by Patty Devlin
“I’m so glad for the good news about Mr. Hampton and Mr. Harrison.”
“Yes, both are well on the mend, and Mr. Harrison should be with his daughter and grandchild by now.”
Emmalee bit her lip. “No word from Papa seems odd. He must be frightfully upset with me.”
“Do you blame him, sweetheart?” Clint asked as he turned them off Willow at the corner and began heading north on Main. Another block and Clint would meet his blood kin.
“No, I suppose I’ll face the music when we get home.”
“True enough.”
Glancing up at him, he seemed thoughtful and a bit remote. “Are you nervous?”
“No,” he answered thoughtfully. “Curious?—naturally—ready to get this over with?—by all means—but nervous, not really.”
She squeezed his arm as they strolled. Looking around, taking it all in, she could see that Denver was a hodgepodge of rustic older buildings and newer modern ones, many of which were made of brick or stone. At the corner, when she looked right, she noticed a more residential area a short distance away with what appeared to be private homes on large grassy lots and churches, their tall spires rising above the cityscape. To the left, where they were headed, was the business district. The street at mid-day was crowded with buggies and wagons, but not overly so. There were quite a few people walking the wood-planked boardwalk on this side of the street. The unfortunate people on the other side walked in the street, dodging who knew what kind of mess left by the plentiful horses. Ew!
As she looked at the traffic flowing by, she people-watched, a favored pastime back home. She often wondered who they were or where they were from, making up stories of their lives from what little she could observe. Up ahead, a dark-haired man walked with an auburn-haired woman on his arm. He was tall, and from behind, although she couldn’t see much, she recognized something familiar about him. That was impossible. Who could she conceivably know in Denver?
As she observed him curiously, he stopped in front of a building about a half block ahead. As he turned to enter, he looked down at the redhead by his side. Emmalee stopped mid-stride. Now that she could see his face, it was little wonder he seemed familiar. It was like looking at her husband, same blue eyes, black as midnight hair and the same cleft in his chin, exactly.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
Glancing at Clint for a fraction of a second, she turned to point out his double up ahead, but he was gone. Her eyes scanned the street.
“Em?”
“Either I’m seeing double or I saw one of your brothers.”
“How could you know?”
“Honey, he had Delia’s eyes and hair.”
“But Delia has my eyes and hair.”
She nodded to emphasize her words. “Exactly, he was like your twin. He even had the same cleft in his chin.”
Clint’s head rose and searched the street ahead of them. “Where?”
“Up a ways on the right,” she effused as she gestured. Pointing was rude, of course, but at this point, she was so excited that she didn’t care. When he still searched, she became more specific. “See where that man and woman are standing, about six or eight doors down?”
“Emmalee, there are at least fifty men and women on this street.”
She put her hand to the side of his face and turned it in the direction she was pointing. “See that big burly man looking up?” She was on her toes now, trying to see over and around the crowd of people ahead of her. “He was with a woman, but I can’t see her now.”
“I see him. He looks nothing like me.”
“Sakes alive, Clint!” she huffed in frustration. “I wasn’t talking about him being your twin. That man must have already gone inside.”
“Kindly watch your tongue, Emmalee. There’s no need for impudence or the sass that comes with it.” His scold was mild, and Em was thankful his mind was preoccupied with other matters.
“My apologies, I’m just excited.”
He nodded absently as he moved them forward. “That man appears to be in front of St. James’s office.”
“Maybe he’s a brother as well. He looks near to forty. He could be your older brother.”
His face tightened and he picked up their pace. Emmalee scurried along, trying to match her much shorter strides to his. He might not be nervous, but he was definitely on edge. By the time she was taking two or three to his one, she was winded.
“Clint, honey,” she breathed heavily, “slow down. I can’t keep up!”
He looked down at her and slowed instantly. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, how inconsiderate of me. I’m a bit more excited than I expected to be.”
“Think nothing of it,” she said between pursed lips as she tried to catch her breath at the more sedate pace. “I certainly understand your hurry. I can hardly wait myself, and they’re not even my brothers.”
A minute later, they stood outside the two-story red brick building. The gold and black name on the door indicated they were at the right place: Hobart St. James, Esq., Attorney-at-Law.
“Here goes nothing.” Em quipped, trying to lighten his mood.
“No honey, here goes everything.”
She nodded solemnly, realizing that he felt the keys to his past lie within reach and that they held more meaning to him than he’d ever expressed.
Clint opened the door and guided her through with a hand at her lower back.
Chapter Twelve
Once the door closed behind them, she took his arm again, clinging to him and offering her support at the same time. No one was in the foyer to give them direction, so they followed the deep rumble of male voices to a door on the other side.
Clint’s knock went unanswered.
“This is obviously the place,” he muttered, looking around. Casting politesse to the wayside, he boldly opened the door and entered unbidden. Conversation ceased as he lead Emmalee inside by the hand. “Hobart St. James?”
“At your service, sir, and who might you be?”
