The Scarlet Pen

by Jennifer Uhlarik

  How many times had she begged him to return? In nearly every letter—but he was staunch in his determination to prove himself.

  Have you been praying for my success? Please don’t stop. The job with the doctors filled the need for money for a time, but I have grown anxious and plan to quit soon. I need to get this opportunity back on track so that you won’t grow tired of waiting and marry another. This is my greatest fear—that in all my attempts to win your father’s favor, I will lose you forever. My heart will be shattered if I do. I will make good on my business venture and marry you. Please don’t doubt me, my sweet.

  With my whole heart always,

  Stephen

  She ached. Of course she was praying—for his success, and for Papa and Mr. Timmons to see Stephen for who he truly was. And she would continue to love him until death parted them. Nothing would change that. If her fears of Papa’s scheming were true, the harder they were on Stephen, the more fiercely she’d fight them.

  Near Kearney, Nebraska

  Ah, Dolly. After months of working in Iowa, Stephen had finally gotten back to Hastings and spent a pleasant weekend in her company. When they’d parted that morning, he’d promised to see her soon, sealing that promise with a kiss. She’d held him tight, leaving her lavender scent behind. Now, as he filled his canteen in the Platte River, he lifted his shirt to his nose and inhaled deeply.

  Canteen full and senses alive with desire, he tugged his shirt back into place and led his saddle horse away from the Platte. Mounting, he headed toward the lonely stretch of road once more. However, someone clearing his throat nearby alerted Stephen that he wasn’t alone.

  “Howdy, mister,” a friendly voice called.

  Stephen scanned his surroundings and found the source—a man, maybe in his middle thirties, head resting against a saddle on the ground. His suit of clothes, all in shades of tan and brown, blended perfectly with the tall grass of the landscape.

  “Howdy.”

  “Where ya headed?” The man stood and hoisted the saddle by its horn.

  Stephen shrugged. “Just quit a job in Iowa and figured I’d visit friends near Kearney.”

  “Mind if I join ya awhile? Travel’s a whole lot pleasanter if you got company.”

  Stephen glanced around. “You got a horse for that saddle?”

  The man loosed an ear-splitting whistle, and a horse trotted from a low spot a short distance off.

  “Come on, then.”

  Within minutes they were riding toward the late afternoon sun.

  “You’ve been working in Iowa, huh?” the gent asked.

  “Since springtime.”

  “Farming?”

  “Oh, I moved plenty of dirt, but not farming.” At the man’s questioning glance, he continued. “I was a gravedigger for the Iowa Lunatic Asylum.”

  His riding companion halted his horse, leaving Stephen to carry forward several paces before he too stopped.

  The man cursed. “That’s some job.”

  “Paid the bills, which was what I needed at the time.” He’d caught up with Munson after his first rendezvous with Dolly. There he’d gotten a lot more counterfeit money, but once Emma mentioned that the cowboy Timmons was a Secret Service agent investigating counterfeiting, he and Munson agreed they’d be judicious in spending the fake notes. Stephen hadn’t used any of them since, and he’d taken the job burying stiffs, both to have real money and to lie low. Now he’d had enough and was ready to live a little again.

  “You got sand, mister. I’ve heard stories about places like that. Conditions are horrid, and the treatment the inmates receive even worse. Even heard there’s whole wards where the people are more demon than human. Screamin’ and spittin’ and—” A full-body shiver gripped him, though he immediately started his horse moving again.

  Stephen shrugged. He’d worked the most violent of the wards. “The nice thing about workin’ with dead people is they don’t scream, spit, or talk back. They don’t even ask to share your whiskey.” He produced a small flask from his pocket, took a swig, and offered it to the other man.

  The fella waved it away and chuckled, the sound uncomfortable and awkward. “You got an odd sense of humor, you do.”

  Many had said he was crazy to take such a job, but he’d found nothing unpalatable about it. After farming all his life, he could handle a shovel, and the stiffs’ dead, sightless eyes couldn’t look on him with scorn the way the asylum’s doctors did. In that cemetery, he was king, and they were his subjects.

