Читать книгу Montana Dreaming - Karen Rose Smith - Страница 15

As Mark and Juliet entered the building through the front door and stepped into a reception area that had once been the old mudroom, he caught a musty whiff of worn fabric, old paper and faded memories.

They continued to the central part of the museum, which had been the original schoolroom. The windows had been closed up and walled over. And two rooms had been added to each side.

Through the open doorway on the left, Mark could see a display of gold panning equipment and what looked like Native American relics.

He ought to head for the gold mine and prospecting display, but his feet didn’t move. Instead, he studied Juliet.

With the baby in her arms, she moved slowly through the room, browsing various display cases and wearing a smile that only a history buff could appreciate—or a man who found the beautiful young woman intriguing.

Mark might not share her interest in antiques and dusty exhibits of outdated memorabilia, but he enjoyed watching her run a hand lovingly over a glass case, seeing interest light her eyes.

“Folks, I’ll be with you in a minute,” a man’s voice called from the back. A familiar voice?

“All right,” Juliet responded. “We’ll make ourselves at home, Ben.”

Ben Saunders?

Mark’s old high school teacher? Now there was a real history nut. And just the guy Mark needed to talk to.

“Why, Juliet Rivera,” Mr. Saunders said, making his way from the back room to the center of the museum. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon after your baby’s birth. The last time I stopped by The Hitching Post, Martha Tasker told me you had a little girl and were on maternity leave.”

Obviously, Juliet hadn’t been kidding about spending a lot of time in Old Town. And at the museum.

“Did you bring that little baby to get her first taste of Thunder Canyon history?” Mr. Saunders asked.

“I sure did.” Juliet cast a loving smile on the baby she held in her arms. “But she’ll probably sleep through it.”

Mr. Saunders laughed, still unaware that Mark was in the room, and peered at Marissa. “I heard she was a few weeks premature, but I had no idea she was so small. Or that she was just as pretty as her mama.”

Ben Saunders hadn’t changed much, Mark decided, even though the former high school teacher was probably pushing seventy. He’d grown a bit heavier, and his hair had turned white. But he seemed just as friendly with those who shared his interest in history.

In the classroom, Mark hadn’t been one of them.

When Saunders finally scanned the room and spotted Mark, recognition flashed in his eyes. “Why if it isn’t one of my old students. Mark Anderson. The cocky kid who used to sit in the back row and shoot spitballs when I wasn’t looking.”

Mark grinned. He’d never been caught in the act. But he’d had a feeling Mr. Saunders had figured out who the culprit had been. “How do you do, sir?”

As they shook hands, Mr. Saunders beamed. “You know, it didn’t surprise me when I heard you became a reporter.”

“Why’s that?” Mark asked.

“You wrote a heck of a paper on the devastating effects gold rushes have had on some people, especially the Indians and the Chinese. It was more like an exposé than a report. And I knew you had real talent putting your thoughts into words.”

So, his former history teacher had remembered his work. Mark couldn’t help a soaring sense of pride in a ten-page paper he’d thrown out years ago. “I’ll admit full responsibility for the paper, sir. But not the spitwads. I can’t remember anyone in my class doing something so tacky and disrespectful.”

“Well, I can. Sometimes I’d go home and find one stuck in my hair.” Mr. Saunders chuckled. “Would you like a private tour of the museum? Or do you want to wander around on your own?”

“Juliet may want to wander, but I’d like the tour. I have some questions I’d like to ask you about the Queen of Hearts.”

“I’ll tag along, too,” Juliet said, holding the sleeping baby in the crook of her arm. “It’s always so interesting when you share those tidbits of Thunder Canyon history.”

“Great.” Mr. Saunders took them through the museum, stopping at each roped off section. They saw a typical parlor, the replicated interior of a one-room pioneer home and a fancy bedroom suite made out of mahogany, complete with a heavy, four-poster bed, matching bureaus, chairs and a vanity. A velvet patchwork quilt covered the mattress.

“This bedroom set was donated by the Douglas family,” Ben said. “Notice the fine workmanship, the detail in the pineapple finials.”

