Silver Lies Page 28

  Two hours ago, I thought I had all the answers I needed. Turns out, I was asking the wrong questions.

  Chapter Fifty

  Inez stopped in front of the church, looking up at the white spire thrusting into the low, gray sky. The blizzard had paused. Desultory snowflakes drifted past. They seemed in no hurry to meet the ground where they would be crushed and molded into ice beneath boots and wheels. A few fell on her upturned face, feeling like the cold gentle taps of angel wings.

  She felt empty. Bat Masterson’s words had blown clear through her, like the high Colorado winds, leaving her numb.

  Clutching her shotgun, Inez trudged to the minister’s office in the rear of the church, stepping in the reverend’s footprints.

  When she entered, Sands looked up from the notes and books on his desk. A warm smile spread across his face. All that smile did was increase the icy feeling of betrayal in her heart.

  "I heard Emma’s doing better." His smile faded, concern taking its place. "Is something wrong?" He rose from his chair.

  Inez stepped back. "I just talked to someone who remembers you. From long ago."

  Concern disappeared, replaced by a flicker of caution. "Who?"

  "Bat Masterson."

  "The Kansas lawman?" His voice stayed steady. "Never met him that I recall."

  "You’re lying. He knew your full name. And he called you something else."

  Sands looked down at the open Bible and hymnal, and flipped them shut. He walked to the window, back to Inez. "What was that?"

  "Sandman."

  She saw him lift a hand to where his mustache would have been. He muttered, "Jesus Christ." It did not sound like a prayer.

  After a moment, he added, "What did he say, exactly. If I may ask." He was excruciatingly polite, as if inquiring after the weather.

  She willed him to turn around so she could see his expression. He didn’t. "Bat said you were a hired gun in Dodge."

  She saw him flinch, as if she’d hit him between the shoulders. He finally turned to face her. "I won’t deny it, Inez. I’m not proud of that time in my life, but I’m not that person any longer."

  "He also said you were a thoroughly nasty bastard. And a lady-killer." She bit her tongue, wondering if she’d gone too far.

  He picked up a letter opener, toying with the blade. Eyes on her. "For years, alcohol was my poison. It brought out the worst in me. It erased months from my life. Months where I can recall nothing."

  How convenient.

  "So, Reverend. Tell me about this decent woman in Dodge. The one that’ll earn you a necktie party if you return. Is that something you don’t recall?"

  He finally moved toward her. "Inez—"

  His eyes were pleading. The numbness within her shimmered, threatening to fall apart like a mirage.

  She retreated another step and brought the shotgun up. Not pointing at him, but close enough. "Stay behind that desk!"

  He stopped, spread his hands wide. "Inez, let me explain—"

  "Stop! I don’t want long, involved explanations. I’ll ask the questions. You answer yes or no. And I want to see your face while you do so."

  Slowly, he lowered his hands behind his back and waited.

  "Justice Sands. Did you kill a woman in Dodge? Yes or no."

  He struggled visibly and said at last, "She was shot with my gun. But I didn’t pull the trigger."

  "No? That’s not the way it sounded to me."

  He lowered his eyes, as if it was easier to look at the desk than at her. One hand came out from behind his back and began stacking papers. "Can I tell you what happened? It was a complicated situation. More than yes or no can handle. I’ll make it short."

  He glanced up. She nodded. Reluctantly.

  He looked back down at the desk. "I was with the woman. Her husband came home unexpectedly. I’d left my gun and holster on a chair." He hesitated, as if debating over his next words. "With my clothes." He looked up, to see if she understood.

  Inez gritted her teeth. "Keep going."

  "He grabbed my gun and said it’d serve me right to die by my own weapon. The bullet meant for me caught her instead. I wrestled the gun from him. He was on the floor. I pulled the trigger. Twice. I meant to kill him and I did. I won’t lie to you, Inez."

  Her numbness vaporized, like her breath in the cold air. "How can you say you had nothing to do with her death? You had everything to do with it! You killed them both."

