Creede, Colorado
1892
The Iron Skillet was no longer the newest restaurant in Creede, Colorado. Ivy Ross, the daughter of the owner, thought that was a little bit of a shame because new things always get the attention. As other restaurants opened up, she worried that they’d lose their clientele, but it seemed they were gathering some regulars, and that was a relief. Of course, as Creede grew, no one restaurant could feed everyone, so she supposed having competition was healthy for the town.
It had been her mother’s dream to own a restaurant, but that had never materialized for her. When she passed away two years previously, Ivy’s father, Samson Ross, was inconsolable until his pastor suggested that he do something to honor his wife’s name. Shortly thereafter, Samson pulled up stakes, sold his farm, and moved to Creede, bringing Ivy and her brother, Titus, with him on this new adventure.
If waiting tables and baking bread could actually be called an adventure.
“Ivy, new table up front,” her father called. “And I’m heading out for a minute.”
She set down the plate she was drying and put on a smile, heading out to greet the new customers. It had been slow that afternoon, giving her a needed chance to stay on top of the dishes, but customers meant money, so she couldn’t begrudge the interruption.
It was Hans and Mariah Jensen, the blacksmith and his wife, two of Ivy’s favorite customers. They were alone this time, though, and Ivy frowned as she approached the table.
“Where are the boys?”
“Still at school. We thought we’d sneak away and enjoy some time alone together while we can.” Mariah smiled gently, and Ivy smiled in return. Mariah was expecting, and it wouldn’t be too much longer before her shawl wouldn’t be sufficient to hide it.
“I don’t blame you at all. Do you know what you’d like to eat?”
Ivy took note of their orders, then went back into the kitchen and called out, “Two steaks, two mashed potatoes, two apple pies.”
“All right,” Titus replied, lifting two steaks from the ice-lined box where he kept them and laying them on the heat.
Titus hadn’t dreamed of becoming a cook, but he had discovered the talent for it when their first cook walked out in a huff, leaving them with a dining room full of customers. He’d stepped in and done a much better job than anyone had expected, and now he experimented with new recipes all the time. While he worked on the steaks, Ivy sliced two wedges of pie, then stirred up the mashed potatoes waiting on the stove and buttered them.
“Here you are,” she said as she returned to the Jensens’ table. “Titus has been experimenting with rosemary on the steaks. Be sure to tell me what you think.”
“We will,” Hans replied. “But I always love his steaks, so I might not be the best person to ask if you’re hoping for a real critique.”
“Praise is never rejected around here,” Ivy said with a smile.
She gathered the dishes from the previous diners and prepared that table for new guests, glancing at the clock on the wall. Snow had been falling pretty steadily all morning, and she hoped that wouldn’t keep people away for dinner. She’d definitely seen fewer patrons from Topaz and Bachelor—when the snow got deep, it was difficult to travel from town to town.
She set the dirty dishes in the basin and had just poured in more hot water from the kettle when her father came in the back door, bringing a swirl of snow with him.
“Another one,” he said, shaking his head with irritation. “More counterfeit money. How are we supposed to grow a business like this?”
“And the marshal still doesn’t have any leads?” Ivy asked.
“He’s had some ideas, but nothing solid.” Samson took off his coat and hung it on the peg by the door. “In the meantime, we’re losing profits. That makes ten dollars. Ten dollars!”
Ivy winced. That was significant, and as they were still a fairly new business, every penny had to be watched carefully.
Her cousin Catherine came in while she was gathering up the dirty dishes from the Jensens’ table. Catherine had moved to Creede to help out with the restaurant, bringing three more cousins besides—Naomi, who also worked at the Skillet, and Beverly and Polly, who worked across town. Their little house was practically bursting at the seams, but Ivy liked it that way. Having people around kept her from thinking about how much she missed her mother.
“Has it been slow today?” Catherine asked as she put on her apron.
“Yes, pretty slow. I don’t suppose the snow’s going to let up any time soon.”
“It didn’t look like it to me.” Catherine pulled the soiled cloth off the table and walked into the kitchen with Ivy. “Naomi thought she probably wouldn’t be needed tonight, so she stayed home to bake some bread.”
“She thought correctly.” Ivy placed the dishes in the basin, then leaned against the counter. “Father was given another counterfeit bill today.”
“He was? Who gave it to him?”
“Reverend Bing, of all people.”
Catherine laughed. “Well, we know he’s not the counterfeiter. Can you imagine, Reverend Bing heading up some kind of criminal operation? They’d stop and pray before every bank robbery.”
