Tara's Gold (5 page)

Five

Tara’s head throbbed as she hurried down the boardwalk, leaving behind the embarrassing scene where she’d managed not only to slice her finger open, ruining one of her brand-new gloves, but also to faint dead away like some swooning female. When she’d come to, she’d managed to catch a glimpse of the sheriff and her lawman escorting the felon toward the jail.

Her lawman?

Her stomach tensed. The very thought was ridiculous. While she was relieved that the man had not been shot and killed, he wasn’t hers—nor did she want him. Not that she could have him or had any intentions of going after him, because, undoubtedly, he felt the same way. He hadn’t even come looking for her to make sure she was all right. No, the man had much better things to do than rescue her every time she managed to find herself in yet another embarrassing quandary.

Tara picked up her pace, determined to put an end to her rambling thoughts of a man she didn’t even know. She was here for one reason and one reason only. To follow her aunt’s leads and track down the government’s gold. Period. No handsome strangers, no thoughts of love and romance. Too much was at stake.

Passing the barbershop, she noted that, once again, the street was filled with shoppers and businessmen carrying out their affairs as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened on this particular sunny July day. There were, in fact, no signs of the life-and-death situation that had, only moments before, given rise to panic in a number of the townspeople—herself included.

She passed a group of young girls, all wearing similar calico-print dresses and broad straw hats to block the summer sun. They eyed her curiously as they strolled by. Tara frowned and smoothed the front of her dress. Certainly, she looked a bit rumpled after scooting along the floor of the post office, where shards of glass had scattered across the dusty flooring. Ignoring the gaping stares, she pulled her bag closer and held her head high.

On the other hand, perhaps their curiosity had more to do with the fact that her dress, with its duchesse lace at the sleeves and silk edging, offered a peek at the very latest style from back east. Something one certainly wouldn’t find in this part of the country.

A mother and child stepped out of the dry goods store in front of her. The child gave her a broad grin and waved before pointing at Tara and giggling. Suddenly, Tara wasn’t so sure that the stares and gawking had anything to do with her tastes in fashion. The mother quickly whisked the young girl past Tara and toward the mercantile.

Tara frowned and put a hand to her head, wondering what could be so bad that. . . A hot blush scorched her face as she quickly pulled off the Stetson that still perched on her head.

How she’d managed to make such an obvious social blunder she had no idea. Tara glanced around, but everyone else seemed more concerned with his or her business at hand than the fact that she’d actually donned a man’s hat in town. And a black Stetson at that. She felt her own hat to make certain it was still in place, then let out a deep breath as she continued on at a brisk pace for the land office. After taking care of her business there, she’d have to stop by the hotel and leave the offending article with Mrs. Meddler, assuming that was where the man was staying.

A bell jingled in the doorway of the land agent’s office as Tara stepped inside.

“Can I help you, miss?” A tall, thin man with spectacles and curly tufts of blond hair poking out above his ears appeared from behind a tall stack of ledgers.

She held the black Stetson behind her back and smiled. “I’m interested in a particular piece of land, and wondered if you could possibly help me.”

“Name’s Horst Lehrer. At your service, ma’am.” The man held out a bony hand and shook hers with more force than she expected.

“I’m Tara Young.”

“If you’re looking to buy a piece of property, Miss Young, then you’ve come to the right place.”

Tara shook her head. “Actually, I’m looking for a piece of land that once belonged to a Mr. Richart Schlosser. From what I understand, he doesn’t live in the area anymore, but I need to know which farm he owned. Possibly during the time of the War Between the States?”

“Mr. Schlosser. I recognize that name.” The man rested his forefinger against his chin. “Give me just one moment. My wife says I have a memory that rivals that of anyone in the state when it comes to names. Never forget a name, no siree. Never forget a name.”

The man began digging through the piles of ledgers while Tara stood patiently. Hopefully, there was some truth to the man’s claims at never forgetting a name, but it was going to take more than a good memory to sort through the jumble of papers in this office. The odds of actually finding information on Mr. Schlosser seemed, well. . .she had her doubts such a miracle was even possible.

“Schlosser. . .S. . .Richart. . .” He picked up another ledger. “Let’s see. Schlosser. It’s a German name. Did you know that?”

“Interesting.” Tara forced a smile. “I didn’t know that.”

