Tara's Gold (3 page)

Three

Tara groaned at the insistent knocking on her bedroom door. She rolled to her side, drawing the covers over her head. Light had barely begun to filter through the window, and she had no plans of rising before the sun did. She rolled onto her back and frowned. Something was wrong. The bed was lumpy, the sheets were scratchy. . .

The past few days came rushing to her like a whirlwind. Her long trip to Iowa, Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter, and the cramped room on the second floor that would be hers as long as she stayed with them. She yawned, willing whoever was at her door to go away. She’d spent half the night tossing and turning on the uncomfortable mattress, and the other half dreaming about the handsome lawman rescuing her from the hands of a ruthless villain.

Someone knocked again.

“Miss Young?” Mrs. Carpenter called to her.

Tara sat up, trying to determine if she’d heard an edge of panic in the older woman’s voice. What if one of them was sick? Nursing had not been one of the requirements for the job she’d taken.

She pulled the covers up under her chin. “Is something wrong?”

Mrs. Carpenter seemed to take her question as an invitation, because she crept into the room, moving directly to tug back the patterned curtains hanging along a small window. “I do hope you got a good night’s sleep, Miss Young, because it’s going to be a beautiful day.”

Tara frowned and glanced out the window tinged with the faint light of dawn. Besides its pale yellow glow, the only other light came from the candle stub the woman held. Certainly these farm people didn’t actually rise before dawn.

Tara worked to stretch a kink in her neck. “What time is it?”

“Five thirty.” Light from the candle flickered across the older woman’s face, catching her widening smile. A rooster cried out in the distance, but other than that, the morning lay shrouded in a canopy of stillness. “Thaddeus and I always rise by five, but I let you sleep in a bit today, as I know you must be tired from your long journey.”

Tired from her long journey? As if that were even in question. Tara had just spent the past four days battling overloaded trains and coaches, sick passengers, and bad food, and now Mrs. Carpenter wanted her to jump out of bed and face the world before she’d had sufficient time to catch her breath.

“I am a bit tired.” Pulling the edge of the thin quilt around her, she worked to keep the frustration out of her voice.

In all good conscience, it wasn’t Mrs. Carpenter’s fault that Tara’s expectations of living on a farm had been too optimistic. Such a place could never compare to the modern conveniences of her home in Boston, where they had amenities like piped-in
water and an indoor necessary. Perhaps she’d simply always taken for granted her own amply stuffed feather bed and linen sheets along with the many other things farm life obviously lacked.

Tara stifled another yawn. “I’m just not used to waking quite so early.”

“Don’t you worry about a thing, dear.” Mrs. Carpenter tugged on the top of her mobcap, with its puffed crown and ribbon trim—a fashion that should have been disregarded decades ago, in Tara’s opinion. “You’ll get used to it. Early rising is good for a body. You’ll sleep better at night, as well.”

Tara bit her tongue at the string of complaints that
threatened to erupt, trying instead to focus her mind on what her Aunt Rachel had taught her from the Bible.
He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.
Or in her case, better a woman who doesn’t complain about a little hard work and lack of sleep than one who loses all sense of propriety while attempting to uncover a lost fortune of gold for the United States government. Pulling her robe around her shoulders, she sent up a short prayer that God would find it within Himself to grant her both an extra measure of patience
and
the cache of gold.

Mrs. Carpenter set the candle on a dresser covered with framed daguerreotypes, bric-a-brac, and a thick layer of dust. “I’ve got breakfast on the stove. Didn’t want you to have to worry about that on your first morning here. Then we’ve got a busy day ahead of us. We’re in the middle of pickling, you know.”

Pickles? Mr. Carpenter had been serious?

❧

Five hours, six hundred pickles, and countless pots of boiling water later, Mrs. Carpenter suggested they stop for a meal of ham, beans, biscuits, and a sampling of a previous batch of their homemade pickles. Tara tried to hide her aversion to the cured cucumber, quite certain she had no desire to look at another pickle let alone eat another one as long as she lived.

