by Gina Welborn
“I don’t think that stops him from thinking you’re awfully pretty.”
Emilia stared at the ceiling beams. Every time she’d looked Sheriff McCall’s way, he’d looked at her. Did he think she was pretty? Men leering at her—that she was quite familiar with. She’d never allowed their actions to bother her. Eventually, because she’d give them no encouragement, they’d stop. She’d hoped, the moment she’d stepped off the train, to see a man looking at her with such blatant admiration and love—like she was a precious treasure. It was what she’d expected to see in Finn’s eyes.
Instead, she saw anger in Sheriff McCall’s weary, suspicious eyes. Not only had his good friend been murdered, but now he had the mess of managing his dead friend’s mail-order wife. No wonder he wanted her gone. She was an unnecessary and unwanted burden. Luci was right—she wasn’t much of a widow.
A hot tear slid down her cheek.
And then another.
She rolled to her side to keep Luci from seeing her tears.
She hadn’t married Finn because of the strength of his character or because they shared values . . . or for love. She’d married him to escape the sewage called Chicago. She’d married him for the hope of a better life. She married him because he’d promised her love.
If marrying another stranger—regardless of whether he thought she was pretty or not—was what she had to do for her family’s sake, she would do it. Love didn’t feed a family. Love didn’t keep a body warm. Love—
Emilia brushed away her tears. Love wasn’t enough.
Not for her.
* * *
Why would Finn buy a wagon last summer for the purpose of hauling alfalfa when he didn’t buy alfalfa seed until last month? What has he been using the wagon for?
Mac couldn’t get Miss Stanek’s questions out of his brain, but he was so tired a reasonable answer eluded him. He strolled through the dark toward the surrey while Roch and Jakob sat on the front porch discussing who would take first watch. Too bad Jakob’s brother, Isaak, hadn’t been the twin tasked with cleaning up the family ranch for new tenants. Though they weren’t identical, it was impossible to tell which blond-headed giant was which from afar.
Isaak was the responsible one, the serious one—although he could be wickedly funny if you were standing close enough to hear some of his asides. Jakob, on the other hand, seemed more interested in charming Miss Stanek than protecting her. Washing dishes. Helping her make lists. Telling her to call him Jakob. It was almost enough to make Mac regret asking for his help.
Yawning, he retrieved his rifle and bedroll from beneath the backseat. Hopefully, Jakob was sticking to the plan to make Roch think he’d be taking a shift on his own tonight. Hardly. But Mac could be diplomatic when necessary, despite what some people might think.
Why would Finn buy a wagon last summer? What has he been using the wagon for? The answers were important. Mac knew it in the place he’d learned to trust over his seven years as a lawman. If only he could think past the headache pounding behind his eyes. How many hours without sleep was he up to now? Thirty-five? Thirty-six? It felt like he’d been out riding for a week.
Out riding. Why did the thought spark the vague sense he was close to answering Miss Stanek’s questions? Or was it just because he had to take prisoners down to Deer Lodge Penitentiary tomorrow afternoon? If Miss Stanek didn’t change her mind about filing the proxy in the morning, he’d be cutting it close to get her around to Finn’s creditors before it was time to leave. Was that why he felt a warning in his soul?
Mac breathed air in through his nose and let it out with a huff. He’d never figure it out without sleep. Tucking the bedroll under one arm and the rifle under the other, he returned to the porch. His eyes stung and another yawn stretched his jaw.
“That’s legal?” Jakob’s voice carried in the night air.
Mac blinked and focused on Roch. “What’s this?”
“I was just telling Mr. Gunderson about how our landlord back in Chicago told us we had to come up with thirty dollars for repairs or he’d evict us.”
Jakob frowned. “You ever heard of such a thing?”
Mac shook his head. Was that what Miss Stanek had meant when she said they didn’t have a home anymore? “There are laws against requiring tenants to pay for their own repairs.”
“Yeah . . . well, what the law says and what a landlord can get away with aren’t always the same thing.” Roch tapped his index finger against the long-barreled rifle.
