Silken Dreams

by Bingham, Lisa

  “Soon,” she answered, taking a ragged breath. “We have to get Mrs. Magillicuddy into town.”

  “Lettie, I’ve been giving it some more thought and I don’t think it’s such a good idea for me to dress up like a woman.”

  “Be brave, Ethan,” she teased, then turned and clattered down the steps. At the bottom, she hesitated, looking up to see him peering at her over the edge of the railing. “Bye,” she mouthed, then slipped into the hall.

  She shut the door behind her and glanced up to find Alma and Amelia regarding her with curious gazes. Afraid of what they would see in her features, Lettie mumbled a good morning, then hurried down the staircase.

  Alma watched her with a considering look. “That girl’s up to something, wouldn’t you say, Sister?”

  Amelia glanced at Lettie’s retreating figure, then back at her sister. “She did seem a trifle flushed.”

  “I’d say she’s in love.”

  Amelia gasped. “Really? How can you tell?”

  “When a woman starts acting daft, it’s usually one of two things: love or senility.” Alma glanced at her sister, and her eyes twinkled. “Course, in our case, one can never tell, can they?”

  Chapter 13

  Breakfast at the boardinghouse was served at seven o’clock without deviation. Because of this, Lettie and her mother rose at dawn in order to prepare for the first meal of the day. On most occasions, the boarders arrived a little early. They would chatter and gather around the table, eat quickly, then disperse, intent upon their own daily tasks.

  But there was a difference today. Lettie could feel it. Jeb Clark’s death had cast a mood of mourning over the assembly. The boarders talked less frequently and their appetites were slightly off—all except for Natalie Gruber’s. She swept into the dining room, her features wreathed in smiles.

  “Good morning, all!” she called, then proceeded to settle herself on one of the far chairs, her spine at least three inches from the back of her chair, a snowy napkin carefully covering the peach dimity morning gown she wore. As the other boarders spoke of Jeb Clark in regretful murmurs, she began to dine upon one cup of tea, one slice of bacon, and one piece of nonbuttered bread, with her usual delicate enthusiasm.

  “It’s a shame, that’s what it is,” Alma Beasley stated with a sad shake of her head. “A man cut down in his prime. The person responsible should be shot!”

  At her words, Dorothy Rupert suddenly jumped from her chair, causing it to clatter behind her. “I’m sorry, I—” Holding a trembling hand to her mouth, she darted from the room.

  Amelia made a tsk-ing noise of concern. “Oh, dear. It must have been something you said, Sister.”

  Despite the embarrassment she felt at her own wayward tongue, Alma rolled her eyes.

  Lettie sighed and moved to right the chair, sliding it under the table. When she turned back, Mr. Goldsmith was stuffing a bright yellow napkin into the collar of his shirt and reaching for a helping of fried eggs. “I hear tell they’ll have the funeral tomorrow.” He scooped three eggs onto his plate, then a healthy portion of fried potatoes. “Ned, see to it that you exchange our train tickets to Chicago for a later time in the day so that we can attend.” He fixed Ned with a stern glance.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Goldsmith stuffed a forkful of dripping egg yolk into his mouth and chewed with eager enthusiasm. “I also hear tell there’s a hefty reward for the culprit,” he added, after swallowing and scooping another bite of food.

  Lettie stiffened and reached out to brush an imaginary crease from the tablecloth.

  “More than a thousand dollars, if I remember correctly. And they’ll take him dead or alive. Personally, I’d see to it I brought him in dead. I wouldn’t want to rastle with a no-account weasel like that.”

  Lettie’s heart began to pound, and her breathing became short. The Star had done this. The Star was to blame. If they had been doing their job correctly, they would have known Ethan wasn’t responsible.

  She looked up to find Alma regarding her in concern, Amelia in surprise, and Natalie with a piercing stare. Glancing down at her hand, Lettie saw that she had unconsciously grasped a thick fistful of the tablecloth and seemed ready to yank it free from the table.

