright as any man who walked the earth—the lie she was planning to tell.

  Not caring if he drew attention to himself, Hale raced down Wood Street and turned left on West Main. Once inside City Hall, he headed straight for Mac’s office. Eli Alderson and Undersheriff Keenan looked up from whatever they were studying on the latter’s desk.

  Alderson broke away and approached Hale. “What can I do for you, Mr. Adams?”

  “Is Sheriff McCall here?”

  Mac poked his head out of his side office. “I’m here. Come on in.”

  Hale pushed through the small gate on the side of the wood counter between him and the deputies. He weaved through their desks, noting the WANTED posters and delinquent tax notices as he passed.

  Mac stood in the doorframe between the open space and his private office, waiting until Hale came inside to close the door behind him. “Have a seat.”

  Hale gripped the back of the chair instead of sitting in it. “I need to speak to your mother, and I’d like you to go with me as a witness. And so her man doesn’t toss me out on my rear before I can get to her.”

  “I see. What’s this about?” Mac walked to his side of the desk.

  “I wish I knew.” Hale scratched the back of his head. “For the past few months, I’ve noticed tension between my uncle and your mother. You should have seen them when we were waiting to hear how your surgery had gone. You could have roasted a chicken with the fiery looks passing between them.”

  “Did you ask him about it?” Mac sat down, his expression calm.

  “I did. He gave me a story about how he’d advised her to invest in a somewhat risky venture that went bankrupt, and she was angry with him.”

  “Sounds reasonable.”

  “For her to glare at him, maybe, but not for him to return it.” Hale yanked back the chair and sat so he was eye to eye with Mac. “I saw my uncle coming out of your mother’s brothel less than five minutes ago. Based on the amount of dust on his clothing, he’d just arrived back in town. Why go there instead of home? You know as well as I do that your mother loves to stir up scandal. That business about Finn last year is a prime example.”

  Mac cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I never believed a word of that hogwash about Finn selling Emilia and her sister into prostitution. Emilia inviting your mother to your wedding and then your bedside after the surgery confirms it. No one is that forgiving.”

  “My Em is.” Mac sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

  Hale studied his friend. “Maybe she is, but I find it hard to believe that you are. I don’t say that to offend you, but we’ve been friends a long time. You need truth and justice. It’s why you became a lawman.”

  “Men can change.”

  Hale narrowed his eyes. “What aren’t you saying?”

  “My mother has secrets which are best kept.”

  The phrase was word for word what Isaak had said. Hale respected it then. He couldn’t afford to now. “I’m going to confront your mother. Would you like me to do that with or without you?”

  Ten minutes lat
er, when they reached Maison de Joie, Mac went in first. Hale waited outside, pacing back and forth for eight minutes and twenty-four seconds until the door opened a second time. Nico escorted Hale to the madam’s office, the look on his young face a combination of interest and apathy, as only a fifteen-year-old could manage.

  Hale vaguely noted that the brothel was laid out like a regular house, with an entry, parlor, and stairs leading to a second floor. The walls were papered in burgundy, a color the madam favored in her dress and used for the “Vote for Hale” ribbons her girls wore around town.

  Hale stepped inside the madam’s office. The mahogany desk she sat behind was so like his, he gawked. Same rich wood, same size, same depth. The differences were in the carvings—his were geometric, where hers were flowers and vines—and her vase of pink hothouse roses as opposed to his phone and typewriter. A picture behind her desk mimicked the flowers on her desk, pink buds in a blue vase.

  Another surprise was Mac standing behind his mother’s chair, one hand on her shoulder. But the biggest surprise was the madam herself. Whenever Hale had seen her around town, her entire demeanor was one of haughty disdain.

  This woman was pale and shaking, the paint on her face smeared from where she’d wiped tears off her cheeks. “Please have a seat, Mr. Adams. It seems the time has come for you and me to chat.”

  Hale sank into the padded wing-back chair, his worked-up bravado gone. “I need some answers, ma’am.”

  She lifted a hand to grip Mac’s. “My son told me what you observed earlier today. Allow me to set your mind at rest on one point. Your uncle has, to my knowledge, always been faithful to your aunt.”

  The reassurance loosed the knot of uncertainty in Hale’s gut. “Thank you for that.”

  Madame Lestraude smiled, but it wasn’t reassuring. “It would be better if that were his sin, Mr. Adams.”

  Hale gripped the armrests and scooted back in the chair.

  She patted Mac’s hand. “Son, you need to sit next to your friend. I have much to tell you.”