The steamer.
Surely not.
It was one thing for Willie to know which compartment was Lynnelle’s, and even to somehow arrange berths near it, but the steamer trunk had been in the custody of the railroads since Lynnelle boarded the first train in Cleveland.
Surely not.
How complicated would it be to intercept its transfer from one railway to another in Omaha, to see for herself that it had not been tampered with? The normal transfer schedule between the Chicago and North Western and the Union Pacific was only twenty minutes in the middle of the night, but with a large enough tip to a porter, what might be possible? And now, of course, the baggage car had been just as idle as every other car for all these hours, and why would there be any reason for anyone to pay particular attention to it in the face of the larger calamity of rescuing the entire train?
Right now, the thing to do was to get off the train, march to the minuscule depot office, and demand to use the phone and call Pinkerton’s in Denver. The rear door of the carriage was just outside her compartment. Lynnelle stuffed the papers back in the satchel. This time, with no eyes on her, she reached under her waistband for the key and locked it before hanging it over her head again.
She slipped off the train and traipsed forward on the uneven shallow embankment toward the platform. Dozens of passengers milled around, especially families with children eager to burn off some energy in advance of the coming confinement. Handwritten signs on every train car reminded passengers not to stray beyond the sound of the whistle that would announce departure.
Lynnelle wasn’t the only one asking questions at the office. The line inched forward, one beleaguered question at a time.
First she asked about a return telegram from Mr. McParland.
“No, miss.”
Had her message been sent?
“Yes, miss.”
Could she place a phone call?
“No, miss. Railroad business or medical emergencies only.”
It was urgent.
“Everybody’s business is urgent.”
This truly was.
The man shrugged.
She would end the call if the operator asked for the line.
He shook his head and gestured to the queue behind her. The telephone line would be tied up constantly if they let everyone on the train make calls.
“I must insist,” Lynnelle said.
He chuckled out of one side of his mouth.
She settled for sending a second cryptic message to Pinkerton’s and the message she had drafted asking the hotel to hold her booking for a later arrival than reserved and surrendered her place in line to the next person. She would have to try her own hand at enticing a porter to help her gain admittance to the baggage car to see for herself whether her trunk had been compromised. How did one determine a suitable amount of enticement? She refused to call it a bribe. It was her own trunk, after all.
When Lynnelle turned the corner of the building to return to the train, the engine whistle nearly made her jump out of her Oxford shoes. She pivoted toward the sound. The new locomotive was approaching. The disabled engine had already been decoupled and moved to the side in its own strength, leaving the train like a decapitated serpent awaiting the growth of a new mighty head.
Good. Find the farmer. Wrangle the cows so the engineers could accomplish their mission and a cheer could rise up from the entire passenger list.
She rotated again in the direction of her compartment—and nearly ran into Willie.
Lynnelle backed up three steps and two to one side. “Excuse me.”
“I just want to explain. Sixty seconds. If you don’t like what I say in sixty seconds, you don’t have to listen to anything more.”
“I don’t have to listen to anything at all. You broke into my compartment and got into my personal belongings. You’re lucky I didn’t have you thrown off the train.”
“And I appreciate your mercy. Please. It’s in your best interest.”
“I can decide what is in my best interest for myself.” Lynnelle pushed past Willie. Mercy had nothing to do with it. If the Meades stayed on the train, and they were involved in the matter Mr. McParland was assisting with, they would be one step closer to arrest when they arrived in Denver, but she did not have to speak to them further.
With her window cracked, Lynnelle heard periodic shouts and whistles from outside suggesting progress toward clearing the tracks and coupling the locomotive to the train. It was not at all an expeditious process. A couple of horse-drawn wagons arrived to deliver food supplies to the kitchen and dining cars. Was that to equip them for the journey or to supply them for further delay? Two hours after the first whistle signaling the engine’s arrival, there was no sign of imminent departure. Yet she had been peremptorily denied the opportunity to investigate the state of her steamer. All passengers were required to remain in passenger carriages, ready for departure as soon as the train was declared fit. She lacked the courage to offer enticement to circumvent the order and was left with berating herself for not attempting the strategy sooner.
Lynnelle went to her little sink to splash water on her face. When the knock came, she turned off the pitiful stream.
“Yes?”
“Please open the door.”
Mr. Meade.
“No thank you.”
“We must speak. Please.”
She unlocked the door and yanked it open. “Mr. Meade, I would ask you to leave me in peace.”
“I thought we were on a first-name basis.”
“No longer.”
“I know you’re upset.”
She glared.
“You must listen.”
“Must I?”
“We’re your friends—at least we want to be.” He smiled, flaunting his secret weapons. The widest dimple she had known anyone to have, eyes that were persuasively, profoundly sincere. If there was anyone on the train she wanted to trust, to listen to, to accept friendship from, it was Carey Meade.