“It’s beautiful.” Juliet stroked the grain of the wood.

“This furniture belonged to Amos and Catherine Douglas,” the older man added. “And it once graced a guestroom at the Lazy D.”

Mark paused, not ready to move on. “Speaking of Amos Douglas, how did he really acquire the Queen of Hearts?”

“Well,” Ben said. “There are several legends, none of which has been proven. Most people believe Amos won the property in a poker game from a prospector with a drinking problem.”

“And what about you?”

Ben smiled. “I favor the story about him winning it from a renegade outlaw.”

That one was new to Mark. “Which outlaw?”

“A redheaded fellow folks claimed was as crazy as a patchwork quilt.” Ben chuckled. “Of course, in this day and age, we’d probably say he suffered from posttraumatic stress syndrome, caused by cruelties of the Civil War.”

Mark’s interest piqued. “Tell me about him.”

“Crazy Red Phelps was once a Confederate soldier who fought alongside the Rafferty brothers, a couple of natural born hell-raisers who didn’t care whether the war was over or not. They formed a ragtag outfit of renegade soldiers and vigilantes, but that didn’t last long. They soon moved on to robbing trains and banks in Colorado.”

“I’ve heard of the Rafferty gang,” Juliet said. “They weren’t as big or well known as Frank and Jesse James or the Daltons, but they did their share of robbing and killing.”

“That’s right.” Ben tugged at the waistband of his slacks. “Crazy Red and Bobby Joe Rafferty, the head of the gang, fell for the same woman, a widow named Sally McKenzie who ran a stage stop about fifty miles outside of Denver. The fight over the woman created some bad blood between the two, and a shoot-out resulted.”

“Who won?”

“Sally, if you ask me.” Ben chuckled. “When Crazy Red shot Billy Joe between the eyes, she pulled out her shotgun and blasted Crazy Red in the shoulder, then ran him off. He went on to pull a few armed robberies by himself and eventually ended up in Thunder Canyon, looking for gold and a piece of the action.”

“And you think Crazy Red got a hold of the Queen of Hearts?” Mark asked.

“An old newspaper quoted Crazy Red as claiming the mine rightfully belonged to him. And that he meant to have it, one way or another.”

“And you believe the claim of a thief who’d been dubbed with the nickname of Crazy?”

“Nope. But he was the kind of man who might have stolen the deed.” Ben slipped his hands into the pockets of his gray dress slacks. “And that could explain why Caleb Douglas can’t find it.”

Before Mark could respond, the telephone rang.

“Excuse me,” Ben said. “I need to answer that.”

Juliet, who held Marissa with one arm, tugged at Mark’s shirtsleeve, a habit that always amazed him. Why didn’t she just grab his hand or touch him?

“I want to show you something.” She led him to the small room with the Shady Lady display and pointed to a tall case that held a mannequin wearing a faded red satin dress with a scooped neckline and trimmed with black lace. “That dress belonged to Lily Divine, the original owner of the Shady Lady saloon.”

Several ropes of fake pearls looped around the mannequin’s neck, and a big black ostrich feather adorned the fake hair.

“I like the black fan the mannequin is holding,” Juliet added. “See the workmanship? It’s edged with chantilly lace and a purled braid.”

She sure knew her history of ladies doodads.

“And look at that.” Juliet nodded at the display case, where several colored bottles and a powder puff sat among other personal items once used by the notorious lady. “See the tortoise shell comb with a gold floral design and studded with rhinestones? Isn’t that pretty?”

“I guess so, but I think those black garters are more interesting.” Mark nodded toward the mannequin, who held up the hem of her red skirt, revealing red and black petticoats and a black silk garter with a gilt buckle and roses made out of ribbons. “The Shady Lady must have been one sexy woman.”

Juliet swatted at him, grazing his arm and making him yearn for more of her touch. When she laughed, the lilt of her voice settled over him like fingers on an angel’s harp. “You would find her undergarments intriguing.”

