Murder. Such a hideous word. Sophie sat, a cold cup of coffee in her hand as Sheriff Jason Diamond paced back and forth in his small office. The town doctor, Ephraim Stone, sat behind the sheriff’s desk like he owned it and drummed his fingers on the surface. “This gets out, Jace, people are going to panic.”

Sheriff Diamond stopped his pacing. “I’d say it’s a little late to worry about that. It’s probably all over town already.”

Sophie sat numbly and took another sip of coffee.

“Need a warm-up, ma’am?” the sheriff asked.

She slowly looked up at him and shook her head. Both men were tall, handsome and powerfully built. Not the type she was used to. They made her nervous.

“Do you remember anything else, Miss Baxter?” the sheriff asked.

“No. I can show you his letters, but that’s all I have to offer. I’ve never met the man.”

The sheriff exchanged a quick look with Dr. Stone. “Please, let me see them.”

Sophie set her cup on the desk, reached for her satchel and began to rifle through the contents. She pulled out a small bundle of letters tied with string and handed them to him.

“Are they in order?” he asked.

“Order?”

“Arranged by the date you received them? Or perhaps the date he wrote?”

She nodded. Most women did such a thing.

He pulled off the string and started to read. “Mighty fine penmanship.” He handed the letter to the doctor. “For a man who couldn’t read.”

Sophie jerked to attention. “What?”

The sheriff nodded. “Must’ve had someone write them for him.”

Sophie, her mouth opening and closing like a guppy’s, stared at him in shock. “You mean, Mr. Munson was illiterate?”

“Afraid so, ma’am,” the sheriff said. “But lots of men like Jasper have other folks pen things for them.”

The doctor shook his head. “Yeah – Jasper, from what I knew of him, wasn’t the type to put much stock in book reading. Just never wanted to take the time to learn, I guess.”

Sophie closed her eyes a moment as she took this all in. Her intended had lied in his letters. Lied! He was older than he depicted himself to be. Illiterate. Poor, judging from the way he’d been dressed, (he wrote he was a ‘man of prosperous means,’ whatever that meant). And now, quite dead. Which left her in a bit of a predicament. “What am I going to do?” she whispered to herself.

The sheriff and doctor exchanged another look. Sheriff Diamond opened his mouth to speak, but the door flew open and a young man with spectacles burst into the room. “Sheriff Diamond, Doc! I just heard the news!”

“Fletcher?” the sheriff said. “When’d you get back in town?”

“Just came in on the afternoon stage.” He adjusted his hat and took a few deep breaths. “Who’s the deceased?”

“Fellow by the name of Edgar Jasper Munson,” Sheriff Diamond said. “You don’t know him. We didn’t either, for that matter, which is going to make this difficult.”

Sophie glanced up at the declaration. “You … didn’t?”

“No, ma’am.”

The newcomer stepped forward. “Fletcher Vander, Esquire, at your service.”

She stared at him a moment. He couldn’t be much older than she was and had the most fascinating gray eyes. His light brown hair was mussed and there was a sheen of sweat on his brow, sure signs he’d run all the way there. And ‘esquire’ meant he was a lawyer. In these strange circumstances, she might need one. “Hello,” she said weakly.

“Fletcher, this is Miss Baxter,” Sheriff Diamond said, then cleared his throat. “Jasper Munson’s betrothed.”

Fletcher’s jaw went slack. “Betrothed?” He swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. Had you been engaged a long time?”

She sighed heavily. “Not long.”

Sheriff Diamond took him by the arm and steered him across the room. They began to speak quietly, so she understood little of their conversation, but “mail-order bride” stood out well enough. She sighed again. What a nightmare.

Another man entered the sheriff’s office, this one much older than the rest. Greetings were exchanged, but Sophie paid no mind. She watched as he handed a stack of letters to the sheriff, shook Fletcher Vander’s hand, then quietly left. She slumped in her chair, caught herself and straightened. She was exhausted and just wanted this day to be over – she could deal with the disaster her life had become tomorrow. Problem was, she had no idea where she could stay. She had no money, no friends or relatives here or back in Denver. In short, she was stuck.

“Ma’am?”

