True to his calling, Mr. Rochester had quite a dramatic flair with his words. His punctuation was precise, his grammar pristine. She merely copied what he had written, making few corrections.
In two hours’ time, she finished the remaining letters—seven in all, two of which were quite lengthy and required two sheets. Several of the letters were addressed to local businesses regarding property ownership, or leases, taxes, and such. The two longer letters were addressed to Kansas City and mentioned contracts to follow. She felt they were written in a form of code. Each one said basically the same thing, referring to various flowers and blossoms.
She had no idea what Rochester was talking about.
Mid-afternoon slanted through the narrow gap above the curtains, increasingly bright and irritating as the sun dropped toward the mountains, shining directly in her eyes. Of all the stores on Main Street, the cobbler directly across the road did not have a second floor or a false front. Afternoons would be painful until the sun traveled farther south on its way to winter.
“Will there be anything else today, Mr. Rochester?” She stood and laid her work on the corner of his desk, then placed his original handwritten letters in a separate stack.
He continued to read from a thick book opened before him, possibly unaware that she had spoken. Quite a feat in a room so close.
It occurred to her that he had no law library. No shelves upon shelves of leather-bound tomes, as common in an attorney’s office as shoe lasts in a cobbler’s shop. She scooted her chair in, toed the crate against the wall, and picked up her hat. “Very well, then. I will see you tomorrow.”
He looked up as if surprised. “Pardon me if I don’t see you out.”
“I am an employee, Mr. Rochester. There is no need to see me out.”
“Tomorrow, then. Nine o’clock.”
She gave a courteous nod and stepped out onto the boardwalk, drinking in great gulps of semi-fresh air as she closed the door. Though muddled with dirt, horse manure, and axel grease, the street was a flowing brook compared to Mr. Rochester’s stagnant office.
She arrived at the boarding house well before supper, so she went straight to her room. From the wardrobe shelf holding her petticoats, she retrieved her small leather journal and an embossed box with her Esterbrook Lincoln pen, a cherished gift from Erma Clarke at the Denver train station.
Even now she could feel the warmth of the woman’s gloved hand as she pressed the slender box into Elizabeth’s. You may be an exceptional type-writer, but every writer needs an exceptional pen.
Erma may well have saved Elizabeth’s life, taking her side in the fray and helping her get her things to the station. She’d certainly saved her sanity.
Eager to record the information while it was still fresh in her mind, Elizabeth pushed the curtains wide for the last rays of sunlight, and sat down at the small desk. She dipped her gold-nibbed pen in the ink from the desk, opened the journal, and left one blank page between her new entries and those from Gladstone, Hatchett and Son.
September 3, 1881, Olin Springs, Colorado
Curious Correspondence for Anthony D. Rochester, Esquire
Mr. Charles Hayworth of Kansas City, Missouri
Eleven more entries followed, as well as the flower or blossom mentioned if one was included in the letter. Red bud, poinsettia, quince. Hanabi was the only unfamiliar variety.
She capped her pen and placed it in the desk drawer. While the ink dried on the page, she opened her trunk, pushed several winter items aside, and pressed a point near the right corner at the bottom of the trunk. Her journal slid into the tight space where it fit neatly atop her other Remington.
After returning everything to its previous order, she drew the curtains and went downstairs.
She was starving.
~
Garrett’s mouth watered as he came through the back door and left his hat in his room. Even blind-folded and hog-tied, he’d have been able to find his way to the dining table. He tucked the day’s newspaper beneath his arm, grateful that he had neither constraint, and followed his nose to a spread that looked more like a church potluck than supper.
Chicken pot pies, biscuits, butter, and preserves. A mess of green beans with bacon and onion, sliced tomatoes, and fresh berry cobbler. He moaned in anticipation.
Betsy took her place looking pale and spent, which merely riled his curiosity over what she’d done all day in that stuffy office with that overbearing peacock.
Maggie set a tea service at Betsy’s end of the table, then came back with the coffee pot and filled his cup.
