Roen nodded to the librarian as he paused at the front desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clay do the same. “Where is the best place to unroll these maps so we can study them? It’s Miss Fletcher, isn’t it? I’m Roen Shepard with Northeast Rail.”

  Miss Dorothea Fletcher offered an awkward smile while she patted her walnut-colored hair, ostensibly to make certain the pins were holding it in place. She flushed when she discovered her missing spectacles were nesting there, and the flush deepened when the earpieces tangled in her hair as she tried to remove them, making the pins superfluous. She left them to sit crookedly on her head and held out a hand to Roen. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Shepard. Of course I know who you are. I was at the town meeting for your presentation.”

  Roen took her hand, gave it a gentle shake, and released it. “You know Clay.”

  “I do.” She eyed the boy sternly. If her spectacles had been in place, she would have bent her head and looked at him from over the rims. “You have books overdue, young man. I don’t suppose you have them with you.”

  Clay shifted uncomfortably and shook his head.

  “Tomorrow. Bring them by.” To Roen, she said, “There’s a large table at the back. You can use that. If you need to use some books to weigh down the corners of your maps, help yourself. Just return them where you found them.”

  “Indeed I will. Thank you.”

  They found the table shoved indecorously between two stacks. History and geography faced each other on the shelves. There was only a single chair, and Clay set down his map to find another one. Roen had all three maps unrolled and smoothed across the table by the time Clay returned with a chair and a lamp.

  “Good,” said Roen. “You found a lamp. It’s hard to see anything back here without one.”

  “I can get another if we need it.”

  “Mm. We’ll try this first.” He took the oil lamp and placed it where it would be the most helpful. “Put your chair over here next to mine.”

  Clay did as directed. He sat on his knees and leaned forward over the table. “Did you notice that she got all twitchy?” he asked, looking at the map and not at Roen.

  “Who?”

  “Miss Fletcher. She got twitchy when you spoke to her. I only seen her like that once before, and that was when Scooter Banks from over at Twin Star came in to get a book for Mr. Frost. She got twitchy then.”

  “Is that right? No, I didn’t notice.”

  “Huh. I bet that’s because it happens to you a lot on account of your noble profile and you being a good-lookin’ fella. Sally Clark says you look fine in a suit, like the kind of gentleman we don’t often see around here except at weddings and funerals.”

  “Clay. Who is Sally Clark?”

  “She’s Hannah’s friend. I like her okay, but she gives herself airs. You know what I mean?”

  “I know someone like that,” he said, thinking of Victorine. “Are you done? We have work.”

  Clay smiled guiltily. “Done.”

  “All right. Do you know what you’re looking at?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Find a reference point. Some feature on the map that you’re familiar with.”

  Clay took his time and eventually pointed to the crosshatching that indicated train tracks. They appeared and disappeared as they wound around a mountainside. “These tracks are climbing up to Butler’s Ridge. It’s a fair piece from here, and I’ve only been that way once. Shouldn’t it be marked?”

  “We can mark it now. I made this map to evaluate your skill at seeing the land in a different way.” He took a pencil from inside his jacket and wrote “BR.” “Can you find Smith’s Run?”

  Clay used his index finger to trace several lines that represented creeks, falls, streams, and runs. He closed his eyes as he visualized the landscape, and when he saw it clearly, he grinned and pointed out the tributary that meandered in the southwest corner of the map. “Smith’s Run,” he said. “I got it right, didn’t I?”

  “You did. Are you sure you’ve only been out that way once?”

  “Pretty sure. My pa took me with him to Stonechurch when he was lookin’ to buy some silver for a special piece of jewelry. Commissioned, I think he called it.”

  “That sounds right.”

  “He owned the forge back then. Ma sold it after the fire and now Bertie Graves owns it, but he doesn’t do specialty pieces like Pa did. Not that Pa did a lot of pieces like that. Mostly he did regular forge work. Horseshoes. Wheel rims. Nuts and bolts. Tools.”

