by Jo Goodman
“Molly can’t hear a thing over the waltz she’s playing in her head. She’s probably got Johnny Winslow spinning in circles about now.”
“Well, you put the idea there.”
Wyatt took a breath and let it out slowly. “My point is,” he said with deliberation, “that she isn’t paying us any attention and that we can talk about anything. Now, you haven’t asked me a word about that appointment with the lawyer. I promised to arrange it for you, and so I have.”
“That was days ago. I expected to hear from you before now.” She waited to see if he would offer an explanation for his tardiness, but he didn’t appear to think one was necessary. “When is the appointment?” she asked.
“Friday.”
“I thought you said he wasn’t busy.”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t busy. I said he didn’t have a lot of lawyering to do. And I’m not available to go with you tomorrow because I make my rounds. Biscuits, remember?” She gave him a sharp look, so he imagined she hadn’t forgotten again. “Do you want to keep the appointment or not?”
She nodded shortly. “What time should I be there, and where am I going?”
“You know where the land office is?” When she indicated that she did, he went on. “He has space above it. Stairs are on the outside of the building. I’ll meet you there—around eleven—if that’s all right.”
“I’d prefer it. There’s no point in raising speculation by being seen going in together.”
“That’s what I figured you’d say. Lucky for us that Molly’s so closemouthed.”
“Yes, indeed.”
Wyatt finished his tea and set his cup aside, then got to his feet. “Don’t go accepting Abe’s proposal before you talk to the lawyer.”
“Already asked and answered,” she said. It struck her as odd that he hadn’t heard about it since Abe Dishman caught her unawares in Caldwell’s Apothecary yesterday morning. He’d made Mr. Caldwell stop explaining the digestive and regulatory benefits of cod liver oil just long enough to ask for her hand, then waved to the druggist to continue when she politely turned him down. “He wasn’t feeling well,” she told Wyatt. “So it wasn’t his finest proposal. I think he was relieved to have it done and out of the way for this month.”
“That’s all right, then.”
“I didn’t turn him down because of an agreement you signed, so don’t fool yourself into thinking it had anything to do with you.”
“It never entered my mind.” He gave her a nod. “Friday at eleven. Crack of dawn tomorrow. And I’ll set your basket of linens at the back door so Molly takes them when she leaves or trips over them on her way out.”
Rachel waited until she heard him go to return the tray to the kitchen. Molly was folding dish towels at the table when she walked in. The girl was still so lost in her own thoughts that she started when Rachel addressed her.
“You gave me a fright,” she said, clutching a towel to her breast. She smiled and added, teasing, “Good thing I don’t have a pair of shears.”
“Yes, well, the less said about that the better.”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry that I’ll mention it,” said Molly. “Folks wouldn’t believe me anyway.”
“Why wouldn’t they? You’re trustworthy.”
“Sure I am, but it’d be hard for them to imagine you takin’ on the sheriff. He’s got a reputation, you know, way outside Reidsville.”
“I didn’t know. What sort of reputation?”
Molly shrugged her narrow shoulders. “He’s a fast draw, for one thing.”
“Molly,” Rachel chided, “he doesn’t even wear a gun.”
“Not so much around here, no, but when he has to go out he does. He’s a member of the Rocky Mountain Detective Association, so he makes use of it.”
Though she was certain it wasn’t Molly’s intention, Rachel was mortified by her own ignorance. “What’s the Rocky Mountain Detectives?”
“Detective Association,” Molly corrected. “Mr. Cook out of Denver thought it up a whole lot of years ago. I guess you gotta be from around here to know about it.” She thought about that a moment and added, “Or come around here and break the law. That’d make you take notice of them real quick.”
“What do they do exactly?”
Molly began to fold towels again. “Well, they’re not vigilantes, I know that for sure. Every one of them’s a lawman somewhere here in Colorado. They started out goin’ after rustlers. There’s still some of that, you might be surprised to hear, but on account of Reidsville not being a cattle town, it’s never been much of a problem. Still, Sheriff Cooper and that no-account Beatty boy do their fare share to help out. That’s the idea of the detectives’ association, you see. The lawmen work together to catch criminals and bring them around.”
