by Bess McBride
George shook his head. “No, sir, I haven’t seen her this morning. The last time I saw her was when I turned the bed down last night.”
Matthew pressed his lips together. What Miss Reed did was really no concern of his, but he could not help but worry.
“Please ask the conductor if I could see him, George.”
“Right away, sir.”
Matthew alternately sat and stared out the window or stood and paced the floor. He was pacing when the conductor arrived.
“You asked to see me, Mr. Webster?”
Matthew, intent on counting the flowered pattern in the carpet, looked up.
“Yes, thank you for coming. My...sister has gone missing. Have you seen her? I was supposed to meet her here for breakfast at 7:30.” Matthew pulled his watch from his vest as he had done many times in the past hour.
The conductor shook his head. “No, sir, I haven’t seen her. Did you check the dining room?”
Matthew nodded impatiently. “And every other car. I cannot find her anywhere. I have to say that I am growing worried.”
“I am afraid I never saw her, Mr. Webster, so I wouldn’t recognize her if I did. Is it possible that she got off the train in Troy or Kalispell?”
Matthew drew in a sharp breath and stared hard at the conductor.
“Surely, someone would have seen her. What time did we arrive in Troy?”
“Around 2:00 a.m. And we left Kalispell on time at 5:55 a.m.”
Matthew checked his watch again. Eight-twenty.
Had Miss Reed left the train at Troy or Kalispell? Why? Both towns were in Montana, quite a distance from Grand Forks, North Dakota.
What if some terrible fate had befallen her? An accident? Kidnapping? Something worse?
“Please send a telegraph to those stations at your earliest convenience to see if she left the train,” Matthew said. “I find it difficult to believe that my sister would leave the train voluntarily.” He had done his utmost to ensure that Miss Reed was in comfortable circumstances. Why would she leave the train?
“Of course, Mr. Webster. We won’t reach Havre, Montana, until this afternoon at 3:20, and I won’t be able to send a telegram until then. Additionally, we won’t be able to wait for an answer. I can direct a response to the Glasgow station, but we won’t get arrive at that station until 7:45 tonight.”
Matthew turned away impatiently.
“That is much too late!” he barked. “I am very concerned about her disappearance.”
“I understand, sir, but there is little I can do at the moment.”
Matthew took a deep breath. His hands were cold, and his heartbeat alternately raced uncomfortably. A knot gnawed in the pit of his stomach. He truly hoped no harm had befallen Miss Reed.
“Yes, thank you, Conductor. I understand.”
“I will need your sister’s description.”
“Petite, tiny, disheveled shining brown hair hanging about her shoulders, gold-flecked brown eyes. She wore a dark-blue jacket and black trousers that resemble long johns.”
The conductor regarded him with raised brows. “A thorough description. And her name again?”
“Miss Sara Reed,” Matthew said. “She is my half sister,” he improvised.
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
“As soon as we reach Havre,” Matthew said.
“Yes, sir,” the conductor said again. With a tip of his cap, he left the compartment.
Matthew spent the next few hours pacing his compartment and wandering from car to car, still searching for Miss Reed. He paused long enough to order and eat a sandwich in his compartment and then resumed his travels. The newspaper, normally an interesting diversion, was tedious at best, and he returned to his contemplation of the passing scenery...and wondering about Miss Reed’s whereabouts.
George came to remove his luncheon plate and left the compartment without a word.
Matthew sighed heavily. He rested one arm on the windowsill and tapped it restlessly. He was fully aware that his concern over a stranger was bordering on obsession, but there seemed little he could do to assuage his anxiety. That he had dreamed of her before meeting her must have meant something, but he could not know what.
Had he been able to speak to Emily regarding the mysterious appearance and disappearance of Miss Reed, he might have felt better. Emily, his closest confidant since childhood, would no doubt have put the entire matter into perspective, but he found himself unable to contemplate the situation with any degree of logic.
At long last, the train slowed for arrival in Havre. Matthew rose and sought out the conductor. The conductor, busy with detraining passengers, saw him and nodded.