  “I see. It was good of him to take you.”

  Clay shrugged. “I suppose.”

  Roen looked down at the boy’s bent head. He didn’t know how to interpret Clay’s response, and following it up with a comment or question did not seem respectful. He said, “Can you locate Butler’s Gorge?”

  “That’s easy.” Clay followed the ridgeline until it dropped away. He outlined the steep walls of the gorge. “The tracks wind down one side and up the other.”

  “They do. That’s why I want to build a bridge across it.”

  Clay looked up then, wide-eyed. “You mean it? A bridge there?”

  Roen nodded. “A trestle bridge. It takes a train better than an hour to negotiate that gorge now. With the bridge, it will be able to cross in mere minutes. Here, let me roll this up and I’ll show you.”

  When the second map was revealed, all the indicators and the legend were in place. Clay set his elbows on the table and studied it. It was not a map of what was, but of what could be. There was a different route for the tracks, and the gorge was filled with the crisscross tripod frames peculiar to erecting trestles. He looked up at Roen, his expression skeptical.

  “What?” asked Roen. “You have something to say, I collect.”

  Clay pointed to the bridge. “Can a train really cross that?”

  “If it’s built to my specifications, it can. This is not a new design. The Central Pacific couldn’t have reached Promontory Point without bridges like this. This one is going to be framed using a combination of timber and iron.”

  “It’s awfully high and long.”

  “It is. The trestles you’re familiar with cross the river, but the engineering is basically the same.”

  “If you say so.”

  Roen chuckled. “I do. And I’m going to show you some calculations to prove it.”

  Clay put his head in his hands. “This is the schoolwork you talked about it.”

  “It is, but we’re not going to do that today. I want to show you another map.” He rolled up the planning map and tied it off with twine. The final map showed a different topography than the first two. “This is one of the maps I received from the land office. Ed Saunders copied this from the original, but I’m not certain he was as meticulous as I need him to be. This shows approximately ten square miles. You recognize it. This is the area I was surveying while you were spying on me.”

  “I wasn’t spying,” Clay said before he thought better of it.

  Roen gave him the gimlet eye.

  “Well, maybe I was. But it wasn’t for nefarious purposes.”

  “Nefarious. Do you even know what that means?”

  “Wicked. Evil. Nat Church and the Nefarious Ninja.”

  “I should have known. Is that one of the books Miss Fletcher mentioned that’s overdue?”

  “Yes. There’ll be a fine, but I want to read it again. Anyway, the fine goes toward buying more books so I’m actually helping the library.”

  Roen decided against arguing with that logic. He pointed to the map again, specifically to a boundary line that defined two properties. “This area to the north, where I want to lay track, is what you told me is owned by Mr. Hardy, but I think the initial survey of the land was off by more than half a mile. Whether that’s because of inadequate instruments or incompetency, I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. I think this strip, something like a panhandle, is actually part of the Twin Star Ranch.”

  “Huh. Maybe it’s like you thought at first. Mr. Saunders might not have copied it carefully.”

  “Or the original is incorrect. We’re going to find out on Saturday.”

  “We are?”

  “We are. Can you finish your chores by eight?”

  “I can finish them by seven if you want.”

  Roen appreciated Clay’s eagerness, but he said, “Eight’s fine. I’ll arrange to have the horses paid for and available. You bring them here and help me pack. We’ll be gone almost all the daylight hours so eat breakfast and I’ll have Ellie Butterworth pack something for us to take along. Dress for the weather because we’re not coming back for coats or slickers.”

  “Yes, sir. I reckon this would be a good time to tell you I’m not that good of a rider. Only been on a horse about half a dozen times. Three of those times, Ben was leading me.”

  “How is that possible?” asked Roen. “I thought everyone out here was born knowing how to ride.”

  Clay snickered. “I bet you thought there were regular saloon fights and shoot-outs.”

