A Texan's Luck (12 page)

Walker frowned. He'd wanted to ask about her finances, or lack of them, since he'd arrived, but didn't know how to bring it up. "Doesn't the shop still make a profit?"

Lacy nodded. "Almost every week I'm able to pay the men and Jay Boy out of the earnings and have a few dollars for me. I save back any more than that for the bad weeks or in case the press needs a part. The older the press gets, the more the parts seem to cost. Right now, thanks to the last repair, my rainy day money box is almost empty. In slow times I can make it without my two dollars a week, but the men have families to support. Even Jay Boy's mom depends on his earnings every week."

"I thought you lived on the shop?"

Lacy laughed. "I do live above it."

Walker didn't see anything funny. It appeared she worked for free, a slave to this place. How could she even think about wanting to stay here? "So you've been surviving mostly on my allotment?"

She looked up. "What allotment?"

Walker stood at the bank entrance when Morris
Hutchison unlocked the door. The thin, gray-headed man with a waxed mustache that stretched from ear to ear seemed nervous when Walker stormed in a few feet behind him.

"Good morning. May I help you, sir?" Morris asked as he moved behind a massive desk and checked his pocket watch.

The clock by the tellers' booths chimed the hour. "Do you remember who I am, Mr. Hutchison?"

"Of course I remember you. I heard in church yesterday that you were in town. Welcome home, Captain Larson. We kept up with you through your father for years, and now, of course, your wife tells us now and then where you're stationed."

Walker stifled his anger and took the man's bony hand. The banker hadn't melted one degree past frozen in eight years. Hutchison had to be lying about keeping up with him, because, except the once she found him in Cottonwood, Lacy would have no idea where he was stationed.

Two employees hurried in as the clock's last chime sounded. The banker greeted them with a frown, then offered Walker a seat.

"I remember the night you left town. Eight years ago last March, I believe." Hutchison took his place behind the desk. "Sheriff Riley called old Mr. Mitchell and myself to his office. You wanted everything legal before you left. I admired that in one so young."

Walker didn't want to listen to compliments, but he nodded his thank-you. In many ways, like himself, the banker was a man of order.

"You said you were never coming back, but I understand how a wife can change a man's plans." Hutchison's smile stretched his skin across already hollow cheeks. "How can I be of service to you today, Captain?"

"The money I sent home each month starting five years ago, was it delivered here as instructed?"

"Of course. I've been saving it for you in the account we set up."

"It was for my wife."

Hutchison looked worried. "But I received no notice to that effect, and you left very strict instructions that no one could access your account, other than yourself, of course, and your father. I believe the words were even underlined in the legal document Mitchell drew up."

Walker leaned forward. "Are you telling me that you've lived in the same town with my wife for the two years since my father's death and watched her almost starve without allowing her to touch my accounts?" He tempered his ire with the fact that he had not checked on her himself. "You could have notified me of the situation."

Hutchison blanched. "First, I was following your wishes, which is what I do. Second, I'm not aware that your wife is in hard times. She pays her employees every week, I understand, and she paid for your father's funeral in cash." He steepled his hands in front of him. "And third, the one time I did inquire about you, Sheriff Riley said even your father had trouble finding you. According to the rules you drew up that night, no one was to be informed of your banking activities with the exception of your father and, to my knowledge, he never asked."

Walker's anger turned inward. He'd been so worried about his brother taking over his accounts that he'd made it impossible for Lacy to get what, by right, she should have. At first she must have been totally dependent on his father and then on the small income from the paper, which, with three employees, could never be much.

"How much is in the account?"

Hutchison opened his log and turned it so Walker could see his accounting skills. The banker seemed very proud of his bookkeeping. "From the monthly allotments you've accumulated eighteen hundred fifty-nine dollars. With interest, it has built to just over two thousand."

Walker leaned back. "Thank you, Mr. Hutchison. You've done exactly what was expected of you." He couldn't blame the banker. "Please have the two thousand transferred to an account for my wife and, in the future, any allotments coming should be deposited in that account."

"Very good, sir." Hutchison dipped his pen. "And as to the other money?"

Walker paused halfway out of his chair. "What other money?" He knew of only a few hundred dollars left in his account after he'd covered his brother's theft. He'd hoped his father would use it if an emergency arrived.

"A bank in Boston has been sending money every quarter from your mother's father's estate."

"But they sent me five thousand when he died." Walker had been sent the money a week after he'd turned seventeen and hadn't decided what to do with it before he had to cover his half brother's crime.

"Old Mitchell contacted Boston on your behalf years ago. Apparently there was a rental property that another grandson was to inherit, but he died before your grandfather. In the will, any inheritance not claimed within one year passed to the remaining grandson. Since the lawyer in Boston wasn't sure what you wanted done with the property, he continued to rent it out and sends you the income, minus his commission."

Hutchison straightened, proud of himself. "On your behalf, of course, I commissioned Mr. Mitchell to do an annual accounting, for a small fee, which I deduct out of your account each new year."

"I see." Walker nodded. The banker hadn't missed a single detail. "How much is in that account right now?" He wouldn't be surprised if it were in the red with all the fingers poking into it.

"To date, eighteen thousand, four hundred eleven dollars and seventeen cents." When Walker didn't comment, the banker added, "Enough to buy a nice-size ranch in these parts if you're interested in settling down, Captain."

"I'll think about it," Walker answered. "At the moment I'm more concerned with my wife's safety than buying property."

Walker thanked Hutchison, made a small withdrawal, collected the paperwork on Lacy's new account, and walked out of the bank without commenting further on how he planned to spend his new inheritance.

