The Telegraph Proposal

  “How . . . how could . . . you?”

  Jonas stroked her hair, a sob in his throat. “I did it for you—for us. To give you the home you deserved in Washington, as a senator’s wife. I promised I would, remember?” He did. He’d promised. It was all for her. For them. Because they deserved that life.

  She sagged, her weight dragging them both to the floor. “No, Jonas. Not for me. I . . . never ... All I ever ... wanted ... was you.” Her breath brushed over his face as the light went out of her eyes, her body draining of tension.

  Jonas bent over her, hugging her close to his chest. “No, Lily. Don’t go. Don’t leave me. I did it for you. For us. Come back. Come back!”

  This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. This was Lily’s home. Nothing bad happened here. He’d made sure of it. What had these men done? Why were they even here? Jonas blinked several times. It was against the law for them to trespass on his property. Lily would be furious when she saw the mess they’d made. He lifted his chin and rose to his feet, straightening his vest. There were things he needed to attend to. He couldn’t remember what they were at the moment, but they were important. He was important. There were piles of papers that needed his attention before Lily had dinner ready. And he never kept Lily waiting.

  * * *

  Hale stood over his aunt’s motionless body, his own limbs as incapable of movement as hers. She was dead. He knew it intellectually but couldn’t make himself believe it. It was like seeing things before putting on his glasses or hearing them from a distance.

  Mac took the gun from Eli Alderson’s hand.

  Eli kept repeating, “I didn’t mean to shoot her.”

  Uncle Jonas stood and straightened his vest. “I have appointments. Yes. I must have appointments. I’m an important man, and important men have appointments.” He looked around the room. “Why are you here? You’re trespassing. My wife keeps a neat home. She’ll be furious with this mess.”

  What appointments? What mess? Hale snapped his attention to Mac. The looks of confusion on his and Eli Alderson’s faces echoed Hale’s. Had his uncle gone mad?

  “Come, boys”—Uncle Jonas stepped over Aunt Lily’s body on his way toward the door—“we need a broom and a mop.”

  Mac blocked his path. “I’m sorry, Judge Forsythe. But we need to take you down to City Hall.”

  “Whatever for?” Uncle Jonas frowned, three wrinkles appearing between his brows. “Do you need me to sign another search warrant? Yes. A search warrant. I can do that here.” He turned back around and tripped over Aunt Lily as if he’d forgotten she was between him and his desk. “What is ... Lily? Oh no. What happened here? Lily? Lily?” He dropped to his knees and lifted his wife back into his arms. “I did it for her.” Uncle Jonas’s eyes were wild. “She knows that, doesn’t she? She knows I was just trying to give her the life she deserved.”

  Mac kneeled beside Uncle Jonas. “It was an accident, sir. A horrible accident. Come away, now. I’ll take you downstairs while your nephew and my deputy attend to matters here.”

  “What happened?” Uncle Jonas wouldn’t let go. “Who shot my Lily?”

  “It was an accident,” Mac repeated.

  An accident? Hale couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was a deliberate disobedience of orders on Eli Alderson’s part, and a fatal mistake on Mac’s. But the greater sin was Uncle Jonas’s for bringing them all here to arrest him.

  Hale spun around to face the bookcases. No. The greater sin was his for asking to keep the arrest a private matter. He’d wanted to spare his aunt—his innocent aunt—the humiliation of having her husband arrested like a common criminal in front of the entire town.

  “Someone made a mess.” Uncle Jonas sounded like a child.

  Hale pulled off his glasses so he could cover his face with his hand. Tears burned his eyes while shock, horror, and anguish wrestled with one another inside his chest.

  “Jonas Forsythe”—Mac’s voice wobbled—“you are under arrest for—”

  “Lily!” The scream turned Hale around. Uncle Jonas’s face was white and twisted with grief, but the light of reason shone from his gray eyes. “I killed my Lily! Oh, God. What have I done? What have I done?”

  Mac flicked a glance at Hale, who still couldn’t move, before beckoning Alderson closer. “Let us help you with this”—Mac swallowed hard—“mess.”

