Chapter Twenty-Three
“I’m sorry to say, sir, but I have investigated every record of cab drivers, interviewed marshals, sheriffs, and hotel managers in Wilmington. I’m afraid there’s been no trace of your wife there,” Detective Dalton stated.
General’s fingers curved into fists, pressing his fingernails deep into his palms. His face and ears burned like coal. “You are telling me, I spent all that money on the best-known Pinkerton in Raleigh, and I received no report? How does that work, Detective?”
Detective Dalton’s youthful face turned ghostly pale. “I deeply apologize, General Wellington, but sometimes even I hit dead ends. Please know, I have tried everything in my power to obtain information. This case honestly doesn’t make sense, and neither do the facts you tell.”
Idiot woman, General thought to himself. She really thinks she can cover her tracks. “And what do you suggest as your next step?”
Detective Dalton leaned forward from his chair. His voice lowered and his eyes moved around his surroundings. “General, I may be wrong, but I believe your staff might have played a part of your wife’s disappearance.”
General gritted his teeth. His wife was always too soft.
She was an embarrassment to him, trying to befriend the servants.
It was his grace to allow Mammy to stay, despite having forbidden their time together.
Mammy’s duties were strictly to run the house, and she was only to speak to Josie when given permission.
“What are you saying?”
Detective Dalton cleared his throat. “I believe if you investigate each of your staff members, you might find valuable information . . . They know more than they are saying. I’m not buying what that mammy says about most of the staff being in bed. She knows something.”
The general’s jaw clenched as his glare burned into the man before him.
In a flash of fury, he leapt from his bed, seizing the lanky man’s thin neck in an iron grip.
Detective Dalton’s eyes widened in terror as he gasped for air, clawing desperately at the general’s hands.
Unrelenting, General slammed him against the wall, his thumbs pressing deeper into Dalton’s throat.
The man’s struggles weakened, his face turning blue as his body grew limp.
“General Wellington!” Mammy screeched, bursting into the room.
The plump woman rushed forward and shoved at General with all her strength, but he remained rooted, his grip unyielding on Detective Dalton’s throat.
“Stop it this instant!” she barked, her voice shaking with a mix of fury and desperation.
Despite the rage surging through him and his overwhelming urge to finish the man, the General relented.
He released Detective Dalton, who collapsed to the floor like a discarded rag doll, gasping and sputtering as he clutched at his bruised throat.
General stumbled back, holding onto his bed rail.
He heaved as his lungs tightened like an iron vise.
Mammy knelt beside Detective Dalton, her hands steady as she rubbed his back in soothing circles. “Breathe, Detective,” she urged, her tone softening, though her sharp eyes darted accusingly toward the general.
“You coulda killed ‘em, suh. What was yuh thinkin’?”
General’s cold eyes followed the woman’s every move, his grip tightening around his bed rail. Oh, how he longed to rid the world of both of these wretched creatures with his own bare hands. Mammy was hiding something—he was certain of it. And he’d get the truth out of her, one way or another.
But first, he’d have to be patient. Quiet. He’d watch her every move. He’d catch her red-handed and make her pay.
“Escort him out, Mammy. I don’t want to see his sorry face again.”
Willow Grove, Montana; October 1872
At nightfall, Travis returned home with a letter tucked into his pocket.
He had picked it up from the post office earlier, assuming another offer to buy his grain.
In the past year, cities like Virginia City, Helena, and Cheyenne had contacted him about selling.
Before then, he had sold only to Bozeman.
Standing on the porch, he read the return address, holding it up to the faint moonlight. He squinted, bringing it closer to his face. Charlotte, North Carolina, it read. His eyes followed each curve of the penmanship, transcribing the sender’s name as Victor Anderson. His brows arched high.
Josie had never received a letter before, not even from the aunt she had lived with.
So why now? And why from a man? A deep unease settled in Travis’s core.
What business did this Victor Anderson have writing to her?
What man thought he had the right to write to a married woman?
Josie was his wife, and if any man was trying to woo her, he’d get to the bottom of this.
The children were in bed, since it was already dark out, so he closed the cabin door behind him as softly as possible.
Travis removed his coat, and as his eyes searched across the room, his heart skipped.