“I like names.” He glanced up at her. “And you’re right, they are interesting. Take, for instance, my name. My last name is Lehrer, and it’s German, as well. Means my father’s grandfather, or perhaps his grandfather’s father, was a teacher. That’s where surnames originally come from, you know. Occupations, where one stays, or perhaps some unique physical characteristic. And my first name, Horst, means a thick grove. Always found that fascinating.”

“I suppose, but—”

“My wife and I are expecting our first child in three months’ time.” He moved on to another stack of ledgers and flipped through the unorganized pile. “Having a tough time, though, trying to agree on the child’s name. I want to pay close attention to the meaning behind the name, while my wife only cares about how the name sounds. You agree, don’t you? That the meaning behind a name is just as important as the actual name.”

Tara sneezed at the particles of dust that filled the room.
“I. . .I suppose, though I can’t say that I ever thought about
it.”

He pointed his hand at her. “Now, Tara. That’s a lovely name. Do you know what it means—”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t.” She held up her gloved hand. “What about Mr. Schlosser?”

“Yes. . .yes. . .just one more place to look. . .Yes! Here it is. Mr. Richart Schlosser.” He pulled a dusty file from the bottom of the stack and plopped it on the table in front of her.

A cloud of dust enveloped the stack of paper.

Tara sneezed again. “What does it say?”

“It looks to me as if Mr. Schlosser moved away after the war in sixty-six. Sold it to a man by the name of. . .” Mr. Lehrer turned his head to the right and squinted. “I can’t quite read the writing.”

Tara tapped her foot. “Who took notes on the transaction?”

“I did, but unfortunately my handwriting isn’t nearly as clear as my memory.”

Tara fiddled with the rim of the Stetson behind her back and prayed that he would come up with some sort of lead for her to follow up on.

“Yes, yes, now it’s clear.” Mr. Lehrer beamed. “It looks as if Mr. James Martin now owns that piece of land. Isn’t far out, either. I’d say no more than five miles out of town to the west. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding it. Now Jim isn’t always the most hospitable man, but hopefully he’ll know something about the whereabouts of Mr. Schlosser.”

“So you have no idea what happened to the man?”

The land agent shook his head. “I remember the transaction between the two men. Met right here in my office to sign the deed papers. Mr. Schlosser seemed to be in a hurry to get out of town.”

“What else can you remember? Anything that might have seemed insignificant at the time might prove important to finding him.”

He shrugged a shoulder. “I’m sorry, but that was four years ago, and I’ve had a lot of people go through this office.”

“But your memory for names. . .details.”

“Names.” Mr. Lehrer shot her a weak grin. “Mr. Martin might know something. They appeared to be friends, though I can’t say that for sure. I know that Mr. Schlosser planned to include the majority of his furniture in the sale of the property.”

“Is that a common thing to do?”

“Happens from time to time. All depends on the circumstances, I’d say.”

Tara gripped the back of a wooden chair with her hand. “So that’s all you remember?”

“I’m afraid so, but if you’re interested in a nice piece of land—”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Lehrer. You’ve been a big help.”

Tara strolled into the bright afternoon sunlight, glad to be out of the dusty office, and hurried to the hotel. She hoped to find Mrs. Meddler before returning to the Carpenters’ farm. While the woman’s attire had been rather plain and, frankly, out of date, the lobby of the hotel exhibited a bit more taste with its warm terra-cotta walls and walnut furniture. Not that it could begin to compare with Boston’s Parker House or any of the other luxurious East Coast hotels, but for someone needing a place to stay overnight, it would surely be a welcome sight.

Much to Tara’s relief, Mrs. Meddler sat behind the front desk of the empty lobby reading a dime novel with its recognizable orange cover.

“Why, Miss Young.” The older woman greeted her with a broad smile. “I was hoping you’d stop by for a cup of tea. I’ve been wanting to know how you were faring in your new place.”

“It’s good to see you, as well, Mrs. Meddler.” Tara set the Stetson on the counter, debating what she should do. “And while I greatly appreciate the invitation, I ought to get back to the Carpenters. They sent me to town with a letter to mail after lunch, and I’m afraid I’ve taken advantage of their time. What I really need—”

“Nonsense. There’s always time for tea.” Mrs. Meddler snapped the book shut and hopped down from the wooden stool. “Don’t tell my husband I’m reading this. I keep my stack of dime novels hidden away, because he’s always telling me what a waste of time and money they are.”

