The Law and Miss Mary (6 page)

Chapter Seven

S
am relaxed in the saddle, at ease with the powerful ripple and thrust of his horse’s muscles, the solid thud of hooves against the hard-packed earth. It was a nice day for a ride, and it had been a long time since he had been astride Attila. He did not get out of St. Louis often.

He ducked under a low-hanging branch, rested his free hand on his thigh and glanced up at the cloud-dotted, blue expanse above. Too bad he could not have enjoyed this excursion more. But the trip’s purpose was not to his liking. Still, posting notice of the new law concerning emigrant children under the age of twelve was part of his job, and he had done it. Now, he would have to enforce it.

His face tightened. So did his stomach. He blew out a breath easing the constraint and returned his attention to the trail ahead. The thick band of trees that hid the wagon train gathering site from the city was thinning. He would soon be back to town. He frowned and eased back on the reins, slowing Attila’s pace.

At least it was late in the season. The wagon train forming now would probably be the last for this year. The influx of emigrants should stop soon. And perhaps by the time they began gathering again next spring, the situation concerning orphaned children would be different. Meanwhile, he would do what he must.

Sam set his jaw, clamped a firm lid on his unease and directed his thoughts toward his goals. He had worked with a view to them since he was old enough to muck out stalls and help farmers plant and harvest crops. He was not going to give them up now. He would do his job. And he would fulfill his plan.

He closed his eyes and summoned the vision he carried in his heart. His house would be perfect. There would be no soot, no faded fabric, no chipped paint in the wood trim or gouges in the wood floors. He would have carpets in every room, fancy furniture and real paintings on the walls. And it was going to be big. Three stories high with lots of windows and tall white pillars holding up the high porch roof.

He frowned and opened his eyes. He was close. Very close. The lead mine upriver he had invested in was proving very profitable. And his other interests were doing equally well. His finances were secure. What he needed now was the land.

He knew the piece he wanted. It had a knoll, the highest spot around, where he would build his house to look out over the river. It would be the first place seen by people coming down the river to St. Louis. A real showplace. All he had to do was wait for Charlie and Harry Banks to come back to town so he could make the old mountain men a generous offer for their property. Maybe then they would stop mining for silver and live an easier life in town. And then, when his house was built, he would marry Levinia Stewart and they would become the young leaders of St. Louis society.

Sam smiled, leaned forward and patted Attila’s neck. He had it all worked out. All he had to do was court Levinia and wait for Charlie and Harry. He closed his eyes again, pictured the way it would be. But for some reason he could not see Levinia in the house. He frowned and stopped trying to place her there. It was too early. That was the problem. He had only begun to court her. But he intended to marry her. The mayor’s daughter was everything he needed his wife to be. She was the most beautiful woman in St. Louis, a fitting mistress for his showplace house. And she was the key to his full acceptance into society.

Sam shifted his weight in the saddle and let his mind drift back to the way Levinia had looked last night. She had been agleam with beauty, clearly outshining Miss Randolph.

Miss Randolph.

Sam stirred, jolted by the same sense of guilt that had hit him when he had met her gaze last evening. It was clear, from the look in her brown eyes, that she still felt he was wrong about arresting that young boy. But that was his job!

Sam jerked his thoughts away from the condemnation in Miss Randolph’s eyes. He knew the desperate acts hunger drove one to, but he could not afford to feel guilty for performing his duty. His job was providing him with the means to accomplish his goals, and he would not give that up for anyone. Certainly not for a woman with a pair of accusing brown eyes. No matter how beautiful those eyes were.

Danny had brown eyes.

Sam sucked in air, fought the pressure in his chest. The approaching victory suddenly felt hollow. Danny and Ma would never know he was holding fast to the promise he made them to be so rich and important nobody would ever sneer at any of them again. At seven years old, he had thought that promise could take the place of the food and warmth God never sent in spite of his prayers. He had thought the promise was strong enough to keep them alive—the way it did him. But Danny was too small, and his ma too weak. Their sickness got worse until it killed them. He had tried to take care of them, but he could not save them.

Sam’s face tightened. He glanced toward the sky.
I failed you and Danny then, Ma, but I will not fail you now. I will keep my promise to make you proud of me.

