September Sky (American Journey Book 1) (22 page)

Emily nodded.

"I am. I do have a request though."

"Let me guess," Justin said. "You want to bring Anna along."

"No. I just want you to spend time with her when you come for me. Even a few minutes would brighten her day. She thinks the world of you."

"I'll give her an hour, if you want me to. It's not like it's a chore. She's a great kid."

"Then I think we have a date, Mr. Townsend," Emily said. She smiled warmly and placed her hand on his. "You can pick me up at six."

CHAPTER 34: CHUCK

Thursday, May 24, 1900

Chuck covered his eyes and watched in awe as his friend displayed his prowess with a Colt .45. He had seen marksmen do their thing many times, but he had never seen a man in a three-piece suit mow down six soup cans in rapid succession from a distance of fifteen yards.

"Are you sure your name isn't Wyatt Earp?" Chuck asked as he approached from behind.

Wyatt Fitzpatrick turned around.

"Ah, Mr. Townsend. I see my secretary told you where you could find me."

"She pointed in this direction," Chuck said. "She didn't tell me to beware of flying bullets."

"I assure you that my aim is as true as my intentions are noble," Wyatt said.

"That's comforting."

Chuck took a moment to survey his surroundings. He had to admit this was not where he had expected to find Wyatt when he had decided to drop by his office for a chat. Except for the horse and buggy Wyatt had used to travel to this remote location on the west end of town, there was little to see but tall grass and a weathered split-rail fence.

"How did you get here?" Wyatt asked.

"I took a trolley to Fifty-Sixth and walked the rest of the way," Chuck said. He smiled at Wyatt. "Aren't there shooting ranges for this?"

"As a matter of fact, there are. There is one three blocks from my office. I go there to improve my aim. I come here to damage metal."

Chuck laughed.

"I take it the property owner doesn't mind."

"Why should he? He usually brings the cans. He's a good friend of mine – a publisher, in fact," Wyatt said. "Perhaps I'll introduce you to him when he returns from Boston."

"I'd like that," Chuck said.

Wyatt walked to the fence, collected the cans, and placed the ones that were still usable on the top rail. He replaced those that weren't with new ones. When he returned to Chuck, he pulled his revolver out of its holster, and offered it to his visitor.

"Care to have a go at it?" Wyatt asked.

Chuck hesitated. He had about as much interest in firearms and shooting as a leader of a gun-control organization, but after a moment of thought he decided to reach for the pistol. He wanted to earn as much of Wyatt's trust and respect as he could and knew that one way to do it was to play along with the natives.

"Sure. Why not?"

"Have you ever fired a Colt .45 before?"

"I've never fired a gun before," Chuck said.

Wyatt chuckled.

"You are a rare bird, Mr. Townsend."

Chuck smiled.

"You have no idea. And please call me Charles. Mr. Townsend sounds like a British butler."

Wyatt grinned.

"Duly noted. Now, let me show you how to use this Single Action Army. It is a very special firearm. It is one of many service revolvers my father gave me shortly before he died."

"I'll try not to break it."

Chuck took the Colt .45 from Wyatt and listened carefully as he explained how to steady the gun, aim it, and fire it toward the fence without hurting anything but soup cans. When the tutorial was over, he fired six shots. He hit a piece of the fence and not much else.

Wyatt laughed heartily.

"Would you like to try again?"

Chuck sighed.

"Sure. If you have the bullets, I have the patience."

Chuck and Wyatt repeated the process of teaching, aiming, and firing three more times. When Charles Townsend, can killer, finally nicked the top of the last can on the right, he decided to call it a day. He handed the heirloom back to its owner.

"Give yourself time," Wyatt said with a sly smile. "In another day or two, you'll be ready to ride with the Rangers."

"I doubt it," Chuck said.

"I doubt it too."

Both men laughed.

"It's nice to see you laugh, Wyatt. You seem more relaxed than the last time I saw you."

"It's because I
am
. When I escape to places like this, I'm able to leave my troubles behind. I'm able to think and gain perspective and enjoy myself."

