The Scarlet Pen

by Jennifer Uhlarik

  “I couldn’t rouse him, perhaps because of the morphine. So instead, I’ve prayed and read scripture to him.” Her cheeks warmed at the admission. “That seemed to settle him.”

  A knowing glance slipped between them, and Lula grinned. “You did about the best thing you could for him. He always keeps his Bible close at hand. Says it’s one of the few things that restores his peace when the dreams come.”

  No wonder he knew scripture so well—and why his Bible appeared so well-loved. What fear Clay must have felt, to have witnessed the murders of his own family and relived it nightly in his dreams. All at the tender age of thirteen. Cynthia’s age.

  “Was Jupe ever brought to justice?”

  Zeb’s jaw firmed. “No. Word was sent back to St. Joseph, and the authorities attempted to round him up. He slipped past ’em and came huntin’ Clay. Laid in wait for him, shot the poor kid three times on one of his runs.”

  Shot. Like today. Protecting her life. “He alluded to something that happened while working for the Pony Express. Said he carried the scars from the incident, but he didn’t like to recall it.”

  “Don’t reckon he does. When he didn’t make it to the station, we mounted a search. Found him about four days later, half dead, three bullets in his back.” Zeb rose and folded back the quilt again, indicating three deep pockmark scars marring Clay’s skin. “We haven’t heard of Jupe since, though we all like to think maybe he died a gruesome death in the war or by someone’s bullet out west.”

  Emma looked down at Clay, sleeping soundly, and couldn’t help but brush a few wayward locks of hair from his forehead. He’d experienced so much loss and hardship, which, in turn, had forced him to grow up far too soon. She, on the other hand, had been a spoiled, cosseted child all her life and even now acted in selfish and dangerous ways. The peril she and Clay faced today would never have happened if she’d not run away. Or if she’d bothered to listen as Clay and Papa expressed their concerns about Stephen. Her actions could have cost him his life.

  Lord, I am utterly humbled by the things I’ve learned here today, and especially that Clay has prayed I’d be his wife. If I’m to become that woman, I have a whole lot to learn, don’t I? Teach me, please.

  The following morning

  “You’ll be sore for a while, but the wound’s healing well.” The doctor tucked his instruments into his bag. “Watch for infection. Barring that, you’ll make a full recovery.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” Clay stood to shake the man’s hand.

  Once the doctor left, Clay pulled on the clean shirt someone had draped over the chair’s back, then fetched his boots and gun belt from the corner, near the basket Lula often used. When he’d awakened, the room was empty. Where was everyone?

  He sat to pull on his boots when a light knock sounded at the door. Clay rose and jerked it open.

  Emma.

  She twitched him an apologetic smile. “You’re looking better.”

  He drank in the sight of her before he pulled her into his arms. “I know I asked you this yesterday, but I wasn’t thinkin’ too clear then. Are you all right?”

  Her own arms circled his waist and she heaved a big breath. “Thanks to you.” Her voice rasped.

  Clay pressed his eyes closed and settled his lips against her hair. “I’m so sorry. This whole experience had to be frightening for you.”

  She pulled free of his embrace, her expression mournful. “I’m the one who owes you an apology. I never should have run. I’m sorry for the trouble I caused.”

  Once more, he tugged her back into his arms and dipped his mouth near her ear. “You’re forgiven. But some of this is my fault. I haven’t told you everything about Stephen. Maybe if I had, you’d’ve thought twice about running.”

  “What about him?”

  His shoulders slumped, and pain jolted the injured one. Shaking it off, he brushed his fingers along her jaw. “Why don’t we sit?”

  Her beautiful eyes reflected her worry, but she complied.

  He propped the door open more fully and sat on the edge of the bed, facing her. Taking her hand, his jaw went slack as he noted purplish bruises circling her wrist. “Did he do this to you?”

  “In the alley, when I was trying to get away.”

  Something raw and ugly boiled up in him. The marks turned his stomach. How differently things could have gone yesterday. She could be dead—or in Richards’s clutches. And how very different they’d go now that Richards had marked Emma.

