The Promise Bride

by Gina Welborn

  If building a wall between the two of them was what it took to convince him to leave them alone, so be it.

  Deputy Alderson released his hold on the door. “The choice is yours.”

  And so she left. Doing so was best for both of them.

  Chapter Eleven

  Wednesday, May 4

  7:59 A.M.

  “Morning, Sheriff.”

  Mac dipped his chin to acknowledge the city clerk. “Mr. Dunfree.”

  “Haven’t seen you in, what? Two weeks?”

  “Three.” In no mood to chitchat with a man who made it his business to know everyone else’s, Mac weaved through the crowd to the opposite side of the hallway on the way to his office. The overabundance of people almost made him miss the solitude of riding the long, oddly shaped Lewis and Clark County with nothing but a quartet of horses and a deputy county assessor who liked the silence more than Mac did. Helena sat in the bottom corner of the county, so covering the entire landscape was long and arduous. Or maybe it was just the grim work this year.

  Every March, the county sheriff and an assessor went out to the remote areas around Helena to collect property taxes. This year, because of the late thaw and the weeks when every able-bodied man was needed to dispose of livestock carcasses, the annual tax collecting rounds had been postponed. The month-long reprieve mattered little to those left devastated by the hard winter. Not surprisingly, the big operations suffered the most. Some of them were selling cattle for as little as two dollars a head. If Finn ran into an outfit selling off that cheap, maybe he didn’t owe as much as Hale suspected.

  “Sheriff, when you have a minute, we need to go over the new list of delinquent taxes,” Deputy O’Mara called from behind a stack of papers piled a foot high on his desk.

  “Give me five minutes.” Mac stepped into his office, hung his hat and coat on the peg behind the door, and settled in behind his desk. The mound of messages was more than double the usual for a three-week absence. By the time he read Luci Stanek at 3:40 P.M. for the tenth time, he figured she’d popped over every day after school for the past two weeks. The route between Central School and City Hall took her through the heart of the red-light district. For her own safety, she either needed to take a circumspect route or walk five blocks in the opposite direction straight from school to The Resale Co.

  “Sheriff, you got a minute to talk about the Collins case?”

  Mac looked up at Undersheriff Keenan’s voice. As second in command, he’d been put in charge of investigating Finn’s murder. “Sure.”

  Keenan closed the door before sitting down. “I ran down that lead from the Red Star Saloon.”

  Mac sat forward. “And?”

  “I’m afraid it raises more questions than it answers.”

  Of course it did.

  Keenan reached inside his vest. He withdrew a small notebook and opened it to a dog-eared page. “According to the bartender who was on duty on April 2, Finn arrived around seven thirty in the evening and ordered a shot of whiskey. Bartender, a guy named”—he checked his notes—“Vincent Humphries, remembers that some sort of fight broke out that required him to come out from behind the counter. In the commotion, he never got Finn’s payment, so he put it down as a tab.”

  Sounded reasonable . . . except for Finn ordering whiskey and being at a saloon in the first place.

  “Here’s where it gets odd.” Keenan pointed to the words in his journal. “Bartender says Finn had been into the saloon at least two, maybe three other times, all of them months apart. Every time, he sat at the end of the bar and nursed his one drink for a good hour, then downed the whole thing and left. But in April, Finn disappeared during the fight. When Humphries got back to the counter, Finn’s shot of whiskey was still full.”

  Mac rubbed his chin. “What do you make of it?”

  Keenan closed his notebook. “Given that you said Finn Collins swore off drinking, I asked Humphries if he ever actually saw Finn down his whiskey.”

  “Good question.”

  “Humphries said he couldn’t say for sure.” Keenan grinned. “And guess what’s at the end of the bar where Finn always sat?”

  “Not in the mood for guessing.”

  The undersheriff smiled bigger. “A spittoon.”

  Mac sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “So Finn could have dumped his whiskey while no one was watching.”

  “Exactly. After nursing it along for an hour to blend in while he did whatever it was he’d actually come to do.”