  “Yes. This is a mess.” Uncle Jonas let go of his wife again, stood again, stepped over her body again, only this time Mac stayed out of his way and Alderson followed behind.

  When they were out of view, Hale stumbled closer to his aunt and fell to his knees beside her.

  Dear Lord, why? How could You have let this happen? She was innocent. You should have protected her. You could have. With a wave of Your hand, You could have altered the trajectory of that bullet. Why didn’t You? Why?

  Now that his brain had started working again, it wouldn’t stop. The questions—the tirade against God—wouldn’t cease. He wasn’t sure how long he kneeled beside her until a touch on his shoulder made him look up.

  Mac leaned down, the weight of his hand increasing. “Do you want me to take your uncle to City Hall or stay here with you?”

  “What went wrong? Why did Aunt Lily come home?”

  “As best I can tell, she forgot her grocery list and came back to get it. I found it sitting on top of a bowl of chicken salad. Emilia said she was craving the salad and asked your aunt to make some for the tea. I put it in the icebox. The salad, not the list.” Mac squeezed Hale’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

  The apology felt like a slap across the face. “You shouldn’t have brought Alderson.”

  Mac took a step back. “Are you blaming me for this?”

  “Bringing Alderson was a mistake. You shouldn’t have done it.” Hale turned his head away. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his friend, even as a part of him recognized his faulty logic in laying blame on anyone.

  It was an accident, but someone needed to pay for the anguish burning its way through every muscle and stinging his skin.

  Uncle Jonas’s voice drifted up the stairs. “On her way home from tea with Mrs. McCall and Miss Palmer, my wife is stopping at Cannon’s Grocery Store. She’s planning to make croissants again. Have you ever had those, Deputy Alderson?”

  “No, sir, but I’m sure they are delicious.”

  “Zoe taught her how to make them. Did you know that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “My Lily is a wonderful cook. She’ll be home soon. She went to tea, and then she’s going to the market. She’ll be home soon.”

  The strange conversation broke Hale. He put his hands over his face and sobbed. He’d lost his parents and now he’d lost the people who’d replaced them. Uncle Jonas was as gone as Aunt Lily. Hale reached out a shaky hand to brush his aunt’s cheek. Her skin was still warm.

  She’d heard her husband’s crimes. She’d cried out. Uncle Jonas jerked. Eli Alderson raised his gun toward the threat, but also swung around to investigate what was behind him. The gun went off. Aunt Lily died. And Uncle Jonas lost his sanity.

  All because of a forgotten grocery list.

  “My Lily loves me. She calls me a good man.” Uncle Jonas continued, his voice softer but still carrying. “Do you know how we met?”

  “No, sir. Tell me.” Eli Alderson was doing Hale’s job.

  Regardless of his feelings, he needed to take charge of his uncle. The responsibility rested with him.

  Hale stood, wiped the tears from his face, and—without looking at Mac—staggered down the stairs. For the next half hour, Hale kept his uncle talking. Through the slow footsteps and grunts of men carrying a heavy burden down the stairs. Through a conversation too hushed to distinguish words before it disappeared altogether with the thump of a door closing. Through the emptiness of a house now absent its lady.

  Hale kept asking questions—pretending he couldn’t remember how his aunt and uncle met, fell in love, and got married—until he thought he’d
go as mad as his uncle.

  A faint knock was followed by an immediate, “Mrs. Forsythe?”

  Yancey’s voice. The sound of it acted like ointment on a burn. Hale jumped up from the table before his uncle could. “I’ll get it.”

  “Tell whoever it is that Lily is out for a few minutes.” Uncle Jonas sounded almost normal. “She’s at the market and will be home soon.”

  “I will.” Hale hurried out of the kitchen, through the dining room, and into the front hall. He pulled open the front door. “Yancey.” Her name was like a prayer on his lips.

  “Is Mrs. Forsythe here? She didn’t show up for our tea, so Emilia and I started to worry.” Her eyes flitted over his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

  Hale closed the door to give them a moment of privacy. “There’s been a terrible accident.” He was determined to keep using the word until it felt like the truth. “Aunt Lily was killed.”

