“I’ll have to stay with you,” he said to them now in an apologetic tone. “These are all documents that need to be protected, and nothing can leave this room without my okay. Understood?”
“Understood,” Brad agreed, eyeing stacks of ledgers, books and boxes. “Do you know if this is in any type of order?”
The mayor motioned to the left wall. “All I can tell you is that those ledgers are being entered into the computer.”
“Do you know the years?”
“Eighteen eighty to 1920, but not all of them are there. Our last archivist hadn’t finished going through the boxes to find more. And, of course, there are those that were destroyed by the fire in the late 1800s and the flood more recently. From what I understand, there are gaps and holes. But you’re welcome to look through all of it if you’re careful.”
Brad and Emily spent the next three days looking through all of it. They went through every box, every musty page, every book, newspaper and bound volume. They found some ledgers from the late 1800s. There were a few volumes from between 1890 and 1910, but none listed a transaction concerning the Queen of Hearts mine.
Finally at the end of their third day, Brad shook his head. “Tildy Matheson was supposed to return home yesterday. Let’s call her and see if she’ll let us come over this evening. She might be our last hope. It just doesn’t seem possible if Caleb Douglas’s ancestors owned this mine, as well as the mineral rights, that there’s not a record of it somewhere.”
“We’re used to the tech age. Recording deeds was very different back then.”
“Maybe. But I’m not ready to give up. I’ll buy you dinner at the Hitching Post and we can call Tildy from there.”
When Brad called Tildy from the saloon, she warned him not to eat dessert. Her sister had sent homemade oatmeal cookies with her, and Emily and Brad were welcome to share them.
Tildy Matheson lived in an old Victorian house. When she opened the ornate old door graced with a stained glass window, she was smiling. Tonight she wore a brightly colored blouse and slacks as she motioned them inside. “I’m so pleased you called. My family doesn’t want to hear about old times. It’s nice to talk to younger folk who do. Come on in.”
Tildy’s house was situated in Old Town, and Emily glanced around the interior, seeing at once that it was charming. Tildy obviously loved flowers. Her chintz sofa was covered with blue and green ones, and the drapes were made of the same material. The window-sills were hardly visible under small plants.
Crossing to the window, Emily took a closer look.
“African violets,” Tildy explained. “I just love them. My neighbor took care of them for me while I was gone.”
A Tiffany floor lamp brought rainbowed light into the room. Many of the furniture surfaces, including the bookshelves and the end tables, were covered with framed photographs.
“I put water on for tea. It should be ready now. I’ll get it and the cookies.”
As Emily helped Tildy in the kitchen, the woman chattered all the while. “I was just finished napping when your young man called. Traveling always tires me out for a while.”
“Did you have a nice trip?”
“A wonderful trip. I appreciate every minute I have with my family. At my age I never know what the next day will bring. I just wish I could get around better. I don’t go upstairs much anymore. Last year my niece insisted I turn my sewing room into a bedroom on this floor so I didn’t have to do the steps. She was right. I certainly don’t want to fall. But I miss not being able to wander into every nook and cranny of my house.”
Emily admired Tildy’s bone china painted with pretty pink blooms as she set three cups on a tray. “It was my grandmother’s. It is pretty, isn’t it? She had a fondness for flowers, just like I do. Just grab that can of cookies over there on the table.”
After Tildy led Emily back into the living room, she spotted Brad studying the photographs.
“Some of these look quite old,” he noted as Tildy settled herself in a fern-covered wing chair.
“They are.”
After they all balanced their saucers and their teacups, Tildy asked, “Now, where would you like me to start?”
“Do you know Caleb Douglas?” Brad asked, setting his cup on the coffee table. Emily knew he didn’t much care for tea.
“Everyone in Thunder Canyon knows Caleb Douglas.”
“He’s trying to prove his family owns the land where the gold mine’s located.”
“That gold mine. Such a hubbub over a few nuggets of metal.”
