Margaret Brownley (22 page)

“’Course I do. That’s all anyone talked ’bout for days,” Sarah said.

“His name is David Wolf and he’s not wild.”

Sarah drew back, hand on her chest. “He sure looked wild in that
picher
.”

“He’s not.” If only she hadn’t let Barnes print that terrible undeveloped photograph of Wolf. His gunshot wound, the church fire, Monica’s injuries—none of it would have happened. “I wrote an article that explained the truth but Barnes didn’t print it. He wrote his own article and it was all lies.”

Sarah looked more confused. “So what’s he gotta do with the fire?”

“The sheriff said if Mr. Wolf didn’t leave town, he’d end up in jail again. The problem was he couldn’t leave. His leg was infected and I didn’t know where else to take him, so I hid him in the church.”

“Oh, Lucy. Why didn’t you come to us? You know me and the pastor would have helped.”

Lucy did know that. Even though Sarah and Justin lived in a tiny cabin and had two small children of their own, they never failed to open their home and hearts to anyone in need.

Lucy squeezed Sarah’s arm. “I didn’t want to cause you any trouble,” she explained, feeling utterly miserable. “Instead, that’s exactly what I’ve done.”

Sarah gave her a sympathetic look. “Don’t you worry none about that, you hear?” She lowered her voice. “You might have done us a favor. At least we won’t have to spend another winter in that drafty old church. Now folks are gonna have to get together and build a new one.”

“But you heard what Mr. Appleby said about money.”

Sarah scoffed. “If God wants us to have a new church, he’ll help us find a way.” She winked. “And just between you and me, lumber sure
does
grow on trees.”

Despite her heavy heart, Lucy laughed. “I better go. I want to stop at Doc Myers’s house and check on Monica. Ma said she didn’t go home last night.”

“That’s ’cuz Doc Myers insisted she stay at his place until she’s fully recovered.” Sarah nodded in satisfaction. “Justin says nothin’ can happen that God can’t turn into a miracle, and I reckon that includes a church fire.”

Lucy smiled. How like Sarah to try and make her feel better, and it worked. The thought of God using the fire for good did lift her spirits.
Please let it be true
.

Lucy and Sarah hugged and parted ways. Lucy glanced at her father’s store. Should she face him now or wait till later? She sighed. “Oh, Papa.” If only she could be the daughter he wanted her to be.

With a heavy heart she turned and walked toward her horse. Facing her father would have to wait until after she checked on Monica.

Wolf stood in the shadows.

It was twilight. Main Street was deserted except for a lone figure who hurried by to light the town’s two gaslights.

The top half of a full moon rose in the east as if to bid farewell to the last strains of the setting sun on the opposite horizon.

Rowdy laughter exploded from Jake’s Saloon, and somewhere a piano played “Oh Dem Golden Slippers.”

Wolf’s gaze never wavered for long from the little square window of the
Rocky Creek Gazette
. The yellow light from a single kerosene lamp flickered behind thin curtains.

Leaving the safety of the alley where he had been hiding, Wolf crossed the rutted dirt street. The bat-wing doors of a saloon swung open and a man stepped outside, staring straight at Wolf. Fearing the man would recognize him from the picture in the newspaper, Wolf quickly opened the door of the newspaper office to a flurry of jingling bells.

A big orange cat gave a lazy stretch before streaking through the half-open door leading to the back room.

The small office stood empty. A single desk was stacked high with paper. A coat and hat hung from a peg on the roughhewn wall.

Wolf walked toward the door behind the desk and pushed it wide.

The man he suspected was Barnes sat at a long table, his head bent. His hand moved quickly to pull letters one by one from a type case and set them in a metal frame stick. It was hard to believe such a large hand was capable of arranging such tiny lead pieces. Such a job required both dexterity and sobriety, and judging by the smell of alcohol, Barnes lacked one if not both.

Because of the intense labor of typesetting, newspapers seldom had more than eight pages. The
Rocky Creek Gazette
averaged only four pages, leading Wolf to discern that Barnes did most, if not all, of the work himself.

After a moment or two, the editor raised his head and regarded Wolf with a combination of curiosity and annoyance, his eyes bloodshot. “Whatever you want, come back tomorrow. I’ve got a paper to put out tonight.”

The spectacles threw Wolf off balance, but only for a moment. Though Barnes had gained weight through the years and his face had grown puffy, there was no mistaking the scar, which ran from chin to brow like an angry red serpent. According to Lucy, the injury had been inflicted by a drunken father.

Fists tight at his sides, Wolf regarded the man passively. The scar only proved that evil could be passed from father to son.

He now knew what he had come to find out. Jacoby Barnes had been the leader on that long-ago night. No question.

Bile rose to Wolf’s mouth and he could do nothing but stare. He’d envisioned this moment for years but nothing prepared him for the disdain he felt for the man.

“Well, speak up,” Barnes said with impatience. “What do you want?”

“To buy a paper,” Wolf said. “There were none left at the general merchandise store.”

Barnes dismissed him with a wave of his hand and reached for another metal letter. “Come back tomorrow. You can read all about the church fire then.”

Wolf stayed where he was. Slowly he removed his hat. Barnes scrutinized him over the metal rim of his spectacles.

Wolf waited—waited for recognition to show in those dark probing eyes. None came. Victims seldom forgot their tormentors but, apparently, perpetrators had no such compulsion to remember. Or maybe they simply didn’t have the capacity.