  “Which was?”

  Keenan shrugged. “No idea, and I decided against asking pointed questions like we discussed.”

  Before leaving town, Mac had shared his suspicions about Finn helping girls escape prostitution with his undersheriff. Keenan said he’d be discreet while investigating, and that he’d keep a sharp eye on Mrs. Collins and Luci Stanek in case anyone came looking for revenge on Finn through them. “Good work. Let me know if you see or hear anything else.”

  “Yes, sir.” Keenan scooted out of the chair and left the office.

  O’Mara was waiting to come in with his list of tax delinquencies. “Now, or do you need another five?”

  “Now’s fine.”

  As expected, the list of those who couldn’t pay their property taxes had grown by at least twenty. Mac exhaled his relief when he passed the surnames that started with C without finding Mr. Phineas Collins. One bright spot in a bleak landscape. He filled O’Mara in on his trip with the county assessor. “Mr. Wiggins has the list of those we visited who were unable to pay. He’ll bring it over as soon as he’s registered the names at the county assessor’s office.”

  “Bad?”

  Mac nodded. “At least five places were abandoned, so we tacked notices on the doors that payment was due in ten days or the places would be sold at auction.”

  O’Mara handed over a beautifully penned letter on thick vellum. “From Lord Hugh Bradley. Short version is he’s not returning to Montana to assess his damages. We’re welcome to sell off what we can to pay his taxes.”

  “Nice of him to let us know, I guess.” Mac set down the letter. “Big crowd outside. I’m assuming you posted notices of local properties going up for auction.”

  “First thing this morning. I’m not sure if people came to see the list because they were interested in bidding or grateful not to be on it.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Auction is going to be bloody.”

  Every year, when properties were sold to pay tax debts, people with money snatched up land, homes, and even household possessions for pennies on the dollar. Isaak Gunderson would be bidding on items for The Resale Co.; Judge Forsythe, Charles Cannon, and J. P. Fisk would no doubt get into another shouting match in their rivalry to outbid one another on various properties; and Chicago Joe, Madame Lestraude, and Big Jane—the most successful brothel owners—would buy up places either to expand their flesh trade or diversify with legitimate businesses. This year there would be enough property to satiate all of them.

  After Deputy O’Mara finished detailing the owners who needed to be notified to either pay their full tax bill or vacate, he left the office. A steady stream of other visitors followed. It was a quarter past noon when Mac left the office for lunch. Deciding to get a little work done while everyone else was out, he walked across West Main Street to The Last Chance Café and ordered a turkey sandwich to go.

  Hale Adams sat alone at a corner table reading a newspaper.

  Mac weaved through the crowded tables. “Mind if I join you for a minute?”

  Hale lowered the paper. “When did you get back in town?”

  “Last night.” Mac pulled out the second chair and sat. “Remind me again why I agreed to be sheriff.”

  “This was your first time collecting property taxes from the outlying areas, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rough year for your initiation.” Hale folded his newspaper in half and laid it beside a half-eaten ham and cheese sandwich. �
�But I don’t think you came here for my sympathy.”

  Mac leaned his elbows on the table. “I have some news we’ll need to discuss later, but first tell me how Mrs. Collins and her siblings are doing.”

  “Fine.” Hale took a sip of his coffee.

  For the first time in his life, Mac understood why people got exasperated with his short answers. “Just fine?”

  A quizzical expression pinched Hale’s eyebrows together. “She goes to work, they all go to church, no one has died or even been severely injured.”

  Mac huffed with exasperation. “Fine.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Itching to shake more details out of his friend, Mac leaned closer to Hale to quietly inform him that he had news about Finn. When someone came too close to their table, Mac spoke louder. “Collins property isn’t delinquent on taxes.”

  Hale nodded.

  Needing a new topic of conversation, Mac dropped his gaze to the paper. “Anything interesting while I’ve been gone?”

  “Actually, yes.” Hale turned the paper and tapped his finger at a headline. “Joseph Hendry is making more noise.”

  “My mother warned me he was making enemies.”