  As casually as she could, Lettie released her grip and smoothed the wrinkles she’d caused. “I’ll just get some more coffee,” she muttered, then turned and strode from the room. Once in the hall, she leaned her back against the wall, taking deep, gulping breaths. She had to be more careful. The Star could be watching her even now, and the first wrong move could mean Ethan’s death.

  She glanced up, starting when she saw a man’s shadow stretching across the parlor floor. Pushing herself away from the wall, she crept toward the threshold until she could peer around the edge. Her fingers curled tightly around the woodwork when she found her brother standing at the far window, staring out at something in front of the house.

  “Good morning, Jacob,” Lettie remarked softly, stepping forward.

  Her brother jerked away from his intense study of the front yard. He’d seemed so deep in thought, she’d been hesitant to disturb him. But the expression on his face had not been one caused by pleasant thoughts.

  When he didn’t speak, Lettie moved farther into the room, gesturing behind her at the dining-room doors. “Did you come for breakfast?”

  “Yeah.”

  Despite the fact that he’d spoken in the affirmative, he turned to stare out of the window once again.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Her brother stiffened, then turned. “No. Nothing.”

  “You look tired. Did you sleep at all last night?”

  He gave a jerky nod, but Lettie knew he was lying. His features were pinched in exhaustion, and dark hollow circles punctuated his eyes.

  Lettie hesitantly took a step forward. “I’m sorry about Jeb,” she whispered, knowing how close her brother had been to the older man.

  His jaw hardened and he glanced away from her, seeming to blink against the sun streaming through the windows.

  “Has Abby been told?” she asked, referring to Jeb’s wife.

  Jacob clenched the brim of his hat in his hand, then slapped it against his thigh. “Yes. I—” He swallowed. “I told her.”

  “I’m so sorry, Jacob.” Impulsively, she moved to embrace him, lifting herself on tiptoe to slip her arms about his neck.

  He remained stiff for a moment, then something inside of him seemed to crumble and he hugged her back. “Damn, Lettie, why did it have to be him? He wasn’t supposed to be on that shipment. He was supposed to be home.…”

  Lettie held him even tighter, feeling his pain as her own. It had been a long, long time since she’d seen her proud brother this vulnerable.

  “He didn’t have to die,” Jacob continued. “He was shot in the hip. Hell! Men have lived from worse than that.”

  “Then how did it happen?”

  “The explosion. He must have died in the explosion.”

  Without warning, he jerked free of Lettie’s embrace. His arm swiped at his eyes, then he moved to brush by her, but Lettie reached out to grasp his arm.

  “Jacob, I—”

  At his harshly indrawn breath, she gazed at him in concern. Then she glanced down. A small patch of blood was beginning to seep through the white cotton of his shirt from a spot on the inside of his forearm.

  Lettie gasped. “You’ve hurt yourself! How in the world—”

  Jacob wrenched his hand away. “Don’t touch me. It’s none of your concern. I don’t need your coddling, Lettie. I’m not another of your wounded sparrows. I’m in control of this one.”

  Lettie took an involuntary step backward as if he’d slapped her. “I see,” she murmured stiffly.

  “Lettie!” he called, reaching out to stop her. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “Then just what did you mean, Jacob?”

  “I…” He sighed. “I’m just tired. Don’t pay me any mind. I’m sorry.�
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  “Let me take a look at that.” She gestured to his arm. “If I don’t, you’ll get an infection.”

  “No.” His voice became firm. “I just came for breakfast.”

  “Jacob, you can’t leave a bleeding wound untended. At least let me bandage it.”

  But her brother wouldn’t listen to her; he merely stepped around her and refused to answer.

  Sighing in disgust at Jacob’s pig-headed stubbornness, Lettie marched into the dining room. Before he left, she’d see to it that his arm was washed and bandaged. Even if she had to hog-tie him to the chair in order to do it.

  In the end, she accomplished the feat by “accidentally” spilling coffee down the front of his shirt. Jacob swore and darted into the kitchen to strip his shirt away and splash cold water over his chest. When he turned, Lettie stood behind him with her mother’s basket of bandages and ointments.

