Now he had returned and she was filling his cup with coffee. He looked up and winked at her, and she smiled just enough for him to see she understood, then she left him alone with Louise.
"I'd been given some information about Rousseau and went to Long Branch," he said to Louise.
"He went there often," she said. "He'd be gone for days at a time. Mrs. Mason always asked him where he'd been. Long Branch was one of his favorite places."
"He went to a...house of ill-repute in Long Branch."
"I know what that is, Mr. Morgan. Please, feel free to tell me whatever you know. I'm over eighteen."
"I went there after leaving your house and talked to a woman named Mrs. Porter."
On his way to New Beach, Evan had passed a swarm of flies halfway down the road. He didn't think much of it, but when he left Louise's house heading to Long Branch, his lawman instincts kicked in and he decided to stop and see where they were coming from. He stopped and left Old Mike a few feet from the swarm.
He went into the woods, batting flies as he walked. He almost stumbled over the body. It was wearing nothing but a union suit and there wasn't enough skin left on his face to identify him. Evan knew it was a male by the length of his hair. The smell was overwhelming and he put his hand to his nose and went back to the road. He was willing to bet his life that this was Orin Smith.
He got back on Old Mike and continued down the road. He'd tell the authorities in Red Bank what he had found, but not until he located Rousseau. Rousseau was his. Aumack would want Rousseau for this, but Evan wanted to catch him first.
It didn't take him long to find Mrs. Porter's. The house was well-known and the shopkeeper he asked kept shooting glances at his wife as he tried to tell Evan where it was, and she, upon hearing the name Porter, glared at Evan. He tied Old Mike to the hitching post in front of Mrs. Porter's and knocked on the door.
A mousy girl answered and asked him to wait in the foyer. It was still early in the afternoon and the ladies were sleeping, but Mrs. Porter was awake and entering figures in her account books. She told the girl to bring him in and she knew the minute he entered the door that he was a policeman. After he sat, she closed her book and turned to face him.
"I'm here to inquire about a man named Rousseau."
"The Frenchman?" she asked.
"You know him?"
"He used to come here all the time. He had a favorite who went missing at Christmastime. I think he killed her, but I can't prove it."
"Why would he kill her?"
"She was pregnant. Claimed it was his. He came on Christmas Eve, but she was busy. He got mad and left. She went out on Christmas morning. She didn't come back, but he showed up that night and put on a show like he wanted to see her and where was she, like that."
"Have you seen him since?"
"He showed up a couple of times after that asking after her. Agnes. Her name was Agnes Welsh."
"Trying to make it look like she had just run off."
"That's what I thought."
"Why didn't you tell the police?"
"No point in doing that. She was a slattern. No one cared what happened to her. And I have no proof she's dead. I just feel it, in here."
She put her hand on her chest.
Evan stood. "Thank you kindly, Mrs. Porter."
She stood and came close to him.
"What are you gonna do, lawman?" she asked. "Are you gonna find him, because if you do, I want him to confess. I want him to say he killed Agnes."
Evan looked into Mrs. Porter's eyes. She wanted to avenge Agnes Welsh. She wanted to see Pierre hang.
"If I find him, I'll make him confess," Evan said. He put on his hat and left her standing by her desk.
He sipped his coffee and looked at Louise. She seemed too young to be the mistress of the house, but Evan had sensed there was more to her than appeared on the surface when he briefly spoke to her on his last visit. He hoped the information she had would give him some direction. He had no idea where Rousseau had gone. He only knew, after canvassing the town, that he hadn't been seen since Louise left for Colorado.
"What information do you have?" he asked.
"When you left that day, I went to my room and discovered he had taken some personal items."
"How do you know it was him?" Evan asked.
"Everyone else was out of the house the day I left for Colorado. Mrs. Mason had changed the locks. She didn't trust him, but he must have gotten in somehow. She always opened the windows in the parlor and she must have forgotten to close them before she went out that day."
"What did he take?"
"A picture and a letter."
"A picture?"
"Of my dearest friend, Hannah."
"Why would he take her picture?"
"Because he...had feelings for her. He had asked her mother if he could court her and she had turned him down. Well, she told him if Hannah wanted to see him, she would write to him. She knew Hannah would never do that."
"Did the letter he took contain her address?"
"Not her home, but that of the post office in Denver."
"And you think that's where he went."
Louise nodded. "I didn't see him there, but it's the only thing that makes sense."
"Especially if he wanted to evade the law."
"I want you to find him, Mr. Morgan. I can pay you whatever you want."
"I'd have to go to Colorado. The fare would have to cover me and my horse. Plus, I'd need a place to stay while I'm out there."
"I'm sure my friend's uncle would help us. Hannah lives on the ranch. I'm sure James would let you stay there. I'll give you a letter of introduction."
Evan hesitated. "Would you be willing to put up a reward? We could issue a wanted poster if we offer a reward."
"How much do you need?"
"Enough to make people look for him."
"Would one thousand dollars do?"
"It would. I'll let my old deputy know and he'll send them out."
"Wait here," she said.
She walked to the parlor and when she came back, she was carrying a silver frame. She placed it in front of Evan. It was the photograph of Louise winning the contest with Pierre standing next to her.