  Yancey gasped and covered her lips with gloved fingers.

  “And Uncle Jonas has lost his reason. One minute he knows she’s dead, the next he thinks she’s at the market and will be home soon.”

  As though intent on proving the unbelievable statement, Uncle Jonas started screaming. “Lily! Oh, my Lily! What have I done?”

  Hale pivoted, jerked the door open, and, without waiting to see if Yancey followed him, raced up the stairs to where his uncle stood staring at the bloodstained floorboards of his office.

  Hale felt Yancey’s presence behind him an instant before she touched his shoulder. He moved aside to allow her into the room, regretting the instinctive gesture when she gasped again, her eyes on the stain. “Judge Forsythe, how lovely to see you.” Whatever her feelings, Yancey managed to sound as though she was greeting a friend at church or on the street. “I hear your wife is at the market.”

  Uncle Jonas turned his attention from the floor to Yancey. “What? What’s that you say?”

  She held out her hand. “I wonder if I might trouble you to escort me downstairs. I hear your wife is at the market. Would you honor me with the pleasure of your company while I wait for her?”

  Uncle Jonas took Yancey’s hand, allowing her to lead him out of the room, as though he were a child and she his mother. Halfway down the stairs, he said, “Miss Palmer, I thought you were having tea with Mrs. McCall and my wife.”

  “We were ... are. She sent me to fetch you because ... because . . .” Yancey cast a help-me glance over her shoulder.

  Hale had none to offer. The events of the past hour were catching up with him, draining his ability to think.

  “She made chicken salad,” Uncle Jonas announced as though it made sense. Had he figured out that Mac and Hale planned the tea to get Aunt Lily out of the house so they could arrest him?

  “Yes.” Yancey patted his arm. “Because she made chicken salad and forgot to bring it to our tea.”

  “She shouldn’t have forgotten. It’s very bad to forget things.” Were fragments of his former brilliance somewhere inside Uncle Jonas’s disordered mind? It sounded like he was putting pieces together—figuring out how the forgotten grocery list brought her home too early, led her to hear things Hale wanted to shield her from for as long as possible.

  He stopped at the foot of the stairs. His uncle needed to pay for his crime, but what if he never recovered his intellect? Either he would spend the rest of his life in prison or in an asylum for the criminally insane. Both were no less than he deserved.

  And yet, Hale shuddered.

  Chapter Twenty

  Yancey stayed with Hale and his uncle until Mac returned to the house. He brought two deputies—neither of whom was Eli Alderson—to escort Judge Forsythe to City Hall. As the judge was currently in his imaginary world where his wife would be home any minute, Hale asked Mac to forgo the handcuffs. He agreed as long as Hale came along to keep his uncle in check.

  Before Mac left, Yancey asked him what had happened. He explained the plan, how it went wrong, and that Hale was blaming him for bringing Eli along. “Maybe he’s right.” Mac scratched his jaw.

  Yancey placed a hand on his arm. “No, he’s not, and he’ll soon come to recognize it.”

  When the house was quiet, Yancey allowed her grief to spill down her cheeks. Usually, she would run to her mother or Carline when the emotions were this powerful, but Yancey wouldn’t put them through what needed to be done next.

  She walked into the kitchen and rummaged through drawers and closets until she found an apron, a mop, and a bucket. Before Hale came back, she wanted the upstairs office floorboards clean.

  But they refused to let go of the stain.

  Yancey went back downstairs and found a scouring brush. Back in the library, she pressed so hard that bits of varnish came away, and still the pinewood held on as though determined to never let anyone forget the tragedy soaked into them.

  Stupid floor. Why wouldn’t it cooperate? She scrubbed and scrubbed, her arms and back aching from the effort. The stain remained. She threw the wet brush at the wall and burst into tears.

  She heard the door open, heard Hale call her name, heard his footsteps running up the stairs, but no matter how much she wanted to calm herself, to be strong for him, she couldn’t stop blubbering.

  Hale knelt beside her and drew her into his arms. She pressed her face against his shirt, obeying his gentle command to go ahead and cry. A moment later, his chest shook and she heard him sob.

