The Bride Wore Blue Page 6

  “It’s about the biggest county in the state.” Carter paused. “You talked to Jon.”

  Gilbert’s exaggerated nod set his hat to flopping. “Said you and Miss Sinclair threw off enough sparks to light the train car.”

  “She’d been through an ordeal, coming face to face with a bandit and all. So, yes, she was a bit tetchy, and I had a job to do.” Keeping the more flattering adjectives to himself, Carter looked away and tugged his vest straight. “Getting back to business—”

  “If we must. But a little fun wouldn’t hurt you, Mr. All-About-Business.”

  Ignoring his friend’s comment, Carter pulled the wanted poster from the folder. “You think this man, Pickett, could be the one with the Schofield at the bank?”

  “Could be.” Gilbert pointed to the physical description. “Fits the height of the guy wielding the six-shooter. They pegged him at six feet plus and skinny like an aspen trunk.”

  “Witnesses described the second man on the train as being tall enough to hit the lamps if he hadn’t hunched.” Carter handed Gilbert the sketches from his folder.

  “Looks like the same guy to me.” A frown clouded Gilbert’s blue eyes. “This gang is rumored to be moving southwest.”

  Carter nodded.

  “Cripple Creek’s bank could be next.”

  “Won’t happen on my watch.” Carter shoved the poster back into the folder.

  “I said that about Victor.”

  Heat flooded Carter’s face, and he cringed. “Didn’t mean to imply—”

  Gilbert raised a freckled hand. “I know. You’re out to prove something. I might do the same if I was trying to get out from under my dead father’s shadow.”

  Trying to? A vein in Carter’s neck throbbed. This wasn’t a new conversation for him and Gilbert. Although he had nothing new to say on the subject, Carter looked at his friend and responded anyway. “I don’t have any say in the matter.”

  “Sure, the man’s a legend, but—”

  “I know.” Carter drew in a deep breath. “That was then. This is now. Easy to say, but trying to do the work, knowing what happened to my father, is like going hand to hand with a bear.”

  “Fair enough.” Gilbert gulped coffee. “Just don’t go getting yourself killed tryin’ to prove something.” He paused. “Not when I’m finally gettin’ used to having you around.”

  Carter chuckled. “Point taken.”

  “Good.”

  “Except for a knot on the conductor’s head, no one’s been hurt in any of the robberies.”

  “Doesn’t mean it can’t happen. So far all the bankers and customers have cooperated. Given freely. But all it takes is one person resisting.”

  Even one that accidentally extended her foot at an inopportune time. Carter’s gut tightened.

  “You okay?” Gilbert asked.

  “Nothing that catching a gang of robbers won’t cure.” Carter lifted his cup from the wooden boardwalk and drained it. “I best head back.” He handed Gilbert the mug. “Thanks for the coffee. Watch your back.”

  Gilbert nodded. “You do the same.”

  “Telephone the office if you find out anything that might help me keep my end of the valley safe.”

  “Will do.”

  When Carter turned back to the road, he noticed a particularly fashionable young woman crossing Fourth Street on the other side of Victor Avenue. He repositioned his hat for a better view. Couldn’t be who he thought it was. Not here. Not alone.

  Gilbert stood beside him. “Let me guess—Miss Vivian Sinclair?”

  “The one and only.”

  Waving at her, Carter didn’t know whether to give thanks that there was only one Vivian Sinclair, or to thank God she existed and had moved to his part of Colorado.

  Vivian had taken too long to recognize one of the two men staring at her from across the street. She blinked, hoping the scene was nothing more than a figment of her imagination, but the men were still there, and now Deputy Alwyn was waving at her.

  After hearing the bad news from Etta, she was already prone to be rude, and she had vowed to avoid the lawman who wore an inviting smile. Since avoiding Deputy Alwyn was proving to be impossible, ignoring him had to be forgivable. Vivian turned to retreat up Victor Avenue. She’d wait at the depot for her afternoon train.

  “Miss Sinclair.” The familiar baritone voice sounded much closer than the boardwalk on the other side of the street. Before she could confirm his whereabouts, he stood directly in front of her, his shoulders broad and his jaw set. A folder was tucked under his arm.

