Christine shuddered. Spiders gave her the willies.
And when the lawman’s gaze traveled up and down, as she clutched the threadbare towel around her bare body, she knew how it felt to be prey. The lamb to be sacrificed for Mama’s sins—and these ladies’ complaints against his lackluster performance as a lawman.
Christine blinked, refusing to cry. Tucker wasn’t due back for a couple of hours—so she’d have to act fast. No hysterics, because Harley Carson was growing more disgusted with each disgruntled remark these old ladies made.
“Please! Listen to me!” she said in the strongest voice she could muster.
They turned wary eyes her way—but they stopped talking. For the first time in weeks, Christine prayed.
Lord, if You’ll give me the right words, I promise You—
“So you’ve got a photograph? What’ll that prove?” a widow in brown calico challenged. “We already know what you look like.”
“But you’ll see that it’s my—” Christine squeezed her eyes shut against the most painful, humiliating thing she’d ever had to say. “It was my mother who sold you those Bibles, and—”
“Oh, for the love of God! Can you believe—?”
“What sort of girl would accuse her own mother of—”
“Quiet! All of you!”
The little room filled with the sheriff’s presence, even though he remained in the doorway. The ladies pressed their lips into thin, tight lines, awaiting his judgment.
“It seems simple enough,” Carson grumbled. “Not like she’s pointing a pistol or can pull a knife from her stocking, for Pete’s sake. Polly, you stand at the door while she gets dressed. Matilda, you go fetch the valise—and that photograph—from her room. I’ll wait for you in the parlor, if you honestly think she needs to be in jail for—”
“You damn well better believe—”
“If you won’t handle this, Sheriff, we’ll take the law into our own—”
“Oh, shut up! All of you!” he barked. “Get back to your own homes—or whatever it is you do all day—and I’ll take care of her. Go on, now!”
Still clutching her towel, Christine caught the ladies’ final dark looks as they filed out. Harriet Butterfield, waiting to be last, paused to look down her nose at Sheriff Carson as though she might whack him with her defiled Bible.
“Worthless!” she hissed at him. And then she stalked off.
Chapter Sixteen
“High time we got to the bottom of this—no thanks to you, Sheriff!”
“Now that we’ve corralled this crooked woman, you could at least see that justice is done.”
“Amen to that!”
From behind the bars of her jail cell, Christine watched the ladies parade out the door of Harley Carson’s tiny office. After the racket of their shrill voices died away, the silence was a real relief. The sheriff remained in the doorway, shaking his head.
What would he do to her? How could she make this man with eyes like spiders see her side?
When he turned around, Christine felt acutely aware that her hair was hanging in damp, uncombed clumps and that her crumpled clothes stank despite the bath she’d had. Lord, if any of her friends from school saw her this way—
But again, this wasn’t the Academy for Young Ladies. She was caught in the most damning, demeaning situation of her life, and it would be hours before Tucker found her. Her fate lay in the hands of the pudgy little lawman who’d come to stand in front of her, studying her the way a circusgoer takes in the freaks at a sideshow.
He took off his hat and smoothed his thin brown hair. “I put you in here for your own protection, understand?” he said with a sigh. “Once those gals get a bee in their bonnet, there’s no stopping them. And with their husbands gone, there’s no one to make them behave like ladies.”
Christine blinked. His voice was low, almost cordial. He’d dropped his predatory air.
“Excuse me?” she murmured. “I’m very confused by this whole—”
“I knew who you were the minute I laid eyes on you.” A smile tickled the lawman’s lips. “And if those ladies had really looked at the WANTED poster you showed them, they’d have seen that woman was, well—old enough to be your mother. But they saw what they needed to see.”
An exasperated sigh escaped her. “So why didn’t you just tell them—”
“Because they were on a rampage, just like the drunken-fool card sharps who shot up their men a few years back,” he explained. “Couldn’t see the facts, even though you were standing right in front of them telling them the truth. And I’m sorry for what that must’ve cost you, Miss Bristol.”
