Whistler in the Dark (13 page)

Tears welled in her eyes, and for a moment she lay on the pine needles feeling sorry for herself. Her right arm and hip hurt where she'd landed on them, and she'd torn her dress. She missed Judith Littleton. Her mother neglected her. A saloon owner had threatened her, and a drunken Confederate had given her some nonsensical message. And a man she'd never even heard of was scaring her with a private song he had no business knowing about.

Finally she sat up and took stock, letting anger steam away her self-pity. She didn't seem to be seriously injured, and the dress could be mended. And—she would die of pure and absolute stubbornness before letting the stupid twin pines get the better of her.

When the solution crept into her mind, she nudged it away. But it slunk back, not to be ignored. “Oh, why not,” Emma sighed. Everything else was turning upside down, wasn't it? She stood up, dusted herself off, and headed for the boardinghouse.

Emma waited until Mother went back to the print shop after supper before putting her plan in action. Even then, she skulked at the boardinghouse door until a mule train had moved past with a snap of the muleskinner's whip, and the laundress marching down the street had disappeared into Mr. Boggs's store. For once, Emma was glad that the foothills were so often visited by late-afternoon storms. Lingering clouds and the evening's lengthening shadows provided at least the pretense of cover as she slid from the boardinghouse and dashed across the street. The skin between her shoulder blades itched, waiting for unknown boys to throw eggs.
Bloomers! Bloomers!
But no one hurled either taunts or eggs, and she plunged into the narrow alley between the land office and The Raven completely—she hoped—unnoticed.

She faced the twin pines with grim determination, stepped into the wedge between the trunks, and began to climb. It
still
wasn't as easy as Jeremy had promised. She had to snake between limbs that poked where her head needed to go, and the branches were not conveniently spaced for either hands or feet. But the trousers of her Reform Dress kept her from tripping.

She climbed about eight feet from the ground before pausing. She'd reached the needle-covered boughs and took a moment to savor that small victory. She slid onto a branch and rested, enjoying the scent of pine and the tiny sighs of the boughs swaying in the breeze. She glanced down at her dangling feet, clad in leather boots that emerged from her trousers. What if Judith could see her now? Or Miss Amaretta? Emma intended to sneak back to her bedroom to change before anyone was the wiser.

After a moment she glanced up and realized with a pang how far she was from the top. Crackers! How had Jeremy ever climbed high enough to see over the buildings? Should
she
try to climb that high?

No. Definitely not. Daylight was fading. She needed to get back to the boardinghouse, change clothes, and begin thinking about how to handle the confrontation with George Troxwell. In fact, it was time to enlist Mother's help. And Mule Tom's. She would surely feel better facing The Whistler with Mule Tom's reassuring bulk beside her.

But before she began to worm her way down, a sudden creak from below caught her attention. Craning her neck, she saw the back door of the land office inch open. Mr. Spaulding emerged. He tugged on his vest, looking in both directions, before shutting the door behind him.

Unnoticed, Emma felt a bit ashamed for spying—but she had no intention of calling attention to herself, up a tree in a Reform Dress! Through the branches she watched Mr. Spaulding slink against the land office wall, dart across the alley, and stop at the back door of The Raven—the door Emma had noticed leading into the saloon's private room. He knocked twice and slipped inside.

Emma shook her head. Oh, if only Miss Amaretta had seen that! The poor woman believed that she'd succeeded in convincing Mr. Spaulding to give up his visits to The Raven. Instead, he was sneaking in the back door! Mother had said Mr. Spaulding didn't have the sense of a goose. Evidently he didn't have much of a conscience either, if he could still look Miss Amaretta in the eye.

So what
was
the town founder doing in The Raven? Drinking? Gambling? Curiosity pricked at Emma as she carefully climbed to the ground. She crept along the land office and saloon walls, then crouched beneath the private room's window. The paisley curtains were drawn but the window was ajar, and Blackjack's voice—for once not oiled smooth—carried outside. “Spaulding, you're a fool. Why are you back here?”

“You
can't
turn me away!” Emma pictured Spaulding mopping his forehead. “Nothing is working out as I had planned. I
will
pay my debts, but you have to give me a chance—”

Emma heard Blackjack interrupt to greet several men who had apparently just entered the room. Then she heard the click of the interior door being closed.

You have no business listening to this
, Emma scolded herself. Still, she couldn't bring herself to creep away. No wonder Mr. Spaulding was so panicked about the town failing, if he had gambling debts to worry about, too!

“Ah, we're all here. Fill your glasses, gentlemen, so we can get started.” That was Blackjack again. Evidently he wasn't going to turn Mr. Spaulding away. After a few moments of mumbled conversation, Emma heard the scrape of chairs. Then Blackjack spoke again, easy as ever. “The ace of hearts, gentlemen, is the winning card. The ace of hearts. Who feels lucky?”

A sliver of lamplight showed where the curtains didn't quite meet. Emma eased to her feet and dared a peek. She could just make out a slice of the table, a man's hand holding a fan of cards—

Emma heard the tiniest whisper of sound behind her, but too late. A strong hand clamped over her mouth just as an arm circled her belly and jerked her back against her attacker's chest. Her heart thumped in panic.
Let me go!
she tried to scream. Her arms were pinned at her sides, but she kicked wildly. As her heel met her attacker's shin-bone, he loosened his grip just enough to let her twist in his grasp.

The shadows and his low felt hat almost hid his face, but Emma saw narrow eyes, then a mouth twisted into a hideous grin. She tried again to scream but heard only a pounding in her ears as the man clamped harder across her mouth and nose. She felt herself being dragged deeper into the shadows, away from the saloon wall. Then everything faded to black.

