27

Kate took a big breath and walked into Frank’s leather shop with a feeling of dread. It was late, and most of the other shops in town were closed.

Frank looked up as she entered and quickly walked around the counter to greet her. “Katie. I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

Kate moistened her lips. “We need to talk.”

He frowned. “Are you okay? You’re not still upset over what happened on the train, are you? The ring…”

“That’s what I need to talk to you about.” She hesitated. The words she’d rehearsed all day now seemed inadequate. Cold, even. Still, beating around the bush wouldn’t do either of them any good.

“I…I don’t think we should get married, Frank.”

The words hung between them for a moment before Frank jerked back as if she’d slapped him. “What are you saying?”

She sighed. “Frank, I love you. You’re a good friend. But I’m not sure that what we have is…real enough for marriage.”

His eyes widened. “How can you say that? Is…is it because of my jealousy?”

She shook her head. “That no longer seems to be a problem.”

He brightened. “See? I can change. I am changing.”

“I know, Frank, and I appreciate how hard you’ve been trying. But—”

He took both her hands in his. “I know what the problem is.”

Her eyes widened. “You do?”

“I’ve been rushing you. You’ve had two run-ins with the Ghost Riders, and your aunt was knocked down by one. You’re upset. Who can blame you? No wonder your head’s messed up.”

Kate drew in her breath. Frank spoke the truth. Things had been crazy of late, and her nerves were still in a jangle. Maybe she wasn’t thinking right.

“Give me another chance, Kate. Things were good between us before, and they can be good again. Please, say you will. I swear you won’t be sorry.”

She pulled her hands away. “Frank, listen to me—”

“A month. That’s all I’m askin’ for. No, make it sixty days. By then, if you’d have forgotten about the train robbery and—”

“I’ll never forget the train robbery!”

“Maybe not, but at least you’ll be able to think clearer. Just give me till…till July…to the Independence Day dance to prove that what we have is real.” When she hesitated, he added, “I’ll bet you’ll feel a whole lot different by then.”

“I-I don’t know…”

“Ah, come on, Katie. What can it hurt to take more time to think about this? I’ll do anything you want me to. Just tell me.”

Frank looked so desperate to please that Kate felt her resolve crumble. “I don’t know that sixty days will make all that much difference.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“All right,” she said, though everything inside her screamed no. “Sixty days. But I don’t want you getting your hopes up.”

A look of relief crossed his face and, like the Frank of old, he grabbed her hand and shook it as if pumping water from a well. “You won’t be sorry, Kate.”

She pulled her hand away. “Frank, I can’t promise.”

“I know, I know.” He studied her with knitted brow. “Could we not tell anyone that things are still up in the air between us? If your aunt gets wind of this, you know she’ll interfere. She means well, but somehow she always makes things worse.”

As much as she loved her aunt, Kate knew he spoke the truth. Though in the case of marriage, Aunt Letty always took Frank’s side. “I won’t say anything.”

Since there didn’t seem to be anything more to be said, she pleaded exhaustion and left, her mind in a muddle.

Outside his shop, she took a gulp of the cool night air and tried to shake off her uneasy thoughts. Frank had asked her to wait till July before making a final decision, and that seemed reasonable enough. Still, pouring out her heart tonight had been hard. How much harder would it be two months from now should her feelings not change?

* * *

Last night’s encounter with Frank was very much on Kate’s mind the following morning as she prepared the last of the orders for delivery.

Loud voices from outside drew her gaze to the window. The bullies were at it again and now surrounded Dusty. As she watched, one of the boys shoved him, and her temper flared.

Wait till she got her hands on those hooligans! Just as she started for the door, she recalled something Uncle Joe had once said about catching more flies with sugar than vinegar. Stopping short of rushing out to the fray, she tried to think. Warning the boys hadn’t worked in the past. Neither had talking to their parents. Maybe it was time to try her uncle’s remedy.

She reached for the plate of candy she’d made that morning. So far, no one had appreciated the effort that had gone into adding a leaf to the center, but maybe not all was lost.

