“You can count on it,” Mary declared. She waited until the two men had gone before looking at Chris. “Unless, of course, we run into trouble.”
The handsome man at her side grinned. “Mary Reichert, I have a feeling that wherever you go, trouble just naturally follows.”
“I could say the same about you, Mr. Williams. There’s an air to your nature that suggests you can handle yourself in just about any situation.”
“I won’t pretend I can’t.” He shrugged and looked ahead. “I don’t go looking for trouble as some men do to prove their abilities. However, I am always looking for a story. Especially when that story allows me to put trouble in its place or disprove its power.”
Mary cocked her head and studied him. He was handsome in the sort of way Michelangelo might have fashioned a statue. She thought back to one she’d seen at an art museum in New York. She couldn’t recall the name of the artist or the statue, but it definitely reminded her of Chris. Both he and the statue had a square cut to the jaw, a shapely nose, and finely arched brows. Where the statue had hair of white marble, Chris had sandy blond hair with just a bit of wave. It curled around his ears, peeking out from under his hat.
“Do I pass inspection?” he asked, not turning to look at her.
“I suppose.”
He chuckled. “Well, at least you’re honest.”
“Always,” Mary replied. “I’ve never seen the purpose of dishonesty. It never works to one’s advantage, and it certainly has very little value in the long run.”
“So you never lie or hide the truth?” He turned to look at her, his gaze intense.
Mary didn’t look away. “No. It’s never suited my purpose as much as just speaking the truth—or demanding it, if I found it necessary.”
“Still, there must be times when you don’t want someone to know everything about you or a situation.”
Mary considered that a moment. “When that happens, I simply tell the person questioning me that I’d rather not talk about it. Otherwise, Mr. Williams, you’ll find I’m pretty much an open book. What you see is what you get. If you are offended by that . . . well, I suppose you’ll just have to be offended.”
“Did I say I was offended?” He looked at her with a raised brow. “Frankly, I find it refreshing. In my experience, most people deal in secrets and pretense. They say one thing but mean another, or play games with emotions and then get angry when you refuse to play along.”
Mary knew the same to be true. “I think you’ll be happy to know that with the people in this show, there’s very little of that. Pretense may be part of the entertainment, but we haven’t got time for it where relationships are concerned. Far too often we are reliant upon each other for our very lives. That tends to take the desire for pretense out of the picture.”
“Still, your entire livelihood is based on a sort of pretense. You convince the audience that the danger is much greater than it truly is.”
Mary stopped and put her hands on her hips. “Oh really. Did you think I was firing blanks at you? I’ve made mistakes and wounded people before. Do you think it’s pretense when Ella stands atop the back of a galloping horse or jumps a team over an obstacle? How about when Lizzy is hanging upside down between the legs of her horse? The danger is there, Mr. Williams.” She smiled. “If it weren’t, our jobs would be of little interest to us.”
He laughed. “Do you mind if I quote you on that?”
“You mean for your article? By all means. As I said, I’m very open about my feelings and the things that matter to me.”
Chris smiled. “I think I’ll enjoy getting to learn exactly what those things are.”
four
Safety is of the utmost importance.” Mary looked at Chris and held up her pistol. “You must always treat a gun as if it’s loaded, even if you are one-hundred-percent certain it’s not.”
For weeks they’d been traveling together, and after he confessed he knew very little about guns, Mary had insisted he have at least a working knowledge. Since Jason had arranged for the show to have a two-day rest at this beautiful Indiana farm, Mary thought it the perfect opportunity.
“Target shooting is great entertainment and I love what I do, but guns were designed with one main purpose, and that is to kill . . . or at the very least, present the threat of death. They are wonderful tools in the right hands, but always—always—they must be regarded as dangerous.” She began loading the revolver.
“Of course, guns can do nothing by themselves. My grandfather made that point very clear to me when I was a little girl. He had a rifle mounted over the fireplace. It belonged to his father and, before that, to his grandfather back in Germany. It was a precious keepsake to him, but it was fully functional, and he kept it loaded. He told me to keep watch over it and come get him if it ever tried to get down from its perch and shoot something.” She smiled. “Of course, it never did any such thing, and my grandfather used that as an object lesson. Guns can’t do anything by themselves. They require the action of someone else.”
“I get what you’re trying to say.” Chris frowned. “I’ve known a lot of people who should never have had access to guns. I guess that’s why I never wanted to learn anything about them. Of course, growing up in London in the heart of city life, there was never any reason to. In fact, in this day and age of readily accessible food, I’m not sure I see a purpose for firearms at all. Unless you’re a soldier or a law official.”
Mary smiled. “For as long as I can remember, we had guns. Father and Opa told us what they were and took us out to demonstrate their power. We were told never to touch them unless an adult was with us to instruct. When I was eight, I told my father I wanted to learn how to shoot, and that was that.”
Chris seemed shocked. “He let a child shoot?”