  “So what do you do, friend?”

  “Name’s John.”

  “Stephen.” He hooked a thumb toward his chest.

  “I’m a land speculator, lookin’ for an area to develop.”

  They talked and rode, passing through a couple of small towns and villages before sundown.

  As dusk approached, John pointed to a spot near the river. “We’ll lose the road in a few minutes. Reckon we ought to camp. What’d ya say?”

  Between an old, fallen tree and other brush along the Platte’s edge, they’d have fuel for a fire. “Looks good.”

  Stephen collected enough wood to get the campfire started, and John settled the horses. Once their beds were rolled out and they’d shared a simple meal of beans and salt pork, John produced a deck of cards.

  “You play?”

  He and Munson had passed the time playing cards many nights, as well as he, Jasper, and Mary months back. “A little. You deal.”

  Stephen withdrew some of the counterfeit banknotes from his stash. No sense throwing good money after bad.

  Juniata, Nebraska

  Bone weary, Clay shouldered his way through the door and caught the handle just before it smacked the adjoining wall. From the direction of the kitchen, PJ Guthrie strolled out, one dripping tin plate and a towel in hand, and stared.

  “You look about done in.”

  “I am.” Clay noted the dirty boots beside the door and PJ’s dusty work clothes. He’d probably spent the day working their farm. Alone. “Sorry I haven’t been around much. Some partner, huh?”

  “Did I complain?”

  Clay hung his hat and gun belt on the pegs beside the door. “You never do, but—”

  “Stop, would ya? We’ve both got other jobs. There’s been plenty of times the marshal’s needed me and I’ve left you to start the planting or harvesting yourself.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Quit worryin’. Zeb’s lent a hand, and I hired a couple kids from town. Things are gettin’ done. Go sit.”

  Trudging past his short-statured friend, Clay dropped into a comfortable chair by the fireplace.

  “Where you been this time?”

  Where hadn’t he been? He’d followed various notices about possible counterfeit money for the last six months, and in several cases, he’d actually caught a few small-timers. None were Richards or his friend Mundy or Mull—whatever his name was.

  “Feels like I’ve been to every city, town, and village in the southern half of Nebraska, and after all that, I can say with absolute certainty, the trail’s gone cold.” He kicked off his boots and leaned his head back. As he stared at the ceiling, fatigue pulled at him.

  PJ disappeared from his peripheral view, only to reappear with two steaming mugs. The strong scent of coffee made Clay sit up to receive one. PJ handed it off and sat on the wide stone hearth, facing him.

  “All right. Go through it again.” He swiped a hand over his brown beard. “Richards passed bad money in Ohio.”

  “Mount Pleasant, yes.” Clay blew on the rim of the mug, then took a sip, the taste refreshing him a little.

  “You tracked him to Steubenville.”

  “Which is where I discovered he tried to gut a fella because the idiot took an inkwell out of his pack.”

  “From there, you …?”

  He took another swallow. “Tracked him out to Kearney.” Deciphering where he and his travel companion went had taken painstaking effort. “He and his friend split somewhere along th
e way. Once Richards reached Kearney, I lost him. No counterfeit money and no sign of him.”

  Settling his elbows on his knees, PJ stared into his coffee, as if the answer might magically appear there. “Maybe he only had a few counterfeit banknotes and exhausted his supply in Mount Pleasant.”

  Clay bit back a sharp retort. “It’s possible, even likely, but it don’t explain where the man up and disappeared to.”

  “I got an idea on that too, iffen you want to hear it.” PJ took his time sipping his coffee.

  “I’m listenin’.”

  “Maybe the man’s dead. Mightn’t that explain how he’d disappear so soundly?”

  “It’d be a real consideration, except that Miss Emma’s still receiving letters from him regular, or so says her pa.”

  Since his departure, Clay had purposely not shared details with Mr. Draycott about his investigation. He’d not asked questions nor given any hints on how things were going. Not until several weeks ago, when his annoyance had reached its peak and he’d sent a telegram to Emmitt asking if he might know where Richards was hiding. Draycott returned word that he would attempt to discover a location.

