by Regina Scott
“Of course you can,” Beth put in brightly. “Scout’s friends with everyone.”
Mrs. Jamison twisted to face directly ahead, and Hart wouldn’t have been surprised to hear her grinding her pearly white teeth.
When Scout drew up before the house, Hart jumped down and came around to help Beth. “Thanks for the ride, Rankin,” he said. “Mrs. Jamison, always a pleasure. Give my regards to your brother.”
The lady smiled. “I will do that, Deputy. It’s so kind of you to escort the younger generation like Bobby and Miss Wallin.”
It was a deliberate hit. Beth sucked in a breath beside him, but Scout was already turning his team to start back down the hill.
“And to think I admired her,” she muttered. “I begin to believe she made up that story about having designs in Godey’s.”
He’d heard her mention the word enough times over the years, often in tones of reverence, that he knew how high she held the lady’s magazine.
“She was trying to put you in your place, no doubt,” Hart said. “Perhaps she’s jealous.”
Beth turned to him, skirts swirling. “Jealous? Why? I don’t have half her talent.”
“But twice as much respect, I warrant. A seamstress wouldn’t normally move in high circles. She’s probably used to fighting for her place. Maybe she didn’t realize you were just being friendly.”
“Not friendly enough,” she said, watching the carriage lamp fade in the darkness.
He cocked his head. Something else was bothering her, besides Evangeline Jamison’s cutting behavior. “You don’t like the idea of Scout courting her.”
“Not in the slightest.”
He should have known. Scout and Beth had grown up together. It was only natural that they form an attachment now. In many ways—wealth, youth, outlook—Scout was a better match for her than Hart would ever be.
But he didn’t deserve her.
“I understand. You should tell him how you feel.”
She squared her shoulders. “Oh, I intend to. At first opportunity. I should have realized that his income would attract the unscrupulous, but I truly had a higher opinion of Seattle’s female population. I must find another lady to vie for his attentions. A shame Ciara and Gillian are still too young.” Her fingernail flashed in the moonlight as she tapped her chin.
Hart felt as if he had started up the Duwamish without a paddle. “Wait, you want Scout to court another woman?”
Her finger fell. “Certainly! Scout deserves a wife who loves and respects him. I highly suspect it is his money and not his character Mrs. Jamison finds fascinating. After all, she hasn’t had the opportunity to get to know him yet. And he certainly knows nothing about her outside her dreams of visiting London one day.”
Relief was like cool rain in the heat of summer. “So you’re not interested in Scout.”
“Of course I’m interested in Scout’s well-being! He’s like a brother to me.”
He should not be this pleased. The entire affair had nothing to do with him.
So why was he glad that another fellow hadn’t staked a claim on Beth’s heart?
* * *
Beth pulled the brush through her hair that night, trying not to cause more snarls. Why did the men of her acquaintance need such help in matters of romance? Her brothers had had excellent examples of what to do and what not to do from their father’s adventure novels, and they’d still needed cajoling, encouragement and, at times, downright scolding to win a wife. Hart fought her at every step, as if he had no idea how important a wife could be. Now here Scout went falling for the first pretty woman to glance his way.
Beth certainly believed in love at first sight, but that usually involved people of great beauty and nobility. Mrs. Jamison was certainly beautiful enough to turn heads, but Scout, bless his heart, was neither handsome nor noble. He was an acquired taste, and Mrs. Jamison had not taken the time to acquire it before attaching herself to him. That alone made the seamstress suspect.
Beth fully intended to discuss the matter with Scout the next day, after she attended to her other duties. She still thought a course of reading might help Hart see the value of a proper courtship. She hadn’t brought any of their family’s books with her to town, being engrossed in one Maddie had lent her about a family of four sisters in England all trying to attract gentlemen, but she needn’t have worried about getting a message to her family. Her brothers had no intention of leaving her alone in Seattle.