  “You were going to tell me something?”

  He pushed aside the primal need for retribution and, holding her bruised hand gingerly, spoke. “I started looking for him because of counterfeit money, but I lost his trail here in Nebraska. I found it again once I started searching for violent crimes. Since Stephen left Ohio, there’s been several men killed, their bodies dumped. In most cases, I can link them back to Stephen through the presence of counterfeit banknotes. And the manner in which they were killed is similar.”

  “How were they killed?”

  He shook his head. “After what I let you hear in Steubenville, I don’t want to put that picture in your mind, Emma.”

  She latched onto his fingers and squeezed hard. “Perhaps this will sound silly to a man like you, but for the first time in my life, I’ve realized how mollycoddled and spoiled I am. My parents have raised me to be above such sordid things, but the man I love works a job that deals with those things I’ve been so protected from. I’ve realized if I hope to have a life with him—and I do—I need to know what he deals with, and he needs to believe I can handle it.”

  His heart picked up its pace. “Are you sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’?”

  “Did I not speak plainly?”

  “I thought I heard you say you love me.” Lord God above, please …

  A coy grin curved her lips. “And?”

  “That you want a life … with me.”

  She nodded. “But not a mollycoddled life where you treat me like I’m too fragile to hear the truth. I’m not a wilting flower.”

  He let the words sink in and, with his good arm, grabbed her chair’s leg. “No, Emma Draycott, you are not.”

  With a swift movement, he pulled the chair nearer, and she loosed a startled grunt, then giggled. Clay leaned in, his mouth hovering very near hers, but stopped.

  “Do I need to ask permission before I kiss you?”

  An impish sparkle lit her eyes. “Do you love me?”

  “With every fiber of my being.”

  “Then no.”

  “I’m not gonna get smacked again, am I?”

  “Only if you keep stalling.”

  He didn’t have to be told twice. Clay captured her lips in a deep and abiding kiss that sent his heart racing. Her breath caught, but she sank into the kiss, returning his passion. Releasing the chair leg, he ran his hand tenderly along her arm until he settled his palm at her cheek. He broke the kiss briefly, enjoying the contented smile she wore.

  Before he could claim her lips again, someone cleared his throat from the direction of the door, and Emma pulled away, her face coloring to a pretty pink.

  PJ, Zeb, and Lula all stared through the open door with a variety of amused looks.

  “Looks like ya fixed whatever you were doin’ wrong, little brother.” PJ winked rather conspicuously.

  Embarrassed, Clay grabbed his balled socks from the bed, stood, and hurled them. PJ ducked around the corner, socks sailing past.

  “Clay!” Emma stood and braced her hands against his chest. “You’re supposed to rest.”

  Lula giggled as she slipped inside and retrieved the basket from the corner. “Most men are hard to keep down once they get a taste of feelin’ better.”

  PJ dipped back into the doorway. “Or once they taste somethin’ else sweet.” He tossed the socks back, narrowly missing Clay’s head.

  Emma’s face turned as red as beets, though she quickly recovered and shot Clay a withering glare. “This is the PJ you’ve told me about?
”

  Clay narrowed a glance at his friend. “Yes, Philemon Jehoshaphat Guthrie. The name’s bigger’n he is, so we just call him PJ.”

  The other man groaned but nodded a greeting. “Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, miss.”

  “So catch me up. What have I missed?” Clay retrieved his socks and sat again. Shoulder aching, he gingerly tugged on the socks and boots.

  “PJ sent word you were hurt, so Lula and I drove back over here,” Zeb started. “Got in after dark. I put Emma and Lula in the room next door to get some rest, and I stayed here with you.”

  He’d not remembered much of anything once the doctor was called.

  “And I spent half the frigid night investigating your case,” PJ griped, a humorous glint in his eye.

  God bless him. PJ teased and joked relentlessly, but when it was needed, he was as serious as they came, and he’d follow a trail to Hades and back, if that’s what it took.

  “Any sign of Richards?”

  PJ flicked an unsure glance at the two women. “Maybe it’d be better if we talk alone?”

