The Accidental Lawman (4 page)

T
he next morning, Amelia found herself in the kitchen at Laura Foster’s boardinghouse. Earlier Laura had sent her cook’s son, Ricardo, to fetch her after the cook had nearly sliced his thumb off. The kitchen was larger than Amelia’s parlor.

Amelia, like the rest of the townsfolk, had watched Foster’s Boardinghouse take shape three years ago. The widow had spared no expense when it came to building her establishment, and since then Mrs. Foster had also built a reputation as a fine, upstanding woman with a good head for business. The boardinghouse was consistently occupied and guests raved about the food.

Thankfully, the bleeding had stopped by the time Amelia arrived. She found Laura hovering over the portly Mexican, Rodrigo, pouring the man a cup of coffee, speaking to him in Spanish.

Amelia immediately laid out her dressings, sticking plaster, needles and thread. The cut was deep but clean, so she decided to sew the edges of skin together rather than use plaster strips. The cook was silent and stoic as Amelia bent
over his hand. She suspected, from the smell of whiskey in the air, that Laura had fortified the man with alcohol.

Amelia closed her eyes and whispered, “‘…and by his wounds are we healed,’” before she took a deep breath and slid the needle slowly into Rodrigo’s flesh. As always, her hand was steady. She was confident in her healing skills for they were a gift from God, given through her father.

Laura stood at the cook’s shoulder, watching. Amelia thought that a woman as genteel and polished as Mrs. Foster might blanch at the sight of blood or the process of stitching the wound closed, but the woman was not only attentive and helpful, she was cool and collected.

“I’m so thankful you were at home this morning, Amelia. I’m not sure what I’d have done outside of bandage the cut and wait for you to return.” When a teakettle on the huge iron stove started whistling, Laura crossed the room and took it off the fire. She was back in an instant.

“I hope you’ll stay for luncheon. In fact, I insist,” Laura invited.

Amelia tied off the end of a semicircle of stitches and deftly cut the thread. Then she reached into her bag for a bottle of balsam. It was such a fine remedy for healing fresh wounds of horses or humans that she tended to make large batches at a time and leave some with patients to keep on hand.

She dabbed the strained mixture of gum benzoin and tolu powder, storax, frankincense, myrrh, aloe and alcohol on the wound, waited a moment and then dabbed on more.

“That’s very kind of you,” she said as she began to wrap a bandage around the cook’s thumb, “but I really can’t stay. I didn’t get much accomplished at all yester
day.” She refused to lose another day worrying about where Evan was, if he was safe, and whether or not he’d been involved in the robbery.

Easier said than done. Whenever she found her anxiety mounting, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath and reminded herself that God was looking out for Evan. That their lives were in
His
hands.

“But…” Laura’s lips usually formed a perfect bow. At Amelia’s refusal of luncheon, her dimples disappeared and her smile began to droop, “I’d so very much like you to stay.”

Amelia was flattered. She smiled up at Laura.

“Another day, if that’s possible?” As far as Amelia could tell, the two of them had little in common—except for the fact that neither was wed—but she admired Laura Foster’s independence and confidence.

Laura appeared to be in her early to mid thirties and was not merely lovely, she was stunning. Her golden hair curled around her perfect features. Her complexion was not marred by overexposure to the sun or freckles. Her hands were plump and smooth, her nails evenly trimmed and buffed. Her clothes were of the latest fashion.

Comparing herself to Laura was like comparing a battered straw hat to a fancy satin bonnet.

“Another day for lunch, then,” Laura agreed. “I’ll hold you to it.” Her dimples were back.

Amelia gathered up her things and advised Rodrigo, “Try to keep the bandage dry for a few days. If the wound doesn’t stop oozing, come to see me. It may need some additional balsam or powdered bloodroot.”

“I’ll see that he does,” Laura assured her. “I’m sure his wife won’t mind cooking this week, though she’s not the talent he is.”

“Gracias, señora.”
Rodrigo nodded to Laura Foster and then turned to Amelia and repeated,
“Gracias.”

Laura reached into a biscuit tin on a low shelf before she walked Amelia back through the house to the entry hall where Amelia collected her hat.