“I haven’t forgotten, Mr. Webster.”
“No, of course not. How long are we at the station? I wondered if we might not get a response while we are here.”
“We’re only here for twenty minutes, sir. Barely enough time to send the telegrams, much less receive one.”
“Yes, I see. Well, anything is possible,” Matthew said. Knowing himself to be a nuisance, he ignored the unusual sensation and followed the conductor into the station.
Foolishly, while he waited for the conductor to talk to the station agent, Matthew found himself looking for Miss Reed in the crowd, but to no avail. She was not there.
The conductor returned and nodded.
“The telegrams have been sent, Mr. Webster. There is really nothing you can do now. Unless you wish to detrain here and take the next train back to wherever you think your sister might be.” He consulted his pocket watch. “The westbound train has already gone, but you can take the train tomorrow at 1:45 p.m.”
Matthew pursed his lips. He had not thought of this possibility. But no, he had to reach Chicago for his business meetings.
He shook his head.
“No, I must go on to Chicago,” he said.
He saw the conductor’s look of surprise. Surely, the man did not think that he should change his travel plans to pursue a strange woman on a train, did he?
“Do you wish to contact the authorities in Troy and Kalispell regarding your sister’s disappearance, Mr. Webster? If so, you must send a telegram now. The train leaves soon.”
Matthew blinked. His sister... Yes, of course, the conductor would expect him to pursue the disappearance of his sister.
“Yes, I will do that, Conductor. Please do not let me keep you. I will see the station agent right away.”
The conductor waved his watch as if to remind Matthew he was short on time before turning to leave the station.
Matthew regarded the station agent behind his counter, busily assisting arriving or departing passengers. Of course, he could not send a telegram to the authorities regarding a missing sister, as he had no sister. And he could hardly explain that Miss Reed had disappeared from his compartment as mysteriously as she had appeared.
Matthew waited a few moments and then reboarded the train. He returned to his compartment and tried to turn his attention to the business matters ahead in Chicago.
He was unable to concentrate though. Two images warred with each other for his attention, neither of which was a business associate. While Miss Reed had temporarily usurped Emily’s position at the center of his thoughts, the pain of Emily’s rejection continued its hold on his heart.
Chapter Eight
That afternoon, Walter had just gone outside to speak to one of the baggage handlers on the platform when Sara heard a strange sound behind her, like a series of clicks. She turned and noted a machine on a desk along the back wall. She got up to inspect it, noting brass fittings on a wood base. The sound came from a handle on one end. A telegraph! Apparently, Walter was getting a telegram. She wondered if she should go tell him.
Sara hurried out from behind the counter to find Walter. The main door of the station opened behind her, and she turned. A woman and a man entered the station.
Sara stilled. She hadn’t dealt with any customers on her own, and she didn’t think she could manage alone. S
he stuck her head out the door. Luckily, Walter stood nearby on the platform, talking to a big burley man.
“Walter,” she whispered, beckoning him. “You have customers, and I think you have a telegram coming in.”
Walter nodded, and with a final word to the baggage handler, he turned and entered the station.
“Mr. and Mrs. Feeney,” he said warmly. “You’ve come to get your luggage.”
Sara froze. Oh, please no!
Mrs. Feeney, a middle-aged, petite redhead, stared at her, her eyes focused on Sara’s chest.
Walter caught the older woman’s look.
“Mrs. Feeney, this is our new clerk, Miss Sara Reed,” he said. “Miss Reed, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Feeney. Mr. Feeney is a lawyer here in town.”
“Oh!” Mr. Feeney, a tall, gawky and slender man, said as he held out his hand. “A lady clerk.”
Sara accepted his handshake but watched Mrs. Feeney out of the corner of her eye. There had been other pieces of luggage in the storeroom. She had thought they’d been abandoned, had hoped they’d been abandoned. What had she been thinking?
“That blouse,” Mrs. Feeney said. “I have one just like it. The lace is handmade.”
Sara’s eyes rounded, and she held her breath.
“Oh?” she breathed. Should she run now? Where to?