  “Not regular. I know it’s not the Wild West.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Roen clapped the boy gently on the back of his head the way he’d seen Ellie do to Ben. Clay grinned up at him, so he knew no harm was done. “All right. We’re finished here.” He started to roll the last map, but Clay put out his hands to take it, and Roen let him.

  Clay tied off the twine and held the roll loosely under his arm. “Can I ask you something?”

  Roen did not know what was coming, but Clay’s attempt to sound casual about it meant it was probably important. “Go ahead.”

  “You treated Lizzie and Ma to fizzy drinks this afternoon.”

  It wasn’t a question. Roen nodded anyway.

  “Lizzie was real fond of her cherry fizzy, but the root beer didn’t settle so good with my ma. You had root beer, too, and you looked fine when you came to the door.”

  “That’s because I was fine. What do you mean, it didn’t settle so well with your mother?”

  Clay hesitated, rubbed his ear. “I ought not to be telling you, but it’s pertinent to what I’m going to say later.”

  “You can’t get to later if you don’t get to now.”

  “Ma was stomach sick when she got home, and she was still not feeling good when me and Hannah and Ham came in from school. She was lying on the sofa with a wet cloth on her forehead, so it was easy to figure that she was ailing.”

  “You said Hannah was making dinner. That’s why, isn’t it?”

  “Hmm.”

  “And now we’re to the later part,” said Roen. “What is it you want to say?”

  “Don’t really want to say it, but I got to. Hannah and I don’t think it was the fizzy that disagreed with Ma. We think it was you. Now Ma didn’t say that. She never would. Fact is, she said you were a gentleman, which we figure is probably true. It’s just that it doesn’t make much difference to how Ma feels about you, so we’re thinking you should probably stay away. Church is fine; it can’t be helped unless you was to become a Methodist and worship there.”

  “That is not going to happen.”

  “Didn’t think so.” He shrugged. “You could sleep in on Sunday mornings. There’s plenty who do.”

  “Clay. Are you saying your mother was ill because she spent part of an afternoon in my company?”

  “Um, yeah. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Did you ask her?”

  “Sure, but besides blaming the fizzy, she said it was because she hadn’t been out of the house much and not for so long a time. Probably seems peculiar to you, but she’s not exactly lying about it.”

  “But it’s not the whole truth either, is that it?”

  “That’s it. She doesn’t get twitchy like Miss Fletcher does. Ma gets . . .” He paused, searching for the right word.

  Roen supplied it. “Skittish?”

  “Yep. Skittish.”

  “You seem to know a lot about it.”

  “I guess I should. I been with her all my life.”

  There was no refuting that. He wondered if Lily had an inkling of how her children looked after her. “Is it just me who makes her skittish?”

  “Mostly you. She’s her steady self around people she knows, like Ben and the doc. Mrs. Springer can set her teeth on edge but that’s because Ma knows her too well, if you take my meaning.”

  Roen refrained from saying that he understood perfectly. Instead he asked, “Does she need Dr. Madison to visit her?”

  “She says not.”

  “All right. Careful, you’re crushing that map. Here. Let me have it.”

  Clay gave it over. “I’m sorry.”

  “No harm done. Let’s go. I’ll walk you home.”

  “But—”

  “I heard everything you said. I don’t have to go inside. I’ll stop at the door. I’m not promising that I’ll always do that or that I’ll walk to the opposite side of the street if I see your mother coming. I’d like to hear this from your mother, but I’ll respect your wishes for now.”

  “They’re Hannah’s wishes, too.”

  Roen nodded and placed his hand at Clay’s back and gave him a nudge. “And I had such hopes that my noble profile would carry the day.”

  “Show it off to Miss Fletcher,” said Clay. “Bet she twitches.”

  Chapter Nine

  Deputy Hitchcock Springer entered the Butterworth’s kitchen by the back door. He made sure that Mrs. Vandergrift saw him wipe his muddy boots on the mat. She was as particular about her kitchen floor as she was about her pastries. Grinning at her, he tipped his hat. A steady stream of water poured from the brim. “Sorry. It’s raining bulls and bears out there this morning.”