  “Sit down.”

  His eyes narrowed in dawning anger. “Lettie, that was a low-down, rotten, sneaky trick.”

  “Sit down.”

  When Celeste Grey entered the room, Jacob reluctantly took a seat on the far end of one of the trestle benches lining the kitchen table.

  Lettie stood at the head of the table, motioning for Jacob to stretch out his arm. She gasped at the horizontal cut made across the upper portion of his forearm. “How in the world did you get this?”

  Jacob glanced at his mother, then mumbled, “I cut myself shaving.”

  Lettie shot him a look of sibling disgust at his sarcastic comment, but, sensing he would not say more in her mother’s presence, she set the basket on the table and moved to pump fresh water into a basin.

  After Celeste Grey had examined Jacob’s arm and chided him for not taking better care of himself, she returned to the dining room, instructing Lettie to care for the wound.

  The moment she’d gone, Lettie walked back to the table and set the basin next to Jacob’s arm. Taking a scrap of flannel, she began to swipe away the blood. As the wound was wiped bare, she noted that the cut was cleanly made—as if it had, indeed, been made with a straight-edged razor.

  Lettie glanced at the door between the kitchen and dining room to ensure her mother was truly gone, then commanded in a low voice, “Now tell me what really happened.”

  Jacob winced beneath her ministrations. “I told you: I cut myself.”

  “Don’t he to me, Jacob Grey.”

  “Why not, Lettie? You’ve been lying to me.”

  A chill feathered through her body and she looked up, but Jacob didn’t press the issue. He was staring at his arm and the collection of ointments in the basket.

  “I think that’s fine now, Lettie. You don’t have to use that—”

  Ignoring his words, Lettie chose a jar of ointment and quickly unsnapped the iron wires that held it shut.

  “Lettie, I told you that was enough! You don’t have to—”

  Without compunction, she slapped a healthy measure of ointment into the cut, despite the fact that she knew it would sting on the open wound like the fires of hell.

  “Dammit, Lettie! You didn’t have to use so much!”

  “This cut hasn’t been bandaged. You’re lucky your arm didn’t turn green and fall off.” Taking a roll of bandages from the basket, she began to bind the wound in quick, no-nonsense motions. “How did you get it, Jacob?”

  He refused to speak.

  Her fingers tightened for a moment on his arm, before she quickly tied a knot in the ends of the bandages. “It’s a clean cut. Looks almost as if you made it yourself.”

  At her words, Jacob wrenched free. “Keep out of this, Lettie.”

  “You’re my brother!”

  He regarded her with dark eyes. “Then it’s about time you remembered that fact. I’ve been good to you, Lettie. I’ve taken care of you and protected you.”

  “And smothered me!” she blurted, then slapped a hand over her mouth in regret. But it was far too late to retrieve the hasty words.

  Jacob looked as if he’d been struck.

  “I’m sorry, Jacob. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “But you meant it, didn’t you?” When she didn’t speak, he added more forcefully, “Didn’t you?”

  “Yes!” She took a calming breath. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. I’m not a little girl, Jacob. I’m a woman. And I can’t have an overprotective brother hovering over me every minute.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I ever inconvenienced you,” Jacob growled, snatching his hat and shirt from the table and striding from the room.

  “Jacob!” She lifted her skirts and darted after him. “Jacob, I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Jacob!”

  But he didn’t listen, didn’t pause. He simply stormed from the house and slammed the door behind him. Lettie stood in the front hall, in full view of the boarders, feeling that she’d failed some sort of a test.

  And lost her very best friend in the process.

  Jacob paused a few yards away from the house and turned to glance over his shoulder. For weeks now, he’d been fighting the gut instinct that something was out of place at the Grey Boardinghouse. And though he’d fought his suspicions, Jacob was beginning to believe that it was not the house itself that had somehow changed.

  But his sister.

  Nearly an hour later, Celeste Grey strode into the kitchen, where Lettie was finishing the last of the breakfast dishes. “Lettie, I need you to take the buggy into town and pick up supplies at the dry goods.”

