A Promise to Believe in (11 page)

“Harvey told me a great deal about his childhood, about his memories before his family died. He never mentioned having a brother at all. He only spoke of his mother and father, and of a good friend who lived nearby. I’m convinced now that the man I knew and loved couldn’t possibly be the brother you seek. There would have been no reason for him to keep such things from me.”

For a moment, Hank was nearly convinced himself. Harvey would never have denied their relationship. They were very close … had seen each other through bad times. Hank had even taken Harvey’s punishments on many occasions, just because he felt sorry for his little brother. Maybe he had followed the wrong trail. Maybe the man Gwen had married had killed his brother and taken his name. It was possible…. Yet listening to Gwen describe her husband and remembering everything the others had said about him, that man hardly sounded like a cold-blooded killer.

Hank thought of Gwen’s comment about Harvey having a friend. Harvey had very few friends. His poor health kept him inside most of the time.

“You say he spoke of a good friend?” Hank crossed the space to stand directly in front of Gwen. “And did that friend have a name?”

Gwen nodded. “Of course he did.”

“And what was it?”

She studied him for a moment and shook her head. “If you were truly his brother, you would already know it. Why not tell me?”

“Because I know of no such friend.”

She nodded again and shrugged. “Then I believe you must be mistaken.”

Beth stopped Lacy and pointed in the direction of the cemetery. “Look at that. Mr. Bishop won’t even leave Gwen alone long enough to visit Father’s grave.”

Lacy followed her sister’s gaze. “I think it’s time we took matters into our own hands. I thought maybe he’d get the idea after we drugged his coffee, but he’s a hard case.”

“Well, we can be just as hard,” Beth said, forming a plan in her mind. “I think from now on we should do what we can to encourage Mr. Bishop to return back East.”

This thought was uppermost on her mind the next morning as she dished up oatmeal for breakfast. Looking at the bowls she’d prepared for her sisters, Beth couldn’t help but smile.

“There’s no time like the present,” she murmured, putting down the sugar and reaching for the salt. She portioned out salt on one of the bowls of cereal, then went to the cold cellar for the buttermilk.

“This ought to be interesting,” she said as she stirred the concoction together. She put the oatmeal on a tray and carried it with the other bowls to the dining room, where her sisters and Mr. Bishop awaited.

Careful to remember which bowl had been altered, Beth served everyone, then took her seat at the table.

“Would you care to offer grace?” Gwen asked.

Beth looked surprised but nodded. “Lord, for that which we are about to receive, we thank thee. Amen.”

She looked up rather sheepishly and then quickly devoted her attention to her breakfast. Mr. Bishop reached for his toasted bread first. He quickly slathered jam on top and then took a bite. Beth waited nervously, wondering when he would try the cereal.

“Did you hear what I asked you?”

Beth looked up to realize Gwen’s question was directed at her. “No. I’m sorry. I was just thinking . . . well . . . about breakfast.” She smiled and avoided looking at Hank. “What did you say?”

“Mr. Bishop needs some clothes washed. Would you have time to do that?”

Beth realized yet another opportunity to cause grief for the stranger. “Why, of course. I’d be happy to help. Tomorrow is wash day, and I could do it then.”

“I have half a dozen white shirts. I’m very particular about them,” Hank said as he reached for his spoon. “I like them to be washed thoroughly and starched lightly. Can you do that?”

He sounded as though he were addressing an eight-year-old. Beth held her temper, however. “Of course. I’ve been taking care of such things since I was quite young.”

Mr. Bishop met her smile and nodded. He dipped into the oatmeal and spooned a large amount into his mouth. The cereal had scarcely entered, however, before he was spitting the concoction out again.

Gwen was notably taken aback. She stared at the man as he grabbed for his coffee and then took a long, steady drink.

“Whatever is wrong, Mr. Bishop?” Lacy asked.

Gwen actually got to her feet. “Yes, are you quite all right?”

“Is it too hot?” Beth asked.

“I’m fine,” the man replied, grimacing slightly. He put down his coffee cup and looked at Beth. “What in the world do you call this?”

“Oatmeal, Mr. Bishop. It’s the way we eat it here. Do you not care for it?”

He looked as if he were trying to size up the situation and determine whether she had played him for a fool. Beth continued to look quite innocent. At least she hoped that was the appearance she gave.

“Malo in consilio feminae vincunt viros,”
he muttered.

“Does that mean you prefer something else?”

Hank pushed back the bowl and shook his head. “No. I’ll just eat the toast. Thank you.”

Gwen thought Hank had acted quite strange throughout the day. First, there had been his reaction to the oatmeal; after that, he gingerly sampled each thing given him to eat. It was almost as if he were afraid of what he would find.

Throughout supper, he continued in this manner, with the girls doing their best to pretend that nothing was amiss. Gwen couldn’t quite figure him out. He’d been in a bad mood since she’d refused to give him the name of Harvey’s childhood friend. She’d convinced herself that Hank Bishop was not her dead husband’s brother, but rather a misguided soul bent on a mission that she could not help him accomplish.

She’d even looked in the suitcase Harvey had left. There weren’t any papers or stock certificates as Mr. Bishop had hoped. She felt rather relieved in this discovery. The stories the man told were so far removed from anything she remembered of her beloved that Gwen felt certain there was more than one Harvey Bishop in the world.

