Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(20)

Hampton has gone off in search of his supper. Wisps of fog still dally with the hilltops, and the air is thick with chilled wetness. I wear a floppy straw hat, in part against the cold, in part to cover my face.

The clerk who helped Becky and me yesterday entered the office right when it opened this morning, and he hasn’t yet emerged. For Becky’s plan to work, he needs to take a break. Then, we’ll approach one of the other clerks, who won’t remember our failed attempt to acquire the house once already.

Becky strides toward us from across the square, accompanied by a tall gentleman in a fine suit. For a split second, I wonder where Henry is, even though he was supposed to accompany her, preparing for today’s adventure.

Of course, the finely dressed gentleman is Henry, and I let out an appreciative whistle. “Hello, Mr. Joyner.”

He preens, but Becky scowls, and Henry slips into a dour expression that reminds me so much of the late Andrew Joyner that’s it’s almost a punch in the gut.

“What do you think?” Becky asks.

The resemblance is uncanny. “How?”

“We visited a variety of shops,” Henry says in a perfect Southern drawl, turning so I can see him from every angle. “Until I found the perfect suit. You’d be surprised at the items that have made their way out here. Why, I could dress myself like anyone—from a Japanese samurai to a French countess.”

He extends his arms so we can admire the flashy cufflinks on his shirt. They’re exactly the sort of thing Mr. Joyner would have bought.

“You even sound like him!”

“He used to imitate my husband,” Becky says. “To amuse the other bachelors when he thought no one else was listening.” She scowls up at him. “But I was listening.”

“The lesson is that someone’s always listening,” Henry says without breaking character, though he does manage a small amount of shame. Mr. Joyner was an uppity ne’er-do-well and few cared for him at all. But he was Becky’s husband, and I hope Henry’s imitations haven’t pained her.

Jefferson says, “I swear you’ve aged a decade since yesterday.”

“Sleeping on the hard floor of a garret, with six people in a room meant for two, will do that to a soul,” Henry says.

“Stop bellyaching,” Becky tells him. “We all slept in much worse conditions while crossing the continent.”

“But if you recall, I always slept on a feather mattress!” Henry says, fully into his character.

It’s the worst thing he could say. Mr. Joyner packed a whole household’s worth of fine furniture for their journey west, including a full-sized bed that filled most of their wagon. It was the furniture that killed him, in an accident high in the Rocky Mountains. He sacrificed his life trying to save a huge oak dresser, and I can still picture him smashed and bloody in the dust, broken pieces of wood scattered all around him.

Henry sees the expression on my face and says, “I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s good,” Becky says, and maybe I’ve overestimated her heartache. “That’s exactly the kind of thoughtless thing he’d say. You stay in character until we have my house.”

Henry gives her a small bow. “Your wish is my dearest desire.” He turns to Jefferson. “We stopped at a ladies’ store to sample some of the maquillage. It makes a lady look younger, but a gentleman much older.”

“It’s astonishing,” I tell him, because it is.

Becky nods toward the shaded veranda of the Custom House. “Has our helpful friend from yesterday taken a break from his duties yet?”

“Not yet,” I say.

“And we’re sure no one is using the back door?” she asks.

Jefferson shrugs. “I circled the whole building. Nothing back there but trash.”

“A flaw in our plan, perhaps,” Henry says.

“I’m optimistic he’ll leave through the front, just like the others,” Becky says firmly.

As I settle back into the crook of Jefferson’s arm, our friend Jim appears around the corner and heads for the front of the hotel. He carries a large rolled blanket. I shout hello to him, and he changes course, waving to us.

Jefferson tips his hat. “Free Jim,” he acknowledges.

“Just Jim now,” Jim and I say in unison.

“Well, all right then,” Jefferson says, with a hint of a smile. “Jim it is.”

“Glad I caught you,” Jim says to me. “Was afraid you’d be out and about, and I’d miss seeing the look on your face when you opened this.”

He hands the long package up to me, and I lay it across my lap. It’s a heavy weight. A familiar weight. I know what it is; I’m sure of it. My hands shake as I peel the blanket away, because now I’ve gotten my hopes up, and what if I’m wrong?

Polished wood and steel glint up at me.

“Lee?” Jefferson says. “That’s a dead ringer for your daddy’s Hawken rifle.”

“It is my daddy’s Hawken.” I examine the stock and find familiar scratches, plus a few more. I hold it up and sight along the barrel. “Jim—where . . . ? How . . . ?”

He smiles like the cat that ate the canary. “Remember when we saw each other last? In Independence? It was on a rack in that general store, and I recognized it right away. I figure somebody carried it west, and then traded it for a pan and shovel. That, or you were so desperate for money you had to pawn it yourself. I snapped it up right before I left, but then I couldn’t find you again.”