Iron Ties (13 page)
Both men jumped to their feet, and Jed hastened to hold the door open for Inez. She paused at the threshold and murmured, “I expect you can find a way to cut us a deal on a half-page advert in the next issue. Regarding the Fairplays on the Fourth and so on. I trust you and the professor will get on.”
“Well, it’s all a matter of whether this fellow can deliver,” Jed said in a low voice. He squinched his shoulders up in what Inez decided was supposed to be a jaded shrug. “Standard rate per word, and if it’s no good, that’s that.”
Inez waved a hand airily. “That’s between you two.”
She paused on the dirt street, cradled the bourbon under the shawl, and pulled the soft wool close to her ears and the back of her summer hat.
The fickle weather was changing again.
Gray clouds scuttled across the sun. A puff of wind kicked up a dust devil that swirled around her, snapping the hem of her skirt.
Inez hurried down Third Street, focusing on the worn path rutted in the dirt.
No place to sprain an ankle or end up sprawled in the dust.
Empty ore wagons clattered up East Third heading toward the mines while their full counterparts careened down toward the smelters at the edge of town.
Inez approached a dilapidated saloon and gave it a once over. She’d hardly noticed it on the way to see Jed, but now, walking alone, she registered its seedy appearance.
Little better than a deadfall.
A handful of loungers lurked outside the entrance. She realized with annoyance that she would have to walk between the loiterers and the hitching rack. Walking in the street was out of the question if she didn’t want to encounter a mire of liquid horse manure, slops, and decaying vegetable matter, or risk being run over by the wagons.
She ducked her head to avoid the eyes of the men.
She’d hardly taken ten steps past the place when a sudden yank at the back of her shawl nearly ripped it from her body.
A voice behind her said coldly, “I’ve been looking for you, wife!”
Inez swung around, tearing her shawl from the restraining hand. A man with a countenance as hollow as a burnt-out tree, feral eyes staring not so much at her but through her, stood not three feet away.
The rage in his face drained away. “A-A-Addie?” The name came out in a stutter. “I thought…I thought you were my wife.”
Bewilderment slackened his jaw, and in that gap-mouthed expression, Inez put a name to the face.
Weston Croy.
The fellow who’d accosted her and Sands nearly a week before.
She pulled her shawl back around her. “Mr. Croy, isn’t it? As you see, you’re quite mistaken. I am
not
your wife.”
“Addie,” he whispered. “She was my sweet Adeline. Until she left me. Took my money. And now, she’s here. Somewhere. In Leadville.” His tone became accusatory. “She had a wrap. Just like that.”
“Excuse me.” She cut him off. “Maybe you should discuss your problems with Reverend Sands.”
Weston laughed, a sound more like the caw of a crow, and then was beset with a coughing fit. He gasped, “He said go home. What home? She took everything. When I find her, I’ll make her pay.” He lurched forward and gripped her shoulder, fingers digging in like claws. “Tell Addie. She’ll pay.”
“Take. Your. Hand. Off.” She bit each word off savagely.
Weston yanked his hand away as if it’d been scorched.
She stepped back. Her foot hit a pothole, and she lurched sideways.
Inez cursed herself for not having her pocket pistol.
Whistles and laughter floated from the men by the saloon entrance. A few had spilled out into the narrow dirt walkway to watch the fun. “A hellcat, for sure,” called one. “You gonna let her get away with that, Weston?”
Two red spots appeared high on Weston’s stubble-covered cheeks.
“I think that you will allow me to go my way. I do not travel unarmed.” She turned the bottle of bourbon so the neck pushed against her shawl, hoping it looked enough like the muzzle of a gun to be convincing.
If worse comes to worst, I’ll break the bottle over his head. What a waste of fine liquor that would be!
Weston wiped his mouth on a stained cuff, staring over her shoulder.
“Problem, Mrs. Stannert?” The reverend’s voice behind her carried over the street noise. The men who’d been hanging around outside the saloon vanished inside.
Her knees nearly gave way. Sands caught her elbow in a steadying grip.
“Mr. Croy has the problem,” said Inez. “A misplaced wife, whom he mistook me for.”
Reverend Sands kept a hand on Inez, but turned his gaze to Weston. He looked like he would gladly dispense with praying for Weston’s troubled soul and instead send him straight to the Almighty to plead his case in person. “Weston. Wondered where you were. I asked around. The boardinghouse, the mission, the poorhouse. Now I see where you squandered the church’s charity.” He glanced at the dive.
Weston seemed to shrivel from the outside in. “I…gotta find Addie.”
“We’ve had this talk before. You’ll not find her in your condition.”
