Under Starry Skies (17 page)

Tye’s eyes narrowed, watching Emma’s display. He wondered why the mention of Cullen Wade sent Emma into a despicable rant and hasty departure. There was something not quite right about the old biddy. And there was something troubling about Lang Redford who had spent most of the night in restrained, sullen silence. He reminded himself to wire his brother, Luke, who was marshalling up north and ask him some questions.

With a multitude of thoughts still tumbling in his head, Tye rose from the table and held out his hand to Maria. She looked perplexed, distraught, and downright miserable. “Come, let’s have a dance in celebration of your birthday, Maria.” She nodded and stood, and he saw the tears brimming in her eyes. “On second thought, let’s get some fresh air.” Gently, he steered her toward the kitchen and back door.

Once outside, they walked around to the side of the inn where the path led to the cottage and farther beyond to a road winding its way up to the manse on the hill. They could see a lone light shine from two front windows like cat’s eyes. Behind them, Amos had lit all the lanterns and gaslights, and a warm glow spilled out from all the Mule Shed’s windows along with the infectious sound of music from the fiddlers, banjo, and piano players.

“Why does she act so superior?” Tears began to splash down Maria’s cheeks. “Why is she so nasty and hurtful? Why does she have a need to shame everyone?”

Tye heaved a sigh and pulled her to him as she silently wept on his chest. He could smell the sweet scent of roses in her hair. “Maria,” he said gently next to her ear, “some people are born with a mean streak. Emma has never been a happy woman. My pa used to tell us happiness is the result of being too busy to be miserable.”

“Tell me, does the wretched woman have
any
redeeming qualities?” She began to cry all over again. “All I ever wanted was a warm home, a dependable teaching position, an orchard…and some chickens.”

“Orchard? Chickens?” Now where did all this suddenly come from? Tye stroked the back of her hair with his hand. It felt sleek and soft, like the fur of a baby kitten. “You want apples and
chickens
?”

Between bursts of weeping, Maria blurted out, “Yes, chickens. Don’t you dare laugh, Tydall Ashmore. Don’t you like custard pie? A good breakfast? You know, all those foods you make with eggs? Abby and I used to raise them back in Utah.”

Custard pie? Breakfast? He was still unsure of how to sort it all out. His sister, Betsy, had once told him weeping women don’t make a hill of sense. Just go with the flow of tears and agree with them. “Yes,” he said. “Of course I like custard pie.”

“And why does that old shrew berate everyone?” Maria’s voice was muffled by his jacket.

“Well, at least two men have escaped the old gal’s rage, God rest their souls,” he murmured into her hair and pulled her even closer to him. “Her first husband and your uncle. And I’m guessing both of them aren’t in line to lay out a bed of lilies when it’s her turn to meet the Almighty.”

Maria choked out a small laugh and followed it with a hiccup.

He rubbed her back gently as if he was soothing a small child. “Listen, Maria, the Indians have an expression about people like Emma who want to have power over you and your thoughts. They say, don’t let your enemy set up a teepee in your head. I’d probably say, don’t let the old biddy camp out in your mind.”

“Thank you, Tye,” she said sniffling. “I’m sorry for ruining your evening. Tell me, who is responsible for buying this lovely dress? Was it your sister? I’m willing to pay for it. I don’t want to feel like I’m a beggar.”

Tye sighed. “Actually, it’s a gift from Frank Norwell, and the only reason I’m telling you is so you won’t badger me ’til all
my
cows come home. It was supposed to be anonymous. Norwell’s wife, Virginia, once gave Betsy a dress to wear when we first moved here, and now both Betsy and Frank, each wealthy in their own right, make it a point to carry forth her generosity whenever possible as a silent tribute to her. She passed away many years ago.”

“She must have been a very generous person.”

“Yes, she was. Emma might have learned a lot from Virginia Norwell had she lived.”

“Do you think I’m a coward for not standing up to her?” She pulled away and searched his face.

He shook his head. “No, no, I don’t. I think it takes far more stamina to be silent.” He chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” She took the handkerchief he handed her and dried her eyes.

“I was thinking if Emma were
my
aunt, I would have hogtied her, dumped her ugly carcass at the foot of the mountain, and let the lynx have a go at her.”