“You’re right about that. I don’t know why she didn’t wear those garters in the portrait that’s hanging over the bar at The Hitching Post.”

Juliet smiled impishly. “She probably knew the men would find her more appealing with that bedroom smile and only that gauzy thing draped over her.”

Mark slid her a crooked grin. “Not me. I’m a black garter man.”

Juliet arched a brow, brown eyes glimmering.

Was she making note of that tidbit of information?

He hoped so, then admonished himself for allowing his thoughts to drift in a sexual direction. For cripes sake, she’d just had a baby. And even if she hadn’t, they were just friends.

“You know,” Juliet said, “Lily Divine was an enterprising woman in her day. And I find her fascinating.”

“Me, too,” Mark said. Because she ran a whorehouse and a saloon, profiting from a man’s lust. “But why do you find her so interesting?”

“Mr. Saunders told me that she was considered a troublemaker in her day. But I think that’s probably because she was involved in the fight for women’s suffrage.”

“Well, that makes sense. I’m sure she had an interest in women’s rights, especially since she was a businesswoman. After all, she owned the hotel, as well as the saloon. And then there was that private business she ran upstairs.”

“Lily was only suspected of being a madam, since the previous owner of the saloon had run a brothel,” Juliet argued. “No one really knows for sure. But I have a feeling that, more than anything, her forward-thinking caused folks to look down on her.”

Before they could continue the conversation, Ben returned. “I’m sorry for the interruption. That call was from Matilda Matheson, an elderly lady who has a trunk full of memorabilia in her attic. She would like to make a donation, if we’re interested.”

“Is she bringing it in today?” Juliet asked.

“Oh, no. Tildy has arthritis and doesn’t venture far from her house. And even if that weren’t the case, she can’t donate anything until her niece takes time to climb into the attic and go through the trunk.”

“What’s in it?” Juliet asked, obviously interested.

“Tildy can’t remember,” Ben said, with a chuckle. “Bless her heart.”

Eager to get back to the discussion of the gold mine, Mark asked, “So who do you think is the legal owner of the Queen of Hearts?”

“Most of the rumors don’t amount to much. And even if Crazy Red ran off with the deed, the old archives ought to prove that the title wasn’t ever transferred properly. So I have to believe the mine was handed down to Caleb. And from what I understand, he’s hired a lawyer to defend his claim.”

Caleb certainly had the money to put up a legal fight for the land.

“Of course,” Ben added, “Some of the old-timers would like to see Caleb Douglas get his comeuppance. But as far as the Thunder Canyon Historical Society and the museum go, we appreciate his generosity in helping us preserve our early history.”

Mark and Juliet completed the tour, but instead of finding answers, Mark was left with more questions.

But one thing was true. Roy Canfield, the editor of the Nugget had been right. The real story revolved around the deed of the old gold mine.

And Mark planned to find out who really owned the Queen of Hearts.

“Do you mind if we stop at Super Save Mart on the way home?” Juliet asked.

“No. Not at all.” Mark pulled out of the museum parking lot onto Elk, then turned south on Pine.

Juliet planned her speech carefully, trying to maneuver the conversation in the direction she wanted it to go. “Your parents sound like nice people.”

“I suppose so.” His eyes remained focused on the road.

“Maybe we should pay them a visit. Marissa and I could go with you. I think it would be a nice outing.”

“Not today.”

She slid a glance at him, saw that same hardened expression he’d worn when Gladys discussed his parents. But Juliet wasn’t afraid to stand up to him. To push when necessary. “Maybe another day, then.”

He didn’t answer, and she realized he wouldn’t commit. And that he had no intention of discussing his family situation with her.

Juliet was trying to be sensitive to his feelings. She really was. But his stubborn side was frustrating her to no end.

“I’ve never bowled,” she said. “But it sounds like a lot of fun, especially in a league called the Gutter Busters. Maybe we could go watch some Wednesday. Or even play a game or two.”

“I used to bowl once in a while,” Mark said. “But I play golf now, whenever I get a chance. And the pro who gave me some pointers said the bowling was affecting my swing.”

