So here they were.
Feet firmly on the ground, she turned sparkling blue eyes his way. “I know my way around a horse, thank you. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m an accomplished rider.”
He rolled his eyes. Yet another surprise. He’d expected to drive one of Emmitt Draycott’s buggies to Steubenville, but she announced she wanted to ride horseback. Early on, he kept a slow pace, not wanting to tax her. She’d embarrassed him when she kicked her horse into a gallop and jumped ahead. The blasted woman raced him for a mile before slowing again.
“Clay.” She placed a hand on his sleeve, a repentant look in her eyes. “I’ve been trying all day to get you to smile.”
He forced a fleeting, if phony smile to his lips, then immediately rubbed at the ache in his cheek. If she’d closed her fist, she’d have pert near knocked him silly.
“I’m sorry. I was just so—”
“Don’t apologize. It’s my own stupid fault.” He tied their horses then motioned her toward the door. They stepped into the police station and were soon shown into the chief’s office.
“Timmons!” Chief Petry stood and extended a hand across his desk. “Didn’t know you were back in town.”
“Came to surprise friends for Christmas.” Would’ve been better had he stayed home, and he’d tell PJ as much once he returned—perhaps with a fist to his nose.
He shook the man’s hand then motioned to Emma. “Petry, meet Miss Emma Draycott from Mount Pleasant.”
They exchanged hellos, and Petry offered them seats. “How can I help you?”
“This might seem odd, but would you tell Miss Draycott what you recall about the case with Mr. Gemge?”
Petry looked confused. “What’s this about?”
“Mr. Timmons is trying to convince me that the man I’m engaged to marry is, in fact, the spawn of the devil hims—”
“Emma!” Clay glared.
She lifted her chin and folded her hands in her lap, her displeasure obvious.
“Please, Petry. Any details you remember. The smaller the better.”
The chief rose and crossed to a cabinet in the corner. After riffling through some papers, he returned with one page. “I’ll read you my notes on the matter. Though this might offend a woman’s delicate sensibilities.”
Emma’s eyes flashed. “My sensibilities will be fine, thank you.”
Clay positioned himself to easily see Petry and Emma. As the chief read the notes, Clay kept an eye on his charge. Her face paled at the description of Gemge’s wound and the state in which he was found. The prideful tip of her chin came down as Petry read the description Gemge gave of his attacker. And she covered her mouth to stifle a sob as the lawman read about Gemge’s attacker having opened a gift—a desk set with a scarlet pen and fancy inkwell—wrapped in stationery paper and tied with a red ribbon.
Petry reached the end of his notes, and the only sound was Emma’s soft sniffling. She extracted a lacy handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. From across the desk, the lawman shot a stern glare and a discreet nod in Emma’s direction.
“Are you all right?”
“He really did what you said, didn’t he?” she whispered from behind the cloth.
“Told you I wasn’t lyin’.” Clay worked to keep the edge from his voice. He needed to tell her about the bodies in Nebraska. She had a right to know the whole truth, but if he attempted to tell her with his pride wounded, he’d take too much pleasure in it.
“I am sorry, miss,” Petry said.
She lifted a teary gaze to the chief. “The man, Mr. Gemge. Did he recover?”
Petry fidgeted, then shook his head. “No, miss. The wound turned septic. It claimed him about a week after Timmons saw him.”
She dabbed the corners of her eyes and turned to Clay. “I’ve heard enough.”
Taking his cue, Clay thanked Chief Petry and escorted Emma out.
Emma exited the building and walked to her horse in silence, but as Clay attempted to help her into the saddle, she erupted into loud sobs. Clamping a hand over her mouth, she swayed and, when Clay caught her by the arms, leaned her forehead against his shoulder.
For the briefest moment, Clay held her close. “I’m sorry. Shouldn’t’ve brought you here,” he mumbled.