Her eyes went wet at the sympathy in this man’s voice. But why was he taking her part now? Yet keeping her behind bars like a criminal? “So if they don’t believe me, why do you?”
He glanced toward the door, then slipped the skeleton key into the cell’s lock and smiled.
“Who could forget the telegrams and stories we heard after the war about two redheaded kids abandoned by their mother at a Kansas stagecoach depot?” he replied. “When a fellow named Michael Malloy put the word out among the Union Pacific crews, trying to find Virgilia Bristol and her English escort, those ladies who just now tried to crucify you were shocked beyond belief. Real pleased to hear that a family near Abilene took you in.”
Her mouth dropped open. Michael had said he sent word along the stagecoach line, but she hadn’t realized how far-reaching his efforts had been. And she’d certainly never guessed these people on the Nebraska prairie would care what happened to her and Billy.
“You are the image of your mama, Miss Bristol. And when you had the grit to stand there in front of those biddies and claim her, after hearing about the stunt she’d pulled with those Bibles, I had to admire you. Had to get you out of their way, so we could . . . talk.”
Harley Carson swung open the black-barred door, gesturing toward the little front room where his messy desk and chair were.
Gripping her valise, Christine stepped out of the cell. She was still confused, but a sense of hope had replaced her desperation.
“I—thank you,” she said, standing taller as she remembered her manners. “I was appalled to hear—I can understand why they were so upset about paying for those vulgar Bibles—”
“It’s more than the money.”
He removed a pile of newspapers from the chair beside his desk, motioned for her to sit down, and then took his seat. “Matilda and her friends are looking for the villains who stripped them of their dignity—who robbed them of their confidence just days after they buried the men they’d depended on for half their lives. Today they saw their chance to make things right again. Even though they saw things wrong.”
She thought about this, nodding. “That’s what I’m trying to do, too—make things right by finding Mama. A lot of time’s passed, though. I just got that WANTED poster a few weeks ago, and I don’t even want to think about what she’s been doing since that picture was taken.”
The sheriff leaned toward her, following her story closely. “Where’d you get that poster, Miss Bristol? May I see it again?”
She smiled ruefully and fished it out of her bag.
“It’s a long story. The man I’m traveling with—Tucker Trudeau, now the official photographer for the Union Pacific Railroad?” she said with a proud grin. “He sent it to me from Atchison, in Kansas. Mama and Mr. Wyndham were there right after she abandoned Billy and me, and I think they’ve been heading west ever since. Away from checks written on fake accounts and phony homestead sales, among other things.”
The lawman nodded, studying the poster. At least he appreciated her predicament. He knew more than he was telling her—but he would defend her from that flock of hens that wanted to peck her to pieces.
“I remember this fellow, all right,” Carson said. “Mr. Gentility, he was. Had all the ladies aflutter with that foreign accent and his fancy clothes.
“But he was a fox in the henhouse—Matilda Padgett
’s house, to be exact,” he added with raised eyebrows. “And because your mother stayed at the hotel, posing as a representative of the Alpha and Omega Bible Society, nobody realized they were together.”
Christine sighed. She’d rather not hear about their conniving, yet knowledge was power—that was what Miss Vanderbilt always said. Best to listen and learn, so she knew how Mama and Mr. Wyndham operated.
“But how did she and Richard know who to . . . whose names to put on those Bibles?” she asked.
“Well, back when the railroad was being built, a whole slew of gamblers, saloon owners, and soiled doves followed the construction crew. They weren’t known as ‘hell on wheels’ for nothing, if you’ll excuse my French,” Carson explained. “Had a spell when tempers and guns got out of hand, and those gals’ husbands stepped into the crossfire. When obituaries were posted, they gave enough details about each man’s life and family that any salesman could’ve talked a pretty convincing piece.”
The sheriff’s smile was sympathetic. “Your mama had a face, and a graceful way about her, that made those widows believe their husbands bought them Bibles just before they were killed.”