  “Deputy Alwyn.” She considered adding it is you, but the darkness in his eyes told her he knew he’d been snubbed.

  “I thought we’d put our rough start behind us.”

  “We had.” Vivian matched his stare. “We did. It is.”

  “Then why are you avoiding me? First you couldn’t leave my office fast enough last Wednesday. You darted out of church like a startled rabbit. And now—”

  “Now I have a train to catch.” Vivian moistened her lips, hoping it would ease her dry throat as well.

  “Unless they’ve changed the schedule, the train isn’t due for another hour.”

  He was relentless. Vivian looked him straight in the eye, a softer brown now. “I do have a little time on my hands. Did you have further robbery business you wished to discuss with me?”

  He blew out a long breath.

  “If so—”

  “Did I do something to offend you?”

  He never should have made the switch from exasperating to charming. “It isn’t you.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “I resemble someone you wish to avoid?”

  She couldn’t help giggling. Humor and heart. Relentless and respectable. All of which made it impossible for her not to like this man. “My adjustment to Colorado isn’t going as smoothly as I’d hoped. I just came from an interview that I was sure would lead to employment.”

  “It didn’t?”

  “No. Despite my best effort.”

  “I’m sorry. Please allow me to walk you to the depot.”

  She nodded. “That would be fine.”

  He held up the folder. “Mr. Hamilton’s final sketches of the bandits you described. I came to Victor to show them to the chief of police here.” Glancing across the street, he returned the police chief’s wave.

  “I’d be interested in seeing the sketches as well.”

  “I’d like that too.” He pressed his hat onto his head and smiled. “Looks like my friend wants to meet you. Come with me while I retrieve my horse?”

  “I can do that.” All part of her adventure.

  “We can look at the sketches while we wait at the depot.”

  Vivian nodded. We wait? He intended to see her onto the train? Well, that was better than offering her a ride back to town on the back of his horse.

  The deputy stepped off the boardwalk first and held his hand out to her. His confident touch did nothing to encourage avoidance, even if it were possible. As soon as her left foot felt solid on the ground, she let go of his hand. “Thank you.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  He repeated the kind gesture at the boardwalk on the other side of the street.

  “Gilbert, this is Miss Vivian Sinclair from Cripple Creek.”

  His friend tugged the brim of a floppy hat that did little to tame his wavy red hair. “Gilbert Neilson, ma’am. It’s good to meet you. I’ve heard favorable things about you.”

  “Oh?” She glanced at Deputy Alwyn, who suddenly colored as if he’d been in the sun too long.

  “Yes. We talked about the train robbery.” Deputy Alwyn scrubbed his goatee. “I told Chief Neilson that you’ve provided important information.” He exchanged quiet looks with his friend and stepped to the hitching rail, where the horse nudged his shoulder. “Now if you’ll excuse us, Gilbert, I’m going to walk Miss Sinclair to the depot.”

  “Good to catch up.” Mr. Neilson shifted his attention to Vivian. “A pleasure to meet you,
Miss Sinclair. I hope you’ll visit our fair town again soon.”

  “Thank you, I’d like that.” Especially if it meant Etta Ondersma had called to hire her. Vivian dipped her chin and turned toward the horse. His hand ready, Deputy Alwyn guided her to the rocky street.

  He let go of her hand too soon, and not soon enough.

  Carter swung up into the saddle and rode away from the depot and Miss Sinclair. The independent Miss Sinclair, who had a passel of sisters and still preferred to venture out on her own. Bold. And beautiful.

  While Liberty’s shod hooves scraped against the rocks on the road, Carter forced his thoughts away from Miss Sinclair to the facts he had concerning the robberies.

  They were dealing with a gang, and he knew of at least two of them, infamous for terrorizing the mining towns of northwestern Colorado. Had one of them ventured to his little corner of the Rockies?

  He groaned. “Gilbert’s right; it makes sense that they’ll eventually target Cripple Creek.”

  Carter clucked his tongue and shook his head. He was talking to his horse. Pitiful. He did need to socialize more, but he couldn’t risk becoming better acquainted with Vivian Sinclair. He couldn’t risk that part of his heart. Or that part of any woman’s heart.

