Larkspur (7 page)

“I hope you’ll be comfortable here tonight. I’ll be back in the morning to take you to the office where we can discuss your inheritance. Will eight o’clock be too early?”

“You needn’t come get me, Mr. Lee. I’m perfectly capable of finding my way to your office if you tell me where it is.”

“It will be my pleasure. And . . . don’t concern yourself about the hotel bill. It is part of my fee for handling your legal matters.”

And how much will that be, Mr. Lee?
Kristin did not voice the question, but her mind, tired as it was, was working rapidly.

“Thank you for meeting me. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Have a nice evening, Miss Anderson.”

As soon as the door closed, Kristin went to it, inserted the key and locked it. Alone at last for the first time in three days and two nights, she removed her hat and hung it on the peg beside the door. She felt as if she were still moving, as if the floor beneath her feet was not standing still. A heavy knock sounded at the door and she opened it to two men carrying her trunk and box. They set them inside the door and hurried away.

How heavenly it was to wash herself from head to toe in the warm water. Since soap and towels had been provided, she left her own in the trunk. After putting on her nightdress, she brushed her hair vigorously and plaited it loosely into one long braid. Then she looked out the windows at the main street of Big Timber, and admitted to herself that she was disappointed. The town was so new, so raw.

Refusing to allow her mind to wonder about the events of tomorrow, she tucked the bag containing her money and the pistol under the spare pillow, climbed into bed and sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.

*  *  *

Mark Lee took the buggy to the livery back of the hotel, and then walked the two blocks to the Forsythe house. The two-storied white Victorian-style house with a wraparound porch and large carriage house was set in the middle of an acre of well-groomed yard, surrounded with a white picket fence.

Lee used the brass knocker on one of the double doors. A minute or two passed before it was opened by a woman with soft brown hair and an unlined face. Ruth DeVary was Colonel Forsythe’s housekeeper and much more, Lee suspected. Always well groomed and well mannered, she also acted as hostess when the Colonel occasionally entertained a person from out of the district whom he wished to impress.

“Afternoon, Mrs. DeVary.”

“Afternoon, Mr. Lee. Come in. I believe the colonel is expecting you.”

“Thank you.” Lee hung his hat on the hall tree and followed the woman down a short hall to the room the colonel called his study.

Forsythe was not alone. He appeared to be in deep conversation with Del Gomer and Mike Bruza. Lee did not like or trust either man.

The dark-haired man, Mike Bruza, was long-armed, short-legged and thickset and enjoyed using his big hairy fists. He was tough and liked to play on the winning side. Long ago he had decided that Forsythe was smart and obviously wanted to be a kingpin. That was all right with Mike. He’d just ride along and gather up information along the way that might someday help him to topple the
king.

Mike’s ambition was to be a lawman. He relished the power that went with the job. As lawman
he
would be in position to tell the high muckety-mucks how the cow ate the cabbage—even the
colonel.

Del Gomer was unlike any man Mark Lee had previously met. Lee considered him as dangerous as a cornered snake. He was clean-shaven except for a waxed mustache, tall, broad of shoulder, hard-eyed and quiet—so quiet he was scary. In contrast to Mike Bruza, he was neat and clean about his person and his possessions.

When things did not go to his liking, Del said little at the time. He was inclined to sit back and wait. Sooner or later his pent-up anger would explode into sudden, ugly violence. He was cold-blooded and utterly without conscience. He would kill a man without hesitation and with about as much concern as if he were swatting a fly.

Del had one weakness. He was completely, hopelessly in love with a woman who cared absolutely nothing for him and who ignored him as if he were a mere speck on the wall.

Forsythe looked up and saw Lee standing in the doorway.

“Come in. Help yourself to a drink.” He motioned to a sideboard that held a decanter and glasses.

Lee downed the drink. He needed it. He was always uncomfortable with Gomer and Bruza. They were everything he wasn’t: big, rough and physically capable of taking care of themselves in almost any situation. Forsythe was impressed that Mark was a nephew of Robert E. Lee, but it meant nothing to these two. He could feel their contempt whenever he was with them.

“Well,” Forsythe prompted, “what do you think of our little pigeon?”