“Addie’s sister knew. I made her tell me. Addie’s here.”
Disgust colored the reverend’s face. “When you’re ready to leave town, you know where to turn for help.”
He propelled Inez toward Harrison Avenue. “Rain’s coming. No sense standing here, waiting to get soaked.” The hardness around his mouth lingered. “Sol told me you’d gone to see Jed. With a railroad man. What’s going on, Inez? I thought you were in a hurry to get back and lend a hand.”
“Change of plans,” Inez said with careful dignity. “Not that I need you to watchdog me around town. No need for charity, thank you.”
He glanced at her sideways from under the hat. With his mouth set and his eyes narrowed, he looked anything but charitable. “Seems like you were in need of a guardian angel just then.”
“I can handle drunkards,” she retorted.
“Weston’s more than drunk. He’s obsessed. Trapped in the past. You’d do well to keep away from him.”
“Believe me, it was not I who initiated the conversation.”
Inez and Reverend Sands walked back to the saloon in silence. At the door, Reverend Sands touched his hat and stood for a moment, looking toward the jagged peaks of the Mosquito Range, looming in the east.
“I’ve another meeting,” he said abruptly. “I’m already late. Now that I know you’re safe and back where you belong, I’ll be on my way.” He looked her over, a peculiar expression on his face that Inez couldn’t quite interpret. “Don’t go running away again, Inez. At least, not without your pocket pistol.”
“How do you know I don’t have it with me?”
A faint smile at last. “If you did, you would’ve had it out and visible.”
He touched his hat and opened the door for her. She could feel his eyes on her as she marched across the barroom.
So, what was all that about? He was angry, and not just at Weston. And he certainly was acting proprietary.
Inez headed for the kitchen, waving at the reflection of Abe, who was straightening out the bottles lining the long backbar mirror. He turned around. “Take your time gettin’ ready, Mrs. Stannert. No hurry.”
She looked at the few people scattered around the room.
No hurry indeed. We’re probably bleeding out money by the hour right now
.
Inside the kitchen at last, Inez took a deep breath. Biscuits were baking, their sweet warmth making her mouth water. Arming herself with a clean bowl from the shelf, she advanced on the stew pot and lifted the lid, earning a face full of savory steam.
The passdoor squeaked open. Bridgette entered, briskly efficient. “Ma’am, sit down, why don’t you.” She took the bowl from Inez’s hands and herded her toward the table.
“No need, Bridgette.” Inez sank onto the chair. “You’ve plenty to do. All I want is a bit to eat and some coffee.” She glanced down at her riding skirt, in desperate need of a good scrubbing. “Well, and clean clothes. And a washbowl. And a towel.”
Bridgette ladled stew into the bowl. “You’re looking peckish. What have you had to eat today?”
“Bread. Cheese. An egg. A pickle.” The only other comestibles ingested didn’t fit the definition, being liquid. “I don’t recall breakfast.”
“Well, if you ate breakfast it wasn’t mine, because I’ve been here since five this morning, and I don’t recall seeing you.” Bridgette set the bowl and a plate of biscuits in front of Inez.
Inez tore a biscuit apart, ate several of the shreds, and sprinkled the rest on her stew.
Bridgette’s stern expression relaxed. “Now, let’s get you some coffee.” She lifted the top of the coffee pot and peered inside. “Heavens, it’s nearly boiled away. Thick as syrup. I’ll make fresh for you.”
Inez took another spoonful of stew and began to feel sober again. She glanced at her saddlebags, still hanging over the other chair, and pulled them onto the table. While eating, she unloaded the blanket, the crumpled paper holding a few bits of leftover bread and cheese, the rag still soaked with river water, and finally the blasting cap wrapped in the linen napkin.
The alley door swung open. A gust of cool air, carrying the damp hint of rain and the scent of sewage, blew in with Sol, who was muffled under a bundle of material. He dumped it on the table in a red-white-and-blue mass. “Mr. Jackson sent me out for bunting for the Fourth. I went to all the dry goods stores on Chestnut and Harrison.” He shook his head. “There wasn’t much left.”
Bridgette pulled out the coffee grinder, retrieved beans from the top of the pie safe, dumped them in, and began to vigorously grind. The smell of fresh ground coffee spread throughout the kitchen.
Inez fingered the fabric, frowning. “Is there enough to go across the front outside?”
“Five yards.”
Inez leaned back in her chair. “That’s hardly enough to do the outside justice.” She brooded a moment. “So, what are Wyman and the Board of Trade doing for the Fourth?”
Sol pushed his hat back, scratching his head distractedly. “Lessee, I walked right past them. They’ve got bunting all right. Lots of pine boughs. I think I heard one of the livery men talking…nearly every horse, carriage, and wagon’s been chartered for the day.”
