by Gina Welborn
“—the city clerk,” Miss Stanek spoke atop Mac’s voice. “I want to file my proxy marriage certificate and visit Finn’s creditors before everyone goes home for the day.”
What? After food, rest, and viewing the harsh conditions she was up against? The woman was impossible! Mac spun on his heel and marched down the porch steps.
Wood thudding and a swish of fabric announced she’d followed him. “Do you intend to honor your promise to take me to City Hall?”
He whirled around. “What is wrong with you? How can you possibly look at”—he pointed at the cabin where Finn’s blood had made her faint—“that and decide it’s wise to stay? Don’t you care about your brother and sister?”
Her nostrils flared. “Don’t you dare question how much I care about my brother and sister! You have no idea—none—what I’ve sacrificed to get us here. You think you have us all figured out, but you don’t know the first thing about us.”
“Wrong.” He slid a finger under the shoulder strap of her haversack. “This tells me your father was a courier in the Union Army in the war. Any man smart enough to survive the war is smart enough to know—no matter how bad you think you have it back home—you’re better off there with him than out here alone.”
She pushed him away with both hands. “Wrong again, oh mighty sheriff. My father was the one who—despite my protests—arranged the proxy marriage so Roch, Luci, and I could come here without him precisely because we are safer here.”
“Not when the bridegroom turns up murdered!”
She pursed her lips and looked away. For a minute, the only conversation was between the mooing cattle and a bleating goat.
Mac rubbed his left eye with the heel of his hand. Between his exhaustion and this woman’s stubborn adherence to a plan she claimed wasn’t hers, his mind felt like it was in ten different places, none of them on the most important thing: solving his friend’s murder. At least knowing the proxy marriage wasn’t her idea explained why the letters he’d read never mentioned changing the agreed-upon arrival date in July, followed by a month of courtship, to this hasty wedding. One mystery surrounding Finn’s murder solved . . . only about a hundred left.
“Finn wrote once about a friend of his who was always sure he was right because he almost always was.” Miss Stanek’s soft, wistful words—when she’d been shouting a moment ago—took him aback. “You’re that friend.”
Mac moved his head a smidgen in acknowledgment.
She lifted her face and pierced him with clear caramel eyes. “You said Finn lied to you. Did he? Or did he just not tell you the whole truth?”
Mac crossed his arms over his chest.
“Finn said his friend tried to talk him out of marrying a mail-order bride so many times, he stopped talking about it. He believed you’d come around once I was here.” She looked away again. “At least he hoped you would. He didn’t want to lose a friend who was closer than a brother.”
The phrase slammed into his gut.
“I’m staying, Sheriff McCall. This is my home now, and I hope one day—for Finn’s sake—you’ll forgive him for marrying me.” She took a few steps toward the house before turning around to address him again. “Next time my sister offers you a hug, be the hero she thinks you are and return it.”
Ouch!
He’d never meant to hurt Luci. Of the three Staneks, she was the only one he didn’t want to strangle. He owed her an apology and a big hug, but before he gave them, he needed to cool off.
Mac trudged to the water pump, removed his hat and suit coat, leaned down, and ruthlessly pumped icy water over his head. He scooped some over his face and into his mouth to wash away road dust. The shocking cold cleared his brain of stupor. Finn. Just last week he’d said, “The problem with you, Mac, is that it takes you so long to warm up to folks, they’ve long since written you off as a cold, unfeeling loner. You might try being a little nicer—maybe even smile—when you first make someone’s acquaintance.”
Maybe.
But being nicer just backfired.
Mac shook the water from his hair and stood straight. Rivulets trickled down his neck, soaking his shirt collar and raising gooseflesh on his chest and arms. It wasn’t as good as getting a few hours of sleep, but it would suffice. After straightening the tin star on his vest, he retrieved his coat and hat. A mirror and razor would be welcome. For now, they’d have to wait.
A sheriff, even a scruffy one, should project calm. Maintain a sense of decorum. Inspire reasonable thinking. He shouldn’t let a woman provoke him into anger no matter how illogical she was.
