Undercover Sheriff

Chapter Five

When Zane looked up from the tract Rachel had given him, he was alone. He’d only glanced down for a moment, but in that time, she’d vanished. Feeling sudden frustration, he shoved the tract into his pocket and stalked away. He stopped at the entrance to the alley, but it was shadowed and still. Had Rachel slipped in here? He could hear nothing, no breathing, shifting shadows or anything that might give away a presence.

Where had Rachel gone? She was shrewd enough to try anything to escape him, he was sure, but she was also focused on her mission, which, as his quick perusal of the tract would suggest, was to help the women who plied a disreputable trade. She would hurry to that.

Would she head straight to the saloon? That seemed the most logical place for her to go. Not wanting to second-guess himself, he strode past the alley and hurried inside. The stench of ales and tobacco hit him.

He scoured the main room. Rachel wasn’t inside, and a curious wash of relief doused him. At the same time, he studied those patronizing the place. No shocked expressions when he entered, only a few offering mild curiosity. The saloon’s customers appeared relatively well behaved, considering the late hour. No one seemed to mind the poorly played chords on the out-of-tune piano, either.

Frustration bit at Zane as he headed to the far end of the bar where he could observe the whole room without being the center of attention. If he had to think something about Alex’s disappearance, he’d say that no one here had been involved in it, for surely they would have been surprised to see that he’d returned.

Zane’s breath hitched with worry. Alex, where are you?

For that matter, where was the lovely Miss Rachel Smith?

A series of guffaws and one female cry of indignation dragged his attention to a nearby corner. Someone shoved a thin woman in a filthy pink dress away from the men playing cards. She was older and looked worn down by life. Zane easily guessed her occupation. Pulling up on the neckline of her dress, she stumbled past him toward the back door and then outside, leaving the door open behind her. No sooner was she outside than she tripped on her drooping skirt and toppled headfirst to the ground.

Zane straightened, but before he could a step toward the back exit, he spied Rachel hurrying over to her from some dark recess of the backyard.

Ah. So she had ducked down the alley between the buildings after all. She hadn’t hidden in the shadows until he passed, but must have slipped straight through to this backyard. Zane stiffened his shoulders. Time to see if what she’d told him about her devotion to her mission was true.

It was. She immediately began to administer aid to the older woman. Then, to his shock, the woman screamed out something about thievery and lunged at her. Automatically, Zane pushed away from the corner of the bar to head to her and, and just as quickly, someone caught him.

“Whoa there, Sheriff!”

Zane turned to gape at the bartender, who had leaned across the counter to stop him. The man shook his head. “You need to let Miss Smith handle that.”

Zane tugged back his arm. “That woman just attacked her!”

“I know. But Miss Smith isn’t going to earn any respect from Annie if you come to her rescue.” The bartender straightened and tugged down on his vest. “That’s what she needs. Respect from those women. I know you mean well, Sheriff, but trust me on this one. You aren’t going to help the situation.”

Maybe, maybe not. But letting this woman hurt Rachel wouldn’t help, either. Zane pushed himself away from the bar and stalked to the back door, fully intending to save his only lead from a dangerous situation. Annie was screaming something about Rachel being a thief. Who knew what would happen next? Many a soiled dove hid a knife or small revolver in their clothing.

The bartender tore around the counter and caught up with him, his new grip on Zane’s arm surprisingly hard for a man who poured drinks for a living. “No! Let Miss Smith figure it out. If you intervene, you’ll be making her mission a whole lot harder.”

“So you know about her mission?”

“Everyone does. Most don’t take it seriously, even this place’s owner.”

“Is he here tonight?”

The bartender shook his head. “No. He runs several establishments from Denver to Castle Rock.”

“If he disapproves, why is she allowed to continue?”

“What harm is she doing?” The man shrugged. “Most of those women aren’t going to drop everything they know no matter what some do-gooder tells them. And besides, Miss Smith’s father, rest his soul, owned the bank that holds the mortgage here. It’s always good to keep your banker happy.”

Zane’s jaw tightened. More politics to keep straight. When shouts continued, he looked back through the door, to Rachel’s hunched back. She struggled to pin the older woman down, most likely to render some aid to the woman, whose face he just now noticed was bleeding. Zane glanced back at the bartender. “Did that woman just accuse Rachel of theft?”

