Copper Sunrise

by Carol Cox

  “He’s a little on the heavy side. He was wearing a rather loud vest.”

  Her boss laughed. “Oh, you mean Joe Crombie. He has some property he insists I ought to buy. The land is pretty worthless, though. I’ve turned him down a dozen times, but he just won’t give up. I sent him away with a flea in his ear today, though. I doubt you’ll see him around here anymore.”

  “Ah. Well, that answers my question.” Catherine smiled and carried her pad back to her desk to begin writing the letters Mr. Showalter had dictated.

  Wait until Mitch heard. It was just as she thought: That horrid man had no connection to Mr. Showalter at all.

  She slipped a clean sheet of paper into her typewriter, and her hands froze as a new thought sprang fully formed into her mind. There was no doubt sinister doings were afoot. Likewise, she had no doubt of Mr. Showalter’s innocence in the matter. But what if he were being used as a pawn, as Mitch himself once suggested? Could he be the miscreants’ next intended victim?

  She rolled the paper into place and began transcribing a letter to an investor in Virginia. At least her boss hadn’t made too much of her question. His mood seemed to have improved lately. She tapped on the typewriter keys, grateful for the change. It made things much more pleasant around the office.

  ❧

  “Catherine!” Mr. Showalter’s strident bellow echoed throughout her small office. “Where’s the Miller file?”

  Catherine hurried into the adjoining office, stricken at the thought she might have mislaid a vital piece of information.

  “Miller is coming to my house for dinner tonight, and I need to refresh my memory on some of the parcels he’s interested in buying.”

  Catherine plucked a folder from the top of the stack on the corner of his desk and held it out to him.

  Mr. Showalter stared at the file in her hand, and a wry grin twisted his lips. “Right in front of me all the time. I’m sorry I snapped at you. Maybe the best thing for me to do is take this home and go over it there. Why don’t you call it a day, too? There’s no point in both of us running ourselves into the ground.”

  Catherine smiled her acceptance of this peace offering. “That’s a lovely idea. I’ll just take a few minutes to put things to rights before I leave.”

  Straightening her desk took little more than a moment. She glanced through the connecting door Mr. Showalter had left open, and her shoulders sagged. Stacks of files, scattered correspondence, crumpled papers. The place was a mess. She might as well stay a little longer and tidy up after him. She would never be able to do it in the morning with him there underfoot. Besides, his brusque attitude had resurfaced. Maybe having things back where they belonged would put him in a better frame of mind tomorrow.

  She returned the files to their places in the cabinet and straightened the stacks of correspondence into neat piles. Encouraged by the room’s improved look, she took the time to run a dust rag over the desk and the rest of the furniture.

  There. She turned in a slow circle, pleased with the results of her handiwork. That’s a definite improvement.

  She gave one final swipe to the desk and noticed the corner of a paper sticking out beneath the edge of the blotter. Again? No wonder he can never find anything. Shaking her head over her boss’s tendency to shove papers just anywhere, she pulled the sheet out and gave it a quick glance to see where it should be filed.

  Her breath seeped from her lungs when the words on the paper registered in her brain. Now that Wheeler is out of the way, plans for the resort are progressing nicely. What do we need to do next in regard to the dam sites? A scrawl of a signature followed.

  Catherine made it to a chair before her legs gave out on her. Wheeler. Wasn’t that the name of Mitch’s informant, the one who had been killed?

  Scraps of conversation from one of Mr. Showalter’s weekend meetings tickled the back of her memory. What was it? Something about an “old geezer” whose refusal to sell his property was holding up the resort project.

  She stared at the paper in her hand. No, it couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t. Yet the words on the page seemed to imply her boss’s involvement, if not actually in Wheeler’s death, then certainly as an accessory after the fact.

  If that were the case, then the note she held could be the very evidence Mitch was looking for, evidence with the power to send Nathan Showalter and his associates to prison. The paper rattled in her fingers, and she realized her hands were trembling.

