by Loree Lough
Frowning, Chance focused on his chore. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the kindness that had inspired Micah’s lecture. Chance recognized the well-meant advice and understood—and agreed with—every word. Sadly, it was useless information. He looked toward the horizon, searching for the invisible thing that had so captured Micah’s attention earlier. The U.S. Marshalls, or worse, bounty hunters, could be out there right, like mountain lions, waiting to pounce. “Time is precious,” Micah had said. “Hold fast to what’s important….”
Chance knew exactly how precious time was! He’d lived life, for the past ten years, minute to minute, never knowing when he’d have to saddle up and head out. Salaried lawmen were a determined lot, but bounty hunters were another matter entirely. Something about the promise of silver, pressed into their palms, made them doggedly persistent. Didn’t matter a whit to them if he was guilty or innocent. To the bounty hunters, Walker Atwood was just another meal ticket.
He knew how precious his time at Foggy Bottom was, too. He’d give just about anything to close that chapter of his life, settle down here and marry his Bess and raise a passel of kids. Time? He could name the exact moment when he knew she loved him….
That day in the parlor, just after he’d kissed her, he’d looked into her big, dark eyes and saw pure, sweet love staring straight back at him. He knew, right then, that if he confessed the whole ugly truth, she’d have waved away the news as if it were no more significant than a pesky mosquito.
Chance sensed he’d been the first in many years—in her lifetime, most likely—who’d seen how heavily the burden of being caretaker, confidant, confessor, and counselor had weighed on her heart. Sensed, too, that if faced with the truth about his past, she’d spend whatever time God chose to give them by pampering and spoiling him, and that he’d treasure every blessed second of it until the dreadful day came when she’d be forced to gather him close as the led him onto the hanging platform, straighten his tie and collar, and promise to love heartily ‘til she breathed her last.
He knew it as sure as he knew his name was Walker Atwood. He knew it from watching her give love and care without ever expecting anything in return, and from listening as she bolstered the sagging spirits of the men in her life, giving them the strength to carry on, even when things seemed unbearably grim.
Her pa had been right: Time was precious.
And that’s why he could never tell her the truth about his past, and certainly not that he loved her. Because he wouldn’t allow her to waste a moment of her precious time on the likes of him.
Chapter Thirteen
“I’m busy,” he whispered into the teller’s ear.
The banker’s young assistant adjusted the black armbands cinching up his white shirt sleeves. “But Mister Cramer, she’s been waiting nearly thirty minutes already. She says she had a nine o’clock appointment with you and—“
Cramer proved his impatience by exhaling a loud sigh. “I’ll get to her when I’m good and ready,” he said through clenched teeth. “What sort of woman traipses around the country doing a man’s bidding, anyway? If she doesn’t know her place in proper society now, she’ll know it by the time I’m finished with her!” He punctuated his statement by lifting his head slightly, then bringing it down with a snap.
“Yessir, Mister Cramer.” The young man glanced in Bess’s direction and shot her a weak, apologetic smile.
Bess did not return it. She’d heard every word, loud and clear. Who did Cramer think he was, dictating who should make this deal on Micah’s behalf! But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing that he’d riled her. Instead, Bess would show him.
The teller stood before her, licking his lips while wringing his hands. “I’m sorry, Miss Beckley, but Mister Cramer says he can’t see you just yet.”
His distress at being forced to deliver such rude news might have touched her. Wasn’t his fault, after all, that his boss had slighted her. Standing, Bess placed a white-gloved hand on his forearm. “Don’t you worry another minute about it,” she told him, smiling.
And then she burst through the swinging wooden gate that separated bank officials from patrons.
“Wait,” the teller said, one finger aloft as he hurried after her. “You can’t go in there, Miss Beckley.”
She turned and, one hand on the gate, met his terrified eyes. “I believe I’ve already done it,” she announced, grinning.
Bess then turned her attention to the banker, and then sat in one of two red leather chairs in front of his desk.