Lynnelle closed her eyes for a few seconds and pictured Willie sitting on the bench three feet away with the case and satchel open. That was all the image she needed to steel her nerves. Carey had known Willie was there, all the while trying to woo her to the dining car in the other direction to buy her a piece of apple cake. Under the circumstances, she couldn’t trust anyone that charming.
“They found the farmer,” Carey said. “He brought some men to help him with the cows. It shouldn’t be much longer.”
“Thank you for that important information. I hope you enjoy San Francisco.” I hope you are arrested in Denver.
Another knock. They both turned toward the sound on the open compartment door. Mrs. Sweeney was there, with her cane in one hand and a covered plate in the other.
“I heard you were unwell,” she said. “I thought you could use some proper food from the dining car.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sweeney.” Lynnelle took the plate. “Mr. Meade was just leaving.”
“I heard back from my daughter.”
“I’m glad. I’m sure she appreciated knowing you are all right.” Lynnelle couldn’t help disappointment that her own telegrams had brought no replies.
At least Carey Meade was gone.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
He seems really nice.” Veronica’s voice was half whisper. “When he said we could see his house, I thought he just meant the outside.”
Jillian nodded. She’d never expected to be inside the house either. When Drew said he lived in a cabin, she’d imagined something campier, that “little red house” was merely a sentimental moniker. This home had never been a ranch hand’s cabin or bunkhouse and showed no sign of neglect or disuse. It was cozy, but it had always been a home. While she and Veronica waited for Drew to return from wherever he stabled his horse—she hadn’t figured that out—they’d taken the liberty to walk around the outside of the trim simple frame structure painted the popular color of barns in bygone decades. A gravel path designated a spot t
o park a couple of vehicles, and someone had cleaned the winter off two large green planters outside the front door, though it was still early to expect anything to be growing in them. The windows had been modernized with double panes. The little house might be a cabin compared to the main house, but clearly it was valued.
Now, unexpectedly, they were inside. Drew had disappeared around a corner into the kitchen with the promise that he could scrounge up some cold bottled tea, leaving the two of them to soak in as much of the main room as they could. There could only be one bedroom, and it couldn’t be large. The whole house was barely eight hundred square feet. Kitchen, bath, bedroom, main room with space for a table, a fireplace, a wall of bookshelves, and eclectic furniture likely left from previous occupants.
Veronica was right. Drew was nice. Jillian hadn’t expected that. She hadn’t not expected it. In her focus on information and the truth of what happened to Lynnelle, she hadn’t thought about how she would feel about who she might meet in the present day. Getting inside the house was all Veronica’s doing. She started talking about the sort of small antiques she collected when she visited estate sales of homes that had been in the same family for a long time, and the next thing they knew Drew insisted they come in to see some of the old belongings he’d inherited along with the house.
Drew came out of the kitchen with three bottles of iced tea between the knuckles of one hand and a bag of pita chips in the other, bachelor-style hospitality.
“This is a nice piece.” Veronica lifted a jewelry box from one of the shelves. “It’s quite old—in remarkable condition for its age.”
“A wedding present to some great-great-great somebody.” Drew extended a bottle of tea.
Veronica returned the box to the shelf and took the tea. “I hope somebody knows the story.”
“I’m sure somebody does. You have to excuse my ignorance. The rule for anyone staying here has been not to move things around too much. Old family stuff.”
Staying here, he’d said. Not living here. Perhaps his residency in the little red house was transitory.
Jillian took the tea Drew offered and wandered to the other side of the room, drawn to the photos, while Veronica’s and Drew’s voices murmured about various items that obviously had lived on the shelves for longer than Drew’s lifetime. The designs on the shoeboxes Jillian saw suggested they were from decades earlier, though structurally they’d held up well. The mantel drew her attention. There was no telling what they held now. A few knickknacks plainly were Drew’s personal additions, but on one end were three silver frames from long before his birth. Out of one of these a face she’d seen before stared at Jillian.
The photos in the trunk. The assorted family photos. The younger woman she decided must have been Lynnelle. Not the one with the children, but the other one, clearly unattached in a three-generation family photograph.
This woman was decades older than the woman in those photos.
But the face.
If Jillian was right about the face, then she could be wrong about nearly everything else.
Veronica and Drew were still gabbing. Jillian dug in her bag for her iPhone and powered it on. Ignoring the new messages from her father, she opened the camera app and snapped a picture of the vintage image.
The click made both Veronica and Drew turn their heads.
“See something interesting?” he said.
“I do have a question.” Jillian jammed her phone in a pocket. “About this photo.”
“Which one?” Drew asked.
“Here.” Jillian pointed. “This woman. When was this taken?”
The door opened again. An older woman, gray-haired with a scowl etched in her squarish features, stood in the doorframe, her hands plunged into the big pockets of a tan barn jacket above her dungarees. She had to be pushing eighty, Jillian thought, but looked like she pulled her own weight with whatever work the ranch still required.
“Aunt Min.” Drew lost his casual stance.