  Several minutes passed. “I’m so sorry, Hale,” she managed to whisper when she’d brought her weeping under control. “What can I do? Tell me what to do.”

  He pulled away, wiping his face with his forearm. “You’ve already done enough. Thank you for this.” He glanced at the floor.

  “It won’t come clean. I tried.”

  “Maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe we should always see it and remember where unchecked ambition leads.”

  Yancey shifted to sit sideways on the floor. “What do you mean?”

  “My uncle is the one responsible for the counterfeit money. I think he was planning to use it to buy votes either for my election or for his eventual campaign for senator. Maybe both.”

  Yancey sucked in a breath. “He’s the one Joseph was going to expose as the high-ranking government official involved in counterfeiting, wasn’t he?”

  Hale nodded.

  “Is he the one who killed Joseph?”

  “Not directly, but he’s responsible for it.” Hale pulled away. He took her left hand and rubbed it with his right. “He’s also responsible for Finn Collins’s death. Finn repaired the printing press my uncle was using. Mac and I have known it for weeks, but we needed to gather proof.”

  Yancey stared at their joined hands. Unlike the last time they’d touched, this was comfortable and comforting—two friends consoling each other with human contact. “What’s going to happen to your uncle now?”

  Hale looked away, his hand pulling out of hers. “I don’t know. He’s guilty, but he won’t be able to stand trial.” His voice was harsh.

  Yancey winced. Should she warn Hale that he needed to add his uncle to the list of people needing forgiveness?

  No. Hale needed to become the right person on his own, not because Yancey asked or manipulated him into it. Hale loved her. The way he’d rushed to hold her, crushed her to his chest, and pressed kisses into her hair while she wept told her as much.

  And he was looking at her as though she was his salvation.

  If he proposed now, she wouldn’t be able to say no, even knowing she should. The strength she was developing to detach herself from him was too fragile. It was her turn to push him away without explanation. Hale needed to decide whether he would forgive his uncle, Mac, and everyone else connected to today’s tragedy.

  Yancey took a shaky breath. “I need to go.”

  He nodded and stood, extending his hand to help her rise, pulling her close so they stood heart to heart. “Yancey, I—”

  “Shh.” She put her fingers on his lips. “Please don’t say anythin
g, Hale.”

  He took her hand, pressed a kiss into her palm. “I understand. Now is the time for grieving.”

  He didn’t understand at all. Now was the time for forgiving.

  Yancey withdrew her hand and stepped back. “I’m sorry, Hale.” For his aunt, for his bitterness, but mostly because she loved him too much to marry him as he was. “I’ll stop by The Import Company and let Isaak know what happened. I’m sure he’ll come right away.”

  Hale narrowed his eyes. “What’s wrong, Yancey? Why are you leaving me?”

  “I’m sorry.” It was the only thing she could think to say. “I’m so sorry.”

  She hurried out the door, down the stairs, and out of the house before she threw herself into his arms and held on, to the detriment of them both.

  * * *

  It was time to get out of Helena.

  Mary Lester closed her business ledger and pushed it to the side of her desk. The gleaming wood was a symbol of everything she’d achieved since arriving—at fourteen years old—in her first brothel. She’d fallen in love with an older man, believed his lies when he painted a rosy future where she could wear dresses of the finest silks and satins, eat delicacies every day—every meal, if she wanted—and lounge in her luxuriously decorated boudoir all day.

  She snorted. Oh, she’d gotten all those things, but only after spending twenty years on her back. She’d hidden everything from paper dollars to gold nuggets anywhere her various madams wouldn’t find, biding her time until the day she broke free and could take charge of her life once more.

  She’d spent the next twenty years making more money than she’d ever imagined, and she’d been a fair madam. Her girls were treated with respect, received an education while in her employ, and were encouraged to put away part of their earnings for when they were too old or diseased to ply their trade.

  That was why her brothel was known far and wide as the best place to work in the entire western territories.

  People outside the business might not understand, but Mary was proud of what she’d accomplished, and giving it up wasn’t a decision she took lightly.