Cramer looked up from his paperwork. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded, glaring at his terrified employee.
“I tried to stop her, sir,” the teller said. “But—“
Bess, smiling sweetly, looked up at the young man. “I’d very much appreciate a glass of water, if you’d be so kind.”
He blinked. Cleared his throat. Flushed. “Well, I…. But…. Um….” He looked to his boss for guidance. “Mister Cramer?”
“Oh, go and get the little lady some water, Anderson,” the man spat. “And be quick about it. I haven’t got all day.” He gave Bess his full, undivided attention to ask in a falsely syrupy voice, “What is the nature of your business, missy?”
Her polite smile still in place, Bess leaned forward slightly. “My father wired you that I’d be here. Micah Beckley. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
Cramer leaned back in his creaking wooden chair and folded his hands across his black brocade vest. “Yes….yes, of course I’ve heard of him. He’s one of our depositors.”
“One of your biggest depositors, you mean!”
The banker’s eyes narrowed, but he did not respond.
Tilting her head to one side, she sighed. “As you probably know, my father has spent the past several years trying to build up a respectable number of dairy cows. What you may not know is that he’s also working to develop a herd of cattle that will enable him to compete with Virginia ranchers. His research told him the very best bulls are born and bred right here by the Amish. That’s why he’s been doing business with Mister Shelby.”
The banker rolled his eyes and sighed with exasperation. “Your family history is of no concern to me, Miss Beckley. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m a busy man who has a lot to do and—“
“—and I’m sure you can see it makes good sense,” she continued, ignoring his interruption, “for my father to keep enough cash on hand, right here at your bank, in the town where the business takes place, to make the transactions as efficient as possible for my father and Mister Shelby alike.”
One brow quirked as he realized what was at stake here. Cramer sat forward and folded his hands on his desktop. “I’m not accustomed to doing business with womenfolk. I’ll have you know that right up front.”
Anderson showed up with her water just then, and as she accepted the glass, Bess said to Cramer, “And I’m not accustomed to doing business with arrogant, overbearing old fools—“
“Now, see here, Miss Beckley, I see no reason for you to insul—“
Smiling, she looked up at the teller, drying his water-dampened hands on the seat of his trousers. “Thank you for the water, Mr. Anderson,” she said.
“You’re quite welcome, Miss Beckley.” He grinned and shuffled from one foot to the other before departing.
Cramer’s narrowed eyes flashed with anger and the top of his bald head glowed bright red as the teller retreated, chuckling under his breath.
“Now then,” Bess said, “I don’t suppose I need to remind you that my father has a considerable sum on deposit in your little bank, do I?” She paused, then added, “Which is precisely why I insist upon doing business with you directly. You are, after all, the man in charge…aren’t you?”
She didn’t give him time to respond. Instead, she plowed ahead. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the whole idea of banking to earn more money for the institution by making use of cash on deposit?”
Frowning, he coughed and cle
ared his throat. Just as he opened his mouth to respond, Bess put the water glass on the edge of his desk and gave him a withering glare. “Surely you don’t think my father’s dollars will work less efficiently on your bank’s behalf simply because they’ve come into contact with…” she daintily wiggled her fingers “…‘womenfolk’s’ hands.”
He put his agitation aside in exchange for outright anger. “I don’t need a lesson in banking from the likes of you, young lady!”
“Perhaps not,” she snapped, “but you most certainly could use a lesson in customer relations!”
For the second time in as many minutes, she refused to give him time to respond. Bess got to her feet and calmly flattened both hands on his desktop. “Mr. Cramer, do you respect my father?”
When he blinked up at her, Bess noticed the sheen of perspiration on his brow.
“Why, why, yes. Yes, of course I do,” he said, running a thick finger around the inside of his collar. “I was impressed, quite impressed with Mr. Beckley on the occasions we met in person, and I—“
“Do you believe he’s an intelligent man?”
His reddened face glistened slightly with a sheen of perspiration. “Well, yes. Naturally. But I—“
“You’re confident, then, that he is completely capable of making wise decisions regarding the running of his businesses…and the handling of his money?”