  “Oh! Speaking of …” PJ lurched up and crossed the room. “These came for you in the last few weeks.” He slapped a stack of mail across Clay’s chest.

  He took the envelopes and leafed through them as he sipped his coffee. Two letters postmarked from Mount Pleasant, Ohio. His belly knotted ever so pleasantly. He’d read those in the privacy of his own room.

  Idiot. That same flutter of hope came with every envelope from the Draycotts, that perhaps their eldest daughter might write him something sweet. True to her word, she’d sent him scriptures, short prayers, and nothing more. He was a fool to hope she might send anything more personal.

  PJ sat again. “You’ve got all kinds of evidence Richards was passing bad money in Ohio. He tried to murder someone in Steubenville. And you have the relative surety he made his way to Kearney.”

  “I’m beginning to doubt that last part, but otherwise, that’s about the size of it.”

  “Sounds to me like you’ve got a violent man who likes to pass counterfeit banknotes.”

  Clay forced a laugh. “Have I not been clear? That’s just what I’ve been sayin’.”

  “No, you said you got a fella what’s passing counterfeit money, and he did something violent too.”

  “Same thing!”

  “Not at all.”

  Clay lurched upright in his seat. “Either start makin’ sense, or I’m going to bed.”

  “You got a lot to learn, little brother.”

  The minute either PJ Guthrie or Zeb Elder started with the little brother talk—something they’d called him during their Pony Express days—things usually got interesting, especially considering he’d grown inches taller than both of them since those days. “Either school me or shut up, ’cause I’m about at the end of my patience.”

  PJ held his hands up in a disarming way. “Calm down, now. I’m tryin’ to help.” He leaned back and ran a hand over his overgrown mop of hair. “You’re focused on the money.”

  “That’s my job. Remember? Secret Service.”

  “Yeah, but you want to find the man, not just the money. Maybe ask around Kearney about unsolved crimes. Violent ones. Someone who’d almost murder a man over an inkwell would likely have done other vicious things.”

  As understanding dawned, Clay sank back into the chair with a groan. “Why in blue blazes haven’t I thought of that?” He loosed a frustrated laugh. “I do have a lot to learn, don’t I?”

  “Oh, you’da got there sooner or later. I just had to prove who’s smarter.”

  “What, only smarter … not better-lookin’?”

  PJ shot him a teasing grin. “That too!”

  Clay took a good swallow of his cooled coffee. “Reckon I might turn in, think on how I’m going to attack this come mornin’.”

  “You got Rio fed and settled?”

  Clay glanced out the window into the dark yard. “He’s in the corral with a good bit of hay.”

  “There’s a couple biscuits on the table if you’re hungry.”

  “I ate, thanks.” He snagged his boots from the floor and stepped toward his room. As he laid a hand on the knob, PJ spoke again.

  “Last time you were home, I heard you dreamin’—like when you were a kid. Are the nightmares back?”

  Embarrassment crept through him. They’d been gone for so long. “From time to time.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He loosed a sardonic laugh. “I’m a grown man, PJ. I should be able to handle a dream on my own.”

  “That ain’t just any dream, and you know it. What you witnessed leaves its mark. What triggered ’em?”

  Clay blew out a breath. “Nearest I can figure, it was somethin’ in Mount Pleasant months back.” He related the incident when he’d first met Thomas and Cynthia Draycott. “So much of that moment reminded me of me and Dori, that last afternoon. Reckon it just dragged that old history to the front of my mind again.”

  His friend seemed to consider his words. “You been relivin’ that night in your dreams since then?”

  “Not every night. Two or three times a month, maybe.”

  “You shoulda told me. Whether you think you ought to handle it on your own, you don’t have to. I’ll wake you if I hear you dreamin’ again.”

  “Thank you.” He always had been able to count on PJ.

