Chapter 1 #2
Sighing, Raine gingerly pressed her fingertips to the underside of her eyes. The skin didn’t feel puffy, so the reference to bags was an exaggeration, but during her earlier conversation in front of the mirror she’d glimpsed the same faint shadows that drew Mrs. Sterling’s notice.
“I was late going to bed. The saloon was crowded last night.”
“I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating. You’re the owner, not the entertainment.”
“I was behind the bar all evening.”
“Pouring drinks with a smile and a kind word for everybody.”
“I like to think it reminds them they’re gentlemen, and it helps keep tables and chairs in place and the mirror in one piece.”
Mrs. Sterling pushed her spectacles back above her salt-and-pepper widow’s peak. She gave Raine a hard look, nothing feigned about it. “Were the Burdicks here?”
Raine shook her head. “No. No, they weren’t.”
The cook’s shoulders had drawn together, tension pulling them taut. Now they relaxed. She began to plate eggs, steak, and fried potatoes. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course I would.”
“Hmm. That’s because you know I’d hear about it.”
“I’d tell you because you deserve to know. The same as I do. And there are others, you know, besides us.”
Mrs. Sterling nodded. “I’m not afraid for myself.
They did their worst by me already, taking my husband the way they did, but I can’t help fearing for you and the others.
” She picked up Jack Clifton’s plate and gave it a little shake.
“I don’t know what makes this man think he needs to stay around when he knows he could end up no better than my Benton.
” She raised the plate she’d made for Howard Wheeler and thrust it in Raine’s direction.
“And this man has about as much sense as a bag of hair or he would be on the next train to somewhere else.”
“That didn’t work for John Hood,” Raine said quietly. “The Burdicks found him.”
“I think it scares folks to say so out loud,” said Mrs. Sterling.
She returned both plates to the tray and looked past Raine to the door.
Her voice crackled with her rising agitation.
“Where’s that girl gone to? Look in the dining room and see if she’s wiping up something she spilled or flirting with Mr.Weyman. ”
Raine opened the door wide enough to catch Emily Ransom’s eye when the girl stopped giggling at something the whiskey drummer from Chicago said.
She crooked her finger and gently closed the door, then moved out of the way until Emily pushed through.
Mrs. Sterling gave over the tray and shooed the girl out again.
“I say it out loud,” Raine said, picking up the thread of their conversation. “And Hank Thompson’s been gone almost a year and no one in Bitter Springs has heard from him. He had friends. There should have been a letter by now. One to his mother, at least.”
“That could mean anything. Maybe Agnes got one and isn’t saying. She could be trying to protect him.”
“You’ve known Agnes Thompson all your life. She can’t keep a secret. No one’s heard from him because he’s dead.”
Mrs. Sterling twisted her apron in her hands. “I don’t like this talk.”
“I know.”
The cook hesitated. The question was drawn from her reluctantly. “You really think Hank’s dead?”
Raine briefly closed her eyes. “I’m afraid so, yes.”
“If it’s true, it’s not your fault.”
“I appreciate you saying so, but I know differently.”
“It’s not your fault,” Mrs. Sterling repeated.
The steel was back in her voice. “I think I’ve proven I know how to assign blame when it’s warranted.
And it’s not, not about this. I don’t hold you responsible for my Benton’s death.
He knew what he was about, and he wanted to do the right thing.
He was proud to stand up, and I was proud of him for doing it.
Still am proud. You diminish his courage by thinking you pressed him to do something against his will. ”
Raine nodded, willing to be convinced for now because it was important to Mrs. Sterling. “Maybe that’s what Mr. Clifton and Mr. Wheeler are doing. Standing up.”
“They did that. Now they’re just standing around, and that’s plain foolish. It’s hard to be proud of fools.”
Raine understood that Mrs. Sterling was determined to have the last word. It was wiser to change the subject and hope for the best. She yawned as if she meant it. “I suppose I’ll have that bit of a lie in after all.”