“My dears, I hope I did not fail to make it clear that I serve dinner promptly at twelve o’clock every day of the week.”
Even though it was the woman’s way, it rankled Garrett every time she included him as a dear.
In the silence that followed, he could almost hear her cock one brow.
“Well, did I?”
“Clear as Pike’s watered-down whiskey. Not that I imbibe, mind you,” he said, coughing around the words. How was it she could make him feel guilty for something he didn’t do?
Betsy made no sound or sign.
“I am not fond of throwing all my preparations to the chickens, hence this heavily laden table this evening. So if you are not going to come to the board, please let me know ahead of time.”
Betsy pressed her napkin to perfectly clean lips.
“And Betsy—pardon me—Elizabeth. No breakfast. No dinner. Does that Mr. Rochester not let you leave for a meal?”
Garrett’s hackles rose.
“I’m sure he does, but I didn’t think of it today.” She poured herself a cup of tea. “I was busy with his correspondence.”
“Well, if he doesn’t, I will see to it that he changes his mind.”
Garrett stifled a remark. At the steel in Maggie’s voice, he had no doubt she would.
“I see you brought the newspaper with you this evening, Garrett. More news of President Garfield’s condition since the shooting?”
“A small article reprinted from the Rocky Mountain News.” Garrett helped himself to a hearty serving of pot pie, suddenly regretting bringing the paper. It had been his ace in the hole, a diversion if conversation turned to Rink and Pearl.
Now he felt like a turncoat betraying the innocent. “Not much, really, other than a different picture of the hotel fire.”
“There must be something that inspired you to bring it. What did Mr. Fischer have to say about our fine community this week?”
He glanced at Betsy, who kept her head down, studying each bite she took as if it were her last. The newspaper had been a bad idea. A very bad idea.
Maggie reached across the table, palm up, demanding. She could be a federal marshal. Better yet, a judge.
He handed it over.
Unfolding it, she held it beside her, skimming the headlines. By the movement of her eyes, she paused at the fire photograph, then dropped to the bottom-right corner of the front page:
Surreptitious Arrival of Former Resident
She refolded the paper and dropped it beneath her chair. “You are correct. Not much.”
She cut him a scolding look, but kept her thoughts to herself. Betsy missed the whole thing.
After he finished a second serving of everything, Maggie scooped blackberry cobbler onto a small plate and set it in front of him, then did the same for Betsy and herself. “The Library Committee met today and enjoyed a nice tea.”
Betsy returned from wherever she’d been. “Did you speak to Mrs. Fairfax?”
“I did, and both you and Garrett may be interested in what she had to say.”
Garrett doubted that he’d care what Bertha Fairfax or any of the other matronly library supporters had to say, but manners kept his opinion contained and his mouth shut. Except when he was filling it with cobbler.
“Mrs. Fairfax has been paying Anthony Rochester a rather steep monthly premium for fire insurance on her home.”
CHAPTER 12
A fire sparked in Garrett’s eyes, and he nearly choked on his cobbler. Elizabeth momentarily considered dousing him with her tea. She hadn’t seen rage ignite so instantaneously since her father.
The difference, however, was in Garrett’s self-restraint.
“How long has she been making payments?” He wiped berry juice from his mouth and clenched his teeth while waiting for Maggie’s reply. The bulging muscle in his jaw gave him away.
“A month. Bertha said she was reluctant at first, but after the hotel fire, she was only too happy to have already insured her property.”
“Why is she paying Rochester and not sending premiums to an insurance company?” Elizabeth asked.
Maggie scraped up her last bite of cobbler. “I posed that very same question.” Plating her silverware, pushed her dish aside, and poured herself a cup of tea. She glanced at Elizabeth, teapot in hand. “May I warm your cup, dear?”
Garrett cracked his knuckles beneath the table, his jaw flexing like a pumping heart.
Elizabeth scooted her teacup toward the center. “Thank you.”