He walked to the cabin. If Emilia Stanek insisted on staying in Helena, there were a few things she and her siblings needed to know before he left them to face the consequences of her decision. With any luck, a night of trying to sleep through howling coyotes would force the city-bred chit to face up to the dangers of Montana Territory, but she’d been amazingly resistant to common sense so far.
The Staneks were inside, the girls busy in the kitchen while Roch righted the overturned table. All of them avoided looking at the bloodstain.
“Miss Stanek, may I have a moment of your time?” Mac held the door open, indicating he wanted to speak to her privately.
With a resigned huff, she wiped her hands on a towel. She tossed it on the yellow cupboard, then whispered something in Luci’s ear before giving Roch a look to warn him that he’d better not slack off when she didn’t have her eye on him. The boy pounded the four legs of a chair into the floorboards.
Mac wasn’t the only one who needed to learn a new way of dealing with people.
Miss Stanek scooted past to join him on the porch. “Yes, Sheriff?”
He closed the door and motioned to the rocking chair. After she sat, he crossed the porch to lean against the support pillar so they faced each other. “Would you agree we both want to keep Roch and Luci safe?”
She nodded, but her eyes remained wary.
“Have you dealt with many bears, cougars, or wolves?”
“Only the human kind.”
It took him a moment to remember she’d worked as a customer service manager at a large department store in Chicago. Her letters to Finn had described some of her more harrowing encounters. For someone as petite and young-looking, managing irritated customers required spunk.
Mac removed his hat and swiped a hand through his damp hair. “Do you or your siblings know how to shoot a gun?”
“No. However, Finn said we’d all need to learn.”
In her letters, she’d written something about being willing to learn whatever was necessary. Was it in response to shooting a gun? “And you agreed with him?”
“Of course.”
Good. Maybe she had some common sense after all. Mac slipped his hat on before raising his gaze to hers again. “I’d like to start today with Roch.”
Miss Stanek studied him for a long moment.
Mac leaned forward. “Whether or not I’m right to be concerned about Finn’s murderer returning here, I am right about the threat of wild animals.”
Whatever she read in his eyes, it convinced her enough to nod.
Now for the part she wasn’t going to like. “I’ll be sleeping on the front porch tonight to keep guard.”
“You should go home to your family.”
“I don’t have a family.”
“Oh. You still should go home.” Miss Stanek pressed her hands into her thighs. “You’re about to drop with exhaustion. You can’t—”
“Which is why I need help. Even if Roch takes to shooting, I can’t leave him alone to stand guard while I sleep.”
Apparently admitting he needed help stunned her into silence.
“A man I know is working on his family’s ranch about a mile back. I’ll take Finn’s horse, bring him back here, and then we can all eat and sleep before any more decisions are made. I’ll be gone about an hour, so before I leave, I need to teach Roch the basics of how to keep all three of you safe.”
Pleas
e let her be reasonable for once.
* * *
For the second time in ten minutes, Mac was pleasantly surprised. Not only had Miss Stanek agreed to his plan, Roch hadn’t argued about learning to shoot.
Mac half-expected the boy to put up a fuss out of sheer orneriness.
Before leaving the cabin, he lifted his friend’s rifle off the pegs holding it over the front door. He showed Roch how to hold it—butt under arm, barrel to the ground—while walking.
Mac grabbed his hat. “Let’s go outside for the next lesson.”
Roch put on Finn’s black Stetson. “I found it in the barn. Do you think Finn would mind?”
Mac swallowed the emotion clogging his throat. The hat matched his own, something he and Finn had jokingly decided made them twins much like the Gunderson brothers. “I’m sure he thinks it looks fine on you.” Although why Finn had left his hat in the barn when whatever business got him killed happened in the cabin remained a mystery.
Roch tucked the gun under his arm.
Once they reached the back of the barn, Mac stopped.
