“I read about her in the Rocky. She was in Chicago with the opera company, and the paper sent one of their reporters to interview her. The reporter was effusive in his praise of her performance. He called it a triumph, I believe.”

  “She makes quite an impression,” said Roen. “Onstage and off.”

  Lily heard something in his tone that she couldn’t quite identify. “Aren’t you proud?”

  “Yes. Artemis is extraordinarily talented, and she is not above regularly reminding me. I’m her brother, remember. Her younger brother. I love her, but I don’t always like her. She’s Artemis James now. She keeps her maiden name for the stage. Robert James is her third husband, so you can see that remaining a Shepard is a practical choice.”

  “You must find Frost Falls provincial. I don’t even know what a coloratura soprano is.”

  “When no one is shooting at me, I find Frost Falls close to perfect, and coloratura is fancy singing. Lots of trilling. When I want to needle her, I tell her she warbles. She throws something at my head, I duck, and we’re good again for a couple of months.”

  “Your mother and sister are vastly talented. Is that true for everyone in your family?”

  “My sister Apollonia is a concert pianist who regularly tours Europe. My brother is Rand Shepard, the writer. He has eight novels published. You have one of them here. I saw it on your mantel.”

  “Beckwith’s Ghost.”

  “That’s it. Is it overdue at the library? Miss Fletcher told Clay that he had a book out that he needed to return.”

  “It might be due, but he brought it home for me. I suppose that means I have to pay the fine.” Lily smiled a shade guiltily. “It supports the library, you know.”

  Roen managed not to choke as he was swallowing his tea, but it was a narrow thing.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Mm.” He cleared his throat. “I’m good. Clay said much the same thing about the book fines.”

  “Oh, I see. I’ll speak to him. I don’t want him to think that paying the fine justifies the crime.”

  Roen arched an eyebrow. “The crime?”

  Lily blinked. “Pardon?”

  “You said you don’t want him to think that paying the fine justifies the crime. Crime seems a rather harsh characterization for overdue books.”

  She had spoken carelessly, she realized, lulled into a sense of well-being by easy conversation with comfortable company. She would have to be on her guard. There were things she could never say and he could never know. It begged the disturbing question: When had Roen Shepard’s presence at her kitchen table become comfortable?

  Chapter Eleven

  The visit to the Double H was unproductive. Harrison Hardy seemed surprised to hear about the shooting, and Roen decided he was either a fine actor or telling the truth. He was less certain about Hardy’s four sons, but they weren’t about to break ranks. If any one of them had done it, then he wasn’t saying, and no one was going to point fingers.

  Ben Madison escorted Roen back to town by way of the Twin Star Ranch. Thaddeus and Remington Frost were interested in what Roen had to say about the property lines being drawn up wrong but not eager to make the correction for the benefit of the railroad. Roen did not bring up eminent domain. That was an option of last resort as far as he was concerned, although he wasn’t sure his employer, the government, or the Stonechurch mining operation would agree with him.

  During the weeks that followed, Roen made regular surveys of the country outside of Frost Falls but stayed clear of the property that he considered in dispute. Clay Salt remained helpful in a limited capacity and gradually accepted that his role had changed. He still acquired the horses from the livery, packed them, and picked up Roen’s provisions from the Butterworth. He studied the maps and the proposed routes, and saw familiar territory with fresh eyes. As far as Roen was concerned, the boy was a sponge, absorbing everything Roen could teach him with an eagerness that was exciting but occasionally exhausting.

  The first significant snow fell early in November. The temperatures dipped dangerously low even for the natives, and Maxwell Wayne complained that his bones ached as fierce as the wind that howled through the center of town.