Ivy shook her head, chuckling. “That would be something to see. The marshal’s been taking the bills, and I’m sure he’ll question the reverend just like he has been everyone else who’s turned up with one. It’s just so ridiculous to me that it hasn’t been put to a stop yet.”
They turned their attention to getting ready for dinner, peeling more potatoes and slicing more carrots. Ivy just hoped they’d have enough customers to eat the food they were preparing.
***
It had been a long, cold journey on the train, but Caleb Baker had decided to push through toward Creede instead of disembarking and staying in a hotel the previous night. He wanted to get to his destination and make sure that his equipment had come through unscathed—it was expensive and not easy to replace, and every time the train had shuddered or jolted, he’d winced, picturing his camera breaking or the glass plates shattering. He’d packed everything as best as he could, but that was certainly no guarantee.
He glanced across the aisle at the man who had gotten on the train in Denver and fallen asleep almost immediately. He was thin, dressed a little rough, and carried a pistol in a holster around his waist, but Caleb didn’t take him for an outlaw of any kind. The conductor hadn’t seemed nervous around him, at least.
When the train finally pulled into the Creede station about two hours after sunup, the man stood up, stretched, and looked around, blinking. “Well, that’s that,” he said with a grin. “Time to start the next chapter, eh?”
Caleb wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but he smiled and nodded. “Sure a long night.”
“Was it? I must have missed that part.” The man grinned again and stuck out his hand. “Rance Hawkins. I’m the new deputy in Creede. Or I will be once I’m actually in Creede. Seems I’ve only just arrived there.”
Caleb accepted the handshake. “Caleb Baker. I’m a photographer hoping to set up shop here.”
“A photographer? Well, that would be nice.” Deputy Hawkins gave a nod.
The two men descended the steps of the train and waited for the baggage car to be unlocked. Caleb watched anxiously as the baggage handlers lifted cases and trunks from the car and set them on the platform. The deputy took just one large case, gave a nod to Caleb, then strode off, and Caleb went back to watching. There was his clothing trunk, and there . . .
“Careful!” he called out, taking a few anxious steps forward. “The contents of that one are very fragile.”
“We understand, sir,” the man said. “It’s marked ‘fragile’ here on top.”
“I know. It’s just . . . It’s very important that it not be dropped or jostled. Or set down too hard.”
“All right, sir,” the man replied, and he and his companion showed exaggerated care in how they moved it to the platform. Caleb didn’t think they needed to be sarcastic about it, but at least they were careful.
“Is everything all right?” A man in a black suit and vest strode along the platform. “Sir, are my men taking good care of you? I’m Sol Medina, the stationmaster.”
“Yes, your men are fine,” Caleb replied, although he was still irritated. “I’m just overly concerned about my things. That trunk contains several glass plates—I’m a photographer, you see, and that’s my equipment.”
“A photographer? Well, that will be a nice addition to our town. Are you planning to stay?”
“I hope so. At least for a while. I’ve been traveling for a bit and I’d like to grow a few roots. Do you know of any small business buildings for rent or sale?”
Mr. Medina rocked back on his heels as he thought. “I’d suggest you pay a visit to Wendell Thurgood. He handles real estate in the area, and if there’s a building to be had, he’ll know about it. You’ll find his office on Main Street. There’s a sign—shouldn’t be able to miss it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Medina. And what about a good place to stay in the meantime?”
“Well now, we’ve got a few places to choose from. I believe I’ll send you over to see Widow Olson. She’s only just started taking in boarders, and I know she could use the income.”
Caleb nodded. “And one more thing, if I might—is there a cart or wagon I could hire to take me to Widow Olson’s?”
“Of course.” Mr. Medina looked over his shoulder and flagged down one of the young men who had been helping with the baggage—not one of those who annoyed Caleb moments before. “This is Heston. He’s one of my most trusted men here at the station, and I’ll put you in his care. Heston, this man’s baggage is very delicate and must be treated with great care.”
“You’ve got it, Mr. Medina,” Heston said, giving Caleb a nod.
Within minutes, Heston had driven a wagon around from somewhere behind the station and had carefully placed Caleb’s trunk in the back. How he did that without help, Caleb didn’t know—he was perhaps endowed with extra amounts of strength. Then they were on their way, and Caleb noticed that the young man took care to avoid the ruts in the road as much as possible.
“Here you are,” Heston said after several minutes, pulling up in front of a two-story clapboard house that looked rather neat and respectable. “Widow Olson’s only been a widow for about six months, so she might still be a little weepy at times. Just so you know.”
Caleb quirked an eyebrow. “So, why is she called Widow Olson like that’s her regular name if this is a new development?”
“Because there’s another Olson lady in town who isn’t a widow. We have to tell them apart.”
