by Cathy Pegau
Charlotte buttoned her coat as she walked to the door. Maybe she was a busybody, but her concern for the people in her life was real. Henry was obviously anxious about something to do with the arsonist, and as his friend, as well as his more-or-less superior at the newspaper, she was compelled to find out what was bothering him.
Before she could grab the handle, someone reached around her to pull open the door.
“Allow me, Miss Brody.” James’s drawl tickled her ear as he leaned forward.
She turned her head just enough to meet his eyes. “Thank you.”
He smiled, showing that damn dimple.
Out on the walkway, under the electric streetlight, neither moved on.
James set his hat on his head and squinted up at the still-dark sky. “They say more snow’s on its way.”
“Are you fond of winter activities, deputy? Skiing? Sleigh rides? That sort of thing?”
“Snowball fights,” he said, pantomiming tossing a snowball and winking.
She laughed, imagining him as a boy engaged in an all-out battle with his brothers and friends.
“Do you have a minute, Charlotte?” He was smiling, though there was a hint of apprehension in his eyes.
A flurry of excuses about getting to work or being cold ran through her brain, but Charlotte knew that at some point they’d need to talk. He’d been hesitant the other night, and her stint in his jail had overshadowed more personal concerns. She’d been more than willing to put off the inevitable out of fear of being expected to reciprocate. It was probably harder for him to get up the nerve to talk to her about Stella than it was for Charlotte to keep her own struggles bottled inside; she’d become quite good at showing a different face to those around her.
Besides, her curiosity about the reserved deputy’s relationship with the flamboyant Stella got the better of her. “Of course.”
James gestured for her to walk down the street toward his office. They passed a few people going in the opposite direction on their way to work or Saturday errands, greeting those folks but not speaking a word to each other. As they drew closer to the federal building, Charlotte was getting antsy. She preferred it when their conversation was light and easy, a friendly chat at one of their offices, or over a meal or a cup of tea. While she was sometimes at a loss for what to say to James, this awkward silence between them wasn’t normal.
Charlotte angled toward the outer door of the building, but James touched her arm. “I’d like to walk a little, if that’s all right.”
She nodded and shoved her hands into her pockets. What did he need to say that he didn’t want Marshal Blaine to hear?
They walked under the last electric light on Main Street. With just a hint of light from the sun peeking over the mountains and the lights from the scant houses set back from the road, Charlotte had to watch her footing along the frozen mud and pockets of slush.
“Blaine thinks looking into the relationship Otto Kenner had with Lyle Fiske could have some merit,” James said.
Charlotte’s head came up. Blaine’s take on the murder was not the topic of conversation she’d expected, and it took her a moment to get into the right mindset. “Do you think Otto knows anything about Lyle’s death?”
He shook his head. “Hard to say. I talked to Fiske’s employees. The two got into it over material costs and such. Kenner thought Fiske was charging more than he needed to.”
“I’m sure a lot of customers feel that way at times,” she said, “especially here. That might explain why Otto was buying his own supplies directly.”
“Maybe so, but from what you said about quantity, I can’t understand how Kenner could afford to purchase so much. There’s no way he was working enough jobs this time of year to cover those expenses.” James’s brow furrowed as it often did when he was mulling the facts of a case.
Charlotte didn’t understand it either, though she had no inkling of how much material a builder needed for a bookcase, let alone a house. Hundreds of pounds of nails as they headed into winter did seem excessive. Even if Otto had motive to kill Lyle, what about opportunity?
“Where was Otto that night?” she asked. “For that matter, where was Adam?”
“Still considering the lover-husband quarrel angle? I don’t know. I’ll talk to them, but I’m willing to bet they’ll have alibis for each other.”
“I’m not taking a sucker’s bet.”
James laughed.
“Does Marshal Blaine know about Otto having me arrested?”
“You were never officially charged, just held.”
“For most of the morning,” she reminded him.
In the dimness of the new day, she could see James give her a sidelong glance. “Count yourself lucky Kenner didn’t press for formal charges, or bring you to the constables’ office for that matter. I didn’t bother to log any of it in, so no, Blaine doesn’t know anything about it.”
She did count herself lucky, and she was grateful James had gone to bat for her. That he had also taken her suspicions seriously enough to consult with the marshal meant he trusted her instincts, even when she was being reckless. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
He shrugged as if it was no big deal, but they both knew he’d taken a risk. “I saw no reason for Blaine to hear about not charging you.”
“Treading a fine line there, deputy.”
“Just saving us both a bit of trouble, Miss Brody.”
Charlotte laughed. The exchange of banter was much better than the tension of the last few days. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d missed it until now.
She would have been happy to have the conversation end at that, on a friendly note. But they walked on, without any indication that James was done with what he had to say. The bite of burning coal and the clatter of cars on rails grew stronger and louder. Men’s voices carried on the chilled air, and shadowed figures hurried about the rail yard under bright lights.
“Is that all you wanted to tell me?” she asked.
James stopped, staring across the yard. Charlotte waited for him to collect his thoughts. She flipped up her collar and watched as well, not at all interested in the goings-on of the CR&NW railway. She doubted he was either.