“Around to what?”
“Justice, I suppose. Wouldn’t you think that’d be the right thing to do?”
“Yes,” said Rachel. “I think it would.” She sat at the table and began helping Molly fold. “How long has Sheriff Cooper been a member of the association?”
“I couldn’t say exactly. You’d have to ask him. He can tell you all about it. In fact, he just got back from riding with them. Would have thought you knew that. He’s been gone a couple or three days.”
Rachel wasn’t certain why she felt compelled to offer an excuse. “I’ve hardly left the house,” she said, and because it sounded so inadequate, she added, “I went out once, yesterday, to Caldwell’s for headache powders.” That was perfectly true. She’d suffered a headache off and on since Wyatt had shown her the contract. If Molly thought it was odd that she explained herself, the girl was kind enough not to mention it.
“Why did he have to leave?” she asked.
“My father says it was a robbery out Georgetown way. That’s in Clear Creek County, not so far from here. There’s a mining operation, but the town’s not wild the way Denver gets. Seems some folks thought it needed a little excitement and decided to hold up the bank. They got silver and cash for their effort and went straight out of town.”
“I imagine your father was one of the first to learn about it.”
“Yes, indeed,” Molly said proudly. “He got the message over the wire and took it directly to the sheriff. I don’t suppose it was more than a couple of flicks of a dog’s tail later that Sheriff Cooper was riding out of town.”
“He went alone?”
She nodded. “He and his deputy don’t usually ride together. Besides, that was Monday, now that I think on it, and Will Beatty was taking his turn scoutin’ around the town. He wasn’t even here when the message came.”
“Do you know what happened?”
Molly looked up from folding. “You saw him for the first time since he’s been back, the same as I did. I think he must’ve cleaned up before he came by because his duster was the only thing that showed he’d been out on the trails. It was so covered with bits of the mountains and brush that I took the liberty of shaking it out while he was talkin’ to you. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but—”
Rachel put one hand over Molly’s, reassuring her. “You did fine, Molly. I’m sure he appreciated it.”
“I wish I’d thought to give him some of those sand tarts you have with his tea. He probably would’ve liked those. He was most likely hungry.”
“I should have thought of it. I’m not used to having guests.” She withdrew her hand and squared off a stack of folded towels. “So what does it mean that he’s back?”
“Oh, that’s a sure sign that he and the others caught the thieves. I’ve never known him to come back until he does. Usually takes longer, though, so these fellows must have been just about as stupid as they come.”
“You’re probably right.”
“That’s not to take anything away from the sheriff,” Molly said quickly. “He’s smart as a whip. Knows somethin’ about nearly everything.”
“Mmm.”
Molly gathered the towels and put them away. “I need to scrub the f
loor now,” she said. She picked up one of the chairs and turned it over to place the seat on the tabletop, then paused as she came to stand behind another. “I was a little surprised to see him come by today.” She didn’t meet Rachel’s eye, but let her fingers run back and forth over the uppermost chair rail. “Knowin’ how you don’t much like people droppin’ by, and what with him keepin’ what my father calls his own counsel, it seemed something out of the ordinary.”
“It was.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Molly.
Rachel had no difficulty reading the turn that Molly’s mind was taking. It was there in her shy and secretive smile and definitely needed to be nipped. She rose from her chair and put it on the tabletop. “You take care of the floor, Molly, I’ll take care of the rest.”
Rachel was ready with four flaky, golden-brown biscuits bundled in a blue kerchief when Wyatt rode up. She stepped out the back door onto the stoop and held it out to him.
“They’re still warm,” he said, feeling the heat of them through his gloves.
“Of course they are, I just made them.”
“I would have been pleased to have day-old biscuits.”
“Then hand them back and come by for them tomorrow.”