“I . . . see.” Caleb jumped down from the wagon. “I’ll go see if there’s a room for me, and then we can worry about the trunks.”
Widow Olson couldn’t be more than forty, but it was apparent to Caleb that her grief had aged her. Lines were cut into her face, and the light of the morning sun made them seem deeper. If he were ever to photograph her, he would angle her in such a way that the light played off her softer features. She was a handsome woman, but burdened.
“Yes, I do have rooms available,” she replied. “It’s good of Mr. Medina to send you my way. How long will you be staying?”
“Until I can get situated with a building of my own,” Caleb replied. “Ideally, I’d like a shop with attached living quarters.”
“That would be the best from a budget standpoint,” she agreed. “Let’s take our arrangement day by day, then, and when you’re able to find a place, you can leave with no obligation.”
Heston and Caleb carried the trunks up the stairs to the second floor of the home, where a tidy and pleasant bedroom looked out toward the mountains. Caleb took a moment to admire the view. It was simply incredible, and he couldn’t wait to photograph the snow-covered peaks and trees jutting out from the whiteness. The contrast he’d be able to create between the black and the white would be breathtaking.
“You’ve been a tremendous help,” Caleb said, shaking Heston’s hand and then passing him a tip. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure, sir.” Heston touched the brim of his cap, then headed back outside to his waiting rig.
Caleb took off his coat and hat, hanging them up behind the bedroom door, then pulled in a deep breath. It was time to open his trunk and see if his equipment had come through the journey unscathed. It was best that he know it immediately—if he had to reorder any supplies, they might take a while to come, and he wouldn’t be able to open his shop until then. Of course, first he had to find a building. It was hard to take everything in an organized fashion when he was so anxious to get it done.
Flexing his fingers a few times, he loosened the latch on his trunk, then lifted the lid. He closed his eyes, then slowly opened them, thinking that might help prepare him for whatever he might find inside.
Everything appeared to be in perfect condition.
He exhaled, rocking back on his heels and shaking his head in disbelief. This was the first journey he’d ever taken where he didn’t end up with at least one broken pane of glass.
“That wasn’t a coincidence, you know.”
Caleb spun around at the new voice. An older man stood in the corner of the room, his gray suit marking him as a man of some distinction. “Hello. Are you a guest here?”
“No, not me.” The man nodded toward the trunk. “You have a lot of good to do here, young man, and that trunk’s a big part of it.”
Caleb shook his head. “I don’t understand. My name is Caleb Baker. You were . . .?”
“I’m Adolphus Waverly. Now, I understand that you’re planning to visit Wendell Thurgood about some property. That’s an excellent choice. Miss Chapel speaks highly of him and says he’ll do right by you. If there’s a building to be had . . .”
“He’ll know about it,” Caleb finished. “Yes, that’s what the stationmaster said. But how did you . . .?”
“I have my ways, young man.” Adolphus walked over to the window and peered through the glass. “That’s one mighty beautiful view. There’s nothing so majestic as God’s great mountains, and nothing can dwarf them, not even the snow. The way those cliffs rise into the sky . . . it keeps us humble. Reminds us we have a long ways to go. But then we remember that we were all created by the same Being, and it sort of levels everything out again.”
Caleb sat down on the edge of the bed. “You’ll have to forgive me, Mr. Waverly, but I’m not sure I understand.”
“I’m sorry. Sometimes when I look at nature in all her glory, I prattle on and I never get to my point.” The man turned from the window and faced Caleb directly. “You, young man, have a unique gift—that of finding beauty in the ordinary and majesty in the extraordinary. Your task is to use that gift to bless the lives of those around you.”
“My gift? My task? Mr. Waverly, I’m a traveling photographer. I’ve spent the last six months in Cheyenne and the six months before that in New York City. I’m no one important, and I’ve certainly never been given any sort of special gift or task.”
“That you know of.” Adolphus wagged a finger. “Tell me, young man. Are you a religious sort?”
“Religion? Not particularly. I believe in God and I’ve read the Bible a few times, but I haven’t been to church in quite a while.” This conversation was certainly becoming more strange by the minute.
“As long as you believe in God, I’m prepared to overlook your absence at church. For now. We can discuss that later.” Adolphus gave a nod. “By virtue of the fact that you are, in your heart, a good man who wants to make a difference in this world, you have been granted me, a guardian angel, to point you as you seek to fulfill that quest.” He gave a slight flourish with both hands.
“A guardian angel?”
“That is correct. A being of light, as it were. A messenger. A harbinger of good. However you choose to think of me, here I am.”
Caleb hadn’t slept well on the train. He hadn’t slept well the night before that, either, because he’d been worried about everything he needed to prepare for the trip. It was clear to him that this lack of sleep was catching up to him.