  “Sheriff McCall!”

  Mac turned to see the counter clerk holding up a paper bag. “My lunch is ready. Are you available for dinner tonight?”

  “Sure. Gibbon’s Steak House?” Hale named his favorite restaurant in town.

  Mac stood. “No. I’ll bring something to your office tonight.”

  Hale opened his mouth, likely to protest because he preferred much richer dinners than Mac.

  “We’ll be able to have a private word then,” Mac added to make sure the purpose of dinner in the office was clear. After Hale nodded his understanding, Mac weaved around people to the lunch counter, grabbed the bag with a large sandwich protruding from one end, and returned to City Hall to catch up after his three weeks away.

  * * *

  “You’re back!” Luci Stanek burst into Mac’s office two hours later. She’d gained some weight and appeared happy. Mac barely had time to stand before she wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him tight. “I’ve missed you!”

  Mac patted her back. “I’ve missed you, too.”

  “You wouldn’t believe everything that’s happened since you’ve been gone.” She pulled away, a look of scolding in her chocolate-brown eyes. “You said you’d be gone two weeks.”

  “Two or three.”

  “No, you said two.” An impish smile lit her face. “But I forgive you. Now sit down and let me tell you what’s been going on.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He saluted for good measure, a grin threatening to spoil his mock subservience.

  Instead of sitting across from him, she paced back and forth, her hand doing as much talking as her mouth. She was full of Roch and Jakob, Jakob and Roch, Emme and Jakob, me and Jakob, until Mac was sick to death of Jakob. But at least it sounded like Roch had taken responsibility for the ranch chores by getting the barbed wire fencing up and beginning a corral.

  “You should have seen Roch and Jakob when they first started plowing. Oh . . . it was so funny.” Luci’s laughter was hard to resist. “One would handle the reins while the other pushed the plow into the soil. They fell over so many times and their rows were so uneven and Needles kept barking and barking, which made the horse even harder to control.”

  Mac chuckled at the picture she painted. “Sounds like you should have charged admission.”

  “But I shouldn’t laugh so much, at least not at Jakob. He’s been kind about getting me over my fear of dogs.”

  Mac cringed. “I’m sorry about that, Luci.”

  “It’s all right.” And off she went on a new topic: the wonderful Jakob Gunderson and Needles.

  According to Luci’s story, Gunderson deserved a medal—one Mac wanted to pin straight into the man’s massive chest. Just how much time had Jakob spent with the Staneks? With Em—Mrs. Collins? Was there a reason she’d accepted Gunderson’s help but given Mac the evil eye whenever he offered? Jealousy aside—because the green-eyed monster gripped his insides whenever he thought of Jakob and Finn’s widow together—Needles was Mac’s problem. He should have fixed it. Instead, he’d left town a couple of days later, and someone else had to clean up his mess. Not exactly the best way to earn Mrs. Collins’s respect, even if she had said she forgave him. He should have apologized to her the instant she told him, but between the hanging and her convoluted explanation, his patience was exhausted by the time he untangled who Needles was and why Luci was afraid of her.

  “. . . funny thing in the barn.”

  Mac jerked his attention back to Luci. “What thing?”

  “I don’t know. Emme found it last week. She said we should show it to you in case it was a clue.” Luci’s face sobered. “Do you think it could be . . . a clue?”

  “I don’t know. Can you describe this thing for me?”

  “Uh-huh.” She held her thumb and index finger about an inch-and-a-half apart. “It’s about this big and it’s shiny and it has a swirly-thing coming out of it.”

  Not exactly helpful. But Mac couldn’t dismiss anything at this point.

  “I can ask if I can bring it to school tomorrow, then I can come visit you again.” Anxiety filled her young face. She needed a friend, not a sheriff.

  “Miss Luci”—Mac leaned forward in his chair and took her hands in his—“you can come visit me any time. You don’t need an excuse. But I need you to promise me you’ll take Broadway to Main Street. Don’t walk down Joliet after you reach Broadway. Ever.”

