Redemption, page 5
part #3 of Ladies of Larkspur Series
The door opened before Minnie had finished knocking, and she was pulled across the threshold and into the entryway. As soon as Art closed the door behind her, he ran his hands over her arms. If she didn't know any better, she'd think he was checking her for injury. "Is everything okay?" He searched her eyes with a penetrating gaze.
Unwrapping her scarf from where it was wrapped around her face and mouth, she took a deep breath. As soon as she found her voice, she said, "I'm fine. You didn't come by last night, and you weren't at the sheriff's office today, so I was worried about you. I stopped by to make sure you were okay. It wasn't my intention to come in or stay." Her chin rose a defensive degree.
Art helped her out of her jacket and hung it on his coat rack, moving the rack closer to the warm fire so it could dry a bit before she had to put it back on. "Sorry. It startled me when I saw you there. I shouldn't have pulled you in like that. Hopefully none of the neighbors saw. Otherwise, we're both in for a bout of gossip."
Minnie took a good look at Arty. His red-blond hair, despite how short he kept it, was mussed. His shirt wasn't tucked in, and he was in stocking feet. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asked.
His eyes were tired but kind. He ran a hand through his hair, putting it into even further disarray. "I had an overnight prisoner, so I had to stay down at the jail. It was the second night in a row, and I never sleep well there so I came home to get some shuteye today in case it happens again tonight. Sorry I couldn't send word last night. By the time I realized I was going to be stuck at the jail, my deputy had already gone home, and I didn't think it prudent to leave the prisoner alone."
"I hope everything was okay with your overnight guest," she said.
"He was sober by morning and back on his horse heading out of town for parts unknown," Art said dismissively. Then, looking down at himself, he said, "I'm not dressed for company. Give me a minute?"
Minnie nodded, and he excused himself, stepping into what she assumed was his bedroom and closing the door behind him.
Not wanting to sit idle, Minnie retrieved the letters from her jacket pocket so she could peruse them. First, she opened the letter from her editor, read his note of appreciation and examined the bank draft. The amount might have been barely enough money to survive on in San Francisco, but here in Larkspur it would be considered a generous sum.
Moving on to the five other missives, she noticed the envelopes were all identical with the same scrawling hand across the front. Opening one, she pulled out a single sheet of paper to read. Then she opened the next, and the next.
****
Art came back out of his bedroom, boots on, shirt tucked in and, socks presumably in place. "All right, Minnie, let me escort you back to your folks’ house." When she said nothing, he asked, "Are you sure everything's okay?"
Looking at him wide-eyed, Minnie answered, "They're going to kill me."
Chapter Eight
Art studied Minnie. Her normally fair skin had been leeched of all color, and her jade eyes were large and shone with fear. The delicate hands he'd always associated with grace were shaking, a piece of paper grasped in them. He moved closer and pulled the paper from her stiff fingers.
Mrs. Drake
We know where you live. You can't escape.
Lifting his eyes from the letter to Minnie's face, he asked, "Do you know who sent this?"
She shook her head.
"When did you get this?"
No words came as she stared at him.
He wanted to shake her to get some answers, but her lack of expression told him she was in shock. Squatting down in front of her, he reached for her. As his fingers clasped hers, he realized her hands were near to frozen. "Minnie, stand up, okay?"
She did as she was told, but her face remained a frozen mask.
He led her over to a chair closer to the fireplace and had her sit there. He sat on an ottoman in front of the chair and held her hands in his, rubbing them to bring the warmth back.
After a couple minutes, Minnie's face cleared a bit. She peeked at him and said, "I don't know what to do."
"Start from the beginning," he said, still rubbing her cold hands between his warmer ones. "Where did the letter come from?"
"I wanted to see if I'd gotten paid yet for the last serial I'd sent in, so I stopped by the stage office to see if there was any mail for Will Drake. Although my editor knows my real name, I thought it was possible it had been sent under my pen name. Sure enough, there was mail. Several letters, in fact," she said, a shudder moving through her small frame.
