Desert Moon

by Susan Page Davis

  “That’s true,” Julia said. “I assumed he was fine until after the bandit told Chick to drive on. We went on up the road a ways, and he stopped the stagecoach again. That’s when he called for the men to help him get Bub down into the stage.”

  Adam eyed her thoughtfully. “I notice you both keep saying ‘the robber’ or ‘the bandit.’ Mr. Lundy says there was only one man. Is that right?”

  “He’d know better than we would,” Brink said. “I didn’t actually see him.”

  “Me either,” Julia said. “He didn’t approach the door or the windows of the stage.”

  “Did you see any horses?”

  Julia and Brink eyed each other for a moment.

  “No,” Julia said. “Now that you mention it, I didn’t see any, or hear any hoofbeats.”

  Brink shook his head. “Me either.”

  “I didn’t see nothin’,” Joe Chesley repeated.

  “All right,” Adam said. “I’ll check with the driver on that. Miss Newman, I know where you live. Mr. Brink, if I need more from you, I’ll come to the Placer. Mr. Chesley, are you at the miners’ village?”

  “Yup.”

  Adam nodded. “You folks can go.”

  “Thank you,” Brink said. He walked toward the back of the coach, looking up toward the boot, where the luggage was stored.

  Dr. Browning and Ike Hinze were lifting the shotgun rider out of the stage.

  “Are you taking him to your office?” Adam asked.

  Browning shook his head. “Unfortunately, Mr. Hilliard is beyond need for help. He must have passed away during their run up here from the site of the holdup.”

  Adam lowered his head and let his shoulders slump. Now it was beyond chasing down a road agent. He had to catch the man who’d murdered a friend. He pulled in a deep breath. The crowd was dispersing, some of the people following the men who carried Bub’s body toward the livery stable, where the owner made coffins on demand. The rest went off, seemingly to gossip in the saloons or the mercantile, or headed home to prepare dinner.

  He caught a glimpse of Julia Newman’s elegant form disappearing down the street toward her brother’s house. Adam couldn’t tear his gaze away until she turned the corner. Why did she have to come back now, anyhow?

  Chick Lundy cracked his whip and clucked to the horses. The stagecoach rattled off toward the vacant lot past the smithy, where the driver would have room to turn around. Adam walked toward the livery stable. He’d get Ike Hinze’s version and then go and talk to Chick again.

  Half an hour later, after he’d questioned Hinze and helped Chick swab out the stagecoach, Adam mounted his bay gelding and rode out to the scene of the robbery. On the way, he thought over what he’d learned about the holdup. One robber. Chick was the only one who’d gotten a look at him, but the others trusted his word, and so did Adam.

  Chick had also told him he hadn’t seen a horse. The bandit had threatened him, so he’d surrendered the treasure box, but the man hadn’t picked it up until after the stagecoach was out of sight. Chick thought he heard another faint gunshot after they were over the next rise. He’d surmised that the robber had shot the lock off the box, and Adam agreed that was logical, but he’d have to see for himself what clues were out there on the trail.

  Chick had been so concerned about getting Bub to the doctor quickly and avoiding more violence that he hadn’t tried to see where the robber went. He’d lit out for town, which was no doubt the best course.

  The robber was long gone, of course. It was easy for Adam to find where they’d been held up—the empty treasure box still sat at the side of the road. The outlaw must have taken the money out and put it into a sack or something before he rode off. Adam looked over the ground carefully and then searched farther afield for evidence that the robber had hidden a horse nearby. Every indicator supported Chick’s story of the bandit working solo.

  When Adam decided he’d found everything significant, he mounted, carrying the empty wooden box. He left the box at his office and rode out to the High Desert Mine to see the supervisor. Better find out how much money they’d been expecting today.

  Leland Gerry came out of his office and greeted Adam.

  “Scott, come on in. I just heard. It’s a terrible thing. Just terrible.”

  “I’m sorry about the payroll, Mr. Gerry,” Adam said.

  They went into the office, and Gerry shut the door. “I won’t pretend it doesn’t hurt us. But losing a man like Bub Hilliard—well, what can I say? He was a good man.”

