Under Starry Skies (6 page)

Maria rose first, extending her hands. “We’re so sorry to hear of Uncle Henry’s death. It must have been a devastating shock.”

Emma grasped them graciously, then removed a delicate linen handkerchief from her sleeve, and dabbed at her eyes. She moved to the portrait of Henry McNeil above the fireplace. “Ah, poor Henry, such a good man…to everyone.” She sniffed, then glided silently about the room until she took a seat in a draped armchair, instead of the brocade one. She motioned to the girls to be seated on the love seat across from her.

“Do the authorities have any idea who might have killed Uncle Henry?” Abigail asked.

“Authorities? Heavens, child, there is only one sheriff here, and he’s inebriated most of the time!” Emma laughed a high, nervous laugh. “Why, the nearest law is a U.S. marshall who covers almost the entire Colorado Territory.” She twisted the gold band on her finger round and round. “No, no one seems to know anything.”

“What shall you do now?” Maria’s gaze slowly skirted the room, taking in the fine layer of dust on the rich oak floor rimming an expensive Oriental rug beneath their feet. Earlier, she had noticed the spinet in the front window wore a meticulous shine, and the brass oil lamp was polished to a brilliant sheen. A small crystal dish with an elaborate lid sat behind the oil lamp and held a solitary button. She suspected it was the one found at the scene where her uncle was killed.

“I shall have to carry on without dear Henry,” Emma lamented with a dramatic sigh. Her hand fluttered to her breast. “Someday, perhaps, when Henry’s death is not so heavy on my heart, I may return to my beloved hometown in Georgia to live.”

“What about the Mule Shed Inn?” Abigail resettled herself more comfortably on the loveseat.

The woman lifted her thin shoulders into a shrug. “I’ve given it deep thought these past few days, and I’ve decided to sell.”

“Why?” Abigail sat forward. “Why not let someone manage it for you instead? There are scores of settlers pouring into the West. There’s money to be made.”

Beside her, Maria cleared her throat. “Maybe Aunt Emma doesn’t think respectable women should run inns with a drinking establishment, Abby.”

“Penniless ones do.”

“Oh, my,” Emma said, frowning. “I hardly think it would be fitting.”

“For me to manage it?” Abigail glared at her. “I don’t plan to be the bar maid. I can hire a bar keeper and help for the inn’s barroom.”

The housekeeper appeared with a silver tray of cookies and tea. A wane smile crossed her thin lips as she individually served each of them before retreating silently to the kitchen again.

Emma sighed and fingered the lace on her shawl. “Actually, now with Henry gone, I was thinking you might want to rethink your plans. Perhaps you may want to consider returning home to Utah.”

“There is no home,” Maria rejoined. There was something disturbing about this stiff-backed woman who seemed almost annoyed by their presence. “My father left us little, and what we did have, we spent traveling here. We sold our home in Utah, all our belongings, and my mother’s jewelry to cover his debts.”

Emma blinked her eyes, and her lips puckered into a scowl.

“Unfortunately, what Maria says is the truth,” Abigail said. “It would be impossible to return. Anyhow, Maria has agreed to accept the teaching position Uncle Henry arranged.”

Emma McNeil leaned forward and poured them each a cup of tea. “Surely you understand with Henry dead, there’s hardly enough cash to feed the mouths I already have on staff.” She stared at the portrait of her husband for a moment, then added offhandedly, “Your father’s and Henry’s generosity to help the destitute at the expense of their surviving relatives seems to run in the family, doesn’t it, my dears?”

“Perhaps,” Abigail agreed, taking a thin lemon cookie from the plate. “But with a few repairs, some good housekeeping, and a firm hand on the liquor, the inn and its barroom could be back in business. I’ve never known a man who wouldn’t spend a few coins from his hard-earned paycheck on a good drink now and then. We could put it back on its feet in a relatively short time. I used to help Father with the books and inventory, and I’m sure Amos is more than capable of managing and renting rooms.”

“Amos?” Emma asked. “Who’s Amos?”

“An old black man who used to work for our father and who accompanied us here.”

“Free or slave?”

“Aunt Em,” Maria said gently, “you forget. They are all free now.”

“Yes, of course, my dear. I only meant whether he was from the North or South.”

