Spirit of the Valley (12 page)

Chapter Sixteen

“Mama, wait,” Rebecca complained. “Why are you walking so fast?”

Lizzie made herself slow down. “Am I?”

“Yes!”

It was true. In her eagerness to get back to the cottage, she'd adopted a too brisk pace despite her hands being full. Cessie had insisted she bring ham and a pie back for Jeremy. It was just that everything had taken longer than expected. Church, visiting after church, the ride back, and then lunch. Not that it all hadn't been nice. It had. Very nice. But she couldn't help her eagerness to get back home. “Sorry.”

Jake stuck his zoetrope to his eye as he walked.

“Play with that when you get home,” Lizzie rejoined. “I don't want you to trip and fall.”

He dropped it to his side with a half pout. “I wouldn't fall.”

“Honey, this isn't level ground. You might easily catch your foot and fall. And break your toy.”

Rebecca was turning her doll over and over, black face to white and back again. “Do you think he'll still be there?” she asked without looking at her mother.

“He said he would,” Lizzie replied. “That's why Cessie sent these things.”

“‘Sweetly sings the donkey,'” Jake began to sing.

Lizzie joined in the song and then Rebecca did, too. When the cottage came into view, Jeremy was nowhere to be seen. He was not on the roof and there were no sounds of work being done. Lizzie's dismay was immediate and acute. The instant she heard the chopping of wood, her heart leapt, although it was followed by an inner warning that she shouldn't have been
that
disappointed, or
this
relieved.

They entered the house through the front door and the children went to change their clothes. Lizzie hurried to the kitchen, set the food down, and then went to find Jeremy. He was around back, cutting wood shingles. He saw her and stopped, although his gaze flicked over her appreciatively.

“We're back,” Lizzie said needlessly.

“How was it?”

“It was very enjoyable. Cessie sent some food for you. For later in the week.”

He looked puzzled for a moment. “So she, uh, knows about—”

“That you're helping,” Lizzie said.

He brushed his hands off. “That was nice of her.”

Lizzie wondered if she should add something more, something about how the subject had come up when they'd both agreed to keep it private.

“We're out of shingles, so I cut some more,” he said.

The
we
in the sentence sent a thrill pulsing through her, but he looked tired. “You should stop for the day. Please.” He nodded slowly, looking let down. Did he think she was dismissing him? Asking him to leave?

“I'm almost at a stopping point. It won't be finished today, but I got the major leaks fixed.”

“April May sent a deck of cards,” Lizzie said with a shy smile, anxious to convey she wasn't asking him to leave. “She asked if I had one, I said no, so she sent one. Although I don't know any card games.” The smile that transformed his face proved she'd been right.

“You don't play poker?” he teased.

“I couldn't play a game of poker if my life depended on it.”

“I can teach you. If you want.”

Her smile broadened and she nodded before starting back to the house.

 

 

The fire in the hearth crackled as Lizzie set her dish towel aside and turned back to watch the construction of the house of cards in progress. It was Rebecca's turn, and she was moving slowly and carefully to place two cards. The parallel struck Lizzie. Rebecca's approach to the game was similar to her approach to Jeremy. Distrustful, wary, aware everything could suddenly crumble before her with the lightest touch. But maybe Rebecca had the right idea, and it was she who was wrong.

How queer it was that, only a few days ago, she couldn't have been convinced a man would show up and turn her head. She'd had no idea that one's heart rate could increase from attraction. From fear, yes—but from attraction? She'd had no idea. Jeremy made her feel something she couldn't define exactly, but she liked it. Still, she'd only just met him—and here he was in her home with her children. Not only that, but she'd kissed him. She'd gone to his room dressed in a robe, her hair loose—he must have thought the same of her morals—and she'd kissed him. And, worse, she wanted to do it again.