“Mark Anderson told us one of your ancestors knew Catherine Douglas.”
“Oh, yes,” Tildy admitted proudly. “That would have been my grandmother.” She pointed to the photographs on the bookshelves. “See that end photograph on the first shelf? That’s my grandmother and Catherine.”
Brad’s gaze met Emily’s and he stood, crossing to the shelf to pick up the photograph.
“That was taken in front of the town hall,” Tildy explained.
Brad brought the picture to Emily so she could study it, too.
“We’ve been trying to find records from back then,” Emily offered.
“It’s easier to find stories,” Tildy responded.
“What kind of stories?” Brad asked.
For the first time all evening, Tildy hesitated. “The kind of stories that are passed down in a family.”
Emily could see Brad’s focus intensify as he set the picture on the coffee table and seated himself once more. “Can you tell me about them?”
“I thought you wanted to know about the history of Thunder Canyon. There’s a legend—”
Before she went off on a tangent, he intervened. “Caleb’s ancestors are part of the history of Thunder Canyon, aren’t they?”
“Yes, but there are some things people don’t talk about much.”
“Such as?” he prodded.
Gently Emily asked, “Isn’t it better for true history to come out rather than something that’s made up just because it sounds better?”
“I suppose you’re right.” Tildy’s gaze met Brad’s. “My grandmother used to tell me stories. She wasn’t the type of woman to spread rumors.”
“What stories did she tell you?”
Again Tildy hesitated. Finally she admitted, “That Amos Douglas wasn’t the pillar of this community everyone thought he was. He abused his wife, and Catherine was afraid of him.”
Tildy’s statement landed in the room with a thud, and Emily realized the Douglases might not be what they seemed. She held her breath and waited for Tildy to tell her story.
Chapter Eleven
“I guess I should start at the beginning.” Tildy’s gaze swerved from Brad to Emily. “I’m still not sure I should be telling you any of this.”
“If it relieves your conscience any,” Brad interjected, “I had already heard the rumor that Amos abused his wife.”
“Where did you hear that?” Tildy asked.
“The old prospector, Mickey Latimer.”
After Tildy thought about that for a few moments, she gave a shrug. “Stories came down to him, too, but like me he kept quiet. Now I don’t think he remembers what he tells people and what he doesn’t. What else did he say?”
“Not much else. When I asked him about the gold mine, he would just repeat, ‘Women have the power.’”
“I don’t know about that. Women in general had a tough time of it back then. And many times they had to hide their true character.”
“I don’t understand,” Emily said.
“My grandmother and Catherine Douglas were friends—confidantes, as they called it back then. Catherine told Grandma things she never told another living soul. She put up a good front, and few people saw through that. My grandma always told me, though, that Catherine lacked the courage to change her life.”
“You mean by leaving Mr. Douglas?” Emily asked.
“Precisely.” Tildy pointed to the picture on the bookshelf. “Over and over agai
n my grandmother offered to take her in, but she simply said Amos would hurt my grandma and her family if she did that. Catherine wouldn’t bring that harm on them. She was probably right. Amos was a scoundrel. He was wealthy and had a lot of power in these parts. And there wasn’t an ounce of kindness in him. The way he got that gold mine was immoral.”
“So he did own it?” Brad asked.
“It wasn’t that simple. I don’t know if you’ve heard talk about Lily Divine.”
“Her picture hangs in the Hitching Post.” Brad looked totally intrigued now.
Tildy wrinkled her nose. “Yes, it does, and I’m not sure how all that came about. But I do know she wasn’t a prostitute or a madam.”
“What was she?” Emily prompted.
“She was a lady trying to find her way in a world of men. She was smart and she was one of the few women to own land. She owned that mine.”
At their stunned silence, Tildy continued, “She had also inherited a house from a madam. There were prostitutes around, of course, and lots of times the johns mistreated them. When that happened, Lily would nurse them back to health again.”