"I can relate."

"I'm sure you can," Wyatt said. He looked at Chuck closely. "Now, what can I do for you? I know you didn't come out here today just to wander through the weeds."

"I didn't."

"Do you want more information for your book?" Wyatt asked.

"No. I want more information about a crime. I'd like to know who might burglarize the house of an out-of-town reporter researching a man named Wyatt Fitzpatrick."

"Surely you don't think I had anything to do with your recent misfortune."

"I don't," Chuck said. "You would have had no incentive to steal the transcripts of our interviews. You know what you said – just as you know what I found at the library. I'm sure Rose filled you in on every detail."

"Then why did you come here?"

"I came because I thought you might be able to help me out. I have no idea who went though my shack last week, but I suspect that the person responsible wanted to know why I've shown an interest in you. The burglar, you see, went straight for my notes and left far more valuable items, like an antique clock and silverware, where he found them."

Wyatt put his gun in its holster. He glanced at the sun, which loomed high in the azure sky, and motioned with his hand toward the fence.

"Let's sit," Wyatt said.

Chuck followed Wyatt to the fence and found a smooth place to sit on the top rail. He waited patiently as the gunslinger pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a match, and stared at the tall grass, which swayed under the weight of a gentle breeze.

"I assume you have something to say," Chuck said.

"I do. I'm just not sure how to say it."

"I don't understand."

"I have many enemies, Charles," Wyatt said. "Some are old. Some are new. Some I have made in business. Some I have made on a more personal level."

"I still don't follow."

"Then let me help you," Wyatt said. "As you may know, I have long had a fondness for the ladies of Galveston. I have not, however, limited my choices to single ladies."

"I see," Chuck said. "That explains why some people don't like you, but it doesn't explain why someone would go through my house and steal my notes."

"It wouldn't unless the person responsible did not want you to publish a book that was in any way flattering toward the man who had won the affections of his wife."

"You obviously have someone in mind."

"I do," Wyatt said. "Have you met our local prosecutor?"

"I assume you mean Levi MacArthur."

"Yes. Have you met him?"

"I haven't had the pleasure," Chuck said. "I know he is politically ambitious and was recently engaged to Emily Beck, but other than that I don't know much about him."

Wyatt took a puff of his cigarette and turned to face Chuck.

"What I tell you now, I tell you in confidence."

"Of course," Chuck said.

"Several years ago, I met a woman who stole my heart. She was beautiful, intelligent, and charming. She was also neglected and mistreated by a man who cared only about his career."

"I read about this woman."

"If you did, you read only the things her husband wanted you to read," Wyatt said. "Georgia MacArthur was so much more than the wife of an ambitious man. She was loving and vivacious, the kind of woman who put a smile on the face of everyone she met. Everyone except the miscreant she married, that is. To Levi, she was little more than an ornament – a prop he could show off at public events and ridicule in private."

"You had an affair?"

"Yes, we had an affair. We fell in love and planned a future together, a future filled with happiness and children. But Levi would not grant Georgia a divorce. Despite many financial incentives I threw his way, he would not relent."

"So what happened?" Chuck asked.

"I proposed to Georgia that we live together anyway – away from Galveston and the hurtful talk – but she would have none of it. She did not want to raise children under a cloud of shame."

"She returned to Levi?"

Wyatt nodded.

"She went back to him for a few weeks. Then one morning a maid found her hanging from a rafter in the attic. She had been dead for two days. The bloody bastard had not even reported her absence," Wyatt said. "He hushed it up, of course. He used his influence with the police and the papers to keep the truth from getting out, but he couldn't keep the truth from me. I learned about Georgia's final misery from the maid herself."

Chuck took a moment to digest Wyatt's words. He had heard from Charlotte that Wyatt was a ladies man, but he had never heard anything like this. He felt new sympathy for the distant relative he had vowed to save from the gallows.

"Let me guess," Chuck said. "Even though Levi is the one who made Georgia miserable, he blames you for her suicide and has vowed to destroy you."

"You're a quick study."

