“Didn’t know I had to blab my name to every visitor.” He leaned toward her, his brown eyes glaring. “I’m working. Please move aside. I need a clear view of the entrance, the clearing, and the road.”
“Are you saying I’m interfering?” She pressed a hand to her cheek. “Little ol’ me?” Where did that flirty tone come from?
“Please leave.”
Those two words, spoken through clenched teeth, brought her up short. What would antagonizing him achieve? Especially when what she really wanted was his cooperation. As she forced in a breath, Thora glanced around. Forgetting how much time had been lost since their first meeting—that embarrassing fall into his arms at the train depot—was tougher than she thought.
Of course, they should probably conduct the interview outside of his work hours. But he’d been so hard to locate that several days were wasted. If she were home, she’d arrange to meet at a tea room or a café. Had she seen such an establishment, or the frontier equivalent, in the town below?
Across the road, about eight feet away, stood a large stone with an almost-flat top. She walked over and set down her reticule and scrapbook. Then she turned and hoisted herself onto the rock’s surface. Not ladylike at all, but, she reminded herself, she was not in a Lenox Hill parlor. “From here, I can’t possibly block your view. And I’ll just talk. I traveled here looking specifically for you. You already know I came from New York. I view this interview as being that important.”
Frowning, he jerked his head in her direction, narrowed his gaze, and then looked away.
“I’ve been saving accounts of your career for the past five years.” She tapped a finger on the scrapbook. “They’re right inside here. I convinced my publisher that by interviewing you, I could discover the attributes of a real-life hero. With those details at hand, I will create more heroic characters and more entertaining stories.”
Shifting his position, the marshal groaned and shook his head.
Thora gave no indication she heard his response. Her opportunity was right now, and she would not be deterred by his lack of enthusiasm. “I want to write the most authentic plots and characters possible. Of course, Mister Warren strives to sell more copies.” After all this time, she could hardly believe she was about to get the information she needed.
A shiver ran over her skin. She set aside the scrapbook and rested her notebook on a thigh, pencil poised. “So, Marshal Renwyck, are you ready for the first question?”
“No.” A muscle jumped in his jaw.
“No, you’re not ready?”
“No, I’m not a hero. Nor am I a marshal. And, no, you don’t need to interview me.” He walked across the road then turned to face the mountain, scanning the rocks above the opening.
What’s…oh, he’s looking for anyone who shouldn’t be there. She made a note about his vigilance. Thinking back to the exhibition, she remembered other actions he’d performed, especially in relation to her safety, and jotted key words to help her remember. She lifted her head. “What do you mean you’re not a marshal?”
“Just what I said. I quit.”
Pulse racing, she digested this disastrous news. What would Mister Warren say about the expense involved if she didn’t get an interview from a real marshal? Thoughts buzzing, she tapped the pencil against the notebook page in rhythm with the thumping. Well, Mister Renwyck had been a marshal for eight years, so he still had information that would prove helpful.
“I said I’m not doing the interview.” He stepped away from the wall and craned his neck in her direction before returning to his spot. “What are you writing?”
“Just a few notes. But you’re wrong. You have performed heroic acts.” Thora pulled the scrapbook onto her lap, running a hand over the embossed letters that spelled “A Western Legend.” Should she start at the beginning of his career? Or with the most recent articles she’d clipped and glued to the pages? Her personal preference was to read them in order. She opened the book and skipped the title page. “Here’s an article from when the posse you were with tracked down train robbers in Glendale, Missouri.”
After glancing up to see if he was listening, Thora flipped the page. He might not be looking her way, but she was sure he heard her. “I liked this article from the Denver Guardian from Wednesday, April 21, 1880, because it contains your first picture. Or the first one I located.” Only by reading the caption would anyone know who the blurred faces were—or maybe their mothers would recognize them. “Says here, and I’m summarizing, U.S. Marshals tracked the Mitch Yale gang after the robbery of the nine-thousand-dollar payroll for the Imogene Basin mine in Ouray, Colorado. For two weeks, the marshals followed the trail through the San Juan Mountains, capturing three of the five men and recovering half the money.” Again, she glanced up to see if her recitation had any effect.
