The Bride Wore Blue (4 page)

“Perhaps you could work with the fashion designer we have here in the valley.”

Vivian sat straighter. “You do? I mean, there’s a designer here?”

“Indeed, there is. Etta Ondersma.”

“Ondersma? On the train, at the depot, I met—”

“Deputy Jon Ondersma?”

“Yes.”

“His mother owns Etta’s Fashions in Victor.”

She glanced at her sisters. “Victor?”

“The train ride takes nearly an hour, with stops in Anaconda and Elkton.” Ida’s teacup clinked against the saucer. “Too far for you to go every day to work.”

Leave it to Ida to disapprove. Vivian wanted to ask if Victor had lodging available, but since staying with Miss Hattie was a Sinclair sister tradition, the question might not set well on her first day in town.

She’d wait until next week to ask.

C
arter patted his shirt pocket.
Good
. He still had his notepad.

And Miss Sinclair’s pencil. Which gave him at least one excuse to see her again. The spirited young woman possessed a captivating mix of vim and charm.

He settled his boots into the stirrups and slapped Liberty’s rump. As his bay stallion lunged forward, Carter motioned for his makeshift posse to follow him north, up and over Tenderfoot Hill. He had assembled three others to ride along—Jesse from the livery, Otis from the Raines Ice Company, and the banker. He couldn’t say what good pursuit would do at this point, but he had to do something while praying for a lead. He needed clues as to who might be responsible for the terror on the train.

They rode hard toward Ute Pass, to the area witnesses described as the place the two men had jumped. Carter’s thoughts returned to the wanted posters and the image of Pickett: six foot two, tall and lanky. He definitely fit the description Miss Sinclair had given of one of the bandits. And the Schofield six-shooter matched the pistol described in the Divide bank robbery.

Thunder crashing in the distance drew Carter’s attention to the clouds rolling through the pass from the north.

“Deputy Alwyn.”

The banker’s voice managed to overpower the slapping of horse hooves against the dirt-packed road. Stopping for a conversation would negate any hope he had of picking up a trail. Maintaining his steady pace, Carter glanced at Updike, who looked like a frog on a horse.

“I still don’t think this is the best idea, deputy.”

Of course he didn’t. Antagonism had etched deep lines at the man’s gray eyes and his toady mouth. “I didn’t insist that you join us.” In fact, he’d tried to talk the banker out of it.

“Someone needs to be the voice of reason. Otherwise, you could end up like your father.”

Time healed all wounds? Ten years hadn’t been enough. Carter swallowed hard, fighting down the memories. He was chasing train bandits. Not a souse and a prostitute.

“I think telephoning the deputies in the surrounding towns and sending out sketches would be more effective. And less dangerous.” Updike put slack in his reins, and thankfully his horse dropped back behind Carter.

Carter hated the route Updike had taken to make his point, but his logic held water. It would be harder for the bandits to outrun the telephone. He hadn’t thought of that before they left. Hopefully Jon would telephone the surrounding towns when he returned from Victor on the train. Still, one or both of the bandits could have been injured in their fall. And if they were on foot, there was still a chance Carter could find them.

The men rode in silence for the last mile until they reached the area of scrub oak the conductor had described as the robbers’ jumping-off point.

Carter pulled up on Liberty’s reins. The other men came to a stop
directly in front of him. “This is the general area where the two thieves jumped. Conductor said they took a tumble into a clump of trees and scrub brush.” Pointing toward the likely spot, he noted the clouds looming closer. “Best find what we can in a hurry. Look for any evidence of blood, horses, the cash box—anything out of the ordinary.”

Carter and the others spread out over the hill and at the bottom of it, examining the ground and the surrounding area.

“Over here!” Jesse’s shout had them all scrambling around a shaggy-barked juniper about a quarter of a mile from the train tracks. “They’re on horseback.”

Carter dismounted and stepped around the still-steaming evidence that at least one horse had been present. He also found freshly rubbed stripes on the tree trunk where the horse had been secured by a rope.

“They had another horse tied over here.” Otis waved his hat from a sycamore several yards away, no doubt trying to fend off the flies.

Carter studied the area. “Both horses were shod.” Unfortunately, there was nothing special about the tracks in the dust.

“Looks like they headed farther north, away from Cripple Creek.” Updike pointed at the gray sky. “No sign of any injuries. On horses, with a three-hour lead, they’ll be long gone by now and the coming rain’ll wash out any tracks.” He pinned Carter’s gaze. “I say we head back.” A thunder crack served as punctuation.

Carter blew out a deep breath. The banker was right—the bandits could be anywhere by now, but … “They wouldn’t have hauled the cash box with them. Has to be somewhere close.”

Otis Bernard straightened his floppy canvas hat. “Real quick-like, I can go check around those outcroppings.” He pointed out about another half a mile.

“Does seem like a good place to empty a cash box.” Carter
considered Otis. He was as big as a bear. Lifting blocks of ice had added brawn to his bones. Otis could easily take either of the outlaws down. Unarmed. Carter nodded. “Take Jesse with you, and be careful. We’ll”—he looked at Updike—“follow the brush line this other way.”

They split up to finish their search. A raindrop the size of a healthy grape plopped on the horn of Carter’s saddle. Another one thumped his hat. Carter was about to turn back when he saw Updike heel his horse toward a stand of pine. He rode up beside the banker.

“Find somethin’?”