Emmalee looked at the attorney, who’d risen from behind his big desk. Her eyes widened at his appearance. He was a wizened little man, with a severely receding hairline. What little hair remained was white and shaggy. On top, he was practically bald except for a sharp V of thin stringy strands smack dab down the middle of his head. Thicker on the sides, hair stuck out at odd angles like a bushy bunch of molting feathers. On the edge of his beak-like nose perched a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He tilted his head at an awkward angle to look through them as he examined her and Clint closely.
Hobart St. James, upon first impression, seemed to be a very odd bird. He was also quite the opposite of what she imagined a Western attorney to be like. Em bit her lip, ready to burst into nervous laughter. That would be highly improper and make a very bad first impression, so she struggled to reel her out-of-place humor back in.
As if he knew where her thoughts had led, Clint squeezed her hand tightly before he introduced them. “Clinton Ryan and this is my wife, Emmalee, we’re of Boston.”
“Come in, sir. I am so happy you could come and all the way from Massachusetts.”
Emmalee frowned; was it her or did he rather crow when he talked? Oh dear, if the man was going to behave like a bird as well as look like one, this was going to be more difficult than she thought.
“You had the farthest to travel I’m afraid. Please have a seat after your long journey. What was it? A week by train at least, isn’t that right?”
“That, sir, is a story that if told in full would take longer than it took to get here.”
Emmalee looked up at Clint swiftly. Surely, he wouldn’t embarrass her in front of everyone by telling her tale. He gave her a tight smile and a slight shake of his head as he sat her in one of the plush, dark red velvet chairs set in a half-circle around the attorney’s desk. She returned his smile as he eschewed a seat for himself and stood behind her. When he laid a heavy hand upon her shoulder, she reached up and squeezed it encouragingly.
O
nce settled, Em looked around the room, immediately spotting the black-haired man she had seen out on the street. She couldn’t help but stare. He was her husband’s mirror image. After a long silent moment of staring, she recognized her rudeness and pulled her gaze free. This allowed her to take in the woman at his side. Emmalee noticed that the beautiful redhead’s green eyes were fixed on a point above her head. She was staring at Clint with an expression of shock. Em imagined it was identical to the one she had worn when she’d first spotted the man’s uncanny resemblance.
“Allow me to make introductions,” Mr. St. James squawked loudly, making Emmalee jump along with the redhead. He had indeed squawked, like a crow. Had no one else noticed? Before she could ponder the unusual situation further, he introduced Clint’s double as Matthew Caine of Mason County, Texas, and the woman as his new bride, Annie.
“It’s like they’re twins,” Annie breathed as she looked from her husband to Clint and then back again. “I can’t believe it.”
Mr. St. James jumped in again, his quirky voice resounding into the hushed room once again making the women jump. This time both she and Annie turned to him and frowned.
“Mr. Abel Armstrong and his wife, Sunny, from Carrollton, Texas. He is the eldest brother.”
Her eyes tracked to Abel, who nodded at her and then lifted his brown eyes to Clint. Odd, Em thought, as she looked again closely; maybe they were more green than brown. Uncertain, she continued her perusal, noting his shaggy brown hair and full beard. Other than his height and strong build, he didn’t resemble the other two men at all.
Her eyes fell to Sunny, his beautiful young wife. Her smile was warmly returned and Em wondered if that’s how she got her name.
Emmalee’s eyes switched from Abel to Matt. Twisting in her chair, she looked up at Clint. Eyes wide, she nodded her head toward his brothers, silently encouraging him to talk. He frowned at her sternly and shook his head. She exhaled in frustration. It seemed that they had that trait in common, all being stubborn men.
“Emmalee, behave.”
She sat back with a self-satisfied smile, winking at the other wives before she said, “Just trying to break the ice, honey.”
She felt both Abel’s and Matt’s stern regard directed her way and squirmed in her seat. Oh yes, she grimaced, taking in their razor sharp gazes and intimidating frowns, now that right there was indeed a strong family resemblance.
“It appears, someone else in this room is in need of a good spanking,” Matt’s deep voice rumbled across the room as if Clint himself had said it.
Abel’s nod showed his agreement.
As Emmalee gaped at them, Clint’s chuckle washed over her from behind. “Sounds like its unanimous then. Behave and I’ll wait until we get back to the hotel. Keep it up and I’ll borrow Mr. St. James’s desk.”
Clamping her mouth shut, she determined to shut up. As her face burned under their scrutiny, she received sympathetic glances from the other wives. They must have noticed her flush of embarrassment because a moment later Abel’s and Matt’s low chuckles joined in with Clint’s and bounded around the room.
Fortunately for Emmalee, the focus shifted with the next brother’s arrival. Introducing himself as Sam Pride and his wife, Mabelle, this tall lean brother appeared a bit older than Clint. His blue eyes were familiar, as was his square jaw and dimple. Four brothers with four dimples, what a delightful pattern, Em acknowledged with a little smile. All were ruggedly handsome, too. She noticed that Sam, like Clint, was armed. In fact, he wore double the fire power, with an intimidating pistol holstered at each hip.
The door opened again and the final dimpled brother walked in. The man appeared to be the youngest, no more than mid-twenties and a lawman, as indicated by the star he wore on his chest. Em noticed Sam tense in his seat and his hand surreptitiously moving toward his gun, but the moment passed quickly, coinciding with Marshal Jackson Owens and his wife taking their seats.