“Don’t worry. My lips are sealed.” Tara echoed the jolly woman’s laugh, realizing just how nice it was to see a familiar face even if she barely knew the woman.

Mrs. Meddler shoved her book beneath the counter and waved her hand. “Come. You must stay for tea. We have so much to talk about, such as the shootout this afternoon. Were you in town at the time?”

“Yes.” Hat in hand, Tara followed her into the large, airy kitchen where Mrs. Meddler began filling the kettle with water.

The older woman placed her hands against her heart. “Such a fright that gave me. I hid behind the front desk until my husband assured me it was once again safe to come out. What is this world coming to is my question.”

“I have to agree.” Tara leaned against a wooden cupboard and shuddered. “I was in the post office and found the whole experience quite terrifying.”

Mrs. Meddler set the kettle on the stove and motioned for Tara to sit at a small table in the corner of the room. “Then trust me when I say that a cup of tea will help soothe both our nerves. Most appropriate, if you ask me. It will be ready in just a minute.”

Tara placed the hat on a table covered with a white lace cloth, then made herself comfortable in the padded chair. Mrs. Meddler was right. She needed some time to recover from the ordeal. She took in a deep breath and made herself relax. Her stomach growled as her senses filled with the fragrant scent of meat and spices mingling with rising yeast bread.

“Perhaps I need to stay until dinner.” Tara laughed. “Whatever you’re preparing smells wonderful.”

Mrs. Meddler pulled a sugar jar from the cupboard, as well as a small container of cream. “It’s my own mother’s recipe for gumbo. She was French and lived in New Orleans for most of her life. Believe it or not, it tastes even better than it smells.”

Tara’s mouth watered, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d be offered yet another jar of pickles tonight.

Mrs. Meddler set two floral-patterned china cups on a tray. “Isn’t Mrs. Carpenter a decent cook?”

Tara cocked her head. “Yes, though I have a feeling that I will have eaten my share of homemade pickles before I leave.”

“Every social, picnic, and holiday isn’t complete without a jar of Mrs. Carpenter’s infamous pickles.” Mrs. Meddler placed her hands on her hips and chuckled. “But don’t you worry. Most of us have found various ways to avoid actually eating them.”

“Then I suppose I’m going to have to get creative on this one.”

Mrs. Meddler picked up the black Stetson. “Whose hat is this, by the way? You seem far too stylish to don one of these with your outfit.”

Tara noticed the older woman’s wink and laughed. “That’s why I stopped by. You see, I’m not sure whose it is. A man left it behind at the post office during the shootout, and all I know about him is that he just arrived in town last night. He’s tall with dark hair—”

“I know exactly who you are referring to.” Mrs. Meddler spun the hat with a wide grin on her face. “Tall, solidly built with eyes the color of—”

“Toffee?” Tara felt a warm blush cover her cheeks. Something that was beginning to occur far too frequently.

“Exactly.” Mrs. Meddler placed the hat back down and hurried to take the whistling kettle off the stove. “If I wasn’t married, I’d consider snatching him up myself. Such a gentleman he is, too.”

Tara giggled. “So you’ll give him the hat, then. I don’t even know his name.”

“At a slight disadvantage then, aren’t you?” Mrs. Meddler folded her hands across her chest and shook her head. “His name is Mr. Jefferson. Aaron Jefferson.”

“Aaron Jefferson,” Tara repeated.

“Now, have some tea. And who knows, perhaps Mr. Jefferson will come downstairs while you’re here, and I can make the proper introductions.”

❧

Aaron opened his eyes with a start. Sunlight shone through the small window of his hotel room, casting a golden glow across the worn bedspread. He’d have to hurry if he was going to make it to the land agent’s office before it closed.

His joints complained as he sat up. His own father had died when he was thirty-five, a seemingly ancient age for a boy of six. Now thirty-five didn’t seem near as old as he’d once thought, but even though he still felt young at heart, that didn’t mean he was as agile as he used to be. Slamming a ruffian into the mud and getting swiped across the jaw wasn’t something he wanted to do for a living anymore. A gunshot in the shoulder two years ago had cured him of that. This latest assignment was supposed to be straightforward detective work. Not a stint in capturing criminals in the streets.