Iron Ties Read online

  Inez frowned, disappointed. For some reason, she’d felt certain that the schoolteacher who wrote to Elijah would have arrived with the others. I would dearly love to know who this schoolteacher is. And who the Colorado Springs newsman spotted at Flo’s last night.

  Preston was looking off into the woods. “There’ve been a few fellow Missourians riding in since Reuben and Hiram, looking for jobs. I do what I can to help them out. Have to say, most who signed on with the railroad took off the closer we got to Leadville. Got the itch to get rich, I guess. Here’s the place I was thinking of.” He veered off the main track, taking a side trail into the woods.

  They went in a ways, until the trees opened up into a long meadow, and stopped by common consent. After watering the horses at a small creek nearby, they found a shady place with grass to tether the horses.

  “What’ll it be, Mrs. Stannert. Shooting first?”

  “Sounds good to me. And please, call me Inez.”

  Preston removed two empty tin cans from his saddlebag, slid the Sharps from her scabbard, and disappeared toward the meadow. Inez lingered by Lucy, picked a stray burr from her forelock, and tickled her nose. Lucy snorted and nudged Inez’s hand. “Nothing to give you right now, girl,” she said. “Maybe later.”

  Inez fished out the box of cartridges and walked to the edge of the meadow. Preston was coming back from the other end, pacing the length.

  He reached her and asked, “Done much shooting, Mrs. Stannert?”

  “A fair amount. Target shooting, when I was younger. Like your father, mine taught me to shoot.”

  He ran his hands over the Sharps in a familiar fashion. A little shiver caught her unawares.

  “Looks maintained, not used much,” he commented. “Has it been cleaned and oiled recently?”

  “The store I bought it from assured me that it’s ready to go.”

  He nodded. “I’ll start at the beginning. Don’t know how much of this you might already know. I shoot left-handed, so what I do with my left, you do with your right. This Sharps is a breechloader with a sliding breech-pin. A small block in the gun breech slides up or down in a slot. The trigger guard here is also a lever. When the trigger guard’s lowered and pulled forward—” He demonstrated. There was a snick sound. “The block slides into position, opening the breech for loading. Got a spare cartridge, Mrs. Stannert?”

  She handed him one.

  He inserted the glazed linen cartridge into the breech. “When the trigger guard’s closed—” he did so— “the mechanism raises the block up, slicing off the rear of the linen cartridge and sealing the breech. Less chance of backflash. Now, it needs a cap or a primer.”

  Inez handed him a small percussion cap from the packet.

  “Pull the hammer back. The pull is strong; you might need to use your whole hand. The cap goes here. There’re two triggers. The rear one’s a ‘set’ trigger. Pull it, the one in front’s now a hair trigger. Know how to use a sight?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Stand back.”

  Inez, who had been watching to the side, promptly backed up.

  He brought the rifle up.

  The two tin cans glinted on a stump at the meadow’s far end.

  The report echoed loud and long.

  Where two cans had been, one now stood.

  He lowered the gun. “Been a long time since I fired one of these.”

  Unspoken stories crowded behind those few words. Stories, she suspected, that he’d never told anyone. Stories that crept in at night. In dreams, in the dark, pulling the past into the present with a stray sight, sound, or smell.

  He shook his head as if to clear it, then held the gun out to her. “Want to give it a try?”

  “Of course.” After a moment’s hesitation, she stripped off both gloves and tucked them into the waist of her skirt.

  She took a linen cartridge and, copying Preston’s movements, loaded the rifle. Before pulling back the hammer, she paused, judging the weight of the gun at about ten pounds. I can manage this, if I stay steady, don’t take overly long to aim, and breathe slow. She pulled the hammer back with her whole hand, noting the strong resistance, then placed the percussion cap and steadied herself to aim.

  “Hold a minute.” Preston was suddenly there, behind her. His hands closed over hers. “Hold it more like—”

  She could hardly breathe or hear his words, from having him so close.

  He moved away, and a vacuum seemed to open up behind her, leaving her shaky.

