The Blizzard Bride Page 7

Brava, Abby. She’d turned the conversation just so, sounding conversational when it was clear to Dash she was investigating.

  “New York, originally. Would you like the basket on your desk?”

  “Yes, I thought we could use it as a makeshift table. Please, sit here.” She withdrew two mugs from a deep desk drawer. “Nebraska is a long way from New York.”

  “I had no trade when I found myself alone with a young child to care for, but I’d always enjoyed sewing. Becoming a seamstress allowed me the ability to work and care for Micah at the same time. Several months ago, a friend invited us to join her in a nearby town, but when we arrived, I learned she’d passed away.”

  “Oh, how terrible,” Dash said as Abby made a sympathetic noise.

  Mrs. Story unpacked the basket, laying out two white plates, starched napkins, forks, a bowl, and something wrapped in an embroidered dish towel. “These things happen. In the meantime Micah and I were halfway across the continent and required a new home. I learned the dress shop here needed help, so we thought, why not?”

  Mrs. Story’s eye twitched. Twice. In Dash’s experience, most folks revealed their falsehoods by displaying some sort of involuntary, physical response. Was this hers? Was she lying to them?

  “A new adventure,” Abby said.

  “As both of you have done, it seems.” Mrs. Story glanced at Dash.

  “Mr. Lassiter left Chicago six years ago for his adventure. Ah, sounds like the water is warm for our tea.” Abby strode to the stove, turning her back on Dash and waving one hand behind her in a discreet shooing signal.

  Hint taken, even though the steaming, fragrant tea she poured from the kettle into the mugs made his mouth water for something warm to drink. “Enjoy your lunch, ladies.”

  Mrs. Story looked up with a catlike smile. “You’ll be at the mayor’s birthday party on Saturday, won’t you?”

  “Birthday party?”

  “At town hall. Everyone is invited.” She snuck a glance at Abby.

  Social gatherings like this were excellent opportunities to talk to townsfolk. This would also be an excellent opportunity for Dash to speak to Abby about the status of the investigation.

  And to try to make her blush again. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

  When he tugged the schoolhouse door shut, he was whistling.

  CHAPTER 6

  I’m sorry about that,” Abby said, gesturing toward the door as Mrs. Story speared a vinegar-soaked potato. “Mr. Lassiter is—”

  “Smitten with you.” Mrs. Story popped the potato into her mouth.

  “Nonsense. He stopped by to … assess the firewood supply.” It wasn’t a complete lie.

  “I thought the parents provided firewood.”

  “I’m not sure who is in charge of restocking our fuel, but we will need more soon. So, Mrs. Story, thank you for coming. I appreciate you giving up your hour off.”

  “I don’t mind at all. I’m allotted a good amount of time to eat and conduct my errands, and some days I simply walk for exercise, since Micah and I live above the dress shop. The owner, Mrs. Leary, rents the extra room to us. It’s been quite a blessing.”

  If this woman was really Katherine Hoover, she hadn’t experienced much in the way of blessing during her life. Abby swallowed down the ache in her throat. “Speaking of blessings, Micah is a wonderful boy.”

  “He is, isn’t he? Shy, but a lot goes on between his ears.” She beamed the smile of a loving mother, joyous and proud.

  Geraldine Story didn’t resemble Micah, but that didn’t mean much. Abby hadn’t taken after her mother either. From the shape of her head to the tint of red in her hair, she was the image of her criminal father.

  Don’t think about that now. Abby bit into her sandwich—ham with English mustard. Delicious. Once she’d washed it down with a sip of tea, she sat back. “As I’m certain you are aware, Micah is an excellent writer and reader. He keeps up with children in the fifth and sixth grades. His last school must have been exceptional. Was it a rigorous program?”

  “Oh no, he’s just a curious child. Even when he was too young to attend school, he’d ask me about letters and numbers while I sewed. More fun to him than playing with his toys.”

  This conversation wasn’t yielding as much as she’d hoped. She finished her sandwich while Mrs. Story continued to describe Micah learning to talk and walk. Adorable, but not enlightening as far as Fletcher Pitch was concerned. At a natural break, Abby patted her lips with her napkin. “Yesterday I asked the children to write about their parents. Micah said the kindest things about you.”

