Chapter Twenty-seven

“Did one of you do an inventory of what you collected from the passengers?” Natty Rahway asked. He set three glasses of beer on a corner table near the window in the Sweet Clementine Saloon and pushed two of them toward the Putty brothers.

“Inventory?” asked Willet. “You mean like make a list? Why the hell would we do that?”

“You might if you wanted to split the spoils fairly.” Natty sat. “Listen, I don’t care if you wrote it down, but do you remember what you took and what you pawned, fenced, or buried?”

“Didn’t bury a goddamn thing,” said Doyle. “Squirreled some things away, thank you very much. Why? You need money? Took yours all in cash as I recall.”

“I’m fine.” Natty picked up his beer, sipped, but didn’t return the glass to the table. His eyes darted back and forth between the brothers. “I’m wondering about a choker. Heard it called a dog collar. Something a real lady might wear for a fancy dress occasion. She’d come from money, I expect, since this collar was made of seed pearls.”

Doyle used his forearm to wipe beer foam from his upper lip. “A dog collar, you say. And the bitch is well heeled?” He slapped the table, enjoying his joke. He heard Willet snicker, but Natty did not join in. Doyle dropped his hand to his lap and cleared his throat. “Don’t recollect I saw one of those. Willet? You holding out on me?”

“I wouldn’t, and I ain’t. What’s this about, Natty?”

Natty wasn’t sure he believed either one of them, but he went on to explain in spite of that. “Seems someone saw a collar like the one I just told you about and thinks it’s connected to the robbery.”

“Where’d they see it?” asked Willet.

“I don’t know. The sheriff, his deputy, and few other folks wrote down what the passengers reported was stolen. Descriptions, amounts, the approximate value if it was known. That Jackson Brewer was thorough.”

“Somebody’s lying.” Doyle took another swallow of his beer and set the glass down hard. “I’m telling you, Natty, one of those passengers is a damn liar. There was nothing like that.”

“Nothing,” Willet said, an echo of his brother.

Doyle was staring at his beer. “Could be something like that turned up missing, but it isn’t because we stole it.”

“Insurance,” said Willet. “If it’s as expensive as you say, then maybe it was reported as missing to collect something for it.”

Doyle turned his bent head, sneered at his brother. “Then how is it that it’s been seen? You sure you didn’t hold something back? You fingered just about everything.”

“I didn’t.”

“Fellas,” said Natty. “All will be revealed. Seems there’s a plan to put it in the owner’s pretty little hands.”

Doyle looked up. “So the deputy has this collar in his possession?”

“It would appear so.”

“Then I think we need to keep an eye on him.”

“One of us should.” Natty picked up his beer. “We don’t need to cluster around him like iron filings on a magnet.”

Willet’s recessed chin made it impossible for him to effectively jut it forward in a challenging manner, but it also never stopped him from trying. He made the reflexive gesture now. “Who, then?”

“Yeah,” said Doyle. “Who’s it going to be?”

Natty sat back in his chair and regarded them from under a hooded glance. “I think you boys know the answer to that.”

• • •

Phoebe and Remington left Saturday afternoon over Fiona’s strenuous objections and Thaddeus’s milder ones. Fiona offered to invite Mrs. Jacob C. Tyler to Twin Star, and that was an alternative for which Phoebe was unprepared. She bald-faced lied and said that Mrs. Tyler was visiting her son and daughter-in-law because the birth of her grandchild was imminent. “She won’t want to be away from the baby until she has to return to Saint Louis. You understand, don’t you?”

Fiona’s mouth had snapped shut, and she kept it that way, although Phoebe would have rather argued with her than have to listen to her thunderous silence. It was tempting to see if she could find a trunk to crawl into.

Thaddeus had wondered about the suddenness of the trip, and this time it was Remington who offered the bald-faced lie. “Blue delivered the invitation when he came out to the branding. Stationmaster asked him to bring it out. It was the only mail he had for the ranch, so Blue obliged him.”

Phoebe sat back on the wooden bench seat as the train pulled away from the Frost Falls station. “Do you think they believed us?”

“About what in particular?” asked Remington. He slung his long legs into the aisle.

“About all of it. I can’t remember what I even told Fiona now. We should have considered what they might say and been better prepared.”

He shrugged. “Fiona cannot dislike me any more than she already does, so I—”

“Don’t be so sure,” she said.

“So I am fine with it. And my father? He’ll forgive me.”

Phoebe lowered her voice. “That’s because he thinks you are planning to compromise me.”

“He’s late to that conclusion.”

She jabbed him in the ribs. “If anyone is thinking about my dress and our cake, it’s your father.”

