Chapter Thirty-four

John Manypenny carefully closed his suitcase so the small bottles of sample liquors inside were not thrown together. He tipped his bowler and thanked the owner of the Angel’s Rest Saloon for placing an order for two cases of rye, a case of gin, and three cases of whiskey blends, and then removed his wares from the polished surface of the long mahogany bar. The suitcase was heavy and he was not a large man, but experience had taught him how to shift his shoulders and heft the case so it did feel less of a burden to carry than it was. He was not a drinking man himself, but on occasion he liked to take a chair at a table and sip a sarsaparilla while he observed others enjoy the fruits of his labor, so to speak.

The owner had invited him to sit a spell, and John had declined, but he changed his mind before he got to the swinging doors. Collier was the next stop on his route, and for the first time in recent memory, he was not eager to go there.

The Rocky Mountain News had reported on the gruesome murders of Deputy Buford “Blue” Armstrong, late of Frost Falls, and Miss Caroline Carolina, born in Monroe, Louisiana, and now laid to rest in Collier, Colorado. The Rocky had treaded carefully around the profession that called Miss Carolina to any man’s bed, but John Manypenny believed that was in deference to Deputy Armstrong and not indicative of the newspaper’s respect for Miss Carolina. He had been on the train between Denver and Jupiter when he read the account, and he had a clear recollection of neatly folding the paper and placing it on the empty seat beside him. He’d reached for his suitcase, then, and without thinking twice, or thinking at all, he had opened it and quickly downed four sample bottles of his finest Kentucky bourbon and one bottle of gin. The recollections that followed were hazy at best, but he knew he missed the stop in Jupiter and ended up in a hotel in Lansing nursing a sore head the morning after.

With that in mind, John Manypenny carried his case to the nearest table, which happened to be a few feet from the door, and called to the barkeep that he would have his usual.

He was close enough to the window that his view of the street was unimpeded by patrons at neighboring tables. When his drink came, he cupped it in his hands but didn’t raise it. Occupied as he was with watching passersby and his own mawkish thoughts, he failed to notice the arrival of the pair of men who walked right past his table and went straight to the bar, and he failed to hear the barkeep call out his name or see the man point in his direction. It was only when they were standing so close to his table that their shadows darkened his vision that they finally had his attention.

“Mind if we join you?”

John Manypenny blinked owlishly behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. The lenses magnified his rheumy blue eyes. He looked from one man to the other, vaguely aware of familiarity with one but not able to place him in a particular situation or in a particular moment in time. He dragged his case from the seat of one of the chairs and set it on the floor. He turned over a hand, inviting them to sit.

“John Manypenny,” he said as they each took a chair. He noticed that neither was drinking. Not troubling himself to hide his puzzlement, he addressed the man who had spoken. “Do we know each other?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure, Mr. Manypenny. Remington Frost.”

John shook the hand Remington Frost extended and then he rose slightly from his chair as he held out his hand to the other man. “Now, you and I, I think we’ve met. I’m good with faces.”

“Jackson Brewer.” He released John’s hand and opened his jacket to reveal the tin star on his vest. “Sheriff Brewer. Frost Falls.”

John Manypenny’s gaze narrowed a fraction. He lifted his spectacles and resettled the stems on his ears and the crosspiece on the hooked bridge of his nose. His face cleared as the occasion of their meeting came to him. “On the sidewalk outside the Songbird Saloon. I believe I caught you in the knee with the corner of my case as I was hurrying out. Had a train to catch. I didn’t know you were the sheriff or I expect I would have been more mortified.”

Brewer dropped a hand to his knee and rubbed it absently. “I recall it now. You walloped me good with that thing. Wish we had exchanged names. That might have helped some.”

“Helped? How?”

Remington said, “We have a matter to discuss with you, Mr. Manypenny.”

“John. What sort of matter? Have I done something?”

The sheriff shook his head. “Not at all, or at least not that I’m aware. We’ve been trying to cross your path the last couple of days. We missed you in Jupiter and again in Collier. I wasn’t confident we’d run you to ground here, but I don’t mind being wrong. We have a few questions for you. You’re under no obligation to tell us anything, but Remington will empty every bottle in that suitcase if you don’t. One. By. One.”

Manypenny did not react to what the sheriff said. He reacted to the sheriff. “You’re Jackson Brewer,” he said. Even to his ears, the revelation sounded more like an accusation. “Buford Armstrong was your deputy.”

“Blue,” said Brewer. “He hated Buford.”

Aware that Remington Frost had fixed his dark gaze on him, Manypenny shifted his attention. He resisted the urge to take a handkerchief from his pocket and wipe his brow. His stomach clenched under the deputy’s implacable stare. “What is it?”

“I’m thinking you might have some idea,” said Remington. “The connection you made between Jackson and Blue is telling.”

“I read the Rocky same as a lot of folks. It just came to my mind.”

“Uh-huh.”

Jackson removed his hat and set it on the table. He raked his mostly graying hair with his fingers, slouched casually in his chair, and then folded his arms across his chest. “Seems to me you might be coming around to the notion that we’re here because my deputy is not. Miss Carolina, too, is likewise gone. Murdered. You read that.”

Manypenny did not deny it.

Remington said, “Tell us about the ring you gave her.”

He couldn’t help himself. He stuttered. “The r-ring?” He saw Remington’s eyes dart to the suitcase at his feet. He tried to push it under the table, but the deputy pushed his foot forward and stopped him. He inhaled and the breath whistled softly through his teeth. “What do you want to know about it?”

“A good place to begin is where you got it.”

“Do you know the Sweet Clementine Saloon?”

Remington shook his head, but Jackson nodded and said, “Harmony, right?”