“I can see how she’d get the reputation of being a madam,” Brad muttered.
“The women in town knew the true story. But as I said, women weren’t as vocal then as they are now. Pretty soon other women besides prostitutes came to her. Women who were being mistreated. But times got tough, and in order not to lose the hotel she had built across the street, she had to mortgage the gold mine property. She’d known Amos Douglas had his eye on the abandoned Queen of Hearts mine. She knew she couldn’t get a loan through the bank, but she might be able to get one from Amos and she did. Only there were strict terms involved and when she missed one payment, he foreclosed.”
Brad’s gaze met Emily’s and they thought about the promissory note that Caleb held in his possession.
“One payment and that old buzzard took the deed for the mine from her,” Tildy related again indignantly.
“So Caleb does own it.”
“It would seem so.” Tildy sighed. “But I haven’t told you the rest of the story.”
Already on the edge of her chair, Emily found the history fascinating.
“One night, after all that happened, Amos went on a particularly bad rampage and Catherine got the brunt of it. She was pretty badly beaten. She didn’t want to go to friends or relatives because she was afraid Amos would hurt them in some way, too. Even knowing what happened with the mine, she went to Lily because she thought she was her last resort. And Lily didn’t turn her away. That woman had a kind heart. She nursed Catherine back to health and tried to convince her to leave Amos. But so many women in that position do the same thing—they stay. Catherine said she had to go back home. She didn’t feel she had a choice. She told Lily she’d be grateful to her till her dying day, but then she returned to her husband.”
“How sad,” Emily murmured.
“I’ll say it was. When I was younger, I would go through that old trunk up in my attic and think about the life women had back then.”
“What’s in the trunk in your attic?” Brad asked.
“Oh, I guess I didn’t tell you. When Amos died, Catherine became rich in her own right. Of course, she left everything to their son—everything except her personal possessions. Her will stipulated that they go to my grandmother. So up in the trunk I have some of her clothes, pictures like that photograph over there, combs she wore in her hair. I keep her antique jewelry in my jewelry box, and I’ve worn it all my life. My grandmother gave it to me when I was a teenager. I’d be glad to get it if you’d like to see it.”
“I’d love to see it,” Emily said enthusiastically.
“This trunk,” Brad mused, “you say it’s in your attic?”
“Yes, it is. I’ve been wanting to give it to the historical society, but my niece hasn’t found time to bring it down and I certainly can’t get to the attic anymore.”
“Would you mind if Emily and I look through it?”
With narrowed eyes, Tildy studied them both closely. Then she smiled. “You seem like upright young folk to me. Go ahead. By the time you return I’ll have the jewelry out and more hot water for tea.”
After Tildy showed Brad and Emily to the stairs, she instructed them, “If you go into the smallest bedroom, last one on the left, you’ll see a closet. Just open the door and the stairs to the attic are in there. Be careful. They’re narrow.”
“We’ll be careful,” Brad assured her.
In a matter of minutes Brad and Emily found their way to the attic door. At the foot of the stairs, Brad flicked on the light switch.
He went up first and led Emily to a corner where an old trunk sat. The attic smelled musty, and there was a layer of dust across the trunk.
“No one’s been up here in a while,” Brad said as he examined the latch.
The trunk looked to be made of wood with leather stretched on top. It had hand-sewn edges. “Amazing.” Brad ran his hand over it. “The historical society would treasure this.”
After Brad lifted the lid, they peered inside. The trunk was about five feet long and three feet wide. Inside, clothes and photographs were tumbled together as if in its trip up the stairs everything had gotten mixed up. On the left side of the trunk, the material lining the inside was torn.
“Maybe someone could restore this,” Emily murmured.
Seeing tears other places, Brad shrugged. “They might have to reline it.”
Seated on the floor across from each other, they went through everything piece by piece. Emily held up a blue dress that had faded to purple. Its neckline was low cut, its sleeves full and puffy.
