Where Wildflowers Bloom: A Novel (19 page)

Curt sprinted over. “Did you find the thieves who robbed the mercantile?”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about. Miss Faith says she had another intruder last week.”

“Yup. I ran him off, but never got to see his face. Guess she told you that.”

“So you were the only one who saw him.” The sheriff surveyed Curt, his gaze pausing at his neck before traveling to his face. “How’d you get that scar? Not a rope burn, is it?”

A chill doused Curt’s insides. “Rebel knife.” He took a step backward, narrowing his eyes. “What’re you getting at?”

“You and that sister of yours spend a lot of time at Judge Lindberg’s store. Then expensive merchandise turns up missing. Makes a man wonder.”

“While you’re wondering, you might check some of the stragglers camped in the hills. I don’t think it’s likely a thief will come walking up to you and ask to be arrested.” Curt spoke through gritted teeth.

Sheriff Cooper rested his hand on the hitching post in front of the jail. “Mind yourself, Saxon. I’ve got my eye on you.”

Curt raised his hat in a mocking salute and strode toward the mercantile, enraged. The sheriff wouldn’t have looked at him twice if not for the scar. Memories of supercilious officers ticked through his mind. He wondered if rank made men bullies, or whether they were bullies to start with. When he entered the store, he was still angry.

Faith hurried over, smiling. “I’m so glad to see you.” She took a second glance at him and her smile vanished. She jammed her hands on her hips. “You look like someone marched you here with a rifle to your back. You didn’t have to come, you know.”

He pulled off his hat and swiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

A hurt expression crossed her face. She didn’t respond.

Curt felt the pain he was inflicting. “Sorry.” He tried to smile. “What did you want?”

She studied him for a moment, then evidently deciding he was sincere, said, “I need help with the lists we made.”

“You found more names?”

“No.” She walked behind the counter and pushed the pages in his direction. Spots of color showed in her cheeks. “I spoke to Mrs. Wylie yesterday about what they owed and stirred up a hornet’s nest. She’ll never shop here again. Then Mr. Wylie came to the house last evening and hollered at Grandpa.” She shook her head. “I didn’t think of this until after Mr. Wylie left, but I can’t go out in the evenings to collect debts from customers—particularly the men. And I don’t dare trust Grandpa out alone at night. Could you please talk to some of these people?”

She looked fragile standing at a counter with floor-to-ceiling shelves looming behind her. Much as he admired Judge Lindberg, he questioned the man’s decision to turn such a large enterprise over to Faith. Of course, he’d never say as much to her.

A thought came unbidden.
Take her in your arms and kiss the worry lines from her forehead
. He forced the impulse away, angry for allowing his thoughts to take him where he had no right to go.

He compelled himself to focus on the sheet in front of him. “I don’t work here. How would your customers feel about me telling them to pay up?”

“I’ll give you a letter of introduction.” Her teary blue eyes pleaded with him.

Curt knew he’d lost the battle. “Let me see what I can do. There are several names here I recognize.”

A smile spread over her face. “Thank you.” While he reviewed the lists, she wrote a brief message on a fresh sheet of paper and handed it to him.

Curt folded the letter and the lists of names and tucked the pages in his pocket. “Give me a few days. I’ll go evenings after the livery closes. Meantime, if any of these folks come in, you talk to them.” He squeezed her hand. “You can do it.”

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

“That’s what friends are for.”

At the end of the day, Curt stopped at home to change his clothes, then stepped out into the sticky evening to walk to Ivar Harrison’s house. By starting with people he knew best, he hoped to shorten the task. Harrisons lived not far from the livery and had rented a buggy from them more than once.

Curt’s knock was answered by a pretty blonde woman. A boy of about seven peered around a doorway to the right.

“I wonder if I could have a word with your husband, ma’am.”

She nodded and left him standing on the porch while she walked past the boy. He eyed Curt, then scuttled after her. In a moment, Ivar appeared. His spectacles were perched on top of his springy dark hair. “Saxon. What brings you here?”

“A matter of business. You may know Miss Lindberg is now managing her grandfather’s mercantile.”

“Yes. Heard that.”

“Things got a little out of hand there the past year or so. She’s asked my help in collecting a few back debts.” He handed him the letter of introduction.