  “I promise!” She beamed and threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Sheriff Mac.”

  “Just plain Mac, if you please.” He held her close for a minute before pulling back. “I need to ask you a quick question.”

  “All right.”

  “Do you think your sister would mind me coming out to the ranch so I can see where she found the funny thing?” Would she mind? Would he mind if she minded? He shouldn’t, but there was no denying how his pulse pounded at the idea of seeing her again . . . or how he dreaded the idea that she might not want to see him, too.

  Luci tilted her head. “Emme was furious at you. About Needles.”

  As she should be, and next chance he got, he’d offer her a full apology. Would that make her not mind seeing him again?

  Land’s sake! Wondering what Emilia Collins thought or wanted or needed frayed his edges.

  “But she’s better now.”

  “Whew, that’s good.” Mac wiped his brow with dramatic flair for Luci’s benefit, but he was careful to catch the actual beads of sweat collecting at his temple.

  Luci giggled. “She brought the funny thing to work with her. Do you want to go see it?”

  Chapter Twelve

  The poor man was no salesman.

  With a chuckle under her breath, Emilia stepped around a pair of grandfather clocks standing back-to-back to reach the table of oil lamps. Dusting furniture, though, paled in comparison to the theatrics playing out in the store this afternoon. Isaak Gunderson may be Jakob’s twin, but the Goliath had none of his brother’s easygoing charm, nor any of his stepfather’s renowned salesmanship, which drew customers from Missoula, Cheyenne, and even Denver. He must take after his mother. Not that Emilia would know, because Mrs. Pawlikowski had left Helena before they could meet. For all the twins shared about their mother, how could she not imagine Mrs. Pawlikowski to be anything but a saint?

  Much could be said about a man who sang his mother’s praises.

  Emilia tucked her duster under an arm, then stood on her tiptoes to look inside a glass chimney. How did that lint get in there? She pulled it out and dropped it onto the floor to be swept up later. After a glance to where Mr. Gunderson and Yancey Palmer stood talking, she resumed dusting, moving around the table as she worked.

  The twins were both affable enough fellows. Dutiful sons. Hard workers. Faithful in church attendance. Well
read. So how was it that a pair of twenty-one-year-old men as handsome and financially secure as the Gunderson twins weren’t married? Or even courting?

  All right, how was it Jakob didn’t have a girl?

  Young women flocked around him at church. Even Miss Palmer, Jakob’s closest friend, had admitted she’d had no luck matchmaking Jakob to one of his plethora of admirers. Jakob should have a girl yet strangely didn’t, even though he’d told Luci there was a lady he favored. Mr. Gunderson should have a girl, too, but the reason for his static bachelorhood was clear.

  Despite how much she admired Isaak Gunderson’s organizational skills and his this-is-what-must-be-done-and-this-is-the-best-way-to-do-it attitude, the man was too serious. Like Sheriff McCall, he needed to smile more . . . well, smile. Even a smirk would do. And laugh. If only she could teach her employer how to be charming and complimentary without being a flatterer. She had to help him. Had to. He and Yancey Palmer were quite suited. If Miss Palmer would give him a chance, Mr. Gunderson would prove to be a devoted husband. Emilia was sure of it.

  “Isaaaaaaak,” Miss Palmer said, elongating his name until it was more like a groan.

  Emilia stopped dusting and looked their way.

  “Are you not listening to me?” Miss Palmer asked. “Luanne and Roy don’t need matching daggers. Stop showing me knives.”

  He said nothing for a long moment. Then—“So you don’t want these?”

  “I already said I didn’t.”

  He fiddled with his loosened tie, which seemed to annoy him, like the button at his collar that never stayed buttoned. “You do know every married couple needs knives?”

  “Hopefully not after their first fight.”

  Emilia snickered.

  Miss Palmer took the knives from Mr. Gunderson and laid them back on the counter. Emilia couldn’t see Miss Palmer’s face because of the exquisite feathered derby she wore, but she could imagine the expression: pained tolerance.