  Lettie straightened slightly, eyeing her mother in surprise. Celeste usually made the trips to the dry goods, since she and Mr. Schmidt had a long-time routine of haggling for the best prices and arguing over the choicest goods.

  “I meant to go myself,” Celeste continued without pause, “but because of Mr. Clark’s funeral, the ladies’ auxiliary has asked me to do some baking for the supper afterward.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  As if her mother already had her mind on the task ahead, she took a voluminous apron from the hook on the inside of the pantry and wrapped it around her waist.

  “I put a list on the hutch by the back door. Take the Beasleys if they wish to go. Or perhaps our new boarder, Mrs. Magillicuddy, would like a chance to ride into town. You could show her the area, help her get acquainted. That is, if you can find her,” Celeste muttered. “I knocked on her door, hoping to introduce myself, and the woman didn’t even answer.”

  “Sh-she’s a little hard of hearing,” Lettie blurted.

  Her mother sighed. “I suppose that explains it. Though I had hoped to get her first week’s fee ahead of time. If she decides to go into town with you, get her money for the room first, understand?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Lettie quickly dropped her gaze to the last plate she’d been scrubbing so that her mother wouldn’t see the sudden delight that leapt through her body. This was just the opening she’d been waiting for. She and Ethan could hurry into town, then hurry back.

  “I’ve also fixed a basket of jams and a loaf of bread for Mrs. Clark, if you’d please stop by for a condolence call. Assure her that the church has made all of the arrangements for the meal after the services, and she isn’t to trouble herself.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Lettie placed the plate atop the stack on the hutch and untied her apron. “I’ll just change into something more suitable,” she added quickly.

  “Yes, of course, dear.”

  Not waiting another moment, for fear her mother would change her mind, Lettie lifted her skirts and rushed up the back stairs, stripping her apron from her waist as she went. After carefully knocking on the Beasleys’ bedroom door, she gathered a few supplies, then hurried upstairs. At the garret door, she paused to glance behind her, then unlocked the door and slipped inside.

  “Ethan?” she whispered, tiptoeing upstairs.

  She’d only taken a few steps before she heard his soft curse, and Ethan stepped from behind the edge of the armoire and released the hammer to hi
s revolver.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, climbing the staircase.

  “It’s all right.”

  A sweet, sticky silence settled between them for a moment, before Ethan strode across the room and slid his revolver beneath the pillows of the bed.

  “You seem a little tense,” Lettie remarked, noting the way his shoulders seemed to be pressed back in a rigid line against the fabric of his shirt.

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “Ethan—”

  “I’m fine, Lettie,” he bit out. Then he sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to snap at you.”

  “What’s happened?” she whispered.

  He shrugged. “Some of your boarders have simply become a little too inquisitive. I hear their footsteps stopping outside the door.”

  “Has anyone tried to come in?” she asked in concern.

  “No.”

  Though his features remained bland, Lettie knew Ethan was lying. But as if a tacit command had been given, neither of them voiced their newest concern. Instead, they avoided looking at each other and gazed about the room instead.

  “Any luck?” Lettie finally asked, gesturing to the periodicals strewn about on the opposite end of the bed.

  Ethan shook his head. He bent to lift one of the crumpled newspapers he’d managed to retrieve from Goldsmith’s room. “No. None of it makes any sense.”

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured again, sensing his frustration and his mounting tension, but knowing no way of easing it.

  “Damn!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Who would possibly do this to me? Who would hate me so much that they would go to such extremes to see me hanged for crimes I haven’t committed?” He threw the newspaper onto the bed and strode across the room to the window.

  Lettie crossed to retrieve the periodical, reading the article he had just abandoned. In a florid, journalistic style, the excerpt outlined one of the first robberies to hit the area.

  “You couldn’t possibly have robbed the railway offices in Eastbrook. It says here that the thief climbed in through a third-story window after jumping onto the roof from a nearby hotel balcony.” She issued a short snort of humor. “You wouldn’t have made it outside of the window.”