“Yes, but the theft Annie’s talking about didn’t happen recently.”

“How long ago?”

“Years. Five or so.”

It had to be the same theft he’d seen noted in one of the files he’d read. The timing was right. Except that the information on it was woefully thin and the trail long cold. Whoever had done the initial investigation had said only that Rachel was carrying a substantial amount of money that belonged to the soiled doves, and it had been stolen after she and her escort had been badly assaulted.

Zane grimaced. Why had Rachel taken the money in the first place? His gut ached at yet another warning of a crooked town.

Or was the ache because he didn’t like to consider Rachel a thief?

She is, he argued with himself. You’ve seen it with your own eyes. His gut twisted further. Just accept that fact.

But she’s a Christian. Look at what she’s doing for the Lord.

He peered outside again. By now, Rachel was pushing Annie down, refusing to be bested by the woman. Being stronger, Rachel would win this small battle. Zane closed the door somewhat as he turned to the bartender. “Tell me what you know about the theft.”

The man looked him up and down as if weighing his decision to speak. “Like I said, it happened about five years ago and it was more than just a simple theft. Miss Smith took some money that our soiled doves had saved up. Back then, rent on those cribs out there wasn’t too much and the women could save a bit. Miss Smith promised to invest it for them, but she was supposedly robbed that same night. After that, one of the women started to work extra so she could pay back the others. Annie here complained the loudest, so she got her share back first.”

“Then why is she still crying foul about it?”

The bartender looked grim. “Her memory has gone. She’s drunk it away and her mind went along with it.”

“Why would that other woman want to pay it back? Did she steal it?” Zane frowned. “For that matter, isn’t Rachel Smith wealthy? She certainly dresses well enough, and her father owned Proud Bend’s bank. Why didn’t she just reimburse them from her own account? Wouldn’t that be the Christian thing to do?”

“You’ll have to ask Miss Smith all those—” He narrowed his gaze. “Wait, I told you this story when you first came here.”

Zane swallowed. “I’d only just got here. You can’t expect a man to remember everything from his first day or so.”

The bartender shrugged as if accepting Zane’s answer. “Shortly after the money was stolen, the woman who’d worked extra was murdered. I feel bad for her daughter.”

“Tell me about her.”

“Rosa grew up around soiled doves, and once she was old enough she began doing the same thing her mother did. About a month ago, she decided it wasn’t the life she wanted. She’s got a child and all.”

The woman, Rosa, had grown up with prostitutes? Zane’s gut twisted. “So she decided she didn’t want to remain here and just left?” This was still sounding like a case of a woman moving on.

“Miss Smith doesn’t believe Rosa left on her own.” The bartender shook his head. “They’re a sad lot, aren’t they?” He then frowned. “When Rosa went missing, you promised to find her. I guess you haven’t been successful.”

Oh, yeah. He was acting as Alex. Zane drew in a long breath, remembering how he hated undercover work. When his deputy had found “proof” that Zane had stolen tax money, he suspected that his deputy had planted the evidence through some unsanctioned undercover work. Zane hadn’t been able to prove anything, though.

The bartender continued to study him. Zane kept his expression concerned and nothing more, hopefully allowing this man to believe he was Alex. But it still felt like lying. He cleared his throat. “I don’t know much about the background. Rosa is missing...”

“Yeah. She and her little boy disappeared almost two weeks ago. Too bad you can’t find them. Before she decided this wasn’t the life for her, Rosa was good for this business. I’d hate to think she’s been murdered.”

Zane stiffened. Who had said anything about murder? “Tell me about Rosa’s mother.” He paused. “Again.”

“Liza? She probably worked extra because she’d convinced those women to let Miss Smith invest their savings. Shame they never caught her killer.” He shrugged. “I’m not one to spend my money on them. I just work here.”

“Who do you think stole the money?” Zane held the man’s suddenly shifting gaze. “You must have heard something.”