Chapter Thirteen

As the night wore on, Maria was glad to see the crowd was gradually dwindling. Husbands began to escort their wives home, stopping to peer into the crowded barroom where Charlie and Amos were dispensing whiskey and ale with flying hands.

Abigail walked the town mayor and his wife to the door and into the twilight and stood in the center of the wide, three-sided porch, watching the carriages pull up in front of the steps to gather their guests. Her mind scrambled with thoughts, she made her way to a side door leading into the office. Once inside the room, she found the office lit with a single oil lamp on a side table, giving off a rosy glow, and she remembered Amos had told her he planned to have a light in every window of the inn to chase away the evening shadows and welcome the entire town. She slipped back outside and looked at the structure’s massive front and smiled. Warm yellow light spilled out every window and made the building glow like a huge beacon. She made a mental note to thank Amos and the entire staff for all their long hours and hard work.

Inside again, her thoughts strayed to her aunt and her bizarre behavior. What had caused Emma to act so maliciously and to leave so suddenly? As she pulled the shade down on the window for more privacy, she paused and looked toward the manse on the hill. An almost full moon lit the sky. Clouds scudding across the night sky and past the moon shed an eerie light bouncing off the slate roof as if goblins were dancing atop it.

She sat at her uncle’s rolltop desk and noticed Amos had neatly stacked all the inn’s bills for the evening’s event in a corner of the desktop. Rummaging through the bottom right drawer, she searched for some blank paper for ciphering but discovered instead a small black book she had overlooked in her early perusal of the desk and its contents. It was a ledger of sorts, dog-eared and tucked beneath piles of assorted bills and papers. Leafing through it, she realized it was a collection book instead with columns and entries of people who had given her uncle money over the last few years. She noticed the name, Aeron O’Donnell on the fifth page. Her father! She hurriedly riffled through the remaining pages until she found more entries where her father paid as little as twenty-five dollars and as much as two hundred dollars to her uncle over the last ten years. The only explanation for the payments was a simple entry, “for Irene M” written beside each entry.

Abigail stared at the pages, horrified, as an ache began in the pit of her stomach. Why had her father sent Uncle Henry money? And who was Irene M? It was preposterous to think her father had a mistress or illegitimate child. Or was it? With shaking hands and her stomach twisting itself in knots, she slammed the ledger shut and shoved it back into the drawer. Discouraged, she laid her head on her forearms on the desk and closed her eyes, exhausted from the day’s events.

The gentle tapping on the outside door startled her, and she bolted upright in her chair.

****

Brett sauntered in holding a glass of whiskey. He closed the door quietly behind him. “Almost everyone in the dining room has left. Only the crowd at the bar remains.” He looked at her tired, ashen face. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” she lied and stood. “I’m just weary and out of sorts. It has been a long night.”

“Sit down, Abigail, we need to talk.” He was surprised to see her knees buckle under her as she slumped back down into her chair. Tears welled up between her eyelashes, and she buried her face in her hands.

“That seems to be your favorite line,” she mumbled.

“Have you been drinking?” He watched her shake her head. “Are you ill?”

She shook her head again.

“Come, come. Tell me. What is it, Abby?”

She waved her hand in the air and looked at him with tears rolling down her cheeks. “I don’t know. Nothing, Everything! The inn. Aunt Emma. It’s plain as the nose on my face Maria and I don’t belong here. We’re not even
wanted
here.”

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Pulling out a chair from the corner of the room, he dragged it beside her and handed her his handkerchief. They sat in silence for a few minutes while he sipped his whiskey and waited for her to compose herself. He knew better than to try to touch her in such a fragile but agitated state.

At last, he broke the silence. “You do belong here.” He leaned forward and dangled his drink and hand between his knees. “Your uncle had a lot of friends here. Here! In the area. He also had many investments. He, your father, and I invested in the mines up near Black Hawk with the understanding all the land rights we collectively purchased for your father were to be signed over to him after the war. We’d each have a one-third share.” He glanced at Abigail who was drying her eyes as she listened. “Only Henry didn’t figure on getting himself killed or your father dying. He even planned to have your father move here with you and Maria to help with the business and mines.”

“Why are you telling me this? What does it have to do with me?”

“More than you can imagine, Abby. Do you know if your father ever gave Henry any large sums of money?”