Christine swallowed a knot of embarrassment over Mama’s dubious talents. “We lost Daddy when the Border Ruffians raided our corrals, right after the war. So Mama knew exactly what women left alone would fall for. Knew how they were . . . ripe and ready to fall.”
He patted her hand, and pulled a clean bandanna from his desk drawer.
It surprised her how Judd Monroe’s line about “ripe and ready to fall” could still sting—but then, who could’ve guessed Mama would be selling Bibles? Christine blew her nose, wishing she’d had a chance to pull up her hair before it dried looking like a rat’s nest.
She glanced at Harley Carson through the slits of her eye as she dabbed at them. While it was good to have the lawman on her side, she wondered what would happen next. Most of her clothes were still at the boardinghouse, and Tucker would be coming back—with his mother!—soon.
But how could she even think of returning to Mrs. Padgett’s? Matilda’s flock of friends would probably spot that red wagon and then hide behind the furniture to spring at Tucker when he walked in—to grill him for sins they assumed he had committed, just for associating with her. They were a vindictive lot, those widows.
And when they saw Veronique Trudeau in her gypsy attire, with those ever-moving, all-seeing eyes, no telling what they’d try.
Christine shifted in the hard chair. The man studying the WANTED poster now looked every bit as tame and bland as Daddy had. When he noticed her watching him, he smiled kindly.
“Can I get you anything, dear? A sandwich from the restaurant, perhaps?”
She was hungry, but food seemed unimportant. “Thank you, but—”
Christine paused, thinking how very considerate he was. Nice as pie, Billy would say. Especially after she’d compared his eyes to spiders back at the boardinghouse.
“Why were those ladies so hateful with you?” she blurted. Then she realized this might be the wrong thing to ask, since Harley Carson held the key to her immediate future.
He laughed, a bitter note that sounded off-key.
“I’m their sheriff—their protector, since they have no menfolk,” he said. “But the pay for lawmen in these little frontier towns won’t hold body and soul together, so I sometimes take on other jobs that keep me out of the office.”
“What sort of jobs?”
As the lawman leveled his gaze at her, Christine chided herself again for letting her curiosity get out of hand.
“There are things a man doesn’t discuss with women—”
“Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“—but the fact remains I haven’t avenged their husbands’ deaths at the hands of those fly-by-night gamblers, and—more importantly—I didn’t catch that Englishman who hid his press under the bed at Matilda’s, nor his lady confederate who sold them those Bibles. So I’m a failure.”
“That’s ridiculous! Why, you’re not only thoughtful, you’re—you’re—”
Christine searched for the right words about this man, who’d changed from an apparent predator to her protector in the past hour. In his denim pants and chambray shirt, he looked very ordinary; had the careworn air of an old boot about him.
Yet in a lot of ways, he reminded her of Michael Malloy. Maybe even Judd Monroe, the way he saw beneath those women’s prickly-pear exteriors to the fear and vulnerability beneath . . . just as Judd had understood those things about her.
“You’re the nicest sheriff I’ve ever met,” she finished. “Those women wanted to crucify you, too. Yet you’re defending them to me.”
Harley Carson glanced away, as though wondering whether to let her in on a secret.
“You’re a bright girl, Christine. Wise beyond your years in many ways,” he remarked. “So perhaps you’ll see the twist in my situation when I tell you that Harriet Butterfield is my mother.”
Christine nearly fell from her chair. That old sourpuss with the white bun and the—
Hairy butt.
She choked to keep from laughing. It wasn’t the least bit funny, since Mrs. Butterfield had been the loudest of all Mr. Carson’s critics. Why, as she’d left the bathroom, she’d called this man—her son—worthless.
If Mama had treated me that way, I wouldn’t be chasing her down!
Again she wondered how to say the right thing. Surely the sheriff didn’t enjoy being ridiculed by those widows. And it had to be worse because his own mother was their ringleader.
If you can’t say anything nice about Harrie Butt—change the subject.
Christine smiled politely at the man across from her. “She’s perhaps related to the Butterfield who ran the overland stagecoach company?”
