A Treasure Concealed (10 page)

“Don't tell Pa.” She turned to him. “Please. Jake said they're having someone examine the rocks, but I don't want Pa getting his hopes up. Especially now that all this has happened. Another disappointment might be the end of him.”

“I won't say anything, but since I'll be heading to Great Falls in another couple of weeks, do you mind if I take this with me and have it analyzed?”

Emily shook her head. What did it matter if he took the tin and the pebbles inside? Everything else was gone. “Take it.”

She walked away, not at all certain where she was headed. All she knew was that nothing was ever going to be the same—nothing would ever be right.

N
yola Carver's funeral was held the next day. It was a small affair with a half dozen Yogo residents joining the family. The tiny cemetery held only a few graves, but now Emily's mother would be a part of that memorial forever.

Emily had watched her father work outside Caeden's tent late into the night to ensure that the small coffin was ready. Caeden, too, had held vigil with her, and his presence comforted her in a way she'd just as soon forget. Despite what her mother desired for her, Emily couldn't see leaving her father anytime soon. He was too broken—too grieved.

Dressed in a gown Millie had once accepted from someone in trade, Emily tried to keep her emotions under control. She could see the tears in her father's eyes, the misery in his expression. He blamed himself, even though they both knew it wasn't his fault. At times like this even comfort from the truth seemed very inadequate. Mama was still dead, and whoever was responsible was still running free.

Kirk Davies is responsible
.

Emily chided herself for being so judgmental, but she felt
confident Davies had committed this heinous act. No one else stood to gain anything. With their home and few possessions destroyed, Davies would be certain the Carvers would give up and leave the area. However, the man didn't know her father. If they had to camp outside in two feet of snow, Emily knew her father wouldn't leave until he was good and ready to move on.

In the absence of a preacher to speak words over the body, Emily's father recited the Twenty-third Psalm. He spoke a few words about the woman he had loved and of her generous nature and loving spirit. They sang one verse and the chorus of “Shall We Gather at the River?” and then her father led them in prayer. It was all so short and simple. It didn't come anywhere near to lauding the many talents and kindnesses of Emily's mother.

After her father concluded the prayer, the Yogo men helped lower the small casket into the ground, with Caeden working respectfully alongside them. Earlier he had mentioned to Emily that her mother's great faith had bolstered his own in a small way. The words touched her heart. Mama was good at encouraging people to have faith. She would have been pleased to hear what Caeden had to say.

As the men began to shovel dirt over the coffin, Emily pulled on her old coat and walked away to gather her thoughts. She saw the Utica marshal ride up and wondered if her father had reported to him all that had happened, and if Kirk Davies had been found and charged.

Putting aside her desire for isolation, Emily made her way to the man before he could even dismount. “Marshal, have you arrested Kirk Davies for murdering my mother?”

Her blunt words took the lawman by surprise. “I beg your
pardon?” He climbed down from his horse but continued holding the reins.

She crossed her arms. “You heard me. No one but Davies was trying to force us to give up our claim. He has to be the one who set those fires.”

“Do you have proof of that?” the mustached marshal asked in a tolerant tone.

“I know he threatened us and no one else has.” She narrowed her eyes. “Arrest him, and if you threaten him enough, he just might confess.”

The man shook his head. “Can't do it that way. There's such a thing as due process and the need for evidence before an arrest. I have to have hard facts and proof, not assumptions.”

“So he gets away with murdering my mother,” Emily said, her voice rising in protest. “He probably didn't know she was even in the house. I doubt he knew of her existence, but it was murder just the same.”

“I understand how you feel, Miss Carver, but you need to stay out of it and let me do my job. I came to offer my condolences and to speak to your father about the matter. I assure you, I will do what I can to get justice for your mother.”

His words rang hollow in Emily's ears. She was sure that neither he, nor anyone else, could truly understand how alone she felt.

She took herself off to a small gathering of trees and sat down on the ground to think. Leaning back against the trunk of an aspen, Emily closed her eyes. The day had warmed up and would have been pleasant under other circumstances. A flock of geese honked loud and long as they passed overhead. It was an all-too-familiar sound this time of year as they flew away to escape the winter cold.

Emily gave a heavy sigh. Everything and everyone seemed to
be deserting her. She thought of her mother no longer suffering from her physical maladies. Emily could only hope that she'd died in her sleep from the smoke rather than in the flames. It grieved her to no end to imagine Mama burning to death.

She tried to pray, but her heart ached so much that Emily couldn't find the words. She didn't doubt God's existence or His sovereignty, but she could not understand His allowing something so heinous to happen to a woman who loved Him so dearly.

“I'm not sure I even know how to keep the faith without her.” Emily glanced to the sky. “Why, Lord?”

The question of why—many whys—continued to haunt her. Why had their lives taken this turn? Why did her mother have to die? Why were there no answers?

Emily didn't know how long she had sat under the golden leaves of the aspen. She knew that Millie had invited everyone to come to her place after the burial. She wanted to offer them a good hot meal and would no doubt try to talk Emily's father into staying at her boardinghouse. Emily almost prayed that her father would accept the offer, but in her heart she knew he wouldn't. He was a proud man and did everything possible to refrain from being under obligation to any man . . . or woman.