  When Clay showed up on Roen’s doorstep after another burst of snow, shovel in hand, Roen thought it was because the boy wanted to earn some money for clearing a path from the porch to the street. It turned out that Clay already had an arrangement with Ben to do that, and his purpose at the door was to resume his math studies. Roen suggested they return to it the following evening or even in a few days and that Clay go back home before winter swallowed him whole. That’s when Roen was pointedly reminded that winter hadn’t yet arrived and that he’d better get himself a coat fit for the weather. Roen invited him inside.

  “Your enthusiasm for trigonometry does you credit,” Roen said, taking Clay’s outerwear as he peeled it off in the entranceway. “But wouldn’t you rather spend the evening reading a book? An adventure story? A mystery?”

  Clay dropped to the floor, removed his snow-covered boots, and massaged his toes through his thick woolen socks. “Is that what you were doing?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was. Someone finally returned Beckwith’s Ghost to the library. I decided I should read it.” He hung Clay’s things on the coatrack and toed the boots aside so they weren’t blocking the door. “We’ll work in the front room tonight. It’s warmer there.”

  Clay stood and followed Roen into the parlor. He sat on the end of the sofa closest to the woodstove and warmed his hands while Roen went to get paper and pencils. When Roen returned, Clay reached in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper that was folded into quarters. “I got that problem you gave me a couple of days ago right here. It was a real head scratcher. Took me some time, but I think I got it.”

  “Let me look.” Roen set the paper and pencils on a side table on top of Beckwith’s Ghost and took Clay’s offering before he sat down. He unfolded the paper, smoothed it out over his knee, and examined it for errors. There were none. It was hard not to be aware that Clay was anxiously awaiting the verdict. “Excellent work,” said Roen. “But I don’t think it’s yours alone, is it? Who helped you?”

  Clay hung his head. “Ma,” he whispered.

  “Are you embarrassed?”

  “Ashamed I didn’t get it on my own and embarrassed you figured it out.”

  “I see. There’s nothing wrong with asking for help. How much of it did your mother do?”

  “Most—” He stopped, shook his head. “All of it. I had to teach her some about tangents and cotangents, sines and cosines, but then she took to it like a cat to a mouse. Played with the problem like she was enjoying herself.” He glanced up at Roen. “She’s real smart, isn’t she?”

  “She is. Do you understand how to solve the problem now?”

  “Uh-huh. She showed me. I had to do it on my own. I guess I brought the wrong paper. She’ll be tickled when I tell her she got it right.”

  “I think she probably knows that she did.”

  Clay shrugged. “Maybe. What are you going to show me tonight?”

  “I guess that depends on what your mother wants to learn.”

  “Oh, you figured that out, too.”

  “None too quickly, I think. You’ve been teaching her all along.”

  “Best I can. I had to get some books for her from the library.” He hesitated. “You don’t mind?”

  “Mind? No, of course not. Teaching her probably helps you.”

  “It does. Kinda cements it in my mind. At least sometimes it does. Sometimes, like with this problem, she has to teach me.”

  “How is your mother?”

  “Fine.”

  “I haven’t seen her except in passing, and she passes quickly. I managed to thank her for altering my clothes. That was the extent of our conversation, and the talking was mostly on my end.”

  “You still like her, though, right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good, because Hannah and I have been thinking you ought to come around again. It’s been a long time. I think maybe since you were shot.”

  It had been exactly that long, but Roen did not confirm it. “You and Hannah think too much. It can’t be good for you.”

  “What? Oh, you’re funnin’ me again.”

  “I’m not sure I am. Regardless, I am not showing up at your house again uninvited.”

  “I invited you.”

  Roen clarified, “The invitation needs to come from your mother.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen. She says she doesn’t have a lot of use for company, even when it’s the minister.”

  “That’s my point, Clay. I’m not going to trespass on your mother’s privacy.”

  Clay sighed heavily and plowed his fingers through his coal black hair. “This is a conundrum worse than any problem you ever gave me.”