“I’m sure you mean well, Mr. Waverly, but as I’m quite sure you don’t actually exist, I think it’s best if we part ways now. I’m planning to take a nap here in a moment, and then I’ll head out to see Mr. Thurgood.”
“A nap is an excellent idea—you are rather exhausted. And I’ll overlook the fact that you don’t believe I exist. That’s a common reaction, I’m afraid—one that results in a lot of wasted time, but I suppose it can’t be helped.” Adolphus walked over to the bedroom door. “I’ll come back later when you’re not so worn out.” He turned and made his way down the hall, and Caleb heard his footsteps on the stairs.
Not five seconds later, Widow Olson appeared in his doorway with a pitcher of water and some towels. “I thought you might like to wash up after your trip,” she said, placing the water on the washstand.
“That’s very kind of you. Now, what can you tell me about Mr. Waverly?”
“Mr. Waverly? I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“He was here in my room just now. You must have passed him on the stairs.”
Her hand flew to her throat. “There was an intruder in my house? Did he harm you? Did he threaten you?”
“No, nothing of the sort. He just . . . well, he confused me.” Caleb shook his head, still trying to understand. “You have no gentleman staying here with white hair?”
“Mr. Baker, you’re my only tenant at this time. I live here along with Patagonia, my housekeeper.” She lifted a finger. “Call her Patty or she’ll put a Jamaican curse on you. Willie Meeks comes by every so often and does odd jobs, but he’s just a young man, barely more than a boy. We are the only persons who are supposed to be here. If there was a man in your room, he was an intruder. Are you certain he’s gone?”
“I don’t actually know. He left and I heard his footsteps on the staircase.”
Widow Olson pressed a hand to her forehead. “This is quite extraordinary, and very upsetting. I believe I should talk to the marshal about this, but now I don’t dare leave the house because what if the man is still here? Or perhaps I should leave—what if he’s waiting to kill us all, hiding in the linen closet?”
Her voice was growing more panic-stricken the more she spoke, and Caleb held up a hand. “Let’s work through this together. What if I look through the house and make sure he’s gone, and why don’t you send Pata . . . er, Patty . . . to fetch the marshal? Do you have any sort of weapon I could use?”
“My husband’s pistol,” she said. “I’ll go fetch it.”
She left the room, and Caleb edged out into the hall, looking up and down. It was empty, but that’s what he fully expected. Mr. Waverly probably ducked out of the house as soon as Widow Olson came upstairs, and hopefully, he hadn’t taken any silver with him.
When Widow Olson returned, it was plain that she’d never held a weapon before. Her hands were trembling, and she held it out in front of her like it was a dead mouse or something equally abhorrent.
“Here you are,” she said, passing it over. Then she reached into her apron pocket. “And here are the bullets.”
Caleb loaded the gun, wondering if it had ever been shot, and then nodded. “All right, I’ll take a look around. I clearly heard him descend the stairs, so that’s where I’ll concentrate.”
“Thank you. And Patty’s been sent for the marshal—I spoke to her just now.”
“Excellent.”
Caleb looked in every nook, every cranny, and even the linen closet, and found no trace of Mr. Waverly anywhere. “I believe we’re safe, Mrs. Olson,” he said at last, placing the gun in the center of the table and making sure it wasn’t cocked.
“Mrs. Olson.” She sighed, resting her arms on the back of a kitchen chair. “Do you know how long it’s been since anyone called me that? It’s been nothing but ‘widow’ this and ‘widow’ that until I’m quite sure I’ve forgotten who I am anymore.”
“I wondered about that,” Caleb told her. “It seems unfortunate to be labeled by your grief.”
“Thank you for understanding that. Can I get you anything, Mr. Baker? Some coffee, toast . . .”
“I’d love some of each,” he replied. “I was planning to take a nap, but I suppose I should wait until after the marshal arrives.”
“Yes, that would be a good idea.” She turned to the stove and poured some coffee into a mug from a pot that stood waiting. “Get started with this, and I’ll have some bread toasted in a moment.”
The coffee was hot and black, a little strong, just how Caleb liked it. He was just finishing it up when a tap came at the door.
“Please, allow me,” he said, rising and taking the gun from the table. He edged to the door, peeked out the window, and saw Deputy Hawkins standing on the porch, this time with a badge.
“Hello there,” Caleb said, opening the door.
“Well, hello yourself. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.” The deputy entered the house and pulled off his hat. “Lucky you—you’re my first assignment in town.”
Caleb noticed a woman standing on the porch, shifting from foot to foot as though she’d rather not be there at all. “Are you Patty?”