Sophie looked up into the concerned eyes of all three men. She hadn’t even heard the doctor get up from behind the desk to join the others.

The sheriff turned to Mr. Vander. “Why don’t you escort Miss Baxter to Mrs. Bee’s Boarding House?”

Sophie’s eyes widened.

Mr. Vander met her gaze with a gentle look. “I’d be happy to.” He walked over to her chair and held out his hand.

She looked into his eyes. Their color was mesmerizing, and for a moment she wondered what he’d look like without his spectacles. Her eyes then drifted to his hand. She took it and stood. “Gentlemen, thank you for your help. I’m sorry I wasn’t much for you.”

“On the contrary, Miss Baxter,” the sheriff said. “Old Man Smythe, the undertaker, just brought us a stack of letters from Jasper’s room at the boarding house. Maybe there’s something in here we can use.”

“Not if those are letters from me. I’m afraid there’s not much in those except a few details about myself.”

Sheriff Diamond smiled. “Well, we’ll see. In the meantime, get some rest. You’ve had a long journey and a very trying day. Again, I’m truly sorry you arrived in our town only to be greeted by such tragedy.”

She swallowed hard. “Thank you.” She suddenly noticed her hand was still in Mr. Vander’s, and let go with a blush of embarrassment.

He said nothing, instead offering her his arm. “Shall we, Miss Baxter?” She nodded, took it, and he picked up her satchel and headed for the door. “Let me know if you need my help, gentlemen.”

“Will do, Fletch,” the sheriff said.

Mr. Vander nodded at him over his shoulder then escorted her out the door. Once on the boardwalk he took a deep breath. “Mrs. Bee’s is that way,” he said with a toss of his head. “She makes wonderful chicken and dumplings.”

Sophie swallowed hard. She couldn’t think straight and her stomach was so knotted up she could scarcely breathe, let alone walk. Say something! she thought to herself. You have no money! How are you going to pay for a room?

“Is something wrong?” he asked, concerned.

She opened her mouth to speak and instead of the words in her head, a sob escaped, then another, and another … Oh no, no, no! But she couldn’t stop.

Fletcher moved in front of her, set her satchel on the boardwalk and pulled out a handkerchief. “Here now.”

“I’m so … so sorry,” she blurted. “I don’t know what’s come over me!”

“Of course you do,” he said gently. “You’ve traveled for what, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of miles only to arrive and discover your future husband has been … well, you know.”

She blew her nose. “Thank you for not saying it.”

He rested a hand on her shoulder. “You have every right to be distraught, and you probably need rest. Are you up to continuing?”

She nodded, then remembered her money situation and teared up again.

He put an arm around her and led her to a bench further up the boardwalk. “Maybe we can rest right here.”

They sat. His voice was soothing and she wished he’d keep talking.

He didn’t disappoint. “You know, I’ve lived here almost all of my life and nothing like this has ever happened.”

She stared at him. Okay, so maybe he could’ve said something else. “That figures.”

He looked at her. “It does?”

She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. “You might as well know, Mr. Vander, that I’m no stranger to bad luck.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He took her hand in his. “I don’t want you to think this improper, but are you hungry?”

“Hungry?” She licked her lips, not from hunger, though she surely was, but at the prospect of not having to go to the boarding house just yet. She needed time to think! “Yes, I am.”

“Good, so am I. Let me buy you some supper. Or, better yet, let me take you home with me.”

* * *

Suddenly, there she was, standing at the front door of the mayor’s house! Mr. Vander hadn’t mentioned that until they were coming up the walk. Her embarrassment would only increase when they found out she had nothing but the clothes on her back and the contents of her bag.

Her only consolation was that she was feeling more comfortable around Mr. Vander by the minute. Maybe it was his gentle demeanor, or his obvious intelligence, or maybe just his eyes. Or it could be that she was too tired and numb to care. He was company, someone to talk to, someone to calm her raw nerves – and that’s what she needed right now.

“We’ll let them think we’re visitors,” he said with a wink and knocked. “Family always uses the kitchen door. This way we’ll surprise them.”

That’s an understatement, she thought with a sigh. Did they know about the murder yet?