Simon stopped by the next day. He claimed to have come in for the mail, but her second oldest brother didn’t fool her. Simon was efficient to a fault. He generally had more important things to do, especially this time of year with the fields to prepare for planting, than to drive in to Seattle for the mail.
“They seem to be treating you well,” he said, glancing around Allegra’s elegant parlor as if expecting to find her in chains.
“A bed and room of my own,” Beth told him. “They even feed me on occasion.”
He looked her up and down as if he wasn’t too sure of that.
“How much longer?” he asked. “Nora misses you.”
Beth thawed. “And I miss her. I miss all of you. But things are progressing slower than I’d hoped. I could use your help.”
His light green eyes brightened. That was one thing about her family—they were always ready to lend a hand.
Still, it took some work to convince him that all she needed were books. In the end, he promised to send them with the next Wallin who came in for the mail.
His brow furrowed as he rose. “You will be careful, Beth.”
She smiled at him. “Yes, Simon, I promise. Give everyone my love and assure them I’ll be home for Easter.”
She was still thinking about her family when she left Allegra’s copy of Vaughn Everard’s poetry at the door of Hart’s cabin. There was no sign of Arno in the pasture beside the little house, which probably meant Hart had already ridden out. Funny—Simon worried about her safety. She didn’t worry about Hart’s. She knew he was more than a match for any criminal.
But, just to be helpful, she went to the Occidental to check on Mr. Schneider.
The German buyer had nearly recovered from his wounds and was set to journey south to see about his hops.
“Though who will extend me credit I do not know,” he lamented to Beth as they sat on two of the crimson upholstered chairs in the little lobby. “Not a penny have I left. I pay my bills here thanks to your friends.”
She was glad to have helped him recover. His coat had been cleaned and pressed, and the bandage had been removed from his head. He looked perfectly respectable to Beth, his mustache bristling with pride, his head high.
“Perhaps Mr. Horton can help,” she told him. “He’s planning on building a fine bank, the first in Seattle. If you show him your credentials, he might take a chance. I could give you his direction.”
Mr. Schneider thanked her profusely, bowing over her hand as she prepared to take her leave. Suddenly, he dropped her fingers and paled.
Beth put a hand on his arm. “Mr. Schneider, what is it? Are you ill?”
“Nein.” He shook himself and gave her a sheepish smile. “I think I see one of the men who attacked me, but I must be mistaken. Such a villain would not come into this fine hotel, jah?”
She certainly hoped not. Beth glanced around, but she didn’t notice anyone looking particularly nefarious. “Can you describe him?”
He dropped his voice. “Nein. When they finished with the beating, they tell me that they will find me if I speak. They will finish the job.” He swallowed.
Oh, if there was anything she hated it was a bully. “Nonsense, Mr. Schneider. The more Deputy McCormick knows about these men, the more likely he is to catch them and put them away behind bars where they cannot hurt anyone. You must speak with him before you leave.”
He leaned closer, blue eyes heavy. “I tell you, Miss Wallin, because you have been good to me. The men who robbed me said I should not go to the polic
e.”
“Because they hoped to frighten you,” Beth assured him.
“Nein.” His voice was choked, and perspiration stood out on his brow. “Not for that reason. They say I must not go to the police, for the police support them.”
Beth recoiled. Hart, in league with villains? She would sooner believe Father Christmas a thief, George Washington a traitor. She squared her shoulders.
“You can tell me, Mr. Schneider. I promise you only the most trusted, most heroic of our lawmen will hear of it. Whatever we do, we cannot allow those creatures to continue preying on travelers.”
Reluctantly, Mr. Schneider agreed, going on to describe the two men who had attacked him. Beth pulled a pencil and the house list from her reticule and took notes on the back of the paper so she wouldn’t forget anything.
“I don’t recognize anyone from your description,” she said as he finished and she tucked the paper and pencil away. “But I’m sure it will help. Safe travels, sir.” She wrapped her arms about him for a hug.
Beaming, Mr. Schneider thanked her again and hurried for the stairs to his room. Clutching her reticule close, she left the hotel. A glance at the sky told her it wasn’t quite noon. If she was fortunate, she might catch Hart riding down Second Avenue.
