Lessie: Bride of Utah (American Mail-Order Bride 45) (14 page)

So he’d lit the oil lamp on the telegraph desk, pushed the two single chairs into the corner of the small room, no more than eight-feet-square.

Richard had set up a pallet on the floorboards. Quilts, pillows, and blankets. Still the floor beneath was hard but the room was warm from the fire he’d lit in the small potbellied stove.

The desk became their headboard and the opposite wall their footboard.

The location office was in use mostly during daylight hours, so come morning, they’d have to roll up the bedding and put it back in the wagon, but that would keep the varmints out.

Though the burial, keeping his eyes open around the miners and listening to snatches of conversations as he and Lessie walked through the camp, he’d itched to know the contents of the letter found in Trengove’s pocket.

Lessie had already removed her boots and slipped into the make-shift bed fully clothed. He didn’t blame her. The window had no curtains to block prying eyes and even with the stove heating the space, the night had grown cold.

Golden lamplight filled danced on Lessie’s features. Richard climbed in beside her and pulled her close. Just for a quick snuggle. “I’ve waited all day for a minute alone with you.”

“You haven’t let go of my hand for hours.” She yawned. “I’m not complaining. I like holding hands.”

That first meeting, in Union Station, he noted how the twins held hands, linked elbows, almost always touched one another. “My reasons for holding hands might not be romantic, but I kept you safe, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” She snuggled a little closer. “You kept me safe.”

“My reasons for wanting time alone with you aren’t very romantic, either. You saw something near Trengove’s body, didn’t you? The look on your face has had me guessing ever since.”

Her dark brows drew together. “What look?”

He spoke softly, just in case someone lurked outside, anxious to overhear. He couldn’t be too careful. “I’m checking the scene for clues, anything out of place— seeing nothing at all, but you have an expression that sure looked like you’d noticed something important. I couldn’t ask you, not with Skipper and Gibbons right there.”

“I don’t remember. I honestly don’t know.”

Disappointment seeped in… not unlike the cold mountain wind finding its way through the chinks in the single-room building. “It doesn’t matter.”

They still did have something to work with— the letter Trengove had carried in his pocket. A dirt-smudged envelope, folded in half, address within the fold.

Interest sparked. Finally, a chance to read the contents, maybe learn something about the man who’d apparently died from a blow to the face.

He pressed a quick kiss to Lessie’s forehead then eased his arm out from beneath her head.

“I like using your arm for a pillow.” She lost no time finding one of the feather pillows he’d brought and snuggling deep.

He rolled over just enough to reach his back pocket and pulled the folded envelope free.

“I forgot all about that letter.” Lessie surprised him, sitting upright and losing all signs of sleepiness. “Read it to me.”

With their backs to the window, Richard examined the smudged envelope. If anybody peeked in the window, all they’d see was Lessie’s and Adam’s backsides, fully clothed. If they kept their voices down, no peeping Tom would even know they bent over the letter found on Trengove’s body.

“It’s sealed.” As if Trengove hadn’t had the time to open it. “That’s odd. Usually, the mail arrives, is distributed in the mess hall at breakfast and supper, the men pounce on their correspondence and read it then and there.”

“Maybe Mr. Trengove was late for his shift?”

Or late to meet whoever had thrown the fatal punch?

Questions that had no answers and might not matter, in the end.

Richard opened the fold, expecting to see an address, postage stamp, all the usual.

But the front of the envelope was clean. Nothing written on it and no smudges.

He tried to see through the paper of the sealed envelope to better determine the contents.

“Open it,” Lessie urged. “Mr. Trengove won’t mind.”

Not one to rip envelopes, and without his bone-handled letter-opener, Richard reached for the next best thing. Trengove’s knife also tucked in his back pocket. He opened the Opinel blade from the handle and slit the envelope seam.

“Look at the handle.” Lessie reached for the knife but knew enough to stay away from the blade.

The wooden handle had been etched with the Opinel company name, but far more had been added by a different blade. Someone had carved letters into the handle.

Three stocky, crudely formed letters. M.T.G.

Lessie nudged him and he met her eye. “Some fancy monograms have the last name initial in the middle. The Mill hemmed handkerchiefs once.”

“I don’t think this is Trengove’s.”

M.T.G.

Maurice T. Gibbons.

A guess, but a valid one.

He had no idea if Gibbons had a middle name or if said hypothetical middle name began with a T. But he wouldn’t put it past him.

Perhaps Gibbons had sold the knife to Trengove.

Then again, there might be half a dozen men in Big Ezra with the initials M.T.G.

Could be Trengove had picked up the knife long before coming to work for Cannon Mining and it had no connection to anyone within a hundred miles.

He really needed to talk to Edgar Kerry, Trengove’s shift supervisor, and ask him what he knew of any relationship between Gibbons and the dead man.

Richard pushed the blade back into the hardwood handle and dropped it on the blankets spread across their laps. He’d find Kerry in the morning, but first, he needed to know what paper the dead man had carried in his pocket in a sealed envelope.

My dearest Emilie,

The moment you open this missive, you’ll become immediately aware I have enclosed no money. I’ve done my best, precious wife—

“Read aloud.” Lessie nudged him. “I do better with typeset than handwritten, but I don’t read well.”

“I forgot. I apologize.” Lessie didn’t seem the slightest bit uncomfortable with her near-illiteracy, so he refused to make it an issue. He could read aloud, and he would.

He began at the salutation, his heart breaking for Herman Trengove, his bride Emilie, the infant son he’d never met…

…and his urgent need to send money home for the care and keeping of his family.