The banker dismounted and tugged a steel box out from under a sage bush. “I saw the lock on the ground and followed the drag marks.”

Sure enough, the rocky soil was smoothed where the bandits had dragged or pushed the box. Carter followed the marks back to the lock, stuck it in his jacket pocket, and slapped Harry Updike on the back. “Good eye.”

The portly man smiled—something Carter had never seen him do. “Glad I could help.”

They bent over the empty box. Not a single stock certificate, receipt, or bill remained inside. By the time they’d loaded the box onto Liberty’s back and mounted their horses, Otis and Jesse were headed their way.

Once Carter returned, he’d get on the telephone to Divide, Florissant, and Colorado Springs. And then he’d return Miss Sinclair’s pencil.

Vivian pulled the last shirtwaist from her trunk and hung it over a yarn-wrapped clothes hanger. She added it to the wardrobe and looked around her new bedchamber. A fourposter bed with a sunbonnet quilt
served as the centerpiece on the back wall. An oak chest of drawers stood on one side, a matching washstand on the other. A small lamp table sat beside a rocking chair in the corner opposite the wardrobe. Her trunk fit nicely under the second-story window.

A mansion suite compared to the bed and slight wardrobe she had in Aunt Alma’s sewing room. Admittedly, the location was handy for designing costumes, but hardly private.

For now, this was her home. And Cripple Creek, her proving ground.

She knelt in front of her open trunk and unfolded her mother’s lap quilt. The large family Bible lay neglected, nestled in the bittersweet memories of her mother’s life and death. Tears stung Vivian’s eyes as she ran her fingers over the gold leaf decorations and the embossed lettering as if they were priceless jewels.
HOLY BIBLE
.

I’m so deeply sorry, Mother
.

Teardrops escaped her clenched eyes, and she brushed them away. After she wiped her wet hand on her chemise, Vivian lifted God’s Word out of the trunk and carried it to the rocker in the corner. Seated, she laid the Bible on her lap and stared at the inscription at the bottom right corner: “The Harlan Sinclair Family.”

Would her sisters have accepted her so freely, their hearts and arms open wide, if they knew the truth? Would Hattie Adams? How could they feel anything but disgust and disdain? She and her sisters had received the same teaching. They’d all been raised to be respectable and to revere God’s Word and His laws. None of her sisters had broken His commands.

She alone.

Cupping her face in her hands, Vivian let her silent tears pool and stream down her wrists. She’d placed a man’s word above God’s Word. She’d given her heart to Gregory. Then she’d given him more.

When her tears subsided, she snuffled and trailed her finger over the brass clasp that sealed the leather-bound Holman. She hadn’t opened the family Bible since that day last December. Dare she open it now?

Vivian wiped her hands on the skirt of her dressing gown and gently pinched the sides of the clasp, releasing its hold. She choked back her shame and opened the cover. Taking in the colorful illustrations, she turned the gilt-edged pages until she came to the Family Records.

MARRIAGES

Harlan Sinclair and Elizabeth “Betsy” Shindlebower wed 1872, 5 August

Her mother’s handwriting.

Katherine Joyce Sinclair and Morgan Cutshaw wed 1896, 30 May

Nellie Jean Sinclair and Judson Archer wed 1896, 30 May

Written in Ida’s confident penmanship, her
S
’s regal and her
T
’s controlled.

The next line, where Ida’s name belonged, was blank. Vivian looked at the fountain pen and the pencil that lay on the round oak table beside her. When Ida packed her trunk to leave for Colorado last year, she’d left the Bible in Vivian’s charge. Grasping the fountain pen between her fingers, Vivian drew a deep breath and began writing.

Ida Marie Sinclair and Reverend Tucker Raines wed 1897, 31 January

Vivian stared at the empty space below her untamed penmanship. That line would’ve held her name and …

She longed to do the right thing, remain detached. To gracefully accept her life as a spinster as Aunt Alma had. Her aunt lived in a comfortable house and owned a small dry goods and sewing-supply store in Portland, Maine. Her ever-expanding family loved her, and she loved them. Aunt Alma had a good life.

Feeling a slight lift in her chin, Vivian carefully turned to the next gold-trimmed page.

BIRTHS

Ida Marie 1874, 15 July to Harlan and Elizabeth “Betsy”

Sinclair

Katherine Joyce 1875, 18 December to Harlan and Elizabeth

Sinclair

Nellie Jean 1877, 20 March to Harlan and Elizabeth Sinclair

Vivian Dee 1879, 17 April to Harlan and Elizabeth Sinclair

Vivian ran her finger over the blank line that belonged to her sweet-faced niece. Yes, she was blessed with the love of a family she held dear. And she wouldn’t … 
couldn’t
risk jeopardizing that love, no matter how badly she wanted to step out of the lie she was living.

She sighed and began to write.

Hope Joyce 1897, 21 April to Dr. Morgan and Katherine “Kat” Cutshaw

Finished with the updates, Vivian closed the Bible. She held it to her chest and leaned back in the chair. While she rocked back and forth
in a gentle rhythm, her thoughts ran away with her. Aunt Alma had provided her room and board for nearly a year and a half. Her father had sent the money for her train ticket. Her sisters had let her room from Miss Hattie for the first three weeks of June.

After that, she was no longer their charge. Her aunt would board the train Monday to return to Portland. If Vivian ever expected to alter her reputation as the baby of the family, she must first prove she was capable of providing for herself.