  "I know I’m responsible. I’ve paid for that episode every day of my life since." Sands looked at her, almost sympathetically, as if he understood why she was throwing words at him like knives. "I made a mistake, Inez. A big mistake. I should have told you sooner about my past. But to be honest, the past didn’t seem to count for much here. People rush in—from the East, from the West—and collide at the top of the Rockies. They’re looking for riches or looking to escape. And running. Everyone’s either running from their past or running toward some elusive vision of the future. What about you, Inez? Are you running from the past or toward the future?"

  "We’re not discussing me!" She felt control of the conversation slipping from her.

  "I thought," he said, "we’d get to know each other gradually. That, over time, I’d tell you more and you’d come to trust me. It didn’t happen that way, though."

  "No, it didn’t. You didn’t tell me anything. Bat said you’re a lady-killer, that you prefer married women. I remember how you first looked at me and how you acted—as if I was a whore. Then, when I rebuffed you, it was all politeness and apologies. I fell for that, didn’t I. For every step you took back, I took one forward. When your appointment ends in June, you’ll probably shake my memory from your mind as easily as you shake Leadville’s snow from your clothes. You preyed on those other women when they were vulnerable, took them when they were weak. You’re no man of God!"

  His voice hardened. "Don’t paint yourself the victim, Inez. You’re just as responsible for bringing us to where we are now, strangers to each other in some ways and in other ways very decidedly not. Whose decision was it to jump headfirst into a—let’s see, what euphemism would best suit your sensibilities—an affaire d’amour. And ‘unprepared’ at that?"

  His words hit with deadly aim.

  She clenched the shotgun. "It takes two. And you hardly objected!"

  He picked up the letter opener again and flipped it once, catching it neatly. "You set the tune. I merely followed in the dance."

  They stared at each other.

  "I don’t know you," she whispered. "What kind of person you are."

  "I could say the same about you, Inez."

  The desk stood like a dark, impenetrable barrier between them. Sands circled the desk slowly, as if expecting her to order him back at any moment. He stopped a few feet away, and cocked his head, examining her with the deliberate expression she recalled from their first encounters. "I wonder.

  Was it just a way to keep your distance?"

  "What do you mean?" She retreated another step.

  "Up close, it’s hard to see someone. Particularly if you don’t know him well to begin with. That, of course, leaves you free to imagine him any way you want." Moving faster than she would have believed possible, he knocked the shotgun from her hands.

  Then Sands was holding both of her arms, without an inch of space between their bodies. "Look at me," he whispered. "Do you see me? Do you even want to?"

  His face filled her vision, blurred at that intimate distance. She shoved him away. He released her and backed off. "That’s it, isn’t it. You pull close, then push away when reality no longer fits your vision. It’s an old game, one I’ve played myself. It works, sometimes. You stay in control. But you always end up alone."

  She pointed a shaking finger at him. Angry. Feeling that, in some way, he’d managed to strip her to the skin. "You do this every time. Twist the conversation, twist the words to suit yourself. This is not about you and me."

  "Oh?" He lifted his eyebrows with mild sarcasm
. "I thought it was."

  "What about you. You and Harry."

  He blinked. "Me and Harry?"

  He stood, hands behind, balanced on his feet: soldier at ease.

  "Bat said you had…" her fingers lifted to her face, an echo of the earlier gesture, "a ‘bodacious’ mustache. I saw you with that mustache in a photo on Harry Gallagher’s desk. A photo from the War. He’s an officer, you’re hardly more than a boy. You’re Harry’s man. His counterfeit expert. You lied to me!"

  His expression stayed closed. "I’ve answered each and every question you put to me honestly, even the painful ones. But here, I draw the line. I will not discuss Harry Gallagher."

  "Why not?" She held out her hands, palms up, almost pleading. "I’m right, aren’t I? If I’m wrong, what do you gain by not explaining? Is this your idea of being a ‘good soldier’?" She hurled the term at him like a curse. "Why are you protecting Harry?"

  "You weren’t in the War, Inez. You have no idea what it was like."

  "Then tell me!"

  Silence.

  She crossed her arms. "Then, Reverend Sands, we have nothing more to discuss."

  He looked her over as if trying to decide whether she was serious or bluffing.

  I should turn on my heel, stalk out, and slam the door. But her traitorous body refused to budge.

  He leaned against the desk, rubbing his forehead in partial surrender. "I shouldn’t even say this much, but give me a week. One week. Take Joey. Go to Denver. It should be safe there. When you come back, we can talk. If you want to."