“I said come back, boy.”

Boy
. How he hated that word, hated how it implied he was less than a man. Still, that was an argument for another day.

“You don’t remember me?” he asked.

Barnes visibly stiffened. He looked confused, maybe even frightened.

“Can’t think of a single reason why I should. I don’t associate with half-breeds.” His eyes glittered and his hand moved toward a glass paperweight. Obviously he felt the need for a weapon.

“The name’s David Wolf.”

“Wolf?” Barnes squinted as if trying to reconcile the face with the photograph in the newspaper. “The wild man—” he began, but Wolf cut him off.

“I’m the one you sent down the river in a boat.”

Barnes rose to his feet, his face drained of color. He was at least six inches shorter than Wolf and this took Wolf by surprise. He was ten years old the last time he saw Barnes and the man had looked like a giant.

“I thought you were—”

“Dead?” Wolf extended his arms away from his body. “Doesn’t look like it.”

Barnes stood frozen. “What do you want?”

“You took something from me that night.” More than Barnes or the others could possibly know. “A wooden box.” He held his hands a foot apart to indicate the length. “I want it back.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Wolf thought back to that long-ago night. He seemed to remember the scar-faced youth taking the box from him but he couldn’t be certain. He laid his palms flat on the table and leaned forward. “You helped put me in the boat that night. One of you took something from me. If you didn’t take it, then one of the other three did. I want the names of everyone who was there that night.”

“I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Barnes’s fingers encircled the glass globe, and Wolf straightened.

“Are you saying you don’t have it?” Wolf asked.

“I’m saying I know nothing about a box,” Barnes said.

Was Barnes telling the truth? It was hard to say. It was possible that they tossed the box, though he doubted it. The box was hand-carved and etched in gold. Someone would have recognized its monetary worth if not its personal value.

He looked Barnes straight in the eye. “I found you, and I’ll find the others—with or without your help.”

Having said what he came to say, he turned to leave.

Seventeen

To photograph well, women should dress in sedate colors
and unobtrusive patterns. Even the most morally challenged
woman can be made to look chaste given suitable attire
and clever lighting.

—M
ISS
G
ERTRUDE
H
ASSLEBRINK, 1878

D
oc Myers’s housekeeper, Rosie, answered Lucy’s knock.

“Is it okay for me to visit now?” Lucy asked anxiously. She’d stopped at the doctor’s house earlier that day but Monica had been asleep and the doctor didn’t want to wake her.

“Ar reckon Miss Monica will be happy to see ya,” Rosie said. A middle-aged woman with gray springy curls, smooth dark skin, and a ready smile, she walked with a side-to-side rocking motion.

Lucy followed her into the dimly lit parlor and was greeted by the doctor. Monica lay supine on a brocade sofa, her arm wrapped in a bandage.

Lucy hurried across the room. “Oh no, you
were
hurt,” she cried in dismay. “I was so afraid of that.”

Monica waved away her concern. “It’s nothing, really.”

Lucy squeezed Monica’s hand. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

“She’s going to be fine,” Doc Myers said. He gazed at Monica for perhaps a moment longer than necessary before taking his leave. “I’ll ask Rosie to make us some tea.”

Lucy gave her friend a knowing look and fanned herself with her hand. “Whoa.”

Monica blushed. “Now don’t go jumping to conclusions. I’m just his patient. His housekeeper stayed the night to chaperone.” Her voice was still hoarse from the fire, but the soft glow in her eyes was new.

Lucy sat on a footstool next to Monica’s side. “Since when has Doc Myers ever opened his house to patients?”

Monica coughed and cleared her throat. “I’m very grateful to him,” she said. Suddenly her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Lucy, the church.”

“I know. I feel terrible about it, but it wasn’t your fault.”

Monica wiped her tears away with her palms. “But . . . but . . . who was that man?”

“What man?”

Monica gave her a strange look. “You know. The handsome man I saw you kissing.”

“Shh.” Lucy glanced over her shoulder to make sure the doctor was out of hearing range, but she couldn’t suppress a smile. “He is handsome, isn’t he?”

Monica lowered her voice but refused to be distracted. “So who is he and where did you meet him?”

Lucy sighed in resignation. “Remember the photograph in the newspaper?”

Monica’s eyes widened. “That was him? But it didn’t look like the man I saw you with.”

“I’m afraid my photograph did him a terrible disservice.”

“But . . . but you let a wild man kiss you!”

“First, David is not a wild man.”

Monica frowned. “David? You call him by his Christian name?”

Ignoring the question, Lucy continued. “The wild man rumor was started by the Trotter boy and perpetuated by Mr.

Barnes. It has no basis in fact. He saved your life. Both our lives.”

“I’m very grateful to him,” Monica said, looking appropriately chastised. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you were kissing him.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“What else am I to think?” Monica regarded her like a wayward student. “It’s not like you to be so secretive.”

Lucy felt a wave of guilt. “I didn’t mean to be. I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. As for what you saw or think you saw . . . we were saying good-bye. That’s all. He’d been shot and was grateful to me for nursing him back to health.”

Monica made a face. “I know what I saw and that was not gratitude.”

Irked by Monica’s insistence, Lucy bit down on her lower lip. She didn’t want to think about Wolf. Mainly because thinking about him only confused her. “Right now I have another problem.”