“Okay, Uncle Joe. We’ll try it your way.” Flinging the door open, she walked outside, forcing a smile. “Hello, gentlemen,” she called, keeping her voice light and friendly.

The mocking voices stopped, and the boys turned to face her. The leader’s name was Charley. Though only sixteen, he stood nearly six feet tall and was as thin as a broomstick. Next to him was his brother Bobby, younger by two years. The third boy was known simply as Spike, probably because of the way his cowlick stood straight up.

“Would you boys like to try some new candy? I just made it this morning, and I’m calling them…Dusty…Dusty Drops.”

Dusty’s eyes widened. “Did you really name them after me?” he asked.

His enthusiastic response not only made her smile but gave her an idea on how to turn the bullies into Dusty’s friends. “Absolutely,” she said. “Try one.”

The older boys glanced at one another before staring at the plate she held out to them.

Bobby was the first to reach for a candy. He studied the green design in the center of the creamy white filling. “What is that?” he asked.

Spike looked over Bobby’s shoulder. “You dummy,” he said. “Anyone can see it’s a beetle.”

“It’s not a beetle,” Dusty said, studying the candy in his hand. “It’s a mushroom.”

With a shrug of his shoulders, Bobby popped it into his mouth. “Hmm.” He nodded. “S’good.”

Encouraged by his approval, the other boys reached for a piece.

“How did you get the mushroom in the center?” Dusty asked.

She gave him a mysterious smile. “Oh, I can’t tell you that. It’s a trade secret. Do you like the name? I thought it would be fun to name my new candy after one of my friends. And that’s you.”

Dusty beamed. “I like it a lot,” he said, popping the candy in his mouth.

“Here, have some more,” Kate said. The boys didn’t have to be asked twice. Each of them eagerly grabbed another piece.

“Next time, I want to put a different design in the middle,” she said. “Maybe a sailing ship or an animal. Of course, a new design will need a new name. What name should I use?” She pretended to think. “How about Charley Chunks or Bobby Bars?” She cast a glance at Spike. “Hmm. What do you think about…Sugar Spikes?”

Charley made a face. “That’s dumb. Who ever heard of naming candy after people?”

“Why, it’s done all the time,” Kate assured him. “Mr. Whitman named his chocolate after himself. And overseas, there’s a famous candy company named Cadbury, after its founder.”

Spike’s eyes shone with interest. “Okay, then, name it after me.”

She studied him. “What design should I add?” she asked and brightened. “I know. You like to play baseball. What do you think about a ball or bat?” Those designs should be easy enough to master.

“I like it,” Spike said and grinned. “I like it a lot!”

Bobby elbowed his friend. “Spike’s a dumb name for a candy. A Bobby Bar sounds better.”

“It’s not how a name sounds,” Kate said gently. “What matters is what people think when they hear it. The name Dusty, for example, makes me think of the person it’s named after, and that makes me think of goodness. I just know that when I pop that candy into my mouth, it’ll taste delicious.”

The boys didn’t say anything, but she had their attention. “I’ll tell you what. I won’t be making another batch until the end of the month. I’m making Dusty my official candy helper. And so it’ll be up to him to name the next candy.”

All three boys turned their attention to Dusty, but he was too busy watching Brett across the street to notice. “Hey, Mr. Ranger,” he called before she could stop him. “Come and see what Miss Denver made.”

“I’ll be right there,” Brett called back.

Kate swallowed hard. Oh no. She wasn’t ready to face him. Not after their last conversation. Still, there was nothing she could do but make the best of it. “His name is Mr. Tucker,” she said gently.

Brett put something in his horse’s saddlebag and then darted across the street to join them.

Dusty held up a piece of candy in greeting. “Look, Mr. Tucker. They’re called Dusty Drops. And they have a mushroom in the center, but Miss Denver won’t tell us how it got there.”

“It’s a trade secret,” Charley added. “But it’s not a mushroom; it’s a beetle.”