Roch looked confused. “Don’t we need to go farther out so we don’t scare the animals with our shooting?” He glanced to where the pregnant sow rutted in the dirt.
“Good thinking, Roch, but we aren’t going to shoot anything right now.”
The mulish twist of the boy’s mouth conveyed his sentiments. “Then why did we come out here?”
Mac reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the yellow, bloodstained telegram from his coat pocket. He held it open for Roch to read. “What does this tell you?”
Roch lifted his face, his brown eyes reflecting shock. “Someone with blood on his hands knows Finn was expecting my sister to arrive on this morning’s train. You think the man who killed your friend . . . you think these are his fingerprints?”
“Uh-huh.”
Roch scrubbed the back of his head like he was trying to get past his skull to his brain. “But it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s after us, does it?”
“I’m not willing to risk he’s not.” Mac dug the train tickets out of his coat. “Your sister wouldn’t take these, so I’m giving them to you because my job involves lots of travel. If this guy shows up again, trade these in and get your sisters out of town fast.”
Roch took the tickets and stuffed them in his pants pocket.
“Tonight, I need to go get my friend to help guard your sisters.”
“Not if you teach me how to shoot.”
Mac leaned against the barn and folded his arms across his chest. “Taking care of womenfolk is a man’s job, and all I’ve seen from you today is a sulky child.”
The play of emotions across Roch’s face ended with shame. “Yes, sir, and I’m sorry about that.”
“Good.”
“But my father charged me with looking after my sisters before we left Chicago, and I aim to do just that.” The tilt of Roch’s chin said he meant it.
Even better. “I’ll teach you a little today, but we aren’t shooting for a couple of reasons. First, I don’t want to frighten animals or leave the sightline of your sisters. Second, I don’t want to waste ammunition.”
“In case I need it later, you mean.” The boy was smart. A good sign.
“You understand how shooting an animal and shooting a man are different things.” Mac waited for Roch to nod his understanding. “We need to keep watch tonight in case he”—Mac held up the telegram with the bloody fingerprints—“comes back. I don’t trust myself to join you because I’ve been awake going on thirty-two hours now. I need to get Finn’s neighbor to help us both, but before I go, I need to show you enough to make you dangerous.”
The prospect put a smile on Roch’s face. “Yes, sir.”
For the next twenty minutes, Mac showed Roch how to clean, load, and aim Finn’s Winchester Model 1873 rifle.
“When it comes to animals, shoot high. The noise will scare most predators.” Mac put a hand on Roch’s shoulder. “Aiming a gun at a man takes a steady hand and a steely eye. You have to make him believe you’ll shoot him where he stands. Make him back down.”
Roch’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “What if he keeps comin’?”
Mac looked Roch straight in the eye. “Then you pull the trigger.”
Chapter Six
“It’s been an hour,” Luci said suddenly. “Should we go looking for him?”
Emilia looked from her ranching research journal to Luci, sitting on the other side of the rickety table. “Sheriff McCall told us to stay put. Stay put is what we will do.”
Luci seemed to ponder that, her frown growing. “But what if someone attacked him?”
“No one attacks sheriffs,” Emilia explained. “They’re the law.”
Besides, the last person who would ever ask for her help would be Sheriff McCall. His dislike for her was apparent. Then again, he undoubtedly would feel the same toward any other woman who arrived in town as Finn’s mail-order bride only to discover the groom was dead. She ought not to take his dislike personally. He was merely acting in what he felt was their best interest.
She’d always believed Da was the most determined-he-knew-what-was-best man in the world. Who would have thought she’d met someone worse? Yet for all Sheriff McCall’s confidence in his opinion, he had reasoned sense into Roch. And he had finally given up trying to convince her not to file the proxy and leave Helena. He’d also apologized to Luci. He’d given her a lengthy hug and encouraged them to attend Sunday church services, where he promised to introduce Luci to some girls and boys her age. He even knew some Roch’s age. Finn wouldn’t have considered the sheriff his closest friend if the man didn’t have more virtues than flaws.
