Fugitive Hearts Page 3

  Inside the store, a pot-bellied stove warmed the air. Had his head hurt less, he might’ve enjoyed the rich aromas created by an assortment of baked goods offered in the shebang. Beneath a glassed counter, a selection of golden-brown hand pies, artfully displayed on a platter.

  The savory scents sent his stomach rolling.

  Frank swallowed hard. He didn’t have time to baby his belly with a pot of coffee followed by a nourishing breakfast at the Whistle Stop Café. One of these meat pies would have to do.

  Horace Bows, the mercantile owner, bid farewell to a customer and sauntered over. He smoothed this hands over crisply ironed apron, worn to protect his suit.

  Bow’s General Store, the largest in town, was situated on the main street, close to the depot. He and his wife kept it well stocked with everything anybody could want: dry goods and hardware, groceries, housewares, even beer and bottled liquor. He’d gotten rich because Claire’s brother, Henry Stevens, had plopped a railroad out here in the middle of a prairie, then laid out a town around it. Horace had been one of the first businessmen to leap at opportunity.

  As far as Frank was concerned, he owed Henry Stevens his undying gratitude for offering a broken-down marshal the job as sheriff. It had been a godsend that saved his sanity, and, for the time being, his life.

  “What’ll it be, Sheriff?”

  Frank dragged his attention away from the bottles of home brew on the shelf to the glassed display with the meat pies. He held up two fingers. “Two of your wife’s sausage pies.”

  “She makes the best.”

  “That she does.”

  The bell on the door jangled.

  Two women bundled in fur coats entered together. Minnie Taylor, a mousy little gal married to the new mayor, and Gertrude Bond, a statuesque lady with pale coloring and piercing blue eyes that could freeze a man at fifty paces.

  Last summer, William Bond had taken over the position Henry had resigned as general manager for the Katy Railroad. The Bonds had moved from New York and appeared to have brought most of the clothing in the stores with them.

  The two women stopped at a table stacked with bolts of calico cloth. Instead of examining the merchandise, they peered over the top, like curious prairie dogs peeking out of their mounds. When Frank caught them watching him, they dipped out of sight.

  Those two must’ve heard about shooting. Spiced up with the extra parts about Claire going into the saloon and him carrying her out.

  The women’s schoolgirl antics annoyed him, though it was bound to happen. Juicy gossip passed through town faster than shit through a goose.

  “Here you go, Sheriff.” Mr. Bows passed the pies over the counter.

  “Much obliged.” Frank paid him two bits. Just last year, Bows had charged twice that much. With the economy sinking and the railroad in trouble, the merchant had adjusted his prices down. Everyone had been forced to make adjustments, with the exception of a few wealthy families like the Bonds.

  Frank had taken a cut in salary so he could keep his deputy on the payroll. He figured he could afford it because he didn’t have a family to support and didn’t need much. For the moment, just a couple meat pies to stave off starvation.

  He unfolded the paper and sank his teeth into the flaky crust. Tasty, and it went down better than he thought it would. He’d not press his luck. The second pie would stay in his pocket, for now. It would make a good lunch if he got too busy to stop at a cafe.

  Walt and Dru—two regulars—had taken up their usual position over a checkerboard laid atop a hogshead barrel. This morning, the aging settlers huddled near the pot-bellied stove in the rear of the store. In nice weather, they preferred to sit out front where they could chat with folks passing by. Those two old codgers knew more about what went on in Parsons than anyone else did, including the women.

  Frank passed by a table stacked with bibbed dungarees, clothing favored by railroad workers, on his way to the back of the store. “Howdy, Walt. Dru…”

  “Mornin’ Sheriff.” Dru hugged a worn Indian blanket around his thin shoulders. The trapper’s Osage wife had died the previous winter and he’d taken to hauling that striped blanket around. If it kept him warm, it was more useful than most keepsakes.

