by Gina Welborn
The best plan? Walt Whitman would hang his head in shame if he knew that all the hours Mac had spent reading poetry resulted in such a lame proposal. If he’d had time, he could have composed something—stolen a poet’s words, if need be—to explain how her smile transfixed him, dreaming of her kiss made his lips tingle, her nearness was pleasure and pain.
If he’d had time, he could have done it up right, but they didn’t have time.
“Hendry will print the article on Saturday. I’ll be out of town on sheriff ’s business. We need to be married by then so I can protect you from whatever backlash the scandal generates.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by backlash? And don’t give me the short version. Use full sentences.” She pointed at him. “The whole explanation.”
Why couldn’t she trust him? For once, just put her hand in his and say, I know you’ll do what’s best. Was that too much to ask when he was kneeling before her, a man in love who also happened to be a sheriff wanting to protect her?
Mac pulled himself together. Right now she wanted the sheriff instead of the man, so that’s what he’d give her. “A lot of people saw my mother walk Luci into her hotel. I’d like to think they won’t fault a twelve-year-old girl for that, but I can’t be sure. And, if I can’t find something solid to refute Hendry’s story, once his article goes to press, there’s no telling how people around Helena will react. Some may see you and Luci as victims, others may decide you’re tainted with the same brush as Finn, and those who saw Luci enter my mother’s brothel might start whispering. You may lose your jobs.” Mac took her hand in his once more, braving rejection for the second time. “If you and I marry, it will at least protect your reputation. Whether we believe Finn is innocent or not, I don’t want to see you lose the ranch. If we leave in the next two minutes, we can get to City Hall, register for a marriage license, and get married before I have to leave town on Thursday.”
“I can’t.”
His stomach hardened with dread. “You can’t believe Finn would do this or you can’t marry me?” Please let it be the first. Please, God, let it be the first.
“I can’t marry you.”
Mac slumped, his heels digging into his backside. “I don’t see that you have much choice.”
Chapter Nineteen
Emilia knew her mouth was gaping in a most unbecoming manner but—good heavens—he was making a proverbial mountain out of a molehill. Of at least one molehill. The deed of trust, if authentic, was indeed a problem, but not one she couldn’t manage. Every problem had a solution. Given time and more than a few prayers, she’d think of one.
“No choice?” she repeated. “I won’t be forced into marrying anyone. Even you.” If he told her to trust him one more time, she’d scream.
Mac’s palm cupped her elbow. “I love you. Let me help with this. Marry me, please. If we leave now—”
“No.” She slid out of the chair and moved to the other side of Mr. Gunderson’s desk to put needed space between them. She couldn’t think with him clinging to her as if she was his anchor. He shot to his feet. She followed his tense gaze to the wall clock, knowing exactly what he was thinking. If they raced on horseback, they could make it to City Hall before it closed. If they left now. If they had a horse.
If...
She turned to him. His gaze was serious, his posture stiff. “Stop and think.” Realizing she had done this dramatic motion with her hands, she lowered them. “Most people in town know Madame Lestraude is your mother. No reasonable person will think she had nefarious intentions regarding Luci. No reasonable person will think Luci’s reputation is forever damaged because she was inside a brothel for all of three minutes. You even admitted you were there for most of that time.”
“You don’t know how things are here.” Mac crossed his arms. “Finn’s creditors won’t be so forgiving.”
“Why do you assume the worst of people?”
His eyes narrowed. “If I’m right—”
“Then I’ll figure out a solution.”
“I’ve already figured out one,” he insisted. “Marry me!”
“No!” she bellowed back, unable to contain her own frustration. “I’m sick of you trying to solve things for me. Your own prejudice and panic has you—you—” She growled under her breath. She thought he’d changed, thought he’d learned it wasn’t his place to interfere in other people’s lives.
