by Mae Berry
Chapter 17
April 23, 1891
Kearney, Missouri
Finn yawned and stretched his arms as far as he could. He was getting too old to ride on trains for hours on end and, despite his ability to nap anywhere, he was tired. And out of sorts, case of the grumps ma would say. He moved across the station platform. At least Sam had quit giving him the stink eye, but the ease they’d had was gone. Blast, it was hot. He ran a handkerchief over the back of his neck. Kearney, another small town. He glanced toward main street, Washington the sign read. The store fronts lining it were a mix of frame near the station and brick down further. There were two hotels in view, the Woodruff and the Kearney. They’d need to make arrangements. The blasted train had been sidelined, and it was late afternoon.
Sam brushed the front of her skirt as she joined him. “You said post office?”
Finn rolled his shoulders. “Yes, the address for Phelps is old. We need a more recent one.”
Sam nodded. “Where is it?”
“Down Washington. Toward the end. Not sure how far.” They headed out, Finn careful to keep his pace one she could match.
“What if they won’t give you the address?”
The wind stirred the dust into his face and he blinked. “Never been a problem.” Why was she baiting him?
“Well, maybe an edict from an assistant deputy marshal won’t intimidate him.”
Funny. Or it would be if he wasn’t so grumpy. And the day wasn’t so hot. And she wasn’t so irritating. He snorted.
“You do that often.” She adjusted her reticule over her arm and pulled out a handkerchief.
“What?” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
“That noise… the snort.” She waved a hand in his direction.
“I don’t snort.” Finn scowled and quickened his pace.
“Oh? What do you call that particular sound?”
He snorted. Rather made a sound. A sound that was not a snort.
Sam yanked his arm. “Please! Take shorter steps. I can’t keep up with—”
Finn stopped and Sam ran into him. He ran a hand through his hair. “Can we get past this?”
“Past what?” She wiped her brow and eyed the few people on the road.
“This irritation with each other?” He set his hands on his hips. “I know yer upset with me, but can’t ye try to see it from my point of view? I understand yers, believe me. I’ve lived with it most of my life.” He stared into her eyes willing her to see the sincerity in his own.
Sam sighed. “I’m sorry, I truly am. I look at things as black or white. I have a hard time with gray.” She quirked up one side of her lips. “Father Seamus got me thinking, I suppose I’m still pondering it.” Finn rolled his eyes. She stuck her nose in the air. “Indeed, marshal, I happen to be rather enamored of my two-bit words.”
He laughed and stuck out a hand. “Truce lassie?” Sam shook it and grinned. His big paw swallowed her small hand. “Almost forgot. Brought you something.” He dug deep into his coat pocket and pulled out a rumpled sack.
She shook her head. “Marsh—, Finn, I don’t care for sour drops, remember?”
“Aren’t sour drops. I got you peppermint.” He shook the bag and tilted the opening in her direction. Sam stared at his twinkling eyes. “Want one?” He shook the bag again. She continued to stare. He laughed. “If I’d known candy was all it took to silence you, I’d have brought it long ago.” Sam scrunched her face. He grinned and shook the bag again.
She grabbed a couple and popped them in her mouth. “Thank you.”
He stuffed the bag back in his pocket and pulled out a sour drop from another. “Have any trouble getting time off from your clients?” He crunched his candy.
“No, I dropped the only long term case I was working, though Hattie was livid.” She flinched.
“I’m curious, guess it comes with the job— you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to— but why do you call her Hattie?” Finn eyed her from the side.
Sam’s lip twitched, “Because it’s her name?”
Finn snorted. She smothered a laugh. He grinned. “You know what I mean. Why not mother or ma or such?”
Sam’s voice was light but flat. “She prefers Hattie.”
“Oh?” He grabbed another sour drop from his pocket.
“Hattie’s always been more of a…” Her voice faded away as she sucked on her candy. She hesitated several minutes. “A mentor. She’s a demanding mentor.”
“Mentor?” Finn’s eyes widened. He could figure out several words to describe his own mother, mentor was not at the top of the list and demanding only appeared when it came to his visits. Huh. He softened his gaze.