Sticking her hand deep into her coat pocket, Emily felt the reassuring cold metal of her pistol. She didn't like to think she could kill another person, but the idea of threatening Kirk Davies into admitting the truth was something she considered. Of course, Pa had always told her that if she ever drew a gun on another person, she'd best be ready to pull the trigger and end their life. Guns were something never to be toyed with.

The thought of dealing with Davies burned into her thoughts. He deserved to die. Deserved her wrath and that of her father. But what if Davies hadn't set the fires? What if he wasn't re
sponsible for the death of her mother? She shook her head. How could it be anyone else? No one else held them a grudge. No one else had threatened to chase them off the property no matter what it took. It had to be Davies.

Getting to her feet, Emily knew she would have to put aside her desire for revenge and focus instead on what they were going to do now. Cold weather would soon set in, and they could hardly winter in a tent. Not only that, but Caeden and his tent would soon be gone. What if Pa didn't take Millie up on her offer of a free room? What then? Emily supposed she could always take the room and let her father sleep wherever he chose.

Emily walked slowly back to the burial site. She saw the fresh mound of dirt and small wooden cross that marked her mother's grave. Her father had made that cross just this morning. She stared down at it for a long time.

Nyola Carver

b. 1840 d. 1895

Such a small showing for the life of such a good woman. Would anyone who found this grave in the future wonder at the person buried there? Would anyone guess that she had been a strong woman of God with a generous heart and loving nature? Emily sank to her knees and reached out to trace her mother's name.

“I wondered where you'd gotten off to.”

She looked up to find Caeden watching her from a little ways off.

“I had to be alone—to think.”

“And what did you figure out?” He stepped to where she was on her knees and squatted down.

Face-to-face she could see the dark intensity of his eyes. “I
haven't figured out anything. I asked the marshal if he'd arrested Kirk Davies, but he told me there wasn't any evidence that he had set the fire.”

“That does make it hard. Unless the man confesses or brags around town about it, it would be hard to make a charge stick.”

Emily drew off her scarf and tied it around the cross. She hated that the grave looked so plain and had no flowers. At least the red scarf would add a little color.

For a time neither of them spoke, but finally Caeden broke the silence. “I'm really sorry about your mother, Emily. I know what it is to lose a mother. You can be proud that your mother died knowing how very loved she was. You and your father treated her so well.”

“How did you say your mother died?”

The question seemed to surprise him. He looked at Emily for a moment, then dropped his gaze to the ground. “I believe it was from a broken heart. She'd borne up under my father's tirades and criticism all of her married life. She was never good enough as far as he was concerned. It didn't matter that she was a gracious hostess and loving mother. It didn't matter that she never let a bad word about him leave her mouth. He killed her the same as Davies killed your mother.”

“Why was he like that?” Emily knew the topic was painful to him, but she felt almost an urgency to pose the question.

“Because he only cared about himself. He drank too much, raged too much, and demanded his own way—too much. Archibald Thibault cared only about himself and the money he could make. He took mistresses, robbed entire families of their fortunes, and crushed the businesses of his rivals. He was a hard and ruthless man . . . and I will always hate him.”

“But why did he drink so much? Did something happen to him that he drank to forget? Was he in pain?”

“I honestly have no idea. And frankly it doesn't matter. He hurt everyone with his drinking, and knowing the reason he drank wouldn't make it right.”

She heard the anger and bitterness in his tone. Her mother had always said that hatred ate a person up from the inside out. It would eventually taint how they looked at life and would separate them from God.

“It's because of him,” Caeden continued, “that I want nothing to do with marriage and family. I couldn't bear to imagine myself turning out like him.”

“But you're nothing like that.” She met his gaze and forced a weak smile. “You're a good man. You care about the people around you. You would never strive to hurt people that way. Not only that, but you don't drink.”

“Maybe not right now, but who's to say what I might become, given the responsibilities of a wife and family?” He shook his head and stood. “I couldn't bear it if I caused that kind of pain.”

Emily too got to her feet. “But don't you see? The fact that you care about not causing pain makes me confident that you could never be that way. You took your traits from your mother. Her faith and love taught you to look at life differently. You'll make someone a wonderful husband one day.” She hadn't meant to say as much as she did. Would he think her forward, perhaps suggesting they might have a future together?

She lowered her gaze to the cross once more. “I should find my father.” She didn't wait to hear his response but made her way to Millie's.

Caeden watched her go. He wanted to say something about her comment—wanted to question her as to whether she was
implying that he might make
her
a wonderful husband. Her mother's words were ever on his mind, yet surely Emily wasn't suggesting anything along those lines. She had never thrown herself at him or acted as some young ladies do when trying to get the attention of a possible suitor.

“Thibault!”

He turned around and found the marshal making his way toward him. Caeden didn't reply. The marshal closed the distance and reached inside his coat. “Been lookin' for you. This came for you in Utica.” He thrust an envelope into Caeden's hands.

It was from Bishop Arnold. He stiffened. Dealing with that man and his nonsense was far from Caeden's desires. “Thank you.”

“I wonder if I might talk to you a minute.”

Nodding, Caeden stuffed the letter into his inside coat pocket. “What can I do for you?”