The Bride Wore Blue (10 page)

Carter nodded and removed the folder from the saddlebag. He didn’t have to ask how Jesse already knew about this afternoon’s tragedy. Cripple Creek was growing faster than the prairie grasses, but its strong word-of-mouth communication still gave it a small town feel.

“You find out who did it?” Jesse asked.

“Boney saw two men fleeing Mac’s cabin. One of them could be Pickett.”

“I remember seein’ the poster. Tree tall. Skinny as a branch.”

“He was bent over on a dapple gray. Mac may have shot him.”

Jesse hooked his thumbs on the bib of his greasy overalls. “A dapple gray?”

“Yeah. Jon and I found one with a lead slug in its head while searching for the killers. Looked like it went lame.”

“Three white socks and a dark hind leg?”

Carter straightened. “You know the horse?”

“Sounds like one I bought from a miner awhile back. Sold it about five months ago.”

“To anyone I might know?”

“Pearl DeVere.” Jesse whispered her name as if to avoid embarrassing Liberty or the horses in the surrounding corrals. Pearl was one of the most wealthy and renowned
other women
in town. “He pulled her buggy alongside her chestnut for a while. Haven’t seen him for a couple weeks. Maybe a month.”

“Thanks. I’ll look into it. Could you have Archie pull the saddle and brush Liberty down for me? Gotta go.”

“Will do.”

Carter walked down the hill behind the corrals. How many times had his dad told him he had to think like criminals if he expected to catch them? Well, if he was a thief who’d been shot and needed immediate attention, he’d avoid the hospital and any doctors who could be considered longtimers. Dr. Cutshaw would likely question the injury. Instead, he’d go see the new woman doctor who’d only been in town for a week.

At the edge of Poverty Gulch, Carter cut toward the creek until he had a good view of the doctor’s cabin. Enough light shone through the windows for him to see that no horses stood at the hitching rail. If Pickett and his pal had come here, they’d probably fled town after the doctor patched him up, but a man couldn’t be too cautious. Carter had told his mother he wouldn’t repeat his father’s mistake, and it was a promise he intended to keep. Satisfied that nothing looked out of place, he walked down the rocky path to the doctor’s log cabin.

A wooden box with a red cross on the lid hung on one side of the
door. A dog barked inside, and the door swung open. The young woman who stood at the threshold, staring at him, stuck a pencil into the bun at the nape of her neck.

“Ma’am.” Carter removed his hat. “I’m Deputy Carter Alwyn. I apologize for the late hour.”

She snapped her fingers at the small, white fluff ball that yapped and bounced at her heels. “Quiet down, Pooch.”

“Dr. Susan Anderson?”

“Folks call me Doc Susie.”

Carter glanced down at the closed Bible she held in her hand. “Reading to a patient?”

“To myself.” Her sigh caused the strand of hair that dangled at her forehead to shudder. She stepped aside. “Please, come in.”

Carter followed her into the two-room cabin. A cot and a washstand lay nestled against the far wall, an island in a sea of clutter. Stacks of books towered on most flat surfaces, save the sofa and one chair. Boxes formed tables around the edges of the room.

“I’m seeing patients here until my office in town is ready.” She set her Bible on a side table by the door. “Not too many patients yet. I’ve only been back in town as a doctor for about a week. It’ll take folks some time to warm up to me.”

Carter nodded. It didn’t make sense to him that people in this town made as much of a fuss over women being engaged in legitimate business and medical practices as they did over women who took money for favors.

The doctor studied him from his dusty boots to his neglected hair. He’d see it cut as soon as things slowed down long enough for him to get to the barber. “You don’t look like you need my services.” A thin smile brightened her blue eyes.

Carter pulled Pickett’s likeness from the folder at his side. “I came on business.”

“Of course.” The doctor pointed to the sofa beside a crowded bookcase. “Would you care to have a seat?”

When she settled into a bentwood rocker, he sat on the sofa across from her. “Have you seen this man?”

She took the wanted poster from him and the little color in her face turned a pasty white. “This man was here just hours ago with another man. The shorter, stocky one did all the talking.” She lifted a medical journal from the table and fanned herself. “The talker never gave his name, but he called the injured man Timothy.”

Carter wrote the name in his notebook.

“He said Timothy was chasing a deer when he dropped his rifle, and it went off.” She looked down at her trembling hands and then back up at Carter. “It wasn’t a hunting trip, was it?”

“No ma’am. Well, hunting for someone else’s gold.” He glanced at the poster. “The tall one’s known moniker is Pickett.”

“He’d been shot through the auricle of his rather large right ear.” She pointed to her outer ear, about halfway up the length of it. Another sigh.

“A miner named Mac was robbed and killed this afternoon.”

She covered her mouth.

“The men who came here fit the description of the two men seen leaving Mac’s cabin.”

She fanned herself again. “I wiped a lot of dried blood from his face and neck. His floppy straw hat was ruined. I wanted to throw it out, but they took it with them.”

The hat matched the description of the one seen on one of the three men at the bank holdups.

“Gunpowder burns also tattooed Timothy’s face,” she continued, “and there is no known way of removing them.”

“I’d say that makes him pretty identifiable.”

“Yes, it would. I sterilized the wound and stitched the ear. The bullet came right close to finding its way through his head.”

Carter slid the poster back into the folder. “Did either of them have an accent?”

“Couldn’t tell. The shorter man’s speech was distorted. He smelled like licorice-root candy. Probably had it in his mouth.”

Same two that robbed the train. “What about Pickett? You hear him say anything?”

She nodded. “Didn’t say much. Mostly groaned, but he did manage a sentence or two in response to a question before the other fellow’s stern look quieted him. His voice shook, but not enough to shake the Ozark twang out of it.”