She started up the street, dodging between the men moving among the shops. Oh, but Hart would be pleased with the information Mr. Schneider had given her. He kept an eye out for shady characters. Surely he’d recognize the villains from the descriptions. Those men were as good as jailed.
She had just crossed Mill Street, skirts bunched in one hand to keep them out of the mud, and stepped up onto the boardwalk when a man jostled her.
“Terribly sorry,” Beth started, but the fellow grabbed her arm and yanked her around the corner of the building into the alley. In the shadows of the buildings on either side, she could just make out height and breadth.
He shoved a finger at her face. “You’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. Go home, stay there and keep your mouth shut or you won’t like what happens next.”
She didn’t like what was happening now. She had no doubt she was facing one of the men Hart was after. What was to keep him from striking her down as he’d done Mr. Schneider or one of the other victims? Very likely he knew she’d spoken to Mr. Schneider. He was determined to keep her from telling Hart what she’d learned.
But she wasn’t about to do as he asked—go home, stay there or keep her mouth shut.
She stepped back out of reach, opened her mouth and screamed at the top of her lungs.
Chapter Eleven
Over the clatter of wagons and the call of men’s voices, a woman’s scream pierced the cool spring air. The sound froze Hart’s blood. He urged Arno into a gallop, scattering other riders before him.
A crowd at the edge of Mill Street told him the location. He reined in, jumped down and drew his Smith & Wesson as he landed. People scrambled out of his way.
The sight in the center of the group stopped his breath. Mrs. and Mr. Denny were helping Beth to her feet. Her skirts were covered in mud. The jaunty little hat she favored had slipped down onto one ear. He holstered his gun and stepped forward.
“Are you hurt?”
Beth made a face, going a long way toward reassuring him. “No. But the miscreant stole my bag.”
A thief who favored women’s purses? That was something new for Seattle. There weren’t enough ladies to make it worth the time.
“I insist you apprehend the fellow, Deputy,” Mrs. Denny said, nose high.
“This is an outrage,” Arthur Denny agreed. “Young ladies like Miss Wallin should be safe strolling our streets.”
They should be safe in their family’s barn too, but that hadn’t stopped an outlaw from gunning down Annabelle.
The dam holding back the memory threatened to breach. Hart held it by force of will. Bending, he scooped Beth up in his arms.
“I’m fine,” she insisted. “Please, Deputy, put me down.”
“Not until I’m sure,” he said, striding out of the alley, her rescuers giving way before him. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Denny tying Arno to the hitching post.
Hart headed around the corner for Doc Murray’s, bumping through the door to the fellow’s office. In the act of peering into a boy’s ear, Doc looked up, brow raised.
Hart set Beth down on the high table the room boasted. “Miss Wallin was attacked.”
The mother cried out and clutched her son close. Doc straightened. “How awful. Where are you hurt, Miss Wallin?”
Hart crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s what you’re going to tell us. Hop to it, man.”
The doctor nodded. A younger man, he’d come to town shortly after that old rascal, Doc Maynard, had gone to his just reward. Murray had inherited his patients as well as many others who had struggled with Maynard’s unorthodox ways. Now the dapper man with his neat brown mustache gathered up some instruments and moved to Beth’s side, not nearly fast enough for Hart. The mother bustled her boy out the door as if concerned Beth’s injuries might be infectious.
Murray asked Beth some questions, requested that she turn her head this way and that, raise her arms, stand on her own. Hart stayed close, ready to catch her if she swayed.
“Truly, Doc, I’m fine,” she assured him with a frown to Hart.
Doc tsked. “So it would seem. Still, you’ve been through an ordeal. I suggest rest for the remainder of the day, perhaps laudanum for the pain.”
“There is no pain,” Beth said with a pointed look to Hart before giving the doctor a smile. “Thank you for your concern. I’ll let you get back to treating those who actually need it.”