  “How d’ye do, Sheriff.” Walt removed a clay pipe and cradled it in his hand. Smoke curled up around a long, grizzled beard. The fellow had to be sixty if he was a day.

  Frank noted, with disgust, his own faded hair had about as much gray, and he was younger than Walt’s sons. At least he wasn’t bald like Dru.

  “What do you know?” he asked casually.

  “Reckon you could tell us, seeing as you toted Mrs. Daines back to the hotel in her nightgown after all that commotion last night.” Walt’s lips twitched.

  Dru didn’t crack a smile, but the creases around his eyes deepened.

  “Don’t spread that around,” Frank said sharply.

  The old fellows threw worried glances at each other. In their rheumy eyes, all amusement had vanished.

  Frank adjusted his voice to a polite tone. “Either of you seen Billy Frye?”

  The two men shook their heads.

  “If you do, let me know.”

  They acknowledged the request with respectful nods. They’d think twice before they poked fun at a distressed woman who had enough grief to deal with.

  No one else was in the store who Frank needed to talk to, so he headed for the door.

  Gertrude Bond followed him outside. “Sheriff Garrity, might I have a word with you?”

  The new general manager’s wife rarely used one word. Generally, she spun off a dozen or more, most of them complaints about the local rowdies and how uncivilized Parsons remained in spite of him being in charge of law and order.

  If he kept walking, he didn’t think she’d trail after him across the street and dirty the hems of those fancy skirts. On second thought, he ought not be rude, even to a woman he couldn’t find a single reason to like.

  He halted before he stepped off the edge of the sidewalk to allow her to catch up with him. “Yes ma’am. How can I help you?”

  He didn’t have to look down very far to meet her eyes. She had to be close to six feet tall. The lady towered over other women, and most men, including her husband. Frank had nothing against tall women, but he favored petite gals, in particular one with magnificent chestnut hair.

  “I thought you should know about the talk going around.” Gertrude kept her voice low. She threw a cautious glance over her shoulder, as if she didn’t want her friend, who’d just exited the store, to overhear.

  Who did they think they were fooling? They’d whispering the entire time he’d been inside.

  He didn’t ask what talk because he wasn’t interested in her gossip.

  She kept on anyway. “Mrs. Daines killed her husband in a fit of rage. They yelled at each other and threw things. Everybody heard it.”

  Frank nudged his hat back, finding it hard keep his expression indifferent. “You heard them?”

  “Of course not,” she snapped. “I wasn’t there. I heard about it from one of the guests.”

  He’d spoken to the guests after he’d gotten Claire settled. Some of them mentioned hearing noises before the gunshot. Nothing specific. Anybody familiar with Claire would know she wasn’t the type to go into fits of rage or otherwise. She was one of the most levelheaded women he’d ever met.

  Frank hooked his thumbs over his gun belt and adopted the lazy drawl that made everybody think he was friendly and easy going, although he was neither. “Thank you, ma’am, for telling me about the gossip. I appreciate you not wanting to see rumors like that spread around.”

  The beanpole biddy narrowed her eyes. “It’s no rumor. She admitted she killed her husband.”

  Dang. He should’ve kept walking.

  “We don’t know the particulars about what happened. Mrs. Daines is in a fragile state, which is why I’d appreciate it if folks would refrain from speculation—”

  “Sheriff!”

  He jerked his head around, startled by Claire’s hail,

  The self-made widow, clothed from head-to-toe in solid black, came marching across the dirt street. She hiked her skirts to the tops of her boots and deftly navigated around a steaming pile of manure. Her frown conveyed displeasure and her rapid pace determination. She looked anything but fragile.

  “Where’s Billy?” she demanded upon reaching him.

  That answered one question. The boy hadn’t returned. However, it didn’t answer why Claire would look at him like she wanted to strangle him.

  Frank shook his head. “Haven’t seen him.”

  Her angry glare softened into confusion. “But he isn’t…if you didn’t… Where is he?”

  Still missing, which wasn’t good news. “Figured you might know.”