The door opened, and an older woman with graying blond hair and a maid’s uniform poked her head out. “Who’s that?!” She looked at Mr. Vander and narrowed her eyes. “Fletcher Vander,” she scolded, opening the door wide and smacking him over the head with a feather duster. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again! What were you thinking, coming to the front door at a time like this?”

“I wanted to surprise you, Betsy. There’s no need to get violent.”

“Mm-hmm. The only one around here that’s going to get violent is your granddaddy when he finds out what happened. Now give me a hug!”

He pulled her into a bear hug.

“Is that all you got? C’mon, Fletcher, you can do better than that.”

“Oh, now it’s Fletcher.” He turned to Sophie. “She never uses my surname unless I’m in trouble.”

Sophie, despite her exhaustion, smiled.

“Well?” Betsy said. “You gonna introduce me or do I have to do it myself?”

“Oh yes, of course. This is Miss Sophie Baxter. Miss Baxter, this is Betsy Winters.”

“Your maid?” It was all she could think of to say. She’d never been introduced to a servant before and wasn’t sure how it was done.

“Yes, of sorts. More like a member of the family, really. She only wears the uniform to humor my grandmother.”

“Humor her?” Betsy snapped. “Honey, if I don’t wear this uniform his granny goes berserk.”

Sophie paled. “Oh. Has she… well…”

“Gone round the bend?” Betsy finished. “Not yet, but she’s climbed into the wagon, so to speak. Once she starts driving it, she’ll reach that bend fast enough.”

Sophie’s eyebrows shot up. Was a maid overstepping her bounds saying such things?

“Oh, Betsy, you’re too kind,” Mr. Vander said. “Gran Mercy rounded that bend long ago and is heading pell-mell for the next one. Are they home?”

“Don’t underestimate your grandparents, young man. They still got some drive in them. And to answer your question, no, but they will be. In fact, everyone will be here quick enough. Speaking of which, what are you doing here?”

“Can’t a man come home for a visit?”

“Did you come in on the stage or the train?” She asked in a rush.

“The stage – why?”

“Because someone went and got themselves murdered at the train depot, that’s why!”

“Yes,” he said with a sigh. “We’re quite aware.”

Betsy looked Sophie over. “Did you come in on the stage with this rascal?” She quickly looked between them. “Fletcher! Did you get yourself engaged?”

“No!” they said at once. Mr. Vander and Sophie glanced at each other and smiled. “Actually,” Mr. Vander added. “I came across Miss Baxter at the sheriff’s office.”

“The sheriff’s office?” Betsy said in confusion. “Young lady, what were you doing at the sheriff’s office?” She looked at Mr. Vander. “Come to think of it, what were you doing there?”

“If you must know, I went as soon as I heard the news and offered my services.”

“Mm-hmm. A little early for a lawyer, don’t you think? Besides, Jasper Munson isn’t gonna need one.”

“Who told you?” Mr. Vander asked.

“Martha Tindle, who else? Woman’s probably told half the town by now.”

Mr. Vander shook his head. “And Grandpa’s probably told the other half.”

Sophie groaned.

“Are you all right, Miss Baxter?” Betsy asked. “You’re turning a little pale, child.”

Mr. Vander looked at her, took her elbow and ushered her inside. “Betsy, get some …”

“… Lemonade, I know. It’s already made up.”

Mr. Vander shook his head and smiled. “I’ll never know how she does that.” He steered Sophie into a chair. “Here, sit down and rest.” He fetched a footstool, lifted her feet and placed it under them. “I’ll get you a blanket.”

“Fle … I mean, Mr. Vander, there’s really no need. I’m not cold, I’m just so … tired.”

He studied her a moment. A long moment, maybe two.

“Mr. Vander?”

He shook himself. “I’ll get that blanket.” He hurried out of the room.

* * *

Fletcher ran upstairs to a linen closet, grabbed a blanket and headed back down. He had to stop before entering the parlor and remember how to breathe. He hadn’t really looked at his charge since escorting her to his grandparent’s home from the sheriff’s office. But now that he had, she’d taken his breath away.