“Married his cousin after my father died, yes. And even though the John Butterfield you speak of was ousted from his own company for going deep into debt, she can’t let me forget that my career has been less than illustrious by comparison.”
When he glanced out the window, a wicked grin lit his face.
“But tonight, I get to prove I was right. Here comes that black Percheron you rode in on earlier, pulling Tucker Trudeau’s wagon,” he said as he rose from his chair. “Tidy up in the back room if you like, while I tell him what’s gone on today. Then I’ll escort the two of you back to Mrs. Padgett’s for dinner, so there’ll be no misunderstandings about—”
“I’d rather not go back,” Christine confessed as she watched the bright red wagon pass by. “And I’m such a frightful-looking—”
“It’ll be all right, dear. You’ve done nothing wrong.” He grinned at her. “And from what I observed earlier, Mr. Trudeau won’t mind how you look, Miss Bristol. Love is blind, you know. But I’m not!”
As Harley Carson opened the door, Christine gathered up her courage and spoke her mind.
“Sheriff, I—thank you for taking care of me today,” she said while trying to smooth her hair. “I’m sorry those ladies don’t appreciate you more. And I’m sorry your mother is so—so mean.”
The lawman shrugged. “She’s eighty years old and doesn’t have much to hold on to except her grudges,” he said softly. “I don’t always like her, but I’ll keep looking after her. She’s my mother, after all.”
Tucker hitched Sol outside the Union Pacific depot. He carefully lifted his crate of glass negatives and prints, and carried it inside to the station agent.
“The train east will be passing through soon, oui?”he asked loudly.
The man behind the ticket window awoke with a snort. “Wee? I’ll thank ya not to do that here, sir, inside the—”
“Non, non, non!” Tucker eased his crate onto the countertop, chuckling. “I am Tucker Trudeau, and you have maybe heard of me? The Union Pacific photographer? This crate, it is very fragile, so I must ask you to—”
“Trudeau? Well, now, ain’t this a fine surprise!”
The agent was all
smiles then, reaching between the iron bars for such an exuberant handshake, Tucker grabbed his crate to keep it from falling off the counter.
“Why, sure I’ve heard all about you,” the agent said. “Takin’ pitchers and ridin’ the rails, are ya? Sure hope you’re makin’ some of them stereopticon cards as you go, on account of how me ’n the wife really like to look at those on a Sunday afternoon, when all there is to—”
“Moe, you wouldn’t be talking this fellow’s leg off, would you?”
Tucker turned to see a rather short man in the doorway. He sported such unremarkable features and ordinary clothing he could fade into any crowd, or be forgotten moments after he turned away. Except he wore a star on his chest.
“Sheriff Carson!” the agent exclaimed. “This here’s that Union Pacific photographer we got word about. I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna go home and get slicked up some, just in case he wants my portrait for them boys back east. Why, I—”
“May I see you outside for a moment, Mr. Trudeau?”
While he was guilty of nothing the sheriff could arrest him for, Tucker’s insides tightened. What could possibly have gone wrong since he was here this afternoon? With an apologetic glance at the station agent, he stepped out onto the platform—just as the lawman unfolded a familiar piece of paper.
“What do you know about this WANTED poster?” Carson asked.
It was a simple question, yet Tucker sensed the lawman was fishing. “You got this from Miss Christine, oui?” he demanded. “There is a problem, Sheriff? When I left her at the boardinghouse—”
“I see my share of these,” the lawman said with a noncommittal shrug. “It’s unusual for a WANTED poster to have a photograph on it, and it says nothing about the bank or agency who’s after these folks. What with you being the photographer . . .”
Tucker’s English wasn’t perfect, but he couldn’t miss the sheriff’s insinuation—or the way Carson’s gaze intensified. He prided himself on an artistic eye, which brought out the best in his subjects and captured them at just the right moment, but this fellow had vision of a different sort. More powerful. Potentially more dangerous.
Journey to Love (Angels of Mercy) Page 14