Dreams of Gold (7 page)

The skin around Quinn’s eyes tightened, and his expression set as hard as granite. He rose to his full height, rested his hands on the table, and loomed close. “You’re Shamus Mulcahy’s
daughter
?”

Chapter Four

The iciness of those four words chilled her into silence. Move away from this man’s cold anger, Ciara’s instincts warned. Dash her impetuousness. Mama had always said her fiery temper would lead her into trouble. If only Sheriff Riley hadn’t baited her, she might have taken a few moments to decide how much she wanted to reveal.

The slap of the sheriff’s hand on the wooden table resounded throughout the café dining room. He reached into a trouser pocket to draw out several coins and tossed them on the table. “Miss Morrissey, please accompany me to my office. The information you desire is there.”

Relief over his more reasonable tone flooded through her. Finally, the man would share the information she’d traveled so far to obtain. She grabbed her parasol and walked to the front of the café.

Holding open the door, the sheriff waited, his body rigid and his free hand drawn into a fist at his side.

Ciara glanced at his face and received no acknowledgment from his hardened expression. The door closed behind her with a decisive snap, and she watched in surprise as he strode past without extending an arm in her direction. She raised her parasol and followed at her own pace, fighting the pinch in her chest at his obvious snub.

From this angle, she had a good view of the sheriff’s imposing physique as he marched away. Muscular arms churned like the rods on a steam engine’s wheels, causing his shirt and vest to pull tightly across his back. In just a few seconds, his long-legged stride rapidly moved him ahead.

Other pedestrians glanced his way and scattered from his path. One young girl clutched her mother’s skirts and hid her face at the rapid-fire sound his boots made on the sidewalk. A few brave souls spoke a greeting, but Ciara doubted they received an answer.

He disappeared around the corner of the barber shop. A few moments later, she stood in front of the half-open door to the jail. Being this close to achieving her goal should have made her feel victorious. So, why had a nervous knot settled in her stomach?

“Miss Morrissey, please come in.”

She jerked at the clipped sound of the sheriff’s voice and stepped inside. His voice was firm and calm. If she hadn’t witnessed his bold march through town, she might be fooled into believing he welcomed her presence here in his office.

Never having been inside a building used to contain society’s criminal element, she looked around in wonder.

The sheriff lounged against a battered wooden desk on the right side of the office. Two doors led off this room, both closed.

One she presumed led to the cells, the other probably opened into a small room where she suspected he might sleep. Images of this vibrant man relaxed and at total rest escaped her. Since she’d met him, he’d been constantly in motion—giving orders, searching for clues, seeing to her welfare, but always arguing with her.

After a moment or two, he cleared his throat and extended a hand. “Would you care to sit?”

Stepping in his direction, she spotted the chair he’d set across from him and lowered herself to its edge. “Thank you. This condition of being short of breath all the time is a nuisance. I hope you are correct this aberration will pass by tomorrow.”
Stop filling the air with nonsensical talk and let the sheriff have his say.

Without breaking eye contact, he reached with his left hand and grasped a paper from his desk, held it out in her direction, and indicated with a nod that she should take it.

Irritation at the delay stiffened her movements as she reached for the printed document. At first glance, it resembled stock certificates she’d seen among the sheaves of her grandfather’s legal papers. Certificates that had become worthless by the end of the Civil War. When the truth was revealed, she’d been shocked to discover his political sympathies were with the southern cause. Sympathies that had almost bankrupt the family.

In irritation, she thrust the paper back toward him. “Why are you showing me this...this stock certificate of some kind? How does this give me what I’m looking for?”

“Read the whole thing.” His voice was harsh.

On closer inspection, she read that the paper represented fifty shares in the Prosperity Mining Company dated earlier the same year. The certificate was made out to a Nevin Riley. The letters popped out, and she focused on the last name. Riley? A relative of the sheriff’s?

“I still don’t understand.” She glanced up, hoping to read a clue in his expression. Nothing.

“Whose signature is at the bottom?”

With a growing sense of dread, she looked again at the paper and saw a scrawl that read
Shamus Mulcahy
. Her hand trembled, moving so much the print went out of focus, and she lowered her hand to her lap. The handwriting wasn’t familiar. This signature looked nothing like the one she’d seen on the batch of her mother’s letters.

A fact she knew for certain, but one she sensed she would find impossible to prove.

Mouth drawn into a tight line, his gaze bore into hers. “Do you recognize the name?”

Now was not the time to appear hesitant. Chin up, she looked into his dark eyes. “Of course I recognize the name, but not the signature. This is not the signature I know as Shamus Mulcahy’s.” That much was the truth. Sheriff Riley didn’t have to know she’d only recently learned to recognize her own father’s signature. “I do not know what to make of this.”

“Let me provide the background.” He settled himself on the edge of his desk and crossed one ankle over the other. “A smooth-talking Irishman by the name of Shamus Mulcahy came to town about five months ago. He had a sack of gold nuggets he swore came from a vein up Crazy Woman Creek.”

“I beg your pardon?” She couldn’t help but sound disbelieving. “There is really such a place named that?”

He frowned at her interruption. “For years, people in these parts have spun stories about the potential of the rock in that area. All started in ’65 when two prospectors claiming to have struck a rich vein of gold stumbled into Fort Reno. Their story was only a few days’ work garnered them nuggets valued at seven thousand dollars. On their way to the fort, they’d escaped an Indian attack that killed the rest of their company. After wintering at the fort, they outfitted a group of ten men and headed back in search of the lode. They were never heard from again.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, but his gaze never left hers. “The excitement over the strike had died down until Mulcahy’s appearance this spring. He worked the townsfolk into a frenzy of gold fever, took a group of men out to show them the vein, and sold shares in a mining company.”