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Walter tilt his head as he watched both women.
“Well, shall we get that case for you?” He turned to Sara. “The case was misplaced at the Chicago station a week ago, and we only just received it two days ago.”
Sara said nothing but felt like she was going to pass out if she didn’t take a breath soon.
Walter moved off to the storeroom. Sara would have at least escaped to the office if Mr. Feeney hadn’t started asking her questions with a pleasant smile on his face.
“Are you new in town, Miss Reed?”
Sara nodded.
“Yes,” she squeaked out. She kept an eye on the door, hoping against hope that Walter wasn’t about to bring out the small brown case. But Walter produced the small brown case with a beam.
“I believe this is yours, Mrs. Feeney,” he said.
“Yes, that’s it, Mr. Wheeler. Thanks,” Mr. Feeney said.
“Set it there, Mr. Wheeler. I want to look inside it,” Mrs. Feeney said.
Sara, throwing a glance over her shoulder toward the front door, took a step backward.
“Don’t you dare go anywhere!” Mrs. Feeney said sharply, staring at Sara.
Sara froze, as did Walter and Thomas. All three of them stared at Mrs. Feeney, but only Sara knew what was happening.
“My dear, what has come over you?” Mr. Feeney asked faintly.
“Mrs. Feeney, what—” Walter began, but he was cut off by a triumphant crow from Mrs. Feeney.
“That is my blouse,” she said, lifting her attention from the bag and whirling around to face Sara. “And my skirt.” She turned to Walter. “I don’t know what sort of people you hire, Mr. Wheeler, but this woman has stolen clothing from my luggage!”
Walter turned to look at Sara. She wanted to cry. She wanted to run, but she could do neither.
“Is that true, Sara? Did you steal Mrs. Feeney’s clothing from her case?”
Sara hung her head, lacing and interlacing her fingers. She gave a slight nod.
“Well, of course she did,” Mrs. Feeney said. “Thomas, please go find the sheriff.”
“Now, wait just a minute, my dear,” Mr. Feeney reasoned. “Must we involve the sheriff? Surely if Miss Reed gives you back the clothing, that should suffice.”
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Feeney,” Walter said with a heavy voice. “Miss Reed will be dismissed at once.”
“See?” Mr. Feeney said. “She is dismissed, and I am certain she will be only too happy to return your clothing. I feel certain that is all that needs to be done.”
“I want the sheriff!” Mrs. Feeney said stubbornly. “I don’t want the clothing back, since it has come into contact with her person, but I want the sheriff!” She wrinkled her nose in distaste and anger.
Sara couldn’t blame the woman. Her throat ached at the disappointment in Walter’s face.
“I will go fetch him at once, my dear,” Mr. Feeney said. He avoided looking at Sara.
“I can go change and give you the clothes,” Sara began.
“Never!” Mrs. Feeney practically screeched.
“Mrs. Feeney, why don’t you sit down while we wait for the sheriff?” Walter asked. “Is anything else missing from your luggage?”
Mrs. Feeney turned back to the case and snapped shut the locks before perching on the edge of the bench next to the case, her back as ramrod stiff as her resolve to see Sara arrested.
“No, everything else seems to be there, although in some disarray. I cannot believe the railroad hires thieves, Mr. Wheeler.” She lifted her chin and turned away from both Walter and Sara.
“I am very sorry, Mrs. Feeney,” Walter said with a sigh. “I understand your anger.”
“I should hope so.” She kept her face averted.
Sara looked up at Walter tentatively. What was going to happen to her?
“Sit down, Sara,” he said, not unkindly. His face, already lined, seemed to have developed new creases.
Sara’s mouth, already dry, screamed for water. She tried to lick her lips, but she just managed to rub dry skin on dry skin.
“I’ll stand,” she said thickly. She eyed the door, wondering if she could bolt.
“I would advise against it, Sara,” Walter said quietly. Mrs. Feeney appeared not to hear.
Mr. Feeney reappeared in minutes.
