My Darling Clementine (Clementine Duology #1)

1. Boston

Chapter one

Boston

Clem took a deep breath, squared both shoulders, and set her jaw. Twisting the fancy glass knob, she thrust open the door with James Burdock, Esq. painted on the frosted glass.

A clerk sitting at a large desk looked up at the ting-a-ling sound of a small bell over the door, his automatic smile of greeting fading fast.

Striding into the office, she deepened her voice and said, “The name’s Dennison…”

“I know you, Mr. Dennison!” He jumped to his feet, darting back and forth. “Oh, help! A ghost! Help, help, Mr. Burdock,” he cried in panic. The color drained from his face.

As Clem watched, astonished, he slumped in a faint to the floor.

A door banged open, and a middle-aged man with a neat mustache raced into the room. He took one look at his clerk on the floor, then fixed Clem with a stare. “What did you do to him?”

She stared right back. “He saw me and grew hysterical.”

He crossed to the door behind her and turned the key, locking it. “You’re Tom’s heir, there’s no denying that. You’re the spitting image of your father.” He held out his hand. “Hello, Clementine,” he said, as she shook it. “It’s nice to meet you, although I regret the circumstances.”

“Dad’s dead.” It was not a question. She watched her father’s attorney pour a glass of water from a pitcher and kneel beside his downed assistant. “How long ago did he die?”

Mr. Burdock pulled the young man’s pocket handkerchief, wet it, and sponged his temples.

He answered her as the clerk started to rouse.

“We buried him beside your mother a week ago, last Tuesday. He knew I sent for you, and held on as long as he could.” He helped his assistant rise, then grabbed him as he saw Clem and started to panic again.

His boss shook him. “That’s enough, Henry. Tom Dennison is dead; God rest his soul. Ghosts don’t exist; this is his heir. Show some respect. Let me introduce you to Clem Dennison.”

The young man swallowed hard and turned beet red.

“Oh, of course. I’m so embarrassed.” He looked at Clem, sheepish.

“You look just like him,” he said, voice a whisper.

Then his eyebrows creased. “He had only one heir, a daughter, Clementine.” His eyes grew round, and he looked shocked all over again, taking in Clem’s appearance.

“Ahem,” said his employer, handing him the glass of water. “Drink it all before you speak again, Henry,” he advised.

This was it, the moment she’d been expecting for the last three months.

She crossed her arms, damned if she’d turn back into the woman she’d been when she left Boston.

I’m Clem Dennison, not Tom’s unappreciated, disappointing daughter, Clementine.

She watched the young man drink the water, glancing back and forth between the two of them.

Henry finished the last of the water, swallowed, and took a breath. “It’s very nice to make your acquaintance…” he waited.

“Mister…” supplied his boss.

“Mr. Dennison,” finished Henry, the clerk. He held out his hand, which Mr. Burdock filled with his damp handkerchief. “My condolences on your loss.” He looked at his boss. “Shall I locate Mr. Dennison’s files, sir?”

Burdock smiled and clapped his assistant on the shoulder.

“Tomorrow will be soon enough, Henry.” He looked at the grandfather clock standing against the wall.

“You’ve had a fright, and I need to spend time with Mr. Dennison, so we’ll push our workload back.

Close and lock up out here, then go home to your new bride. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at nine.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, Mr. Burdock.” The young man unlocked the door. “I do apologize, Mr. Dennison. Please forgive my lapse of reason.”

She uncrossed her arms and sighed, “I’m sorry I startled you…” She waited.

“Henry Philpot,” supplied his boss.

“I’m sorry I gave you a fright, Mr. Philpot,” Clem said, “and since congratulations are in order, please give my best to your bride.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dennison.” He paused long enough to smile. “I will.” Then he began closing up shop.

“Won’t you join me in my office?” asked the attorney, locking the door after them. “Tell me, how did you know Tom is dead?”

“There are many things for which I can fault my father, Mr. Burdock.” Clem Dennison took a deep breath and sighed. “Being late to pick me up at the railway station is not one of them.”

She bit her lower lip. “Yesterday was the first time I’ve ever arrived in Boston and not seen him standing there, pocket watch in hand to see if the train arrived on time.” She took a deep breath. “That told me all I needed to know, at least for that moment.”

Mr. Burdock gazed at her from across his desk, compassionate eyes examining the bruise blooming on her swollen cheek. “Why didn’t you come here then?”