"Where are those letters now?" Art asked. Minnie pointed to where they were scattered across the floor in front of the couch. How had he not seen them earlier? He quickly stepped away from her to gather up the mail and then returned to the ottoman.
As he scanned through the letters, his anger grew. Not wanting to give Minnie a bigger scare than she'd already received, he chose his words carefully, hoping he could get her to open up and tell him more of the story without his having to pry it out of her. "Did you open the letters before you came here?"
She shook her head. "Just now. I opened them while you were in the other room." Minnie looked at him and frowned. "After the stage office, I had lunch with Sarah, then we went to the mercantile. When we were done there, Sarah returned home, and I stopped by the sheriff's office to make sure you were okay, but you weren't there, so I came here. While I was waiting for you, I figured I'd satisfy my curiosity about the letters. My editor sent the first one. The rest… they weren't from him."
"Can I keep these?" Art asked.
Minnie nodded, "I don't want them anywhere near me." Then, stiffening, she sought Art's eyes and asked, "Is my family in danger? Should I move? Stay somewhere else? I can't put them in danger. I won't."
Art shook his head and said, "Let's not jump to conclusions or make rash decisions."
Minnie gazed at him, brow raised in protest and eyes filled with a jumble of emotions – anxiety, hope, fear, courage.
"I'll do some checking. In the meantime, we're going to act normal and behave as if everything is okay."
"What about my parents? If someone plans to kill me, I can't stay with my parents." Her voice sounded both weak and demanding at the same time.
Watching her closely, Art said, "We need to talk, Minnie." She lifted her eyes to look at him and tucked a stray strand of ebony hair behind her ear before nodding. "Do you know what these letters are about?" When she shook her head, he asked, "Is there anything about your husband's death you're not telling me?"
Minnie broke eye contact and stared into the fire before answering. "Art, I've gotten so good at keeping things hidden from the people around me that sometimes I don't even remember what things I've buried or where I've buried them. Does that make sense?"
She glanced up as she asked the last question, and he saw the raw vulnerability in her eyes. He reached out and again took one of her hands in his before answering. Maintaining eye contact, he said, "I think I understand. I got so used to playing the different parts I need to play to be a good sheriff that I sometimes forget how to be myself, how to take the hat off, as it were."
Searching his eyes, Minnie said, "You've been a good friend to me, and I suppose I owe you the whole story, but I don't know where to begin, and I don't think there's enough time in the day for me to tell you all of it."
"Start with the parts about what got your husband killed," he said firmly.
Minnie pulled her hand out of his grasp and wrapped both her arms around her middle before saying, "William gambled a lot. He owed money to different people. He'd stopped working by then, and I couldn't figure out where he was getting the money to gamble, so I followed him one day. I watched as he met a man. The man gave him an envelope. I assumed it was full of cash, but I never knew for sure. They had a disagreement. There were heated words. The other man pulled a gun but never fired it. Even though they parted ways without either getting hurt, it was clear as day that William was angry. I suspected at the time…" Her voice trailed off as she stared over his shoulder. When she brought her eyes back to Art's face, she looked apologetic as she said, "I – I figured Will was blackmailing the man, but I never confronted him about it."
"Did you tell Detective Wilcox any of this?"
"I couldn't prove it." Minnie shook her head. "I was their main suspect. Anything I said would seem false unless I could back it up."
"Could William have had any other enemies?"
Minnie closed her eyes and bowed her head, weighed down by painful memories, not to mention embarrassment and shame. Her voice was leaden as she said, "William spent some of his time in the opium dens by the docks. He… he was not a good man. I suspect he had other vices, too, beside drugs and gambling, but I reached a point where I no longer wanted to know, so I never dug for more answers."
While it was clear she didn't want to be touched, Art forged ahead anyway, reaching out and once again taking Minnie's hand in his own. Suspicion told him William's other vices must have been more than hurtful, probably even illicit, for her to give up on trying to get answers. He kept his eyes on Minnie's face, waiting for the moment when she would open her own. At last she did, and he gave her hand a squeeze. "It's not your fault if your husband wasn't satisfied staying at home with you. You have to stop blaming yourself for his shortcomings."