Emilia rubbed at the tension between her brows. Ten minutes ago she’d been dusting and dreaming of marrying Mac. Now he’d proposed and she’d refused. Why? Wasn’t this precisely what she’d wanted from the first moment he’d professed his love? If they hadn’t wasted who knows how long, in no rush to return to Helena, they would have been back in time for Mac to have been in his office when Luci arrived to see him.
Emilia felt sick.
This was her fault. Hers. For not being mindful of the time of day. For putting her own desire to spend time with Mac ahead of caring for her sister. Not again. She couldn’t permit that to happen again.
She looked to him. “If that deed of trust is authentic—and I don’t believe it is—then I’ll find a way to retire the debt to Madame Lestraude.” It might take months, even years, but she would do it.
His brow furrowed. “You’re underestimating the power of Hendry’s article.”
“That’s possible,” she admitted. She didn’t know enough people in Helena to fairly gauge how the rumor about Finn would be received. “But I choose to believe in the goodness of people, in their ability to think reasonably, in the logic of judging a man by his proven actions and not on the salacious hearsay of others.”
“I have to leave town on Thursday.” He grabbed his hat off Mr. Gunderson’s desk. “I won’t be here when the article appears.”
“Can’t one of your deputies cover for you?”
“I’m the sheriff.”
Which was exactly why he could do the heroic thing and task someone else with the job. If he wanted to. Clearly he didn’t. He cared more about his job than standing up for her. For Luci. For Finn.
“Well,” she said slowly, “are you at least going to give Hendry a comment for the article before you”—flee—“go?”
“There’s nothing to say.”
Emilia stared at him, her mouth gaping again in an unladylike manner. Who was this callous man she’d fallen in love with? “You could at least defend your friend,” she cried out. “Finn would have. He would have risked his life, his reputation, for someone he loved.”
Mac slid his hat on his head and stepped to the door. “I hope you’re right about people.”
“Me, too, but . . .” She paused until he looked at her over his shoulder. “I’m beginning to believe I’m not as good a judge of people as I thought I was.”
* * *
Mac stormed out of The Resale Co., mounted Lightning, and touched his spurs to the gray’s flanks. The massive horse gave a snort and leaped into a full gallop. One benefit of working for the sheriff ’s office for the last six years was that people assumed he was on his way to an emergency when he raced through town at reckless speeds.
Did wanting to barricade himself in his office qualify?
You could at least defend your friend.
What more did she want? Fabricated evidence? Lies?
Although he sometimes exaggerated his authority to encourage compliance, Mac wasn’t corrupt. He didn’t bribe witnesses, hide facts that didn’t fit his theory of a case, or let the guilty go free in exchange for favors. Guilt was guilt and innocence was innocence. That was how a lawman built trust in his community.
So why didn’t Emilia trust him?
He leaned lower in the saddle, encouraging Lightning to gallop faster the moment they turned onto West Main Street.
After she’d shared her hopes and fears over lunch this past week, after telling him she loved him, why hadn’t she believed in him enough to say yes? Was it more of her nonsense about being indebted to anyone who ever wanted to do somethi
ng nice for her? He’d thought she was past that.
Finn would have risked his life, his reputation, for someone he loved.
No words could wound more. Mac hadn’t given up, not for two full months. He’d followed leads, kept his undersheriff working the case when he was out of town, worked his contacts. In short, he’d done everything he could to clear his friend—the one he’d known for six and a half years, not ten months through letters. Why couldn’t she see that? Did she think he wanted to believe his best friend would agree to let a madam take payment out of his bride, or that his mother was so callous she’d take four hundred dollars out of a respectable woman against her will?
Mac pulled Lightning to a stop, his hands gentle on the reins to keep his rioting emotions from causing the horse pain. After looping the reins over the hitching rail, Mac raced into City Hall, not bothering to return Mr. Dunfree’s greeting.
O’Mara and Alderson were just about to lock up when Mac ran in. “My office, both of you.”
The deputies followed. Mac filled them in on everything he knew and suspected about Finn’s case before three this afternoon, then told them about the deed of trust and Hendry’s article.
O’Mara took a pencil and small notebook out of his vest pocket. “What do you need from us, boss?”