He emerged from the trees and reined south, headed for Chestnut Street and the stables behind the jail.

The jail.

The tight ball of unease returned to his stomach. What sort of place was a jail for a kid?

“I am certain it would work out well for your store, Mrs. Simpson.” Mary gave the grocer’s wife a warm, encouraging smile. “Marketing baskets can become very heavy before one reaches home, and I believe many of your customers would be willing to pay a small stipend for Ben to relieve them of that burden. I believe they would welcome such a service, and favor your store with their custom for offering it.” She placed her hand on Ben’s shoulder, drawing the stout woman’s attention to the boy who was all shiny clean and dressed in clothes that had once belonged to Ivy’s sons.

Mrs. Simpson glanced at her husband, who was stacking burlap bags in the corner, and shook her head. “You will have to gain Mr. Simpson’s approval, Miss Randolph. And I am quite certain he will refuse you.” There was commiseration in her eyes.

Mary thought it likely the woman was right, but she would not give up without a fight. Ben had been so happy when she had explained this idea to him. “Very well. Thank you, Mrs. Simpson.” She lifted her chin, turned toward the corner to speak with Mr. Simpson and almost bumped into a small, elderly woman. “Oh! Forgive me, madam, I—”

“The fault is mine, dear.” The woman placed a blotchy, thin-skinned hand on her arm. “I overheard a bit of your conversation and moved closer where I could shamelessly eavesdrop on the rest.” The woman smiled, and the creases and wrinkles in her face deepened. “My hearing is not what it used to be. But I heard enough to know you have an excellent suggestion, young lady. If you will permit me to help, I believe the three of us—” another smile included Mrs. Simpson “—can convince Mr. Simpson it would prosper his store. Do you agree, Martha?”

Mrs. Simpson nodded.

Mary stared, stunned by the elderly woman’s offer, and doubtful of its value. Still…Mr. Simpson held no fondness for
her.
And Mrs. Simpson had agreed. She smiled at the tiny woman. “I should be most appreciative of your help, madam.”

“Good!” The woman returned her smile. “Now, ladies, let us see to Mr. Simpson.”

Mary grinned. She could not help it. The woman’s faded blue eyes were fairly twinkling. She was obviously delighted at the prospect of a challenge. But how could she help?

The woman sobered. She slid her basket off her arm and set it and a small piece of paper on the long wood counter. “Here is my list, Martha. But, as I shall not have to carry my basket myself, add a quart of molasses, a bag of tea and a good portion of honeycomb. Oh. And two of those lemons—fresh ones, mind you. I must say, this is a most helpful idea. But tell me, what is the cost for this young man to carry my basket home for me?”

Cost?
Mary took a closer look at the elderly woman beside her. How clever to persuade Mr. Simpson through his pocketbook. She should have considered that. But she had thought only in terms of a stipend for Ben. Mary held back a chuckle. The aged woman’s face held an expression of pure innocence, yet she had raised her voice loud enough to be heard throughout the store, and was watching the result out of the corner of her eyes. Another good idea.

Mary wiped the smile from her face, lowered her lashes and shot a glance toward the corner. Mr. Simpson had straightened. He looked their way and a frown darkened his face. He brushed his hands together, sending some sort of dust flying into the air, and started toward them. Mary jerked her gaze back to the other women before he caught her watching him.

“You mistook my conversation with Miss Randolph, Mrs. Lucas.” Mrs. Simpson lifted the hinged lid of a large wooden box and began to scoop tea into a small cloth bag. “Miss Randolph suggested that Mr. Simpson hire this young boy to carry baskets for our customers, but my husband has not agreed.” She shook the bag down, dropped the scoop and tied the neck of the bag closed with a length of cord, then paused with the bag poised over Mrs. Lucas’s filled basket. Her left eye closed in a quick wink. “Do you still wish these other items?”

The elderly woman sighed. “No, only the things on my list, Martha. Put the tea back and take the others out, for they will make the basket too heavy for me.”