The bartender lifted his eyebrows as he began to move back toward the bar. “That’s the big question you lawmen could never answer, isn’t it?” he asked, tossing the accusation over his shoulder as he glanced out the back door. “All we have is Miss Smith’s word that she can’t remember who attacked her. Her escort said the same thing. Sure, they’d been beaten up, but it couldn’t have been that bad. They both survived.”

What was this guy saying? Zane dug his fingernails into his palms, resisting the urge to grab the bartender and remind him that the attacks had been so brutal they’d been considered attempted murder. There was no statute of limitations on that crime. So, yes, they were that bad. And sometimes, memory loss followed. He’d seen it several times in the course of his work.

Only God had pulled some victims through their ordeals. Maybe not remembering was a good thing, considering all they’d gone through. Either way, blaming them for losing the memory of such a vicious attack seemed cruel.

When the bartender reached the long strip of faded and stained pine that served as a counter, he lifted his brows in a smug, knowing fashion. “The money had been stolen. Of course, with her status in town, no one would insist that she pay it back, even as rich as she is.”

Zane fought back the annoyance growing in him. He didn’t trust this bartender. At first glance, he seemed to support Rachel, but now, he was accusing her. These were tactics of the guilty. Glancing through the open door at Rachel as she continued to dab Alice’s eye, Zane countered in a low growl, “But if she is that rich, where was the motive to steal? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Thieves take advantage of opportunities. Even the wealthy want more money.”

Zane folded his arms, the stiff paper tract Rachel had thrust at him now poking into his chest, right through his coat pocket. “Why would she even consider stealing if she could just walk into the bank and take some of her own money? You’ve seen how she dresses. Surely someone like that would have a generous amount at her disposal.”

The man shrugged again. “It was five years ago, Sheriff, and her pa wasn’t dead then. Maybe Miss Smith didn’t have any money she could get to without permission. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but that father of hers wasn’t the most generous, and back then, she’d have been underage, so any withdrawal would have to be approved first. Now, though? I heard she owns the bank.”

That didn’t make any sense. Zane couldn’t help wonder where her mother, the bank owner’s widow, fit in all of this.

For that matter, who had inherited the partner’s share? According to a footnote left in that file, Clyde Abernathy had died of a heart attack in jail the night before he was to face his first day of trial. He’d left no widow or family. The file read that he’d been buried quietly in Proud Bend’s cemetery, the expenses to be settled when his will was probated.

Zane grimaced. He would clarify whether or not Rachel owned the bank later. “But, back then, would Miss Smith have orchestrated that brutal an attack just to get money? She lives a comfortable life.”

The bartender’s small smile turned sly as he shrugged. “Hey, I’m just the man who pours drinks, but if there is one thing I’ve learned from working here, it’s that things can change in the blink of an eye. And sometimes they aren’t even what they seem.”

That man was not just a simple bartender. For starters, he was too chatty, too willing to offer information. But Zane wasn’t about to accuse him of anything just because he freely offered answers instead of keeping the confidences bartenders were so famous for. No, Zane would keep an eye on him.

He returned to the back door and peeked out into the yard. A series of mixed laughs rippled out from another crib, but, besides that, all was quiet.

Annie had apparently retreated into her crib, leaving Rachel to stow the things she’d taken from her basket. In the yellow light from the lamps, her shoulders heaved with what looked like a burdened sigh. It wasn’t hard to guess that she felt her night was unsuccessful. If she owned a bank, why was she out ministering to those sorry women? What had driven her to this particular type of mission work? When one of her bandages rolled away from her, Zane resisted the urge to stride out and help her.

No, she wouldn’t appreciate that.

The bartender walked up and continued talking as though the din behind them didn’t matter. “Ya got a lousy memory, Sheriff. I’ve told you all this stuff before. You even wrote Miss Smith’s name down that first night you were here, after you asked who looked after the women.”

The tone was accusatory, the same as when the man was talking about Rachel’s status. Zane turned back to him. Either the bartender liked Rachel or not. Time to stop dodging a commitment one way or the other. “How does she look after these women? Does she cook and clean for them? Either she’s trustworthy or not.”