“She wasn’t the middle-aged spinster I expected.”

“Older or younger?”

“Younger. I’d guess she’s in her early twenties.”

“Hummm . . .” Forsythe poured himself another drink. “Ugly as sin, I hope. Ugly ones are easier to manage.”

“She’s no raving beauty, but not bad-looking. She’s got kind of silvery blond hair. At first I thought it was gray. She had it skinned up and under a hat. She’s medium height, slender, but not a weakling. I invited her to dinner. She turned down my invitation.”

“Smart woman.” Mike smirked at Lee.

Forsythe gave him an angry stare. Outwardly Mark Lee ignored the remark. Inwardly he seethed.

“She appears to be a strong-minded woman.”

“We’ll have to change that. Bring her to my office tomorrow. Do you have the papers ready?”

“One paper is all that’s necessary. If she signs over her claim to Yarby Anderson’s estate, that’s all we need.”

“What if she won’t sign?” Mike hated to be left out of the conversation.

“She will,” Forsythe said confidently.

“ ’Course, she will.” Mike’s laughter was harsh and out of place in the refinement of the room. “A little scare might help change her mind . . . fast.”

“No rough stuff . . . yet.”

Mark Lee poured himself another drink without being invited.
Good Lord!
Forsythe wouldn’t turn these two loose on a woman, would he? Lee had a feeling about Miss Kristin Anderson. She was not going to be as easy to manipulate as the colonel expected. As badly as he wanted this deal over and done with, he didn’t want to see a woman hurt.

*  *  *

It was mighty still, so still Buck could hear one aspen leaf caressing another. Once in a while he could hear a horse shift his feet in the corral. A bird made a slight inquiring noise. Nothing else broke the silence but the occasional whispering of birds in the aspens that sounded like a bunch of schoolgirls getting settled for the night. The moon was wide and shining just above the dark, somber spruce massed together north of the house.

Buck Lenning sat on his porch and looked up at the stars—a million of them. He wondered if Little Owl had gotten back to her village and if Lantz and his fat friend had found their boots. They couldn’t have walked far without them. Buck chuckled. The fat man probably rode his horse to the outhouse—the lazy bastard!

They’d hightail it to Forsythe the minute they got back to Big Timber and report his being away from the homestead. From now on he’d have to be more careful or they’d sneak in and take possession or burn his place down while he was away.

Buck marked off with bent fingers the five weeks that had passed since the patrol had stopped for the night and he’d given the letter to the sergeant to mail. It would take the patrol a week to get to Helena, that is if nothing unforseen happened. Cleve Stark
might
have received the message by now, but a Federal marshal was not free to cut loose and come to a friend’s rescue on the spur of the moment.

Looking back, Buck wished he had sent for Cleve
before
the body had been found and identified as Yarby’s.

And there was that damn will. Who in hell would have thought that twenty years ago Yarby Anderson would have written out a will and have had it notarized and recorded? Buck thought back over the ten years of sweat he had put into this place. Yarby had more than likely forgotten about the will by the time he had found Buck half-dead from gunshots in four places and had dragged him over the snow to his cabin. After he recovered, Buck had stayed on and the two had become more like father and son than friends.

Buck wondered about the woman in Wisconsin. Yarby hadn’t been young even twenty years ago when he made out the will. Was she a lost love? By now the woman probably had grandchildren. It was unreasonable to assume that she’d make a trip all the way out here. Forsythe would have downplayed the inheritance—let her think the land was not worth much. Of course, he’d not put it past him and Lee to arrange for an imposter to claim the Yarby’s estate, then sell it to them.

Buck stood and stretched.

Cleve, you better hurry. All hell will break loose if they ride out here to take my home.

Chapter Five

K
ristin was up, washed and dressed, as daylight began to creep into the room. Feeling renewed and more confident in a dark gray skirt and white shirtwaist, she stood by the window and waited until there was activity on the street below before she put on her hat and fastened it firmly with her hatpins.

There were a number of things she wanted to find out before she met again with Mr. Mark Lee, and she couldn’t do that unless she stirred herself out of the room.