Carter’s pulse quickened. At least two of them shared the accent. Probably all three of them, since the spokesman favored having something in his mouth when he spoke, which would distort any accent.

The dog collapsed on a braided rug at Carter’s feet, and he bent down to scratch the fluff ball’s belly.

“Pooch is a spitz,” Doc Susie said. “Don’t know whether or not it’s true, but I remember the stocky man saying that his neighbors in Kentucky had a spitz.”

The thought of another good lead dried Carter’s throat. He made a mental note to wire some lawmen in Kentucky. He lifted his hat from the stack of books on the table and stood. “You’ve been quite helpful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You watch yourself, ma’am. We’re dealing with hardened criminals here.”

“I will.” She glanced at the lever-action Winchester propped in the corner behind the door, then reached for the knob.

“You know how to use that thing?” Carter asked.

“I do. And despite my oath to ‘never do harm to anyone,’ I will use it, if necessary.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Carter stepped out onto the stoop and set his hat on his head. “They’ve probably left the area, but you let me know if you hear from either of them again.”

“I will.” She tugged her shawl tight against the dropping temperatures. “You be careful too, deputy. I don’t want you back as a patient.”

T
hursday morning, Vivian was ready to resume her search for a job. She’d spent the past two days laundering clothes, organizing what was left in her trunk, and rearranging her wardrobe. Her summer hats now sat on the shelf in order of color, from light to dark. She pulled a grass-green straw hat from the shelf and carried it to her dressing table.

Etta Ondersma hadn’t telephoned with regrets of not having hired her, and Vivian’s rent was due in two weeks. She pulled a hatpin from the box. Even though she’d never held a regular job, she knew one didn’t get paid for work up front. It would be at least a week or more after she started before she’d see a payout. Hopefully, the folks at the millinery favored the shorter waiting period.

Twenty minutes later, Vivian rounded the corner at Bennett Avenue and stepped up onto the boardwalk. She mailed letters to Aunt Alma and Father at the post office and continued past a cobbler’s shop to the millinery. Black lettering swirled across the window above a display of hats and handkerchiefs. Summer shawls and gloves draped a parlor rocker.

This was a new day and a new opportunity. Vivian’s knowledge of fashion would serve her well here.

She reached for the door and stepped inside the sparkling store. Shiny metal racks presented menswear on one side of the room and women’s on the other. A smartly dressed young woman helped a customer choose a reticule from a basket at the front of the store. While Vivian waited for the clerk to finish, she studied a rack of women’s belts.

“May I help you, miss?”

The man’s voice startled her. Turning toward a curtained door, Vivian looked up at the spectacles on a man she guessed to be in his early fifties, Father’s age.

“Yes, thank you.” She moistened her lips. “I’ve come to speak to the owner about employment.”

He pushed his glasses up on his face. “Did you see the new brick front outside?”

“Yes sir, I did.”

He glanced around the well-stocked store. “Well, those fires last year wiped us out. Had to start over brick by brick.”

“I’m sorry.” She knew what starting over felt like. She’d experienced her own raging fire.

“I’m afraid it has made our store a family affair. Any clerks or hat-makers you see are my wife, my son, or my daughter-in-law.” He straightened a bowler displayed on a hat rack. “I wish I could oblige you, but I can’t.”

“I understand. Thank you for your time.” Vivian turned to leave.

“I hope you’ll come back. You’re a stylish girl, and I know you’d fancy some of the fashions we carry.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Vivian stepped out onto the boardwalk. She looked left and right. Now what? She’d been so sure at least one of the two prospects on her list would employ her.

A family affair
. The man at the millinery employed family members.

Perhaps it was time she swallowed her pride and went to her sister for a job.

She turned right and took slow steps toward the depot at the end of Bennett. If she closed her eyes and engaged her imagination, she could attribute fashionable qualities to an icebox. After all, she did admire the oak one with brass latches in Miss Hattie’s kitchen. But if she applied for a position at the Raines Ice Company, there was more to consider than iceboxes: Customers. Sales slips. Money exchanges. And, most daunting, she’d be working for her eldest sister. The sister who didn’t like Gregory.

Ida hadn’t trusted him from the start. Or was it Vivian she didn’t trust? Either way, Ida had been right, and Vivian stood little chance of hiding her past from her sister if she worked with her day in and day out. She couldn’t take the risk. Surely there had to be something else she could do.

She looked around. A smoke shop and a saloon. Her sisters would think her working at either of those was scandalous. Little did they know. There was always the laundry. She’d done enough of her own washing since Father left for Paris to know she despised it. Besides, it, too, was probably a family operation. A Chinese family. The mercantile across the street caught her eye. Brooms grew like cornstalks out of a crock in front of the brick store. Several barrels crowded the door.

Vivian waited for a team of horses to pass and crossed the street. Then she saw the sign in the window.

H
ELP WANTED
. S
EE
M
R
. H
EINES INSIDE
.

It wasn’t the job she wanted, but there was rent to be paid. If she wanted to stand on her own two feet, she could certainly scoop beans
into a sack or stack apples in a box until something better came along. Working up a smile, she opened the door. A bell jingled, and a man about her height but with added girth, stepped out from behind a stack of pickle barrels.

“Good day, sir. I’m Miss Vivian Sinclair.” She glanced back at the window. “I saw the sign, and I’d like to speak to Mr. Heines about a job.”

“You’re speaking to him, miss, but you’re not what I’m looking for.”

Vivian raised her chin. “I’m not as young as I look, sir.”

“Your youth isn’t the problem.” He studied her from shoe to hat. “It’s your size. Not a muscle on you.”

Her cheeks warmed. “Muscles?”

“Yes ma’am.” He raked his graying hair. “Not as young as I used to be. Need someone who can shoulder heavy sacks and barrels.”

“Very well. Thank you.” Vivian retreated.