It wasn’t that she was a great beauty, though she wasn’t hard on the eyes. But there was something about her that brought out his protective side. He didn’t just want to wrap her in a blanket, he wanted to hold her, comfort her, let her know everything would be all right. She was in a state of shock at the sheriff’s office. By the time they’d arrived here, she looked downright scared.

He entered the parlor and went straight to the wing chair. Miss Baxter’s head had lolled to one side, her eyes closed. “Poor little thing,” he said.

Betsy re-entered the room with a tray laden with glasses of lemonade. Fletcher put a finger to his lips, shook his head and motioned for her to go back to the kitchen. He spread the blanket over the sleeping woman and tucked it in where he could, then went to the kitchen himself and breathed a sigh of relief.

Betsy set the tray down and spun on him. “All right, Fletcher, spill. Tell me everything. Who is she?”

Fletcher grabbed a glass of lemonade off the tray, drained it and set it down with a sigh. “Miss Baxter is – was – Jasper Munson’s mail-order bride.”

“She’s what?” Betsy said in shock, then held up a hand to silence him. “Hold on – don’t say another word until I fetch Cecil. That man of mine’ll wanna hear this.” She left the kitchen by the door to the hallway. At this time of day Cecil, Betsy’s husband and his grandmother’s butler, was probably taking his afternoon nap.

Sure enough, a few moments later, Betsy dragged a sleepy-eyed Cecil into the kitchen. “Fletcher,” he said with a smile. “Good to see you home. But what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at your folks’ house?”

“I know they’re having supper here soon, and I brought a houseguest.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s sleeping in the parlor. Poor thing’s exhausted.”

“Oh, that’s not all she is,” Betsy added. “The moment she got into town, she became a widow.”

“They weren’t married yet, Betsy,” Fletcher pointed out. “Still, it had to be quite a shock to get off the train and see your betrothed lying there dead in a pool of –”

“That’ll be quite enough of that, young man,” Cecil interrupted, massaging his temple. “I don’t do well with tales of mayhem right after my nap.” He turned to the worktable and picked up a glass of lemonade. “Does the town know yet?”

“You can bet on it,” Betsy said. “I was at the mercantile fetching a few things for supper when Morgan Tindle came in and told his mother. She, of course, told me, even though I’d been standing there the whole time.”

“Been awful quiet around here lately,” Cecil commented. “Probably made her feel better to tell someone right away.”

“If Grandpa found out, then everybody knows,” Fletcher added. “Anyone Mrs. Tindle hasn’t gotten to yet, anyway.”

“True,” Cecil said with a sigh. He straightened and looked at him. “What are you doing home anyway?”

“I’ve come for a visit.”

“Business that slow, eh?” Cecil commented. “Well, maybe you can exercise that lawyer’s brain of yours with this business.”

“No one will be exercising anything if they can’t find some evidence or a motive. One thing’s for sure, the murderer was bold. Stabbed the poor man in public, in broad daylight. Had to have gotten pretty close to him to pull that off – either that or he’s a knife thrower worthy of Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West show.”

“Must’ve been someone Jasper knew,” Cecil said.

“Who was Jasper Munson, anyway?” Fletcher asked.

“He’s the new blacksmith,” Cecil said. “Hasn’t been in town long, maybe a few months. Quiet fellow, keeps to himself.”

“Most curious,” Fletcher commented. He closed and opened his fists a few times, a habit of his when he was getting excited.

Someone knocked on the kitchen door, and Cecil went to open it. “Sheriff Diamond, come in.”

The sheriff entered, took a look at Fletcher and turned grim. “Where’s Miss Baxter? She didn’t check in at the boarding house.”

“In the parlor, asleep in a chair.”

Sheriff Diamond immediately went through the kitchen’s swinging door, through the dining room and into the front parlor. “Miss Baxter?”

Her eyes fluttered open just as Fletcher, Cecil and Betsy gathered round. “Wh … what?”

“It’s all right, Miss Baxter,” Fletcher said reassuringly. “Sheriff Diamond just has a few questions for you – don’t you, Sheriff?”

“Not exactly.” The sheriff glared at the woman in the chair. “Miss Baxter?”

“Yes?” she said sleepily.

“You’re under arrest for the murder of Jasper Munson.”