  Clay reached for Emma’s hand. “You can say whatever you need to in front of Emma.”

  “All right. Looks like he slipped town.” PJ offered Emma an apologetic look. “There’s a local gal, name of—”

  “Dolly Gillis?”

  Everyone turned on Emma. “How’d you know about her, darlin’?” Clay asked.

  “Stephen mentioned spending several days with his friend Gillis in Hastings. It’s why I came here. I thought Gillis was a man, and I had a grand picture in mind that if I asked him, he’d help me find Stephen. When I talked to the postmaster and his wife the other evening, I learned that Gillis was a woman. They promised to deliver my note to her, which must be how Stephen found me.”

  It explained a lot of his questions. “Did you talk to her, PJ?”

  “Yeah.” He squirmed a bit and tried to avoid Emma’s eyes. “She’d been seein’ Richards for some months. Said they’d just talked about gettin’ married earlier that day, and he’d gone off to the Roarin’ Gimlet to collect his sister, Emma. She said he returned sometime later, real agitated-like, grabbed his bags, and left. Roughed her up on the way out.”

  At Emma’s soft sniffling, Clay wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

  “Some of the other deputies and I searched the town. If he’s still here, he’s got himself hid good.”

  “Did Miss Gillis know where he might go?”

  PJ shrugged. “She wasn’t sure, but she mentioned he spent a fair bit of time around Kearney. That’s where she met him. Said he had friends that way. The Harlsons.”

  Zeb jerked to look PJ’s way. “Harlson? In Kearney …”

  “Yeah.”

  Zeb snatched the newspaper from the bedside table and skimmed one of the pages, eventually tapping an article on the page before him. “There.” He handed Clay the page. “Just after Christmas, Kearney had a jailbreak. Three men busted out—Nixon, Underwood, and Harlson. Apparently, a passel of fellas started a fight in the street to draw attention away whilst someone busted those three out.”

  Clay scanned the article, his focus snagging on the fact that both the sheriff and deputy were badly injured in the encounter.

  Emma laid a gentle hand on his sleeve. “Kearney is where he said his business partners, the Harlsons, were. That’s where he was taking me.”

  Clay considered her words, then pinned Zeb with a look. “If I’m goin’ to Kearney, will you and Lula look after Em for me?”

  Emma shot to her feet. “You’re not going today, are you? You were just shot.”

  Clay stood and wrapped an arm around her waist. “There’s a few things to take care of first—like lettin’ your folks know you’re safe. But I can’t let this go too long, or we’ll lose Richards again.” He brushed her hair with a gentle kiss, then looked at his friend. “Zeb, will you?”

  “Of course.” Zeb punctuated the words with a firm nod.

  Emma elbowed him. “I’m happy to stay behind, but who’s going to look after you?”

  PJ hooked his thumbs in his gun belt. “After getting’ shown up in that alley yesterday, I want a piece of Richards too. I’ll keep my eye on him.”

  Chapter 16

  Kearney, Nebraska

  Three days later

  Clay knocked at the door, and a pretty woman with a few gray streaks in her dark hair answered.

  “May I help you?”

  “Mrs. Keough, I’m Clay Timmons with the Secret Service.” He nodded over his shoulder. “This is PJ Guthrie, a deputy marshal out of Hastings. I hate to disturb you at such a difficult time, but I was told by the acting sheriff that I needed to see your husband. Is he up to a visit?”

  “I’m glad you came, Mr. Timmons. He’s very weak, but he’s asked for you a number of times. We weren’t sure how to reach you directly, or we’d have sent word. Please, follow me.”

  They followed her to a door where she motioned them to stay. She entered alone and, a moment later, returned.

  “Go in, gentlemen.”

  He and PJ found the sheriff propped up in bed, face pale and haggard. “Timmons.” He mustered a weak smile. “Glad you came.”

  “Good to see you, sir. Sorry for what you’re goin’ through.” He introduced PJ.

  “You heard about the breakout?”

  “Only in the last few days, or I’d have come sooner.”

  “The pair you’re lookin’ for. They were in on it.”

  Clay perked but waited as the injured man’s eyes drifted closed.