"Take it," she said. "I can't stand to look at him."
Evan removed the picture. He stood and put out his hand. She looked at it and hesitated.
"Shake my hand," he said. "It's our contract for the job."
Louise took his hand and shook it. She pulled it away quickly and looked up at him.
"I hate him, Mr. Morgan.
"I'll make you a promise, Miss. I'll catch him and bring him back. You have my word."
She looked at the square-shouldered lawman and sensed his determination.
"I believe you."
He went to the New Beach Post Office and sent the picture to his old deputy, Coleman. He asked the postman if he had a pen, paper, and envelope, then he circled Pierre in the photo. He wrote a short note to Coleman and sent it to the Cherry Hill sheriff's station. Within two weeks, Pierre's face would be plastered on post office walls all over the country.
Chapter 41
Jasper the horse was tired. The journey had taken weeks and Jean-Pierre, or Jean as he was called these days, had been reluctant to stop along the way. He had decided to save the money on train fare and ride to Colorado. He bought a saddle bag and a new pair of boots in Philadelphia. He put all but ten dollars in his boot and began to ride. He'd had no idea how long it would take to cross the United States, or how big the country was. He stopped in St. Louis and then in Chicago, where he contemplated taking the train to Denver, but chose to keep his money and ride.
Now Jasper was running out of steam. They were halfway through Nebraska and Jean decided to stop at a hotel for the night. He might even stay a day or two to give the horse a good rest. They had entered a town with a saloon, a blacksmith, and a dry goods store. He left Jasper with the blacksmith, who promised to check the horse's shoes, and fe
ed and water him. Jean took his small traveling bag off the saddle then headed to the saloon.
The saloon was filled with old codgers and gamblers who had been there for days. The bartender looked tired as he wiped a glass with a dirty rag and nodded when Jean walked in.
"I need a room," Jean said.
"Two bits a night," the bartender said.
Pierre paid him for two nights and went to his room. He pushed a chair against the door and checked the locks on the windows. He didn't trust anyone, and he couldn't afford to lose Margaret's jewels. He hadn't shaved since leaving New Jersey and his beard needed a trim. He would go to the barber when he got to Denver.
He didn't bother to undress but simply lay on the bed and closed his eyes. He fell asleep within seconds.
The next day he walked to the blacksmith to check on Jasper. The smithy said the horse was in good shape, just a little worn down, but it was nothing a day or two of rest wouldn't cure. Pierre gave the man a dollar and went to the dry goods store. It wasn't as big as the one in New Beach, but it had dime novels, and Jean liked to read the lurid tales of ravaged virgins and thieves in the night. The irony of his attraction to the characters in the books eluded him.
Jean bought two books, an apple, and a bag of peanuts, then went back to the saloon. The same men who had been there the night before were still there, and he passed them and went upstairs. He propped his pillow against the wall and leaned against it as he read one of the books. His wallet was lying next to him and when he lifted his eyes from the page to ponder what he had read, he saw the edge of Hannah's picture peeking out of the wallet. He put down the book. He picked up the wallet and slid the picture from between two of the ten one-dollar bills he carried in there.
He ran his finger over the edge of her face.
Oh, my Hannah, he thought. When I see you again, I will win you. I will touch you and hold you. I will take you to Paris where we will paint the Seine.
He imagined them together in Paris, their easels side by side, painting the river that flowed through the City of Light. He longed to see it again, but not without his lady love. They would find a place to live, a garret with a skylight, and they would make love whenever the mood struck them. He imagined her pale white skin, the hollow of her neck, the curve of her back.
He would paint Hannah and the portrait would be the greatest thing Paris had ever seen. People would flock to their studio, begging him to paint their portrait, and he would buy Hannah the finest dresses Paris had to offer. He would cover her in jewels and they would dance in the streets of Paris while others looked on with envy.
"This is all for you, my love," he said. "I do this all for you."
He put the picture back in the wallet and laid it on the bed. He sighed as he thought of Hannah. She would love him. She would melt when he touched her.
He picked up the book. It was the story of a man who stalks a young, innocent girl as she walks home from church. Jean looked at the illustration of two figures on the cover. One was a man dressed in black wearing a tall hat and the other a young girl frozen in fear with her arms held out in front of her.
"You won't be afraid of me, will you, Hannah?" he said.
A week later, Jean was in Denver. The city was bigger than he'd imagined. When he discovered the address on the letter was for the post office, he became angry. Now he wasn't sure how he would find Hannah.
He saw the name "Yvette" written on a shop window. He wondered if the owner spoke French. It had been years since he'd spoken it with anyone and he suddenly felt nostalgic. He entered the shop and saw a tall, blonde assisting an elderly customer. She looked up and smiled. Men seldom entered her shop.
He looked around and realized it was a ladies' clothing shop. He thought he should leave, but Yvette was walking with the customer to the door, so he waited for her.
"Goodbye, Mrs. Walker," she said as the woman left the shop. She turned to Pierre and smiled again. "May I help you?"
Her accent warmed his heart.
"Oui vous pouvez," he said.
Her eyes lit up.