He stood straight, the rifle barrel resting on a shoulder, and stared into the distance.
Maybe she needed to read the actual words from an article. Thora turned to a new page. “From the September 8, 1880, issue of the Gunnison Gazette. ‘Revenge Thwarted. Devlin Gang Spotted Near Buena Vista. Citizens Take A Stand. On a crisp morning at ten o’clock on Monday past, the four-member Devlin gang, leading a disreputable life they share with other famous bank robbers, rode into Buena Vista. Wearing no masks, they stared down anyone brave enough to remain on the streets. Thinking if they had guns and guts, they could take what they wanted—even committing heinous murder of innocents to abscond with the ill-gotten gains they hadn’t worked a minute for.’”
Planting her finger, she glanced toward the marshal. “This journalist has quite the flair for description.” Seeing no response, she looked down at her place in the article. “'The scoundrels split up with two standing guard at the entrance to the First Pioneer Bank and the other two dashing inside, guns drawn. But because citizens cooperated by sharing information about sightings of the gang over the past week, resistance was close at hand.’”
Smiling, she held up a finger and sat straighter. “This part is my favorite. ‘Seeing the criminals in the area led to the posse anticipating where they’d strike. Tommy Devlin had voiced his anger over the foreclosure on the family ranch and stated he’d seek revenge. A ten-man strong posse of Buena Vista businessmen and ranchers, led by US Marshal Harte Renwyck, waited in a specially outfitted car of the Denver & Rio Grande Railroad near First Pioneer Bank. Bank employees were counseled to cooperate with the gang’s demands to avoid risking injury or death. The plan went off without a hitch.
“‘Liveryman and ex-Civil War sharpshooter, Ted Everett, displaying the coolness and expert marksmanship of Deerslayer, fired a steady barrage of bullets into the road and prevented the gang from escaping to the north. Instructed to make only warning shots, citizens with rifles were posted inside the last buildings on the east and west ends of town.”
Again, Thora looked up, hoping to see Mister Renwyck showing an interest. But he stood so still, he almost blended with the rock face.
“‘At the south end near the depot, the posse, half on horseback, burst from the railroad car, fanned out, and worked their way up Main Street toward the town’s center, trapping the gang within a tightening noose.’”
Excitement racing through her body, Thora scooted off the rock to pace, with the bottom edge of the book held against her stomach. “'Within twenty minutes, the entire gang was captured and the money secured. The arrest was accomplished with a minimum of gunfire, saving the innocent citizenry from harm. The only injury was a flesh wound suffered by storekeeper Aamon Herschel from the misfiring of his own pistol.’”
The crunch of boots against rocky ground meant he’d shifted his position. Maybe progress was accomplished. Thora bit back a smile and search for where she’d left off reading.
“'Citizens of this normally peaceful town in the Arkansas River Valley have breathed a collective sigh of relief to be rid of the notorious gang headed by the infamous Tommy Devlin. Because of the posse’s efforts, Buena Vista will no longer
be harassed by bullies and thugs. Thanks to the well-executed plan administered by Renwyck, the Devlin gang will have its day in court for this last of its many misdeeds in a four-year long crime reign.’” She closed the book nd clasped it to her chest. Looking up, Thora held her breath and waited for him to be ready for her questions.
~**~
“What’s going on out here?” A deep voice sounded from the mine office.
At the sight of his new boss heading his way, Harte bit back a groan and stepped forward. “Sorry, Mister Morgan. A minor disturbance.” He ignored Thora’s head snap at the word disturbance. “I should have sent Miss Alviss on her way when she first arrived.”
“Explain yourself, Renwyck.” Morgan grabbed the lapels of his navy suit jacket, widened his stance, and glanced between the two.
“No, allow me, please.” Thora set down the scrapbook and walked with her hand extended holding a small, white card. “Mister Morgan, or should I say Mayor Morgan? I’m Thora Alviss, and I’m a writer. Here are my credentials.” Smiling, she clasped her hands in front of her waist and rocked back and forth. “I have to say, I’ve been looking forward to meeting the accomplished man responsible for building an entire town.”