With the bag that now held her room key as well as her money and pistol over her arm, Kristin went down the stairs to the lobby. Two men sat in the straight chairs. One was reading a newspaper, the other smoking a foul-smelling cigar that was as fat as a sausage. Kristin paused at the desk, but the clerk was nowhere in sight. She went out the door and onto the boardwalk fronting the hotel.

A man on horseback passed. He tipped his hat. Kristin nodded. Down the street a buckboard stood in front of a store, and across the street, the barber was sweeping the walk in front of his shop. A half dozen horses waited patiently at the hitching rails. She was toying with the idea of asking the barber about an eating place when a man whose long beard and hair were snowy white hobbled around the corner of the hotel leaning heavily on a cane. Without hesitation, she stepped out and greeted him.

“Good morning.”

“Howdy, ma’am.”

“Sir? Is there an eating place in town other than the one here in the hotel?”

“This’n suppose to be for the high-toned folks.”

Kristin smiled. “That’s exactly why I’d rather go somewhere else. I’m not high-toned folk.”

“Me, neither. I ate there once. Flapjacks they give me wouldn’t cover the top of a teacup.” The old man snorted. “Bonnie, down in the next block, sets a decent table. It’s where I’m goin’.”

“Thank you. Do you mind if I walk along with you?” She moved beside the old man, fitting her steps to his.

“Pleased to have ya. Bringin’ Bonnie a new customer might get me a extra biscuit.”

“I don’t know when I’ve been so hungry.”

“Come on the train, didn’t ya?”

“How did you know?” Kristin laughed and waited for him to step down off the walk to cross the street.

“News travels in Big Timber, missy. Bet there ain’t nobody standing on two feet what don’t know that yo’re old Yarby’s niece from Wisconsin come to claim the Larkspur.”

“Well, for goodness sake! That takes the cake! And I thought there were busybodies in River Falls.”

“Hee! Hee! Hee!” The old man clearly enjoyed her surprise. “Yup. Ain’t no town out here big enough for a pretty woman to pass through without folks takin’ a notice.”

“Thank you for the
pretty
part of that.”

“Yup,” he said again. “We’re all waitin’ to see how long it’s gonna take Forsythe to hornswoggle ya out of what Yarby left ya.”

“Forsythe?”

“See that sign yonder?” He pointed to a sign over a stairway next to the bank. LAND BROKER. “Some folks call him Land
Grabber
or Get-Rich-Quick Forsythe. He knows more ways to part a man from his money than a duck’s got feathers.”

“I’ll not be having anything to do with him. The lawyer that’s handling Uncle Yarby’s will is Mr. Mark Lee. Do you know him?”

“Pshaw!
Land lawyer!”
He snorted with disdain. “Watch the little shyster. He’s square in Forsythe’s pocket.”

“Did you know Uncle Yarby?”

“Shore. Everybody ’round here knowed Yarby. Too bad. It was a shame; a pure-dee old shame what happened. Well, here we are.” He stopped in front of an open door.

“Thank you,” Kristin said softly before stepping inside.

“Keep yore wits about ya, girl.” The old man’s whisper came from behind her and was just as soft. Then he murmured, “Repeatin’ what I said could cost me my life.”

For a second Kristin thought the man had said something about “costing his life.” It was preposterous, of course. Her mind swam in a sea of confusion and bewilderment. She went into the restaurant looking much more relaxed and confident than she felt. Half a dozen men were seated at the long oil-cloth-covered table. The other table was occupied by a lone diner.

“Mornin’, Cletus. You’re right on time for a fresh batch of biscuits.” The woman who spoke had a pleasant, smiling face and was approximately Kristin’s age. “You got a knack of timing it just right.”

“Mornin’, Bonnie.”

“Your place is waiting for you, Cletus.” She turned friendly brown eyes on Kristin. “Come in, ma’am, and have a seat.”

The old man had taken the only vacant seat at the front table. Kristin moved to the near-vacant table and sat down at the end. The eruption of an unladylike growl that came from her stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours.

Three chairs were empty between her and the only other person at the table: a rather handsome man with light, neatly combed hair and a freshly shaven face. His back was to the wall giving him a full view of the door, the kitchen and dining area. He looked at her briefly with light, steel gray eyes, then ignored her.