“Why are you telling me this? I don’t owe the judge any money.”

Curt cleared his throat. “Appears you do.” He showed Ivar the amount written next to his name.

The man shook his head and continued to shake it while he spoke. “Judge Lindberg said that was between him and me. There’d be no debt.” He glanced over his shoulder, then stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind him. “Our house burned down last year. Lost every last thing and had to start over.” He lowered his voice. “The judge gave us cookware and blankets and such.
Gave
it to us. Said we could do the same for someone else one day.”

Curt rubbed the back of his neck. Why would Harrison’s name be entered if the judge didn’t charge him for the merchandise?

Ivar broke the momentary silence. “Couldn’t pay you now anyway. Had to quit my job so we could move to St. Louis to take care of the wife’s mother. She’s poorly.” He sighed. “Hated to leave the academy with no mathematics teacher, but couldn’t be helped.”

“We must’ve made a mistake. Sorry I bothered you.” Curt studied the figures on his list. It was Harrison’s word against the ledger, and somehow the man didn’t seem like a liar.

He hoped he’d have more success at his next stop, which was—he consulted his list—Jesse Slocum’s house on Third Street. Rosemary had mentioned the man often. Faith called him one of the woodstove regulars.

How could Slocum visit the mercantile almost daily and not settle his debt? Curt thought of what Faith said about Mr. Wylie’s explosion and crossed his fingers. He’d promised to help, and help he would.

He stepped up to the door of a tidy cottage set back from the street. On one side of the property a vegetable garden flourished. He noticed mustard greens and onion tops in the first rows. Sucking in a breath, he knocked.

After a moment of silence, he knocked again.

“No need to beat the door down. I was coming.” Jesse Slocum stood in stocking feet, one suspender hanging loose. “You’re Miss Rosemary’s brother, ain’t you? What brings you over this way?”

“Helping Miss Faith collect some leftover debts.” He hoped his smile looked friendly. “Seems the judge has been a little lax the past year or so.”

“You’d be lax, too, if’n you lost your son and grandson at the same time.” He gave Curt a sharp glance. “Looks like you know a thing or two about battles yourself.” Swinging the door wide, he said, “Come on in. Tell me what Nate has me down for and I’ll get you the money. Been meaning to take care of this.”

After two more successful stops, Curt walked toward home. Maybe Ivar Harrison’s response was an anomaly. He hoped so. He enjoyed being able to provide something Faith needed.

He paused at the entrance to West & Riley’s, pondering whether to have supper there or go home and see if Rosemary had saved anything for him. A man rode past seated on a tall black stallion, his hat brim shadowing his face. Baxter. Couldn’t mistake that horse. Or the arrogant tilt to the man’s chin.

He had to be going to call on Faith. Curt clenched his fists. The evenings they’d spent with the ledgers had started to feel like a real courtship. Weeks had passed since he’d had any recurring visions of wartime. It was time to let her know how he felt.

Curt slipped into the shadows and trailed after horse and rider. Once he reached the Lindbergs’ home he’d tell her, even if he had to say his piece in front of Baxter.

As he passed Dr. Greeley’s office, he heard someone ask, “Going somewhere, Saxon?” Sheriff Cooper stepped out from the shadows. “Been noticing you around town this evening. Let’s see what you’ve got in that bag.”

G
randpa glowered at Royal from his wing chair across the parlor. “So you say you knew my son, but you can’t tell me what he looked like. Maybe you didn’t know him at all.”

“Grandpa. Please. Royal came for a pleasant visit, not an interrogation.” Faith glanced between the two men from her position at one end of the sofa.

Royal sat at the other end, a cup of tea balanced in one hand. “Our paths crossed, I’m sure. We didn’t often have a father and son serving together. But know him?” Royal placed his cup and saucer on a side table. “There wasn’t time for that. Wish I could tell you more.”

Grandpa made a derisive sound. “You play chess?”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

Faith saw her grandfather mouth, “Told you so” as he rose to his feet. “It’s getting late. Reckon you’ll want to be on your way.”

She shot an apologetic look at Royal.

He dropped a wink in her direction, his expression unperturbed. “I came by to ask Faith if she’d like to attend a musicale next Friday evening. Now that the trains are moving again, a gentleman’s quartet will be here from St. Louis.”