When supper concluded, Beth and Lacy began cleaning up while Gwen went into the front room to check the fire. She put enough wood on to last throughout the evening. It would die down in the night, but hopefully they would all be warm enough under their covers. She knew that she and her sisters would be fine, but perhaps Mr. Bishop was used to warmer surroundings.

Gwen watched as Hank made his way for the stairs. Surprisingly enough, the Major was at his side. Gwen approached with a smile. “Would you like for me to light a fire in your stove?”

“No. I’ll be fine, thank you.” His curt reply was not what she had expected. He had been so much more civil when they’d spoken in the cemetery. She supposed her attitude had put him in this state.

“Tell me, Mr. Bishop, are you cross with me?”

He paused on the steps and looked at her sternly. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Well, you did not seem very . . . well . . . happy at supper. In fact, you were rather preoccupied.”

“I did not wish to repeat my ordeal at breakfast. Apparently you Montanans enjoy a variety of flavors that the rest of the world would rather avoid.”

She thought his comment odd but thought perhaps it better to change the subject. “Tell me something, Mr. Bishop. This morning you spoke in that Latin tongue again. What was it you said?”

“Malo in consilio feminae vincunt viros.”

Gwen frowned. “And what exactly does it mean?”

He raised a brow and gave her a look that sent a shiver down her spine. “Women surpass men at scheming evil.”

“Excuse me?” Gwen shook her head. “What in the world would prompt you to say that?”

“Perhaps you should ask your sister.” With that he was gone, the Major faithfully climbing the stairs at his side.

Gwen walked into the kitchen still shaking her head. “Mr. Bishop just said the most unusual thing.”

Beth looked up from drying a plate. “And that surprises you? As far as I’m concerned, he’s been saying all sorts of strange things.”

“I asked him about that Latin phrase he quoted this morning. I wondered what it meant,” Gwen began. “He just now interpreted it for me. ‘Women surpass men at scheming evil.’ Then he told me I should ask you or Lacy if I wanted to know why he said that. What do you suppose he means by that? Neither one of you speak Latin.”

Beth immediately looked guilty and cast a quick glance at Lacy. “I’m afraid it was my fault. I made his oatmeal less than palatable. I figure if we make him miserable enough, he’ll leave. He’ll give up this wild chase of his and let us go back to our peaceful lives.”

“Oh, Beth, you didn’t. You shouldn’t torment people—especially not someone who already seems to hold so much against us.”

“But he’s not what he seems,” Lacy said, glancing around suspiciously before motioning her sisters closer. “I saw something very strange in the Lassiters’ barn.”

“What?” Gwen asked, her mind already in a whir.

“Mr. Bishop’s saddle.”

Gwen shook her head. “What was so strange about it?”

“There are initials carved into the leather.”

Gwen pulled back and rolled her eyes. “A lot of people do that. I’m sure Mr. Bishop felt it identified his belongings.”

“Well, it might,” Lacy said rather smugly, “if his initials were A. R. instead of H. B.”

“What?”

“It’s true,” Lacy told Gwen. She looked at Beth, who seemed just as surprised. “I’m wondering if maybe he stole the saddle.”

Gwen regained her senses. “Goodness, but you always jump to the worst conclusions. Maybe he just bought a used saddle. That happens all the time, and probably more than we realize back East, where people are doing less and less riding and more carriage driving.”

“Where did you hear that?” Beth asked.

“Patience Shepard. She’s told me all sorts of stories about when she lived back East.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Lacy said, sounding rather disappointed that Gwen offered a reasonable explanation. “I’m thinking that A. R. might very well be Hank’s real initials. And if they are, then he certainly can’t be Harvey’s brother.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“That takes care of everything but Mr. Bishop’s shirts,” Beth told Lacy as they hung up the last of their personal laundry. “I guess I might as well see to that.”

“He deserves to have to wash his own shirts,” Lacy replied. She hoisted a basket and headed back toward the large caldron.

“I’ll admit that much is true,” Beth said. “But still, I promised to take care of them.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean you have to do it in the same manner he suggested. After all, we’re just silly girls. We might not have understood exactly what he wanted.”

Beth smiled. She glanced up to spy Rafe’s girls working behind the saloon to care for their own laundry. Beth’s first thoughts were of sympathy, even pity. She couldn’t begin to imagine what type of ordeals had brought these women to such an end.

“Look,” she whispered to Lacy.

Lacy’s gaze followed and she nodded. “I feel sorry for them and angry at them, all at the same time. Does that sound crazy?”

“No, I feel the same way,” Beth admitted. “I can’t help but wonder if they understand that they’re living in sin. Surely they must. I’ve wanted to talk to them, but we hardly ever see them. I think Rafe keeps them locked up. See how pale they are?”

She considered the three women. Marie was in her late twenties and had been a prostitute since she was a young girl. Hardened by years of dangerous living, the dark-eyed woman kept to herself, scrubbing what looked to be a blouse and saying nothing to the other two.

In contrast, the younger women were chatting freely. Ellie, a petite blonde, had been in the business for only a short time, Beth had learned. She was a young widow whose husband had been gored to death by a bull. With no other family or friends to help her, Ellie eventually found herself forced into working at saloons in order to keep herself fed.

Regina was the youngest, at seventeen. Rafe boasted that he’d won her in a poker game in Denver. Apparently, her father hadn’t counted on Rafe’s four of a kind. Regina was like a timid rabbit. She stuck close to Ellie and seemed shy of strangers.