“My Emma is beautiful. Blond hair and blue eyes. A proper and virtuous young lady.”
Jasper gave him a small shove. “Here I am givin’ you advice on women, and you already got yourself one. You’re holding out on me, son!”
A chuckle escaped him. “Not intentionally.”
“How long are you staying, Stephen?” Mary called as she bustled off to retrieve something from a small, scantly stocked pantry.
The warmth of the reception thrilled him. “I hadn’t given it thought. I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome.”
She faced him, hand on her hip. “You put that thought out of your head right now. You’re welcome anytime.” She faced her husband. “Jasper, show him the bedroom. Let him freshen up and rest before we eat.” Mary returned to the stove and sprinkled something into the pot. “Over dinner, you can tell us all about your lovely Emma.”
“I appreciate your hospitality.” He gathered his belongings and followed Jasper into the next room.
With only one window to light the space, Jasper struck a match and held it to the wick of a lantern. The cramped room contained two wide beds, one with a cradle at its foot.
“You’ll sleep there.” He pointed to the bed without the crib. “We ain’t got much, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”
“Thank you.”
“Shouldn’t be long until supper’s ready.” With that, Jasper left the room, closing the flimsy door after him.
Stephen fished his spare shirt from his kit and washed his face with the ice-cold water in the pitcher in the corner. Once he’d changed, he glanced around the room. A book sat on the table on the far side of the other bed. Grabbing it, he retrieved a fresh paper, as well as the scarlet-barreled pen and ink.
My lovely Emma,
I have made it to Nebraska. The trip was long but uneventful. I passed the time dreaming of you. Your beautiful smile, your quick mind, and your wonderful heart. Oh, to hold you again, my love! I enjoyed the remembrance of our first kiss, and it made me long for you all the more.
My first stop was to one of my possible business partner’s homes. You should see the place. It’s grand—large and beautiful. (Not like your home, I grant you, but for Nebraska, it’s something to see. A home to be proud of.) While he was thrilled to see me, the news from Jasper was not as I’d hoped. The idea we have discussed will be better started in warmer months, so it will be some time before we can get it off the ground. I have others yet to see, so I will head to them soon and in hopes there’s a more positive view from some of the others.
Don’t lose heart, my sweet. I will work tirelessly to find my way and make a life you will be proud of.
With love,
Stephen
Oh bother! How was it that man could fluster her so? Emma checked to be sure Cynthia was seated and properly bundled in the blankets beside her, then started the team and buggy toward home, her frustration simmering. Why had it irritated her so that Mr. Timmons and the coquettish waitress seemed to share a moment? He was handsome and smart, with a pleasant personality—at least when he wasn’t accusing her intended of misdeeds. Why shouldn’t the man find himself a nice woman and marry her?
He should. It was the natural order of things.
And if he would, he’d be far less of a distraction.
Yet somehow the idea of him pairing off irked her, and she couldn’t decide why. Certainly not because she was interested. She wasn’t! Her only interest was Stephen, as it should be. She patted the pocket of her dress to be sure she still had his letter.
Even his saving of Stephen’s letter left her flustered. She’d been grateful for his quick action to dry the note and perturbed that he’d touch Stephen’s missive. Thankful for the sweet way he reassured Cynthia after her clumsiness yet annoyed she wasn’t sharing the moment with Stephen instead. Emma flicked the reins over the team’s rumps.
She recalled the instant he stood nose to nose with the waitress. Dangerously close.
She flicked the reins again.
He’d stood intimately close to the woman … like when she’d nearly choked on the lemon drop. Oh, how her heart had pounded a warning. One she’d ignored in that moment, but one she’d vowed not to ignore again.
That must be why she was so bothered—that momentary indiscretion. She sniffed and flicked the reins once more. It didn’t matter how safe and protected she felt in that moment. That was a product of the near-choking, not handsome Clay Timmons, with his soothing-as-honey accent cooing in her ear or his strong arms wrapped around her like she was someone special. She’d have felt just as safe if Stephen or Papa or Thomas had held her.
