Jack Craddock waited impatiently on the front porch of Sally Duffield's boarding house, pacing back and forth in front of the door, occasionally pausing to peer inside the window to see if the Englishman had come back downstairs. So far, the stranger had confined himself to his room, unaware that his presence was troubling the lawman.
Bordertown occasionally saw visitors from other countries, but they were primarily family and friends of the local residents. Therefore, a man from England with no relatives in the area was cause for suspicion. As territorial marshal, Jack concluded that he had the right and the responsibility to determine if the man intended to perpetrate harm against any of the citizens of the community, but he also knew that he could not violate his civil liberties by barging in to his room and demanding to know who he was and what he was up to. Better to wait until he came downstairs, and question him informally. What was the word Clive used to describe his ability to manipulate an interrogation so that it did not seem like an interrogation? Finesse. Yes, that was the word. He would use finesse to obtain the information he wanted.
Jack pulled out his watch and flipped open the cover. It had been nearly thirty minutes since the stagecoach had departed, and he was growing restless. Patience was not one of Jack Craddock's virtues, and his already limited reserves were eroding by the minute.
He snapped the watch closed, and returned it to his pocket. Moving to the edge of Sally's porch, he observed the activity on the street, the typical, daily routines of the residents and businessmen who lived and worked there. Most had returned to work after the lunch hour. He knew that Marie had returned to the general store following lunch several hours earlier, and he briefly pondered the idea of dropping by to visit with her for awhile. From the store's front window, he would be able to maintain his surveillance of the front door of the boarding house. He rejected the notion, quickly. Saturday was Sally's day off from the store, so Marie would be short-handed, and probably too busy to talk to him.
Sally's two-story house was on the east side of the road on the southern end of town. Her nearest neighbor was actually the saloon, and her home, which set back slightly from the road, was separated from that establishment by a wide patch of grassy turf. Directly across the street was MacWherter's bank and Liam Gleason's barbershop, a place Jack visited infrequently.
Removing his hat, he dragged his fingers through the hair that lay on the back of his neck and draped over the collar of his shirt. It was growing long. Soon, he would have to make that dreaded trip to the barber's chair that he hated so much. Right now, however, he had more important things to worry about. He slapped the hat back on his head, and turned to face the house again. His patience spent, he yanked the door open and went inside, hoping that perhaps Sally could provide some of the answers he sought.
Sally Duffield was dusting the furniture in her parlor with a rag, humming cheerfully to herself. She had a sunny disposition that inspired people to instantly warm to her, and possessed a singing voice worthy of envy. Jack suspected that if work on the church was ever complete, Sally would be the first to sign up for the choir. A widow, she had been forced to take in boarders in an effort to make ends meet after her late husband had been imprisoned years earlier. George Duffield had been murdered by fellow inmates in prison, freeing her to pursue a relationship with Dom Bertino, a good and decent man who worked as bartender and waiter in the saloon and its dining room. She had also taken part time employment at the general store, helping Marie stock shelves and wait on customers.
Jack immediately removed his hat. "Sally?"
She looked up and smiled. "Why, Marshal! I hardly ever see you in here. What brings you by?" Before he could answer, she added, quickly, "Oh, and I should thank you for sending that Englishman down here! I haven't had many boarders, lately."
"About that Englishman, Sally ---"
"Doesn't he just have the dreamiest accent?" she exclaimed.
Jack ignored the question. He hadn't really thought about it one way or another. "How much do you know about him?"
She shrugged, puzzled by his inquiry, and moved closer to him to prevent her guest from overhearing the fact that he was being discussed with apparent suspicion. "Not much, really. Only the information he gave me when he checked in. His name is Oliver Knapp, and he's from someplace in England called Kent."
Jack blinked. "Never heard of it."
"Neither have I, but then, I've never been to England, so what do I know? I think his family must be very well off, though. He paid me in cash for a full week's rent on my best room, and did you see how he was dressed? The side of his carpetbag has some kind of design on it, like a family crest. And listen to this! He paid a week's rent for a second room, the room right next door to his own He says he has a servant coming in on the eastbound stage on Monday." She leaned toward Jack in a conspiratorial fashion. "A servant! I'll bet he's a count or an earl or something like that," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"In Bordertown?" Jack asked, incredulously.
Sally seemed to wilt. "I guess that is a bit far-fetched, isn't it?"
"I'd think so. Anyhow, did he give any indication as to why he's here?"
Again, she seemed puzzled. "No. I really don't question my boarders like that Marshal. Why? Is there something wrong?"
"I ain't sure, Sally. Did that look to you like a doctor's bag he was carryin'?"