Minnie shook her head vehemently, causing hair to slip from her chignon. "If I'd been a good wife, then I'd have been enough for him. He wouldn't have needed any of those other things to make him feel complete."
"Sweetheart," Art said, wishing he could chase away the shadows that haunted her eyes. "No matter how many vices he had, he never would have felt complete. It was never about you being enough for him. The problem was that he didn't even know how it felt to be satisfied. Unless you know that feeling, you can't ever be content."
Tilting her head, her brows drawn together, Minnie asked, "How does a person know what it means to be satisfied? How can they recognize it if they've never had it?"
Art bounced on his feet as he grinned at her. "I've always figured it comes from God. He's the One that truly satisfies. Once you've experienced it, you'll never mistake anything else for it. If William had known what it felt like to be satisfied by God, he might not have ever gone looking for drugs, cards, women, or anything else. It's not your fault, and you need to stop blaming yourself as though it is."
The turmoil faded from Minnie's face. "You're on to something, you know that? William's behavior isn't my fault. I am, however, to blame for marrying him, and I'm going to have to live with the consequences of that choice for the rest of my life."
Frowning in thought, Art asked, "Do you believe God forgives?" Minnie nodded, and he continued, "Does he put our sins as far as the east is from the west?" Again, she nodded. "Doesn't the Bible tell us that, when we repent, He buries our sins in the deepest sea?" Suspicion creeping into her gaze, Minnie again nodded. "So, then, whatever wrong you feel you have to carry with you to the grave," Art said, "ought to be handed over to God so He can take it away from you and deal with it Himself, right?"
Minnie glared at him, and he released her hand to stand. Then he stuffed all the letters into his jacket pocket and put both it and his hat on. "Come on, Minnie." His voice was kind, despite her unwelcoming posture. "I need to return you back home. We'll talk some more about this tomorrow. Let me read over these letters again and sleep on it before we decide on a course of action. Whoever they are, they can't be in that big a hurry if they're harassing you by mail." With that, he helped her back into her jacket and handed her the scarf and gloves she'd been depending on for warmth.
"Are you going to tell my parents?"
Art sighed, having hoped she wouldn't ask that particular question. "I won't lie to you, Minnie. If it turns out the town or your parents are in danger, I'm going to have to at least tell the mayor."
"You'll tell them I'm still a suspect in William's murder?"
Art shook his head and said, "I don't think that's necessary yet."
"Do you think these people, whoever they are, will come after me because they believe I killed William?"
He shook his head. "There's something much bigger going on, but I still need to figure out what."
****
After he dropped Minnie back at her house, Art headed straight to the telegraph office. He'd been sending weekly telegrams to San Francisco saying "Package safe." Since his last telegram had been sent but two days ago, Mr. Clement's eyes flared with momentary surprise upon seeing him.
"Howdy there, Sheriff. What can I do for you today?" he inquired.
"I need to send a telegram," Art said.
"Same direction as the previous ones?" the older man asked. When Art nodded, he asked, "Same message?"
Shaking his head, Art said, "Not this time. I need this one to say 'Package in danger.'"
Mr. Clement's eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing. Appreciating the older man's discretion, Art paid for the telegram and then headed toward the stage office to see if any mail had arrived for him from San Francisco.
****
Later in the evening, after everything in town had quieted down, Art sat at his desk. He had another drunk and disorderly in his jail cell, which meant he couldn't go home tonight. Still fresh from his afternoon nap, he wasn't quite ready to seek slumber. Art again read through the letters Minnie had received. There were five, and they were all addressed to Will Drake on the envelope but said Mrs. Drake inside.
We know where you live. You can't escape.
Heads will roll if you don't do as you're told.
Don't be fooled. You aren't safe.
How did dear William look when you saw him last?