Another round of sobs rocked her, but as she tried to sink deeper into his arms, he stiffened. She pulled at him, needing his strength and the soothing sound of his voice, yet he pushed her away, even turned his back on her.
How dare—
“Mind your business,” he growled, his tone low and threatening. “Move along!”
Emma glanced around. From every direction, people on the bustling street stared, some with open curiosity, others with stern, scolding looks. At her. At them. Heat and shame washed through her, and she turned toward the horse, wishing the ground would swallow her up.
He faced her again. “C’mon. I need to get you off this street.”
Scarcely able to breathe, Emma hung her head. “I want to go home.” At least there, Mama and Papa would comfort her. But it wasn’t their comfort she most wanted. She wanted to crawl into Clay’s arms, for him to hold her—and to say in his honey-smooth drawl that this hurt would end.
“It’ll be dark soon. The horses are tired. We’ll leave first thing tomorrow.”
Her shoulders slumped, and she allowed him to help her into the saddle. He led her to a hotel several blocks away and asked the desk clerk for two rooms, side by side. He walked her to the door of one, unlocked it, and set her valise inside.
As he straightened, she clamped on to his hand and gave him an insistent tug. “Please … come in? Just for a moment?”
Panic flashed in his eyes. “I can’t, Emma. I won’t. If I step in that room, even for a moment, it puts you in a compromising situation. I promised your father I would be a gentleman.”
Her chin quivered. “Shouldn’t a gentleman come to the aid of a lady in her time of need?”
He gently pulled free. “I’m sorry. Not closed in a room alone.” He shifted away from the door but hesitated, looking like he might just crawl out of his skin. “I need to settle our horses, and I’ll stop by a restaurant to get you some supper—assuming you don’t want to sit in the dining room in your present state.”
She shook her head, unsure she could hold anything down, the way her stomach churned.
“Please lock this door and don’t leave. I’ll be back within an hour.”
Emma took the key he offered, and once alone, she shrugged out of her winter coat. After retrieving her valise, she curled onto the bed. The tears came then, and she sobbed into the pillow.
Sometime later she finally collected herself enough to pull Stephen’s letters from her bag and reread his words.
My dearest Emma,
The ride north was uneventful. Quite boring, actually. After a long day in the saddle, I found a safe place to camp for the night, sharing afire with two other men. It was a frigid night, despite the flames—as I said, unexciting.
She wrapped an arm around her middle, trying to quell the wave of nausea that swept through her. Clay had said there were two men—the first, one that Stephen had been traveling with, and the other, the man he’d stabbed. And this letter confirmed he’d camped outside of town, just like Chief Petry reported.
The night had been unexciting?
“Oh Lord.” She gulped several breaths in a vain attempt to calm herself. “Father, nearly killing a man isn’t unexciting. It’s absolutely chilling!”
She skimmed the rest of the note—about the dream of being bundled together in a sleigh. Was that a lie? Or his comments about aching to be with her? She laid that letter aside, opened the next, and skimmed it. Then others. On one dated in September, Emma noted again the odd stains along the right side, like he’d smeared his fingers in red paint, touched the paper, then tried to wipe the marks away. She’d questioned what the stain was when she’d received it, but—
“Oh Father God, it’s blood. Isn’t
it?” She thrust the stack of papers away like they were cursed, her stomach roiling all the more.
Every word was suspect. She couldn’t trust anything he’d said.
What was his purpose? Why would he lead her on? And how had she been so naive and stupid not to see that’s what he was doing before now? A new sensation lodged in her chest to compete with the hurt. Anger.
Emma retrieved the key from the bedside table and scurried to the front desk, where the clerk looked up at her, concern in his eyes.
“Are you all right, miss?”
“I will be, thank you. When does the next westbound train leave?”
December 27, 1876—the following morning
“Emma?” Clay knocked softly. She’d turned him away earlier that morning, saying she needed a few more hours of rest before she could handle the ride home. The dark circles under her eyes confirmed she’d not slept.