  She deliberately slowed her breath again, then pulled the set trigger and lined the sight up with the tin can, now looking very small and distant. She willed her heart to resume a calm, slow beat. In with a slow breath, gradually out to empty. Set her finger to barely touching the hair trigger. In the pause before the next inhalation, she applied the slightest pressure.

  The report deafened her ears, the butt plate slammed into her shoulder with the recoil, heightening the sting in her neck. But all that went nearly unnoticed, with the flush of fierce delight that flooded through her.

  The stump stood empty.

  Triumphant, she turned to Preston, grinning. “Not bad for a first time, hmm?”

  He smiled back, with something else in his eyes. Something that caused her breath to catch.

  He moved forward, slowly, giving her time to say the words that would stop him. To make a gesture that would mean “no.” To look away.

  None of which Inez did. Instead, she held his gaze, although she could feel herself quivering in that familiar prelude to the song of the body’s pleasures.

  His hand closed over hers. Removed the rifle from her clasp. Leaned it against the tree trunk.

  Pushed her broad-brimmed hat back and lowered his face to hers.

  One second left.

  To deflect the momentum.

  But through the welter of hesitation and anticipation that crowded her senses, the only coherent thought that surfaced was—

  What harm can one kiss do, after all?

  But it didn’t take much for one kiss to slide into the next. For his hands to slide up her arms. For her hands to slide around his waist. For the rough pine bark to begin digging into her shoulder blades as he pressed her against the tree. The sharp scent of pine sap filled her senses.

  Then, the alarms went off.

  She forced her eyes open, put a hand to his chest, and pushed steadily until he broke away.

  She kept her hand there, feeling the beat of his heart beneath her spread fingers.

  He looked at her from just a foot away.

  She compressed her lips and shook her head, increasing the pressure of her hand. It felt as if she were trying to halt a speeding train by standing in the track and holding up her hand.

  She hoped that the pressure of her hand would carry greater weight than whatever he might read on her face.

  After what seemed an eternity, he moved a space away and turned, staring down the meadow at the empty stump.

  The silence stretched long between them.

  He finally said, “Guess I read the signals wrong.”

  No you didn’t was what she wanted to say. Instead she said, “I’m sorry.”

  “I’d best get you back to town.” He gave her his hand, pulled her away from the tree. Held her hand for a space of time that whispered at a second chance. If she would but change her mind….

  She slid her hand from his grasp. Pulled her gloves from the waistband where they still miraculously lodged. Tucked her shirt back in all around before putting the gloves back on.

  The distance between them grew with each step back to the horses. By the time Preston Holt had helped Inez back onto her sidesaddle and slid the Sharps back into the scabbard, it was as if the entire interlude had been an embarrassing situation that had occurred between them long ago, which they were striving, with politeness, to forget.

  It was an uncomfortable ride back. Inez tried to think of something t
o say that would ease the distance between them. A way to apologize. But she found herself uncharacteristically short of words.

  The Boulevard became increasingly crowded as they approached the city limits of Leadville. Sunday picnickers and those going out for a pleasurable Sunday ride far outnumbered those heading into town. She was just about to say to Preston that she could manage fine from here, thank you, when she spotted a familiar figure galloping toward them.

  The professor pulled to a stop beside Preston. He was covered with dust, his face streaked with muddy rivulets of sweat. With only the quickest tip of a hat to Inez, he turned to Preston. “Ah, Mr. Holt, there’s been trouble at the camp. I’ve been sent to find you.” His words tumbled over each other in their haste. “Delaney’s dead and Reuben—” He stopped and glanced at Inez, who was wide-eyed. “’Tis not news fit for a lady’s ears. You shouldn’t be hearing this, ma’am.”

  “Oh, I should indeed be hearing this,” she said, her voice piercing his protests like a spear of winter ice.

  The professor glared at her, a burst of anger or annoyance momentarily distorting his features. “’Tis not your business.”

  “What happened?” said Preston, his voice weary. He took his hat off and passed a sleeve over his forehead.

  Inez became aware of how, with the sun in ascendancy, the heat was bearing down on them and the road, raising dust and discomfort. The sweat trickled down from her hairline, and she was tempted to use her sleeve in the same fashion as Preston.