  What should she do? The note by itself wasn’t nearly enough to take to the authorities. And would she do that, even if it were? Wouldn’t that make her guilty of the very thing she’d accused Mitch of doing—jumping to conclusions?

  That could be exactly what happened. Maybe she had made a mistake and drawn an unfounded conclusion based on a few scribbled lines. It would be utterly unfair to ruin a man’s life without more substantial evidence.

  But she couldn’t ignore it. God, what do I do with this? It’s too big for me to handle on my own. She waited, not terribly surprised when no answer came. She hadn’t been on close terms with the Almighty of late.

  She had to talk to someone. Mattie? She rejected the idea as quickly as it came. Mattie’s honest face would give her away in a minute. She would never be able to hide any suspicions Catherine might plant in her mind.

  There was only one person she could think of. She shoved the incriminating paper in her purse, turned out the lights, and left.

  ❧

  “If I show this to you, you have to promise me it will stay just between the two of us. There’s a good chance it may not mean what you might think it does.”

  Mitch stepped back from his front door to let Catherine enter his modest parlor, a quizzical smile on his lips. “I take it this is not a Florence Nightingale visit.”

  Catherine’s steps faltered. “I’m sorry. I should have asked how you’re feeling. It’s just that I need your help.” She pulled the paper from her purse and thrust it into his hand.

  Mitch scanned the note and sucked in his breath. He looked up at her. “Where did you get this?”

  Catherine took a seat on the couch and set her purse down beside her. “I was tidying up Mr. Showalter’s office and found it under his blotter. I wasn’t snooping, you understand. It was sticking out, and I wanted to put it away where it belonged.”

  “Showalter?” Mitch lowered himself into an armchair. “Then I was right. From what this says, it sounds like he’s not only involved, he may the kingpin of the whole operation.”

  “But we don’t know that for sure. There’s no name at the top of the note. We can’t even be positive it was meant for him.”

  “I think you’re grasping at straws.” Mitch looked at the note again. “Who sent it? I can’t make out the name.”

  “It just says Seth, but it’s Seth Kincaid. He works at the county recorder’s office. I recognize his signature. I’ve seen it before on letters he’s sent.”

  Mitch stared at her. “You mean he’s in regular correspondence with Showalter?”

  Catherine nodded, utterly miserable. “But that doesn’t mean—”

  “You can’t keep sheltering the man, Catherine!” Mitch struggled to his feet and began to pace the room. “If he’s involved in this, it’s more than just a matter of a shady land deal. He’s a party to murder.”

  She felt her temper rise. “That’s just it—if. We don’t know for sure.”

  “How much more will it take to satisfy you? This note tells us everything we need to know. It seals the man’s guilt, Catherine. It’s exactly what I needed to blow this thing wide open.”

  “No!” Catherine jumped to her feet and faced him. “You can’t write about it. Not yet, anyway.”

  Mitch’s eyes widened. “You can’t be serious.”

  “You promised me this would stay between us.”

  Mitch raked both hands through his hair. “You can’t ask me to sit on this story. And no,” he added in a biting tone, “it’s not just to get my byline on th
e front page. There’s more than a headline involved here. What if holding on to this story costs someone else his life?”

  “And what if printing it now destroys the reputation of an innocent man?” Catherine jutted out her chin. “What about a compromise? Give me some time to find out whether I’m right or not before you publish a word of this.”

  Mitch drew in a slow breath. “How long are we talking about?”

  “Two weeks?”

  “Catherine, there’s no way I can sit on it that long.”

  “One week, then. Seven days to make sure of the facts.”

  “Wait a minute.” Mitch eyed her with a measure of suspicion. “You said until you find out whether you’re right. Just what did you mean by that? I thought I told you I didn’t want you endangering yourself.”

  “I don’t intend to. I’ll just poke around a little, look through the files, that sort of thing. Don’t you see? I’m in the perfect position to do this. No one will suspect me of doing anything out of the ordinary. If it turns out Mr. Showalter really is innocent, no one ever has to know we thought otherwise.”