  The high color drained from her face.

  He stepped off the sidewalk into the street, moving close enough to catch her, should she faint dead away, as she had the night before. “Let me escort you to the hotel. It’s warmer in there and we can talk.” He didn’t add, without an audience.

  Mrs. Bond perched at the edge of the sidewalk. She’d soaked up every word. So had her friend, Minnie Taylor, and a half dozen other women who’d gathered to eavesdrop.

  “I have to find Billy,” Claire protested.

  “We’ll find him.” Frank slipped his hand beneath her elbow and pivoted her around to head her back the way she’d come.

  The hotel lobby was busier than a month of Sundays. These people couldn’t all be guests, which meant most of them were curiosity seekers. Morbid happenings always drew a crowd.

  “Where can we go to have a private conversation?” Frank asked in low voice.

  Claire shot a wary look in his direction.

/>   “Unless you want to talk out here?” he added.

  “The office.” She set a course past the registration desk.

  He followed, and kept the oglers away with a glare. He would’ve ordered them all to leave, except she hadn’t given him license to clear out her place of business.

  Her office was furnished with a roll-top desk, a bookcase and two chairs. Lacy curtains and a bright rug added feminine touches to an otherwise masculine room. It smelled of paper and ink, and a faint floral fragrance he’d noticed before whenever he got close to her.

  Wild roses. Like the ones his mother had brought from Missouri when his father moved them over the border so he could help keep Kansas free. Would the trailing vines still be there, even though she wasn’t alive to tend them? One way to find out, take a trip to the farmstead.

  Frank squelched his wistful longing. Going back would only remind him of how miserably he’d failed his family. He didn’t need another regret to dwell on.

  He closed the door so their conversation wouldn’t be overheard. Last night, the new widow hadn’t been thinking clearly. This morning, she seemed fairly well recovered, in light of the circumstances. She ought to be able to clear up inconsistencies in what she’d told him last night.

  Her fragrance was distracting. He couldn’t shut off his senses, but he could keep a businesslike attitude, and remove his hat. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Yes, of course.” Claire took his hat and heavy overcoat, hung them over a wall peg. Her cloak went on the next peg. She untied a ribbon at her chin and removed the ugly black bonnet.

  Frank watched her fingers with utter fascination. She had what his mother would’ve called artist’s hands. Slim, elegant, deft.

  This morning, her hair had been tamed into a smooth roll and confined in a net. If he hadn’t seen it loose, he never would’ve guessed its length and thickness. He imagined how it might feel if he brushed it out with his fingers.

  Like silk.

  His breath hitched. Then, annoyance set in. This obsession with her hair, and other parts of her, was unfitting, not to mention a damn nuisance. “Why did Billy run off?”

  Her fearful glance stopped him. Towered over her with his fists balled, growling questions, would not be the most effective approach.

  He released his frustration on a deep breath, then gestured to one of two chairs. “How about we sit down?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She eased onto the cushioned seat of an armless chair and arranged her skirts. Her back remain rigid—the result of good breeding or a bad case of nerves. One hand went to a broad belt at her waist from which hung a small bag and a set of keys. She toyed with them.

  Nerves.

  Any woman would be nervous at being questioned. More surprising, the fact that she’d gotten up and out. Ordinary grief would send most women to bed for weeks. She had Billy to consider. She was worried about the boy.

  Frank took the armchair. He dug in his coat pocket for his notebook and pencil. If the boy didn’t show up, he’d put out a description so others could help locate him. “How old is Billy?”

  “He turned twelve the second of November.”

  Surprising. Frank wrote it down. “Small, for his age.”

  “I suppose. Having had no children of my own, I wouldn’t know for certain.” She darted a worried glance out the window that face the alley. “He’s very bright. He didn’t know how to read very well when he first came here. By Christmas, he was devouring those dime novels Lucy sends him.”

  Impressive. Frank would bet it was Claire’s doing as much as Billy’s. “He was illiterate when you got him, wasn’t he?”