“Why are you driving so fast?”
Emma glanced sideways at Cynthia, who gripped the bench beneath her, then back to the horses. Heat crept through her. The team was almost running. She slowed them to a more manageable pace. “Better?”
“Yes, but why were you going so fast?”
“Daydreaming, I suppose.”
“Are you upset that Mr. Timmons is leaving too?”
Sympathy swelled in her heart. “Surely, you didn’t think you could keep him like a stray cat, did you?”
“No! But …”
The hurt in her sister’s voice told another story. Obviously, the big-hearted girl had become attached, probably from the moment Mr. Timmons helped her by burying the kittens, and surely once he shared he was an orphan.
“I know.” Emma shifted the reins into one hand and patted her sister’s arm. “He’s nice.”
“Not just nice. He’s thoughtful, caring. He makes me laugh. He tells fun stories. He’s done really interesting things in his life. He’s brave and smart and handsome. I think I could trust him with my whole life.”
Oh for Pete’s sake. She was smitten. “Yes, he’s all those things. And … at least double your age.”
Cynthia slouched on the bench beside her. “I know. But it doesn’t hurt to dream, does it?”
“Dream?”
“You know—of having someone like him. Of finding your match, like you found Stephen.”
“Oh Cynthia. Stephen and I have known each other nearly half our lives, since we were your age.”
“So? You think all those things about Stephen like I do about Mr. Timmons, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.” Yet an uneasy feeling roiled through her belly. What in heaven’s name? Stephen was thoughtful. He wasn’t the handsomest man in the world, but he was striking. He was whip smart. And while he’d not always been the bravest boy, he’d become more so as a man. He couldn’t boast the interesting background of a Pony Express rider, but he told stories. Sometimes. Though not like Clay Timmons’s stories …
That didn’t matter. She sat taller and lifted her chin, stuffing the awkward feeling down. Mr. Timmons’s veiled implications that Stephen was doing wrong must be playing tricks in her mind. “Stephen and I didn’t feel that way about each other at your age. That didn’t come until this last Christmastime.”
“A month ago?”
“Six weeks, but yes—and a very long time after we met.” She turned down their long drive toward the stable. “My point is, don’t rush. You’re twelve, and while you might very well meet the man you’ll marry at this age, you may not know it until years later.” She softened her voice a little. “And, my darling sister, I can almost certainly assure you, that man is not Mr. Clay Timmons. He’s far too old for you.”
Cynthia’s only answer was a dejected sigh.
They reached the stable, and Wilt Parcell met them. Once he’d helped each of them down, Emma wrapped an arm around her sister’s shoulders and guided her to the back of the house. Inside, Mama met them with warm hugs.
“How was school, dear?”
“Fine.”
Emma shrugged out of her coat.
“You don’t sound fine.”
Cynthia laid her schoolbooks aside. “It’s nothing, really.” She too took off her coat.
“Mr. Timmons will likely be leaving us so
on, and she’s feeling melancholy at that prospect.” Emma wouldn’t embarrass her sister by waxing poetic about the depth of Cynthia’s infatuation. Cynthia was quite capable of sharing her heart with Mama if she chose. “Give me your coat, and I’ll hang it up on my way to my room.” She’d waited long enough to read Stephen’s letter.
Both coats in hand, she traipsed toward the front and hung them by the door, then scurried upstairs. In the sanctity of her bedroom, she unfolded the missive. His handwriting, strong and angular, was a bit hard to read after that coffee mishap, but she devoured the news—of his uneventful trip northward to catch the train, his intention to head west to Nebraska, and—particularly pleasing—the mention of the dream he’d had about them riding bundled together in a sleigh. Her heart pattered at the image. As much as she’d not wanted him to go, he was proving his willingness to do whatever it took to convince her father he would provide well for her.
And it would be so much easier to keep Stephen in the forefront of her mind once Clay Timmons departed, taking his false theories of Stephen’s misdeeds with him.