“The sheriff is right behind me,” he said. On cue, a large man, both in girth and height, strolled in. He sported a gray felt cowboy hat, dark-blue sturdy-looking trousers and a white cotton shirt under red suspenders. His dusty boots looked well worn. White hair and a broad white mustache on a weathered face completed his sheriff-of-a-Western-town look.
“Mrs. Feeney,” he said with a nod. He eyed Sara with an assessing glance. “Walter. What’s going on?”
Mrs. Feeney rose quickly. She stopped short of pointing at Sara with her index finger.
“Mr. Wheeler says she’s an employee of the railroad. She stole some things from my luggage.”
The sheriff turned to Walter.
“Is that true, Walter? Does she work for the railroad?”
“Miss Reed just started today, Bill. But I dismissed her as soon as I found out about the theft.”
Rather than see the disappointment on Walter’s face that his tone implied, Sara kept her eyes on her clasped hands.
“Do you have anything to say, young lady?”
Sara looked up. Steady blue eyes regarded her without expression. He seemed neither censuring nor sympathetic, but remarkably neutral.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Feeney,” she said. “I really am.”
Mrs. Feeney turned a cold shoulder to her.
“You are going to arrest her, aren’t you, Sheriff?”
“Most likely, Mrs. Feeney, unless you don’t want to press charges?” The sheriff looked hopeful.
“Yes, I would most certainly like to press charges!” she blustered. Mr. Feeney looked down at the lobby floor as if he wished himself elsewhere.
Sara’s stomach, already in a tight ball of anxiety, knotted still further.
“Well, that’s that then. Come along, Miss Reed.” He took Sara’s arm, and she didn’t resist. Who would resist such a big John Wayne kind of guy?
Sara avoided looking over her shoulder toward Walter. He didn’t know her well, and he couldn’t help her, even if he wanted. If anything, she had betrayed him, though she hadn’t known him when she helped herself to Mrs. Feeney’s clothes.
“The jail is just down here,” the sheriff said as he kept a gentle but firm grip on her arm. He led the way down a wooden boardwalk toward what appeared to be the center of the town. False-fronted wooden buildings nestled between several
two-storied red brick buildings. The structures at the town center flanked a dusty dirt road traversed by pedestrians, wagons and riders on horses. Kalispell seemed to be in the midst of expansion, as construction workers hammered away on the freshly cut timber of several new buildings.
Having seen some curious looks thrown their way and supposing that most people knew what it meant when the sheriff guided someone toward his office, Sara dropped her eyes and kept them on the boardwalk. She tripped over her skirts—Mrs. Feeney’s skirts—several times until she learned to pull the skirts up with her free hand.
“What’s your name?” the sheriff asked.
“Sara Reed,” she said.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you around town before, Miss Reed. Are you from Kalispell?”
Sara shook her head. “No. I’m from Spokane.”
“So, what made you take the clothes? Seems like Walter had given you a pretty nice job there. You had to know you’d be the first person anyone would suspect if something went missing.”
Sara chewed on her lip. What could she say?
“I needed the clothes. I didn’t have any.”
She kept her eyes down but felt the sheriff slow for a minute.
“You didn’t have any? Well, you didn’t walk into the station without clothing, did you?” His voice held a hint of humor.
Sara shook her head.
“No, but what I was wearing wasn’t quite right.”
“I don’t know what that means, but I guess it doesn’t matter. Mrs. Feeney is up in arms, and I have to arrest you.”
“I understand,” Sara said. She was actually growing resigned to the idea of being arrested. At least they would feed and house her. Or so she hoped. She couldn’t think about the implications for the future. She couldn’t even imagine what the next hour would hold.
They stopped in front of one of the false-fronted wooden buildings, and the sheriff guided her inside. A deputy of some sort jumped up and eyed them in surprise.
“Corbett,” the sheriff said. “This is Miss Sara Reed. She is being arrested for theft.”
Corbett, stocky and a little less tall than the sheriff, wore a fashionable black vest over a crisp white shirt. Dark-black trousers came to rest on the vamp of his shiny brown cowboy boots.