The Bride Wore Blue (9 page)

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.

V
ivian 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.”

“I think the millinery may be my second choice. At least a hat and clothing store relates to being a fashion designer.” Working there, she
could gain the recognition and contacts she’d need later to start her own business.

“The hat shop is a fine idea too.” Miss Hattie leaned forward and pointed to the golden crust on the dish in the center of the table. “In the meantime, my beef and potato pie will give you the nourishment you need to go fishing another day.”

Carter swung down from his horse in front of Jesse’s Livery. Stretching, he rolled his shoulders and reached for the moonless sky. His back ached, but its soreness was no rival for the ache in his heart.

He looked up Bennett Avenue. Street lamps cast a shaky radiance on the citizens coming and going. The brick-and-stone-front opera houses, eateries, and drinking establishments that lined the street from the depot on one end past the police department on the other teemed with activity. A dozen saloons belched tinny piano music and raucous laughter from both sides of the street.

The bank robbery in Victor had been close enough, and the recent train robbery had a full leg over his property line. But Mac … This was his home. Every morning the miner had enjoyed the same view Carter did of the mountains—a display of God’s design and glory. Now the family man was gone.

Those same mountains could be harboring his killer.

Slapping his hat on his pant leg, Carter watched dust particles float on the chilled air. His other hand curled into a fist. His dedication to justice wasn’t about setting out to prove something. Neither was it about avenging his father’s killer, although he wouldn’t have a problem
hanging the guy. More than anything, he wanted to keep the peace and protect the innocent.

He’d lost his father to a cold-blooded killer, and now Mac’s three children in Missouri had too. Carter pushed his hat back onto his head.

He cupped his hand under Liberty’s jaw and led his bay stallion down the dirt path beside the livery barn. “Got more business to tend to, boy. I’ll pay to have you brushed down.”

Still talking to his horse. At least Liberty didn’t go out of his way to avoid Carter and then offer excuses full of holes. Had it really been just this afternoon that he’d seen Vivian Sinclair on the street in Victor?

Jesse met him at the gate with a glowing lantern in one hand and a full pitchfork of hay in the other. “I recognized Liberty’s nicker. Figured you’d be late gettin’ him in the corral tonight.” Jesse was about as tall as Pickett’s six foot two description but had a lot more meat on his bones. A frown creased his chin. “Heard about Mac.”