“A great many children in America learn to shoot. Especially if they live in rural or rugged landscapes. And despite what you believe, there are still quite a few people who hunt for their meat sources. Even in Kansas we shot rabbits and squirrels for meals. Sometimes even deer. We rarely ever had beef. It was too expensive. But I remember you inherited from your family, so I presume they had plenty of money to purchase what they needed. Still, didn’t your father have a gun and hunt?”
His surprised expression changed to a frown, and Chris looked away. “Yeah. He had a gun. My three brothers did too. And before you ask, yes, we relied on hunting as well, but that was here in America. Rural America.”
“I didn’t know you had brothers.” Mary lowered her revolver. “This is the first time I’ve heard you mention them. Where are they now?”
“Dead. Everyone is dead.” His words were barely audible.
Mary couldn’t help but think of August. “I’m sorry. That must be very hard on you. I know it has been on me.”
He looked at her, his expression void of emotion. “I thought most of your family was still alive.”
“My father and mother are both dead. My brother too. But we’re losing our focus.” She didn’t want to talk about death and dying. “Let’s get back to our lesson. Growing up in a rural area, as you did, and having a houseful of boys, as it sounds like you had, I’m surprised you didn’t learn something of guns.”
He frowned. “I learned they’re dangerous—deadly. But I left that place when I was just six. I never had a chance to learn to shoot.”
“Well, I believe everyone should have a working knowledge of firearms. You never know when you might need to use one.”
His mood seemed to darken. “And would you shoot someone if that need arose?”
Mary could see he was upset by the conversation, but she wasn’t sure at this point how to do anything other than answer his question. “I would weigh the situation carefully. I would never shoot another person unless it was a last resort. I don’t take life lightly.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that.”
“It seems I’m always answering your questions, so how about answering some of mine?” Mary gazed up at him
. “Why did you end up in London at the age of six?”
This question didn’t appear to bother him, at least. “My mother died. My father couldn’t handle raising a young child.”
“So you and your brothers were packed off to London?”
“My brothers were grown. I’m the youngest of the family, and the next in line was already eighteen when our mother died. I was sent to live with my grandmother, and I’m glad for it.”
Mary considered this for a moment. “Still, it seems unreasonable. To lose your mother and then your father and brothers. They must have known it would be hard on you to lose everything you’d ever known.”
“What I’d known wasn’t worth keeping.” He turned the questions back to her. “What happened to your parents?”
Mary hadn’t thought of her folks in some time. “My father died in one of Buffalo Bill’s shows. He and Lizzy’s father, Mark Brookstone, were performing. There was an accident, and both were hurt. My father broke his neck and died. My mother had died several years before that giving birth to my sister Katerina. You met Katerina back in Topeka.”
“Yes, I remember. Mrs. Douglas.”
Mary nodded. “Yes. Mrs. Douglas.” She paused as August came to mind. “But when I said that death has been hard on me, I was talking about my older brother. He died last year. He was murdered.”
“Murdered?”
She hadn’t intended to talk about August’s death, but it all came pouring out without warning. “The Brookstones had arranged to purchase two mares from Fleming Farm in Kentucky.”
“Fleming? Isn’t that Ella’s last name?”
“Yes. It was her father’s farm. The two families had become friends over the years, so when they went to get the mares, the Flemings insisted that the Brookstones spend the night at the farm. They also allowed all the show’s animals to be pastured at the farm. It was something they’d done before.
“My brother was the head wrangler for the show, so it was only natural that he be there with the horses. Somewhere along the way he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see. George Fleming, Ella’s father, and Ella’s fiancé, Jefferson Spiby, killed him.”
“Killed him?”
Mary shook her head and picked up her gun again. “They said he was trampled to death by two wild colts, but my brother was too smart to let something like that happen. My brother never met a horse he couldn’t handle. He wouldn’t have climbed into a pen with those colts in the first place because they weren’t his to deal with. He would have respected that fact first and foremost. But even if he had, he would have known how to keep himself from being killed.”
“Accidents do happen,” Chris offered.
She could hear the skepticism in his voice. He didn’t believe her. Few did. “Ella overheard her father and fiancé talking—Spiby admitted he had killed August.” She knew she sounded harsh. It was a nightmare to relive the memory. She quickly unloaded the revolver. “I don’t feel like giving a shooting lesson today.” She put the .38 back into its case and closed the lid.
“I’m so sorry, Mary. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Hugging the case to her chest, Mary met his gaze. She didn’t try to hide the tears that came. “I wouldn’t even know that much if not for Ella. She’s the one who overheard them.”
“Did the two men go to prison?”
“No. Nor will they, as I hear it. They own everyone and everything for a hundred miles around—probably more. Ella said that half the state is terrified of her father and Jefferson Spiby, and the other half believes they can do no wrong. They’ve bought off all the authorities and judges, so no one is going to challenge them.”
“Has it not even been investigated?”
Mary looked down at the ground. “No. Not really. Ella ran away the very night August was killed. Spiby is a terrible man, and she was desperate to break her engagement. Lizzy helped her escape. Ella came back with us to Montana and decided to join the show. After several months, her father and fiancé found her and showed up at the ranch to demand she return with them to Kentucky. Ella refused. She told them what she knew, but it didn’t matter. Her father told her no one would believe her word against his. Her fiancé tried to force her to accept that fact, but Ella would have no part of it. When they were alone—or he thought they were—Spiby tried to strangle her. I think he thought he could scare her into acceptance. Either that or he decided that if he couldn’t have her, no one would.” Mary looked up. “To keep him from killing her . . . I shot him.”