Brett’s gaze met Kate’s. “Well, what do you know? A trade secret, eh?” He popped a piece in his mouth and gave it his full consideration. She distinctly remembered him sampling the same type of candy the day before and knew he was putting on a show for the boys. “Hmm, not bad.”

Dusty looked pleased. “And I get to name the next candy.”

“Choose me,” the three boys said in unison.

“I’m the oldest,” Charley said. “The candy should be named after me.”

“Oh, you can’t rush him,” Kate cautioned. “Naming candy is a very important task. Only the most special people get to have a candy named after them. People who we don’t want to forget and who we love or admire. So, you see? He’ll have to think about it for a while.”

Spike turned to Dusty. “Wanna play baseball?”

Dusty’s face lit up. “Yeah!” he said, barely able to contain his excitement.

“Come on, then. You be the catcher.”

The four of them ran off.

Brett helped himself to another Dusty Drop. “I have to say, taming those boys was a brilliant piece of work.”

“I’m afraid I can’t take all the credit,” she said, blushing. “I got the idea from something my uncle once said.”

He stared at the piece of candy in his hand.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“I was just thinking that the beetle, mushroom—whatever—actually looks like a key.”

She frowned. “That’s a funny-looking key,” she said, trying not to take offense.

“I’m talking a telegraph key,” he said. “See?”

He held it up in such a way that it did indeed look like a telegraph key. She sighed. “I meant it to be a leaf.”

“A leaf?”

She shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a better candy maker than I am an artist.”

“Well, if I’m right, you could add detective to your list of talents.”

She angled her head. “What do you mean, detective?”

He gave her a heart-stopping smile. “Kate Denver, I do believe you helped me solve the Ghost Rider case. At least partially.” Without explanation, he dashed across the street to his tethered horse, leaving her to watch him in bewilderment.

* * *

Brett woke that night with a start. Not only did he have the telegraph operator, Flash, on his mind, but he couldn’t stop thinking about rings. Diamond rings. Engagement rings. Wedding rings.

Irritated at himself, he raised his head, slammed a fist into his pillow, and rolled over. It was no time to be thinking about rings. Or Kate. Definitely not Kate. That only took him to places of the heart where he didn’t want to go.

It was far better, safer, and more productive to concentrate on his reason for coming to Haywire. He was getting closer to identifying the Ghost Riders and maybe even tracking down Foster One. He felt it in his bones.

And he had Kate to thank for that. The candy design sure had looked like a telegraph key, and that had gotten him thinking. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe someone else had known that the shipment of gold would be transported by train.

Maybe Flash had known.

The sheriff said he’d sent the telegram with transport instructions to Austin in cipher. But what if Flash had done more than tap out the message? What if he had decrypted it? It was possible. If he enjoyed riddles, he probably liked solving other puzzles. Deciphering secret messages was a popular pastime. Even Edgar Allan Poe was said to have enjoyed the challenge of cracking messages in code.

Flash was the right height to be a Ghost Rider, but so were most of the men in Haywire. And his candy of choice was licorice, not peppermint. Still…

Perhaps the most critical evidence was his work schedule. Flash hadn’t worked the afternoon of the holdup, but coincidentally, Thursday was his normal day off. According to his landlady, Flash was a fairly new resident and had only moved into the boardinghouse eight months ago. That was around the time the Ghost Riders had started operating in the county.

Oh yes, now that Brett had thought about it, there were reasons aplenty to suspect Flash. Still, suspicion wasn’t proof, and he needed more. A lot more.

He tried thinking of the other clues he had, but his mind kept going back to rings. He was just about to banish the thought when something occurred to him.

Sitting up in bed, he scrubbed his face with his hands. And he wore a ring. That’s what the boy, Dusty, had said. And he wore a ring.

And it had been on his pinkie finger.

Seeing Dusty yesterday must have triggered something in his subconscious. Brett hadn’t given Dusty’s observation a second thought before, but there was good reason for that. Pinkie rings weren’t all that unusual. Probably half the men in town wore such rings. Often they were signet rings with a Masonic or Odd Fellows insignia, but the boy hadn’t recalled any special design.