Gathering her skirts, she swept from the office.
Hart was hard on her heels. “I’ll escort you to the Howards’.”
Beth stopped, holding up one hand. “No, you will not. You’ve already wasted enough time on me today. Besides, you’ll have work to do once you hear what I learned.”
Hart cocked his head. “What you learned?”
She nodded. “I stopped by the Occidental to check on Mr. Schneider and convinced him to describe his assailants to me.”
Hart frowned. “How? He couldn’t seem to manage it before.”
“For good reason.” She glanced either way, then drew him farther from the doctor’s door. “Hart, the villains told him it was no good going to the law, because the law was in on it.”
Hart drew himself up. “That’s a lie. Wyckoff’s integrity is unassailable.”
“As is the town marshal’s and the constable’s.” She shook her head, and her hat slid to her shoulder, along with a coil of platinum hair. She set about repairing the damage. “And it goes without saying that your reputation is spotless.”
Not as spotless as she thought. If anyone besides the sheriff looked into his background, they could well wonder if he was being paid by the gang to look the other way. “So, you think it’s a lie, to scare the victims into silence.”
“Exactly. Intimidation seems to be their best weapon. Well, it won’t work with me.” She patted the last hair in place. “I didn’t want to miss a word of Mr. Schneider’s description, so I wrote everything on the back of the house list.”
Hart held out his hand. “I’ll take it from here. I don’t want you any more involved.”
“Too late, I’m afraid. The bully stole my reticule with the paper in it. That’s how I fell, trying to pull it out of his grip.” She glanced down at the clumps of black mud, the dull damp circles spreading from them. “I only hope I can save this dress.”
“Forget the dress.” His words must have betrayed his fears, for her head snapped up and her eyes widened. Hart seized her by the shoulders.
“Do you have any idea of the danger? He could have slit your throat and left you to bleed to death.”
She shuddered. “Now, there’s a horrid picture.”
He gathered her close, chest hurting. “I can think of several just as bad. You
have to stop trying to help, Beth. I can’t lose you.”
For a moment, she nestled against him, her arms around his waist, her head resting on his chest. Her soft sigh was muffled by his duster. He couldn’t seem to let go.
She pushed him back. “Now look at what you’ve done. I just fixed my hair. I suppose it’s fallen again.” She started fussing with her hat, all busyness, but her fingers were trembling. He only wanted to hold them close, keep her safe.
He had to get a grip on himself. “Beth, as deputy sheriff, and your friend, I insist you stay out of this. I’ll speak to Schneider, get the details.”
“Too late,” she said around the hairpin sticking out of her mouth as she used both hands to sweep up her hair. “He’s traveling south today. Oh, this is impossible!”
She threw up her hands, and her hair tumbled down about her shoulders, like a pile of gold.
He couldn’t stop himself. “Let me.” Stepping behind her, he gathered up the tendrils, each strand like silk. She smelled like vanilla, and he nearly brought the curls to his nose to inhale more of the sweet scent.
“Pins,” he said, holding out one hand.
She dropped them meekly into his palm. He supposed he ought to be glad she didn’t jab one in his finger.
He gently inserted them into the pile, careful to support the heavy coils. Then he stepped back. The hold of the pins was as precarious as the hold on his feelings. He stood behind her a moment, counted to ten, took a deep breath. This fear, this yearning, could only be caused by the memory of Annabelle. And Annabelle was gone.
As he came around in front of Beth, he kept his face impassive. She dropped her gaze nonetheless, cheeks pink.
“Do you want me to walk you home?” he asked.
“Yes, er, no. I’m fine.” She collected herself, raising her gaze. “Thank you for the help. But Hart, I can’t step aside. The villain may have stolen the descriptions, but I still remember what Mr. Schneider said. I’m your best chance of catching these criminals.”
* * *
He didn’t like it. Beth could see that. His dark brows drew down. That chin was growing firmer by the minute. But he wouldn’t argue with her. He wanted to stop these villains too much.