Mr. Carpenter’s wooden chair squeaked beneath him as he sat down at the dinner table, causing Tara to wonder if it would hold up under the man’s slight weight. Like the Carpenters, everything in the whitewashed farmhouse was old-fashioned, shabby, and worn. The walls were covered with faded paint; the mahogany furniture, with its carved feathers and eagle medallion ornamentation, most certainly came from another century. Even the cookstove was an outmoded cast-iron beast that was slower than yesterday’s stagecoach.

Mr. Carpenter stabbed a piece of ham with his fork. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor this afternoon, Miss Young.”

Tara fidgeted in her seat across from him. She had hoped that her duties would be minimal, giving her time to follow up the clues in her aunt’s diary, but she was beginning to fear that wasn’t going to be the case.

She forced a smile. “Of course. I’d be happy to do anything you need me to.”

He helped himself to a second serving of beans while his wife fluttered in and out of the kitchen making sure they had everything they needed. “The post office was closed by the time I went to fetch you last night, and I have a letter that needs to be mailed.”

Tara wiped the corners of her mouth with a cloth napkin, wondering if she’d just received the answer to her prayer. “And you’d like me to take it into town?”

Mrs. Carpenter sat down at the table, a second jar of opened pickles in her hand. “It’s an easy drive into town, but the wagon is hard on poor Thaddeus’s joints.”

For the first time all morning, Tara’s smile was genuine. “I’d be delighted to help. I’ll have to change my clothes and freshen up a bit first—”

“Of course, my dear.” She exchanged glances with her husband. “There are a few eligible bachelors in town, and I remember how important it was to make a good impression as a young woman who had yet to step into the joys of matrimony.”

Tara scooted her chair back and shook her head. “Oh, but I didn’t come here to find a man to court me. I came here to. . .” She stopped herself before the word
gold
slipped off her tongue. “To work for you, of course.”

Mrs. Carpenter reached out and patted her hand. “Just don’t be thinking that we won’t give you any time off. We know how important it is for young people to enjoy themselves.”

Mr. Carpenter nudged his wife with his bony elbow. “If I’m not mistaken, our Miss Young has already found herself a possible suitor. Remember I told you last night that a stranger saved her from a drunken scoundrel at the station?”

Tara gasped. “Why, I don’t even know who that man was—”

“You did mention to me that he was handsome, Thaddeus.” Mrs. Carpenter cocked her head and smiled. “Ahh, new love. There’s nothing sweeter.”

Tara shook her head. “I really don’t think—”

“Don’t mind my dear wife, Miss Young. She’s a bit of a romantic, I must say, and she always manages to find a way to play matchmaker, don’t you, dear? After fifty years of marriage, I suppose she simply wishes the same happiness we’ve found on others.”

Tara closed her mouth. The last thing she wanted in her life right now was her own private matchmaker, but it was obvious she wasn’t going to get a word in edgewise. She watched as Mrs. Carpenter leaned toward her husband and whispered something in his ear. He caught her hand and laughed.

“My wife just reminded me of our own courting days.” Mr. Carpenter’s gaze never left his wife’s face. “Ah, the good Lord was gracious to bring us together. He may not have ever blessed us with children, but He’s allowed us to live out our days on this earth together.”

Tara crushed the napkin between her fingers, as something stirred within her. The love between the Carpenters was obvious, and she couldn’t help but find herself growing attached to this odd yet endearing couple. Her own parents loved her, but they spent most of their time running the family business and staying involved in various patriotic activities.

With the last bite of her meal gone, Tara washed the dishes and changed her clothes before heading toward the barn. Making her way gingerly across the hay-strewn shelter, she once again questioned her sanity for coming to Iowa. At home, she would have stepped out the front door of her house and straight into an awaiting carriage. But Browning City was a far cry from Boston.

At least she’d been taught how to drive a wagon back in Boston and wasn’t completely helpless. Even riding had been done with little effort, though, as the stable boys would get the horses ready for her. Holding her gloved fingers against her nose, she followed the cheerful whistles of Sampson, who was cleaning out one of the stalls with a wide smile on his ebony face.

“Mr. Sampson?”