Clay hadn’t gotten more than a few winks himself. He was an absolute fool for having brought her. What did he think her reaction would be when confronted with the truth? Like most women, she’d fall to pieces. And she had. He’d heard her sobbing through the night, thanks to the hotel’s thin walls.
Goodness, how he’d wanted to go to her. To hold her and kiss away the hurt. To show her he loved her. But going to her room in the dark of night would be compromising and inappropriate. He’d promised Emmitt Draycott he’d act as a gentleman. The banker had entrusted him with a most valuable treasure, and the responsibility was weighty.
Love. Was that what this was? He’d fallen hard for her family. Their letters had made him feel wanted. And he’d hung on every verse of scripture Emma had sent him, each prayer, hoping she was offering more than just a sentence of petition on his behalf. He’d thought of her daily, dreamed of her often. As he’d come to realize how deep Stephen Richards’s depravity ran, the need to shield Emma from it took root deep in his belly. She was far too fine a lady for that scoundrel.
But he’d made one ruinous mistake by kissing her, and she’d let it be known where he stood. He wouldn’t make it twice.
“Emma.” He knocked again, a little louder, then bent his ear near to the door.
Silence.
Was she still asleep? He hadn’t heard her crying in … hours. Was she sick? His heart lurched with the thought.
“Emma, open the door.” He rapped his knuckles against the smooth wood until they stung. Clay tried the knob. Locked.
Dread sunk cold talons into his heart.
“Emma!” He slapped the door repeatedly with his open palm. When no one stirred except for a couple of curious onlookers peeking out of their doors farther down the hall, he hurried out to the front desk.
“I need a key to room seven, please.”
“I beg your pardon?” The clerk looked confused.
“The young lady, Emma Draycott, isn’t answering when I knock. I need a key to open the door.”
The clerk shot him a hard look. “Perhaps she doesn’t wish to entertain your advances, sir.”
Shaking, Clay grabbed the man by his shirt. “I’m a federal agent.”
He flashed his badge. “Miss Draycott and I are here on a case. She’s not answering the door, and I need to make sure she’s safe. It really won’t look good for your hotel if she’s not. Now, open it, or I will.” He released the man with a shove.
The fella’s jaw went slack. “Yes, sir.”
He fetched a set of keys from a drawer and scurried down the hall half a step ahead of Clay. As soon as it was unlocked, Clay brushed past him.
The room was neat. Bed linens straightened. Nothing askew. No valise. No Emma. Just one single piece of pink paper emblazoned with a rose and a few hasty words scratched across it.
Clay,
I’m sorry. Please don’t be angry with me.
Emma
Chapter 13
Kearney, Nebraska
Stephen’s job was the easy one. Sit on the bench across the street from the sheriff’s office and watch for his cue.
At the appointed time, Munson and three others spilled from a doorway half a block down and started shouting at each other. Stephen stood and pinned his focus on the commotion, craning to see. When one of the men threw a punch, Stephen loosed a howl sure to get people’s attention.
He climbed the boardwalk railing and held on to one of the support beams as he leaned out over the street for a better view. He made a spectacle of himself, hooting and grunting as Munson and the others threw their punches. People, including the sheriff and his deputy, flowed from the buildings around to see what was going on. Both men stared his way.
Idiots. Why were they staring at him? He wasn’t the show.
“Look at ’em fight!” Eyes pinned on the brawl, he hooted again at the ruckus down the street, and finally both lawmen trained their attention where it should’ve been.
“You! Get down from there!” the sheriff groused, then ran toward the melee, his deputy close behind.
Stephen climbed down, still pretending interest in the punches being thrown, though once the bulk of townsfolk ran past him to get a better view, he arced toward the sheriff’s office, left standing unattended.
He slipped in the door and found Jasper and his friends—Underwood and Nixon—staring through the jail bars.
“Glad to see you, Richards!” Jasper grinned.
“I just bet you are. Where are the keys?”
“Top desk drawer.”