To this point, she followed the story but wasn’t sure what had him so angry. Was this the explanation for the reaction of the townspeople? A business deal that wasn’t working out as they’d expected? Her grandparents had spoken often about her father’s grandiose ideas, and his inability to make them succeed. “I understand mining to be a risky venture. Hasn’t the mine produced the anticipated quantity of gold?”

“The mine has produced nothing. People used their life savings to buy into this company.” He spat out the words, then took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling for several moments. “Mulcahy left with the town’s money, declaring he had to travel east to order the equipment, but never returned.”

A thief? A knot formed in her stomach. No, surely Mama would have warned her if her father were such a man. A dull pain ached in her temples. “Perhaps he met with delays. As one who has just traveled across the country, I can vouch for—”

“I don’t need you to vouch for anything,” he snapped, and then held up a hand at her interruption. “He’s been gone twice longer than he said. The townspeople feel foolish about being duped, and angry this man stole their money through this phony mining company.”

The memory of her grandfather sitting in his study with similar papers strewn across his desk flashed in her mind. He’d brooded over them for days, weeks, until finally he’d told them the truth. She raised the paper in her hand and pointed to the buyer’s signature. “Is this man your father? The one whose name appears on this certificate?”

The sheriff pinched the bridge of his nose and gave a short nod. “Pa used most of his savings to buy in. He’s not a young man and may never replace the money.”

“I am sorry to hear that, and for all of the people involved.” The disparaging tone of his voice indicated his blame extended to her. Ciara’s chest tightened. The situation was so similar to Grandpa Morrissey’s. “But this is not my father’s signature. He writes with a left-handed slant.”

“Signatures can be easily changed.”

She’d known the sheriff would not take her word. “If the man were running a scam, why would he use his real name?”

Pushing away from the desk, he walked with a stiff-legged stride to the back of the office. “You’re avoiding the point.”

She followed his movements, noting how his strong legs pulled at the fabric of his trousers. Why did this particular man make her heart race? Especially at the most inopportune times. “Excuse me. I don’t see what point you’re making.”

He paced the short distance between the back wall and the desk. “You show up in town seemingly with no other purpose than to look for a man by the name of Shamus Mulcahy. You insist on keeping your intentions secret. This document—” he flung a hand in the direction of the paper she held “—is signed by that very person. Once you started traipsing around town, asking about the man and how you could find him, you opened the floodgates on a lot of anger. I’m being hit by the results of your actions. And I want some answers.”

Ciara gripped her hands into fists and started counting. What was this man saying about her character? Were all travelers who rode into town subjected to a battery of questions similar to what she’d endured? She doubted that was the case. He dared to insinuate she was somehow involved in the mining company scheme. If he implied the people of Bull City blamed her, then she’d set him straight.

“Did Miss Fairchild have to endure an interview about her intentions in Bull City?” The dull ache sharpened, and she fought back a wince.

“What?” He leaned his palms flat on the desk. “You’re clouding the issue.”

She stiffened at the flash of anger in his eyes. And fought her body’s reaction. “I do not believe I am. On two separate occasions since my arrival, you have interrogated me. The first time was about the robbery which seemed logical, the second was about my personal business. Was Miss Fairchild put through a similar set of questions? Did her character come through the interview more intact than mine?”

He stared at the tips of his boots for so long she thought he might ignore her question.

“Miss Fairchild had no information about the robbery.”

His words were flat. Maybe she’d made her point. “Is that so? You interviewed her and discovered she had no details to add?”

With restrained moves, he crossed both arms over his chest. “You told me she fainted.”

“That did not occur until the robbers had stopped the coach.” She lifted her chin and met his glare, unwilling to give into the worsening headache. The pain encircled her head and pinched, like a hat several sizes too small. “I believe
she
comes from a farm in Ohio, and therefore
she
might have noticed an important detail about the saddles and horses.” Irritation heated her blood, and Ciara purposefully quieted her voice. “Yet, you did not interview her.”

“No, I didn’t.” He ran a hand through his hair and stared out the window. “But then she didn’t make inquiries about a man who has done these townsfolk a good deal of harm. I guarantee now that their backs are up again over the mining company, the people of Bull City won’t let the issue fade away. Especially if you stay in town.”

Again, the stubborn man returned to that point. She sagged against the back of the chair and raised a hand to her aching temple. “I have told you several times, I will remain until my business is completed.”

He settled himself against the desk again and looked at her, one eyebrow raised.

“I mean until I meet Mr. Mulcahy.” She winced at how her words gave away too much information.

“Meet him?” His eyes narrowed. “You haven’t met Mr. Mulcahy, but he’s your father?”

“Until I meet
with
Mr. Mulcahy. That is what I meant to say the first time.” She stiffened her back and scooted to the front of the chair. “Your veiled accusations are insulting.”

“They’re nothing compared to what you’d be hearing if the townspeople weren’t abiding by my instructions.”

“What instructions?”

“To direct anything or anybody related to the Prosperity Mine or its representatives to my attention.”

Ah, so that was why the shopkeepers wouldn’t talk. She stood and placed the paper on top of his desk. “If I am to change the townspeople’s opinions of me, I guess I have work to do. I assure you, Sheriff Riley, I have no connection to the Prosperity Mining Company. I have done nothing wrong except believe that you had the information I seek.” She squared her shoulders and stared hard, hoping to impress upon him the serious nature of her next statement. “And I will remain in Bull City until
I
decide my business here is concluded. Good day, sir.”