You have something we want.
Each had a simple one or two sentence message designed to intimidate and frighten. The last one nevertheless captured Art's attention more effectively than all the rest. "You have something we want." If William had been blackmailing someone in San Francisco, perhaps that person thought Minnie had whatever evidence he'd been holding over their head.
Taking out a piece of paper, he jotted a quick note for tomorrow's post.
Detective Wilcox,
Numerous threatening letters have arrived. Possibility that W was blackmailing someone.
Have not seen evidence of threat in town but am on alert.
Will keep you informed. Please notify of any updates on your end.
Yours,
Sheriff Paulson
Art was in possession of some information from Detective Wilcox. At the detective's request, he'd not shared it with Minnie. He didn't enjoy keeping this particular bit of knowledge from her, but he'd agreed because the detective's argument was sound. As sheriff, his job was to keep the citizens of Larkspur safe, and he didn't aim to take chances in that regard. Nonetheless, Art wasn't partial to keeping secrets, especially from Minnie.
When at last he adjourned to the cot in the back room, a fitful night's sleep awaited him. Art's dreams reminded him, if something went wrong, Minnie would be the one to pay the price.
Chapter Nine
March 1883
Try as she might to remain withdrawn from the community, in a town as close-knit as Larkspur, it was hard to accomplish such a goal. She'd been attending Sunday services with her parents and never left the church grounds with fewer than a half dozen invitations to luncheons, sewing circles, and more. Preferring to keep to herself, she had graciously declined each invitation. Until this week. Mary Carlisle had invited her out to the farm for a visit.
She and Mary had started to become friends before Minnie left for college, and she wanted to try to renew those bonds that had still been so tenuous at the time. Having hitched the buggy up herself – something she'd not had to learn in San Francisco where she'd walked most everywhere she'd needed to go – she was ready to leave the Larkspur town proper behind for an afternoon.
With a kiss on her mother's cheek, Minnie climbed aboard and drove the horse and buggy out of town toward the Carlisle spread. The air was crisp, but the sun was shining, and everything shone, bright and promising.
Mary, Grady, and their family lived at Mary's old house while Grady's grandparents lived up the road from them. Minnie pulled the buggy off the main road and began the trek up the long drive to Mary's home, which used to be called the Fitzgerald farm. She took in the well-trimmed greenery and tidy road, appreciating the care that had gone into it all. As she pulled into the yard in front of the farmhouse, she gasped. What had once been a ramshackle two story farmhouse with missing boards and a rotting porch was now a stunning home, painted a dusky blue with bright white shutters, a large wraparound porch, and a beautifully tended yard.
Opposite the farmhouse was an enormous chicken coop, much larger than Minnie remembered. The hens it housed were gold to a thriving egg empire in the Larkspur valley. Behind the coop stood a barn, proud and tall. Last time Minnie was here, the barn had been so fragile, the slightest wind would have taken the entire thing down. It had since undergone a transformation and now stood indomitable before her, a bright red beacon against the sky.
Minnie smiled and climbed down from the buggy in time to hear, "She sure is a beauty, isn't she?"
Turning, she saw Grady behind her. "The house or the barn? Or the chicken coop?" she asked lightly.
"It's good to see you, Minnie. I'll get your horse unhitched so she can rest. If I'm not in the house, I'll be out in the barn. Let me know when you're ready to go, and I'll get her hitched back up for you."
"Thank you, Grady. That's mighty kind. So, tell me, what was the beauty you were referring to?"
"Why, my wife, of course," he said with a wink before leading the horse and buggy away toward the barn.
When Minnie headed up the steps toward the front door, it swung wide before her, and Mary stood there, a baby in one arm and a toddler wrapped around a skirt-encumbered leg. "Come in, Minnie! I'm so glad you could make it. Grady thought the weather might keep you home, but I told him it wasn't that bad. You grew up with Idaho winters, after all. But he still has Texas blood in his veins and thinks the winters here are worse than they actually are."