"Now that you mention it, yes, it did." She bristled, ready to leap to the defense of her good friend. "Do you think he's here to start trouble for Marie, like that other man did a couple of years ago?"
"That's what I intend to find out."
The slam of a door upstairs silenced both of them, and they turned their eyes expectantly toward the stairs, listening to the footsteps that proceeded down the wooden staircase, until Oliver Knapp appeared. Jack heard Sally draw her breath in sharply, admiring the man's appearance.
He had changed from his traveling clothes to a clean suit, complete with a derby hat and an ebony walking stick topped with a sterling knob. He certainly fit the appearance of the count or earl that Sally had believed him to be. His gaze immediately met theirs, and a trace of amusement flickered in his eyes.
He knew that he was considered attractive to women and that men longed to be like him. He had learned to tolerate scrutiny as the price of having wealth and good looks. "From the way you are both looking at me, I deduce that I must be the topic of conversation."
Jack exchanged glances with Sally. Tossing finesse out the window, Jack came right to the point. "Well, the truth is, Mister, we don't get too many people like you in these parts."
The man's smile never wavered. "And you're wondering why I'm here."
"The thought did cross my mind."
"I'm here to visit an old friend. Perhaps you know her. Marie Dumont?"
Again, concerned glances were exchanged between Jack and Sally. This time, it was Sally who spoke. "You know Marie?"
"Yes. Her husband and I attended medical school together."
Relief flashed across Sally's face. "Oh, that explains it, then. We saw the doctor's bag you were carrying, and we thought you were here to try to give Marie some competition."
He smiled. "Oh, no. Nothing like that, I assure you."
Jack was less assured. In fact, his suspicion instantly increased. "I happen to know that Doctor Dumont attended medical classes in Paris, not England."
Sally looked quickly at Jack, indicating that she had forgotten that fact, then at Oliver again. "That's right!"
Oliver's eyes narrowed slightly, and his cheek twitched with sudden resentment. How dare this ruffian imply that his intentions toward Marie were suspect! In England, no one would dare confront him in such a manner. Even this American mongrel should have been able to determine by his posture and his manner of dress that he was a man of wealth and importance, both of which should have rendered him exempt from such speculation! The marshal met his direct gaze with no intimidation, waiting for a satisfactory response to his statement. It was Oliver who finally broke the gaze. His eyes drifted down the other man's torso to the Colt-45 Peacemaker that he carried in a holster strapped to his waist. Because of the warm weather, the marshal was not wearing a coat, so the weapon was not concealed. It was sheathed in a right handed holster, worn just in front of his left hip for easy access. The sight of it made him uneasy. Raised in an environment where it was not customary for men to carry side arms, it served as a startling reminder that he was now out of his own environment. He would have to exercise caution while he became acclimated to the western culture.
The marshal and Mrs. Duffield were watching him closely, waiting expectantly for an explanation. Forcing his voice to remain civil, he said, "You are correct, Constable. My mother was French, my father English, and although I grew up in England, I attended medical classes in Paris. I heard about Jacques's untimely death, and decided I should pay my respects."
Jack wondered how many times he would have to repeat it before the Englishman got the title correct. "It's marshal, and if ya don't mind my sayin' so, that's a mighty long way t' travel jus' to offer condolences."
"I'm on my way to Vancouver, old chap. I've accepted a position with a hospital there."
"So, you're not planning on setting up business here?" Sally asked, hesitantly. "I mean no offense, but . . . You know what I mean."
He smiled. "It warms my heart that Marie has such devoted friends to look after her. No, I do not intend to take over her practice"
"Don't they need doctorin' in England?" Jack asked. Again, he saw the flicker of irritation in the Englishman's eyes.
Oliver clearly believed that these details were none of the marshal's business, but he knew that if he expressed his annoyance, he would not receive the information he desired. If he intended to reach Marie, he would be required to tolerate these questions and set the lawman's concerns at ease. "Oh, they have plenty of physicians in England, but I've heard there is a shortage of qualified physicians on the North American frontier. Decided it might be an adventure. And as long as I was in the vicinity, it's not too far out of my way to stop in to visit the widow of my good friend. I don't suppose you could point me in the direction of her residence, could you?"
Jack hesitated. He might have been uneducated, but he was no fool. He had no intention of directing this stranger to Marie's house. If she was comfortable with providing him with that information, it would have to come from her. "She's at the general store, right now. I'll take you there myself."
"That really isn't necessary, Marshal. I'm sure you have better things to do than --"
Jack was already striding toward the door. Without a backward glance, he opened it, and stepped outside, forcing the Englishman to jog to catch up.