You have no idea what’s motivating her insistence on staying. We’ve been operating under the assumption she’d be better off going back to Chicago. What if it isn’t true? Hale’s words chased away thoughts of Finn’s wagon.
Mac handed his rifle to Roch. “In case you need another one. It works just like Finn’s.”
“Is it loaded?” Good. The boy was learning.
“No. Have Jakob help you.” Leaving Roch and Jakob to work together to check the rifle’s readiness—at least Jakob was responsible enough for that—Mac found a spot to sleep at the bottom of the porch. He kicked pebbles and branches aside before laying out his bedroll. If trouble came, he was close enough to boot awake.
“Where’s your father now?” Jakob kept up a steady flow of questions.
Mac revised his earlier opinion. If Roch was going to stay awake tonight, he’d need someone to keep him talking. Jakob, not Isaak, was the man for that job.
Mac assumed, once he stretched out on the bedroll, he’d fall asleep regardless of the conversation going on. He was wrong. Only it wasn’t Roch’s voice keeping him awake . . . it was his sister’s.
Why would Finn buy a wagon?
The question, combined with all the other puzzle pieces, swirled through Mac’s brain.
The hat in the barn when Finn was discovered in the cabin.
His belongings tossed about but nothing of value missing.
The bandanna and greasepaint.
Bloody fingerprints on the telegram and letters.
A secret marriage.
Five creditors, none of which accounted for the new cattle, fencing, alfalfa seed, or plow.
Mac shifted to his side, tucking one arm under his head as a pillow. The pieces fit together. All of them. Somehow.
Would they fit if he started supposing Finn wasn’t innocent but guilty?
Chapter Seven
West Main Street
“What took so long?” Sheriff McCall opened the door Wto City Hall, bracing it with his right arm, as Emilia crossed the empty foyer. He gave her a bit of a look—brows raised a fraction, mouth indented in one corner. Not a smile. Not an I’ve-been-anxiously-awaiting-your-return look. Neither, though, was it a scowl. She’d take it.
“After the judge verified the proxy and declared the marriage legal, this other man knocked on his office door. Mr. Fisk offered to buy the ranch,” she said in awe. “The price was what you said the land was worth. To the penny. Judge Forsythe also said the offer was fair.”
Sheriff McCall gave a nod. “Expect multiple offers.”
The moment she stepped over the threshold, his left hand rested against her back. Politely guiding her outside? Or nudging to speed her along her way? Regardless, a tingle raced up her spine. She didn’t need him to think she was pretty. She certainly didn’t want him to suspect she had any matrimonial aspirations toward him, because she didn’t. She wouldn’t. He was Finn’s closest friend.
Emilia lifted her skirts and hurried to the planked sidewalk to put space between them. She headed to the surrey.
“Wrong way.” His palm pressed into her back again, long enough for her to know in exactly which direction he wanted her to go. This time it wasn’t toward the surrey. “Cannon’s is just up the road.”
Emilia fell into step with him. “I saw the door labeled Office of the Sheriff. Why didn’t you tell me you worked in City Hall?”
“Hadn’t been relevant to any conversation.”
True, so she didn’t argue. “I presume you t
alked with your deputies while I was upstairs with the judge.”
He nodded.
Emilia glanced back and forth, from him to the uninviting row of wooden buildings stretching along the street, nearly all with sham fronts. The back of her neck ached as she stared up at him. As she waited for words to follow his nod. Drawing words from him rivaled drawing (usually unsuccessfully) words from her brother.
None came, so she said, “There must be more pressing duties demanding your attention than escorting me about town.”
His gaze stayed on the road ahead.
“Please don’t think I’m not appreciative, but—” She pursed her lips. There had to be a polite way to say, Please return to your job and ignore me. “I’m indebted to you for the extra mile you’ve walked on our behalf, but there’s no need to walk two extra. Even Finn would agree you’ve done more than necessary.”
His head slowly turned in her direction, just enough for her to see his narrowed gaze and pinched lips. And then he returned his attention forward. Emilia couldn’t help but sigh in frustration. The man had the conversational talents of a ten-year-old.