His eyes narrowed. “Not a chance.” Cradling the biscuits as carefully as he would a bundle of a baby, Wyatt slipped them into his saddlebag.
“Aren’t you going to eat one now, while it’s warm?”
“Do you have an extra?”
Sighing, Rachel did an about-face and returned to the house. She emerged a few moments later with a biscuit resting in her open palm. “Did you hear me say you’re impossible?”
“No, did you?” He plucked the biscuit out of her hand and bit into it. “Oh, Lord,” he mumbled as it melted in his mouth. “You have to marry me.”
In answer, Rachel went back inside the house and didn’t come out again.
Rachel worked on Miss Roseanne LaRosa’s gown up until the moment she had to leave to meet Wyatt at the lawyer’s office. She was satisfied with her progress and almost certain she could have it done by Sunday, which meant she’d receive an extra commission for finishing it early. The madam was willing to pay for fine work, and she was willing to pay even more to have the first opportunity to display it.
Giving the mannequin a last critical look, Rachel made a few adjustments to the gown’s pleated panels, then forced herself to abandon it. She hurried through the house, grabbing her bonnet and jacket, and finished putting them on as she was walking across the flagstones.
The land office was directly opposite Morrison’s Emporium. Rachel was just turning the corner when she recognized the approaching whistle of the No. 473 engine. The depot was situated beyond the edge of the last buildings in town, but the lumbering engine, with its boiler pushed to maximum pressure to complete the climb, made its presence felt through a low vibration that rolled down the sidewalk. Rachel knew that if the No. 473 was on time, and she had no reason to suspect that it wasn’t, then she was already late for her meeting.
She merely waved to Abe and Ned when they called out to her and increased her pace across the street. The stairs took a turn to the second floor, and she only paused once to take a breath and collect herself before she finished the final part of her climb with her dignity and her bonnet intact.
She hesitated outside the door marked LAW OFFICE in bold black lettering and wondered if she should knock or simply walk in. The decision was taken away from her when she recognized Wyatt Cooper’s voice telling her to come in, and she belatedly realized her silhouette must have been visible through the frosted glass that was fitted in the upper half of the door.
Prepared to apologize for her tardiness, Rachel stepped into the office. The words never made it as far as her lips when she saw that not only was Wyatt alone in the room, but he was sitting behind the desk looking very much at ease there, which, of course, he was. If his supremely relaxed posture and the mere suggestion of a smile hadn’t tipped her to the truth, his clothes did. Gone was the softly scarred brown leather vest, the pale blue chambray shirt, and the buff-colored denim trousers that he generally combined for everyday wear. He’d even removed his scuffed leather boots. In place of what was familiar to her, he was now wearing a black brushed wool jacket, a dark emerald, single-breasted vest with a top pocket, and a starched white shirt with an equally stiff collar. She couldn’t see his trousers or his shoes, but she’d seen enough lawyers in her years with the Maddoxes to know that they would be black and black.
She shut the door. Hard. “You’re the lawyer I’m meeting?”
“Mmm.”
“I don’t believe this.” She looked around. There were all the accoutrements that one expected to find in a lawyer’s place of business: law books, file cabinets, several chairs for clients, a table for spreading out documents, a large desk, and a framed diploma. Rachel walked straight to the diploma. “Harvard Law? You graduated from Harvard Law?”
She slowly lowered herself into one of the round-armed chairs and stared at him. “Isn’t it illegal?”
He frowned. “To graduate from law school?”
“No, to forge a diploma. Shouldn’t you arrest yourself?”
Wyatt took pity on her and gave her time to acclimate while he tidied up his desk. He gathered some papers he’d been reviewing while waiting for her and stacked them to one side; then he opened the folder that held the documents she wanted to see and laid them flat in front of him.
“It’s real, isn’t it?” she said finally.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were the lawyer I’d be meeting when we were at the bank?”
He regarded her frankly, seriously. “Because it was one too many pieces of information. You had a lot to consider already, and you’d only learned about Maddox’s death the day before.”