Finally, he turned to her, half his face lit by the lights, the other half in shadow. “About the other night. With Stella.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, James.” She was giving him an out, mostly so she wouldn’t feel obligated to reciprocate. Ever.
“No, I want to tell you what happened.” He stared down at his boots, took a breath, and blew it out in a slow, silvery stream. He looked up again, holding her gaze. “Stella and I met in Dawson City when we were barely more than kids. Her parents ran a hotel. Not too many kids our age around, so we were naturally drawn together.”
Charlotte could imagine younger James being smitten by younger Stella. And vice versa. “Outgrew the fun of snowball fights, did you?”
He grinned. “Not completely. We lost track of each other when my family moved to Nome, following the gold. Then one day she showed up at an assayer’s office, working as a secretary. We started keeping company.”
Charlotte realized she was shivering and ran her hands over her arms. Her toes were getting numb.
“Come on,” he said, “let’s keep walking. This won’t take long.” James took her arm and gestured to a side road along the back of the rail yard. “Anyway, we got married.”
“And?” She wanted to keep him talking, to get it over with. No need to draw out the discomfort for either of their sakes.
“And things were good for a while, though Stella enjoyed going out with friends more than I did. About three years in, I thought she was cheating on me. I confronted the guy.”
Years later, in the semidarkness of a winter dawn, Charlotte saw he knew he’d been wrong. “What happened?”
“I beat the hell out of him. Put him in the hospital.”
Charlotte’s breath caught. She had seen James r
eact violently only once, and that was in self-defense. The thought of him purposely hurting someone didn’t fit with the man she knew. But jealousy, anger, and suspicion were powerful emotions. People didn’t think clearly under those influences, they just reacted. All that mattered was protecting what was yours.
He continued, his tone almost matter-of-fact, but quiet. Like he didn’t want to be saying what he had to tell her, yet knew it had to come out. “Friends spoke up for me, told the police the guy started it. That wasn’t quite true, but he never pushed to have me arrested. That makes me think he was guilty, but still.”
James paused for a moment, shaking his head slightly, a look of disgust on his face. For the other man? Himself? Both? “Anyway, Stella and I left Nome as soon as we could. Settled in Juneau. It was never the same between us. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d done, and she couldn’t convince me of her innocence, or that I was more than the angry, foolish man I was, deep down.”
Charlotte winced. “James, you know that isn’t true. You’re one of the most decent men I’ve ever met.”
He gave a humorless laugh. “I was a jealous, short-fused son-of-a-bitch. And that man is still lurking inside me somewhere. I wanted to make sure you had the opportunity to decide if you still wanted to be . . . to stay friends or not.”
She stopped, drawing him to a halt as well. Face-to-face, she saw who he was, and it wasn’t the man he feared.
“You didn’t have to tell me any of this. All you had to say was you’d been married and it was over,” she said. He remained perfectly still. “That tells me the man you think is in here,” she laid her hand flat on his chest, right over his heart, “isn’t. The man in there is the good person I’ve come to know, and I want to stay friends with him.”
He nodded slowly, allowing her words to sink in. Did he believe her?
After a few moments, a slight smile curved his mouth. “Thank you, because I want to stay friends with you too. I like you, Charlotte.” He cupped her cold cheeks in his warm hands. “I like you a lot.”
James held her still and bent to kiss her. Their breath mingled, creating a silvery cloud. Charlotte closed her eyes as their lips met. An electric pulse shot through her, and she clutched the front of his coat where her hand lingered over his heart.
She should have told him they needed to stop, but instead she flicked her tongue against the seam of his mouth. He responded as she’d hoped and feared, reciprocating and deepening the kiss. Need and desire welled inside her. Images flashed in her head of limbs and bodies lit by the soft glow of a bedside lamp, of searing kisses along bare skin.
Exactly what she wanted. Exactly what she couldn’t handle. Not yet.
“Wait,” she said, gently pushing him away while her heart pounded. Charlotte gulped a breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t. I can’t.”
His palms still on her cheeks and her hand still on his chest, James gazed down at her. Not angry, as Richard might have been, just trying to collect himself. “I understand.”
No, he didn’t. He probably thought she had never been with a man, let alone done what she’d done. He probably didn’t realize the thoughts in her head were not those a “good girl” imagined when she kissed him. Not even close. But she wasn’t ready for a confession. Someday, maybe, but not today.
He touched his lips to hers and lowered his hands. Charlotte stepped back and clasped her hands together.
“I don’t want to push you into anything you aren’t ready for, Charlotte.”
She almost laughed. Let him assume she was protecting her virtue. She’d enjoyed being intimate with Richard, but most men weren’t keen on the idea of learning they weren’t first in line.
“Whenever you’re ready to tell me what that bastard, whoever he is, did to you, I’m here. And if you decide to never to say a damn thing, that’s okay too.”
Charlotte blinked at him. How had he known? She’d never mentioned anything about having a relationship, failed or otherwise. Michael wouldn’t have said anything either.
“There’s nothing to tell.” Liar liar liar.