  “Not entirely. Billy hungers for knowledge. Same as you did at his age, I’m sure.”

  Frank smiled. She probably hadn’t meant the remark to be flattery, but it was far from insulting, and further reinforced his good opinion of her. She looked for the good in others. “My mother would’ve agreed with you. She always said a curious mind should be encouraged.”

  The tightness in Claire’s expression eased. “Your mother sounds very wise.”

  “She was.” As well as wise, long-suffering, too good and kind for this world, so she’d moved on to the next. While he’d been out to exact revenge instead of remaining at home to take care of her.

  Frank dragged his mind out of the unforgiving past, which he could do nothing about. The present was another matter. He had a violent death to resolve. Last night, he’d been close to certain it was an accident. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

  Still holding the pencil, he rested his hand on his knee. The widow’s prickly behavior puzzled him. Granted, she had a good reason to be upset. Except, he got the distinct impression she had something to hide, which figured into Billy’s disappearance.

  He couldn’t—rather, he wouldn’t—intimidate her with harsh accusations. At this point, he had few facts to go on. He would have to probe and see where the questions led him.

  Billy had come to live with her a little less than a year ago. As far as Frank knew, she ran the hotel with no help from her husband. It wouldn’t seem she’d have time to deal with a troubled child. “How come you took Billy in?”

  “Henry asked me if I would. Several times, actually. He kept finding Billy at the rail yard and worried he’d get hurt. Henry was single at the time and busy with running the railroad. Well, I suppose you know that. Frederick didn’t want children. I finally convinced him that Billy had nowhere else to go.”

  Odd, most men wished to continue their line. “Your husband refused you children or he couldn’t give you any due to his injuries?”

  She flushed crimson. “Why does that matter?”

  It didn’t. Unless the shooting wasn’t an accident. In which case, she would have a motive for killing her husband. His refusal to give her children might’ve caused resentment on her part. From all appearances, Claire longed to be a mother. So much so, she’d taken in a wild, half-grown boy. To her credit, Billy had thrived under her wing. He’d gone from a surly hell-raiser to being her devoted admirer. Which begged the question.

  “Why do you think he’d run off?”

  She pulled a lacy handkerchief from beneath her black sleeve and held it in her lap. “He’s scared, I suppose.”

  “Scared of what?”

  Her eyes remained downcast as she twisted the black cloth around her fingers. “Of what he saw.”

  Now, they were getting somewhere.

  Frank shifted to the edge of his seat. “He was in the room when your husband was shot?”

  She jerked her head up, as if startled. “No! He wasn’t in the room. He came in later, after he heard the gun go off. Then he saw Frederick lying there and he got upset. I was in shock. I-I told him to go to his room. He might think I’m angry with him.”

  Her maple-colored eyes shone with misery. But she’d twisted that hankie around her fingers so tight one might think she needed a tourniquet. Years of dealing with all manner of charlatans had taught Frank to spot liars. He’d never thought of Claire in that vein—before now.

  The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, followed by the sinking sense that he’d lost something rare and precious. An ideal.

  Of all the ladies in town, Claire was the one he most admired. In many ways she reminded him of his mother—a devoted wife, a compassionate neighbor, hospitable to all who darkened her door, brave in the face of adversity, hard-working, honest.

  Disappointment welled up, surprisingly bitter. He’d been foolish to place Claire on a pedestal, even if…no, especially because of his attraction to her. He’d been a lawman long enough to know that even fine, upstanding ladies would lie, given a motive.

  What was Claire’s motive? He was mighty tempted to call her bluff. In his experience, liars denied their falsehoods. If he challenged her, she’d clam up and not tell him anything. If he kept her talking, she’d eventually get tangled in the loose threads.

  “Where did you get the gun?”

  Her spine got a little straighter. “From the registration desk. I keep a pistol hidden there, just in case there’s trouble. This can be a rough town. At times. Not so much since you’re been here, but I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know”