The bartender shifted his gaze away. “All right. Miss Smith’s been trying to help them for years. I’ve seen her elbows-deep in laundry, scrubbing blood out of those women’s clothes, telling them about some new, safe job that opened up in Denver, or which family needed a maid and how important it is to keep yourself clean and disinfected. Most of it falls on deaf ears, but Miss Smith keeps trying.”

“So why make it sound like she stole that money herself?”

The tract he held would affirm her faith, and that she hadn’t staged a robbery that had gone so horribly wrong. But what if she’d hired someone to rob her without hurting her, only to have him double-cross her and try to kill both her and her escort?

Such a scenario didn’t line up with her Christian actions here and now. Cruel deceitfulness toward the soiled doves she worked so hard to help didn’t make sense. He took out the tract and weighed it in his palm. He refused to reach any conclusions until he had more information.

“By the way, Sheriff,” the bartender called out as he moved away, “you never did pay me for that postcard you took. They aren’t cheap, and you wasted it by writing Miss Smith’s name on it.”

Zane snapped his attention back to the man. Was that the postcard Rachel had found? The bartender said Alex had asked, on his first night here, who took care of the soiled doves. Did that mean it wasn’t connected to Alex’s disappearance after all? Mentally, he told himself not to discard any evidence just yet. Alex had held on to that postcard all this time—there had to be reason for that. Maybe the card itself was the crucial clue, not the name written on it. “Where did you get it, anyway? It’s not a photograph of Proud Bend.”

From the far end, a loud, scruffy man called to the bartender, who moved quickly to tend to his request. Only when he’d finished his task did he toss Zane a fast look. He offered nothing more, choosing instead to return to his work.

Frustrated, Zane pushed open the back door a bit more. Rachel had finished stowing her supplies into her basket. Her work looked curiously out of sorts with her fine outfit, yet, she held her head high as she continued to stow her things. However humble the work, she did it with dignity.

Then, abruptly, her head shot up and she stared out at something beyond his line of view. He bent forward to peer in that direction, also hearing the high-pitched, quiet sobs that had caught Rachel’s attention.

Zane let out a short gasp. A small, dark-haired boy, barely out of diapers, toddled into the pool of thin light that lit the yard.

Pinned to his dirty coat was a crumpled piece of paper.

Chapter Six

“Daniel!”

Rachel sprang into action, dropping her basket and rushing to the small child. She scooped him into a fierce embrace that crushed that paper pinned to him and forced him to wail out a protest.

Realizing she’d frightened the small child, she set him on the ground and knelt down to his level. “You poor thing! Where is Mama?”

Something swept past them, a blur of dark movement she refused to investigate, keeping all her focus on the child. The toddler cried on and she lifted him and carried him to the step of the nearest crib. At the sounds of his wailings, several women poked their heads from their own small buildings, Annie Blake included.

“Is that Daniel? Where’s Rosa? Is she back?” one woman asked.

Rachel shook her head, all the while trying to soothe Daniel. It didn’t work. “I didn’t see her—but I was focused on Daniel,” she admitted. “She can’t be far. She wouldn’t leave him.”

“She’s not around.”

Rachel turned toward the pronouncement. Zane stood there, his gaze still searching the limits of the lamplight. “How do you know?” she asked him.

“I just checked. I heard someone running off, but lost him or her in the darkness.” He grimaced and his voice dropped to a mere whisper. “I wasn’t familiar with the area, and with the moon setting, I couldn’t see well.”

“It couldn’t have been Rosa. She wouldn’t drop Daniel off and then leave.”

Zane’s mouth thinned, but he said nothing. Rachel resisted the urge to force her point upon him, instead choosing to cling to Daniel. Thankfully, his wailing had started to abate.

Touching the child’s arm gently, Zane snagged the boy’s attention. “Daniel? Hello?”

Curious, the child slowed his cries and watched him. Zane smiled gently. “Can you tell me who brought you here?”

Thankful that Zane knew how to speak to a small child, Rachel held her breath.

The boy didn’t answer, but he did stop crying. Encouraged by this, Rachel asked him, “Was it Mama who brought you here?”

Zane shook his head. “Don’t ask him a leading question. He’ll want to answer you the way he thinks you want to hear.” He tugged lightly on the boy’s jacket and smiled softly. “Who came with you, son?”