“Thank you so much,” Laura said, holding her hand out to Amelia. There were two shiny silver dollars in her palm.

Amelia shook her head in awe. She was used to being paid in vegetables, cuts of meat, loaves of bread and promises of payments that never came.

“Oh, no, please. That’s too much.” Embarrassed by the woman’s generosity, Amelia had no idea what to say.

Laura grabbed her hand and pressed the coins into her palm. “Rodrigo’s work is invaluable to me. I couldn’t run this place without him. If you think that’s too much, keep the rest as a down payment for future emergencies.” Even Laura’s laugh, a light, tinkling sound with an angelic lilt, was lovely.

Amelia tried to protest.

“I insist,” Laura said. “No arguments.”

“Well…thank you,” Amelia said when she finally realized Laura was adamant.

Laura opened the door; Amelia took a step forward and found herself staring up at Hank Larson.

He looked as surprised to see her standing there as she was to see him. Caught speechless, Amelia watched him doff his dented bowler hat and absently tap it against his thigh.

“Miss Hawthorne. Mrs. Foster.” He nodded politely to them both

His manners were flawless. Amelia finally managed to acknowledge him with a nod of her own.

“I was just leaving,” she mumbled. He’d come to see
the lovely widow, after all, not her. She was surprised by a wave of disappointment.

She expected Laura to usher the man in, but the woman remained planted in the doorway.

“Mr. Larson, it’s nice to see you again, but as I explained to you a few days ago, I have a policy of only renting to couples.”

“I’m well aware of your policy, Mrs. Foster, but I’ve come for another reason entirely.”

“I’ve
really
got to go,” Amelia blurted, clutching her medical bag. “If you’ll excuse me.” She thanked Laura again and Hank stepped aside to let her move out onto the wide veranda.

Instead of asking Hank in, Laura joined him outside. Amelia bade them both farewell and was just about to step off the porch when she heard him say, “I was told that you may have seen not one, but two men loitering outside the bank around the time of the holdup. As you may have heard, I’m Glory’s new sheriff and I’m here to see if you can help with a few details.” He paused for a second and added, “If this is a good time.”

“Of course,” Laura replied.

Amelia turned away, her knees suddenly weak.

Laura Foster claimed to have seen two men loitering outside the bank yesterday and Hank Larson was here to find out more. Was one of the men Evan? Had Laura recognized him? Did she even know Evan? Amelia tried to recall if the widow had ever met her brother.

She paused before starting down the porch steps, hoping they wouldn’t notice she was no longer in a hurry. She knelt, pretending to straighten her laces and tie her shoe. Her palms were sweating. She forced herself to focus on what Laura was saying.

“I really didn’t get a look at them. I was sweeping off the porch until the wind came up and I decided that was fruitless. I was about to head back inside when I stopped to watch a whirlwind as it twisted down Main Street. Two men were standing outside the bank, as if about to walk in. They caught my eye because they lingered so long in the wind. After the whirlwind passed the bank, they were gone.” She shrugged. “I assumed they both stepped inside.”

Hank was silent. Amelia decided she couldn’t pretend to be preoccupied with her shoe a moment longer and straightened. When she glanced over her shoulder, she caught Hank staring at her.

“Did you see anyone outside the door, Miss Hawthorne?” he asked.

She cleared her throat. “Me?”

She didn’t like the way his brows knit as if she’d suddenly become a curiosity that needed further study.

“Did
you
see a second man outside the bank during the robbery?”

“I was on the floor,” she reminded him.
The truth
.

He appeared to be waiting for a definitive yes or no.

“I…” She picked up her medical bag and clutched the handle tightly. She never lied. She wasn’t about to start now. “I may have.”

Suddenly, Hank’s focus was entirely on her. “You
may
have seen a man
outside
the bank during the robbery? Why didn’t you mention it before?”

“I wasn’t sure. I’m still not sure,” she admitted. “I…there was so much dust.”

“There was an awful lot of dust,” Laura agreed.

“But it could have been another man, a second holdup man.” Hank left Laura’s side and took a step toward Amelia. “What
did
you see, exactly?”