During the War Between the States, a soldier would sometimes wear his wife’s ring, the small size necessitating the need to wear it on a pinkie.

He tried to think. Flash didn’t wear a ring. At least not as far as Brett could recall. So where did that leave him? A pinkie ring, peppermint candy, and a scrap of paper in Kate’s handwriting were all he had to show for nearly two months of work, and that sure in blazes wasn’t much to go on.

He lay his head back on his pillow and stared up at the dark ceiling. He couldn’t seem to get the ring out of his mind. None of the other witnesses had mentioned any such jewelry. Why was that?

Had the boy been mistaken or…?

His thoughts sifted through his mind like grains of sand. What if it hadn’t been a ring the boy had spotted, but something else? But what? A key, maybe. Some people slipped a key ring over a finger, a temporary action that could explain why Dusty was the only one to have noticed it.

Brett groaned. Maybe he was just grasping at straws. Or perhaps he’d been going about this all wrong. The clues were there; he was sure of it. He just couldn’t put them together.

He punched his pillow again and rolled over. He tried turning off his brain, but his mind refused to cooperate. Again, he ticked off the few clues he had: a pinkie ring, peppermint candy, and a handwritten fortune…

The ring haunted him for the rest of the night and all the following day. He’d left Haywire early that morning to check out the series of caves outside Barterville. The trip turned out to be a waste of time. Nothing in the caves indicated they had been used as a hideout. The cold ashes of a campfire could have been left by anyone.

Late that afternoon, he rode into the town of Barterville. After getting something to eat at the hotel, he stopped at the marshal’s office. Unlike the reception he’d gotten from the sheriff of Haywire, Deputy Marshal Bradshaw looked pleased to see him.

An affable man with a deep voice and a balding head, the marshal invited him to sit. “What can I do for you?”

Brett stepped around the hound dog sleeping on the floor and seated himself in the ladder-back chair. “Just want to ask a couple of questions,” he said. “Any leads to the bank holdup?”

“Not a one,” Bradshaw said with a rueful shake of his head. “They blew up the safe, grabbed the money, and vanished”—he snapped his fingers—“just like that.” The dog lifted his head. With a shake of his collar, he gave his owner a sleepy-eyed gaze and then rested his head on his crossed paws.

“What about you?” the marshal asked. “Any luck with the train robbery?”

Brett pulled his gaze away from the sleeping dog. “Not yet.” He reached for the photograph in his vest pocket and slid it across the desk. “Do you recognize that man?”

The marshal picked up the photograph and studied it. “Can’t say that I do. Who is he?”

“Don’t know what he calls himself now, but he was using the name Frank Foster. I have reason to believe he’s a member of the Ghost Riders.”

“Is that so?” The marshal slid the photograph back to Brett. “What makes you think that?”

“A couple of years ago, there was a similar string of robberies in San Antone. The robberies stopped when Foster left town.”

“And you think this same man is behind the holdups here in the county.”

“If it’s not the same man, then it’s a copycat.”

The marshal stroked his chin. “But you don’t believe that, right?”

“Not for a second,” Brett said, staring at the piece of string tied to the marshal’s finger.

Bradshaw drew his hand away from his chin and held it out in front of himself. “Just a reminder to stop and get flowers for the wife’s birthday.”

“Yeah, you don’t want to forget that,” Brett said. For some reason, the string triggered a half-forgotten memory.

The marshal folded his hands on his desk. “Something wrong?”

Anxious to return to Haywire, Brett rose to his feet. “Not a thing,” he said. His mind in a whirl, he almost tripped over the sleeping dog, and the rest of the memory materialized.

Could it be? Was it possible?

“Not a thing,” he repeated. Thanking the marshal for his time, he left.

And he wore a ring.

Crazy as it sounded, the piece of string tied to the marshal’s fingers might both save a marriage and help solve a case. That and Kate’s beetle…mushroom…key!