  He stopped and glanced around the office as if he’d forgotten where they were. "Well. That’s that, isn’t it. I’ll get the rig. We’ll pick up Joey at Bridgette’s, and I’ll take you both to your home." He sounded proper, polite, the minister offering aid to a church member.

  "Don’t bother. I’ll walk."

  Her body jerked into motion, obedient to her will at last. Inez turned on her heel, picked up the shotgun, and slammed out the door. As she walked to the street, she told herself that the freezing tears on her face were due to the icy wind, nothing more.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  At the corner to her street, Inez wavered.

  Denver.

  Sands had said, "Go to Denver."

  Her impulse was to head anywhere but.

  However, Denver had Mattie Silks. Mattie had the box. Inez, in the saloon safe, almost certainly had the key. She thought further of the two bundles of counterfeit she’d withheld from Cooke—one of fifties, the other of twenties—also in the safe. If the counterfeiting extended to or emanated from Denver, Denver would surely have Treasury agents or others looking into it. The melody ran true: It would have to be Denver.

  Inez neared her home with a yearning she hadn’t felt in a long time. The small frame house waited, offering safety, sanctuary. She unlocked the front door with a sigh, stepped inside, and stopped.

  Something was different. Something was wrong.

  Leadville’s clamor, normally muted by the walls, sounded more distinct than it should have. The chill air inside felt alive, stealing toward her from the rear of the house and curling about her ankles. She gripped the shotgun tighter and moved forward.

  The bedroom doors stood open. A quick glance revealed no intruders, no disturbances. She flattened herself against a wall and scanned the kitchen. The back door gaped, wounded wood showing white around the lock. The kitchen appeared untouched, unoccupied.

  Holding her breath, she strode into the kitchen, paused by the pantry, and approached the broken door, fully expecting to find a dead rodent impaled on the boards.

  Nothing.

  Everything else was as it should be, which unsettled Inez more than if the house had been in disarray. It was as if someone had come to violate her, then disappeared, deed undone, with a whisper: "I’ll be back."

  The parlor.

  On entering the house, she’d noticed the piano was intact, her furniture standing. She’d not walked in.

  Inez rushed to the parlor.

  The splintered, dark wood was kicked into a corner. She stared, not quite sure of what she saw. The curve of broken rockers was her first clue. Then, she picked out a bit of saddle trim, a fragment of wooden mane.

  Joey’s rocking horse.

  "Damn them!" she screamed. "What do they want?"

  A white square sat like a stranger on her piano stool. Holding the shotgun in the crook of her arm, she ripped open the envelope.

  Spring assailed her nose. Dried rose petals drifted to the floor. The note was on plain paper, folded twice. She opened it and more petals fells out. In block letters, the note read: "One Rose left."

  Underneath, underlined: "We want it all."

  999

  Old habits of packing fast and lean returned, along with the words Mark would say as they hastily prepared to slip from nameless towns turned ugly: "Take only what you need. What fits in one bag."

  For Denver, that meant her winter traveling suit, charcoal gray and uncomplicated, and a change of clothes for Joey. The note from Joe’s pocketwatch. Paradise Lost. She stuffed it all in the carpetbag. The Remington was in her pocket. No extra bullets. No second hat.

  Inez stole precious minutes to nail the broken door shut. Each slam of the hammer was accompanied by the vehement exclamation: "Bastard!"

  She locked the house, after a final glance at the smashed rocking horse and her unscathed piano.

  On Harrison, she hesitated. Stop at the bank for money?

  No.

  Cooke knew about the rocking horse.

  The saloon’s safe had cash, the silver key from the horse, the samples from Chet’s bags, two bundles of counterfeit, and Mattie Silks’ token and note to Emma. Inez silently thanked God she hadn’t left the token or note in her entryway table. Then she cursed Him for not providing guidance on what to do next. Across the street on Carbonate Avenue was a livery stable. She walked toward it, haunted by the smell of roses, formulating a plan.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The hired livery driver looked doubtful when Inez gave him directions to Abe’s house. "After that," she said, "I’m going to Chicken Hill."