Emilia returned her attention to her notes on tending chickens. She resumed reading aloud. “‘In addition to feeding and watering, they need to be culled regularly.’”
“Culled?” Luci echoed.
“It means we remove the sick, injured, or inferior.”
“What do we do with them?”
“We kill—”
Her vision blurred, chest tightening. Not now. Emilia blinked repeatedly until she could see clearly. She had to gain control. She had to be strong. She had to think about . . . eggs. The coop would be full of them, she was sure. Finn had boasted about his hens all being excellent egg producers. Her hens now. And if part of owning a ranch meant culling her small flock, she would do it.
Please, Lord, let there not be any sick, injured, or inferior hens.
Discovering Finn had a pregnant sow had been bad enough. Why a pig? She’d been very clear with Finn about how much she despised the smell of them. Perhaps she could barter it for something useful—a problem to manage tomorrow.
She searched the page for where she’d left off reading. What to look for in a nonproducing hen . . .
“Let’s see.” Emilia found her spot. “‘Dirty feathers are a sign of a healthy chicken. Scaly and pale combs and wattles are bad. Vents should be large, oval, and moist. To examine the vent, lift the hen’s tail feathers and—’” She slapped her journal closed. “That’s enough for today.” Until a hen stopped producing, its feathers were staying unlifted. “Sheriff McCall said to cook more than we think will be enough. Even with the beans and the leftovers from Mrs. Palmer, we should boil some eggs. Would you like to check the coop with me?”
“I don’t know,” Luci replied with a shrug.
“They won’t bite.”
“So you say.” Luci walked to the kettle of beans cooking on the cast-iron stove. She lifted the lid. “Someone should definitely watch these.”
Emilia tilted her head and studied her sister. Luci had always been the one to shy away from animals; strange, considering how easily she took to people. Chickens weren’t dogs. Chickens didn’t have fangs. Once Luci settled into the ranch, she would realize the chickens were no threat. She’d thank Emilia for teaching her not to fear animals. Eventually.
For now, Luci could enjoy the safety of the cabin.
>
Emilia eyed the solid interior shutters, which could cover the front window. The only door could be latched shut. Whoever had built the cabin had taken care to build it securely. But how could Finn possibly have viewed this little building as normal-sized? When he’d described his living room and kitchen, she’d imagined two separate spaces. What he’d considered a private bedroom was a loft. No door. Certainly no privacy. She’d had to send Roch to the barn so she and Luci could change out of their Sunday dresses and into their gray work ones. Where had Finn planned on Luci, Roch, and Da sleeping? The barn?
No wonder Roch had looked at the cabin in revulsion. It was smaller than the tenement apartment they’d left back in Chicago. Yet here they had no need to whisper to keep any neighbors from hearing through the paper-thin walls. Nor did they have to share an outhouse. Or listen to gunshots. Or have to step preciously around the sewage in the streets. In time, they’d all forget about the bloodstained pine boards under the makeshift rug. Thank God they’d found several tatted blankets in Finn’s covered wagon to place over the spot. Until she could afford a proper rug, these would do.
“Luce,” she called over her shoulder, “where did Roch put the wicker basket?”
“You should ask him,” Luci suggested.
Emilia looked at the door she’d left open to allow in fresh air. From this angle she could see Roch’s legs and his right hand clenching the rifle lying across his lap. Loading and unloading the gun twice made him no expert. Watching Sheriff McCall saddle Finn’s horse and being able to repeat the actions on his own made him no expert. Roch shouldn’t have to stand guard. He shouldn’t have to fear someone coming back to the cabin to attack them.
They’d made it to Helena. They were supposed to be safe.
“Are you going to sit there all day,” Luci asked, “or collect eggs?”
“Eggs.” Emilia strolled forward, only to stop the moment Roch jumped to his feet.
“It’s the sheriff,” he said, sounding pleased. Apparently a gun, a horse, and matching black hats were enough to bond them as friends. Not that she’d complain. Not now that Sheriff McCall had improved Roch’s disposition.