“So you were being kind.”
“I thought I was. Perhaps I misjudged.”
“And what was your excuse yesterday?”
Wyatt didn’t flinch from her accusing stare. “I don’t have one.”
Rachel wondered if he knew that his admission was what kept her in her seat. “Are you any good?”
“Pardon?”
“Are you any good?” she repeated. “As a lawyer?”
“Third in my class.”
“That only means you were a good student.”
“A sound distinction. The truth is I don’t practice much, so it’s open to debate whether I’m fair or middlin’. I know the law, though, and I can answer your questions about the incorporation of the mine. If you don’t trust me—and from your expression, I’m guessing that’s a distinct possibility—I’ll get someone from Denver to come up and meet with you. In the meantime, you can also talk to Henry Longabach or Sidney Walker. They represent the town’s interests in matters of the mine.”
Rachel didn’t say anything immediately. In her mind, she leaned both for and against him and wasn’t satisfied with any position that put her so off balance. “Why did you go to law school?” she asked finally.
Wyatt picked up a pencil and sat back in his chair. He rolled the pencil between his fingertips as he continued to look at her steadily. “Fair enough,” he said quietly. “My grandfather wanted me to go. My mother, also. For a lot of reasons I believed I owed it to them. It didn’t take, though. I’m more my father’s son, and I’ve made peace with that, even if I still have family back in Boston who hasn’t.”
Rachel realized he had given her his confession, so she was careful not to throw it back at him. “You wanted to be a good son.”
Wyatt said nothing.
“Well,” Rachel said before the silence became overlong and painfully uncomfortable, “I’d be obliged if you’d show me the papers.”
His gaze narrowed. “You’re certain?”
“Oddly, I am.”
Wyatt used the pencil to point to the table. “It will be easier to review things over there.”
Once they were seate
d, he passed the articles of incorporation to Rachel as well as the substantiating documentation. She looked it all over, recognizing Clinton Maddox’s initials scrawled in the corner of every page and his bold signature on the final one. She also read the names Matthew Cooper, Sidney Walker, and Henry Longabach. Matthew’s name had been succeeded by Wyatt’s on the attached addendum.
Everything was outlined as Wyatt had explained to her. There were provisions for dissolution and perpetuation and the articles clearly delineated the process by which the single partners could name their heirs but still retain the right to rename them if the heirs predeceased them. If no one was named prior to their death, then their shares became part of their estate.
“Wouldn’t it have been better if the shares went to the town when either Mr. Maddox or your father died?”
“Henry and Sid, speaking for the miners, wanted that, but back when this was signed they weren’t in a position to keep the mine going without Mr. Maddox’s backing. If he had died early on, they would have owned shares that were essentially worthless because the placer silver would have played out. They needed the railroad, so they were willing to bet that Maddox’s heirs would bring it to Reidsville if Maddox didn’t live long enough to do it.”
“What about your father? It says here that his heir was Nicholas Cooper, not you.”
“There were a whole lot of reasons he wanted to keep his share for the family. He intended for my oldest brother to have it, but Nick died at Chickamauga in sixty-three, and my older brothers—Jonas and Andrew—well, it didn’t suit my father to pass it on to them. That’s how it became mine.”
Rachel searched through the documents until she found the paper that passed Matthew Cooper’s share to his son Wyatt. “So Mr. Maddox was just following procedure when he wrote up the separate document naming me his heir.”
“Yes. He added the paragraphs about the spur because he wanted you to have it to protect the town’s interests.” He paused. “And your own, of course.”
“And yours?”
“I imagine he gave me a thought. In spite of their differences, Maddox and my father respected each other, and Maddox was fair in his dealings with all of us. He didn’t want to see any of us lose out because his grandson was now in a position to inherit. Things would have been different if Benson had lived. With Foster…” He let the idea lie there and watched Rachel’s dark eyes cloud and her mouth slowly reshape itself into a tight, worried line.