“North,” Maria said. “He has been with our family since Mother passed away. He accompanied Father when we moved from New York to Utah. He is highly organized, and his math skills are beyond reproach. He used to help Papa in the store.”

Before Emma could say more, Abigail spoke, “We could split the profits, Aunt Emma, and we’d not be underfoot once the cottage was repaired. Uncle Henry had mentioned it in his letters.”

Emma stared at her, a look of displeasure etching her sharp features, as she pondered Abigail’s proposal. Finally she nodded, relenting. “Well, why not? Of course, you can try. I mean, you must try.”

“Oh, thank you!” Abigail jumped up from her seat and excitedly clapped her hands together. “You’ll see; you won’t be disappointed.”

“My dear, everything about Uncle Henry and his passel of penniless friends and sniveling relatives has been a disappointment over the last few years. I don’t anticipate things will change.”

Later in the evening, as the girls undressed for bed in a front bedroom on the second floor, Maria voiced her thoughts about the latest events. “I do pray Amos is safe and well fed, and I do hope we can get the cottage in order as soon as possible and the inn restored.”

“I’m sure Amos is faring well,” Abigail said. “Don’t fret. Tye Ashmore seemed delighted to have a guest for the night. Once we get the rooms cleaned, Amos will be able to stay at the inn and be close by.”

Maria looked around the room with a glum face. “I don’t believe I’ll miss this drab place.” She refolded their meager belongings in their carpetbag.

Abigail combed her long hair before a small dressing table and watched Maria turn down the covers of the bed. “It is rather stark and cold.”

“And dreary,” Maria said, shuddering. She refused to voice her worries aloud. There was something not quite right about Emma. “Did you notice her portrait was downright scandalous? Hideous!”

“Why do you suppose all her parlor furniture was covered? It looks like wraiths have invaded the sitting room.” Abigail frowned.

Maria crawled between the sheets and blankets on the bed and pulled them to her neck. “You keep forgetting the War, Abby. Everyone was forced to be frugal, to try to save his belongings from dust and wear. Now with Uncle Henry’s death and no income, I’m sure Aunt Em realizes she must be frugal.”

Abigail looked at the door thoughtfully. “I wonder what else is on this floor?”

“More bedrooms, I suppose.”

“And the third?”

“An attic? Why do you ask?” Maria yawned and crawled deeper under the counterpane. It felt good to finally sleep in a down-filled bed with a full stomach, even if the outside temperature was warmer than the inside one.

Abigail slipped in beside her. “Just curious, I guess.”

“Oh, please, Abby. Your curiosity is what gets us in a fix all the time. Just go to sleep.”

Within the hour, they both fell into a deep slumber, but not before they heard Aunt Emma at the spinet downstairs playing the tune, “Bonnie Blue Flag,” over and over again.

Chapter Four

Maria and Abigail met Amos and Tye outside the Mule Shed Inn the next day, long before the sun threw its rays through the lace curtains of their bedroom. The men had arrived with a buckboard, Tye’s horse tied behind it, and what looked like a basket filled with food.

“Well, what should we do first?” Abigail was eager to take another look at the inside of the inn. Together with Amos’s help, she planned to make a list of only the essential repairs needed to reopen the barroom and dining room.

“I’d like to see the school,” Maria suggested eagerly.

Tye Ashmore shrugged. “I’ve the whole day to myself. I can take Maria to the schoolhouse while you and Amos start planning what needs to be accomplished immediately on the inn and cottage. It should only take us an hour or so.”

“Oh, no.” Maria shook her head, blushing. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Of course, you can.” The last thing Abigail wanted to do was spend hours inside a stuffy schoolhouse while Maria poured over musty books and stared at dusty slate boards. “After all, his brother is a member of the school board, so who better to show you?”

Tye motioned to Maria to follow him to the buckboard. “I think your sister is politely trying to tell us she has no interest in the schoolhouse.”

After they left, Abigail wandered through the Mule Shed’s rooms, making a mental note to locate the local brewery and lumberyard. She would need to refill the wine cellar, and from the amount of damage to the barroom floor and cottage porch, she knew she was going to have to convince the owner of the mill to provide her with lumber on an advance. She doubted she could persuade her aunt to part with a measly coin.

