by Kit Morgan
Love is Blind
Cutter’s Creek
Kit Morgan
Angel Creek Press
Contents
Copyright
Untitled
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
About the Author
Copyright © 2016 by Kit Morgan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Untitled
To sign up for Kit’s newsletter and find out about upcoming books and other fun stuff, visit www.authorkitmorgan.com
To check out Kit’s complete collection of stories, click here.
1
Clear Creek, Oregon, July 1866
Lucius Judrow was very good at his job.
In fact, most thought him frighteningly good. He’d been a bounty hunter alongside his older brother Eldon since before the Civil War began. He was young at the time, inexperienced, but willing to learn everything Eldon could teach him.
Eldon himself wasn’t much older. He’d come into the profession under the hand of one Zed Tompkins of Harrogate, Tennessee, who could track down and apprehend the slipperiest of scoundrels. Unfortunately, some other scoundrels eventually tracked old Zed down and shot him dead, which left Eldon to take over the business and carry on his mentor’s work.
Lucius thought about his brother as he approached the town of Clear Creek, wondering how he was faring. They’d both fought on the Confederate side in the War Between the States, but it was the losing side in more ways than one – he’d lost track of Eldon during the Chattanooga Campaign, almost three years past. For two men so adept at finding people, it was a wonder they couldn’t find each other. But they hadn’t, at least not yet.
He rode through town, meeting the curious eyes of the townspeople as his horse trotted past. He was a stranger among them, and wondered how often a man such as himself passed through. He knew wagon trains passed south of Clear Creek on their way to Oregon City and often stopped to purchase provisions in the tiny town.
Of course, folks on a wagon train were a different situation from a bounty hunter such as himself. He didn’t look like a man content to scratch dirt for a living, or a grocer, a banker or a shopkeeper. He might pass for a blacksmith, but he’d probably scare the horses. As it was, he seemed to be unnerving the residents of Clear Creek already.
He passed a building with a huge, brightly-colored sign taking up most of the space over its double doors and large front windows. DUNNIGAN’S MERCANTILE, it read. He wondered if the sturdy woman sitting in a chair on the shop’s front porch was the proprietress. But what sort of shopkeeper sits outside their shop brandishing a hatchet?
Apparently he was the one having that effect, as he’d seen her step outside while he was still down the street, sit in the chair and begin to hit the butt of the hatchet blade against her palm, as if daring him to ride by. He had no choice but to do so – it wasn’t like the town had another street. Still, he tipped his hat as he did.
The woman scowled at him with narrowed eyes and a scrunched-up face, saying nothing. But she did let him pass.
He pulled up in front of the saloon – MULLIGAN’S, the sign said in a cheerful Irish green – and tethered his horse to a hitching post alongside several others. He peeked over his saddle to see if the woman with the hatchet was still watching him. She was. He shrugged and went inside, hoping the folks there would be more friendly.
“Afternoon, lad,” the man behind the bar greeted him with a thick brogue. “What can I get for ye?”
Now this was more like it. Lucius hoped it lasted. “Information,” he replied, taking a seat at the bar.
The man’s eyebrows rose in question. “What kind of information? If it’s anything besides what’s on the lunch menu, I might need a little help from the sheriff.”
Lucius’ stomach growled at the mention of food. “What is on the lunch menu?”
“I’ll tell ye true, stranger, today’s yer lucky day. Mrs. Dunnigan made her famous pot roast and cherry pie.”
Lucius’ mouth started to water. Then he noticed the unusual sound of silverware clinking against plates, turned … and his jaw dropped. Everyone in the saloon was eating lunch. There were no poker games underway, no drinking, just eating. “Odd,” he muttered to himself. He closed his eyes and inhaled the wonderful aroma of meat, gravy and potatoes.
“How about I serve ye up a plate, Mr. …?”
Lucius turned to face him. “Judrow.”
“Patrick Mulligan’s me name. I own this place. Grab yerself a seat and I’ll be right out with yer meal.”
Lucius nodded, turned again and saw that all eyes were fixed on him. Every last man in the saloon had stopped eating. The only ones not staring at him were two men hunched over a checkerboard at one of the smaller tables … and one of them was the sheriff!
He glanced around the saloon a second time as men went back to eating. Maybe it wasn’t a saloon at all. But no, there were bottles of whiskey and other spirits lined up behind the bar, though he didn’t recognize the labels. Still, that was to be expected – this was Oregon, not Kentucky (where he was born and raised) or even the Montana Territory (where he’d most recently resided).
But at least Cutter’s Creek had a normal drinking establishment. This was more like a restaurant.
Patrick Mulligan emerged from a hallway that led to the back of the building, a plate in his hand. “Here ye are!” he said happily and headed for the nearest table. It happened to be next to the two men playing checkers, and Lucius wondered if the barkeep wanted him there on purpose. Maybe he thought he’d cause trouble and preferred him close enough to the sheriff so he could handle things. No matter; maybe the sheriff could give him the information he wanted.
Lucius went to the table, sat and focused on the food, which looked and smelled wonderful. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday, deciding to get to the next town rather than hunt. He said a silent prayer over the meal and started to dig in.