  Carter pushed his Stetson down to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun. He’d just settled back in the saddle, ready for the descent down Battle Mountain, when he heard hooves clambering up the rocky hillside.

  “Sheriff!”

  Carter pulled up on the reins and sat taller in the saddle. He recognized the crusty old miner who scuffled toward him, waving his worn canvas hat.

  “Jon said I’d find you headed back from Victor. We got trouble, Deputy!”

  Carter swung to the ground. Liberty followed him over to Boney and his pack-bearing mule. “What kind of trouble, Boney?”

  The wiry man slapped his hat on his leg. “It’s Peter McHenry. Heard a gunshot. Then yellin’ and groanin’. Me and a couple other miners up there found Mac knifed and alone in his cabin. Died before he could say anything.” The miner spit into the tall grasses beside them. “They come for his sock of gold and must’ve found it. It’s not there.”

  Gritting his teeth, Carter stuck a foot into the stirrup. A shiver ran up his spine, and the chilling wind on the mountain wasn’t the only culprit. “You said Mac had been knifed, but you heard a gunshot?”

  Boney nodded. “Just one.”

  “See anyone out by his place?”

  “Just the backs of two men riding away fast.” Boney turned his mule around, and despite Sal’s brays, he climbed onto her back. “His cabin’s up in the hills by my place. I’ll take you there.”

  After about thirty minutes of hard riding, Carter tied Liberty’s reins to a juniper and stepped up onto the stoop of Peter McHenry’s wood-shake shanty. Blood marked a path across the plank wood flooring to where a man’s body lay at the edge of a straw mat in the corner.

  Carter recognized the man known as Mac. He’d come to Cripple Creek last year with gold on his mind but charity in his heart. He’d donated a generous portion of his poke to help the Sisters of Mercy care for widows and orphans. Some men deserved such an end, but Mac wasn’t one of them. Carter swallowed hard against the anger that tensed his shoulders. He looked over at Boney, who held a photograph.

  Boney rubbed his scraggly beard and shook his head. “Mac was gonna wire for his wife and young’uns to join him here this summer.” Turning back toward the body, the old miner made the sign of the cross.

  Carter looked around the sparsely furnished shack. What there was—a rough-hewn table, two straight-back chairs, and a supply shelf—lay strewn across the floor. Focused on the light streaming through the open doorway, Carter drew in a fortifying breath. “Tell me about the riders you saw.”

  “One was sittin’ forward. Still had plenty of body left leanin’ over the horn.”

  “His build?”

  “Like one of them new telephone poles in town.”

  “Think Mac got him?”

  “The way the fella was clutchin’ his head, he could have been hit. But not bad enough to leave a blood trail outside.”

  “You find a gun?”

  Boney shook his head. “Mac’s huntin’ rifle was still under his bed. Hadn’t been fired. Must’ve shot the interloper with the crook’s own gun.”

  Carter looked up at the whittled cross hanging on the wall. Why hadn’t it been enough to protect Mac? His own father? He blinked hard, then returned his attention to Boney. “You notice anything else? Color of the horses? Hats?”

  “The stocky man rode a chestnut and wore a derby. The bent man was on a dapple. Wore a big straw hat. Wanted to go after ’em, but … Turned out I was too late to do Mac any good. And then too late for me and Sal to catch up.”

  “Wouldn’t have done any good for you to get killed too.” Frankly, Carter didn’t know what Cripple Creek would do without the ever-ready miner and his sassy mule.

  “You think maybe this is the same rascals that robbed the train and the banks?”

  “Completely different crimes. And nobody was killed at the banks or on the train.” Carter wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Boney or himself.

  “Been hearin’ talk of a gang that come over the Rockies.”

  Carter nodded. “The police chief over in Victor and I think that gang could be responsible for the other robberies. The two who did this could be part of a gang or just lazy poachers. Whoever they are, if they have the nerve to stay around here, we’ll find them.”

  He had to. He’d been trained by the best, and now it was time he put his father’s legendary legacy to the test.

  “In the meantime, Mac needs a proper burial.” Boney slapped his hat back on his head. “I’ll go fetch the undertaker.”