  Roen didn’t laugh because he knew Clay was serious, but he couldn’t stop his lips from twitching. He cleared his throat and tamped down his smile. “I can’t fix your conundrum, but I can give you a harder problem.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Three days later, Clay’s conundrum became Roen’s when he received a telegram from Victorine Headley while he was enjoying a late lunch at the Butterworth. He gave young Frankie Fuller a nickel for delivering it and hoped the boy hadn’t heard him swear under his breath when he saw who it was from. Except for him, Deputy Hitch Springer, who was waiting for a tray to take back to the jail, and an older couple in town for their daughter’s wedding, the hotel’s dining room was deserted. Roen was aware the arrival of the telegram brought attention to his table. “Business,” he said in response to their inquiring stares. He said it so matter-of-factly that he almost believed it himself. He waited until the others were no longer looking in his direction before he opened it. The message was brief and everything he feared.

  FOUND YOU STOP ARRIVING WEDS STOP

  Obviously she had found him. The telegram delivery confirmed that. Victorine wanted to underscore her triumph. She’d switched weapons, abandoned her palm pistol in favor of driving a knife in his back.

  Wednesday. If he could believe her, she was going to arrive on Wednesday, but that was a very big “if.” The best he could hope for was that she was merely funnin’ him and wouldn’t arrive at all. It strained his thinking to imagine her in Frost Falls. She lived on Fifth Avenue north of Fiftieth Street in an impressive—some would say imperious—gray stone mansion overlooking Central Park. The whole of the Butterworth Hotel, grand by Frost Falls standards, was not much bigger than the coach house at the back of the property. Where on earth did she imagine she would be staying?

  Victorine came from transportation money. First, shipping. Later, railroads. Her father was rumored to be investing in the development of automobiles though no one had ever seen him ride in one of the horseless carriages. Their popularity was still a novelty, but Roen suspected that if the rumors were true, Victor Headley’s interest would take the automobile from novelty to necessity. Victorine’s father was no one’s fool.

  It was Victor Headley who had introduced Roen to his daughter. Reluctantly, Roen thought now. Victorine had forced the introduction when she sailed into her father’s study and interrupted negotiations on the contract Victor was proposing to Roen. “This is why I don’t like to work at home,” Victor had said, but because he smiled warmly at his daughter as he said it, Roen thought he had a father’s happy tolerance for the intrusion. He learned later that he was under a misapprehension. Victor Headley suffered his only child’s presence but did not embrace it. According to Victorine, that warm, welcoming smile was for Roen’s benefit.

  Recalling that she had been in his bed when she offered that explanation, Roen knew why he had found it easy to believe. The shot that nearly unmanned him made him question everything. Sighing, he folded the telegram and slipped it inside his jacket. He looked down at his plate. He’d finished only half the serving of chicken and gravy over biscuits, and now the whole of it appeared to be congealing in a cold, unappetizing fashion. No longer hungry, he pushed the plate away and leaned back in his chair.

  “You don’t like it, Mr. Shepard?”

  Roen’s head snapped up. He’d been staring at the pattern of cabbage roses on the far wall. Fedora put him in mind of a hummingbird the way she seemed to hover beside his table. She watched him, her dark eyes wary. Nothing about that had changed since she’d first waited on him. Roen thought if he moved unexpectedly, she would dart away. “I liked it just fine, Miss Chen, but I’m done. Please extend my compliments to Mrs. Vandergrift. I’d like a beer, though, no more coffee.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” She cleared the table.

  Roen anticipated that she would leave then. When she didn’t, he slowly raised a questioning eyebrow. He watched her take a breath, pause, then take another before she found the courage to speak.

  “Is he looking this way?” She mouthed the words more than whispered them.

  It could only be the deputy or the man sitting with his wife to whom she was referring. Roen casually let his gaze roam without focusing on any of the occupants. Hitchcock Springer was certainly looking this way. In answer to Fedora’s question, he nodded. For the life of him, he couldn’t tell if she was pleased or disturbed.

  “Thank you. I’ll bring your beer.”