  The cook waggled a pancake turner at him. “Isn’t the expression ‘cats and dogs’?”

  “Cats and dogs is a cliché. I aim to use my own phraseology.”

  Ellie Butterworth came into the kitchen through the swinging dining room door. She looked Hitch over head to toe and shook her head. He was as lean and ropy as a steer after a two-hundred-mile cattle drive, but she knew for a fact that he ate three square meals a day because he took at least two of them at the hotel. She pointed to a stool at the heavy butcher block table. “Take off that hat and slicker, Deputy, and sit. You’re as wet as a pair of knickers after a good drubbing.”

  Hitch wasn’t sure he cared for the comparison, but there was no denying he was wet through and through. He hung the slicker and his hat on a peg by the door, where they dripped water in an alternating tattoo. He ran his fingers through his sandy hair to settle the spikes and then took out a handkerchief and wiped his damp brow.

  “Breakfast?” asked Ellie, seeing him eyeing the flapjacks Mrs. Vandergrift was expertly turning on the griddle.

  “No, thank you, ma’am. I’m here on jail business. Need a breakfast for Billy Nelson. He got himself in another tussle at the Songbird. Sheriff put him in a cell for drunk and disorderly so he could sleep it off, and he’s going to let him go after he’s fed. Pancakes and molasses would be just the thing. Maybe a couple strips of bacon to go with it.”

  Mrs. Vandergrift took a militant stance, setting one fist on the ample curve of her hip while she continued to flip pancakes. “If you ask me, seems like the sheriff is operating a hotel for wastrels. George Hotchkiss has a lie-in there a couple or three times a month. About time Ben got wise to it.”

  Ellie began plating pancakes and bacon to take into the dining room. “You know better than to criticize my boy in my hearing, or you should. Leave him be. I’m not the only one saying he’s doing a fine job, and breakfast for the prisoners isn’t charity. Ben has a fund for that.”

  The cook harrumphed her disapproval and left it at that.

  Ellie started to excuse herself to take out the filled plates when Fedora Chen rushed in from the dining room. Hitch jumped to his feet, but in his eagerness to greet her, he knocked Ellie’s tray out of her hands. To his credit, he stretched both arms and tried to corral the tray, the plates, and one of the flying flapjacks. His feet tangled. The stool at his back wobbled and fell, landing with a thump at Mrs. Vandergrift’s feet. She jumped out of the way but not so far that she couldn’t swipe at his bony ass with her turner. He yelped because the hit surprised and stung, and it was at that point he knew all was lost. He stopped flailing and braced himself for a fall. The tray landed with a dull thud, but the china crashed and clattered. The flapjacks did nothing to cushion his fall while the crispy bacon crackled as he crushed it.

  As near as Hitch could tell, it was a full ten count before anyone spoke. That was ten long seconds of complete humiliation at the feet of Fedora Chen, when all he’d meant to do was make a good impression.

  Fedora’s glossy black braid fell forward over her shoulder as she dropped to her knees beside the deputy. “Mr. Hitch?” His head was turned away from her. She touched him lightly on the arm when he didn’t stir. “Mr. Hitch? Are you all right?”

  Hitch groaned. He didn’t want to face her, but he didn’t have an alternative. The flapjack under his nose was suffocating him.

  “This is your fault, Chen,” Mrs. Vandergrift said in harsh tones. “You came in here like your hair was on fire, and you can see what came of that. The boy was trying to show you some manners, though I can’t say he knows them or that you deserve them.”

  Ellie had been watching and listening in openmouthed astonishment. Now her jaw snapped shut with an audible click. “That is enough, Mrs. Vandergrift. This is no one’s fault. It was an accident. I dare you to tell Amanda Springer her son doesn’t know his manners.” She put a hand on Fedora’s shoulder. “Pick up what you can and then fetch a broom and mop. I’ll help Hitch.”