“I’d enjoy that. Thank you,” Faith said, hoping to head off any more remarks from Grandpa.

“Good.” Royal took her hand and kissed her fingertips. “Until next Friday. Now if you’ll be kind enough to see me to the door, I’ll be on my way.”

She lingered on the porch a moment, watching him ride toward town. A tiny thrill passed through her. If Marguerite were to be believed, Faith was the envy of half the girls she knew. What an amazing turn of events.

The next morning, Faith hummed as she prepared for church. Maybe Royal would be there. She wished she’d invited him. Grandpa’s rudeness had her so flustered she hadn’t been thinking. After checking her reflection in the pier glass on her wall, she sped downstairs. Curt and Rosemary would arrive any moment to take them to services.

Grandpa waited in the parlor, apparently over being crotchety. “Maybe afterwards Curt would like a game of chess. You’d like to spend time with Miss Rosemary, wouldn’t you?”

“Sounds lovely. Rosemary and I are often too busy at the store to visit much.”

Saxons’ buggy stopped out front, Rosemary holding the reins. Faith put a hand to her mouth. A long time had passed since Curt missed church because of headaches. She hurried to the door and opened it just as Rosemary raised her hand to knock.

“You’ve got to come right away. Curt’s in jail.”

Faith clutched her grandfather’s arm as they pushed through the jailhouse door. The stone building stank of stale food, vomit, and unemptied slop pails. She covered her nose with a handkerchief. An interior door comprised of flat metal bars crisscrossed in narrow rectangles blocked the stairs leading to the basement where prisoners were held. Her stomach clenched at the thought of Curt being locked up because of her.

Sheriff Cooper rose and nodded at them. “Judge Lindberg. I didn’t expect you this morning. Or you either, Miss Faith.” His gaze slid over to Rosemary. “Figured you was bluffing when you said the judge would vouch for your brother.”

Faith pounded her fist on his desk. “This is an outrage, Sheriff. Mr. Saxon has been a blessing to Grandpa and me. I can’t tell you how many times he’s stepped in to help us. Let him out this minute!”

“Whoa now. He claims you asked him to go knocking on doors to collect money. That’s where he got that bag full of coins.”

Faith opened her eyes wide. “A bag full? That’s splendid.” She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Thank you, Curt,” she yelled through the barred door.

“Wait a minute,” Grandpa said to her. “You sent Curt to collect those debts? Thought you were going to do it. Shouldn’t be his job.”

“That’s my opinion, Judge,” the sheriff said. “Thought I’d better lock him up.”

“Now unlock him.” Faith gripped her fingers together. “Grandpa and I will straighten out our misunderstanding. Regardless of who’s right, Mr. Saxon is innocent. Didn’t he show you the letter of introduction I gave him?”

“He did. Not that I believed it. Anyone can write a letter.”

“Let him out, Thaddeus,” Grandpa said.

Grabbing a key ring, Sheriff Cooper flung open the barred door. His boot heels echoed on the wooden steps, then they heard keys jingle and the screech of iron on iron. In a moment he reentered the room with Curt at his heels.

Rosemary rushed to Curt and studied him. “Are you . . . all right?”

“Yes. Fine.” He glared at the sheriff. “Like I told you, that bag of coins belongs to Miss Lindberg. I know how much was in there, so don’t try to cheat her.”

“You’re not making a friend of me, Saxon. Lucky for you the judge is here, or you’d be right back in that cell.”

Faith held out her hand. “The money, please.”

After he handed the bag to her, she turned to Curt. “I am so sorry. We’ll make it up to you somehow.”

He returned her gaze with an expression that melted her all the way to her toes.

The following Friday evening, Faith couldn’t help stealing occasional glances at Royal during the musicale performance. He looked over at her and smiled, then turned his attention back to the stage. Or appeared to. Marguerite had swished up to them when they arrived, batting her vivid green eyes as she demanded an introduction. Once they were seated, she’d placed herself across the center aisle, giving Royal an unobstructed view of her trim figure sheathed in teal green watered silk. Faith felt certain his eyes had drifted from the performers more than once.