“I needed a drink, and went looking for a fight.” Clem left it at that, noting the attorney’s raised and lowered eyebrow. She shrugged.

“I sold my tools, animals, and claim the day I received your letter about Dad’s illness, Mr. Burdock, and left the day after.

Twelve weeks of traveling by horseback, stagecoach, and train, worrying about Dad and how I’d find him when I arrived, well it took a toll.

When I stepped down to the platform, and he wasn’t there,” she tugged the bottom of her vest down, “I knew only one thing would have kept him from meeting me at that train, or sending someone to do it for him if he were too sick.”

She looked him in the eye. “After I found a bar, downed a few shots, and cleaned a man’s face with my fist, I took a room in a hotel.

First thing, I spent a couple of hours soaking in a proper hot bath, washing off ground in layers of prospector grime.

I never feel clean washing in rivers full of snow run-off.

” She shivered and laughed. “I figure a quarter ounce of gold dust sifted down to the bottom of the tub.”

Mr. Burdock reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a bottle and two glasses. “It’s quite an unusual life you’re living.” He poured and handed her one.

She accepted the aged whiskey, sniffing to appreciate the fumes.

“I’ve had my ups and downs,” Clem acknowledged.

“When I was wrinkled as a raisin, I went back down to the saloon and bought a bottle of Scotch for dinner.” She sipped and smiled.

“Not half as fine as this,” raising her glass in salute, “and then I crawled into a feather bed for the first time in three years. That, by itself, was an event. I lay there, drank half the bottle, remembered times long past, and slept like the proverbial log, no longer worried if I’d get here in time to say goodbye, or how to make amends.

” She shrugged. “That chance was buried with him.”

She sipped from the glass. “I woke, ate some fried eggs to kill my headache, then pulled out my only suit and walked over here thinking about how to introduce myself.”

The older man laughed and grinned. “My law clerk didn’t expect to see a ghost this afternoon, Mr. Dennison.”

“I appreciate your tactful handling of the situation, Mr. Burdock. How will you ensure his discretion?”

The lawyer chuckled. “Henry’s a smart lad who knows which side his bread is buttered on. His future as an attorney depends upon discretion. Keeping our clients secrets is a large part of our business. We keep many besides yours, … excuse me, your father’s.”

“I’m glad of that, at least.” She glared at the attorney. “I didn’t expect you to know me by this name, understand my situation, or have my particulars. I didn’t know what to expect, really.”

“No,” he nodded with sympathy, swirling the brown liquid in his glass while watching her. “I’m sure you didn’t.”

“When I staked my claim in California, I sent my father a letter telling him I changed my name to Clem and won’t answer to anything else.

He sent me an answer I waited almost six months for.

” She pulled the worn letter from the wallet in her coat breast pocket.

“It’s ten words long. ‘Dear Clem, you are who you choose to be, Dad.’ Those were the last words I ever had from him.

” She re-folded the letter and returned it to her wallet. “Decent words, anyway.”

Mr. Burdock nodded. “There are several things I need to make clear to you before we proceed.”

An hour later, they both leaned back in leather wing chairs in Mr. Burdock’s office. “Once you’ve decided upon the disposition of the household items, I will proceed with the sale of the house.”

“Call the junkman, open the doors and let people take what they want, or burn the whole place down, I don’t care.” Clem’s heart ached, her head hurt, and she wanted a beer bottle to suck on so her lower lip would quit its damned quivering. “There’s nothing of his I want.”

Burdock nodded. “I understand, but hope you’ll reconsider.

” Sitting back down, he took a minute to light a cigar, then offered her one.

“You’re speaking from the emotions of the moment and although I’m not your attorney of record, I recommend you not make any rash decisions.

” He struck a match and held it for her.

“You’re hurt. Give yourself time to come to terms with the news. ” He shrugged. “It is not all bad.”

Clem considered his words as she copied his short inhalations and puffing exhalations until her first cigar lit. She’d smoked hand-rolled cigarettes in California; the smoothness of the southern tobacco blend was a pleasant surprise.

“Will you become my ‘attorney of record’, Mr. Burdock?” she asked, tipping her head back and blowing a smoke ring at the ceiling, something that always soothed her. She shot her eyes at him, looking him over. “You already know my secret and I’d like to keep it that way.”