Abigail thought about the ledgers she’d just looked at. “No,” she said, “unless it was to a lady called Irene M.” She rummaged through the bottom drawer, withdrew the small ledger, and held it out to him.

Setting his drink aside, he quickly paged though it, then tossed it on her desk, and chuckled.

“Irene M is the Irene Maiden Mine, the first one we invested in together.”

“She’s not a person?”

“No, she’s going to be one of the richest gold sites west of Denver once we get her opened.”

Abigail looked at him confused. “I don’t understand.”

“The problem is Emma. The Irene M, bought with Henry’s, your father’s, and my money is in Henry’s name. Your father and I were blind partners. I was off in the war and Aeron was in Utah when we formed the business venture. Now, with his death, it can easily be claimed by her unless we can find the deed or have the courts uphold Henry’s intentions.”

Abigail’s mouth fell open. “You mean Aunt Emma is in control?”

“Not yet. At least not until she finds out.”

“But she could go to the mining office and find out! Do you think she’d actually cheat me and Maria from a mine that is legally ours?”

Brett raised an arched eyebrow and sipped his whiskey again. “Let’s not be naïve. Emma? The Emma who wore the diamonds and burgundy mourning dress while her niece wore a hand-me-down? I doubt she would pass up a chance to become a wealthy woman. Why do you think she allowed you to reopen the inn? She needs money for her rich tastes.”

Brett stood and sighed. “You’d better go to your staff and check to see everything is in order before closing. Why don’t you give me the ledger? We don’t want it to get into the wrong hands.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” There was a wary look in her red, swollen eyes.

“You don’t, but your chances with old crotchety Aunt Emma aren’t much better.”

Reluctantly, she handed it to him. “What if we have to go to court with only this as evidence and we fail?”

Brett bent and kissed her softly on the forehead. “Don’t worry. The worst possible thing that could happen is you’d have to prove your uncle’s intent to form a partnership with me.”

“And how will I do that?”

“Marry me?”

****

Brett, Tye, Marcus, and Flint sat in Betsy’s kitchen the next morning with long, gloomy faces looking like a bedraggled bunch on a weeklong binge. Although Betsy knew they imbibed for a while in the barroom, she was certain excessive alcohol wasn’t the problem. She stood with a plate full of scrambled eggs and surveyed the group.

“My, my,” she said, “you all looked a whole lot better last night at the Mule Shed’s grand reopening. You know how I love to see a good-looking man dressed in a suit now and then.”

“Yeah.” Tye groaned. “We all looked so good we could have taken in a funeral on the side.”

“With the spawn of Satan at our table, I thought we were at one.” Brett squinted through bloodshot eyes.

“I wonder what triggered Emma McNeil to decide to make a grand entrance?” Betsy was proud of her brother for quelling what could have been an embarrassing situation.

“I wonder why Emma acts
the bizarre way she does?” Flint pointed to his plate, and Betsy spooned some eggs on it.

“Besides being dropped on her head in infancy?” Marcus shrugged. “She simply has a disposition like a rabid weasel.”

Tye rose and took the coffee pot off the back of the stove and poured himself a cup. “Don’t insult weasels, Marcus.”

Betsy smiled. “Emma’s always been a crabby critical woman since the day she arrived. Remember what Ma used to say. A man who blows out the other fellow’s candle won’t make his own shine any brighter.”

“Well, the Good Lord knows Emma was snuffing out a lot of candles last night.” Brett rubbed his eyes with his hands. “I’ll take some coffee.”

Tye poured him a cup, then he looked at the pathetic group. Every face was either glum or tired-looking. “It was near disastrous. Brett had Abigail weeping in her office, and I was mopping up Maria’s tears outside. She was crying about her aunt, apple orchards, custard pie, and chickens. If anyone ever suggests we get together with Emma McNeil again, just hit me alongside the head with an iron fry pan.”

Marcus’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth and grinned. “Deal!”

Betsy finished serving the eggs and toast, and slid into a seat next to Flint with a cup of coffee. “We need to think this through,” she said, her tone serious. “No one has been able to find out who killed Henry McNeil or why.” She looked around at their somber faces. “And we have no idea who tried to shoot Tye or if the incident is related.”