Harte had to admit his boss dressed in a more polished style than expected for a small mining town. Nothing like the gaudy suits worn by Mister Stansilav.
Morgan accepted the card then looked up, eyebrows raised. “Warren Brothers Publishing…can’t say as I recognize the name.” He handed back the card. “But New York City? My, my. What brings you to my little corner of Montana Territory?”
Dipping her chin, she slanted him a sideways glance. “Actually, sir, your newest employee does. I’ve come a long way to interview Mister Renwyck, but he’s reticent to cooperate.” She puffed her lips into a pout.
At her suddenly coy attitude, Harte stiffened. Now, she used feminine wiles? As far as he was concerned, she’d traveled a long way only to return empty-handed. Because he never asked for anyone to write about him or his past career. Answering questions and standing for photographs had been an expected part of being a marshal, and an aspect of the job he disliked. But not any longer.
“So, you’re a reporter?” Morgan looked Thora up and down.
“Not exactly. I’m a novelist. I write for The Oceanside Library.” She held his gaze.
Shaking his head, he shrugged.
She squared her shoulders. “Dime novels featuring action stories.”
The mine owner grinned, and his stance relaxed. “I love adventure stories.” He glanced around the area. “Just don’t tell my wife, Prudence. She has a more high-brow taste in her reading selections. You write those stories, huh?”
I don’t like the shift in Morgan’s attitude. Harte gave the immediate vicinity another scan, wishing this conversation had never started. Why hadn’t he removed the pesky woman when he had a chance?
“I do, although I focus mostly on the experiences of women in the settling of the frontier.” Thora flashed a smile and nodded. “I’m always glad to hear from satisfied readers.”
“Why here? Are you thinking of featuring Morgan’s Crossing in your story?”
“I hadn’t considered that aspect, exactly.” Tilting her head, she tapped a finger on her lips.
Gritting his teeth, Harte fought against paying close attention to the woman’s gesture. If he watched her pink lips too long, he’d remember his foolhardy way of shutting her up after the boxing match.
“But, why not? My publisher wants stories with frontier settings and exciting action.” She bounced as she talked. “In my short time here, I’ve attended a boxing match between world-class contenders, ridden on a mule-driven freight wagon for two days, and slept in a one-room shack with only a fireplace. Certainly not activities to be found in a big city.”
Nodding, Michael scratched a hand over his chin. “I like the idea of my town being featured. Great publicity might encourage businesses to relocate.”
Disappointment landed hard in Harte’s gut. The mine owner who served as mayor sounded like he was capitulating.
Her brows drew together. “This being such a small town, I’m not sure I can use the exact name. But I’d keep the fictitious one similar enough so you’d recognize it.”
Morgan faced Harte and braced hands on his hips. “Renwyck, you need to speak with this woman. Can’t deny you’ve led an interesting life. Only natural for people to be curious.”
That my life is interesting isn’t the issue. No one wants to read about my last capture and how an innocent civilian was caught in the crossfire. Nothing heroic or entertaining about that tragedy.
Mister Morgan nodded and glanced toward the waiting woman. “Miss Alviss sounds like she’s done her research and would do right by you in an interview.”
What he’d dreaded was coming true. Harte noted the boss’s determined expression but couldn’t let his opposition go unstated. “But, sir—” At the sight of Morgan’s raised hand, palm out, he cut himself off.
“I suggest the common areas of either the miners’ boardinghouse or the hotel-boardinghouse as excellent meeting locations, if I do say so myself.” Flashing a wide grin, he turned to Miss Alviss. “I want you to come straight to me if you need any other help for your project.” He started toward the office then gave a half-turn. “You know, Michael’s Crossing has a nice ring as an alternate town name.”
“Wonderful suggestion, sir. Thank you so much for your support.” Thora beamed until the man disappeared inside the building labeled Morgan Mine Office. “He recognizes the importance of the interview. I like him.” Her smile faded, and she narrowed her gaze. “Will you abide by what your employer requested?”
