Squire's Quest (38 page)

If there was a watcher, his intentions were benign, for no one stopped them on the street
or questioned them as they sat stiffly in the depot, waiting for the westbound train, due,
according to the ticket agent, at 5:00 a.m.

"That settles it," Lily said when he told them the first train was going west. "We're going
to Denver. Back to Tilly's. I never should have left."

Callie said nothing, but she prayed Tilly needed a cook.

They boarded as soon as they could. The coach was about half full, with only two
available seats together. Lily shoved a man dressed in a checkered suit and a pork pie hat aside to
get to it. Callie, who would have taken any seat, as long as it wasn't by a window looking out at
the station, meekly followed her.

When the train started moving, she began shaking. Her teeth were chattering by the time
it had gone past the town boundary.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

She wanted to answer Lily, but couldn't speak. She wanted to cling to Lily's hand, but
couldn't make her own behave.

"Callie, are you sick?"

"N-n-no" That was all she could manage. Pa was dead. He would never again hurt her,
would never again force her to obey him.

My father is dead.

She wanted to laugh. She wanted to weep. She wanted to shout to the world that she
was free.

But she wasn't. Merlin's child was growing within her, and she would never choose to be
free again. The babe was a gift, an anchor, to hold her to life. To give her a second chance at
happiness.

She couldn't have Merlin, but she could, she would, have his child.

She would love it, boy or girl, as she'd never been loved. All she had to do was find a
way to give the babe a home.

* * * *

"We buried her," Abner Travers said, while tears ran down his dark cheeks. "The county
would have put her into a pauper's grave, but we couldn't have that. I bought a double plot,
figuring if we ever found your body--" He buried his face in his hands. "Who'd've thought you'd
show up, live and kickin', after so long?" The words were muffled, and the tone said he was
doing his best to control his tears.

"I'm obliged," Merlin said. He wasn't used to his name yet, but he tried to think of
himself that way. With practice, he hoped it would sound right. "Did Murphy leave any
messages for me?"

"No sir, but the Pinkerton man, he did. Bethany put it in a safe place. Let me see if I can
find it."

He went into the next room and Merlin heard the sounds of drawers opening and
closing. After a while he came back, holding a sheet of paper. "Here you go, Mist' Lachlan."

"What? What did you call me?"

"Mist' Lachlan. That's your name, ain't it?"

Lachlan. Merlin Lachlan. It felt right. Not comfortable, like an old, well-worn boot, but
still, it did fit. "Yes. Yes, I think it is." He took the paper, unfolded it.

This is to whoever comes from the Lachlan family. Lucas Savage can vouch
for me. I've no proof that Lemuel Smith was responsible for Merlin's
disappearance or the death of his wife, but I'm convinced he was. I'll do my best
to keep track of Smith, in case you want to investigate further, but my superiors
won't let me actively follow this investigation any longer.

There followed a signature and address: The Pinkerton Agency in Chicago.

"Lemuel Smith? Who's he?"

"Miz Callie's pa. He was a bad man."

"But nobody knows where he is?"

"Not so far as I hear. And the Pinkerton man, he told me he couldn't find hide nor hair of
him, either."

Merlin stared into space for several minutes. "I knew I came from somewhere else, but
I've no idea where. Do you know if I have kin? A place I called home?"

"Maybe. When Mister Creek come by, he said he'd be goin' to over to somewheres in
Idaho to tell your folks what had become of you. He said he didn't know them, but he knew
someone who did."

"But he didn't say exactly where?"

"Nossir, he didn't." Abner's shoulders slumped. "Mr. Creek, he was feelin' pretty down.
His wound was paining him, and he was frettin' over young Tom Ainsworth getting killed."

"Thank you, Abner. For burying my...my wife, and for telling me what you know."

"She was a good woman, Mister Lachlan. Miz Callie, she was a good woman." Again
tears left trails down his cheeks.

Merlin was half a block away when he heard Abner calling him. "What?"

"I recollected something. You had yourself an account at the bank. When you came to
town to buy Miz Callie's wedding ring--a pretty gold one with a green stone--you went to the
bank first. Maybe they can help you."