  The horse pulling the cutter shook its mane as if disapproving. The driver, a well-swaddled beanpole of a man with a bulbous nose and sorrowful eyes, seemed to share the sentiment. "Now what’s a lady like you wanting with the colored and the Irish?"

  Inez held up a quarter eagle. "When you deliver me to Chicken Hill," she said.

  His doleful air vanished.

  Inez hadn’t been to Abe’s cabin since Mark’s disappearance. Rough hewn logs faced the street, but she remembered the interior as being as warm and comforting as the owner.

  The horse busied itself with a feed bag and the driver with his pipe while she mounted the porch and pounded on the door. An eternity later, vibrations in the porch boards heralded approaching footsteps.

  Abe opened the door in shirtsleeves. "Inez!" His eyes widened. "What’re you doin’ here? Who’s mindin’ the saloon?"

  "Useless."

  "By himself? Damn it, Inez—"

  "Bat Masterson’s there in case of trouble," she added hurriedly.

  "Masterson!" His eyes narrowed. "What’s he doin’ in Leadville?" "Visiting. He’ll wait until you arrive. But that’s not why I’m here."

  Her teeth were chattering so she could hardly talk. "Abe, listen. Bat remembers Reverend Sands from Dodge. Sands was a hired gun. Oh Jesus, Abe. He killed a woman and her husband. A respectable woman, not some sporting girl. And there’s probably more. Bat wouldn’t say."

  She set the carpetbag and shotgun on the porch. "When I confronted him, Sands denied nothing. He’s Harry’s man too, but refuses to discuss it. Yesterday, I tried to tell you what Hollis said about Harry and this counterfeiting business, but you wouldn’t listen. Now, let me in. We’ve got to talk." She shouldered her way past him and froze.

  Crouched in a chair by the stove, Angel peered up, fingers fixed on the disjoined b
uttons and buttonholes of her half-closed bodice. Papers, pencils, and a dog-eared primer were scattered at her feet.

  Inez found her voice. "What is she doing here?"

  "Inez." Abe’s tone warned her. "You know Angel. She attends your church, remember?"

  A complicated jumble of emotions crashed over Inez. "It’s not enough you take in stray cats and orphans. Now, it’s stray whores as well!"

  "That’s it! We do our talkin’ outside, Inez." He turned to Angel. "It’s okay, honey. Mrs. Stannert and I, we’re gonna have this out right now."

  He grabbed Inez’s arm and his coat, forced her out on the small porch, and slammed the door behind him. "That was downright rude."

  "What is she doing here?"

  "I’m teachin’ her to read and write."

  "And what is she teaching you, Abe?"

  He ignored her question. "She’s bright. Like you. Wasted in Cat’s place."

  "So you’re rescuing her? Abe, you’re crazy. She’s young enough to be your daughter. Your granddaughter!"

  Abe buttoned his coat, glaring at her. "What goes on between Angel and me is none of your business. And, if we’re gonna start like that, let me tell you how it’s been the past eight months bein’ your ‘business partner.’" He tossed the words at her like they were counterfeit coins. "When Mark left, I thought you’d just give up. I worried, didn’t know what to do for you and your boy. Then, Harry started comin’ round and you sent your boy away."

  Her face burned as if she stood before an open furnace. "It didn’t happen like that!"

  He ignored her outburst. "It was Harry and his flowers, his letters, his fancy gifts, his takin’ you out on Sundays." He shook his head. "You acted like he was the Savior, arrived for the Second Coming. Harry suited you, y’know. More than Mark ever did. It’s how you and Harry stride around. Like you own the ground you walk on, a cut above us mortals. Comes from bein’ born to a life of privilege, I’d guess."

  "I don’t have to listen to this." Inez moved forward to grab her shotgun and carpetbag. Abe laid a hand on the muzzle and blocked her path.

  "No runnin’ this time, Inez. We never talked about this, and it’s festered like a boil between us. Time to air it and be done. Now, when Harry wanted to buy my share of the saloon, I was willin’. Maybe, I thought, it’s time. Time to move on, open my own place. But when I tried to talk to you about it, all of a sudden you cast him into the sulfury pit. And there he’s been ever since. Not only that, I gotta hear about Harry on a regular basis as you rake him over the coals. Like I said, you slammed the door, but never let go."