Her persuasive skills were unbelievable, almost like some of the con artists he crossed paths with. Harte scoffed. “You mean ordered?”
“Supper at the hotel is over by six o’clock, so I’ll expect you no later than a quarter past.” Thora gathered her belongings, stepped in front of him, and looked him straight in the eyes. “Do you agree to the time?”
“Agreed.” He barely forced out the word through clenched teeth. Being bested in anything always rubbed him the wrong way.
As Harte watched her walk away, he wondered why he both dreaded and anticipated their next meeting. Next time we speak, I vow to take charge of the conversation from the very first moment.
Chapter Six
Miffed at Mister Renwyck’s attitude over being interviewed, Thora walked the length of Morgan’s Crossing to cool her temper. The stroll would allow her to become acquainted with this tiny town. On the ride from Sweetwater Springs, the freighter had explained about the miners living in the big yellow boardinghouse where they took their meals. Married miners occupied the small cabins with yards, and the Chinese workers lived in the canvas tents.
Thora headed in the direction of the Oriental encampment but stopped herself because a language barrier might exist. She’d always experienced such embarrassment when her mother struggled to talk with the foreign tradesmen and didn’t want to find herself in the same uncomfortable situation.
Instead, on her return toward the hotel, she angled for the porch of the dressmaker’s shop. Displayed on a wire form in the window was a skirt and blouse of a plain style. Thora walked inside and glanced around, seeing a wall where a painted canvas of a scene of a Roman coliseum hung, and a crate holding bolts of fabric. A table in the middle of the room held a length of material covered with a paper pattern.
“Morning, how may I help you?” A redhead dressed in a green loose-fitting smock over a brown skirt stood from a table with a pedal sewing machine.
“I noticed the skirt and shirtwaist in the window. Do you have other ready-made clothing?” Thora looked at the woman, whose rounded belly showed evidence of an advancing pregnancy.
“I’m Cinnia Andrusha, but I haven’t had the pleasure of an introduction.” The dressmaker moved close, a slight waddle in her gait.
“My name’s Thora Alviss, and I b
elieve the clothing I brought from home is a bit too fancy for life on the frontier.”
“Ah, you’re the writer. My husband said you might be stopping by.” With a finger tapping her chin, Cinnia walked a half circle around the other woman. “Your hat is just lovely as can be, Thora. Is that a Caroline Reboux design?”
“That it is.” Thora lifted a hand to touch one of the silk roses. “You have a good eye, although the hat’s from a couple seasons ago.”
“Thank goodness for postal subscriptions to fashion magazines. The styles might not be up to the moment, but what I can use from the patterns at least belongs in this decade.” Grinning, she rested a hand on her stomach and rubbed a small circle.
The protective gesture touched off a pang in Thora’s chest. All her life she’d been taught the importance of marriage, home, and family. Unfortunately, those teachings didn’t mesh well with seeking new places and speaking to interesting people. She couldn’t see herself pushing a perambulator through the—
“Excuse me, miss.”
The dressmaker’s voice pulled Thora from her musings. Caught daydreaming again. Heat flushed her cheeks. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
“What colors are you looking for?” Cinnia gestured toward a standing rack with several garments on hangers. “Your hair and skin tones are similar to mine, so I recommend staying away from the lavender calico and the tan percale.”
After a quick glance through the offerings, Thora chose two shirtwaists—a forest green calico with black flowers and a royal blue with a shiny bib bodice—and a pair of skirts of solid brown and black gabardine. “What is the bodice made of?” She ran a finger over the smooth cloth.
Cinnia chuckled as she wrapped the garments in thick brown paper. “That sateen was part of a costume I wore while performing. The backdrop displayed a proper British parlor, and I recited either Lord Tennyson’s “Mariana” or “The Lady of Shallot.” Goodness, an entire year has passed. Do I remember these poems?” After squaring her shoulders, she clasped her hands below her protruding waist. “‘With blackest moss the flower-plots were thickly crusted, one and all’…'On either side the river lie long fields of barley and of rye…’ Well, the lines are still in my brain.”
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