Only a starry-eyed romantic like Luci would ever suppose this man thought Emilia was pretty. Although she’d believe he thought her pretty annoying.
They stopped at an intersection and waited for a buggy and two wagons to roll past.
“There’s no need to do more,” she said because he was clearly pondering her words and realizing she was right. “I can manage from here on out.” She pointed over her shoulder in the direction of City Hall. “I shall meet you at your office when I’m finished.”
He rubbed his heavily bristled jaw, then started up another steeply inclined street. Emilia hurried to keep pace with his long-legged stride, despite the burning in her legs. What she’d give to sit for a moment on one of the benches lining the sidewalk’s street-side curb. Nothing about his demeanor indicated he felt the need to fill the awkward silence. For goodness sake, the forty-five-minute drive from the ranch to Helena would have been unbearable had she not initiated conversation . . . and figured out how to deduce his nonverbal responses. He wasn’t a complicated man. Nor did he seem one given to subterfuge.
Thank you for showing Roch how to use a gun.
A you’re-welcome nod.
I appreciate your asking Jakob to help stand guard.
The I-appreciate-your-appreciation tilt of his chin.
Roch and Luci seemed taken with him.
Silence because he needed a moment to think about how Luci and Roch had interacted with Jakob . . . and then, after realizing she was right, a people-usually-are-taken-with-Jakob shrug.
Weeks on end of managing disgruntled customers had truly tuned her ability to interpret what a person was thinking by expressions and body movements, sighs, and groans. Based on Sheriff McCall’s clamped jaw, he was evaluating how to convince her to accept Mr. Fisk’s offer, use the funds to pay Finn’s debts, and then leave Helena. She ought to be amused by her uncanny ability to understand him.
They stopped under the wooden awning of a dressmaker’s shop.
“Why should I—” Emilia asked at the same time as he said, “You should sell.”
He gave her a sideways look, a silent, I’ll listen to your reason for not selling, but I won’t change my mind about you leaving Helena.
Emilia sighed. “Why should I expect multiple offers for the ranch?”
His brow flickered with surprise. Clearly not the question he’d anticipated.
“Helena has had nine additions to the town site.” His gaze stayed fixed ahead as they resumed walking, now passing a quiet and orderly saloon. “Finn’s land is just north of the fairgrounds and Helena has grown to over ten thousand people in the last five years. A forward-thinking man will see the value in buying those forty acres, figuring on dividing them up into housing lots as soon as the city spreads farther.” He shot Emilia a quick yet telling glare: It’s in your best interest to sell.
Maybe it was. After paying the debts, she’d have enough funds to start over somewhere new, away from Helena, away from danger, away from being known as a murdered man’s widow. She couldn’t sell. This was their home now. Her home. The land of milk and honey. This was where they’d prosper. She couldn’t give up without trying. She owed it to Finn.
She owed it to herself.
Emilia pointed at the brick building ahead, with the words CANNON’S GENERAL STORE painted in black above the awning. “There’s Cannon’s.”
He grabbed her arm, stopping her. “Miss Stanek—”
“Collins.” She looked up at him and said in a firm voice, “I’m Mrs. Collins now. And I have business to attend to. Private business. I’ll meet you back at the surrey by eleven.”
He appeared not to know what to say.
Emilia glanced about the street. Several pedestrians had, like them, stopped on the boardwalk, looking their way. A wagon rolled past, the driver’s head cocked in their direction. Word that she was Finn’s widow couldn’t have traveled this quickly. No, more likely all were curious as to who their sheriff was speaking to. A new woman in town, even a town like Helena with ten thousand people, was sure to attract attention, even if her pink dress and black bonnet weren’t the height of fashion.
He stepped closer. “You need to understand something.”
Emilia looked up at him and waited.
Even though no one was nearby, he spoke softly. “Hale and I don’t have a full accounting of Finn’s debts. These creditors are the only ones who’ve come forward so far. The new cattle, alfalfa seed, plow, and fencing—we don’t know where the money for them came from.”
“Do you think Finn was doing something shady?”