  Roen watched her make a graceful turn and dart away. The deputy’s eyes followed her. If Hitchcock Springer wasn’t lovesick, then Roen needed a new word for what he was seeing. He wondered if he had ever looked at Victorine like that. He didn’t think so. She’d never provoked that feeling in him, and he would wager everything he had that it had been the same for her. There was mutual attraction, some shared interests, and a reciprocated need for companionship. None of it justified a proposal. He never once entertained the idea of marrying her, and he would have sworn it was not something she wanted either, yet when he ended their arrangement, she spoke as if marriage was exactly what she expected. He knew she had been unfaithful; she didn’t deny it. It was the odd sense of relief that he felt that told him it was time to step away.

  It came to him gradually that Victorine Headley wasn’t who he thought she was, though in fairness, perhaps she would say the same of him. He began to understand that she was attracted to him in part because he was working for her father. She was the princess and he was the help. Over time he also recognized there were no common interests. She pretended to share his enjoyment for walking or skating in the park, milling with the artists in Greenwich and the rabble in the Bowery, or sailing on the Hudson, in which she was expected to help with the sails. He, on the other hand, made no secret of the fact that he did not like fancy dress balls, theater openings, or dinners with fifteen courses and fifty people at the table. He went because it was important to her. She was headstrong and spoiled and had a dog-in-the-manger view of people and things. Once she laid claim to someone or something, what became important was that no one else had it.

  She’d aimed her gun at him only after she’d learned he’d gone riding in Central Park with Mary Ellen Glidden. His arrangement with Victorine had ended three weeks earlier, but Roen had time to reflect on what she’d done while he was convalescing in his parents’ home. He came to understand that Victorine had merely bided her time in anticipation of an opportunity. Mary Ellen Glidden was the catalyst for revenge. The whole affair was tawdry enough that his brother was contemplating using it in his next book.

  From time to time, Roen wondered if he should have reported the incident to the police instead of arriving at the hospital with the claim that he’d shot himself while cleaning his pistol. No one questioned him so he stayed with his story. The hospital doctors and matrons were familiar with his family, the talent and the eccentricities, and that was enough to assure that he was believed. Hadn’t his mother once shot a blank canvas when she couldn’t find inspiration? And his father had severed the head of a sculpture nearing completion with such passion that bits of flying marble embedded in his forehead, cheek, and neck. Artemis flew at her second husband with a barber’s razor during a rehearsal of Figaro, and the poor man required thirteen stitches in his arm.

  Roen had overheard the nurses giggling and whispering behind his bed screen. They seemed to be disappointed that his injury didn’t arise from artistic temperament. Even in this, he was the black sheep.

  Sometime during his musings, Fedora Chen had reappeared with his beer. He’d hardly noticed. Hitch was gone now but the couple had been joined by their daughter and her fiancé. They were talking excitedly about the upcoming wedding, Roen supposed. He picked up his beer and took a long pull. At the back of his mind, a thought niggled. He tried to hold on to it but it proved elusive. He finished his beer and ordered another. Alcohol had a way of loosening provocative thoughts, especially ones that weren’t his own. It was someone else’s idea first; he was sure of it. Ben’s? Clay’s? Something Mrs. Springer had said?

  Fedora brought his second beer. He drank slowly, trying to remember where he’d been when he heard the idea. The hotel? The drugstore? The sheriff’s office?

  He set his mug down with a satisfying thump. It was the sheriff’s office, and it was the sheriff’s wife who had definite ideas of her own. “Lily’s company is a safeguard, isn’t it?” she had said. “You chose her quite deliberately because you learned very quickly that she’s a widow with four children who has even less interest in romantic entanglements than you. I don’t think it matters to you how Lily’s companionship is perceived by others as long as it keeps the keenly interested at bay and allows you to go about your work.”

  Victorine Headley certainly qualified as the keenly interested. And she would never allow him to go about his work.