  Mrs. Story lifted her shoulders in a gesture of delight. “He’s such a sweet boy.”

  “I mention it because Micah didn’t mention his father other than he’d passed on, and …” She broke off. It was possible Micah didn’t write about his father because the man was a murderous counterfeiter. It was also possible he didn’t mention him because memories of him brought pain. But Abby was duty-bound to investigate. “I apologize if I upset Micah, or you, by bringing up his loss.”

  Mrs. Story drained her tea. “Oh, not at all. Micah doesn’t even remember his father. He’s been gone a long time.”

  “I imagine you do what you can to keep his memory alive.”

  “Actually, we don’t talk about him, ever. It’s far better that way.”

  “I apologize for pressing.” Actually, Abby wanted to press more, but how could she without seeming like a callous busybody? There had to be a way to find out if Mrs. Story avoided talk of Micah’s father because he was Fletcher Pitch, or because he was a normal, law-abiding man whom she’d loved so much that saying his name was like an ice pick to her freezing heart.

  How well Abby could relate to that. She hadn’t wanted to say Dash’s name ever again after he left. Father agreed, and Dash’s name never passed her family’s lips again.

  “More potatoes?” Mrs. Story offered the last spoonful.

  “Yes, please. They’re wonderful.” The tang was a perfect complement to the ham. “Is it a family recipe?”

  “From my mother.”

  “Do your sisters make it too?”

  Mrs. Story set out two gingersnaps. “No, I have no sister. I wish I did.”

  “Me too. I was an only child.”

  She bit into the crispy cookie. Mmm. Just the right amount of spice, and the perfect conclusion to a simple but tasty meal. If only their conversation had been as satisfying.

  Abby helped pack and clean up from their lunch before calling the students back inside. After bidding Micah farewell, Mrs. Story left, and Micah was at Abby’s hip with an expectant expression.

  She smiled down at him. “Your mother and I had a lovely lunch, Micah.”

  “Ham sandwich?”

  She nodded. “You too?”

  “Yes. And a cookie.”

  “Me too. We talked about how bright you are.”

  He looked away, pleased but clearly embarrassed. Such a sweet boy.

  Kyle appeared at her other hip. “You’re coming to supper tomorrow at the restaurant.”

  “I am. And I will tell your mother how good you are at your sums.”

  Kyle’s grin revealed the first tips of erupting eyeteeth.

  “All right, everyone, take your seats for geography.” She picked up her wooden pointing stick and strode to stand beside a map of the United States. She may not be a competent investigator when it came to hunting for Fletcher Pitch’s boy, but she was a decent teacher.

  Nevertheless, her lack of progress plagued her through the rest of the lesson and into the afternoon. If she still prayed, she’d be on her knees asking God for help. Insight. Wisdom. Something, if only His listening ear.

  When she sat down to grade math pages, her midsection ached. Staring at her desk, she realized it had nothing to do with Mrs. Story’s lunch. It was a yearning type of ache, a loneliness. After all this time, she was starting to miss talking to God.

  Or maybe she always had, but was just now admitting it.r />
  “Fine pair of grays you have, sir.” Dash had been instructed by the inn’s owner, the widowed Mrs. Miller, not to talk overmuch to guests, but a compliment here or there on the quality of a customer’s horseflesh—especially when the horses were as expensive as these—would be tolerable. How could he ignore these animals? Anyone with eyes could see how fine these beauties were, high-steppers with identically hued coats, hitched to a fine carriage.

  “I imagine you don’t often see horses like these hereabouts.” The horses’ owner, a full-bellied man with yellow teeth, grinned. A quick glance inside the snow-speckled coach informed Dash the gentleman traveled alone, and that the upholstery within the carriage was as fine as the horses. And the man’s fur-trimmed coat.

  Was he Fletcher Pitch, come to find his son? Thanks to his counterfeiting endeavors, Pitch was undoubtedly affluent. Why wouldn’t he flaunt his ill-gained fortune?

  It had been a full day since Dash had seen Abby. It was best that he leave her be for a while, although he was curious if her talk with Geraldine Story yielded any results. He’d also have to tell her about this guest at the inn. He might not be Pitch, but Dash intended to keep close watch.