  “He surely was. Now, can you tell me how much money the company had in that treasure box today?”

  Gerry gritted his teeth. “I could give you an estimate, but our bookkeeper can tell you to the penny.”

  “That would be Oliver Newman?”

  “Yes. Come on, let’s go ask him. He can check the books.”

  Gerry led him down a short hallway and stopped at an open doorway. “Hmm, that’s odd. Newman’s not at his desk.”

  “Maybe he went out to eat his lunch,” Adam said. His own belly was starting to feel mighty spare.

  Gerry took out his watch and frowned at it. “He should be here now. It’s almost two o’clock. Let me send one of our clerks around to look for him.”

  They walked back toward the entrance to the building. A young man dressed in a white shirt and black vest and pants, with a ribbon tie and paper cuffs shielding his shirtsleeves, jumped up when Gerry called his name.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Find Mr. Newman for me and send him to my office immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.” The clerk hurried off.

  Ten minutes later, they were still waiting. Gerry paced his office. Adam was past ready to ride back to town. Maybe Oliver was home now.

  “Sir, I believe I’ll move along,” he said. “Oliver’s a friend of mine. I can catch him later in town.” Adam hovered on the verge of mentioning the fact that Oliver’s sister had come in on the stagecoach. Maybe he’d gone to meet her, though Adam had seen no sign of him in Ardell—even though the stage was late. He refrained from suggesting it. He wouldn’t want to put Oliver in hot water with the boss.

  The clerk came huffing and red-faced to the doorway and knocked cursorily on the jamb.

  “Well?” Gerry asked.

  “He’s not to be found, sir.”

  Chapter 3

  Julia opened the door of the little house.

  “Oliver?”

  Her voice echoed through the rooms. She stepped inside and set down her valise and handbag. The front room was nearly the same as it had been when she left two years ago. The furniture was the same her parents had had—two comfortable stuffed chairs and a rocker, bookshelves, a side table and lamp, a rug made of braided strips of wool. On one wall, the photograph she’d sent home last year hung in a simple wooden frame.

  She ventured to the kitchen doorway. Her mother’s cookstove—it would always be Mama’s stove in Julia’s mind—sat where it had for years, ever since they’d moved to Ardell. Tears threatened her as the memory of her mother working over it came back so strongly she had to look away. Same cupboard, same pine table and chairs, same washstand with a large, enameled dishpan sitting in it. Same flour barrel and coffee grinder.

  She’d never expected to come home to this room and not find Mama here. Oliver’s telegram a month ago had torn her heart to shreds.

  She’d planned to come home, but not until she’d taught another year or two in Philadelphia. With several years of solid experience under her belt, she’d planned to have the family watch for an opening in Arizona, and then she’d return, ready to support herself and pick up life—without Adam Scott in it. The shock of Mama’s death had heaved those plans out the window. She’d put in her resignation and continued teaching several weeks while the headmaster found a suitable replacement for her. Finally she’d headed west, knowing the funeral was long past. That didn’t matter so much. She needed to go home.

  Was she ready to stay here, now that the journ
ey was behind her? She wasn’t sure, and seeing Adam today had shattered what little confidence she’d stored up. She couldn’t fall back into her old life in Ardell. Of course, it could never be the way it used to be—not with Mama gone.

  Julia drew in a deep breath and walked over to the stove. She lifted one of the cast-iron lids over the firebox. The ashes were warm. She took the poker from its peg on the wall behind the stove and raked them over. A few coals glowed orange. The woodbox held ample kindling and some shredded bark and dried weeds. It took her only a minute to lay the foundation of a good fire. She closed the stove lid and opened the draft on the stovepipe. The kitchen would warm up soon. Meanwhile, she’d keep her wool coat on.

  After filling the teakettle and setting it on the stove, she went back to the front room and picked up her bags. Weariness swept over her. She hadn’t yet admitted her disappointment that Oliver hadn’t met the stage. She longed to see him again. Surely he could have taken an hour off from work—but he wouldn’t have been certain she’d come today. He would come home as soon as he’d finished his day’s work at the mine’s headquarters.