He thanked Abner again. It was worth a try. "Let's go to the bank, Rye. We can look for
work tomorrow as well as today."

The teller wouldn't give him any information without him proving who he was, but the
fuss caught the attention of the bank president. "Of course I remember, you, Mr. Lachlan. But I'd
heard you were--"

"I know. I was reported dead. But as you can see, I'm alive and kicking." He essayed a
smile, which was not returned. "What I need to know is, do I still have an account here?"

"You do indeed. We were holding the funds until your heirs showed up." He chuckled, a
dry, humorless sound. "Not that anyone has, because we had no idea who to contact, and your
employer, Mr. Creek, left town before we could ask him. I wrote to the Morrison and Robb main
office, but have received no reply."

He steepled his hands and tapped forefingers together. "Hmmm. We've never had a
situation like this before. But since I know you, there should be no trouble releasing the
funds."

After seating Merlin and Rye in a fenced-off area to one side of the tellers' cages, he
disappeared into a door market PRIVATE.

"Maybe you're rich." Rye sounded awed.

"Not likely. A few dollars, maybe, that I saved from my wages. With luck it'll be enough
to get us to Idaho."

"What if it isn't?"

"Then we'll find work until we have enough."

The banker came bustling back after about fifteen minutes. "Well, now Mr. Lachlan,
you've got funds, but the balance is considerably less than what you put in. You made a large
withdrawal the middle of January. As I recall, you said you were getting married."

"I see. How much is 'much less'?"

The banker glanced at Rye, lowered his voice. "Ninety-seven dollars and thirty-two
cents."

Nearly a hundred dollars. If that's considerably less, the ring must have been something
special.
"So there's no problem with my closing out the account?"

"No, of course not, but may I ask why?"

"I'm moving on. So if you'll oblige me...?"

As the banker turned toward the teller cages, Merlin had a thought. "Mr. Wilkes, is there
a name besides mine on the account, someone to contact if I'm out of touch."

"Why I-- Let me see." He skimmed his eyes down the paper he was carrying. "I don't
see one. Hmm. Most irregular. We should have asked for a local reference, at least."

Well, hell. But at least I know where to start looking.
"Thanks anyhow. Now,
do you have papers for me to sign?"

It took another fifteen minutes to get his money, mostly because the banker kept going
on about how the loss of the Morrison and Robb warehouse would affect the local economy and
how much he hoped they'd send someone to replace Creek, who was, after all, not what you'd
call a regular manager, and so on and so forth, until Merlin wanted to tell him to just shut up and
do his banker job.

Outside the bank, he stood on the sidewalk looking up and down the street. "I'm going to
Idaho. Want to come along?"

Rye looked at him suspiciously. "Is it a long way from here?"

"Darned if I know. We'll find a map, but not until we've got ourselves baths and clean
clothes."

"Baths?" He made it sound like a swear word.

"Yep. I saw a mercantile on the way here. We'll stop there first." A thought occurred to
him. "No, wait. Let's go see the sheriff."

"What for?" Rye sounded scared.

"He's got something that belongs to me. A ring."

* * * *

Their train was on time. Callie had hoped it would be late getting to Cheyenne, for they
wouldn't be catching the southbound train to Denver until the middle of the afternoon. She'd
already spent too many hours in the Cheyenne depot.
If Lily's right about Deed following
us...

When she confided her worries to Lily, she was surprised at the reaction.

"You're darn tootin' we don't want him to see us, not if he might know you. Let's go."
She pushed and prodded Callie to the women's lavatory, at the far end of the car. The two of
them made for a tight fit, once the door was closed and locked.

The two women who came out were twenty years older than the ones who'd gone in. On
their way back to their seats, Callie saw several folks eyeing them curiously, and hoped none of
them were getting off in Cheyenne.

"Now remember," Lily said when they'd sat down, "walk like you've an aching back.
And keep your chin down. You're so tall, folks remember you. We don't want them to notice
either of us."

"I can smell the powder you used on my hair. Won't people wonder why an old lady is
wearing so much perfume?"