  “And if he isn’t?”

  She swallowed hard. “If it turns out he’s guilty, I’ll do everything I can to help prove it.”

  Mitch shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Catherine heard the hesitation in his voice and hastened to drive her point home. “Just one week. If I haven’t turned up proof one way or the other by then, you’re free to do what you like with the story. . .if there is one.”

  Mitch wagged his head. “I don’t feel good about this.”

  “Please?” She looked up at him imploringly. “For me?”

  He scraped his palm across his cheek and sighed. “All right, you win. One week.”

  Sixteen

  The wind was picking up. Mitch turned up his coat collar to keep the chill breeze off his neck. Catherine should be coming out any minute if Showalter hadn’t asked her to work late again.

  A gust of wind tugged at his hat, nearly pulling it off his head. Mitch reached up to grab it and gasped when a bolt of pain shot through his side. He replaced the hat and fingered his ribs gingerly. The effects of his beating would likely stay with him for some time. Even so, he thought, he could consider himself lucky to get away with only a couple of black eyes and some bruised ribs. He could have wound up like Edgar Wheeler.

  Thinking about the man who had turned to him for help made his conscience ache worse than his ribs. The truth about Wheeler’s death and the reason for it needed to be told. Here he was in a position to do just that, and instead he had agreed to do nothing.

  After a night in prayer seeking the Lord’s guidance, he knew he had made a mistake in promising Catherine to hold off. Even so, he had given his word.

  The door swung open, and Catherine tripped down the stairs with a glad smile. She waved to Mattie, who smiled and headed off in another direction, more than likely to Woolworth’s, her favorite haunt.

  Catherine joined him, her eyes sparkling. “I pulled a whole stack of files today and went through every one of them. Guess what? Every last thing in there looks perfectly aboveboard. I didn’t see the slightest hint of anything amiss.” She led the way down Jefferson, practically skipping in her exuberance.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” she continued. “I’m so glad we decided to wait before we said anything, aren’t you?” When he didn’t answer, she looked up at him. He could see the sudden shadow of doubt in her eyes. “Aren’t you?”

  Here it came, the moment he dreaded. “Actually, I’m not.”

  Her brows knitted together. “But—”

  “I made a promise to you I had no right to make. I knew the Lord hates lying lips. I should have realized that applies just as much to covering up the truth.”

  “Wait a minute. I didn’t ask you to cover up anything. We just want to make sure of the truth before you write your story.”

  Mitch shook his head. “I keep thinking about Edgar Wheeler and what it must have been like when he died. Having just had a taste of being beaten, it isn’t something I would ever wish on anyone else.” He set his mouth in a grim line. “These people have to be stopped.”

  Catherine’s eyes grew wide. “You mean you’re going back on your word? You’re breaking your promise to me?”

  “No, I won’t do that. I already made one mistake. I won’t compound it by making another.” He paused. “But I do want to take a step back in our relationship. I need to be sure I’m not adding one more mistake to the list.”

  Catherine stopped short in the middle of the sidewalk. “What do you mean?”

  He steered her out of the way of the other pedestrians crowding the sidewalk, hating what he was about to do. “Maybe I was jumping the gun, but I dared to dream of sharing a future with you. But that means being in the same harness and pulling together. Right now, I’m not sure we’re headed in the same direction.”

  Catherine’s features twisted in a stricken look that pierced his heart. “So what are you saying? You don’t want to see me anymore?”

  “That isn’t it.” He couldn’t bring himself to admit to her that he’d considered that very thing. “I don’t want to lose our friendship. That has become very precious to me.” He drew a deep breath and steeled himself to go on. “But I think we need to let go of any thoughts of our relationship becoming any more than that.”

  They reached the boardinghouse, and Catherine stared at a point somewhere beyond him. Tears pooled in her eyes, and her lower lip trembled. Mitch longed to reach out and brush the tears away, to kiss those sweet lips, but he commanded himself to keep his hands at his sides.