“What’d she say?” Garrett’s tone was as hard and cold as the old skating pond in winter. Something besides insurance premiums fueled his dislike of Anthony Rochester. Perhaps the same something that had motivated him to haul her Remington to the attorney’s office this morning.
“Bertha’s exact words were, ‘Mr. Rochester said he was here to do all he could, and helping make things easier on me was one of them.’”
Garrett mumbled into his coffee cup, but Elizabeth was certain she heard, “I’ll bet.”
“And the other ladies,” she added. “Have any of them bought fire insurance?”
Maggie stirred sugar into her tea. “Two or three. Much of the meeting was taken up by discussion of insuring the library, and the great cultural loss we would all suffer should the old house go up in smoke.”
It was difficult to watch the shadows shift across Garrett’s face and keep an eye on Maggie’s expression at the same time. Elizabeth felt as if she were looking through a stereoscope without benefit of the two scenes meshing.
Garrett stood. “Thank you for supper. I have some work at the jail this evening.”
“I’ll leave the back door unlocked for you,” Maggie said.
Not allowed to help in the kitchen, Elizabeth retired early. The day’s events replayed through her mind in rapid succession. As she sat at the dressing table brushing her hair, she reviewed Garrett’s obvious displeasure at their landlady’s news, his relentless determination to escort her to work, and what he’d said several days ago about Anthony Rochester.
The snake image disturbed her, and she tugged her wrapper close and blew out the lamp. Before crawling into bed, she tip-toed to the window. As if someone would hear her. Ridiculous. She parted the curtains she’d drawn earlier, looking as far as she could angle to the south. In the next block, Rink stood saddled and tied behind the jail, gleaming in the moonlight as if he were nickel plated.
Odd that Garrett had ridden the short distance and not walked.
Leaving the curtain parted, she climbed into bed, understanding in a visceral sense why he would ride any distance, given the chance. She ached to do the same since returning to Olin Springs, to feel the strength of a fine animal beneath her, wield the power associated with a mere flick of her fingers or inflection of a knee. She longed for Blanca and feared that Cade had sold her.
~
The next day dawned decidedly cooler. Elizabeth laid out a light cape before going downstairs, but left her heavier petticoats and warmer stockings in her trunk, saving them for the snowy months.
That morning, and for the remainder of the week, she ate a filling breakfast and returned at midday for dinner. Mr. Rochester made no objection to her leaving, and on Friday at noon told her she did not need to return until Monday. However, he paid her for a full week, an act he probably considered generous. She did not. Indebtedness and favors led only to unwanted pressure in the future. But since he paid her with a check, she could not refuse the extra half-day’s wage.
Before leaving town, she opened a savings account at the bank into which she deposited half her earnings. The other half went into her mended reticule. Much of the day remained, so she stopped by the livery and inquired about the price of renting a horse, then strolled the length of town perusing store windows. She visited the Eisners’ tailor shop and haberdashery and congratulated the couple on their recent opening.
The hotel flaunted its unpleasant aroma before it came into view, and the noise of reconstruction drowned out all sounds of traffic as she approached. She’d love to know if the owner had purchased fire insurance from Mr. Rochester. Perhaps in her position, she’d soon find out.
Crossing at the saloon positioned conveniently across the street from the hotel, she glanced over the batwing doors into the shady interior. No out-of-tune piano music, its operator possibly sleeping away the day in preparation for tonight’s revelry. She often heard the rowdy evening choruses from her open window in the Snowfield home.
The jail sat squarely in the middle of the next block, as if centering the town like the hub of a wheel. A flatiron held the front door open wide. The morning’s chill had burned off beneath a warm midday sun, and Garrett might have regretted the fire in the stove that she saw as she hurried past the doorway.
“Hold up!”
Halting at the deep command, she regretted her response—as if he had the right to tell her what to do.
Heavy iron scraped across the plank floor, followed by boot steps and the stout door closing soundly behind her.