She nodded and stared at him unblinking.
“Must’ve been difficult, growing up.”
Sam shrugged. “It’s hard to judge what you don’t know. My experiences have made me who I am I suppose.”
“So you wouldn’t change a thing?” He cocked an eyebrow at her.
She smiled. “I didn’t say that. What about you?”
“Me?”
“You said you grew up poor, lots of siblings, difficult father; but it made you, you. Would you change anything?” Sam tilted her head.
Finn stiffened. Would she judge him if she learned about Killian? Would she look at him with horror? Absolutely. She’d shown him that. Facts meant more than intentions and the fact was he’d killed his brother, as surely as if he’d put a gun to his head.
“Finn? Are you well?” Sam laid a hand on his arm and peered into his eyes. Window to the soul, eyes were.
He swallowed and looked away. “When we get to the post office, let me do the talking.”
Sam sucked in a breath and removed her hand. “Oh?”
“Yes. We give out as little information as possible. We don’t want someone to overhear and tell the Gittins we’re looking for them.”
“I suppose—”
“Don’t want to lay all your cards on the table.”
“Pardon me?” Sam tilted her head to the side and wrinkled her brow.
“And sometimes talking to a marshal makes folks clam up. So if they don’t know…”
“But—” Sam stiffened.
“And sometimes holding back information can work to your favor. It’s always good to keep an ace up your sleeve.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Tell me marshal, do these illustrations allude to a proclivity for gambling?”
Finn chuckled and shook his head. “You are a walking Webster’s.” He shrugged. “I must admit, I admire the way you’ve handled yourself.”
Sam frowned. “Whatever do you mean?”
“The way you sift through information and draw conclusions. The way you hone in on what’s important. As much as it pains me to say,” he grinned at Sam, “you’re a good investigator.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Sam’s face burned, and she kept her eyes straight ahead. She truly didn’t take compliments well, did she?
Finn shook his head. “Didn’t mean to embarrass you, just wanted to tell you what I observed.” He grabbed her elbow and steered her across the road. “There it is. The post office, see?” He grinned. “Time to work me Irish charm on the postmaster.”
Sam rolled her eyes.
✽✽✽
Finn watched the strange facial contortions of Miss Lawton. The cussed woman was trying, half-heartedly, to keep from laughing. Of course the postmaster was out. Sign on the door, “be back later.” Curse his luck. And curse one-horse towns. Well, at least it entertained Miss Lawton. He gave a savage yank to his cap and made sure he stretched his long legs. It might be petty, but it made him feel better.
“I suppose there is no sheriff?” Sam’s voice wavered as she tried to match his strides.
Finn glared at her. “No, town’s too small. I checked before we came.”
“Wandering around town won’t be any use,” she puffed.
“I know,” he growled, “If I can have
blessed silence, I might—”
She tilted her head and scrunched her lips. “In a town this small, surely someone knows where we can find him.”
A crash rent the air followed by a heavy cloud of dust and male laughter. Finn turned as Sam darted through an alley toward the noise. He cursed. What was that she-cat up to now? He whipped out his pistol and hurried after her. He silently slid along the wall at the entrance of the alley and peered around the corner. Sam was standing next to a group of men in front of a half demolished building. He checked their hands for weapons. A few had crowbars and hammers. He calculated how fast he could get to her. Too long. Confound the woman, what was she doing? Why had she bolted? He stepped into the entrance.
“Gentlemen I wonder if—” she stopped when the men froze, eyes locked on him or more precisely, his gun. Sam turned and waved for him to join her.
“Jist waat are ye doin’ lassie. Git over here.” Every muscle tensed as he sighted down the barrel.
“Really, marshal, I was asking these men—”
“Do it from over ‘ere,” he said, teeth gritted.
Sam put her hands on her hips and frowned at him. The men’s posture eased and a few laughed.
Finn scowled, then holstered his pistol.
“Gentlemen, this is Assistant Deputy Marshal Finnley, and I am Miss Lawton.” Sam’s sweeping flourish included Finn.