"Well, if you insist . . ."
Jack glanced at him briefly when he fell in step beside him, then ignored him. They decended the steps to the street and Oliver found himself facing the prospect of wading through the mud again, only this time he was dressed in his best suit. With a disparaging sigh, he lifted the hems of his expensive trousers once again, and forged ahead. Carefully, he stepped over the smaller puddles and circled the larger ones as he hurried to catch up to the marshal.
As he walked rapidly alongside the marshal, struggling to keep up with his long strides, the stranger observed his escort with an intense, yet apprehensive gaze. Traveling through Canada, he had seen many Canadian police officers, and had found them to be civilized and generally diplomatic, and, familiar with the British perrage, they had been very eager to accommodate his wishes. The marshal was the first American lawman he had seen in person, and he could not help but feel somewhat awed by the encounter. He had heard of them through newspaper reports and novels about the American west that had reached England and France, and it was becoming abundantly clear that their reputations as no-nonsense keepers of law and order were well deserved. He was clearly a seasoned veteran of law enforcement. Ruggedly handsome, there was a hard, fearless edge about him, suggesting that he would be a challenging adversary in a conflict. And, being American, he was unimpressed with Oliver's high status
The marshal was also acquainted with Marie Dumont, and his refusal to send him to her home reinforced the realization that there was more to this United States Marshal than met the eye. It could have been his dedication to his job that motivated his caution, but Oliver believed it suggested a relationship that was more than merely a professional acquaintance, a fact that sent a ripple of jealousy through him. He tamped it down, reminding himself that his acquaintance of her could not be considered unusual, considering the size of the town. He probably knew the names of everyone who lived in Bordertown and the surrounding area.
"The name's Oliver Knapp," the stranger volunteered by way of making conversation.
His introduction barely inspired a brief glance from the lawman. "Jack Craddock," came the brusque response.
"Strange town you've got here, Constable," Oliver said, noticing that Bordertown was a cluster of crudely constructed buildings on either side of a narrow main street, the only street, actually. The road was not even a straight line, but made abrupt curves around the buildings that jutted out on either side.
Jack shot a reproachful glance his direction as they climbed the steps in front of the bank.
"Sorry, old chap. I keep forgetting. Marshal."
"Suits me jus' fine," Jack said of his town.
"Oh, I wasn't criticizing. It's just that I've never seen a town so . . . . primitive," he stated for lack of a kinder word. "Say, Marshal, might we slow down a bit? I rather feel like I'm in a foot race!"
Jack glanced at him again, but did not alter his pace at all. They followed the boardwalk around the front facade of the general store, entering through the door on the northeast corner of the building.
She was there, looking just as stunning as the last time he had seen her, a flaxen-haired beauty who took his breath away every time he laid eyes upon her. He stopped in the doorway, observing her with admiring eyes.
She was behind the sales counter, using a lull in business to work on her bills, receipts, and other paperwork. She looked up and smiled when she saw them.
Jack quickly removed his hat, and Oliver could not help but notice the change in the marshal's demeanor. The tenseness in his face relaxed, and the creases in his forehead smoothed, giving a much softer appearance to his rough countenance. "Howdy, Marie. Yer lookin' lovely as ever."
"Why thank you, Jack," she said with the delightful French accent that the marshal never tired of hearing. "How nice of you to stop by."
The fact that they were on a first name basis burned into Oliver's awareness, but the only outward indication of his displeasure was the slight twitch of his left eye. Had Jack been looking at the stranger at that moment, he would have recognized it as a signal that he had made an instant enemy of the Englishman.
Jack hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "This here gent got off the stage a while ago. Says he a friend of Jacques's, and that he knew you both in France."
Marie turned her attention to the Englishman, who removed his derby, as manners dictated when in the presence of a lady, but neither man saw any recognition in her eyes as she observed him.
Resentment flamed inside Oliver Knapp's slight frame. She doesn't remember me! How can that be?
"I'm sorry. You look familiar, but I can't really remember. You knew us in France?"
"Yes. Let me refresh your memory. I attended medical school with Jacques. You and Jacques and Beatrice and I sometimes attended soirees together."
This information plus his British accent rang a bell in her memory. "Monsieur Knapp?"
Jack was watching her expression very carefully. While she did not seem as overjoyed to see him as she had been with other friends who had come to town, it was obvious that he was not considered unwelcome. That confirmed the Englishman's statement that they had, indeed, been friendly at some point.
"Please call me Oliver," he insisted. "We were all good friends."