  She trudged up the stairs. The robbery had wrung the starch out of her. It was all she could do to heft the valise onto her bed and unpack it. She longed to crawl under the patchwork quilt and go to sleep, but her stomach protested. She’d eaten nothing since the sketchy breakfast she’d wolfed down at a stage stop before dawn. Oliver must have something she could eat on hand. She ought to have rummaged through the cupboard while she was down there.

  She was halfway down the stairs when someone knocked on the front door. She took the last few steps quickly and walked toward the front window. Maybe Chick had brought her trunk around. From the window she couldn’t see the caller, but a bay horse stood out front, his reins trailing in the dirt. She braced herself and opened the door.

  “Adam Scott.”

  “Hello again, Julia.”

  The afternoon sun sprinkled glints of gold in his thick chestnut hair. His brown eyes gazed so intently at her that she looked away.

  “Nice horse,” she said.

  “Thanks. Can I come in?”

  “Oliver’s not here.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. He’s not at the mine either.”

  She jerked her head around. “What do you mean? He didn’t meet me at the stage stop.”

  “I mean I’ve been to the mine. He wasn’t there.”

  She eyed him thoughtfully. “Is that…significant?”

  “It seems to be to you.”

  “I was disappointed not to see him when I arrived.”

  “Hmm.”

  She sharpened her gaze, not liking his manner. “Do you have something to say, Adam Scott? If you do, then say it plainly. You never used to beat about the bush with me.”

  He gave a rueful chuckle. “No, I didn’t, did I? You always said what you meant, too.”

  She swallowed with difficulty. Facing him for the second time in one day, without the buffer of the other stagecoach passengers, drained her of whatever energy and emotion she had left. “Adam, I’m exhausted. I’ll tell Ollie you were here. Maybe he can come down to the jail and talk to you later.”

  “I’m sorry about your ma.”

  The unexpected gentleness in his voice tugged at her, and Julia cleared her throat before replying. “Thank you. But you didn’t come here for that.”

  “I need to ask you a few more questions about the holdup.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Can’t we sit down?”

  Julia interpreted his gaze as something between a glare and an entreaty. Could they ever be friends again, after what had passed between them? She had her doubts.

  At last she sighed and stepped out of the doorway. “Fine. Come on in.”

  The hair on the back of Adam’s neck prickled as he crossed the threshold of the Newman house. Julia was so beautiful. He could scarcely believe how she’d changed—improved. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what she’d gained—sophistication, maybe. He supposed that happened to young women who went East and learned to move in refined society. When he’d courted her, she was pretty—the prettiest girl in Ardell—but half tomboy, riding up and down the mountain trails in her split skirt, camping with her brother, and shooting a bow better than a lot of Indians.

  Now she’d gotten so much gentility he wasn’t sure he knew how to talk to her. She sat down in her mother’s old rocker and waved him toward a cushioned armchair. He sprawled in it as he had a hundred times when visiting Ollie, with his long legs stretched out before him. Suddenly he felt out of place and sat straighter, pulling his legs in and bending them at the knees.

  “What would you like to know?” she asked, folding her hands in her lap.

  “What did the robber look like?”

  “I already told you, I didn’t see him.”

  “Not even when Chick started the stage moving again?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Stop saying that.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “A little touchy, aren’t we?”

  “I don’t like the way you come here hmming and insinuating.”

  “What am I insinuating?”

  She glared at him. His stomach heaved, and all kinds of memories that he didn’t want to deal with returned. He shouldn’t have come here until Oliver was done with his workday and likely to be home. But then, that was part of the puzzle, wasn’t it?

  “Strange the bandit didn’t demand that you passengers hand over your money and valuables.”

  “Maybe he figured the payroll was enough.”

  Adam didn’t like her ready answer. Either she was still mad at him or she was hiding something. “One of the other passengers told me you had a gun.”

  “I do. So?”

  He shrugged. “A bit unusual for a lady.”