On the stage at the front of the hotel ballroom, a pianist accompanied four men dressed in dark trousers and identical scarlet waistcoats. They’d sung several wartime tunes in perfect four-part harmony, and now were tapping their toes and swaying as they sang “Camptown Races.”

The song ended and during the applause she smiled at Royal. “Wonderful music. I’m glad you suggested this evening.”

His eyes met hers. “Good. I hoped you’d enjoy the quartet. Perhaps afterwards we can take a short ride in the moonlight before I take you home.”

The pianist played the introductory bars to “Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair.” Royal squeezed her hand. “This should be called ‘Faith with the light brown hair,’ ” he whispered.

She leaned against his shoulder and sighed as the quartet sang through the verses. “I dream of Jeanie . . . I long for Jeanie . . . I sigh for Jeanie.” Maybe she’d imagined his glances at Marguerite.

When Royal drove away from the hotel after the performance, he turned right on King’s Highway. “I thought we’d take a turn around the square.”

“Sounds lovely,” Faith said, relaxing against the cushioned seat. They rolled past the closed mercantile and the newspaper office. Across the street, moonlight transformed the grass behind the courthouse into glittering spears. Over the clop of the horse’s hooves, she heard crickets chirping their evening melodies.

“Seeing the mercantile reminds me.” Royal’s voice cut through the night. “Have you had any luck selling the place?” He guided the buggy left up the next street.

“There are a few things I want to set right beforehand. The business is not for sale at the moment.”

“I told you, just go ahead and sell it. Let someone else take over. You shouldn’t have to be involved.”

She scooted away from his side. “I
am
involved. My grandfather founded Lindberg’s Mercantile before I was born. I’d be dishonoring his years of work to walk away now.”

“Even for a chance to go to Oregon?” At her surprised expression, he grinned. “I heard about you asking McGuire to take you with his company. What if someone else asked you to go? Would you?” He slowed the horse to a sedate walk, turning onto the street that passed in front of the courthouse.

“Are you asking—?” Out of the corner of her eye, Faith noticed a shadowy figure standing on the courthouse steps. She gasped. “Stop the carriage! There’s my grandpa.”

As soon as Royal drew up on the reins, she scrambled down and ran to the entrance door. Grandpa turned at the sound of her footsteps. “Clara?”

“It’s me. Faith. Your granddaughter. What are you doing here?”

“I have a trial scheduled. You know that.” He wore his black frock coat buttoned over his nightshirt. His feet were shoved into his best boots. Moonlight illuminated his bare calves.

Faith struggled to keep from weeping. She’d dared to think he was better since he’d slept through the evenings she spent with Curt. Slipping an arm through his, she kept her voice gentle. “You’re a little early. Let’s go home now.”

“Who’s out there in that buggy?”

“Mr. Baxter.”

“Do I know him?”

“Yes.” She tugged at his arm.

Royal moved toward them through the shadows cast by an oak tree. “C’mon, old fellow, let’s get you to your house.” He reached toward Grandpa.

“Don’t need your help.” He sidestepped and marched to the buggy.

Faith followed, Royal’s hand on her elbow.

“There’s a place in Fulton for folks like that,” he whispered.

She stared at him, horrified.

“Never.”

Faith watched Grandpa while he ate his breakfast. He’d dressed to accompany her to town as though nothing had happened the night before. After swirling a biscuit through the gravy on his plate, he spoke around a mouthful. “You’re staring at me like I was a stranger. What’s on your mind?”

She set her fork on the edge of her plate. “Do you remember being at the courthouse last night?”

He gaped at her as though she’d begun speaking Chinese. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was home last night. You went to a musicale with that Baxter fellow.” He patted her hand. “Did you have a bad dream?”

It wouldn’t do any good to tell him. If she jogged his memory, he’d only be humiliated at being found in public in his nightshirt, especially by Royal Baxter. In fact, was her evening with Royal the reason for one of his spells?

She stood to clear their empty plates. “Yes. It must have been a dream.”

As they walked to town, she marveled at how he could be so chipper when she’d barely slept for worry. Royal’s suggestion that she put Grandpa in the lunatic asylum in Fulton frightened her. If he slipped into one of his cloudy moments and failed to recover, she didn’t know what she’d do. To see him this morning, such a thing didn’t seem possible. But the concern failed to leave her thoughts.