Cramer was standing now, too. “Really, Miss Beckley,” he stammered, tucking his chin into his collar, “I fail to see what any of this has to do with—“
“Allow me to spell it out for you, then. If you wish to continue doing business with my father, you have no alternative but to show me the same courtesy and respect you’d show him, since putting me in charge of this transaction was his decision.”
Bess sat again and tidied the folds of her skirt, waiting until Cramer had settled onto the leather seat of his squeaky chair. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to make a withdrawal.” She pointed. “Does that ledger contain a listing of your present accounts?” Bess asked, blinking innocently as she pointed to the thick leather book on his desk.
“Why, why, yes. Yes it does.”
“I suggest you open it, then, to refresh your memory as to exactly how much of my father’s money I have total control over here today.”
“Now see here, young lady, you are not authorized to make a withdrawal without your father’s signature.”
She reached into her purse and withdrew an envelope. Tapping it lightly, she said, “This letter is my power of attorney. It gives me permission to withdraw any dollar amount I see fit.” Nodding at the now-open brown ledger, she added, “Please don’t give me reason to believe I must withdraw all of it and transfer the funds to your competitor’s bank.”
A second, perhaps two passed before Cramer’s dour expression turned friendly, and he gave her his best bank manager’s smile. Opening his desk drawer, he pulled out a withdrawal slip. “Just how much will you be taking…taking from the…from your account today, Miss Beckley?” he asked, dipping his pen’s nib into the inkwell on the corner of his desk.
“My, look at your hand trembling.” She relieved him of the pen. “I’m happy to fill out the withdrawal slip for you.”
***
She was in no mood for more manly dominance. If Ernest Shelby thought he was going to give her the same hard time the old banker had, well, he had another think coming, Bess decided.
The moment she’d arrived in town, Bess sent word by way of messenger to Shelby that she’d see him at his convenience. One of his farm hands delivered a note that very afternoon, indicating Shelby would meet her at Gracie’s Restaurant on Porsmouth Street, three o’clock sharp.
Bess peeked at the watchfob that dangled from a silver chain around her neck. Already, he was more than fifteen minutes late. She detested tardiness. But far more important than that, she felt uncomfortable carrying such a large sum of cash.
“Well, now, haven’t you gone and grown up pretty?”
Startled, she turned toward the gruff but friendly voice. Bess would have recognized Ernest Shelby anywhere. She’d met him years ago, when she’d traveled with Micah to purchase those first dairy cows. Shelby was by far the biggest man she’d ever seen. Even from all the way across the room, he reminded her of the stuffed grizzly Homer Jensen kept in the front window of his Baltimore haberdashery.
Bess stood and held out her white gloved hand to him. “Mister Shelby, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, little lady,” he said, shaking it firmly.
“Would you care for some coffee?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, dropping his huge bulk onto the seat of a cane-backed chair. “Sorry I’m late. One of my cows had a breech birth this mornin’. Took nigh on to four hours to get that little calf born.”
She smiled, for his voice was as large as frame. Bess could almost picture the big man gently tugging a tiny cow from its mother’s womb. They spent the next few minutes catching up on family gossip. Then, suddenly, Shelby shoved his mug away and said, “So you’re here to buy two of my bulls, eh?”
Bess nodded and squeezed the money-stuffed purse in her lap. “Pa said there’d be no need for me to ride out and inspect them. Said he trusted you to choose two of your best.”
Shelby nodded. “Ain’t never cheated a man in all my life,” he said, male pride glittering in his pale blue eyes, “and I sure ain’t gonna start now, when I’m gettin’ ever closer to meetin’ my Maker.”
“I’m convinced. But would you mind telling me why the bulls you’ve chosen for my father are what you consider the very best you have to offer?”