Finn rubbed his temples and stalked to her. So much for his talk on keeping an ace up your sleeve. He stood close enough for her skirts to brush his pants legs and glared, especially at the men who were giving Sam appreciative glances.
She gave the men a smile and made a helpless flutter with her hands. What was she doing? “Perhaps you gentlemen can help me? I’m trying to find a man and I—”
“Jus’ any ole man? I volunteer,” said a grubby worker, leering at her.
Finn growled and put his hand under his jacket over his pistol and took a step forward.
Sam flashed another smile and placed a restraining hand on Finn’s arm. “Thank you, but I’m looking for specific information concerning two men.”
A man sporting a straw hat cuffed the grubby one on the back of his head. “Don’t talk like that to the lady. ‘Pologies ma’am. Marshal. Can’t find good help these days.” He removed his hat. “I’m Ezekiel Irving.” He reached out and shook Finn’s hand then nodded at Sam. “What can I do fer ya?”
“Thank you, sir. We are looking for Mr. Phelps?”
“Mr. Andrew or his son Elias?” Ezekiel mopped his forehead with a large bandanna and resettled his hat.
“Most likely Mr. Andrew.” She was fluttering her eyelashes. Fluttering! Heat crept up his neck.
A man in overalls and a sweat-stained shirt spoke up, “Mr. Andrew lives with his daughter in town. Gave up the farm to Elias a while back.” He blushed as Sam’s attention swung to him. Finn glared.
“Yes, on Second Street near Clark,” interrupted another. “Big two story white house with a covered porch and yella shutters.”
“Thank you so much gentlemen.” Sam gave them a big smile and batted her lashes. Again. Finn didn’t care for it. Not one bit.
“You said two folks?” asked Ezekiel with a grin.
“Oh yes,” Sam’s voice was casual, “we need to find anyone from a family that lived here at one time. A family named Gittin?” The grin on Ezekiel’s face faded. Every man stilled, even the breeze died. “Relatives of Ira B. Gittin?” Sam’s voice trailed off as the men looked at each other. A few men shifted and backed away moving around the deconstruction.
Ezekiel chewed his bottom lip. “The Gittins moved out a while back. Not sure where. After the trouble with Mr. Hiram then Lewis dying and all… Sorry folks, I need to get my crew back to it.” He touched the brim of his hat and moved after the others.
Sam stood mouth open and stared at the retreating men.
“That,” said Finn running his hands through his hair, “was not what I expected.”
Chapter 18
They walked most of the way on Second Street before Finn broke the silence. “Why do you suppose bringing up Gittin’s name made everyone uneasy?” He glanced at Sam. “As if something awful happened. Something… unspeakable.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I understand Mr. Hiram was Gittin’s father, but who was Lewis?”
“Don’t you remember? Lewis is his… oh, ah.” Sam snapped her mouth shut. She didn’t need to remind him about the lack of records. Finn lifted an eyebrow. “Ah, Lewis is Gittin’s brother. Younger brother. Deceased.”
“You have an excellent memory, Miss Lawton,” he said, tone even, eyes straight ahead.
“Yes, well. A neighbor told me that. Someone in Stanley.”
“What else?”
“He was a college professor.
“Huh, might be what they meant.”
“Perhaps, if there were events involving his father and brother, then Gittin supposedly drowning…”
Finn stopped in front of a fence and pointed. “There. Two story white house with a covered porch and yellow shutters. Shall we?” He held open the small white gate and gestured. As he knocked on the door, he turned to Sam with a wicked gleam in his eye. “If the old gentleman appreciates attention from lovely young ladies, you take the lead.”
Sam’s face flushed so hot she was sure no blood existed in the rest of her body. She shot Finn a narrowed glare then squared her shoulders as the front door opened. A pleasant faced woman in a navy dress with hair pulled in a stylish bun examined them, her gaze darting back and forth.
“May I help you?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you ma’am.” Finn tapped his star. “I am Assistant Deputy Marshal Finnley and this is my partner, Miss Lawton. Does Mr. Andrew Phelps live here?”
A frown darkened the woman’s face. “Mr. Phelps is my father. May I ask what your business is with him?”