“You’ve had an air about you since you arrived. Like you’re trying to forget something or pretend it never happened. I’ve seen it a lot on people who come here. Hell, myself included.” He gave her a fleeting, crooked grin, then the earnestness was back in his eyes. “But every time we get close, there’s a tension that goes through you. You’re like a taut wire about to snap.”
“It’s not you,” she said, glancing away.
He tilted her chin up so their eyes met again. “Glad to hear that. I just want you to realize I’m not perfect—far from it—but I’m not him.”
Her voice was low and rough when she said, “I know.”
James smiled again. “Good. Let’s get you to your office so you can warm up.”
He looped her arm through his and they headed back to town.
Now what was she supposed to do?
* * *
The rest of the day was one distraction after another, from the ringing telephone to people dropping in. But the worst came from within Charlotte’s own head, causing her to have to reset four different articles in the Linotype. She also burned her finger when she returned used slugs to the crucible to melt down, and smeared ink on the skirt of her favorite dress despite wearing an apron.
By the time she was headed home, all Charlotte wanted was a hot meal and a hotter bath. She trudged up the snowy road to the little green house, flashlight in hand, making a mental list of things she had to do over the next several days. Writing was always at the top of that one, though for the life of her she couldn’t understand how sitting at her typewriter suddenly made her brain go blank. She also needed to get Christmas gifts out to Mother and Father. They’d likely be late, given the mail service from Alaska and her procrastination. Mother and Father wouldn’t mind, though.
She smiled thinking of them, missing them, but at the same time glad to be out from under their scrutiny. Overall, they were good about letting her be who she was, yet there was always the need to get their approval. Or at least avoid stirring things up by blatantly misbehaving in their eyes. Charlotte had pushed the confines of propriety on numerous occasions, all without her parents’ knowledge. At least she assumed they didn’t know what she’d done. It was silly, really. She was a grown woman and shouldn’t have to sneak behind her parents’ backs. Yet she had.
“Miss Brody?”
The voice came from her porch. Charlotte shined the flashlight beam in that direction, catching poor Henry right in the eyes. “Sorry,” she said, lowering the light. “You startled me. How long have you been waiting?”
“Not too long,” he said as she climbed the rickety stairs. “You asked me to come see you, so I figured I’d come over tonight, if that’s okay.”
“Of course it is, Henry.”
Told him to come see her was more like it, and she wasn’t surprised he’d obeyed. Henry was a good kid who liked to please people. It made him a popular server at the café, and he garnered generous tips there as well as when he delivered newspapers.
His uneasiness over the last several days wasn’t like him. As a friend and fellow employee at the Times, Charlotte wanted to see if she could help.
“Let’s get inside and have some tea. Have you had supper yet?”
Henry shook his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he entered the house and pulled off his cap. Charlotte hung up her coat and unlaced her boots, watching him as he did the same. Good Lord, he was just a boy, wasn’t he, all smooth-cheeked and wide-eyed as he looked around the parlor. His heavy sweater and trousers weren’t new, but they were clean and neat. The result of someone taking care of him or a talent of his own?
“Let’s go into the kitchen,” she said, giving him a reassuring smile. “I’ll get the stove started and it’ll warm right up in there.”
Henry followed her obediently and sat at the kitchen table. Charlotte set out the plate of cookies she kept on hand to have wit
h her tea in the evenings. He hesitated, glancing up at her as if to ask permission.
“Have some. There are days when you have to eat dessert first.” She winked at him and he smiled, more relaxed.
While he nibbled, Charlotte set about firing up the stove and taking ingredients out of the icebox. “I hope you like fish cakes.”
“Love them,” he said around a mouthful of cookie.
Henry being Henry, Charlotte was pretty sure he’d say he loved anything she offered, just to be nice.
“Do you know how to cook?” she asked. “I hear the top chefs are all men.”
They discussed food while Charlotte puttered about in domesticity. She reined in her inclination to jump right on him about what was going on. Henry had readily come over when she’d asked, but he was nervous. Chatting about food and other neutral topics put him at ease.
Charlotte set two plates of fish cakes, green beans, and buttered bread on the table. She poured them each a cup of tea, then sat.
Henry bowed his head, murmuring grace before looking up at her, red-faced. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” she said, laying her napkin in her lap. “My family was never terribly religious.”
He picked up his fork and dug in like the still-growing young man he was. “Mine was. Grace at each meal. Prayers before bed. Church every Sunday.”
“Was?” Charlotte asked gently.
Henry hesitated, a forkful of fish cake halfway to his mouth. He took the bite and nodded slowly while he chewed. Charlotte kept eating, encouraging him to go on with her silence.
“We lived in a small town in Kansas, me, my folks, my brothers and sisters. Loaded up the wagon every Sunday to go to church. Even if we could’ve afforded one, Pa didn’t believe in automobiles. Said they were for people too worried about getting places without experiencing the journey.”
Charlotte smiled. It sounded like something her own father would say. “Your pa sounds like a wise man.”
“He was.” Henry looked up from his plate, meeting her gaze for a moment before finding his green beans unusually interesting. “He and ma died when I was ten.”
“Oh, Henry, I’m so sorry.” Charlotte knew too many children who had lost their parents. She reminded herself how lucky she was to still have hers, even when they gave her a hard time.