“Passing through, stranger?” the sheriff asked as he studied the checkerboard.
Lucius nodded, his mouth full of food.
“We’ve got a lovely hotel here if you want to spend the night,” said the sheriff’s opponent, a wiry little man who turned in his chair to face him. “We have wonderful rooms. Some even have a bathtub!”
“Much obliged,” Lucius said between mouthfuls in his deep gravelly voice. That alone usually got him attention.
“What brings you to Clear Creek?” the man asked.
Lucius chewed, swallowed and reluctantly set down his fork to give the man his full attention. He hated to do it – the meal was delicious. “I’m looking for someone.”
That brought the sheriff’s head up. “Sheriff Harlan Hughes, Mr. Judrow. Can I help you?”
So the man was paying attention when he’d given his name to the barkeep. “That depends on if you’ve seen who I’m looking for.”
“A name might help,” the sheriff suggested.
“I’m looking for a woman.”
“Ain’t we all?” someone else in the room groaned. “If ya find one, see if she has some friends!”
<
br /> Lucius chuckled and turned to face the other diners. “Since that seems to have gotten your attention, gentlemen, her name is Emma Carlson. I’ve come on behalf of her brother Jack to find her.”
“No one around here named Emma,” the sheriff said.
“We have an Elsie, but she’s married,” Mr. Van Cleet commented. “And her maiden name was Waller.”
“Got ourselves an Eloise, too,” Mr. Mulligan said. “But she’s married as well – she works for Cyrus Van Cleet here at the hotel with her husband.”
“What does this Emma look like?” the sheriff asked.
“About five-two, reddish blond hair, grey eyes,” Lucius told him. “That last would be her most distinguishing feature.”
“Grey eyes, ye say?” said Mr. Mulligan. “Now there’s summat I wouldn’t soon forget.”
“Me neither,” Mr. Van Cleet added.
“Nor would any of us!” came a shout from a table on the other side of the saloon. “Woo-ee, I’d like to gaze into a pair of pretty grey eyes!”
Lucius picked up his fork. “I take it women are at a premium here.”
“Don’t we know it!” yet another man cried.
“Sounds like she wouldn’t have made it through here without getting herself married,” Lucius said.
“She might if she passed through on one of the wagon trains south of here,” Sheriff Hughes said. “Last one that came through was in late March.”
“Did you see it?” Lucius asked.
“Nope, sure didn’t.” The sheriff looked around at the men in the room. “Any of you fellas get a look at that wagon train that came through in the spring?”
Mr. Mulligan’s patrons glanced at one another before shaking their heads. But one, a handsome young man with long golden-blonde hair sitting at a corner table, rubbed his chin in thought as he stood. “I think I remember seeing those wagons passing through. Sometimes people stop for supplies and sometimes they don’t. These didn’t.”
Lucius’ eyebrows rose at his voice. The man had an English accent! What was an Englishman doing out here?
“Well, don’t just stand there, Newton – come here and tell the man what you know.” Sheriff Hughes waved him over, then turned to Lucius. “Who did you say this little gal was?”
“Her name is Emma Carlson. I was hired by her brother Jack to find her. She went missing shortly before the war ended and no one’s seen her since. I’ve managed to track her this far – my guess is she’s gone on to Oregon City or Portland.”
“If ye think that, then what are ye looking here for?” Mr. Mulligan asked.
“I need supplies. And while I was here, I thought I’d ask. One never knows.”
“I dare say, you’re right,” the Englishman said. “One doesn’t know until one asks.” He offered his hand to Lucius. “Good afternoon, I’m Newton Whitman-Holmes.”
“There’s a mouthful. Lucius Judrow.” He shook it, not bothering to stand.
“Sheriff Hughes is correct,” Newton said. “There was a group of wagons that passed through here last March. Not many, as I recall – only five or six.”
“Did you notice anything strange about them?” Lucius asked.
“Strange?” Newton said. “Such as?”
“Miss Carlson was traveling with a group of women heading west,” he said.
“A wagon full of women!” a man at a nearby table yelped. “And we missed it?”
“Considering it passed through here in March,” Patrick said, “then yes, I’d say ye did!”
“Aw shucks!” the man groaned and went back to eating.
Lucius ignored the outburst. “Mostly war widows. They would have had several men traveling with them for protection.”
“I saw women and men walking alongside the wagons, but nothing unusual about that,” Newton said. “I like to hunt south of town, which is the only reason I saw them in the first place. Not many wagon trains pass through here these days, because of the war. But perhaps more will start coming.”
“When did you arrive here?” Lucius asked out of curiosity.
“About four years ago. I have family here.”
“Young Newton’s related to half the town!” Patrick said with a laugh.
“Perhaps he could ask if any of them saw a wagon full of women come through a few months back,” Lucius said, trying to keep his temper in check. It was at times like these he was reminded why he enjoyed big cities. These small towns were like their own little strange islands. A saloon serving pot roast and cherry pie instead of whiskey? Sure, why not?