“I’ll walk with you.”
It would be rude and petty to ignore his offer and walk away. But honestly, the man had no idea how to request. He simply announced.
“We don’t want to keep Maggie waiting dinner on us, do we?”
Elizabeth was no longer part of a we, and she resented the familiarity it insinuated. She and the sheriff might be the only two boarders Maggie Snowfield had, but they were not a we. She charged ahead.
His long stride kept easy pace. From the corner of her eye, she could tell he was more relaxed this afternoon. Not the tense, angry man who had stormed from the supper table Monday evening.
“What brings you to this end of town?”
She’d seen little of him during the week, other than at meals, and she resisted the amicable companionship he seemed to be offering now. Her affairs were none of his concern. “Just seeing the sights.”
He scoffed.
His reaction was so similar to Cade’s when they were children that she had to take tight hold of her skirt to keep from slugging Garrett in the arm.
“Do you have siblings?” The question popped out without her permission.
Another one-syllable sound equivalent to what his horse would make, and then a complete sentence. “Why do you ask? Do I seem like a big brother?”
“Hardly.”
More like a big irritant. That actually qualified him for the big-brother category, now that she thought about it. But brotherly was not how she viewed him. Not at all. Exasperated by her reactions to his warm voice and simple kindness, she quickened her pace.
He matched it. “You must be hungry.”
She looked straight ahead.
“Either that or you’re in a race.”
Hiking her skirt and sprinting would be completely unacceptable. Unless she tripped him first.
~
“Garrett, I’ve used the last of the fresh milk and would appreciate you riding out to Travine Price’s farm for me tomorrow. That is, if you don’t have any outlaws to chase down.”
His mouth was full of beef stew, and he’d bet a week’s wages Maggie had timed her assault.
“It’s the perfect opportunity to exercise Lolly, per our agreement.” A quick glance his way followed her weighted reference.
“Elizabeth, dear, pass the biscuits, please. Oh, and I have something for you.”
She went to the
side board and returned with a letter. “I picked up my mail this morning, and this had come for you.”
Maggie Snowfield couldn’t have been easier to read if she’d laid her cards face-up on the table.
Reaching for a biscuit, she added, “Forgive me, but I couldn’t help noticing Sophie’s name on the envelope. What a perfect opportunity tomorrow would be for you to visit her, since Garrett is making the trip anyway. I know you and Sophie were the best of friends in school.”
He allowed that Betsy did an admirable job of not spewing her meat and potatoes across the table. Poor gal hadn’t seen it coming.
“Two birds with one stone and all that, you know.” Maggie gave them each an innocent smile and continued with her meal as if she hadn’t just railroaded the both of them.
Looked like he’d be airing out ol’ Lolly tomorrow.
Riding to the ranch with Betsy Beaumont wasn’t the worst idea he’d ever heard, though he’d prefer to do it without benefit of a buggy. But a deal was a deal.
Friday nights in Olin Springs weren’t exactly churchlike, so he spent the afternoon cleaning up the buggy and oiling the harness. The seat was in better repair than he expected.
Later, he stopped by the livery and asked Erik to cover for him Saturday morning. Shouldn’t be much trouble, he assured the big man. Most of the drunks would be sleeping off their Friday night frolicking, and not up and around until Garrett returned. He’d leave an extra badge on the desk, and Erik could pick it up in the morning.
A couple hours after dark, two rowdies insisted on spending the night in jail, and Garrett had them bedded down and sawing logs before midnight.
The next morning they were sobered up and thick-tongued enough to leave without much of a squabble. He was glad the farm boy hadn’t been one of them.
Counting on everybody to mind their manners while he skirted the countryside with Betsy and ol’ Lolly, he left the front door unlocked for Erik and called Pearl to follow him out the back.
She didn’t. The rangy mutt knew he was gonna tie her up. She could tell when he was about to ride, and a buggy made no difference. Her mournful look branded him a louse for leaving her behind.
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