“Yes. Harmony’s on my regular route, but usually I’m there early in the day and I move on. It’s rare that I spend the night. I took a lot of orders that day and I missed a train in the morning and another in the afternoon. That’s how I ended up staying at the Harmony House. Sweet Clementine has nicer rooms, but it was full up, so after I made my sales there, I went over to the Harmony House and settled in.” He stopped abruptly, seized his glass, and took a deep swallow of the sarsaparilla.

“And?” asked Remington.

“And I had dinner in the restaurant. I sat alone and ate and observed. I do that frequently. Observe.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “It passes the time.”

Jackson said, “Go on. If you tell us what you had to eat, I swear I’ll start drinking out of your case myself.”

Manypenny decided it was better to ignore the threat. “I observed money and goods exchanging hands and my curiosity got me noticed. I was approached, much as the two of you approached me. Only one question, though. Was I interested in buying a bauble or two? I thought of Caroline so I said I was. I looked over earbobs, hair combs, stickpins, brooches, and rings.”

Remington asked, “What did you think you were seeing? Did it occur to you the items might be stolen?”

“Stolen? No. As a matter of fact, that never occurred to me. I figured the gems for paste and the rest for cheap metals. I had no reason to think otherwise, not for the asking price. Are you telling me different?” When neither the sheriff nor his deputy answered, he went on. “I fancied the ring. Pear shape cut. Thought I could see a hint of blue in the facets, like smoke. It was probably a trick of the lamplight and the smoke in the restaurant, but I wasn’t really thinking about that. I knew I wanted it. I paid fourteen dollars.” His mouth was dry. He took another large swallow of his drink. “That’s it.”

Remington shook his head. “Not quite. Not even close. Who sold it to you?”

“Oh, I should have supposed you’d want to know that. Afraid I can’t help you there. We didn’t exchange names.”

“You said you’re good with faces,” said Remington. He removed a small notepad and pencil from his vest pocket. “Prove it.”

• • •

Phoebe saw him coming when he was still more than a mile away. It was the height advantage at the top of Boxer’s Ridge that gave her the splendid view, not only of the verdant expanse of Twin Star Ranch, but also of Remington’s rapid approach. It looked as if horse and rider were flying, and she thought it suited them, all speed and power unleashed like great mythic creatures of another time. Perseus, perhaps, and Pegasus coming to the mountaintop.

Boxer’s Ridge was not nearly a mountaintop, and Bullet and Remington were hardly mythic creatures, but all the same, Phoebe soared above the ground on a flight of fancy that made her laugh aloud. She hoped her voice carried down the ridge and over the sound of Bullet’s pounding hooves. She hoped Remington heard it above the beating of his heart because it was in his heart that she wanted her laughter to live.

Phoebe moved side to side, ducked and weaved, trying not to lose sight of him as he began to climb. It was not possible to follow his route. Fir trees and limber pine, rocky outcroppings and hairpin curves, thwarted her again and again. She grabbed Mrs. McCauley’s bridle and urged the mare to a flat patch of grass where she could be tethered to a scrub pine so she wouldn’t wander off. “He’s coming, girl,” she told the mare. “Your friend, too. They’re coming back to us.”

• • •

Remington did not so much dismount as throw himself from the saddle. He let Bullet find his own way to Mrs. McCauley; he wanted Phoebe and made no apologies for it.

He caught her by the waist, pulled her close, and kissed her hard, kissed her breathless, kissed her quiet. What movements she made were those meant to keep him locked in the embrace. At first, surprise kept her arms loose and limp at her sides, but then she raised them, folded her hands behind his neck, and rose against him instead of leaning away. Her breasts flattened against his chest. Her fingers flicked his hair where it lay against his nape. It was when she removed his hat and flung it sideways that she realized he had already done the same to hers. His fist was wrapped around the rope of her braid. He controlled the lift of her head by tugging on it. She controlled the slant of his mouth by cupping his face in her hands.

He opened her vest and his fingers scrabbled to pull the tails of her shirt out of her trousers. She relieved him of his jacket and vest and then went for his fly. His sudden whoop of laughter startled her and she paused, raising her head to look at him. She followed the line of his gaze and saw he was looking at the blanket she had unfolded on the grass.

“Just saw that, did you?” she asked, rising on her toes to kiss him on the mouth.

“Picnic?”

She shook her head. “Not unless you brought food. I ate before I rode out here.”

He bent his head, nuzzled her neck, and whispered against her skin. “I am very glad to hear it.” He thrust his hips forward and she resumed releasing the buttons on his fly. He attended to the matter of her shirt.

At some point there was mutual, if silent, agreement that they would be better served by managing their own clothes. They shucked articles until they were satisfied with the state of their undress and then Remington scooped Phoebe into his arms and bore her down to the blanket.

Hunger could not quite mask discomfort and there were awkward moments between kisses as Phoebe tried to remove a sharp stone from under her shoulder and Remington jammed his knee into another. They winced, but their urgency also made them laugh, and it was just as Phoebe hoped it would be with the laughter residing in their hearts.

Her body had been preparing for him from the moment she saw him flying toward her. Given the state of his readiness, she believed it had been the same for him. She welcomed him into the cradle of her thighs and wrapped her legs around him. He thrust deep, pushing hard, and it was not a wince that changed her features this time, it was a whimper.

“God, Phoebe.” He strained to reach her mouth, nudged her lips open, and used his tongue to match the carnal rhythm of their bodies. She held him close, and there, in that place between her thighs where he fit so snugly, she held him closer still.

Her smile was vaguely wicked and a bit secretive when he raised his head. She did not look away. Her palm ran up his arm, across his shoulder, and rested against the curve of his neck. He rocked her back. She gasped, sucked a deep breath, and then her body was trembling and he felt every one of her intimate contractions. She tripped the single nerve that was holding him taut and together. Remington arched, tensed, and finally embraced release.