  The professor cleared his throat and leaned in closer to Preston. Inez gripped the pommel as firmly as possible and maneuvered Lucy a few steps closer, not daring to deviate from the straight-up, shoulders-back posture required to remain seated in the sidesaddle.

  “…head bashed in with a spike maul down by the Disappointment Gulch trestle,” she heard him say in a low voice. “The worst of it is, Reuben’s missing. Looks bad. We’ve got to return, right away. Some thought you might be involved, when you couldn’t be found.”

  “I’ll head back if you’d take Mrs. Stannert here into town.”

  Right on top of the professor’s “But I’m supposed to bring you back,” Inez interposed with, “I’m quite capable of managing the last mile or two.”

  Preston cut them both off. “All right, then.”

  Inez suddenly remembered. “Wait.”

  She dug in her pocket, finally pulled out the envelope with the ominous letter to Elijah Carter, written in the loose, scrawling hand. “I meant to show this to you earlier, but….” The morning turned out so differently from what I’d imagined. “This letter came to Elijah Carter. It mentions ‘the general’ is coming to Leadville. I’m thinking ‘the general’ refers to Grant or maybe Palmer. A warning or threat, perhaps an invitation to….Oh, I hate to think. Grant and Palmer were generals for the North. Could it refer to a plot of some kind? In any case, I thought you should know about it. So you could take it to the proper authorities. It’s unsigned. I suppose it was from someone Eli knew.”

  She held it out.

  The professor looked at her, eyes narrowed. “Sounds like the silly twaddle of a woman.”

  Preston took the envelope from her. Pulled the single sheet out. He seemed to age before her eyes as he skimmed the letter and its contents.

  “Pardon me, Mr. Holt, but we should hurry!” snapped the professor.

  Inez, watching Preston closely, could think of only one reason for the pain that washed his countenance. “Do you recognize the writing?”

  Preston folded the letter back into the envelope, tucked it inside his jacket, then looked down at Inez somberly. “My brother’s hand.”

  Her mouth opened, but words refused to form.

  “I’ll get this to the right people. Guess we’ll need to talk more about this later, ma’am. And other things. I’ll get in touch with you.” He touched his hat. “At least we had the morning.”

  His gaze lingered on her as if he were loath to leave, as if he wanted to etch her face in his memory for some long journey ahead. Then he and the professor turned and joined the river of people heading out for an afternoon’s diversion.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Monday afternoon, Inez sat in her office alone, her face resting on two balled fists, a single letter before her. The letter had been waiting for her at the post office box shared by the business, her personal mail, and the mail of those that worked in the Silver Queen. “A benefit of working here,” she’d told Sol when hiring him, “is that you won’t have to wait an hour or two in line to get your mail from home.”

  When she’d pulled the envelope out of the box, she’d hoped it was from Sands. But it had not borne his familiar hand. Rather, it was addressed in a stranger’s script and postmarked Missouri.

  Perhaps some answers will come of this and help me lay Elijah’s soul to rest. She slit the envelope open with the letter opener and pulled out the single sheet of writing paper crammed with loopy penmanship. Two folded scraps of newspaper tumbled out with it.

  The letter began, “Dear Mrs. Stannert, Thank you for informing us of the untimely demise of Elijah Carter, whose family lived in this town for two generations.”

  The postmaster proved to be very forthcoming. She skimmed the contents, noting that Elijah, indeed, had no living kin, as far as the postmaster knew (“and as he was raised here, seems it would be known if that were otherwise.”). Mr. H was, as she expected, Hiram Holt. About the schoolmaster “Mr. D,” the postmaster had this to say:

  Brodie Duncan’s family was also from these parts, at least his father was. His mother and her kin hailed from Tennessee. And he spent the last part of his childhood there, before going overseas, and then returning here some years ago. After the pox epidemic, Mr. Duncan left for Colorado with Hiram and Reuben Holt. We were sorry to see them go. But it’s not unexpected. Our town has never recovered from the ravages of The War and atrocities committed by both sides. All of us bear the scars. The years after have not been easy, and the epidemic was the last straw for many. If you chance to see Mr. Duncan or the Holts, tell them the folks back home are praying for their good fortune in the silver fields of Colorado.