“I saw the car. When I spoke to you this morning,” she said, “you didn’t mention having friends in.”
“I didn’t know,” Drew said. “We have some visitors from Canyon Mines. This is my Aunt Min. Great-aunt, actually.”
In Jillian’s mind a new leaf sprang out on the family tree.
“I buy antiques,” Veronica said. “We were in the area and found ourselves admiring your beautiful land.”
“Trespassing, you mean,” Min said.
As likable as Drew had been a couple of hours ago, his great-aunt was the polar opposite.
“I assure you, in the most respectful way,” Jillian said.
Aunt Min drew in a long breath and exhaled through her nose, unimpressed.
“Your family has some lovely pieces,” Veronica said.
“They aren’t for sale,” Min said.
“I didn’t mean to suggest they were. Just admiring.”
“I’m a genealogist,” Jillian said. Given Min’s disposition, she had nothing to lose. “I was noticing the photos. They seem to go back quite a ways as well.”
“Family is important to us.” Min turned her head to one side and eyed Jillian.
“In my line of work, that’s music to my ears.” Jillian gestured toward the fireplace. “Who are these people on the mantel?”
Drew had withdrawn from the gathering and now stood with his back against the farthest wall. If he took another step out of the close space, he’d leave the room. Jillian tried to meet his eyes, but his gaze was angled toward the kitchen window. Away from whatever he thought was going to happen next. Or was afraid might happen.
“These questions.” Min waved them away. “I’m not sure what brought you people onto private land, much less into a private home, but I’m sure you have things to do, and I know we do.”
Jillian’s eyes fixed on that photo. If she went home now, she could at least compare the snapshot she took with the photograph in the steamer trunk and make sure the resemblance was not her imagination. But she’d come all this way. So many genealogy hunts began with educated hunches and ended with the facts that strung the pearls together. Leaving now, going home without the answers that might be standing right here in front of her—she just wasn’t going to do it.
“May I please ask the name of the woman in that photo?” Jillian said.
Min glowered.
“Something about her piques my curiosity,” Jillian said.
“Did your parents teach you no manners?” Min said. “You’ve overstayed your welcome.”
“Jillian, we should go now,” Veronica said.
“No,” Jillian said. “I think there was foul play in 1909, and somehow this ranch being in this family has something to do with it.”
“I beg your pardon,” Min said.
Drew was out of sight. A back door clicked closed.
“Jillian,” Veronica said softly.
“You weren’t born in 1909.” Jillian squared off toward Min. “You didn’t have anything to do with what happened. But if something affected your family—which you said is important to you—wouldn’t you like to know the truth? I can help you.”
“You need to go. Now.” Min opened the door and stood with her hand on the knob.
“Fine.” Jillian knew she was beaten—for now—but she took a couple of cards from her wallet and dropped them on the coffee table. “But I would love to be in touch, in case more information emerges and you change your mind about whether you want it. And there is a steamer trunk that should come to the rightful family once we can sort everything out. You have so many lovely things. Wouldn’t you want that as well—just in case it should be yours?”
“I believe I’ve made it quite clear that I want you to take your nose out of my house.” Min glared. “Keep it in your own business and out of mine.”
Veronica touched Jillian’s elbow, and they walked through the door Min held open. It thudded closed behind them.
“That was something,” Veronica said, hustling Jillian toward the
car as quickly as her injured foot would bear.
Jillian pressed a hand against her forehead. “Did you see the way Drew just checked out? Where did he even go?” She leaned in one direction to look around one side of the cabin, even though she knew Drew could be well out of sight by now.
“I think it inadvisable to stand here and dissect the experience.” Veronica unlocked the car doors, holding one open for Jillian.
Min stared out the front room window.
“This slays me,” Jillian said. “We’re driving away from something. I just know it. The key to the trunk is in that cabin. Or on this ranch somewhere.”
“We don’t have a choice.” Veronica backed up the car. “Let’s just go find the estate sale and then try to find a normal note in this day while your little gray cells work out the problem.”
The drive back toward Pueblo.
The estate sale, where Jillian spent most of her time looking for someplace to sit down but didn’t dare turn on her phone unless she wanted to actively ignore her dad’s calls.
A late lunch after Veronica made a few purchases for the Emporium.
Loaning her phone to Veronica to call Luke, when she realized she’d been driving around all day without hers.
The drive back to Canyon Mines, knowing Nolan would be waiting for her.
Jillian went in the front door. Nolan was in the cozy end of the long front room that they used as a TV area, near the piano he tinkered with occasionally. He turned off the television and closed the file he had in his lap.
“I know what you think, Dad.”
“I imagine you have a good idea.”
“If I’d told you where I was going, you would have told me not to go.”
“Probably. But you did go, and you’re probably worn out, and you’re too old for a lecture. So maybe you should just put your feet up and tell me what happened while you were incommunicado for twelve hours, and we’ll go from there.”
Jillian winced. She’d hurt him.
When I Meet You Page 13