What was that about Em wondered? She felt the tension in Clint ease behind her. From their vantage point at the end of the row of chairs, and with him standing, Em knew he had seen Sam’s move toward his gun as well. She had been able to tell when his right hand, his gun hand, had slipped from her shoulder. Emmalee said a silently prayer for patience and calm heads. Please, oh please Lord; don’t let this first meeting between the five brothers also be the last.
Hobart’s voice called out gratingly again. It was really getting old, Em thought, as she turned forward to see what the queer little man had to say next.
“Now that Marshal Owens, who is from right here in Denver, and his wife, Celia, are here, we can begin.”
The next several minutes were spent listening to Hobart’s rather irritating voice read the last will and testament of John Hastings.
May 1, 1872
I, John Renfrew Hastings, being of sound mind, though failing health, do hereby acknowledge my five sons as my legal heirs…
The words ran together for Emmalee as she focused on Clint standing stoically behind her. Although his grip hadn’t changed, she could feel the tension emanating from him. As Hobart read sentiments like “forgive my absence” and about how Hasting’s decision to abandon them was “difficult,” Em stiffened as well. She sat unmoved, unable to garner a hint of compassion for the man. The old adage, “To err is human,” came to mind. Em predicted as she glanced around the room, seeing all the serious faces, that John Hasting’s would have better odds getting divine forgiveness at the pearly gates than from a soul in this room.
She was angry on Clint’s behalf, and that of his brothers, but when Mr. St. James read the passage about their mothers, Emmalee became incensed.
“My congress with your mothers was, perhaps, less than wise, but each was irresistible in her own way.”
Less than wise! Every word turned Emmalee’s stomach. The man had been a profligate womanizer to have used their five mothers so callously. Inability to control one’s lustful ways was a shallow excuse. That he’d left them each with child, recklessly creating life then abandoning each one, leaving them vulnerable and fatherless had been an act of cowardice, nothing more. If the wretch had been alive when they arrived, she would have gladly taken her Remington to him for target practice.
A rumbling of unease swept through the room as Mr. St. James came to the end of Hasting’s personal annotations. He held up his hand and waited for silence before he continued.
"John was a hard and difficult man," St. James said of the men’s father. "I knew him for many years. I firmly believe he thought he was doing right, even though each of you has reasons for disbelieving his sincerity. Each of you is to receive,” he paused to peer through his glasses at the document he held, running his finger over the page as if having difficulty finding his place.
Hurry up, silly man, Em wanted to say aloud. Couldn’t he see everyone was waiting expectantly? Her mood had changed drastically in the past few minutes. No longer was she tamping down amusement; instead she was suppressing her anger and intense dislike for John Hastings. Unfortunately, since he was no longer around, she misdirected her anger onto poor Hobart St. James. He had known and befriended the wretch, so an irrational corner of Emmalee’s mind held him culpable.
Finally, Hobart (too angry to think of him respectfully any longer, he became Hobart permanently in Em’s mind) nodded once and continued. “Fifty-thousand, one hundred, thirty-two dollars and eleven cents!” Looking up, he preened as if he were bestowing the money from his own personal funds.
Em was beyond perturbed with the old geezer.
He continued smugly, “You may divide up his worldly goods or give them to charity, as you see fit. The journals are of particular significance but have no charitable value, so one of you should take possession of them."
Once he’d said his piece, Hobart stared at them blithely, as if he was used to delivering life-altering news on a daily basis. After a moment, he began sorting and stacking the multitude of papers on his gargantuan desk. Except for the rustli
ng and shuffling noises he made, silence reigned in the stuffy chamber. Once every last document was in its proper place to Hobart’s satisfaction, he opened his desk drawer and drew out a checkbook.
Em watched the man in petulant fascination as he went through what looked like a ritual. Stretching out his arms in front of him, he shook his hands before cracking his knuckles. Next, he straightened his cuffs fastidiously, only to stretch his arms out again, making them rise up, back to their previous position. Only then did he take up his pen. His bizarre routine completed, Hobart looked up and arched a brow at the roomful of mesmerized men and women as if they had kept him waiting.
As if on cue, the room erupted with sound as everyone began talking at once. This went on for several moments, uninterrupted until Clint’s deep voice penetrated the din.
"How can you be sure this is all of us?" Clint interjected abruptly. "John Hastings seemed less than discerning in his philandering ways and could have three times as many bastards out there somewhere, as yet unclaimed."
His tone was blatantly skeptical, and it was reasonable for any of the men to have doubts. Only Emmalee knew that Clint had a real basis for his distrust, and her name was Cordelia Hastings.
Mr. St. James blinked at her husband for a moment, his bespectacled eyes looking owlish as he considered Clint’s assertion. After an awkward pause, he spoke.
"That’s just it, Mr. Ryan, any other offspring would be unclaimed. By his own admission, you five are the only known children that he has claimed outright as his heirs. Any others would have no rights and without his acknowledgement be unable to prove his paternity. You are mentioned by name in his journals, therefore we have legal proof."