“Keenan and I were testing out a theory that Finn was smuggling girls out of prostitution instead of in to it. We were trying to be discreet, but we’re past that now. Starting tomorrow, you two are going to hit the streets and check every contact, follow every lead, and turn over every rock to see what you find.”
Alderson bobbed his head. “What are you going to do?”
“Same thing, only I’m starting tonight.” Work was the only thing that would keep Emilia’s rejection from playing over and over in his head.
O’Mara and Alderson looked at each other before facing Mac. “Then so are we.”
* * *
From Monday night until Thursday morning, Mac and his deputies worked the red-light district in between their other duties, Keenan joining in when he returned from Augusta on Wednesday afternoon. Even though they came up empty, no one—no one—could say they hadn’t done everything possible to clear Finn’s name. Mac checked the clock hanging above the door leading into the hall. He had an hour before his appointment with Joseph Hendry.
Should he stop by The Resale Co. and tell Emilia everything he’d done to restore Finn’s name? Would it matter? Mac pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d failed. The article was going to press. And she didn’t want his help even if there was something more he could do—something other than marry her.
After thanking his men for all their hard work, Mac headed home, packed a bag with enough supplies for a week just in case the trial in Marysville stretched long, and then headed to the offices of the Daily Independent.
Hendry greeted him with a handshake, then ushered him into a small office more cluttered than Hale’s. “Sorry about the mess.”
Mac squeezed past Hendry into the corner. “Promotion?”
“No. It’s a community office we all use, mostly for storage. I just thought we might need some privacy. I know”—Hendry held up a hand—“ironic, all things considered.”
“That’s one word for it.” After all, the man was about to run a shocking article that would drag Emilia’s name into homes all across Montana Territory.
With a sheepish grin, Hendry shut the door, muffling the sound of clattering typewriters, a ringing telephone, and clamoring male voices. “My sources say you’ve been making quite a ruckus in the red-light district, asking if Finn Collins was smuggling girls out of prostitution.”
Mac tossed his hat on top of the cluttered desk, then rested his right hand on his gun handle. “It was a theory. Didn’t pan out.”
“I could have told you that.” Hendry sat on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms. “I was following the same theory before Finn’s murder but could never substantiate it.”
“Meaning no offense, but I like to track down my own leads.”
Hendry smiled. “No offense taken. In fact, it’s why I respect you so much.” The reporter used his affability like a weapon, getting people to wag their tongues when they’d have done better to keep quiet.
Mac wasn’t falling for it. He tapped his index finger on the gun handle. “You said we needed privacy. Why?”
Smile fading, Hendry pressed the heels of his hands against the desk’s edge. “Um . . . here’s the thing. I knew, of course, that Mrs. Collins was married by proxy, but . . .” His cheeks stained pink. “I didn’t know it was Miss Palmer. I just assumed it was one of the ladies from the district.”
So he was moon-eyed over Yancey. And the thought of making her a public spectacle was discomforting.
Good. Served him right.
Hendry rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m aware of how hypocritical this is—especially considering your affection for Mrs. Collins and how I’m refusing to back down—but I’d like to keep Miss Palmer’s name out of the story.”
Mac’s jaw loosened. Was he supposed to congratulate the man for being aware? Forgive him because he acknowledged the hypocrisy? And since when did Hendry ask for permission about anything he printed? “The proxy’s a matter of public record.”
“I know, but people don’t check these things. Facts are what the newspaper tells them they are.” Hendry had the grace to look chagrined. “Look, I’m asking because I know how unfair this is. You and I have a working relationship based on mutual respect. I don’t want to damage that. The thing is, I can’t tell the story of Finn’s treachery without it touching Mrs. Collins. I can without pointing at Miss Palmer. I believe both women are completely innocent, and I promise I’ll make that clear in the article.”
The logic was sound, although that didn’t soften the sting of unfairness. Mac inhaled, taking time to let air fill his lungs before exhaling through pursed lips. “Implicating Yancey serves no purpose.”