  One of the horses shook its head, bringing Dash’s attention back to his role here at the inn. “I’ll have them ready for you when you leave. Tomorrow morning?”

  “No, I’ll be here a few days at least. You know how business can be.”

  “I reckon so, sir.” Dash dipped his head again as the man entered the inn and Mrs. Miller’s two sons, Frank and Sy, unloaded the man’s trunk. Dash saw to the horses with haste, but care, talking to them as he saw to their needs. As soon as they were stabled, brushed, fed, and watered, he ambled to the servant’s door at the back of the inn to do a little scouting on the new guest.

  As he hoped, Frank and Sy sat in the green-papered dining room, a place their mother had invited Dash to use when he had no pressing tasks. He helped himself to coffee from the enamel pot on the sideboard and joined the brothers, young men around twenty years of age. “That new guest’s got one fancy rig. Good horses too.”

  Sy whistled. “I’ll say. Wish I could get closer to ’em, but it’d about kill me.”

  “Both of us, from hay fever,” Frank explained. “Hay makes us sneeze and choke up, and we turn red anywhere our skin touches horsehair. Which is why we hired you.”

  “Sounds awful.” Dash took a pull of the strong brew. “Take my word for it, though, the horses are magnificent. Has that guest come through before?”

  “Nah.” Frank brushed his greasy bangs from his forehead. “Must be in town because of the railroad.”

  “That’s my guess.” Sy stuck his long legs out to warm his feet before the crackling fire. “I heard him check in. Name’s Unger. Sounds like a railroad man’s name, don’t it?”

  Frank laughed, and Dash had to smile. How easy it was to present a false name. Nevertheless, he’d inform his superiors of Mr. Unger’s arrival. Sooner rather than later. In fact, his daily report had been overdue … for three days now.

  He should see to it at once. “I didn’t realize it’s past lunchtime.”

  “Go on and take your meal break. We’ll keep an eye on things here.” Sy gestured with a wave. “But before you go, I need to ask. Is it true about you and the pretty schoolmarm?”

  Dash drained his coffee. “Is what true?”

  “That you’re here for her?”

  “Why, you got designs on her?”

  “Maybe.”

  Frank pounded his brother on the back. “Looks like Lassiter don’t like that idea too much.”

  How did it show? Dash had spent the past few years working for the Secret Service, schooling himself to hide his reactions. He willed himself to look disinterested. “I don’t have a claim on her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Sy flicked his hair out of his eyes again. “So I can ask her to dance at the mayor’s birthday party.”

  “You can, I suppose. Whether or not you should?” Dash shrugged and ducked out the door, chased by the brothers’ laughter. Maybe they were just teasing him, or maybe Sy really did like the look of Abby. Who wouldn’t? She was beautiful.

  He had no right, but the thought of her dancing with another fellow made his hands clench.

  Tightening his old blue scarf around his neck against the cold, he hurried to the post office. He waved at Isaac, who stood behind the counter helping a woman in a large hat—Mrs. Story. Dash took the back stairs two at a time and passed Isaac’s bedroom, its door, as ever, shut. Isaac was a good landlord, but he had some strict rules about his privacy. Dash couldn’t blame him, as he had his own secrets. Blowing on his cold fingers, he took a seat at the small desk at the north-facing window.

  Paper. Pen. Ink. He placed them just so on the desktop. Adjusted the paper. Looked out the window at the gray sky. Dipped the pen into the inkwell. Five times.

  The task couldn’t be avoided any longer.

  God, may my words be legible and clear. Help them to make sense to my superiors. Carefully, slowly, he penned the first character, the D in Dear. Then the next letters, one by one, until he finished Dear Sir, and after that, a full sentence.

  It looked entirely wrong.

  He’d been told the Treasury folks in Washington wouldn’t care about his spelling. They could figure out what he was saying. His job wasn’t a scribe, after all. He was an operative. Action and results trumped penmanship skill.

  Nevertheless, these reports were part of his duty.

  Dash swallowed what was left of his pride and jotted a sentence about the new hotel guest, Mr. Unger, making mention of his appearance, vehicle, and horses, but noting he had not made any payment to the hotel as yet in genuine or artificial currency. Thus far, he was the only newcomer to Wells who could be Fletcher Pitch, although he was more flagrant about his wealth than Dash imagined. Maybe Pitch didn’t care anymore.