“There’s a girl.” She added some water to the pitcher of hotcake batter and gave it a stir. “Give me a minute and you can take a couple of these with you.”
Raine waited the requisite minute and a few additional ones so the cook could add an egg and a palm sized serving of steak.
Balancing her plate and a cup of hot coffee in one hand, she lifted her skirt with the other and took the stairs at the back of the hotel to reach her rooms on the third floor.
She had all the space she needed for herself on the uppermost floor of the Pennyroyal.
Sometimes it was too much. She could find herself wandering from room to room, recalling that when Adam and Ellen were still with her she had complained the apartment was too small for the three of them.
It was a miserable memory, and she did her best to avoid tripping over it.
Raine used a forearm to clear a space for her breakfast on the writing table in her office.
A couple of sheets of paper fluttered to the floor and she let them lie.
Sitting down, she pulled out the fork she had squirreled away under her sleeve and cut into the hotcakes.
Her stomach rumbled as she lifted two thick slices of molasses-soaked cakes.
Just in time, she thought, and stuffed the double helping into her mouth.
She couldn’t eat everything Mrs. Sterling gave her, but she had a taste of all of it and when she pushed out her belly, her stays pushed back.
She turned her chair away from the desk and inched it toward the window.
The Pennyroyal was the tallest building in Bitter Springs, taller even than the spire on Grace Church, and the view from Raine’s office took in the storefronts of half a dozen businesses on the opposite side of the street.
Beyond that she could make out the rooftop of the parsonage where Pastor Robbins and his family lived, Mrs. Garvin’s attic window, and if she tilted her head at just the right angle, she could see between the false fronts of the mercantile and the drugstore all the way to the privy in Mr. Webb’s backyard.
It always made her smile to think that a self-important man like Mr. Webb traipsed to an outhouse when her hotel had all the latest amenities including hot and cold running water and porcelain pots in every bathing room that meant her guests did not have to visit the privy unless they had a reason for doing so.
After Adam installed the water tank and boiler, the hotel was booked for eight weeks with townspeople who paid to spend a night just to open a faucet and wash the hands and face with hot water.
Some even took a bath. Mr. Webb was not among the guests.
The Burdicks surely would have insisted that the banker stay away.
They controlled the bank; therefore, the banker.
Raine felt herself begin to nod off. She would have a crick in her neck for days if she slept in the chair.
That prompted her to leave its relative comfort for her bed.
She didn’t disturb the coverlet but lay on top of it and plumped the pillows.
When the coil at the back of her head pressed uncomfortably, she tore at the pins and unwound it. The combs followed.
There were so many things she still wanted to do before Nat Church arrived, and all of them would have to wait. She could have told Mrs. Sterling the truth: she didn’t deserve to sleep, and the shadows under her eyes were there because she knew it.
It was one of the consequences of hiring a killer.
* * *
Curiosity gave Kellen the only excuse he needed to get off the train at Bitter Springs.
At least he preferred to think it was curiosity.
The alternative explanation was that he had been moved by impulse, and that would have been worrisome.
It was his experience that giving into impulse meant the odds were better than even that he would be face to face with trouble at the end of the day, maybe before supper.
He set his valise at his feet and unclenched his fingers while he waited for the porters to bring his trunks.
The bag was heavier than he recalled, and it occurred to him that he should have stowed it in the baggage car or accepted Mr. Berg’s offer to carry it for him.
It would have provided a moment’s welcome comedy to watch the diminutive conductor strain to lift the bag, let alone haul it off the train.
Every mile traveled since Nat Church surrendered his last breath had been fraught with more tension than the mile before, and Mr. Berg’s desire to make sure no fault was attached to the railroad prompted him to take on the role of investigator, asking as many questions as came to him, and often asking them several different ways.
One thing Bitter Springs had to recommend it was that Mr. Berg wouldn’t be there.