The next half hour was filled with a detailed discussion of bovine quality, during which Bess cornered Shelby into a physical description of the bulls he’d ship to Maryland. Exhausted by her inquisition, Shelby leaned back in his seat and took a deep breath. “Well, now, I’m sure you’re anxious to get back home to your daddy….”
Bess smiled, a hand against her chest. “That I am.” She wouldn’t insult her father’s friend, but she wouldn’t chance that he was Micah’s friend. “May I share a secret with you, Mr. Shelby?” Looking left, then right, Bess leaned forward and whispered, “I’ve always wanted to watch as the branding took place. Do you suppose that could be arranged?” She sat back then, still grinning, and added. “Two birds with one stone, as they say; my little adventure fulfilled, and no chance for confusion at time of shipment.”
Shelby, taken aback by her businesslike acumen, grinned sheepishly. “I, ah, well, I’d be happy to arrange that.”
“Thank you! I just knew you’d understand!”
His relieved laughter filled the eatery, drawing curious, momentary glances from other patrons. “Hold it down over there, Shelby,” the man in the corner booth hollered. “You’re curdlin’ the milk in my tea!”
“Save it, Boone!” Shelby hollered right back. “The milk curdled the minute it looked up from the cup and got a gander of your ugly face!”
Everyone seemed to find that funny, including Mister Boone. Everyone but Bess, that is. She was far too busy reading the posters tacked to the board outside the restaurant’s wide window. There would be a church social this Sunday, one flyer said. Amos Mossman’s wagon was for sale, said another. But it was the sketch of the white wolf that had captured her attention, its wily, wary eyes boring into hers in much the same way the timber wolf had all those years ago in Baltimore.
“I didn’t know there were wolves in this part of the country,” she said.
“Ain’t. Not in the wild, least-ways. That one there,” he said, pointing, “was on her way to a zoo up in New York City when the train de-railed. Rumor has it she’s ‘bout to birth a cub or two. Not good news ‘round these parts, on accounta that she-wolf is responsible for killin’ more cows’n I can count,” Shelby said, realizing where her attentions had been focused. “She’s got herself a roving spirit, and by golly, I’d like to be the one who stills it
. Why, I’d kill her for free, just for the pleasure of hangin’ her hide on my wall!”
Bess couldn’t take her eyes from the animal’s portrait. She was a farmer’s daughter, and fully understood Shelby’s reaction to any animal that threatened his breeding stock. Still, it seemed a shame that this beautiful one-of-a-kind creature should pay with its life for doing what came naturally….
“Now, iffen it was money I wanted,” Shelby added, nodding to the wanted poster beside the wolf’s, “there’s the animal I’d go after.”
Bess looked at the other wanted poster again. Really looked at it this time. Above a face that looked a little like Chance’s, big black letters said ‘Wanted, Dead or Alive.’ And beneath those words, the same bold type spelled out “W.C. ATWOOD.” On the last line, behind the huge dollar sign, Bess read aloud, “Five hundred dollars! What on earth could he have done to inspire a price like that on his head!”
Shelby proceeded to fill Bess in on the killer’s vicious crime: He’d beaten a man to death with his bare hands, and all he’d gotten for his trouble was a gold watch on a chain. As the story went, the killer had outrun dozens of Texas Rangers, outfoxed twice as many U.S. Marshals, and evaded more than his share of bounty hunters, too, in the ten years since his escape. “Seems every lawman between Maine and California is huntin’ him. Can’t set foot in a post office or a bank these days without havin’ to look into his cold-blooded eyes.”
He leaned forward to add, “I heard-tell of one marshal who came back empty-handed from huntin’ Atwood and claimed he’d bagged his prey. But the slippery fella got clean away, but not before promisin’ to run every lawman ragged. Said it’d be easy work, too, since not a-one of ‘em had the brains or the brawn to outlast him.”
According to Shelby, the challenge—if indeed one had been issued—rankled every man with a badge, and inspired a few of the badgeless to vow they’d see W.C. Atwood swing…or die trying. So far, Shelby said, W.C. had outwitted them all, making himself a legend of sorts.