"Yes, Oliver. I do remember you and your wife," she replied, looking at him very carefully. Although strikingly handsome, he looked very different than she had last seen him. "How is Beatrice? Did she come with you?"
"Regretfully, she passed away shortly after you and Jacques left France."
Marie was deeply saddened by the news of the woman's death. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Oliver. She was a dear friend, and a good wife to you."
"Yes, she was," Oliver agreed. He bowed his head, but somehow Jack believed it was more to present a sorrowful front than to express any real grief over his wife's passing. Jack was a widower himself, and he had experienced first hand the overwhelming anguish of losing the woman he had chosen to be his life's partner. Oliver Knapp did not seem to be sincere in his depiction of grief.
Marie did not seem to notice the lack of sincereity that Jack suspected. "What brings you to Bordertown?" she asked.
"I came to see you, Marie. I heard about Jacques, and thought I should pay my respects to an old friend." He glanced at Jack, suddenly noticing that the lawman was still present. "It was nice to meet you, Constable." His words and his tone of voice were dismissive, a very unsubtle hint that Jack's presence was no longer appreciated.
Jack hesitated, shifting his eyes to Marie, seeking confirmation from her that it was safe to leave her alone with him. Marie understood that he was trying to protect her from a man he did not know. "It's all right, Jack," she assured him.
He nodded. "I'll catch you later, Marie." He glanced at Oliver again. "It's marshal," he reminded him.
They both watched as the marshal made his exit, replacing the hat on his head as he walked out to the boardwalk, but they also noticed that he was lingering around the door and windows, pretending that his attention was directed at the activity on the street, when in fact, he was keeping a cautious ear vigilant to the open door.
Marie was not disturbed by this, but Oliver found it very offensive. "Is he always this zealous over his job, or just with you?"
Marie smiled. "He means well," she assured the Englishman. "But if you want to stay on his good side, I would not call him 'constable'. That is what the Mounties call their men who have not been promoted to rank."
"He has a prejudice against the Mounted Police?"
"He is a U.S. Marshal, and I would appreciate it if you would show him that respect."
Inside, Oliver felt a twinge of resentment at her reproach. A Knapp did not cater to underlings and ruffians! However, on the outside, he merely smiled his indulgence. "Very well. If it pleases you, I shall refrain from antagonizing him."
He was rewarded with her lovely smile. "How long are you going to be here?" she asked.
"Well, I've paid for a full week's rent at the boarding house for myself and Jenkins, my servant. He will be here on Monday."
She laughed, suddenly. "That will raise a few eyebrows!"
He ignored the comment. "We will be here at least that long, unless ---"
They were interrupted by a customer coming into the store, and glancing toward the front window, Marie saw that Jack was peering in at them. He quickly looked away when he realized he had been caught. With an amused smile, she waited on her customer, then turned her attention back to Oliver.
The Englishman was fidgeting with his hat, obviously uncomfortable with the setting. When they were alone again, he said, "Marie, it is difficult to talk in here. Would you consent to have dinner with me this evening? Provided there is a decent restaurant in town," he added.
"There is, and I would be delighted. You can tell me all the latest news from Europe," she said, eagerly.
That was not the topic of conversation the Oliver had in mind, but it would be a satisfactory starting point. "Very well," he agreed.
"I close at six o'clock this evening. If you would like, I can meet you at the restaurant. It's in a room behind the saloon."
Oliver's face expressed disgust. "The saloon? Isn't that some sort of western pub?"
"I'm afraid so, but it's all we have. We're a very small town."
"So I see."
"I think you will find it very charming," she told him. "I dine there on occasion, and the food is quite good. Diane Denny is a wonderful cook."
He reached out and took her hand to kiss the back of it. "Until six, then."
She watched with a smile as he strode from the room with the gait of an important man and swinging his cane in a manner that could only be regarded as a display of arrogance.
Jack watched him walk away, apparently intending to explore the town, then entered the store again. "Ev'rything all right, Marie?"
She tried not to feel annoyed at his persistence. "Everything is fine, Jack. Oliver was a friend of my husband, so I would appreciate it if you would not harass him."
Jack took no real offense at her adminishment. She had scolded him many times before about various things, and had literally driven him from the store with a broom for coming into her establishment with a cigarette. This was mild, compared to having a broom applied to his backside. "If yer sure."
"I'm sure, Jack. I appreciate your concern, but there is no need."
"Sure, Marie." She had obviously failed to ease his mind about her friendship with Oliver, but he made his exit without voicing his concerns.
Alone once again, she returned to her work, but she could not deny that she felt excited about the propect of spending the dinner hour with an old friend from Europe.
GO TO CHAPTER FOUR