Abruptly shy, Daniel buried his head into Rachel’s jacket. She held him tight and sagged. “He’s too young for this. I’m not sure he even understands what we’re asking.”

Gently prying the boy some inches from Rachel, Zane unpinned the note. “Where’s your mama, Daniel?”

The boy began to cry again. Rachel felt his face. “His forehead feels warm and he doesn’t look well. And yet his hands are cold. I think he’s caught a chill.” She looked at Zane. “It’s a shame you didn’t find who dropped him off. They could know what’s wrong with him.”

“I’d say whoever dropped him off didn’t want to deal with a sick child. As soon as I heard you call his name, I raced off in the direction he’d come. I could hear someone, but I couldn’t find them.” Zane’s voice slipped into a whisper. “Whoever dropped him off knew their way around—certainly better than me.”

Keeping the boy close, Rachel stood and sighed. “Well, we can’t leave him out here in the cold. We need to get him home.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

She flicked her head toward the cribs. “Rosa can barely afford to rent a crib, so this is home.”

“It hasn’t been offered to another soiled dove?”

“I expect she’s paid for a full month’s rent.” She hugged Daniel tighter. “I’m taking him to my house.”

“Do you think it’s wise?”

Appalled that he was questioning her judgment, Rachel asked, “Why not?”

“If you stay with him here, he might be more comfortable and be able to tell us where he was and who brought him.”

“Believe me, he won’t be more comfortable here, and frankly I doubt he can tell us anything. He can barely string a sentence together.”

“But is it safe to have him in your home? He might be contagious. Or become a real handful.”

“I know this child.” She clung to him. “He’s better off at my house. I’m certainly not going to keep him here in the crib. My cousin, Victoria, has had her fiancé’s children overnight several times, and there are five of them. If we can survive those mischief makers, we can handle one sick little toddler.”

* * *

Zane shot her a dubious look. Experience told him that taking the child out of the place he was used to would hinder any chances of the boy telling them anything.

Still, admittedly, the chances that the child would have any useful information to share were slim. Zane scanned the darkness, his ears pricked to hear anything suspicious, but the noises from the saloon and the cribs masked the rest of the night sounds. A mongrel dog slunk by, tail between her legs.

This was not a good end to his first full day of filling his brother’s shoes. He looked down at the stiff but crumpled paper in his hands. It was too dark to read it, so he tucked it into his breast pocket beside Rachel’s tract. Besides, the night was getting colder and he didn’t want to stand in the doorway so close to the bartender and patrons, none of whom he fully trusted. The child’s health was more important.

Taking up Rachel’s basket for her, he said, “Fine. Your house it is. Lead the way.”

He had a pretty good idea where she lived. Earlier today, he’d done a bit of exploring on Alex’s horse. The beast had known instantly he wasn’t his brother, but, after a few sniffs of Alex’s coat, had accepted the replacement wearing it.

He’d noted all the major homes and businesses in Proud Bend. There were only a handful of fancy houses in town, all close to the river. One was closed up, and, after reading all the files he could, Zane assumed it was Clyde Abernathy’s, for the man’s estate had yet to be fully settled.

The fanciest house, with its fine, glimmering stone facade, he now discovered was the Smith residence. Wordlessly they walked up the long driveway. Gravel crunching underfoot, Zane could not deny the swell of suspicion. Here was the town’s richest family, a banking family, and, from Rachel’s slight drawl, he would say their heritage was old money from New England. From reading his brother’s reports about Walter Smith, he knew that corruption was rife in this family, and with each step Zane took toward the house, his resentment and ire grew.

Lord, take away my prejudice.

He set his jaw, keeping his breath short and waiting for his black mood to pass. Rachel had done nothing to implicate herself in her father’s corrupt schemes. In the matter of Walter Smith’s death, she had been, along with her mother, as much a victim as he’d been in Canaan.

Zane hated the memory of the treachery. Did Rachel know what Zane had been accused of? Unlikely. Not even Alex knew yet. He’d been fired and had received Deputy Wilson’s telegram the same day. It had happened so quickly that Zane had felt it better to tell his brother to his face than put the bitter incident down on paper, a reminder for years to come how wealth bought its own privilege to do as it pleased.