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to prod him further or throw something at him. But she let it go.

For now.

Moments later, they parked in front of the grocery store. This time, Mark carried the baby, while Juliet filled the cart with things she needed to prepare a special dinner. She didn’t know about Mark, but she was getting sick and tired of The Hitching Post meals. And even if she weren’t, she didn’t like him paying for everything.

She hadn’t made a list, so they wandered from aisle to aisle, picking up pinto beans, rice and tortillas.

In the produce section, she selected tomatoes, green chilies, cilantro and onion. And in dairy, she grabbed a half gallon of milk, sour cream and a bag of Monterey Jack cheese.

As they neared the butcher case, a woman wearing an oversize black sweatshirt with a sunflower appliqué gasped and placed a hand on her chest.

Was something wrong?

The woman’s gaze had locked on Mark’s, and subsequently, so did Juliet’s.

“Hello, Mom.”

“Hi, Mark.”

Juliet froze, a package of chicken breasts gripped in her hand. She studied mother and son, saw their tension-filled stances, felt the awkwardness. And it broke her heart. The reunion should have been exciting, something worthy of a hug, a bright-eyed smile.

“I…uh…was hoping you’d come by the motel,” Mrs. Anderson said. “We’ve missed you. We both have.”

“I’ve been busy.”

The woman’s eyes dropped to the bundle of pink flannel Mark held. Then she glanced at Juliet, a hundred questions in her gaze.

“This is my friend,” Mark said. “Juliet Rivera.”

“How do you do?” The woman reached out a hand. Her eyes begged for answers, for more of an explanation, for something Mark wasn’t providing her. But she remained silent. Watery eyes told Juliet she was hurting, but not because Mark’s presence had disturbed her.

“This is Juliet’s baby,” Mark said. But he didn’t unwrap Marissa. Didn’t reveal her sweet face.

Juliet stepped forward and withdrew the edge of the pink flannel blanket. “Her name is Marissa. And she’s a week old today.”

Mark’s mother smiled, sentiment glistening in her eyes. “What a precious baby.”

“She certainly is. Thank you.” Juliet should have been pleased that Mark had introduced them, but she suspected he’d merely meant to avoid any of the questions that hung in the air.

How have you been?

Why haven’t you called?

When will we see you again?

“I was just picking up things to make a special dinner to celebrate Marissa’s birth,” Juliet said. “Do you like Mexican food, Mrs. Anderson?”

“Yes, I do.” The woman’s green eyes grew wide and bounced from Mark to Juliet and back again. “My husband and I don’t get a chance to eat it very often, especially when it’s homemade. Having been brought up in Texas, we miss a good Mexican-style meal.”

“Then maybe you’d like to join us for dinner,” Juliet said.

Mark tensed.

“Why…” The woman paused, then looked at Mark as though wanting him to second the invitation.

He held his tongue.

Juliet wanted to kick him in the shins. Couldn’t he see the woman was hurting? Maybe more than he was?

“My husband isn’t feeling well,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Perhaps another time.”

“Of course.” Juliet offered her a sincere smile, which was far more than her son had offered.

As Mrs. Anderson turned to leave, Juliet stopped her. “Wait, please.” She reached into her purse, pulled out a slip of paper and a pen, then jotted down her telephone number. “Let me know when your husband is feeling better.”

The woman took the paper, holding it close. In that moment, Juliet knew they’d all been hurt. Deeply. And by something she didn’t understand. Something that needed to be fixed.

“Well, I’d better get back to the motel,” Mark’s mother told him. “Your father is working the front desk by himself, and it’s been very busy today.”

Mark nodded. “I’ll stop by and see you before I leave town.”

“Please do.” Mrs. Anderson’s lip trembled, then she looked at Juliet. “It was nice meeting you. And I will give you a call.”

Juliet flashed her a sincere smile.

Then the woman pushed her empty cart away.

Mark’s jaw locked, like the Tin Man’s after a heavy rain.

But Juliet had a feeling he might not be silent when they got back to the car.