"I'm sorry to hear all this," Chuck said.

"Don't feel sorry for me. I am more than capable of protecting myself from the likes of Levi MacArthur. If anything, you should feel sorry for yourself."

"You think Levi burglarized my cabin?"

"If he didn't, he paid to have it done," Wyatt said. "I'm sure he'd like to know more not only about the man who is singing my praises but also about the man who is pursuing his former fiancée. Don't forget your son, my friend. I'm sure he figures into this as well."

Chuck sighed. He had counted Levi among the chief suspects from the start but not for all the reasons Wyatt had noted. Now, he had every reason to believe that a person sworn to uphold the law was personally responsible for breaking it.

"You make a pretty persuasive case," Chuck said. "What do you suggest I do?"

Wyatt took another puff and then stared at Chuck with empathetic eyes.

"I suggest you do what most men would do in your situation," Wyatt said. "I suggest you watch your back."

CHAPTER 35: JUSTIN

Monday, May 28, 1900

Justin stared at the mirror behind the bar at Ivy's Saloon and noticed for the first time in days that the man in the mirror smiled back. He had reason to smile. He had made significant progress with the girl of his dreams, even though their first real date had ended on an awkward note.

The beginning of the date was anything but awkward. Justin had arrived at the Beck house at five forty-five on Saturday, greeted Isabella like a second mother, and spent more quality time with Anna than the girl could handle. By the time Emily walked down the staircase wearing a silk evening dress, the eight-year-old was in the stratosphere.

Dinner at the Seafarer and the play at the Grand Opera House on Post Office Street went just as well. Emily seemed as happy, relaxed, and interested as ever. She asked many questions about Justin's past – which the time traveler handled deftly – and clung tightly to his arm from the moment they left Tenth and M at six fifteen to the time they returned at eleven.

The only difficult stretch was the last five minutes, when Justin Townsend, a man who had lived with a woman for several months, couldn't muster the courage to kiss Emily on the lips. Instead of ending the date the way he wanted to end it, he hemmed and hawed and kissed her on the cheek. He vowed to do better the next time, if given the chance.

He downed what was left of his beer and motioned to the bartender to bring him another. But before he could dig out a nickel and place it on the bar, someone else dug out two of his own.

"I'll get that and one for myself," a man said to the bartender. "Unless Mr. Townsend objects, that is."

Justin turned to his right and saw a slim, dapper man who appeared to be ten to fifteen years his senior. He didn't need a second look to know he was sitting next to Levi MacArthur.

"I don't," Justin said.

The man watched the bartender retreat to the taps. When the server reached the far end of the otherwise unoccupied bar, he slid his stool closer to Justin's.

"I hope you don't mind the intrusion," Levi said. "When I saw you come in a little while ago, I told myself I simply had to introduce myself."

"I know who you are."

"I'm sure you do. That doesn't mean we can't go through the motions. I'm Levi MacArthur."

Levi extended a hand.

"Justin Townsend."

Justin reluctantly shook the hand.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Mr. Townsend. I've heard so much about you."

"Is that so?" Justin asked.

"It is."

"Did you hear a lot about me from the person who broke into my house?"

Levi pivoted on his stool and leaned forward. He grinned like a prosecutor who had just boxed a defendant into a corner.

"Is that an accusation?"

"No," Justin said. "It's just an idle question. You don't have to answer it."

"You're right. I don't. But I will," Levi said. "Contrary to what you may believe, I had nothing to do with the burglary of your rental unit. Indeed, I am working closely with the police to solve that heinous violation."

"Of course you are. I'm sure an arrest is imminent."

Justin regretted the words the second he uttered them – not because he didn't want to needle an obnoxious public servant but rather because he didn't want to get drawn into a long pissing match. He had better things to do on a Monday night, even if his choices were limited to drinking beer and thinking about a girl.

"When, not if, an arrest is made, you will be the first to know," Levi said.

"That makes me feel warm inside."

"It should," Levi said. "Very few suspects who face me in court walk out of the courtroom free men. Most don't even bother with appeals."