Hendry closed his eyes for a moment, his posture wilting. “I appreciate this.”
Mac pointed a finger at the reporter. “But next time you decide to write a story involving innocents, I hope you’ll remember this moment and how you wanted to protect someone you care about from being named in one of your articles.”
“I will.” Hendry’s cheeks went pink again. The sporting thing to do was warn him that Yancey Palmer would never give him a second look because she was so set on Hale Adams.
But Mac had already done the reporter one favor. “Was that all?”
Hendry nodded. “Unless you have a quote for me.”
Mac dug his prewritten statement from his coat pocket.
Hendry took the paper and read aloud, “‘The investigation into Finn Collins’s death is ongoing. Given the time constraints, the county sheriff ’s office didn’t have time to conduct a thorough investigation to confirm or deny these allegations before the story went to press, nor could they confirm or deny whether these allegations played into Mr. Collins’s death.’” Hendry gave Mac a look of disgust. “This is boring.”
Mac grabbed his hat off the desk. “Glad you like it.”
Chapter Twenty
Saturday, May 28
Emilia knelt, broom in one hand, dustpan in the other. She glared at the mound of dirt. When she’d walked inside The Resale Co. this morning, the floor hadn’t looked dusty. But in the past two days she’d spent at Mr. Inger’s boot shop and cleaning Dr. Abernathy’s office, a thin layer of dirt had built up on everything. From the chandeliers and baskets overhead to the pine-planked floor. Worst thing was, no matter how much cleaning she did today, by Monday, the grime would be back. When she returned to the cabin, dust would cover everything there, too.
Her life had come down to cleaning up messes.
One pile at a time.
“Someone has to do it,” she muttered before sweeping the pile onto the dustpan. She stood and, at the sound of laughter, looked to the propped-open door. Customers?
Tw
o ladies in elegant walking suits strolled in front of the window. Their behavior—glance inside, huddle close, hurry past—no different than that of other townsfolk who’d walked by without stopping on this cloudy morning.
“Don’t mind them.”
Emilia turned to her left. Mr. Gunderson stood there, tie askew, suit coat missing, sleeves of his white shirt rolled up. In his hands, the dainty teacups and saucers looked like they were from a child’s teaset. He offered her one per his usual midmorning habit when she worked at The Resale Co. According to him, tea was best when enjoyed with a friend.
She set the dustpan on the floor, rested the broom against the counter, and then took the saucer. “Thank you.”
He grinned. “My pleasure.”
She sipped the Darjeeling tea, prepared the way Mr. Gunderson preferred it. No milk. Lots of sugar. Sweet musky spiciness to delight in. For a man Isaak Gunderson’s size, one would think he, like his brother, was a coffee drinker. Or, at the bare minimum, would drink tea out of a hearty clay mug. Not so. He preferred china. White bone. A silver band around the edge. Decorated with tiny flowers.
“The first day I worked here,” she said, glancing at the door, “there was a line outside the store. Today not one person has stepped foot over the threshold.”
“Not uncommon for a Saturday.”
Emilia looked to him and blinked. “One hundred and eight people have walked past, but keep in mind, I didn’t start counting until the second hour of work.”
The expression on his face indicated he wasn’t impressed with her mathematical skills. “It isn’t because of you.” Said in his usual dry tone.
Emilia raised her brows.
He mimicked her action and then sipped his tea.
Emilia sipped hers.
Thanks to Mr. Hendry’s article, the word was out that Madame Lestraude had paid Finn four hundred dollars to conscript Emilia and Luci into prostitution . . . and that the madam had recently attempted to recover her losses with Luci, though her actions had been thwarted by the county sheriff. By Mac. By her son. In case the madam’s quotes weren’t enough proof, the article included a picture of the deed of trust. When Finn had signed it, he’d agreed to begin making payments within three months. Three months had been Emilia’s original arrival date. It had to be coincidental. Finn wouldn’t have worked for a madam.