“It’ll take a few weeks to get it in shape,” Amos said. “It won’t be easy. It won’t be cheap.”

“It withstood over ten years of neglect,” Abigail pointed out. “If necessary, it can stand a few more weeks until we realize a profit. Why don’t you start a list of what we’ll need for the cottage, then go out to the inn’s stables and check for damage there as well. Oh, and look for some tools.”

When Amos departed, Abigail headed directly to the office where she had earlier seen a pile of ledgers stacked on an old rolltop desk. She sat in the well-worn swivel chair and opened the most recent book where the latest monthly entries had been penned in by her late uncle. It took only moments to check the debit columns before she realized many of the purchases were not inn expenses, but rather entries for expensive yard goods, ribbons, muslin, satins, taffetas, and velvets, obviously purchased for her aunt. Despite the hardship of the last few years, Emma McNeil’s extravagant tastes had not waned.

Randomly, she riffled through the pages, making a mental note of the names of persons who had once supplied her uncle with services and goods. She groaned aloud when she discovered the names of farmers, Tye Ashmore included, who had supplied beef and hay. She had completely forgotten about the stables and the need to stock it with grain and fodder for travelers’ horses and mules. It would also have to shelter wagons and buggies of visitors and guests. She quickly penned a note to remind herself to speak to Tye Ashmore when he returned with Maria.

In a second leather-bound ledger, she stumbled across the payroll for the inn’s hired help. In his familiar, painstakingly neat script, Uncle Henry had listed their wages and any debts they owed him. Much to Abigail’s relief, the ledgers had been meticulously kept up-to-date and were a wealth of information for managing the barroom, kitchen, and dining room. Everything she needed was right at her fingertips. All she would have to do was spend a few evenings poring over them, and she’d learn more than anyone could possibly teach her firsthand.

Once, while she worked, she thought she heard a door open but dismissed the thought. The mind could play tricks with anyone in an old deserted building, and thanks to Aunt Emma and her odd welcome, she found herself becoming a nervous Nelly. Even Maria had admitted there was something disturbing about their aunt and her behavior. Instead of being overjoyed at seeing them, the woman had seemed almost uncomfortably irritated with their presence. Or was it just her grief which made her appear so? Whatever the reason, Abigail knew she couldn’t give it further thought. There simply was too much to worry about with the inn itself without adding the complications of an eccentric old widow—a woman with expensive tastes and a love for Southern songs.

****

Brett Trumble propped his body against the doorjamb and crossed his arms, watching the blue-eyed girl before him, poring over the ledgers as if she had discovered a magical potion. Unaware of his presence, she flipped the pages of the ledgers with her agile, slim fingers and traced entry upon entry, taking only a split second to push away a stray tendril of blonde hair when it tumbled into her line of vision. She wore a simple blue gingham dress, the plainness of which only served to contrast and heighten the color of her periwinkle eyes.

Brett considered himself an ambitious man with a keen business insight. He had worked the lumber mill with his father until the war broke out, and with the profits he made, he had bought up land around the area, knowing the value placed on timber. But it was his arrogance and stubbornness that got him in the fix he was in. The North had needed spies to go behind enemy lines, secure weapon tallies, and assess enemy strength. Living in the backwoods of the Colorado Territory, he had been a natural for the job. But he never figured the government he had served so loyally would turn its back on him.

Brett stared at the girl. Actually, she was the source of all his trouble at the moment, even though he had been secretly hoping to meet her again. When Tye had come sailing down the river, he had never once thought he’d arrive with anything but a bag of U.S. mail as planned. Now things were complicated, thanks to his good friend’s willingness to come to the aid of the defenseless duo. If either of the O’Donnell sisters recognized him, they might turn him in for a thief. It was a chance he couldn’t take and a worry he didn’t want. The humiliation alone would destroy his father.

He cleared his throat, and Abigail’s head shot up. She jumped, spilling a pile of ledgers heaped on her lap.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Brett started forward to help collect the scattered books. He squatted at her feet and peered up at her. “You must be Henry McNeil’s niece.”

“Abigail O’Donnell.”

“I’m Brett Trumble.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Trumble?”

Brett could see there was a curious look on her face as she eyed him with reserved caution. He rose and piled the ledgers on the desk. “I guess I owe you a dollar.”