“Yes, ma’am. You are?” Finn grinned. Dimples showing. Teeth flashing.
“A… his daughter, Mrs. Hall… Abigail, Abigail Hall… his daughter.”
“Surely not! Why you barely look old enough to be his granddaughter.” Sam rolled her eyes. Surely, Abigail Hall realized the absurdity of that remark! Finn hadn’t even met Mr. Phelps. How could he-
Mrs. Hall tittered. She tittered! Her hands fluttered like two battling starlings.
“I am working a case in Kansas City. Information came up that led me to Kearney. Mr. Phelps may have knowledge that is important.” Finn placed one hand over his chest and leaned toward the woman.
Sam kept a pleasant smile on her face, nodding at the overwhelmed middle-aged woman. That man knew precisely what he was doing, Irish blarney indeed. Just a short time ago he’d implied she had flirted, yes, flirted with those workmen and here he was all smiles, twinkling eyes, and solicitude. He leaned over Mrs. Hall as if she— Sam jerked as Finn touched her arm.
“Are ye goin’ in lassie?” His whispered burr barely hid the mirth that danced in his eyes as if he had read every thought in her head. Back stiff, she pushed through the door ignoring Mrs. Hall’s questioning stare. As Finn followed, Mrs. Hall continued fluttering.
“Just go right into the front parlor, and I’ll go fetch my father. May I offer you refreshments?” She gestured to the overstuffed sofa seated in front of a fireplace in the center of an overstuffed room. Ornaments everywhere. Sam shuddered. The room reminded her of Hattie’s parlor.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Finn flashed another grin. Mrs. Hall attempted to exit the room keeping her eyes on Finn and almost collided with an older gentleman in the entryway. The man was dressed in a simple cotton shirt and tan trousers with red suspenders. His walnut-brown face was heavily wrinkled but his bright eyes swept the room missing nothing.
“Well now, Abigail. Visitors I see.” His smile warmed her, but she could tell he was taking their measure. He walked into the room and stuck his hand out to Finn. “Mr. Andrew Phelps.”
“Papa, this is Marshal Finnley.” Mrs. Hall was still fluttering.
“Assistant deputy marshal,” Sam muttered. Mr. Phelps’ attention swung to her. Had he heard? She fidgeted when she noticed a quick smile.
“Now then, who might you be?” He turned to her without a trace of the condescension she usually encountered. She liked this man.
“Miss Lawton, Assistant Deputy Marshal Finnley’s… partner.” That’s what Finn had called her. Partner. Mr. Phelps gazed off into space over her head. It was as if he’d slipped away.
“Yes, well,” began Finn, “we are working a case in Kansas City.”
“Kansas City…,” Mr. Phelps’ frown deepened as his concentration increased. Sam glanced at Finn and he shrugged.
“Well sir, it is regarding an old neighbor of yours, rather his son. Do you remember a family by the name of Gittin? We are hoping to—”
A resounding slap interrupted Finn, as Mr. Phelps slapped his thigh and pointed at Sam, all traces of confusion gone. “I knew I recognized your name, missy. You’re the one that looked into the death of Hiram’s boy. I remember seeing your name in the papers. Scandalized folks around here, you being a woman and all. Course, I never paid it no mind. Women folk are sometimes better at investigating. They’re more curious.” A grin lit his face, but a sober expression rapidly replaced it. “Sad business that. Sad.”
“What can you tell us about Ira Gittin?” Sam leaned forward in her seat, she was on the verge of finding information about a man who lurked at the edges of her nightmares for years.
“Ira?” Mr. Phelps frowned and pursed his lips.
“Ira… Ira Gittin.” Sam swallowed hard. Perhaps her first assessment of Mr. Phelps’ mental state was correct.
“Bates!” He said slapping his thigh again. “You mean Bates. No one called him Ira except his granny.”
“Bates?” Sam lifted her shoulders.
“Ira Bates Gittin. Forgot Ira was his first name. Everyone called him Bates. Stuck too. Even after he was growed. He didn’t like that much. Thought it disrespectful. Course folks didn’t pay that no mind.”