Remington laughed. “Damn, that’s probably true.”

“You shouldn’t swear so often. I won’t tolerate it around the children.”

He sat up a little straighter. “What children?”

“Ours. Aren’t they on your list of things we have to discuss?”

“Putting it on there now.”

“Really, Remington, you should find someone to help you.”

He fell silent as he gave it due consideration, then he slid down in the bench seat again and tipped his hat forward. “What do you think about Mrs. Jacob C. Tyler?”

“I think she would be an excellent choice.” Phoebe was smiling to herself as she turned to face the window. Her stomach quieted. Her satisfied smile stayed exactly as it was.

• • •

The Boxwood Hotel was modeled after the Hotel de Paris over in Clear Creek County and prided itself on being able to offer amenities rarely available to the transient populations of mining communities. The hotel’s restaurant boasted fine china for dining, spotless linen tablecloths, and silverware so highly polished one’s reflection was visible in the soupspoons. Guests spending the night slept on thick mattresses in solid cherry wood beds. Sheets were changed daily, and the washstands were topped with granite and boasted hot and cold taps. The Boxwood had three suites, each with a claw-footed tub and a water closet, that were often reserved for the discerning gambler who made his living at the card table and tended to stay in Liberty Junction for weeks at a time.

Phoebe and Remington registered separately. He took a room on the third floor. Phoebe was given one of the available suites on the second. They each had a bag, which they were made to surrender to the boy eagerly waiting to show them to their rooms. It was to this young man—who could have not been more than twelve and introduced himself as Handy “I can get you anything” McKenzie—that they asked for information about Mrs. Jacob C. Tyler.

Not surprisingly, Handy embodied his moniker, and they learned that not only was Mrs. Jacob C. still in residence, but that she was in the dining room at that very minute overseeing the placement of flowers and candlesticks on the tables.

“And really,” said Phoebe in an aside to Remington, “why would she be doing anything else?”

Remington hung outside Phoebe’s door while Handy showed off the room and the amenities, and then he followed the boy up another flight of stairs to his room. Handy, both clever and observant, pointed Remington to a door at the end of the hall and explained there was another, seldom used, stairwell for moving between floors without notice. Remington did not thank Handy for this information or even acknowledge that he’d heard it, but he did share it later with Phoebe, who very prettily feigned shock and alarm.

• • •

Mrs. Jacob C. Tyler was no longer in the elegant dining room when Remington and Phoebe went looking for her. They found her holding court at one of the tables in the large gaming room. She was not only dealing, but she also had more chips in front of her than any of the four men at her table.

“I stand corrected,” said Phoebe. “Why would she be doing anything else?”

Remington’s laughter turned heads, Mrs. Tyler’s among them. She saw them before she recognized them, and when full awareness came to her, she quickly finished the deal and folded, and then she was on her feet hurrying toward them.

She folded Phoebe in a fierce embrace. “Oh, my dear, how lovely it is to see you.” And then, before Phoebe could greet her in turn, Mrs. Tyler took her by the shoulders, held her at arm’s length, and gave her a thorough looking over. Her features softened and her eyes expressed apprehension. “The child?”

“My lumpy child?” Phoebe asked. “You are so good to inquire, but I think you suspected something was not quite right. I did not set out to deceive you. The pregnancy was supposed to offer protection for a woman traveling alone. We all witnessed the failure of that plan.”

Remington reintroduced himself, although it was not necessary according to Mrs. Tyler. She remembered him very well, and how could she not, she asked, when he was so kind to little Madeleine Bancroft and so attentive to the child’s mother and herself. And then, she announced in an aside to Phoebe, there was the undeniable fact that he was as tempting as sin.

“Come,” she said, looping an arm under one of Phoebe’s. “We’ll go to the dining room. They are setting it up for dinner, which will not be for another hour or so. We can talk. You must tell me everything that has happened since we parted.”

Phoebe hesitated, pointing to the table that Mrs. Tyler had vacated. “Your game?”

“That?” She waved aside Phoebe’s concern. “They were humoring me. My son denies it, but I think he pays them to play with me and let me win just often enough to keep it interesting for me and not break his bank. His motive is pure. For as long as the game lasts, I don’t have my fingers in his business.”

They took a table in one of the dining room cozy alcoves. Although neither Remington nor Phoebe asked for privacy to be a consideration, they were pleased that their table was set away from others by the nook and the tall potted greenery better suited to a hothouse.

Remington sat back while Phoebe and Mrs. Tyler, who now insisted on being addressed exclusively as Amanda, exchanged pleasantries, finished each other’s sentences, and shared questions in equal number and provided answers in excruciating detail.