  “After Papa died, I always carried a gun if I had to go somewhere unescorted. In case you’ve forgotten, Ardell was a pretty rough place two or three years ago. It seems to have mellowed a little, but I wasn’t taking any chances.”

  Adam had to admit she was right. The Newman family had moved here shortly after the mine opened, and Julia’s father had served in the same job Adam now had. The town was rough then, and most men wore sidearms. Oliver got the bookkeeping job at the mine about five years ago—before his father died—and he carried a gun, too, at least on payday.

  “Two of the other passengers had guns, that I know of,” Julia said. “Have you grilled them about it?”

  “No. Yes. That is, I asked them about weapons.” His cheeks heated. Why did he let her get to him? One thing hadn’t changed—Julia didn’t deal well with him in the role of a lawman. Too bad. He would have liked to be able to talk this over sensibly with her. This and a thousand other things. Instead he had to look at her as he would anyone else. She was the victim of a crime. Or was she?

  He didn’t like the possibilities that flashed through his mind. One robber—a man who obviously knew today was the day the mine’s payroll would come. One female passenger packing a gun. He’d never before heard of a stage holdup where the bandits didn’t rob the passengers. Could the robber possibly have known who the passengers were—or at least, who one of them was?

  She eyed him coolly for a long moment. “You came here knowing Ollie wasn’t at the mine. Now you’re pressing me about the holdup, when I’ve already told you everything I know. What’s going on, Adam?”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  “Are you implying that my brother was involved in the robbery?”

  “I’m only trying to get at the truth, Julia.” Her suggestion felt like a slap, but he managed to keep his voice cool. The thought had lurked in the back of his mind, where he didn’t have to confront it. Now she’d yanked it into the open—the thought that his best friend had robbed the stagecoach.

  Her expression hardened, and her beautiful face seemed a caricature of the young woman he’d loved. Did she despise him now
?

  “Truth? You’ve been friends with my brother for a long time, Adam. I won’t say anything about our past relationship. Just think about what you mean to Ollie. In every letter he’s written me, he’s mentioned some aspect of your friendship. He looks up to you in many ways, and he relies on you. But all of a sudden you think he’s capable of violence? You don’t know Ollie as well as I thought you did.”

  “Julia—”

  She held up both hands. “Stop. Just stop right there.”

  For a moment, they sat gazing at each other. Adam didn’t dare say a word.

  Julia’s chin rose a fraction of an inch. “Please leave.”

  Chapter 4

  After Adam had left, Julia hurried upstairs. As tired as she was, she couldn’t rest. She opened her wardrobe and took out the brown split skirt she used to wear when she rode about the countryside with her brother. In Philadelphia, she’d worn a proper riding habit when she went out on horseback, but this was Arizona, and she was content to slip back into her old ways.

  She buttoned a cotton blouse and tied a neckerchief at her throat. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she hauled off her walking shoes and put on her old, worn boots. Last, she topped her ensemble with a warm woolen jacket and her old hat—one Oliver had outgrown and let her have when she was eleven. It fit snugly over her hair, but that was all right. It would stay put. She took her small revolver from her handbag and put it in the deep pocket of her skirt.

  The livery stable was less than a city block away, and she strode quickly along the packed-dirt street. She met only a few people, and she nodded at them but kept walking.

  Adam couldn’t seriously think Oliver robbed the stagecoach. Why would her brother do such a thing? He made a decent salary at the mine. His recent letters hinted at no financial distress. Everything had sounded reassuringly normal until Mama’s sudden death. As soon as she’d heard that news, she’d resigned her teaching post and arranged to come home.

  But nearly a month had passed since her mother died. What had Oliver been doing in the meantime? Was he more distraught than she knew? He was always a pensive boy, but still she couldn’t conceive of him turning to crime. She tried to remember everything she’d heard during the holdup. Wouldn’t she have known her own brother’s voice? The shout she’d heard when inside the stagecoach echoed in her head: “You’ll get the same.” No, Oliver wouldn’t have said that. But she couldn’t recall the timbre of the voice—only the sinister words.