He read to the end, though the letter contained highly personal declarations of love, longing to see her once more, promises to find a way to gather the necessary cash money.

Herman’s letter referenced the need for funds several times, but never disclosed why. Obviously his wife understood, and waited with

“I’ll write Mrs. Trengove tomorrow.” He’d find her address, somehow. Someone on this mountain had to know Trengove left a wife and where she might live. “She needs to know her husband has died.”

Better yet, Trengove probably had a small trunk or case containing personal belongings. He might find letters from his wife bearing a return address.

He tucked the letter back inside the envelope, folded it with care. This letter he’d not taken the time to address would find its way to the intended recipient, within an official letter from Cannon Mining.

No young wife wanted to learn of her husband’s demise.

Somehow, Lessie found her way into his arms, burrowed her face into the hollow of his throat. She clung to him with a fierceness he’d not expected. Almost as if her compassion for the widow and infant caused her acute pain.

“Tell me something.” Lessie blotted her eyes against her sleeve, as if tears had formed but she refused to acknowledge them as such. “When was payday?”

“Payday? On the first of the month.” He hadn’t thought of it because— “We pay in scrip. Not cash.”

Lessie stilled. “Then where was Herman Trengove hoping to obtain cash?”

As Adam would say, the thousand-dollar question.

“I don’t know.”

“Why would he work for you for scrip, if his family needed cash for some reason at home? Why didn’t he leave your employ and find work somewhere that pays in currency?”

“I don’t know.” Maybe no one at Big Ezra knew. Miners, for the most part, kept their business to themselves.

“If a man like Herman Trengove received scrip on payday, and if he had a need for United States currency, how would he go about making an exchange?” Lessie’s eyes nearly sparkled with excitement. “That person just might know more of Mr. Trengove’s situation. Might even know—”

Lessie hauled up short, so short she must have realized something of significance.

Good thing, too, because he didn’t want to tell her that company scrip wasn’t exchangeable for cash. It was in lieu of currency. Spendable at the company store, covered rent of houses or a bed in the bunkhouse. The system was in place because the system worked. Not all mines were near enough to a town to make United States currency a viable option.

“Might even know what?” he asked.

“Might know what Trengove was willing to do, in order to obtain the money his wife and child need.”

Dread inched its way in. Could Trengove had been so desperate for cash he’d work for the traitors within the company? The timing was questionable, given no one knew for sure when he died. But he might have been the linchpin for the episode when the morning muckers cleared rock away and found themselves bludgeoned by late fall rubble.

Ideas swirled. Possibilities shifted in his head.

He wished he had Adam’s sharp mind and his tablet to write it all down and come up with a conclusion.

The sun had set so long ago, Richard had lost track of the time. This time of year, the sun set at half-past five. Twilight lingered until closer to six. A little earlier in the mountains though. He opened his watch.

“What are you thinking?” Lessie’s soft touch to his arm brought him back.

“Is it too late to corner Edgar Kerry?”

“The big black man? Trengove’s shift supervisor?”

“That’s him.”

She tipped his watch to she could see the face. “Nine-o’clock isn’t too late. But consider the only rule you gave me when we left home. We absolutely cannot tip our hands. If you speak to Mr. Kerry about what Mr. Trengove may or may not have been willing to do for money, he’ll know you’re curious.”

“I’ll be careful. Address it all in concern about sending word to his widow, forwarding the letter and his belongings.”

“And if Kerry is the one who murdered Trengove? Do you really want to speak to him in the dark, alone? He might assume more than you carefully disclose. Or what if he’s not involved, but believes you are? You have to realize many of the men in camp blame you and Adam for the many deaths.

He pocketed his timepiece and looped his arm about her shoulders. “I don’t like sitting on this information until morning, but I understand what you’re saying.”

“Thank you. I can’t help but feel Trengove’s widow’s pain. I’d never be the same if anything happened to you.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“Is it possible… to send Widow Trengove money? Call it the wages he had coming or just a king gesture.”

Not a bad idea. Actually— a very good idea… and he was falling in love with her passion and compassion even as shame raced through him.

Sixty-one men had died in the past week at this location alone, and he hadn’t thought to offer any sort of financial compensation to the families left behind.

He’d brought her out her for a reason, and he needed to remember that. He needed to use her talents and quit trying to bumble his way about without listening to her advice.

“We’ll do it.” He’d figure out a way to make it happen for all the widows.

The decision felt good, but still an uncomfortable thought nagged. “What if he was one of the turncoats?”

“He may have been. But his wife probably wasn’t. I doubt she knew what her husband was up to. And that baby is innocent.”

He kissed his bride’s temple, softened by her compassion and loving her tender heart.

She yawned, big and long. “Let’s go to sleep. We can pursue this in the morning.”

They did their best to get comfortable on the pallet. He snuggled her close, enjoying the way she fit against him. Just right. The floor beneath them might be hard, but the joy of falling asleep with her in his arms was worth it.

In the midst of darkness, death, loss, and worry— she proved herself to be capable of providing the kind of help he needed.

Somehow, Adam’s carefully worded advertisement had netted the perfect companion, the best possible wife. Richard could only hope Adam felt half as blessed, half as confident in his own bride.

Gratitude lessened Richard’s angst, tempered his guilt, and abated his impatience.

Yes, Mrs. Lessie Anne Cannon was a very good fit indeed.

“Thank you, Mrs. Cannon. Thank you for your help.”

“You’re welcome.”