  Dash started a new paragraph, noting that he had not encountered any counterfeited currency here, nor heard talk of it.

  There. That should be enough to satisfy his superiors.

  He blotted the mess of the letter and stuffed it into a pre-addressed vellum envelope—his Kansas City superior had shown Dash a great kindness by addressing a stack of envelopes for him. If Dash addressed them himself, who knew if his reports would ever get to Washington. They’d be so misspelled, they could end up in West Virginia. Or a dustbin.

  Dash hurried downstairs and turned the corner to the post office. Mrs. Story, still here? Isaac leaning against the counter frame in a casual, interested pose? Clearly they weren’t discussing philatelic matters.

  Isaac’s gaze jerked up to meet Dash’s, his grin melting into a guilty expression. “Didn’t hear you, Dashiell.”

  Obviously. Dash bit back a smile.

  Mrs. Story put one gloved hand to her rosy lips. “Pardon me. I was just leaving.”

  “Don’t mind me. Here, Isaac.” Dash reached past her to drop the letter and two cents on the counter.

  Regaining his professional composure, Isaac affixed a brown stamp to Dash’s letter. “Washington, DC, eh? Government stuff,” he teased.

  “A letter to family.” It was Dash’s automatic response, and it was true. His Treasury friends were the only family he had left. He waved on his way out. “Good day to you folks.”

  Isaac and Geraldine Story! Interesting. Romance blossomed even in the depth of winter. Folks always talked about love in springtime, but Dash’s affection for Abby was born the winter he was fifteen. By summertime his love had grown into a sapling with strong roots. His blood transformed into gooey, sentimental sap, and what was even worse, he didn’t care.

  “That’s love, boy,” his pa had said, catching Dash whistling while mucking the stalls.

  Pa had been happy about it too, as if there hadn’t been a single impediment to a stable boy forming a tender attachment to the boss’s daughter. Why hadn’t Pa warned him that loving Abby would lead to nothing but heartache?
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br />   He’d tried to make it work out, of course. Tried harder than she ever knew. But eventually, he’d realized he had to leave Chicago to allow her the opportunity to have the life she deserved but couldn’t have with him. Along the way, he’d even convinced himself he’d fallen out of love with her.

  He just might have been wrong about that.

  “Lassiter!” Sy jogged toward him.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Not with the guests’ horses, but Burt Crabtree brought in a gelding. Might be frostbit or something. He said you told him you know something about horses.”

  “I know some. Enough to know frostbite’s pretty rare in horses.” God had designed equine feet and legs to endure standing in deep snow, and their manes, tails, and thick eyelashes to protect against cold temperatures. However, frostbite could happen, especially in a horse that was older or already sick. “There’s no veterinarian in town?”

  Sy winced. “The closest thing we’ve got is Maynard Yates at the livery, but you’ve met him, haven’t you? Somethin’s always stuck in his craw. I can’t blame Crabtree for bringing a horse to you instead in the hopes you know a bit about husbandry, ’cause you ain’t gonna yell at him the way Yates would.”

  “I’ll do what I can.” He parted ways with Sy and entered the stable, where Burt Crabtree patted a bay quarter horse on the neck.

  He sighed in relief. “Hope you don’t mind me bringing Jasper here.”

  “Not at all, but like I reminded Sy, I’m no veterinarian.”

  “You’re more of one than I am. Jasper got out and it took me all day to find him. I think his feet got too cold, because it looks like he’s favoring one side over the other.”

  “Let me see here. How do you do, Jasper?” Dash stood in the animal’s line of vision and patted him with soft strokes. Then he glanced at Burt. “Eyes look good. Nose is a little wet, as you can see. Let’s check the rest of him.”

  Dash led Jasper closer to the better light of the west window and fastened him in cross ties. Jasper didn’t protest Dash’s examination of his ears, and to Dash’s relief the skin was flexible, with good color. No frostbite there. With gentle strokes, Dash felt for heat, swellings, wounds, and tenderness all over Jasper’s body, taking his time before he examined the legs. Front legs seemed fine. He squatted to get a better view of the hind legs—ah, there was the source of concern, a liquidy bubble on the left hock. “Looks like a capped hock.”