  After a long moment, Catherine blinked and forced a wobbly smile to her lips. Mitch could see the effort it cost her.

  She lifted her chin and faced him squarely. “I can’t say I understand why you feel this way, but I know I don’t want to lose you as a friend. If that’s the way it has to be. . .” She gave a laugh that sounded suspiciously like a sob. “I guess we’re just friends, then.” Her face crumpled, and she walked inside the boardinghouse without looking back.

  ❧

  Catherine leaned over her desk and read the letter from her grandmother for the third time since she’d received it earlier that morning. In it, Grandma expressed her excitement about being on hand for the Admission Day festivities. Then she added: Are you still planning to come up here and drive us back to Phoenix, or should we make other arrangements?

  Catherine groaned. How could she have forgotten all about mentioning the possibility of a motor trip to Grandma? On the other hand, why should it surprise her? Nothing was going as it ought to at the moment. Coming on the heels of Edgar Wheeler’s death, her discovery of the incriminating note from Seth Kincaid, and now her estrangement from Mitch, the long-awaited announcement of Arizona’s admission to the union had faded in importance, something she would never have believed possible only a few short weeks before.

  Grandma sounded as excited as ever though, and why shouldn’t she? It wasn’t her life that had turned upside down. Catherine pictured the delight a long car trip would bring her grandmother and the disappointment she was bound to feel at finding out it wouldn’t happen,

  She pressed the heels of her hands against her forehead. Just one more example of her ability to let others down. She would have to call the Prescott post office and get someone to relay the message to her grandparents. By the time the story passed from hand to hand, half the people in town would know how she’d hurt her grandmother’s feelings.

  Wait a minute. Catherine lifted her head and stared at the opposite wall. Mitch had made it abundantly clear he considered their fledgling romance over, but he also said he wanted them to remain friends. Maybe an errand of mercy would fall within the limits of his definition of friendship.

  She went to the office phone and gave the operator the number for the Clarion. “Mitch Brewer, please,” she said when a tinny voice answered.

  Her fingernails tapped against t
he phone cabinet while she waited for him. The voice in her ear made her jump. “Brewer here.”

  “It’s Catherine.” She closed her eyes and breathed a quick prayer. “Do you remember offering to borrow your boss’s car to bring my grandparents down for the statehood celebration?”

  She could picture the play of emotions on his face while she waited for his answer, a slow, drawn-out yes.

  Catherine squeezed the earpiece so hard her knuckles ached. “Is that something you’d still be willing to do. . .for a friend?”

  The tone of his voice softened. “I’ll check with Mr. Dabney and see what I can do.”

  ❧

  Catherine directed Mitch over the last stretch up the length of Lonesome Valley and drew in a long, deep breath when he pulled Mr. Dabney’s touring car to a stop in front of the clapboard ranch house. She sat motionless, drinking in the sight of her childhood home, then felt a broad smile slide across her face. “Welcome to the T Bar.”

  The ranch house door burst open, and Ben bounded down the front steps. “The prodigal returns! Welcome home, Sis.” He wrapped her in a bear hug, then extended his hand to Mitch. “I’m Catherine’s brother, Ben.”

  “Mitch Brewer.”

  The two men exchanged handshakes and appraising looks before Ben said, “We’d better head into the house. Mom and Dad are champing at the bit.” He waited until Mitch turned toward the steps then gave Catherine a thumbs-up. Leaning over, he whispered, “Not bad. This one looks like a keeper.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Catherine said. “I need to get my purse.” She dropped behind and clapped one hand over her mouth. A keeper? Oh, no. Why hadn’t she realized how her family was bound to take her showing up on the doorstep with a young man in tow?

  She retrieved her purse from the front seat and trotted up the steps. Then again, maybe it was only Ben. He’d always been quick to jump to conclusions.

  Introductions had already been made by the time she joined her family. She had just enough time to see Mitch talking to Ben in front of the fireplace before she was swept into her mother’s embrace. “It’s so good to have you home, darling,” her mother whispered against her hair.