  “Muttonchops was fightin’. Creating a diversion.” He blinked his eyes open again. “The big one. Curly hair.”

  “Richards.”

  Keough swallowed. “He unlocked the cell.”

  PJ stepped nearer. “Did Richards shoot you, sir?”

  He shook his head faintly. “Harlson. Find him, and maybe you’ll find Richards.”

  “Thank you. We had a run-in with him in Hastings a few days ago. He got away, but we thought he might be headed back to Kearney. I’ll start with the Harlson homestead and work from there.”

  They saw themselves out and mounted up, turning toward the Harlson place.

  “Do you really think we’ll find anything the posse hasn’t found?” PJ asked. “By their own admission, they’ve sent people out to talk to Harlson’s wife several times.”

  “Maybe not, but they’ve all been askin’ questions related to the jailbreak. I’m not lookin’ for the escaped prisoners.”

  “True. I’ll follow your lead.”

  By the time they reached the Harlson homestead, the afternoon was well worn. As they neared the house, Clay took a good look around. About halfway up the substantial woodpile lining the side of the house, snow layered the wood. The logs above that line were untouched by snow. Curious.

  As they dismounted, PJ caught Clay’s arm.

  “Do me a favor. Keep your gun loose in that holster. This woman might be twitchy about lawmen comin’ to her door. I don’t intend on seein’ you shot again, and I sure as heck don’t plan on having to tell Emma her fella took another bullet.”

  Emma’s fella. He wasn’t one to take stupid risks anyway, but those two words sure put a new light on things. Once Clay dismounted, he eased the loop off his pistol’s hammer and made sure it was loose in the leather. “Acting sheriff said she’s got three kids.”

  “I heard that too. An older girl and two littles.”

  Clay nodded.

  As they approached the door, Clay fished his commission book from his pocket. PJ knocked, and once she answered, they introduced themselves.

  “Secret Service?” She bent close to look at the commission book. “That’s a new one. What d’ya want with me?”

  “May we come in and talk, ma’am? I have some questions.”

  “I’ve answered questions. Several times.”

  “This isn’t about your husband’s escape.” He glanced past her into the kitchen, noting three child
ren sat at a small table.

  “Doesn’t matter. You’re not coming in.”

  “That’s fine. I can ask from here. Have you seen Stephen Richards since your husband escaped?”

  Her eyes rounded ever so slightly before she schooled her features. “I—I don’t know a Stephen Richards.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Tall fella, dark hair. Curls. Well-spoken.”

  “Doesn’t sound familiar, no.”

  “Helped your husband bust outa that cell,” PJ added.

  Mrs. Harlson scowled. “I don’t know anything about the jailbreak.”

  “And where were you that day, Mrs. Harlson? The fellas in town mentioned you weren’t home immediately after the incident.”

  “I thought this wasn’t about my scoundrel husband’s escape.”

  “It’s not. It’s about capturing the scoundrel who’s been passin’ counterfeit money and worse.”

  Again, a tiny flinch of recognition before a feigned confusion twisted her features. “What do you mean by worse?”

  Clay glanced inside again. The oldest girl watched the conversation unfold.

  “Mr. Richards is suspected of multiple murders, one in Ohio and several around these parts.”

  “Murders?” She pitched her voice to a whisper. “Who did he kill?”

  “Travelers or drifters, from what I can tell. Not to be indelicate, but he shot all but one in the head and left their bodies to rot.”

  Mrs. Harlson drew back at the detail.

  “As I like to say, Richards is a special kind of tetched.” PJ tapped the side of his head.

  “I’d warn you to be careful around him. He’s dangerous.” Clay watched her carefully.

  She huffed, her warm breath forming a cloud of white in the cold air. “I’ve told you, I don’t know Stephen Dee Richards.”

  Clay grinned. “That’s interesting. When I came to your door and asked if you knew him, I didn’t mention his middle name.”

  This time she gasped and moved to slam the door. Clay jammed his boot into the opening and braced his left forearm against it. The impact jarred his injured shoulder, rippling pain through him.