Rebecca placed the cards successfully and began backing away, but then they toppled. A collective
aw
was uttered all around and Lizzie was quick to smile sympathetically, although she circumspectly watched Rebecca for her reaction. “It's time for bed anyway,” she said.

Rebecca pouted. “Oh, Mama, just one more game.”

The words were good to hear. “No, ma'am,” was the answer anyway. “Another time. It's past eight, so go get ready for bed.”

As usual, Jake popped up and went cheerfully while Rebecca went grudgingly. Lizzie sat back down as Jeremy got the cards back in order. “That was a good idea,” she said. “They enjoyed it.”

“You want to play another round of five card stud?”

He'd written down the hands in the order of how they ranked, and they'd played for matchsticks. “For matchsticks again?”

“Sure,” he replied lightly. “Then maybe the winner gets something else.”

The muscles in her stomach tightened. “Like what?” she asked as she rose again to get the pile of matchsticks.

“Oh, I don't know. What do you want?”

“It was your idea,” she hedged as she came back to the table. She sat and divided the matchsticks. “What sort of thing were you talking about?”

“How 'bout a . . . kiss,” he said quietly.

She hoped she looked calmer than she was feeling. She couldn't even look directly at him. “Deal.”

“You mean ‘it's a deal'?”

“I mean deal the cards, Mr. Sheffield.”

He grinned and shuffled. “I'll do that, Miz Carter.”

His utterance of the name was a reminder that, to some degree, this was make-believe.
She
was make-believe. Or was she? The funny thing was that she felt like Lizzie Greenway Carter as much as she'd ever felt like Pauline Ray. She had more of a sense of belonging here in Green Valley than she'd ever had in her entire life.

He began dealing. “You didn't say what you wanted if you win.”

She picked up her cards without reply, but a smile played on her lips.

“Oh, I see,” he said. “You want to think about it awhile. Is that it?”

She shrugged lightly and studied her cards. “Did you say four aces was a good hand?” she asked musingly. His smile was instant and glorious. It made her heart race. Oh yes. A heart rate could increase from sheer attraction.

“I think the lady likes to bluff. Although it might be worth losing just to find out what you want.” He paused. “How many cards for you?”

Her gaze met his. “One, please.”

He slid one over. “I sure hope it's not the fifth ace.”

She laughed.

“Dealer takes two.” He studied his cards a moment and then looked at her. “What's your bet?” She pushed two matchsticks in.

“I'll see your bet. Call.”

She laid down her cards one at a time. An ace of spades. A three of diamonds. A six of hearts. A nine of hearts and a jack of clubs.

He blew out a breath. “Hard to beat that.”

“I know. It's so pretty and colorful,” she teased along with him. When had Pauline ever teased? Never. But she wasn't Pauline anymore. She was Elizabeth Anne Greenway Carter. This wasn't make-believe. She was really sitting here in her kitchen in her home that had belonged to her father, with this handsome man who was helping her and who made her heart beat fast. She had excellent instincts and she frequently laughed.

“I fold,” he said, tossing his hand face down. “What'd you win?”

“I'm still thinking about that.” She began to rise. “But, for now, I should check on the chil—” She broke off as she made a mad swipe for his cards, scooping them up and backing away as he laughingly grabbed after them. He had two sevens. She gave him a look. “You can't fold after you bet, and you don't quit with a winning hand. Or did I misunderstand that?”

“Okay,” he conceded. “I win.”

“Are you going to tuck us in?” Rebecca asked from the doorway.

“I'll be right there,” Lizzie said calmly, despite the excitement she felt. She set the cards down. “Did you say good night to Mr. Sheffield?”

“Good night,” Rebecca said sullenly as she turned away.

“'Night,” he returned, as if he hadn't noticed her tone.

Lizzie held back a smile as she shook her head at him, then left to see to the children.