The man continued his tune, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was calling him. She’d almost forgotten. The farmhand was partially deaf. She regarded the dusty floor and raised the hem of her skirt an extra inch for good measure before taking another step closer.

Tara eyed the pale mare in front of her and raised her voice. “Mr. Sampson?”

The horse’s head jerked toward her and its ears laid flat. Tara stumbled backward and slammed into a wooden post.

“Miss Young. . .” Sampson held up his hand to stop her before approaching the animal with quiet, soothing words.

He stroked the horse’s shoulder and turned to Tara. “Horses scare easy, miss. Never come near ’em from behind. You’re liable to startle them.”

Tara stared down at her handbag. “I’m sorry. I—”

“And always make sure the horse sees ya before comin’ near. They ain’t aggressive, but they does frighten easy.” He looked at her and smiled. “Don’t worry, miss. After a few weeks of livin’ here, it’ll be easy for ya.”

Tara grasped the edge of the post behind her, feeling foolish. There was no hiding the fact that she was a city girl. Even from an uneducated farmhand.

She cleared her throat and raised her chin. “Mr. Carpenter wanted me to go into town for him. I have driven a wagon before.”

Sampson’s broad smile showed off his white teeth. “Give me five minutes, miss.”

“Thank you, Sampson.”

The broad-shouldered man set down his shovel and went back to whistling his tune. Strange how a man could appear so happy when his job was nothing more than mucking stalls and working in the field.

True to his word, Sampson had the wagon hitched and ready in a few short minutes. Perched on the narrow bench, Tara was overcome with a feeling of freedom for the first time since leaving Boston. The pungent smell of vinegar that had permeated the Carpenters’ kitchen as they poured the boiling brine over the dozens of green cucumbers was now replaced with the faint scent of wildflowers that dotted the landscape as she headed toward town.

Tara smiled. Her aunt’s journal was tucked safely in her bag, and she was finally ready to put the first part of her plan into action. Armed with the name of one of her aunt’s informants, she was determined to track down the whereabouts of the missing gold.

She reached up to ensure that her summer garden hat, with its spray of flowers, was perched securely atop her head. Feeling the need for an extra measure of confidence, she’d chosen to wear one of her favorite dresses, a gray poplin walking dress trimmed with two flounces and paired with a matching short jacket edged with lilac trim. Making a good impression on the sheriff was the first step in her plan to extract the necessary information from the lawman. Honesty, beauty, and a bit of womanly charm had always proven to be a highly persuasive combination.

Twenty minutes later, she stood in front of the sheriff’s office. Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside. The sheriff sat at his desk, engrossed in a stack of papers.

Tara cleared her throat and stepped up to the small room that wasn’t even half the size of her sitting area back home. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Sheriff.”

The middle-aged man looked up, rubbing his graying beard with his fingertips. “Sheriff Morton. Good afternoon.”

The lawman stood, knocking over his chair in the process. He stumbled to pick it up, then scattered the pile of papers with his elbow. “Excuse me, please, I. . .I’m not usually quite this clumsy.” A dark tint of red covered the man’s cheeks as he hurried to pick the papers up.

Once he had collected the items and placed them back on his desk, she reached out and shook his hand. “My name is Tara Young, and I can’t begin to say how pleased I am to meet you, Sheriff Morton.”

“Really?” Fiddling with his pencil, the man sat back down and peered at her over the top of his octagonal lenses. “Please have a seat. The pleasure is definitely all mine.”

She sent him her most flattering smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re from out of town?”

“I’m from back east, actually, Boston. I just arrived in town last night.”

“Then you must be the Carpenters’ relative who’s come to help them out.”

Tara’s brows rose. “I see that word spreads quickly in a small town like Browning City.”

“That is one of the potential drawbacks of living in such a quiet community, but to most of us, the advantages far outweigh the disadvantages.” The sheriff laughed. “What can I do for you?”

Tara clutched her bag against her chest. “I know you must be terribly busy with your work protecting the good citizens of this town—”

“Please.” He held up a hand of protest. “Don’t worry. There’s always time to assist a beautiful young woman such as yourself.”