“You killed a man?”
Chris looked at her with such disbelief that Mary knew she had to continue. “It was just a flesh wound. I barely scratched his arm, but it told him I meant business. I wanted to do more.” She squared her shoulders. “Does that shock you?”
“Not really. I can understand the desire to have justice—to see wrongs righted. What happened after that?”
The heat from the summer sun was relieved by a gentle breeze, but even so, Mary found the temperature unbearable. She contemplated whether to continue, then decided Chris might be of use to her situation. He might have some legal connections or wisdom that would help her find justice for August.
“We sent for the law and told the sheriff what happened. He took Ella’s father and Mr. Spiby back to town and said he would check into it, but of course, nothing happened to them. I’m sure the sheriff made his inquiries and received a stellar report back from the sheriff in Fleming’s home county. I wish there were something I could do. Short of killing them both myself, I would do just about anything. Sometimes I even consider that.”
If her statement surprised Chris, he didn’t show it. Instead he reached out and squeezed her arm. “I’d hate for you to do that. I’ve come to enjoy our time together.”
Mary swallowed the lump in her throat and lost the fight with her emotions. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I just hate that his death will go unpunished. It’s not right. Those men didn’t even accidentally kill him. They planned it and did it on purpose. And nobody cares.”
Chris squeezed her arm again. His voice was low and soothing. “I care.”
A tingle ran down to her fingers, but she didn’t acknowledge the effect of his touch. She wasn’t looking for a romance. She wanted to see justice done. That had to be her focus.
“Ella never said what August might have seen?” Chris handed her his handkerchief.
Mary dabbed her eyes. “No. She led a very sheltered life on the farm. At times she was a virtual prisoner, in fact. I believe her when she says she doesn’t know.”
“I know some people who might be able to help us get information,” he said, dropping his hold on her arm.
Mary shook her head and handed back his handkerchief, noting his monogrammed initials, C-W. The material was of the finest quality, no doubt costing a pretty penny. “What could they do, even if they learned the truth? If no one is willing to come up against Fleming and Spiby, it’s not going to matter.”
Chris shrugged and tucked the cloth back in his pocket. “You don’t know that. At least we can try.”
“But how?” Mary couldn’t allow herself to believe there might be a way. It hurt too much to hope.
“I could get my editor to put one of my fellow journalists on the job. He could go there on the pretense of doing a story on the horse farm. My editor has been wanting to do a spread on the Kentucky Derby. If we focus the issue on the horses and the race, there would be a good reason to visit some of the local horse farms. With the right man doing the job, he might be able to learn the truth.”
“But that truth got my brother killed. I don’t know if I could live with myself if this idea meant the death of another man.”
“There’s always a risk in reporting,” Chris said with a hint of a smile. “I’ve run into my fair share of dangers. Like being shot at in a wild west show, for instance.”
Mary couldn’t help but smile despite her tears. “The biggest danger you faced then was having your hair permanently st
ained by strawberry juice.”
Chris chuckled. “You try standing there and having someone you barely know take shots at you. I thought my knees might give out from fear.”
“You wouldn’t have been the first man to faint.” Mary wiped the tears from her face. Chris had a way of making her feel better. Did he realize that? “Thank you for lightening my spirits.”
The breeze ruffled his sandy blond hair, but rather than be annoyed, he just added to the wind’s effort by running his hand through the mass and giving it a shake. “Sometimes it feels good to release our worries,” he said, sobering. “I’ve learned that lesson over the years, and it’s served me well. We do what we can to right the wrongs of the world, but sometimes we have to admit defeat and give it over to . . .”
“God?” She remembered something Lizzy had once said. “A friend told me that some reckonings will only come with judgment day. Although I must say, I don’t have the strength of faith that she has. I am trying, however.”
“Then there’s another thing we have in common. I’ve never really understood what God was all about or what I was supposed to do with Him. I doubt I ever will. When I was in Topeka, I was writing about some religious school and a woman who supposedly was touched by God and spoke Chinese.”
“I remember hearing about that from my grandparents. They’re calling it a Holy Ghost encounter.”
“Yes, well, it seems the school has folded and the woman who spoke Chinese has gone to Nebraska. I’m unclear on whether she’s there to speak to the Chinese or if she’s on some other mission, but it all seems rather silly to me. I told my editor the story was a bore. That’s probably why he was so delighted to hear about the show.”
“And has he enjoyed the first installments you’ve sent?”
“He has. He believes the readers will be exhilarated by the beautiful sharpshooter and her abilities. Much more so than an old woman who suddenly starts speaking Chinese.” He looked up at the sky and tugged on his collar. “Say, it’s gotten awfully warm. Why don’t we go back to the house and have something cold to drink?”
Wherever You Go Page 4