He watched her intently, as if
she
were suddenly a suspect. She forced herself to calm down, to take a deep breath. She had nothing to hide. She put her faith and trust in the Lord, tried to smile at Hank Larson, but failed miserably.

“I
think
I
may
have seen a man standing outside the door when I was on the floor of the bank, but I wasn’t really sure at the time. I certainly didn’t get a good look at his face.”

“Is there anything else you recall?” he asked.

No. Yes
.

She bit her lips together.
God, help me and help Evan
.

“I’m not certain, mind you,” she said, “but he may…he
may
have been holding a gun.”

As Hank watched Amelia Hawthorne fidget and try to explain what she may or may not have seen outside the bank yesterday, he could tell she was upset. All the color had drained from her face. Her eyes were as big as bright green coat buttons.

“I…I
really
have to get home,” Amelia said.

“Thanks for helping, Amelia,” Laura said. “Take care.”

Looking relieved, Amelia lifted the hem of her skirt and hurried down the stairs, heading home on foot.

Hank had wanted to pursue his line of questioning, but he knew when to back down during an interview and when to take another tack. He didn’t want to upset Amelia any further and found it odd that she was so riled now. Yesterday after the robbery, she hadn’t seemed a bit nervous or distraught.

Many women would have run screaming from the bank or been felled by a fit of vapors under the same circumstances, but not Miss Amelia Hawthorne. She’d
scrambled behind the teller wall to help Mrs. Cutter and had never even come close to tears as far as he could tell, let alone a fainting spell.

So why was Miss Hawthorne so jumpy now?

For a moment he was so preoccupied with Amelia that he almost forgot he’d come to interview Laura Foster. He had first met the widow when he arrived in Glory two days ago and had inquired about renting a room in the boardinghouse. Somehow he had missed seeing the sign posted on the front porch that read Couples and Women Only.

The widow politely informed him that at no time did she rent to single gentlemen.

He’d spent two miserable nights sleeping in a room above the bar in the Silver Slipper before he was able to acquire the former Chinese laundry building.

Laura Foster was a beautiful woman, no doubt about it, but aside from admiring her loveliness the way one might admire a fine work of art, she held no attraction. Tricia was the woman he’d loved and lost. Not even Mrs. Foster’s beauty could overshadow his wife’s memory.

“Did anyone else see an accomplice?” Laura asked.

“Not that I know of,” he admitted.

“If you’re finished, Mr. Larson, I’ve got plenty to do inside.”

“I believe that’s all for now. Thank you.”

“I wish I could have been of more help,” she said.

He turned away, distracted by the sight of Amelia hurrying down Main Street with a heavy black leather bag clutched in one hand. Head high, shoulders straight, she walked with purpose, her strides long and even.

As Hank returned to his office, he thought about what both women had told him. Dust was blowing down the
street during the holdup. Laura thought she saw two men outside the bank, not just one—and then they were gone.

Amelia may or may not have seen someone who may or may not have been armed. Perhaps she’d been too shocked to mention it yesterday, but from what he recalled, he didn’t think that was the case.

Had she purposely kept the information from him?

If so, for what reason?

Head down, hands clasped behind his back, he walked on. He always thought better on his feet. He listened to the hollow ring of his boot heels against the boardwalk, heard the springs on a buckboard creak as the wagon passed by. Lost in contemplation, he nearly tripped over a child who came careening out of the mercantile and then Hank crashed into a woman who ran out after the little boy.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

The timid, fair-haired woman colored and mumbled an apology.

Hank moved on, reminding himself he really had to quit bowling into women this way. He remembered colliding with Amelia inside the bank, the way she’d frantically hit the floor and started to gather up bits of dried flowers. They must have looked like a pair, scrambling around on their hands and knees.

I think I may have seen a man standing outside the door when I was on the floor of the bank, but I wasn’t really sure at the time. I certainly didn’t get a good look at his face.

He walked a few more paces, pictured the way Amelia had lost color when he explained that he was there to question Mrs. Foster about what she’d seen the day of the robbery.

He stopped dead still in the middle of the boardwalk, reached beneath his hat to scratch his head and recalled the details of his encounter at the bank.