She nodded.
“I’m sure it’s all right to come in. I looked around, and now the deputy’s here.”
She didn’t look sure, but she came inside anyway, shaking her head.
Caleb told his story to the deputy, giving a description of Adolphus Waverly. When it came time to recount their conversation, though, he hesitated. Should he tell everyone that the man claimed to be a guardian angel? If Mr. Waverly was mentally unbalanced, it would be good for the townspeople to know it, but still, he felt unsure. Finally, he decided to leave that part out. It likely wasn’t important, and if he changed his mind, he could always go find the deputy and tell him he remembered something.
“And you say you searched the property?”
“I searched the downstairs portion of the house. I didn’t search upstairs or outside.”
Deputy Hawkins nodded. “I’ll take a look around, then, just to be sure. Now, you ladies say that you’re not aware of anyone by the name of Waverly living in town?”
They both shook their heads.
“He must be a newcomer, then—maybe a drifter.”
“I don’t think he was a drifter, Deputy. His suit looked quite expensive, and he was clean and neat,” Caleb said.
“I’ll ask around at the hotels, boarding houses, and saloons to see if I can find out where he’s staying,” Deputy Hawkins said. “Even if he did no actual harm while he was here, he shouldn’t be wandering into people’s homes uninvited. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go ahead and make that sweep of the property.”
Patty turned her attention back to her kitchen duties, shaking her head when she saw the bread laid out on the cutting board. “Miss Eva, did you mean to toast this bread yourself?”
“Yes, I did. I enjoy toast with my coffee, and Mr. Baker looks rather starved to death.”
Patty put a hand on her hip. “Are you starved to death, Mr. Baker?”
Caleb didn’t know how to answer that. He had the strongest suspicion that he’d be in trouble with one of them no matter which way he answered. Thankfully, Patty spun back around and began preparing the toast without waiting too terribly long for a reply.
Mrs. Olson sat down at the table, shaking her head. “I’m so rattled, I hardly know what to do. I should have offered the deputy some coffee, shouldn’t I? He probably thinks I’m terribly inhospitable.”
“He’ll come back and report what he finds or doesn’t find, and you can give him some then,” Patty said reasonably. “There’s no need to fuss about it.”
The toast was hot and crisp, and Caleb ate four slices. He must have been more starved to death than he’d realized.
When the deputy came back to say he’d found nothing, Mrs. Olson offered him coffee, which he politely refused. “I’d better get back to the station, ma’am, but thank you. I believe you’re safe to carry on as you were before, but if anything else should happen, please let me know right away.”
“What kind of something?” she asked. “What am I to expect?”
“You aren’t expecting anything necessarily,” he replied. “I’m just saying, if something were to happen, let me know.” He gave them all a nod, then headed off down the walk.
“So, we’re supposed to act as though nothing happened?” Mrs. Olson pressed a hand to her throat. “That hardly seems possible. There was a strange man in my house—that’s a definite cause for worry.”
“When I leave this afternoon, keep the gun nearby,” Caleb said. As he said that, he wondered if he actually should leave or if he should stay for protection’s sake, but then he realized that he couldn’t stay at the boarding house forever. He hadn’t come to Creede to lock himself away. He’d do what he could to be of service, but he also had to reach the objectives he’d come to reach.
“I’m going to take a nap, ladies, if you’ll excuse me.” He rose from his chair. “Thank you for the coffee and toast.”
“It wasn’t much. Are you sure you don’t want some proper food before you go?” Mrs. Olson asked.
“It suited me well. I need sleep more than I need food at this point, but thank you.” Caleb climbed the stairs to his room, closed the door, and pulled off his suspenders. When he turned toward the bed, he saw a folded piece of paper on the blanket.
Dear Mr. Baker,
I didn’t mean to cause such a ruckus, and I do apologize. I assure you, I have left the premises, and you have no reason to fear me—I am who I said I am. When you speak with Mr. Thurgood, ask him if he knows a Miss Chapel, and tell him that she and I are friends. That’s a reference you can trust.
I’ll be in touch again after you’ve obtained this reference.
Adolphus Waverly
How . . . how had the man gotten back upstairs to deliver this note? And then how had he come downstairs again without being seen? Caleb sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the note. He was losing his mind—that much seemed sure. He needed to get some sleep. Once he did that, he’d probably realize that he’d hallucinated the entire experience, and then he’d head down to the marshal’s office and apologize for getting the law involved. For now, the pistol was downstairs on the table where the ladies could easily grab it, and he’d put a chair under his doorknob so no one could come in while he slept. And then he’d just see how he felt when he woke up. He’d have to feel a bit more balanced at least.