C
HAPTER
12

T
HE
W
HISTLER'S
S
TORY

The light hurt Emma's eyes and she closed them again. Where was she? Lying on her back … in a pile of straw, by the feel of it. The close air smelled of manure. A stable. Someone had grabbed her and dragged her to a stable. At least she didn't seem to be hurt, aside from the hip and arm she'd bruised when she fell from the twin pines. Screwing up all of her courage, she cracked her eyes open again.

The bright spot of light came from a lantern set on the wooden floor in a spot scraped free of straw. The blackness beyond sorted itself into shapes and shadows as Emma's eyes adjusted. She was in a horse stall. A man sat against the stall wall, hugging his knees. Emma's bones grew cold as she remembered being grabbed—and her attacker's horrible, leering grin.

But now the man stared at the floor, not at her. Could she slip past him? Probably not. This man had trailed her and Mother all the way from Chicago—heaven only knew what he'd do if she tried to escape.

Emma swallowed a whimper.
Just run!
a voice in her head urged. But her legs quivered like custard. The best she could manage was sitting up.

The man tugged his shapeless felt hat lower on his forehead so that his face remained shadowed. Then he sat up straighter against the wall. “You're not hurt,” he said.

“W—what do you want?” Emma quavered.

“You're not hurt,” he repeated.

Emma rubbed her arms, confusion mingling with her fear. She heard a munching sound, the stamp of a hoof. Was this Mr. Torkelson's stable? Oh, please, let it be!

She licked her lips and dared another question. “Are you George Troxwell?”

He jerked his head up in surprise, and Emma saw again his horrible, twisted sneer. Fear danced damp and cold over her skin. Then she realized that his grimace was actually a scar—a jagged scar that pulled at the right side of his mouth and burned across his cheek. “I'm George,” he mumbled.

Emma drew a deep breath. “Why did you grab me?”

“They might have hurt you.”

“
You
hurt me! And you—”

“Those were bad men!”

Emma rubbed her head, which was beginning to ache. “Bad men … you mean in the saloon? The men playing cards in that, back room?”

Troxwell nodded. “They wouldn't like you sneaking around. They're bad men.”

“Bad—how?”

“They gamble. Gamblers get angry when they lose. I didn't want them to get angry at you.”

Nothing made sense. “You were trying to
save
me from trouble?”

He looked confused. “Yes! I've been guarding you. You and your mother.”

“
Guarding
us! But—” She broke off and cocked her head. Someone outside was bellowing her name.

“Emma Henderson!”

“In here!” she yelled, lurching to her feet. When Mule Tom materialized from the darkness, Emma wanted to weep with relief.

He planted himself in the narrow stall opening. “Miss Emma! Oh, thank the Lord! What you doin' here? You all right, child?”

“I—I think so.” The weight of Mule Tom's hand on her shoulder steadied her.

“We been worried sick!” He glared at Troxwell. “What you doin' with Miss Emma?”

“I didn't hurt her!”

“Miss Emma?” Mule Tom asked, his steel gaze never leaving the other man.

“He—he grabbed me when I was—well, eavesdropping.” Emma was still trying to sort out everything that had happened. “But Mule Tom, I think this is the man who—”

“Miss Emma, your mama needs to hear whatever you got to say I promised her I'd bring you back to the boardinghouse if I found you.” Mule Tom pointed a big finger at George Troxwell. “You, too. Let's go.”

Ten minutes later, Emma endured her mother's tearful embrace and simultaneous tongue-lashing in Mrs. Sloane's parlor. “Do you have
any
idea how I felt when I got back tonight and found you gone? What
were
you thinking?”

Mrs. Sloane appeared with a pot of hot tea, looking curious, then disappeared. Mule Tom and George Troxwell perched awkwardly on the edge of two parlor chairs. Before Mother finished, Mrs. Sloane ushered Tildy Pearce into the room. Crackers! Emma had forgotten about asking Blackjack to have Tildy call this evening. Wide-eyed, Tildy backed into a corner. Mrs. Sloane gave in to curiosity and settled down, too.

Finally Mother paused for breath, and Emma seized the opening. “Mother, please listen for a minute. I have to explain some things. I've been hearing a man whistle
Maggie by My Side
at night here in Twin Pines, just like we did in Chicago—”

“What?” Mother gasped.

“You were always asleep, or gone,” Emma explained. “At first I was afraid you'd tell me I was dreaming. And then … well, you were already so worried … I didn't want to add to your burden. But I think this is the man who's been doing it.” She nodded at George Troxwell.

Mother's eyes widened as she turned on Troxwell. “
Why?
Why did you want to frighten us? And how did you know about that song?”

George twisted his hat in his hands. “But—but I didn't want to scare you! It was to make you feel safe! Captain Henderson always said you loved that song.”

Mother's hand flew to her mouth. “Captain Henderson?” she faltered. “You knew my husband?”

“Of course,” Troxwell said patiently. “He was my captain. In the war. He whistled that song when he was sad. It made him feel better.”

This man had been with her father during his last years! And that scar … had it been a rifle ball? Or a cannon shot? Emma shuddered.

“What is your name?” Mother asked.

“George, ma'am. George Troxwell.”

Recognition slid over Mother's face. “You're the man who wrote me the letter. After my husband died.”

“Yes, ma'am. I was with him. Before he died he asked me, ‘Will you see to my wife and daughter?' I promised him I would. I promised him!” Tears welled in his eyes. A lump rose in Emma's throat.

“Then I got wounded, and I couldn't write you for a while,” George Troxwell continued. “But I didn't forget! It would have been my honor to marry you, ma'am. But you didn't want that. I didn't know what to do, except try to keep watch over you and Miss Emma. I was in a hospital for a long time after the war ended. Then I had to find work and save enough money to come find you—”

“So it really was just coincidence that we first heard you whistling the night Mother got Mr. Spaulding's letter,” Emma blurted.