Remington knew when it was finally his turn to speak because they swiveled slightly in their chairs and regarded him expectantly. He said, “I believe your ring has been found.”

Mrs. Tyler immediately grasped her ring finger, twisting it as though she could feel phantom pressure of the missing piece. “Oh, my. Can it be true?”

“We won’t know until you identify it for us, and no, we don’t have it here, but you should be able to see it tomorrow.” He explained how the discovery had come to pass and how the ring would be available for her viewing. “We have your description of the ring, and Phoebe is here to provide confirmation.”

She nodded. “Yes. Yes, of course. So this woman, the one who will be wearing it, or at least carrying it, she’s a . . . a . . .” She leaned in and mouthed the words. “A bride of the multitude?”

Remington blinked at the expression. “Um, yes. She is that.”

Mrs. Tyler sat up and pressed her palms together in an attitude of prayer; the tips of her steepled fingers touched her lips. Her smile began to spread wide behind her hands. “That’s extraordinary, isn’t it? Yes, I really think it is extraordinary. I will write to my husband immediately, well, after I see the ring and can be sure it’s mine. Jacob has a wicked sense of humor, you know, and this will tickle him. It tickles me. A soiled dove. Tell me her name again.”

“Caroline Carolina.”

“Could it be more delightful?”

Phoebe was struck by Mrs. Tyler’s composure, and when she looked sideways at Remington, she observed that he was not so much struck as amused. “I confess, I did not anticipate that you would take it so well in stride.”

“What? That a young woman no better than she ought to be is in possession of my wedding ring? Did I give you the impression that I was a moralist? Because I can assure you, the moral high ground is largely occupied by people living close to the edge.”

Phoebe’s laughter was quiet, but Remington did not hold back.

Mrs. Tyler’s gaze darted from one to the other. “You look very well together. I am glad to see it. I had an inkling on the train that something was in the wind. Have you already registered?”

Remington nodded. “Before we came in search of you.”

“Good. The Boxwood is a lovely hotel and my son is doing a fine job. One room or two?”

They stared at her.

“I should have the grace to blush,” she said, “but I don’t. Never mind. I was in no anticipation of hearing the answer to something I can learn easily enough.”

“By checking the register?” asked Remington. “You have access, I suppose.”

“The register? Heaven’s no. I am not allowed near it after the unfortunate business with Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer.” When neither of them inquired for further information, she sighed. “From now on, I simply ask Handy McKenzie. He knows everything.”

Remington’s mouth twisted wryly. “And can get it for you, too.”

• • •

It was late when Remington finally let himself into Phoebe’s room. He was concerned that she might already be sleeping, and as reluctant as he was to wake her, he had every intention of doing so. If she had any sense, she’d have barred the door to him, because now that the opportunity to have her again was upon him, he was hardly in his right mind.

A lamp was burning low on the bedside table and provided sufficient light for Remington to see that Phoebe was not only not in bed, but not in the room. He picked up the lamp, wandered into the small sitting area, and then saw a sliver of light under the closed door of the bathing room. When he paused, he heard the faint splash of water.

Remington knocked. “Phoebe?” Without waiting for a reply, he pushed the door open and poked his head inside. Phoebe was reclining in the great claw-foot tub, water almost to her shoulders, a towel wrapped turban-like on her head. She was using her big toe in a lazy attempt to regulate the hot water tap, and she spared him scant attention when he came forward.

“Was there a question in your mind that I was not the occupant of this room?”

There was a hint of something caustic in her tone that gave Remington pause. “You’re upset,” he said.

“I didn’t think you were coming. It’s made me testy.”

“Ah.” He used the toe of his boot to push a footstool close to the tub. When she did not object, he sat.

“I had it in my mind to present you with a vision of Botticelli’s Venus on the half shell—hoping I was not flattering myself overmuch—and your tardiness has made me as wrinkled as an old crone in a watering trough.”

“A vision of the future, then.”

Without looking in his direction, Phoebe scooped a handful of water and threw it at him.

“Feel better?” he asked, picking up a towel. He mopped his face.

“Marginally. You will be made to answer for your lapse.”

“I hope so. I am counting on it, in fact.” He leaned over, brushed her toe aside, and turned on the hot water. He let it run for a minute before he turned it off. “I like the turban.”

Phoebe put one hand to her head as if she’d forgotten it was there. She patted and straightened it and then let her arm slip under the water again. “Compliments will not mollify me, although it’s good of you to try.” She faced him, then, and gave him the full benefit of her narrow-eyed stare. “Better you should start with where you’ve been and why you smell of whiskey and women.”