"Oh, vous parlez francais!"
They continued their conversation in French for several minutes as Pierre explained that he had come to Denver to start a new life. He was charming and attentive, and he knew she had fallen under his spell. He left the shop feeling less homesick.
After he left, Yvette narrowed her eyes and clenched her teeth. She went to the door, turned the sign on the door to "Closed," and went to the back of the shop. The old anger, feelings that had been simmering for years, rose to the surface and tears formed in her eyes.
"Non," she said. "I won't cry. Not for him."
Not for Jean-Pierre Renault.
Jean stopped at the drugstore for an ice cream soda. He didn't indulge in sweets very often, but he was feeling good. He was close to Hannah and would see her soon.
He finished his soda and put a nickel on the counter. As he walked to the door, he noticed the wall next to the door was covered in wanted posters. He thought they only had them in the post office, but the owner of the drugstore had been robbed once and ever since had allowed the posters to be hung in his store. As Jean opened the door, his eye caught the one in the middle, the cleanest one on the wall. His heart began to pound and his mouth went dry. He closed the door and stared at the poster in disbelief. There, in the middle of the poster, was his face.
He looked around to see if anyone was looking, then he took the poster off the wall and went out the door. He saw a waste bin a few feet away, ripped the poster into pieces, and allowed the pieces to fall into the bin. He went back to his room and took Margaret's jewels out of his bag. He took them to a pawnshop on Colfax and was offered far less than they were worth, but he didn't care. He wanted the cash so he could take Hannah away. And with his face on the post office walls, he had to leave Denver.
Chapter 42
Hannah stood with her hands on the top rail of the corral. Adam was breaking a new horse and she noted how gently he treated the animal. She'd seen Tom Beasley yelling at the poor creatures and gave him a piece of her mind. Hannah couldn't abide cruelty to animals. Marian often reminded her that things were different in the west, but sometimes she couldn't stop herself from taking someone to task for kicking a dog or spurring a horse unnecessarily. Marian was concerned someone might retaliate and hurt Hannah, but they usually chose to ignore the tiny girl.
Hannah put her foot on the first rail and pulled herself up. She wished she were taller. She always had to climb up to get a better look at things. When Hannah was younger, Becky told her to be patient, that she would grow taller someday. But Hannah was eighteen and hadn't grown in four years. As she contemplated the injustices of being shorter than those around her, Adam rode over and stopped in front of her.
"He's beautiful," she said. "What's his name?"
"Tom hasn't settled on a name yet," he said. "Maybe you could come up with one? Old Tom's got no imagination."
The horse was close enough for her to put out her hand and stroke his nose. He had large brown eyes and a chestnut coat. He looked too refined for the plains.
"Where did he come from?" she asked.
"James picked him up at an auction. I think he came from back east."
"Why would they bring him all the way out here?"
"You'll have to ask your uncle."
"And he had no name?"
"None on the certificate."
"What's your name?" she said to the horse. "You look as though you understand me."
She looked into the horse's eyes again.
"Solomon," she said. "The wisest king."
"Kind of uppity for a horse, don't you think?"
"I think it fits him," Hannah said.
"We could call him Solly," Adam said.
She wanted to say something mean, but she remembered what Louise had said and held her tongue.
"I guess that's okay," she said. She paused as she thought of an apology for how she reacted to his remark ab
out her painting. "I'm...sorry I got so mad at you."
"Which time?" he asked.
Again she had to hold her tongue.
"On the hill, when you said my painting was nice."
Adam thought back to that day. It was the first time she had run away from him.
"It was nice. I didn't understand why you got so mad, but it's all right now."
He was squinting his eyes against the sun's light and smiled. He was tanned from being out in the open all summer and his hair had grown over his ears. Hannah felt a tightening in her chest as she looked at him and blushed.
"Good, then we can move on," she said.
She stroked Solly's nose before getting off the corral. When she stepped off the rail too fast, she stepped back and fell on her bottom. Adam almost laughed, but he caught himself. He didn't want to make her mad again. He got off Solly and was up and over the corral before Hannah could get up. He reached down and picked her up. She was light as a feather.
"Please put me down," she said.
He did, she brushed off her dress, and stepped back away from Adam. He put out his hand in case she went over again.
"I'm fine," she said, trying to hide her embarrassment. Why did this happen in front of him? she thought.
"I just wanted to make sure you didn't fall again."
"Why would I fall again?" she said.
"I don't know. Maybe you're just clumsy."
Her eyes widened and her mouth hung open. She uttered a strange sound which Adam recognized as the same one Tom Beasley uttered when he burned his fingers on the wood-burning stove in the stable.
"I'm not clumsy!" she cried as she stomped away from him.
Adam watched her go in dismay. Things had been so nice for a few minutes, and it felt so good to see her smile. Why had he said she was clumsy? Why did he say such things around her?
When Hannah entered the house, Becky saw the back of her dress and rushed over to take Hannah back to the front porch.
"You'll not be bringing that dirt in my clean house," she said.
She beat the dirt off Hannah's skirt as Hannah looked over at Adam. He was watching Becky smack her behind. Hannah pulled away and Becky pursed her lips.
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