Speaking of which … he looked at his now-empty plate. “Didn’t you say something about pie, Mr. Mulligan?”
“Coming right up!” Mr. Mulligan hurried down the hallway to what Lucius assumed was a kitchen. What sort of saloon had a kitchen?
“If you liked your meal,” Mr. Van Cleet said, “then you’ll love what we serve at the hotel. You will be staying, won’t you?”
Lucius noted every man in the room staring at him, as if their very lives depended on his answer. If he was careful, he’d take his pie and go. But no one ever got anywhere in the bounty business without taking some risks, not to mention the appeal of a hot bath, a decent bed and Mr. Van Cleet’s mention of good meals. He did love good food, especially sweets. And where was that blasted …?
… oh. “Here we are – Mrs. Dunnigan’s cherry pie!” Mr. Mulligan set a plate before him, and a cup of coffee next to it.
Lucius smiled. The crust was the flakiest he’d ever seen. He hoped it tasted as good as it looked. But a thought nagged at him. “Dunnigan?”
“Yes, Irene Dunnigan,” Sheriff Hughes said. “She’s possibly the finest cook in these parts.”
“Next to Mrs. Upton at the hotel,” Mr. Van Cleet quickly added.
“Does she own the mercantile?”
“Sure’n she does, her and her husband,” Mr. Mulligan said. “But she also cooks lunch for me place almost every day. Been doing it for years.”
Lucius’ eyes flicked from one happy face to the next. “She wouldn’t happen to own a hatchet, would she?”
The entire saloon erupted into laughter. “Ah, I see ye’ve met her already!” Mr. Mulligan asked.
Lucius’ jaw tightened. “Strange” didn’t do this burg justice. “She doesn’t slice her pies with it, does she?”
The room exploded in hysterical cackles.
If not for the delectable pastry in front of him, Lucius would have fled the place for somewhere saner. But his fork was already poised above the dessert, and he couldn’t keep himself from breaking off a forkful and putting it in his mouth.
Heavenly. His eyes rolled back just before he closed them and chewed. He no longer cared if this Mrs. Dunnigan brandished a hatchet or not – the woman could cook and bake like nobody’s business. And if she was this good, what was the woman at the hotel like?
“Good, aye?” Mr. Mulligan said.
Lucius nodded and continued to relish that confection of angels. If Mrs. Dunnigan was younger, single and unarmed, he’d consider marrying her.
“Finish that up, Mr. Judrow, and I’ll take you to the hotel,” Mr. Van Cleet said with a smile.
Lucius took another bite of his pie. “I didn’t say I was staying.”
The men around him exchanged looks. “But it’s a long way to the next warm bed,” Mr. Van Cleet warned. “You really should spend the night here.”
Lucius popped the last piece of pie into his mouth and chewed as he eyed the man. “You seem awfully anxious to have me stay.”
“No, it’s not that,” Mr. Van Cleet said. “It’s just that, well, the hotel doesn’t get … that is …”
“You’re a mite low on guests,” Lucius finished for him.
Mr. Van Cleet reluctantly nodded.
Good grief. “Then how do you stay in business?”
“Afternoon tea, mostly,” he said.
Lucius set – dropped, really – his fork onto his plate. “What?”
“It’s become
a tradition around here,” Mr. Van Cleet explained. “Ever since I finished building the hotel. Clear Creek does have, after all, a heavy British influence living in the area.”
Lucius stared at him. “Tea.”
“At four in the afternoon,” Mr. Van Cleet said. “Mrs. Upton made lemon scones today …”
That got his attention. “Scones?”
Mr. Van Cleet smiled and stood. “With jam and clotted cream.”
Lucius’ mouth was watering all over again, despite his having just eaten a full meal. “Well, I suppose I could spare a day to rest up …” Curse his blasted sweet tooth!
“Of course! A hot bath and a good night’s sleep will do you wonders!”
“And that would give me time to find out if anyone noticed anything out of sorts with the wagon train you seek,” Newton, the Englishman said. “Though by now it’s long since reached Oregon City.”
“That’s where I’m heading anyway. But sometimes folks decide to settle along the way.”
“True,” Mr. Van Cleet agreed as several others nodded. “My Polly and I fell in love with this place and stayed.”
“Was just so with me and my Mary,” Mr. Mulligan put in. “Go ahead, laddie, stay the night and get a fresh start in the morning.”
Lucius furrowed his brow as his eyes darted between their staring faces. “Well … all right.”
A cheer went up, and Lucius had to stop himself from jumping out of his seat and drawing his gun. What was wrong with these people? The sooner he got out of there the better.
Lemon scones with jam and clotted cream … okay, so he’d stay for tea.
“I think Sally’s making roasted chicken for supper,” Mr. Van Cleet said as Lucius stood.
He stared down at the shorter man, his face an expressionless mask.
Mr. Van Cleet smiled. “Since its Tuesday, that means blueberry pie for dessert.”
Consarnit. “Lead the way, Mr. Van Cleet.”
Mr. Van Cleet smiled again and headed for the saloon doors. “Right this way!”