He shook his head.
She sucked in a breath, stunned at his admission. He shook his head not because he was saying he didn’t think so. He was saying he didn’t know, and the doubt—the confusion—could only mean he suspected and maybe even feared the worst of Finn. She refused to believe the worst. When in doubt, trust what you know. Finn was a good man. She knew his character. However he’d found money to buy cattle, seed, plow, and fencing, he’d done it legally.
“Sheriff McCall! Mac!”
Emilia looked left, toward the dapper man waving his gray derby in the air, dashing across the street, taking care to dodge piles of manure.
The sheriff muttered something under his breath. Then he shifted his stance, his right hand casually resting on the hilt of his revolver. “Morning, Hendry,” he said as the blond man, who looked to be around the sheriff ’s age, drew up next to them.
“Morning.” Mr. Hendry nodded at Emilia, muttered, “Ma’am,” then plopped his hat back on his head. He released a steadying breath. “Mac, you aren’t an easy person to find. I heard a crazy rumor yesterday and—uh, can I have a word?” His gaze flickered to Emilia to imply privately.
“If it’s about Chicago Joe, she’s going legit.” Said in a monotonous voice she hadn’t heard from Sheriff McCall until now.
Mr. Hendry looked surprised . . . and skeptical. “This isn’t about her. And it can’t wait until tomorrow’s meeting.”
Sheriff McCall breathed deep. “Two o’clock. My office.”
A smile brightened Mr. Hendry’s face. “I’ll be there.” He turned to Emilia and stuck out his hand. “Joseph Hendry, reporter for the Daily Independent.”
Emilia shook his hand. “Mrs. Phineas Collins.”
Pause. Then—“I didn’t know Finn had gotten married.”
“Proxy” was all Sheriff McCall answered.
“Hm.” This from Mr. Hendry. Had his face colored or was she imaging it?
Emilia gripped the haversack strap across her chest. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Hendry. You look like you have something else to say, so I shall leave you two to talk. Sheriff McCall, I’ll meet you at the surrey at eleven.”
Without waiting for a response from either man, she resumed the trek to the general store. She couldn’t fault anyone for being shocked
at learning Finn had married by proxy. Nor would she allow anyone to make her feel ashamed for being a mail-order bride. She’d done it for her family. She’d do it again if necessary.
A long bench sat out front, under the large display window.
She stopped and drew in a steadying breath, withdrawing a journal from her haversack. The grocer was no different from a Spiegel customer. She straightened her shoulders. Be gracious. Be firm. Be willing to lose a battle in order to win the war.
Emilia followed the dirt-tracked footprints inside the dark, damp building. Bagged, boxed, and canned goods—along with hats, guns, crockery, and pans—lined the shelves around every wall and up to the ceiling. Nothing near as organized or upscale as Spiegel, but a person could find anything she needed here. A coffin stood against a stack of crates. Boxes and barrels crammed the floor. Tables piled high with bolts of cloth. Spices. Baking powder. Oats. Flour, sugar, honey, and molasses. Bins and bins of coffee beans. Bagged tea leaves. Yet the musky smell of cigars and tobacco overpowered it all.
She made her way past the potbellied stove and a table with a chess set. On one side of the counter was a coffee grinder and scales. On the other side, the cash register.
“Hello,” she called out.
A red-faced, hearty man wearing a white apron exited the back room. Sleeves rolled up, he crossed his arms and leaned over the counter. “What can I help you with?”
Emilia opened her notebook and double-checked the list of creditors for the correct name. She smiled at the man. “I’m looking for Mr. Charles Cannon.”
He grinned. “You found him.”
“Excellent.” Emilia stretched out her hand and he shook it. “I’m Mrs. Phineas Collins, and I’m here to pay his debt.”
His mouth gaped for a second. “Uh, you don’t look old enough to be married. What are you fifteen? Sixteen?”
“I assure you, I’m twenty-one.”
He whistled. “Well, I’ll be. I heard his ranch was going up in a sheriff ’s sale.” He looked past her. “You know about her and Finn?”