CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Henry looked at the clock on his bedroom highboy. Seven o’clock. Was that too late to call on Elizabeth? He needed to speak with her. He’d been circling the situation for hours, even during his ride back from Dove Creek. Any chance at sleep tonight depended on whether he was able to put a few of his ducks in a row.
He grabbed his hat and went out the back door. The boardinghouse, simply named The Boarding House, was two streets over, between the livery and the Hole in the Floor Saloon. Not the best side of town, to say the least, but that was why the rates were affordable. Unlike the smaller shops and businesses, which sat on one side of the street or the other with an alley behind that backed up to another business, the boardinghouse was a large, freestanding building, three stories tall, and took up two lots. It was squarely set in the middle of the parcel of land, and accessible from either Falcon Haven or the Old Spanish Trail.
Henry had offered to pay so that Elizabeth could stay in the hotel until the matter had been resolved, but she’d flatly refused. What matter? Even if Johnny were John’s son, nothing in the will provided for him. He couldn’t change that. The Brinkman sisters and Blake weren’t obligated to do a darn thing if they chose not to, but knowing them all, he felt pretty certain they would. She’d said the boardinghouse suited her fine and that she’d pay him back just as soon as she was able. She wasn’t looking for charity.
No, just an inheritance. Which could rightly be her son’s, his mind countered. Could be, but might not be. John had never mentioned his liaison with Elizabeth once in the last four years, which a lonely man might do at one point or another, one would presume. There are so many ifs, ands, or buts with this predicament.
Arriving at the boardinghouse, Henry’s resolve began to melt. He’d never been shy before, so why now? Striding up the dirt path to the wraparound porch, he mounted the steps. Not needing to knock, he quietly stepped inside and went directly to the parlor, but found it empty.
I should’ve known.
Henry pushed through the kitchen door. Sebastian, the widower who owned the place, came in through the back door at the same time. The man was tall and thin; the only hair left on his head was a line above his ears. “Henry, hello. What can I do for you?”
Now he was stuck. He’d wanted to get in and get out unnoticed, but that game was up. “I was hoping to speak with Mrs. Smith, but I see she’s already retired. I’ll come back in the morning, which I should have done in the first place.”
“She just turned in not three minutes ago. Would you like me to knock on her door?”
“No. Her son may be asleep. I wouldn’t want to wake him.”
“Actually, I’m here.”
He turned. Elizabeth stood in the doorway, clutching the curved handle of a blue-and-white porcelain pitcher. The pottery appeared heavy as she rested the bottom on her other palm. He swept his hat from his head.
“I’ve come for fresh water. I spotted several ants floating in this,” she said in explanation. “Did you need to see me, Mr. Glass?”
“I did. I mean, I do. If you can spare a moment.”
Her light-brown hair was swept up in a messy bun on the back of her head, and she looked tired. He wondered what she’d done all day.
“I have time. Let me dump this and take some fresh water back to the room.”
He nodded, still holding his hat. “Of course. I’ll wait for you on the porch.”
The two men stood in silence as she worked the pump, refilled her pitcher, and then disappeared in the hall as quietly as she’d come.
Sebastian leaned back onto the counter. “Business?”
“Isn’t it always?” Henry replied a bit defensively. Everyone knew he was married to his work, obtaining a good amount of his clientele from the railroads, as well as the several mines and ranch owners around the area. He never socialized or had female companions, so Sebastian’s comment struck a nerve.
“Fine, then,” Sebastian replied curtly. He’d received the message loud and clear. He started for the doorway between the parlor and the kitchen. “I’ll just be off myself. I presume you’ll make sure Mrs. Smith is safely inside once you’re finished with your jawing?”
“I will.”
“And put out all the lanterns except the one by the front steps?”
“Yes.”
Sebastian left the room. Henry started for the front door, wanting to be outside, in the cool air, before Elizabeth reappeared. He walked around one side of the porch and then settled on the north side of the building, which faced the Toggery across the street.
Henry stood when Elizabeth came out the front door. She’d added a shawl across her shoulders, and he couldn’t discern the look in her eyes. He didn’t know her well. She approached rather slowly, and he realized the last few days must have been strenuous for her.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak with me.” He waited as she took a seat. “I understand it’s late, but I’ve been gone all day. I have several matters I’d like to clear up, but first, how’s Johnny? Is his fever gone?”
Her face softened. “Much better, thank you. He sat up most of the day. Seeing him so sick gave me a fright. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him too.” She gave a wobbly smile.
Henry didn’t miss how she’d tacked on the word too. She’d lost John and now didn’t want to lose his son as well. That was understandable—if she were telling the truth. He hated feeling so hard-hearted, but he had an obligation to John. To Blake and the girls. He had to have the truth.
A wagon rolled by, moving toward the edge of town and the cantina. The driver glanced over, nodded to Henry, and then looked back at the two donkeys pulling his wagon.
Henry adjusted his posture. “I don’t mean to rush you, Mrs. Smith, but I need a few questions answered. I sent a telegram today to a friend of mine in Denver. He’s a judge who knows many people. I went to our neighboring town of Dove Creek to do it so nobody here would be alerted. I want proof of who you say you are before I tackle your case. I hope you can understand my reasoning. John Brinkman was a good friend of mine. I’ve been his attorney for years. What you claim is quite difficult to prove, especially since he’s passed on. What I’m leading up to is this: I’m going to need answers from you tonight to a handful of personal questions. In all honesty, I don’t know you from Adam. It’s time to dig deeper into your claim. And too, even if what you say is true and Johnny is John’s son, I’m not sure that will result in any type of monetary compensation for him. What is it you hope to accomplish here? I can’t bring John back from the dead.”
For one instant, her nostrils flared the tiniest bit. Did I strike a chord? If yes, what had it been?