He reminded himself money didn't matter; it hadn't to him for eight years. When he'd first found out about inheriting from a grandfather he never met, Walker had been excited and full of dreams. But Emory, two years older, had been angry, seeing the twist of fate as unfair. Even when Walker offered to split the windfall with his brother, Emory hadn't been satisfied. In the end, they'd both lost.

Shoving the memory aside, Walker glanced over at the print shop. Through the one glass window left, he saw Sheriff Riley sitting on a stool drinking coffee while visiting with Duncan. The sheriff was doing a good job of watching over things and an even better job of letting everyone in town know just how near Lacy he planned to stay. He would have been more comfortable by the old stove in the center of the shop, but he must have wanted anyone passing to know he was there.

Walker decided he had a few minutes before he needed to be back on guard. He crossed to the mercantile, wanting to buy Lacy something to thank her for the quilt. But, as he looked around, he realized she needed almost everything. Chairs, dishes, food, new buckets, boots.

"May I help you, Captain?" the old owner named Willard asked. "You need anything besides glass for that shop? I went ahead and ordered that first thing this morning."

"Boots." Walker said the last thing on his mind. "My wife needs a new pair of boots."

"What size?"

Willard must have read Walker's puzzled expression, because he laughed. "Don't worry, you ain't the first man to come in here who didn't know his wife's size. I keep a list here whenever a woman buys anything. Your wife's list is short, she's not a shopper, but I seem to remember her buying a pair of shoes in here a few years back."

While he checked, Walker noticed the bolts of wool. Lacy's dress had been cotton yesterday, and so was the one she wore this morning. If she'd owned a wool dress, she would have worn it yesterday. He thought of buying material but had no idea how much she'd need. He'd bring her back later. With the snow she needed boots now.

"She's a size five," Willard yelled from the back. "We got several to choose from right now, Captain. You want them serviceable, or fashionable?"

"How about the best leather you have?"

"You got it, one pair left in her size. I order these all the way from Kansas City and usually sell out before Christmas." Willard wasn't a success for nothing. "You'll be wanting a few pair of warm stockings with that and maybe black leather gloves to match the boots."

"Wrap them up." Walker looked at the chairs hanging along one wall, but he had no idea how to pick furniture out.

"And I got some fine coats that would look nice with all this."

"I'll let my wife pick out her clothes." Walker smiled, thinking it would be interesting to watch Lacy shop. "I'll just take the boots, gloves, and stockings for now."

Willard handed him a box. "That'll be five dollars."

When Walker raised an eyebrow, Willard added, "You said you wanted the best."

He paid the man and hurried back to the shop. It seemed everyone in town milled on the street today. They'd all been huddled by the fires yesterday, and now the townsfolk wanted to talk. It took him several minutes to tramp through the snow.

Riley now stood guard outside the print shop door, his hand played with the safety strap on his holstered six-gun, his face wrinkled with worry.

Walker took the final few steps in a run. "Did something happen? Is Lacy all right?"

"She's fine. No sign of Whitaker," Riley assured him. "My guess is he's still snowed in wherever he's holed up." The old man hesitated. "But that don't mean trouble ain't come knocking. Samantha Goble is in there with your wife asking all kinds of questions about you."

Walker couldn't form words for a moment. He thought of asking the sheriff to just shoot him. He'd rather be buried than face Samantha. "How'd she know I was here?"

"She acted like she didn't. I was sitting at the counter when she waltzed in and asks if your father still owned the place. She said she didn't even know the old man was dead and got all teary-eyed over the news." Riley glanced over his shoulder, as if fearing she might appear behind him. "Not that she ever cared about one person in this town including her parents, but that woman can carry on."

Walker knew he should go inside. He'd healed from the last time he'd seen Samantha, but he needed a moment to

mentally cover his scars.

The sheriff didn't seem to notice; Walker only half-listened. "When Lacy told her he'd gone on to meet his Maker, Samantha acted like she couldn't believe it." Riley grinned. "Then, our little lady told Samantha she was your wife, and I thought the woman would faint. It took both me and Duncan to keep her and the twenty pounds of fur she's wearing afloat until Jay Boy pulled up a stool."

Riley laughed. "She sure ain't much like the poor little girl who grew up here. Her parents are still barely getting by. Her dad cleans the church for extra money, but Samantha looks like a new penny whenever she visits."

"You see her often?"

"Of course. She stops by here now and again, whenever she's between husbands. Usually only spends a day or two. I heard she made it to church yesterday. Some say she got religion after her last husband died in her arms."

"Natural causes?"

"Old age, her mother told me. But she swore her daughter loved this one, even if she was mad when she found out he didn't leave her much in his will."

Walker's brain began to work. If Samantha went to church yesterday, she probably heard he was in town. In fact, if she stopped often, he'd bet she already knew about his father and probably about Lacy. He hadn't seen Samantha in years, but snakes don't grow legs, and he'd bet she hadn't changed. She wanted something, and it wouldn't be long until he found out what. He charged into the shop.

"Darling!" Samantha screamed as she jumped from her stool.

Walker met Lacy's confused stare as Samantha wrapped her arms around him and hugged him wildly, knocking the box from his arm. He jerked his head or she would have kissed him on the mouth.

Lacy's boots tumbled to the floor amid stockings and gloves.

Samantha, all powdered and perfumed, stepped back before his lack of greeting became apparent. "What's this? Women's clothing? Why Walker, I never knew you to buy a woman clothing. You must have been on an errand for your little wife. Did she send you out shopping?"