Minutes before closing time, Clay entered the bank and nodded to the two tellers as he walked toward Emmitt Draycott’s closed office door. He knocked softly.
“Come in.”
Clay entered, and the banker motioned him into a chair. “Good afternoon. How can I help you?”
“I’ve taken my investigation as far as I’m able here in Mount Pleasant, sir. I’ll be moving on come morning.”
Draycott leaned back and folded his hands across his belly. “What have you found?”
“A few things.” Normally, it wouldn’t be difficult to share without giving away too much, but after spending more than a week dining with the Draycott family and talking with them before retiring each night, he’d taken too much of a shine to all of them. They’d welcomed him as one of their own, and he’d let himself get too comfortable. “There are several places where I suspect or know that Stephen Richards passed counterfeit money. What I’m not sure of is whether he had only a few banknotes and exhausted his supply, or whether he’s got more.”
“That’s concerning. Where did he get them?”
“I don’t know yet. What bothers me more is that I know Richards has lied to your daughter.”
The man’s brow creased with concern. “About?”
Don’t answer that.
In spite of his mental chiding, he drew a breath. “I can’t afford for this information to get back to Richards. Please keep it to yourself.”
“On my honor.”
At Draycott’s nod, Clay continued. “Cynthia said Stephen carried a large stack of banknotes. Emma confirmed that he’d gotten them as an inheritance after his great-aunt passed away. Yet Richards’s own father told me there’s been no death in the family, nor has he heard of Alma Simpson, the supposed relative Richards said had died.”
Draycott fumed in silence. When he finally spoke, his tone was restrained. “Then my question is all the more relevant. Where did he get the money?”
“I can’t know that until I speak with him, and I have only a general idea of where to head next.”
“Where is that?”
“Your daughter received a letter from him today—sent from Steubenville days ago. For now, that’s where I’ll head.”
“She let you read the letter?”
“I saw the postmark, nothing more.”
“So you don’t know that he’s still there.”
“No, sir.”
The banker nodded. “I’ll see if Alice and I can’t find out whether he revealed his whereabouts in the letter itself.”
An uneasy feeling stirred in the pit of his stomach. He was used to poking into people’s business for his job, but somehow, doing so to Emma Draycott felt wrong. “I’m not asking you to do that, sir.”
“I appreciate that fact, but if this young man has lied to my daughter on such a grand scale already, I want to know what other fallacies he might tell her. If we find anything pertinent, I’ll let you know.”
“Much appreciated.”
Chapter 8
Mount Pleasant, Ohio
February 10, 1876
Thank you all for your hospitality.” Clay looked around the breakfast table at the Draycott family. “It’s been a long time since I felt so at home.”
Alice Draycott’s fork hovered over her plate, one last bite of food perched there. “Should you come back this direction, you’re welcome anytime, Mr. Timmons. We’ve enjoyed having you.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I will head this way from time to time to visit my adoptive ma, so I may just take you up on that.”
“Are you sure you have to go?” The hurt in Cynthia’s voice pulled at him.
He offered a sad smile. “Yes, little lady. Unfortunately, I do.”
“May I write you?”
“Cynthia!” Emmitt Draycott scolded. “Mr. Timmons is far too bus—”
“Yes.” He grinned at the girl, then shifted a glance to her parents. “If it’s all right with you both.”
Mrs. Draycott laid her hand on her husband’s sleeve. “That would be fine.”
“I’ll write you some too.” Thomas forked a large bite of potato into his mouth, grinning at Clay.
“Thank you. I’ll look forward to hearing from you both, and I’ll write back as I can.” He withdrew his pad and pencil from his suit pocket and jotted something before handing it to Cynthia. “My job can keep me on the move a lot, so if you’ll direct your letters to Mr. PJ Guthrie, he’ll make sure they get to me.” As he tucked the pad and pencil away again, he slid a glance Emma’s way. “Might I expect a brief note from you as well, miss?”