"Not at all. Old ladies' noses don't work as well and they usually wear too much scent.
Now stop fretting and take a nap. You want to be wakeful and watchful while we're in
Cheyenne."

* * * *

Rye strutted along the street, clearly wanting everyone to notice his new clothes. He'd
confided to Merlin, while they were soaking in the baths, that he'd never had new britches in his
whole life. "Had me a new shirt once. Ma made it. But I got too big for it."

"You sure those boots fit?" They were nearly as big as Merlin's for all the lad was half a
head shorter.

"They're a little stiff, but they'll break in." With a little hop, Rye got into step with him.
"How come you wear laces instead of those heeled boots? Seems to me they'd be harder to kick
out of, should your horse go down."

"They're better for walking. Since we don't have horses, you'll be glad you've got
them."

"Maybe." Rye looked skeptical. He'd shown his preference for a pair of high-heeled
boots with red stitching, but had admitted they were too expensive.

"Why are we goin' to Idaho?"

"Why not?"

"Mist-- Merlin! That banker, he didn't know where your kinfolk were, and neither did
the nigger."

He stopped so suddenly that Rye had taken three steps before realizing it. "Don't use that
word. Not ever. What color his skin is doesn't matter. Abner Travers is a good man."

"But--"

"But nothing. Just don't use that word or any other one that insults a man because of
where he came from or what he looks like. If he acts like a son of a bitch, call him one. Just don't
ever assume his looks or how he speaks have anything to do with whether he's good or bad."
Why he'd reacted so strongly, Merlin wasn't sure. It had been as much a part of him as his
disinclination to curse, his sense of responsibility toward those smaller and weaker.

"Let's have supper. It's been a long day."

* * * *

No one paid them any attention during the six hours they sat--and fretted silently--in the
Cheyenne Depot. Callie was nearly paralyzed with fear that the clerk who'd helped her when Pa
had abandoned her here would come in and recognize her.

She never saw him, despite examining the face of every man who entered.

At last boarding was announced for the train to Denver. She and Lily walked across the
platform slowly, still in their guise of elderly ladies. The Conductor waved everyone else aside
and helped each of them up the steep steps. "You ladies sit up front there, close to the stove. It'll
be a mite chill this evening, even though the days are warm."

They took the indicated seat, and smiled secretly at each other. "Maybe I should've
traveled this way before. Usually I'm fighting off the men."

"You probably wore that orange satin dress before," Callie whispered back. "It makes
you look like a sporting girl."

Lily gave her a sharp jab with her elbow. "Honey, I am a sporting girl."

They got to Denver a little after eight that night. Callie would have walked to wherever
they were going, out of a lifelong habit of frugality. Lily insisted on hiring a cab. "This is no
town for a woman to go about alone," she said, "especially at night."

When she saw the goings on along the streets they traveled, Callie was glad Lily had put
her foot down.

The house they arrived at was far larger than Ariana's Palace had been, and appeared
entirely respectable. The wide front porch held a swing and several rocking chairs. Lace curtains
hung in the oval windows of the double front doors and in the wide windows on each side. She
had the strangest feeling this place was more than a refuge. It was home.

"That's plumb crazy, It's a bawdyhouse."

"What are you muttering about?" Lily gave the doorbell a good jerk.

"Nothing. Just tired."

A colored maid opened the door. "So you're back," she said to Lily.

"Don't scold, Nancy. I'll admit I was wrong to leave. God, if you only knew..."

"Go back to the kitchen. I'll tell Tilly you're here."

"She doesn't sound very friendly," Callie said, worried they might be refused a place
here.

"Oh, don't pay attention to Nancy. She's cranky, but it's all show. Oh, good, there's
coffee." Setting her satchel beside the kitchen door, Lily went to the counter. She filled two cups
with coffee from the pot on the back of the big cookstove and handed one to Callie. "Sit down.
You look like you've been drug through a knothole backwards."

"I feel like it," Callie admitted.

The small but voluptuous woman who entered a few minutes later was well past her
prime, but still lovely. She looked respectable, too, except for the ornate scarlet-and-black gown
and her obviously dyed black hair. Her smile was welcoming.