In the glowing candlelight, Josie stood at the iron stove, wearing her forest-green dress from earlier, hugging her hips.
Travis’s jaw dropped. When Sophie was expecting, she wore baggy dresses, but it seemed Josie had yet to find the time to make them.
His pulse increased, imagining Josie in her cotton chemises since they would be the only loose-fitting items.
Don’t think of her like that. He wanted to kick himself.
But she had indeed looked good on their wedding night, those slim curves, her smooth, soft skin.
Travis winced as he bit his tongue. Stop that.
You can’t trust this woman. The letter in your pocket is another reminder.
Victor Anderson, my foot. He could be a crummy old man, but still, the fact remained a mystery.
Travis, indeed, knew nothing about his wife, other than the short truth that had too many gray areas—a dead husband, no family, and a baby.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Josie said, turning away from the cast iron pot on the stove. “I’ll heat your stew.”
Travis shrugged off his extra jacket and settled into a chair at the table, the letter crunching softly in his pocket. The stew bubbled on the stovetop, the rich aroma filling the air as Josie stood behind him, busy with dinner preparations.
“How was your trip into town?” she asked.
“Just another trip. Got the first half of the payment for the harvest. Some mill workers are taking the grain out to Bozeman next week. Then maybe, we’ll get some more.”
Josie placed a bowl of stew in front of him.
Traces of carrots, beans, and venison floated to the surface.
Travis bowed his head in a silent reflection of prayer.
After he took the first bite, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter.
He handed it to Josie and watched as she examined it.
Her brows arched as though she didn’t recognize the name, but her eyes widened, her face paling.
She ripped open the letter anxiously, her hand over her mouth.
“It’s from Aunt Tia’s lawyer. Why would he be writing to me?”
Lawyer—the word was like a breath of fresh air.
Travis was foolish for allowing his imagination to run wild, fearing the worst when it was simply a matter of legal affairs.
Perhaps it was fear that had clouded his judgment.
Some days, he thought he knew Josie inside and out, but other days, she seemed like a stranger.
A shrill sob escaped Josie’s mouth, and her eyes brimmed with tears. Travis stood swiftly. He pushed his stew aside, joining her on the other side of the table. He leaned over her, studying the letter, but he could hardly read it from Josie’s shaking.
“Jo, is everything all right?”
Josie’s eyes remained fixed on the letter. She shook her head slowly. “M-my aunt has died.”
She dropped the letter onto the table and covered her face as she cried.
Travis wasn’t good at comforting people, especially women.
He tried his best to comfort Ma when Pa passed, but he didn’t know what to do.
He couldn’t bring the dead back to life and no words could soothe the pain.
Travis had hugged Ma close at that moment and told her everything would be all right, but that was a lie.
“All right” wasn’t possible with a great loss.
Travis felt the same way when everyone gave their condolences and left food at his door when Sophie died.
Comfort didn’t make it better; it made it worse.
Neither food nor condolences could bring his loved ones back from the grave.
“What happened?”
Josie dried her tears with her hands. “She passed in her sleep. The doctors said she had a fragile heart, but she seemed fine when I was with her. How can someone be fine and all of a sudden die?”
Fragile heart—the cause made Travis tense.
It had been the same with his father. The man had been healthy, but one laborious load took him down.
All because Travis was too lazy to help.
Travis shook the memory away. Everything was different now.
Travis worked harder than anyone, and he’d never rest again.
“I’m sorry, Jo. I know how important she was to you.”
Her teardrops hit the table as she rubbed the letter between her fingers. “That was the last of my family. I have nobody. I-I’m alone. I’m truly alone. I don’t have a family anymore.”
Her voice reeked with pain. Travis stood behind Josie, wrapping his arms around her, holding her close as he had during the Founder’s Day celebration. But this wasn’t dancing. His wife had suffered a great loss, and now, only he could help her, comfort her.
“We are your family now. You will always have us.” Travis turned her chin towards him, seeing those doe eyes brimming with tears. “You aren’t just a mail-order bride to me. You are my wife and the mother to my children. We’re family.”
“Do you mean that?” Josie whispered, her breathing staggered.