A flush of red flooded her face, and she sat a bit taller. “That would hardly be appropriate, Mr. Timmons. I am spoken for, you know.”
Heat and awkwardness washed through him. Now why had he gone and asked such a fool question? He’d crossed a line. “Yes, miss. I’m aware—and I’m sorry if my asking was out of—”
“But perhaps I could add a verse of scripture to my sister’s notes for you to think about.”
He couldn’t quell his smile. At least it was something. “I’d like that. Thank you.”
They finished their meal, and before everyone went their separate ways for the day, he hugged Cynthia and Mrs. Draycott, shook Thomas’s and Mr. Draycott’s hands, and at last faced Miss Emma. “Farewell, miss.”
“Mr. Timmons.” Her courteous nod was the only friendliness she offered.
“I’ll look forward to those scriptures.”
“Then I shall be happy to send some.” She looked as if she might say more, but when she spoke, her words disappointed his hopeful heart. “Safe travels, sir.”
He thanked her and excused himself, heading back to the guesthouse one last time to change into his traveling clothes. A gloomy feeling to match the morning’s gray clouds settled over him as he rolled his suit into his bedroll and glanced around the place one last time. Certain he had everything, he hoisted his saddlebags to his shoulder, tucked his bedroll under one arm, and opened the door.
There, Emma faced him, her hand poised to knock at the door. “Oh.”
“Miss Draycott. Did you need somethin’?”
She took a step back. “I was hoping I was in time to catch you.
There were a few things I wanted to say.”
“Real glad you got here when you did, then.”
She fidgeted. “I should forewarn you. My sister has taken quite a shine to you. She’s smitten, in fact.”
“Is she?” He chuckled at that, unsure what else to say.
“Please, Mr. Timmons, it’s nothing to laugh about. I don’t want Cynthia’s heart broken by a man more than twice her age.”
He sobered. “What do you take me for? I won’t trifle with any woman’s feelings—and particularly Miss Cynthia’s. She reminds me a whole lot of the sister I lost. Truth be known, your whole family reminds me of the one I lost long ago, so I’ll be writing to
Thomas and Cynthia as a friend or a brother.”
After hesitation, she nodded. “I meant no disrespect. I simply wanted to …” She paused and started again. “I’m very protective of Cynthia, and she’s far too young for a broken heart.”
“Of course she is.” And so was Emma, but if she continued in her current path, he feared that would be the outcome.
“Pardon?”
Had he just said …? “Nothin’, miss.”
“So are you? Is that what you just mumbled?”
He blew out a frustrated breath. “I suppose I did.”
“And what do you mean by that?”
Father, I didn’t intend to have this conversation. He had to tread carefully. Any information he told Emma might make it to Stephen and complicate his investigation and endanger people.
“I’ve seen a lot of things in my life, miss, and I’ve developed an ability to read people. Speaking as a friend, I’d ask you to please be careful with Mr. Richards. Something don’t … doesn’t … set right about him.”
Emma stiffened, and her blue eyes darkened. “I’ll thank you to mind your own business.”
He’d been trying, but the longer he stayed, the harder it became. “Guess we won’t have to worry about that, now, will we. I’ll be gone momentarily, and I’ll butt out of your affairs.”
“Not if you insist on pursuing Stephen, you won’t. Please leave him be. He’s a good man.”
“On the contrary, Miss Draycott, I am not purposely following your intended. I’m following the facts of my investigation. Those facts and Mr. Richards keep crossing paths. Thus the reason I say to be careful.”
“What facts might you be speaking of?”
As much as he might want to inform her of every detail he’d found so she could see the potential danger of this man, he couldn’t trust that her tongue wouldn’t wag. “Please take my word for it. There’s reason to be concerned.”
“I think we’re done here, Mr. Timmons. I wish you well and hope you’ll find the true culprit.”
He reached back to glance over the room one more time, then grabbed the door handle and pulled it closed after him. “I usually do, miss. I just hope you’ll still speak to me once I have.”
The Scarlet Pen Page 11