“What do you think?” she asked with a coy smile.
“I think you would have been the belle of the ball.”
Brad’s voice was low and deep and sent a thrill up her spine. There had been so much distance between them since she’d told him she wasn’t pregnant over a week ago. Each day her love for him was growing and she wanted to be close to him, not have a wall between them. Yet that wall was protecting her.
“What’s wrong?” Brad asked.
“Nothing.”
“Emily?”
“I was just thinking about…us.”
“And the fact that you’re not pregnant?”
She nodded.
He looked as if he were going to lean toward her then. He looked as if he might kiss her. Instead he turned toward the trunk once more. “We’d better finish with this or Tildy will think we stole everything and escaped through the window.”
As they sorted through each photograph, they studied the old clothes, the faces, the buildings in the background. Emily found a hand mirror of tarnished silver, a lady’s parasol and a flimsy pouch made of silk hidden in the folds of a dress. Both the dress and the purse had once been green, but now they were faded and yellowed with age. The bottom corner of the purse was torn.
About to lay it back inside the trunk, Emily heard something crackle. She ran her thumb and forefinger over the silk.
“What is it?” Brad asked.
“I don’t know. I think there’s something inside.”
Prying open the drawstrings, she carefully slipped her hand in and pulled out another photograph. It was a cameo portrait of Catherine Douglas. Emily recognized her from the photograph downstairs. “She was a beautiful woman.”
“And in the end apparently she got everything Amos owned.”
“I wonder what happened to her? Tildy didn’t say.”
Emily laid the photograph on top of all the others. “I guess we should repack the trunk.”
Carefully folding one of the dresses, Emily laid it in the bottom and folded another on top of it. The billowing skirt raised dust. Her fingers brushed the inside of the trunk as she lifted her hand to rub her nose, but her watch caught on the material of the lining and ripped it more.
“I’m ruining a historical treasure,” she moaned.
“That lining is falling apar
t from old age.”
Examining the new tear, worried about it, Emily thought she glimpsed something a different color than the wood. Hoping she wasn’t going to do more harm than good, she eased her finger under the torn material. There was an envelope sticking to the wood. She didn’t want to tear that, too, and she carefully extricated it.
Brad had been studying the photographs, but now he glanced up. “What do you have?”
“I don’t know. It must have slipped behind the torn lining.”
The envelope was old, brittle and yellow. Emily expected it to be a letter, maybe one Tildy and her mother had missed when they’d looked through everything. Who knew how long it had been lost inside the lining?
Reaching her hand down along the lining once more, she felt something else. It was thin, but she could feel its edge. Slipping her hand farther inside, her fingertips touched paper. Drawing it out, she saw it was a photograph of a man with a bushy mustache and a cowboy hat shading his brow. She had no idea who the man was, but wondered if it could be Amos Douglas. She showed it to Brad, and while he was studying it she opened the flap of the envelope and pulled out the sheet of paper inside. It was folded in half.
She saw Queen of Hearts. She saw mineral rights. Then she saw the transfer notice still in the envelope. When she spotted the line with the name of the landowner, she gasped. It was Lily Divine.
“What’s wrong?” Brad asked.
After Emily handed him the deed, she perused the transfer notice and the date. In amazement she said, “Catherine Douglas transferred the mine back to Lily Divine!”
“Let me see that,” Brad demanded.
After he examined all of it—Catherine’s signature, the official embossing mark—he gave a whoop of success. “We did it, Emily! We found the deed.”
Before she knew what was happening, he’d taken her into his arms and hugged her. She lifted her mouth to his and he lowered his to hers. The musty attic seemed to be heaven on earth. Brad kissed her with the pent-up passion he’d been suppressing for days, and she kissed him back with the same overload of desire she’d been denying. Neither seemed to be able to stop the onslaught of needs unsatisfied as they kissed harder and deeper and longer.
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