“Hmmph. Everyone’s leaving town. That’s not good for business here.” Inez thrummed her fingers on the table, looking bleakly at the material.
“Ah, but you’ll have the actors, and they’ll draw quite a crowd,” said Bridgette. She dumped all but a small portion of the old coffee out of the pot before adding the fresh ground and water.
Inez turned to Sol. “I’ve one more errand for you. Go to Braun’s lumberyard and see if he has any pine boughs we can use to decorate the exterior. We’ll save the bunting for inside, where it can’t mysteriously disappear in the night and end up gracing some other business. If things are still slow when you come back, you can start decorating the interior.”
Sol picked up the scrap of rag that Inez had saved from the river. “You want me to hang this up too?” He grinned crookedly.
Inez took it from his hand and smoothed it on the table. “It does have a patriotic cast. I found it not far from where Miss Carothers was injured. She’d mentioned something about a multicolored cloth. Seems a long shot, but I thought I’d show this to her.”
“And how is the young miss?” asked Bridgette as Inez folded the scrap of material.
“Getting better. We’re going to meet for supper tomorrow. She’s planning on going to the church picnic.” Inez shook her head. “If we weren’t open on the Fourth, I might consider it.”
Sol settled his hat on his head. “I’ll see what I can rustle up for decorations, before it starts raining.”
He eased out the back door just as the first large raindrops pattered into the dirt alley.
Inez stood, gathering the blanket, the strip of cloth, and the blasting cap. “I’d best clean up. Thank you, Bridgette.”
“Eating properly puts most things right, I believe.” Bridgette gave her a critical once-over. “You’ve got color back in your cheeks and a snap to your eyes. Now that good-looking Reverend Sands won’t be so worried about you.”
“Worried?” She stopped, hand on the passdoor.
“Well, jealous, more like. When Sol told him you’d left the saloon with a railroad man, oh my, the look on his face.” Bridgette plumped the bunting on a chair, put the tin dishpan in its place, and dumped the dirty dishes in with a rattle.
“Jealous of the professor? That little monkey of a man?”
“I never saw the man so didn’t have a chance to give a description, did I.”
“What other railroader could I possibly—” Preston Holt flashed through her mind’s eye. “Ah-ha,” she said softly. “I think I understand. The reverend should have more faith in me.”
Once in her upstairs office, Inez threw the blanket on her desk, causing a stack of invoices to cascade across the blotter, and hurried to her dressing room in the back. After putting the rag and blasting cap in her washstand drawer, she threw open the doors to her wardrobe and examined her work clothes—fancy and everyday—before pulling out an older dark blue princess polonaise. She slipped out of her riding clothes and underthings and draped them on a chair to deal with later.
Splashing water into the washbasin, she glanced up at the mirror and caught a glimpse of herself in the altogether. Her face and neck were an unfashionable brown against the creamy olive skin below the collarbone. Her mother’s voice whispered disapprovingly, an echo of a scolding twenty years past: “Inez, you need to stop running around outside with your skirts pinned up like a young hoyden. It’s unbecoming for one of your station. And no hat! You’re becoming as brown as an Indian!”
Inez grabbed a sponge, soaked it thoroughly, and scrubbed her face and neck. She wrung it into the basin. The pink rose painted on the bottom faded, as if obscured by a dust cloud. Her face was now of a shade more in line with the rest of her skin, but still nowhere as light.
Leaning forward, she spoke into the mirror. “Hoyden indeed. I shudder to think what Mama would say now, if she knew my circumstances.” Inez toweled off and slipped into a clean combination with a sigh of satisfaction.
Postponing the inevitable corset, she pulled the rag out of the drawer and unrolled it, smoothing it out like a runner on the washstand top. A blue bit at the top, surrounding a white star, a thin white diagonal stripe, a sea of red ending with a fray of threads. The weave was loose, like the Fourth of July bunting Sol had brought in.
Fishing around further in the drawer, she extracted the blasting cap and the hexagonal bullet and copper percussion cap she’d inadvertently taken from Holt’s pocket, and arranged them on the cloth. She stepped back and stared at the collection of odds and ends. The reverend’s words drifted back to her: “You’re finding clues in trash.”
She said aloud, “Blasting cap for giant powder. A hexagonal bullet for who knows what kind of gun. A percussion cap for nearly any kind of gun. A piece of cloth.”
Guns. Explosives. A possible neckerchief, or perhaps a piece of flag or bunting?
It was a discordant jumble that made no music she could recognize.
She shook her head.
If there’s a connection, it’s beyond me.