  Clay slipped inside his room and sat heavily on the bed. There he lit his lantern, grabbed the letters, and tore into the first of two from the Draycotts. At the top of the page was Cynthia’s note, followed by Thomas’s, which spilled over onto the back. He turned the crisp white stationery to find Emma’s neat script.

  The LORD bless thee, and keep thee:

  The LORD make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee:

  The LORD lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.

  Lord, does she mean those words? They seemed personal, tender, as if her heart spoke straight to his.

  He roughed a hand over his hair. “You’re an absolute fool, Timmons. She’s someone else’s intended.” Surely she’d meant to write them to Richards, not him.

  Turning the page over again, he looked to Cynthia’s note.

  Dear Clay,

  Guess what? We have kittens! One of our barn cats had a litter hidden in the loft. Janie Blakely and I heard their mewing and discovered them. I wish you could see how beautiful they are. The mama cat won’t let us hold any of them … yet. Maybe soon, though. I just thought you’d like to know after the last time I told you about kittens….

  It still baffled him why Stephen Richards would send the sweet girl off with her brother in such a disturbed state. She’d discovered a whole litter of kittens who’d had their skulls crushed, and Richards’s answer was to—

  Clay pressed his eyes closed and forced his mind back across the months. Stephen had sent her away from the discovery to spend her way out of her misery. Wasn’t that what she’d told him?

  Lunging up, he jerked the door open and strode into the other room again.

  “PJ, tell me if I’m thinkin’ straight on something.”

  His friend glanced up from the chair Clay had recently occupied. “I can about assure you you’re not. Remember who’s the smartest.” His eyes lit with a teasing glint.

  “Cynthia wrote me that the barn cats at her place had kittens, and it got me thinkin’. Given what you just said about a man who’d show so much rage, how likely do you think it is that Richards killed those cats?”

  “I’d say there’s a better than middlin’ chance. And if he did, you watch your back with that one, little brother.” PJ tapped the side of his head. “He’s a special kind of tetched.”

  Mount Pleasant, Ohio

  “Papa?” Emma descended the stairs as her father entered that evening. “May I have a word with you, please?” She worked to keep the harshness from her tone
.

  “Certainly.” He hung his hat and greatcoat. “Shall we talk in the library?” At her nod, he motioned her down the hall.

  She ducked inside and waited for him to enter and light the lamp before she shut the wide double doors.

  “What’s the matter, Daughter?” Rather than sternness, his voice dripped a quiet caring, and his brown eyes reflected concern.

  The departure from his typical austere demeanor diffused a bit of her ire, but only a bit.

  “Did you ask Thomas and Cynthia to intercept my letters from Stephen?” Her voice shook.

  He fiddled with the watch chain draped across his vest, seeming almost embarrassed. “Why don’t we sit?”

  “Papa, please tell me the truth.”

  “I asked them to find out where he was sending his letters from.”

  “Why? Did Clay Timmons put you up to it?”

  He released a resigned breath. “For some months now, I’ve been feeling something is very wrong. Your mother senses it too. Stephen left here with grand plans, but half a year later, there’s no fruit of that tree. You told your mother so not long ago.”

  “What I said was there’s not been enough time.”

  “Has he accomplished anything, made any strides toward this opportunity? For that matter, has he told you any details about this enterprise?”

  Her heart pounded. “He’s promised to share everything when he’s ready.”

  “It should bother you that he won’t tell you what he’s doing or who he’s doing it with.”

  “Stephen is as honest as the day is long. I trust him.”

  “Is he? How do you know?”

  Her jaw hinged open. “I’ve known Stephen half my life, Papa. He’s never lied to me.”

  He crossed the distance and took her by the shoulders. “He has. About the inheritance he said he received.”

  “How …” Confusion ruled her thoughts. “Who told you about the inheritance? It wasn’t me. Stephen swore me to secrecy about that.”

  Papa’s jaw firmed, and he shook his head. “Mr. Timmons unearthed it in his investigation, but when he spoke to Stephen’s father about it, Mr. Richards said there’d been no deaths in the family.”