  Carter watched the miner’s bowlegged amble to his mule while dread soured his stomach. He had to wire Peter McHenry’s wife and children with the news. First, he and Jon had a killer to track.

  Vivian hung her purple suit in the wardrobe. Had it really been just this morning that she’d bid her aunt farewell and taken the train to Victor? She’d had such high hopes, but she’d failed to secure a job with the only fashion designer in the valley. To top it off, she’d encountered Deputy Alwyn—the man she had vowed to avoid.

  Her heart had been so full of adventure and hope on her trip to Victor. On her return to Cripple Creek, two images taunted her: Mrs. Etta Ondersma in a cycling getup, telling Vivian she couldn’t afford to hire her, and a certain deputy tipping his hat her direction and riding away.

  Sighing, Vivian pulled a checkered housedress from the wardrobe. She wiggled into the dress and slid her feet into house slippers. All she wanted to do now was crawl into bed and drift into a numbing sleep, but Miss Hattie was expecting her company at the supper table.

  As she made her way down the stairs and into the kitchen, the lively song playing on the phonograph poked fun at her maudlin disposition. Her robust landlady set a dish on the round table in the corner and looked up at her. Sympathy softened Miss Hattie’s blue-gray eyes. “If your shoulders were any lower, dear, they’d be resting on your bosom.”

  Vivian didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Miss Hattie had her own special way with words.

  “Either you’re sorely missing your aunt, or you didn’t fare well in your visit with Etta.”

  “She didn’t hire me.”

  “That is disappointing news.” Miss Hattie removed her apron and hung it on a hook near the pantry. “I’m sorry that didn’t work out.”

  Vivian carried two cups of steaming tea to the table and seated herself. “Mrs. Ondersma doesn’t have enough business for a second designer or another seamstress.”

  Now Miss Hattie’s shoulders sagged as she set a basket of biscuits on the table and sank into the chair across from Vivian. “The poor woman is recently widowed. A bad case of influenza got him. Quite the adjustment to make.” Miss Hattie’s voice faded for a moment. “I feel bad that
I raised your hopes, dear.” She patted Vivian’s hand.

  Vivian chided herself. The poor shop owner had lost her husband just months ago, and Miss Hattie had only been trying to help. She forced her shoulders up a notch. It was childish to think only of herself. “I’m glad you told me about Etta’s Fashions. I enjoyed meeting Mrs. Ondersma and seeing her store. As a matter of fact, she was wearing a cycling costume when I arrived.”

  Miss Hattie’s eyes rounded. “She wasn’t.”

  “Indeed she was. Bright yellow and green bloomers. Designed it for a school teacher. Said it made her feel quite sporting.”

  “Good for her. Does a woman good to try something new now and again.”

  Nodding, Vivian reached for her teacup. “I’ll just have to find other work until she has enough business to justify hiring me.”

  A warm smile widened Miss Hattie’s cheeks. “That’s the Sinclair spirit I know.”

  An optimistic spirit that didn’t come as naturally to her as it did to her sisters. For now, she’d just have to slap it on like a wig.

  Following her landlady’s prayer of thanksgiving, Vivian pulled a red and white checked napkin off the table and spread it across her lap.

  Miss Hattie stirred sugar into her tea and looked up at Vivian. “The way the Raines Ice Company has been growing, I’m sure Ida would be delighted to have your help.”

  Work for Ida? The thought hadn’t even crossed Vivian’s mind. And there was a good reason for that.

  “What are sisters for, if not to help one another?” Miss Hattie said.

  Vivian set her cup and saucer on the table while trying to form a suitable answer. No matter how noble her intentions, Ida’s letter early last winter didn’t help matters.

  “Iceboxes can be quite fashionable.” Grateful for the reprieve, Vivian followed Miss Hattie’s gaze to the brass-handled oak icebox on display at the end of her cupboard. “You could sell folks on the finer points while Ida manages the bookkeeping for all the sales you bring in.”

  Fine points of a box that stored food? That was a leap. Vivian couldn’t help grinning. “I’m afraid you’re giving me far too much credit as a saleswoman.”

  “Nonsense. A handsome young woman like you would have but to smile. One look at you, and the town’s businessmen would pour into the showroom to purchase an icebox.”