Stephen jerked on the handle. Locked.
“Shoot it open,” Nixon called.
“No, you idiot!” came Underwood’s scolding. “They’ll hear.”
Heart pounding with excitement, Stephen drew his knife.
“Hurry!”
Stephen worked at the lock until it gave. Once more, he jerked the handle, then grabbed the keys and sheathed his knife. He rushed to the jail cell.
“Come on, man!” Nixon again. “They’ll be back soon.”
Not if Munson and the others did their part. They were to keep the fight going for as long as the escape took.
Stephen tried one of the keys, then fumbled to the next. That one cranked in the lock, and he swung the door wide.
“I’ve got two horses at the end of the street.”
“Two?” Underwood balked. “There’s four of us!”
“Four would’ve drawn too much attention.”
Stephen scanned the street through the big window to the right of the doorway. It appeared they could make a clean escape, but his view to the left was obscured. He pulled his gun and opened the door carefully.
He edged out just far enough to see the fight. Still rollicking. Another quick scan of the street, and he stepped out boldly and turned toward his right.
“Hey!” A sharp voice echoed from behind him, off the front of the building. “In front of the sheriff’s office. Stop!”
He froze, partially in the doorway.
“Let me see your hands.”
“Stop!” he hissed under his breath at Jasper.
His friend halted. The others nearly stumbled over him.
“Put ’em up!” the voice called from behind Stephen.
Standing in a patch of shadows, he released the Blue Jacket against his thigh. It tumbled down the outside of his trouser leg and skittered into the office. Only then did he lift his hands.
“Turn around. Slow-like.”
He complied, finding the deputy standing a good fifteen feet away, Colt Peacemaker aimed right at Stephen’s head.
“What’re you doin’ in the office?”
Stephen shook the curls out of his eyes. “I was just gonna tell someone about the fight down there.”
“What’s your name?”
“Richard.” His heart stalled as the sheriff broke free of the onlookers and trotted their way. “Richard Hogue.” The fake name rolled easily from his tongue.
“Step out where I can see you, Hogue.”
“I don’t want trouble.” He darted a sideways glance toward Jasper
, who’d retrieved his pistol.
“Then do what I say and step into the sunlight.”
Sweat dripping down his body, Stephen shuffled off the boardwalk. What was Jasper waiting for? He had the gun….
The deputy circled wide around a couple of horses, then closed the gap to ten feet. “You look an awful lot like a fella we’re lookin’ for.”
“For what?”
“Murder.”
He cursed silently. “I haven’t killed anyone!”
“Yeah, we’re about to figure that out. Face the office and walk inside. Real slow. And keep your hands in view.”
“What’s going on, Varden?” the sheriff called.
Every nerve fired a warning. What was Jasper up to? If he’d shot the deputy before the sheriff came, they could be on their way.
“This fella looks like the one that Timmons fella told us about.”
As Stephen stepped toward the door, Underwood and Nixon came into view … in the cell? Hands raised, he slipped through the doorway. Jasper waited, gun at the ready. He stepped through, and the deputy followed. Only then did Stephen’s Blue Jacket roar. Once. Twice.
Nixon and Underwood burst from the cell and barreled down on him, shoving him toward the door. With his ears ringing from the gunfire, he raced after Jasper, stepping over the two lawmen’s bodies cluttering the doorway.
Alone. Emma glanced over the crowded passenger car as it clacked over the tracks, heading westward. Despite the number of bodies crammed into the space, she was utterly alone. For all she knew, this one impetuous choice might have cost her everything she could hope to return to.
She hadn’t intended to run away when she pressed Clay to take her to Steubenville. No, in her rebellious pride and anger over the kiss he’d stolen, she’d intended to show him what a fool he was for pursuing Stephen. She thought she knew her intended so well. After all, she shared half a lifetime of history with him. They’d been classmates. She’d defended him. And she was sure he needed defending still.
The Scarlet Pen Page 18