  Inez frowned, then picked up one of the newspaper clippings, which described the services for those overcome by the pox including Hiram Holt’s wife and Lillian Carter. The second clipping was brief, saying that Brodie Duncan and Hiram and Reuben Holt were leaving for the “fortunes of Colorado” and hoped to find work on the railroads.

  Duncan.

  She heard it again, the professor, his burr layering over the words, saying to Jed Elliston, “Duncan, at your service. Mostly, I go by Professor. My background, y’see.”

  Then she heard again, “It’s not my war.” Words flat, without emotion, almost without meaning. The heavy Scots notes entirely vanished.

  Could the professor be Brodie Duncan from Missouri? Inez drummed her fingers on the desktop. Duncan is not an unusual name. Particularly for a Scotsman. Still. Hiram and Reuben hired on with the Rio Grande, that fits. The professor is also working for the railroad, but with the lawyers. Reuben doesn’t act as if he knows the professor overly well. Yet, I’ve seen how well Reuben can dissemble. But why would they not acknowledge each other? And the professor said, it wasn’t his war.

  Her thoughts were a jumble of events, past and present. Inez looked at the Sharps rifle in the corner of her office. Everything comes back to that damned war.

  Then, she thought of Preston Holt. Delaney’s death. Reuben’s disappearance. And the hint that, perhaps, there might be an opportunity to revisit, explain, come to terms with what had happened between her and Preston in the meadow.

  How he’d said goodbye.

  The door squeaked open behind her. She swiveled in her chair.

  Abe was there, looking at her with concern. “You feelin’ all right?”

  “I’ve been better. How are preparations shaping up for Grant’s visit?”

  “Not bad. Go
t a message from Evan. Wants you to drop by his store when you get a chance. Got a new shipment of decorations in, for the big visit. Banners, streamers, and such. He’s holdin’ some aside for you.”

  “Guess it pays to play poker with one of the chief merchants in town and let him win once in a while.” She got to her feet.

  “You look peaked. Is that wound painin’ you some?”

  It’s not the wound that’s paining me. “It’ll heal. I’ll go see Evan. I have some questions for him anyway. About the Sharps rifle. I’m hoping maybe Eli Carter might have mentioned something about its journey from Missouri to Colorado. Someone brought it to him, and I’d like to know who. A long shot I know.”

  “If that’s what you’re after, why not talk to Jack?”

  Inez lifted her eyebrows. “True. Jack was the one who first mentioned the rifle in connection with Eli. Maybe Jack met the fellow. He might remember his name, what he looked like.”

  “It’s worth a try,” said Abe.

  ***

  Inez followed three women into Evan’s crowded mercantile store. They were chatting amongst themselves about the upcoming visit. “I understand Governor Routt is coming and perhaps General Palmer of the railroad as well! They think he’ll arrive early evening, but it could be later. I’m bringing the children to see the procession. After all, how often does one get to see a former president and a famous general?”

  Inez snagged a clerk. “Where is Mr. Evan, please?”

  Evan, it turned out, was in his adjoining mining supplies store. When Inez found him, he was beside a pile that included a pick, ropes, steel drills, a breaking hammer, and other sundry items Inez associated with a would-be miner’s “outfit.” Evan was talking with someone that, Inez thought, looked familiar from the back, and was closing with his standard lecture on powder and fuse.

  “Now, you’ve got all you need here for prospecting except the blasting powder and fuse, which we keep in the magazine at the head of California Gulch. Take your bill there, and they’ll give you what you paid for. They’ll also deliver, save you the trouble and caution. I can’t say often enough, you’ve got to be careful of the giant powder. Especially if you haven’t used it before. It’s tricky, not like black powder. The nitroglycerine is what does it. If the explosive freezes, and it freezes at around fifty-two degrees, it’ll crystallize and be very sensitive. While thawing, it becomes highly unstable. I’ve know men blasted to bits from storing giant under their beds.”