 

 

Thirty minutes later, Lizzie walked back into an empty kitchen. She'd indulged the children with two stories, so perhaps she'd taken a little longer than expected, but she was disappointed to see that he'd gone to bed. Although he had worked hard every day for a week, so she was being utterly unfair. She packed a basket full of things for him to take, turned out the wall lamp, and went to her room, but she'd only removed her shoes when there was a light knock on the door.

It was him, of course. “I just wanted to say good night,” he said quietly so as to not disturb the children.

“I thought you'd gone to bed,” she replied just as softly.

“No. I was outside. I'm going to my room now.”

If only she'd noticed he was outside. They could have played longer. “There's a basket in the kitchen for you. Don't forget it tomorrow.”

“I won't.”

“It's small enough pay,” she said sheepishly.

“I liked being here. I even liked building the house of cards.”

She smiled, grateful for the sentiment.

“Well, good night,” he said, stepping back.

“Your bet,” she said impulsively. “I mean . . . you won the bet.”

He stepped closer, but not all the way to her. He nodded slowly and then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek. The whiskers on his chin were rough, but they merely tickled, as gentle as the touch was. “I'll see you next week.”

All she could do was nod. Her heart was in her throat.

Chapter Seventeen

 

Charles Ray was tallying columns in a ledger, but he couldn't get the same sum twice in a row. He was standing at the counter of the cooper shop, slumped over the book and getting more frustrated by the minute, when a middle-aged woman walked in. She wasn't an attractive woman. She was solidly built, her hair dark, her face plain, her lips and eyes both on the smallish side. He straightened and set his pencil aside, weary of calculations. He'd been adding one column for what seemed like an hour and it always netted a different sum. “Yes, ma'am?”

“Is Mr. Ray available to speak with?” she inquired.

“I am Mr. Ray.”

“Mr. Ethan Ray?”

He hesitated because he loathed when everyone assumed Ethan was the man in charge. “Charles. Ethan is my brother, and we're partners in this establishment. Can I help you?”

“No, sir. It's a personal matter. Is Mr. Ethan Ray here?”

“He's here.”

“Would you get him, please?”

Her expression hadn't changed one iota, which was to say she remained utterly expressionless. He wondered how much her expression would change if he smacked her upside the head. “Who can I say is calling?”

“Cynthia Perkins,” she supplied. “From the Pinkerton Agency.”

He drew back in surprise. “Pinkerton? As in detectives?”

“If you'd be so kind as to get your brother,” she said curtly.

For several seconds he didn't budge, but she continued to peer at him until finally he relented. He found his brother overseeing the loading of a wagon. “Ethan,” he called.

Ethan looked over at him with his typical scowl. “What?”

“Someone here to see you. A woman.”

The loading was completed and the workers tipped their hats to the brothers before climbing on the wagon and driving away. Ethan wiped his hands on his apron as he walked closer. “Who is it?”

“From the Pinkerton Agency,” Charles replied.

Ethan looked irritated. “I thought you said it was a
woman
.”

“That's right. Name's Cynthia Perkins and she's one cold fish.”

Ethan moved past his brother and walked into the small lobby, and Charles followed.

 

 

Cynthia looked around the shop as she waited. It was neat, sparsely decorated, and smelled of wood. It was interesting to observe the brothers walking in together. There was a resemblance between them, but the differences were clear to see, too. Ethan was the younger, but the leader. They both had thinning brown hair, although neither man was older than his midthirties. Neither was particularly attractive, but Ethan was the more attractive of the two. There was an arrogance about both of them, and there was something in their expressions, or something just beyond, that spoke of quick anger and an innate sense of entitlement.

Ethan stopped in front of her but didn't offer his hand. “I'm Ethan Ray.”

“Cynthia Perkins from the Pinkerton Agency. I've come in response to your inquiry.”

“I asked for a
detective
,” he stated coldly.

“And here I am.”

“A woman?” Ethan scoffed.

She didn't bat an eye because she'd heard it all before.

“Since when are there
women
detectives?”

“Since nearly the beginning, sir. Have you never heard of Kate Warne?”