Heavy footfalls thudded across the plank floor and stopped. Mr. Simpson scowled at his wife, took the package of tea from her hand and placed it in the basket. “There’s no need for that, Mrs. Lucas. I ain’t heard nothing about this boy carrying customers’ baskets, but it sounds all right.” He placed the wrapped piece of honeycomb his wife handed him in the basket and added the lemons. “The cost’ll be ten cents.”

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Lucas’s eyes narrowed. “I came to buy groceries, not to be robbed, Elijah Simpson! I shall pay five cents.”

The grocer added the molasses to the filled basket, then crossed his thick arms over his burly chest and stared down at the diminutive woman. “Seven.”

There was a rustle of movement behind her. Mary took a quick glance over her shoulder. The customers had stopped browsing and had drawn close.

“Stand your ground, Isobel!” A thickset woman with a jutting chin snapped out the words. “I should very much like someone to carry my basket, but I will pay no more than five cents. As you say, anything more is outright thievery!”

There was a chorus of agreement.

Mr. Simpson’s scowl deepened. He raised his hands. “All right, ladies. All right. The cost’ll be five cents.”

Smiles spread over the faces of the assembled women at the grocer’s growled words. They gave each other small nods of satisfaction and turned back to their shopping, chatting over their victory as they went.

Mary could have hugged Mrs. Lucas and Mrs. Simpson.

“Pick up that basket and get moving, boy!” The grocer snarled the words and turned away.

Mary’s elation flew. “Wait, Ben.” She took hold of Ben’s arm as he reached for the basket, and pasted a polite smile on her face as the surly grocer pivoted around to glare at her. “I think you are forgetting that Ben is not yet in your employ, Mr. Simpson. Shall we discuss his wages?”

Sam leaped off the gangway, turned and fastened his gaze on the steamboat as the
Independence
gave notice of its departure with three quick blasts of its whistle. He ignored the movement of the laborers around him, and held his place. The danger point would come when the
Independence
swung around to head upriver. She would be close to the
Washington
then, and an agile man could jump from the deck of one steamboat to another, if given enough reason to do so.

Sam tensed and focused his attention on the narrowing distance between the two boats. He figured the money Frank Gerard had been systematically winning from his victims at cards was reason enough for him to ignore the warning he had been given and try to make his way back to the table at the Broken Barge. But the gambler was trouble—he won too often, and by questionable means. He would not be allowed in St. Louis again.

The
Independence
finished the swing and straightened on its course. The muddy waves splashed lower on the cobblestones, then ceased and merged with the river on its way south to New Orleans. One more problem gone. But there still seemed to be an endless supply of them.

Sam tugged his hat brim lower and started up the slope. He stepped around a wagon loaded with crated shoats and angled toward the
Cincinnati.
She was leaving for parts north this afternoon and this would be the first departure of one of the boats of the M and M line since Randolph had taken over its management. It was likely he would be on hand. And that made this a perfect time for an “accidental” meeting with him. He knew the man and his sister were hiding something. And he intended to find out if it concerned the vandalism of the line. And he would look around to see if Duffy was among the crew.

“Thank you again, Mrs. Lucas.”

“Hush, dear.” The elderly woman patted Mary’s arm and smiled at Ben, who was holding her basket. “The two of you have thanked me enough.”

“But it was so
clever
the way you suggested Mr. Simpson hire Ben.”

“Not clever, dear…necessary.” The woman’s faded blue eyes twinkled up at her. “I should be the one thanking you. I have not enjoyed myself so much in years. People look on you as useless when you get to be my age.” A wistful look replaced the twinkle. “Now…I must get home. I am beginning to tire.” She turned to go, then looked back. “You are a lovely young lady and I should like it very much if someday you have time to call upon me.”

Mary smiled and nodded. “I shall come to call in a few days, Mrs. Lucas. After I am more settled.”

The elderly face crinkled into a return smile. “I shall look forward to that, my dear. My home is on Chestnut. Ben will know the way. He can escort you and we shall have a proper tea!”

“Lovely.”

Mary watched Mrs. Lucas walk away, Ben beside her carrying the grocery-laden basket. It did not seem too burdensome for him. Indeed, he looked proud and happy. They disappeared behind a group of women on the walkway and she turned to scan the storefronts. James had asked—