“No. Who's she?”

“She was one of the best. Mr. Pinkerton relied heavily on her and claimed she never let him down. Nor have I, as a point of fact. Is there somewhere we could talk in private?”

He studied her a moment, flummoxed and agitated and not the least bit concerned with concealing his feelings. “And if I insist on a man for the job?”

“There are none currently available, but I'll certainly return to the office and report it, if that's your wish. Of course, with every day that passes, the trail grows colder.”

“What experience do you have?” he challenged.

She smiled, but barely. “I should not have been sent had I lacked the necessary experience.”

He huffed his displeasure, but led the way toward a private office. Charles, she noticed, didn't particularly care for this arrangement. She followed Ethan to a small office where he motioned to a chair. She walked over and sat, and only then did he round his desk and sit.

“So, how do we do this? What do you need to know?”

“I need facts. Details such as the date your wife left.”

“It was a month ago. August seventeenth. A Friday.”

“And you've heard nothing at all since?”

“No.”

“Do you have a photograph of her and the children I can use?”

“I have a picture of Pauline. It's ten years old, but it still looks like her.”

“I'll need it, but you'll get it back. I can write you a receipt for it, if you wish.”

He leaned forward menacingly. “It's not my wish.” His forearms rested on the table and his fists were clenched. “I don't give a damn about it. Use it and then burn it, for all I care. But find her.”

“How old are the children?”

“Rebecca is eight. Jake is four.”

“Did your wife leave any sort of letter or—”

“No. Nothing.”

“Do you have any idea what mode of transportation she employed?”

“No, I do not, but she didn't have any money, so I don't see how she could have gone at all, much less stayed gone. Which means somebody's got to be helping her. I'll tell you one thing, when I do find out—” He left the rest of it unsaid, but his malevolent scowl spoke volumes.

“Does she have family she might go to?”

“No. She was an only child and her folks were older. They're long dead. There's no one. Don't you think I've racked my brain for where she might be?”

“Where was she from originally?”

“Here! We're both from here.”

“What about close friends?”

“Something wrong with your hearing? There is no one! I didn't allow her to waste time with worthless, gossiping females.”

He was abrasive in the extreme, but certainly not the first she'd dealt with. Cynthia Perkins opened a small handbag, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to him. “It's our policy to establish our fees in advance. We have set hourly, daily, and weekly fees, whichever best works to your benefit, plus you'll pay all pertinent expenses I incur.”

He narrowed his eyes and then opened the envelope and took out the form. Looking it over, he huffed in disgust. “I can't afford this.”

“Those are our rates, sir, and they are non-negotiable. You should already have been informed of them.”

“Well, that's when I thought a
man
was—”

“As I told you, sir—”

“I want a guarantee of some sort,” he interrupted.

“A guarantee is not possible, but you know our reputation.”

“Where will you even start? I'm not just going to throw away good money.”

“I'll speak with neighbors and—”

“Like hell you will. I forbid it. You hear me? No one needs to know my business.”

“That makes it considerably more difficult. I will have to note that limitation in the report.”

“You saying you can't do anything?”

“No, I am not saying that. If I'm not allowed to speak with neighbors, family, or friends, I'll begin by going to the livery and the depot to see if someone remembers seeing your wife and children.”

“No names. Don't give anybody any names. You got that?”

“I understand.”

Ethan began scribbling on the form. “I will not pay for any services beyond six weeks.” He handed the signed contract back to her. “Find her in that time or I'll find someone else.”

She glanced over what he'd written and then put the contract back into her bag. “Her picture?”

Ethan pulled open a bottom drawer of the desk and took out a framed picture. He removed the daguerreotype from the frame and handed it to her.

Cynthia stood. “I'll be in touch regarding my progress.”

“You do that.”

“I can see myself out,” she said, starting from the room.

He sat back in his chair, flabbergasted. “A goddamn woman detective,” he muttered under his breath.