Page 73 of Charlotte's Reckoning
Hero of My Heart
For the second morning in a row, Charlotte woke with a pounding headache. Not from too much whiskey like the day before. She didn’t like the taste of liquor and limited her drinking to a sip or two of beer only if the occasion called for it. This occasion required Tennessee whiskey—Fen’s favorite—because even though Fenton Sneed wasn’t Irish, the staff of the Red Eye sent him off as though he were, with a good old-fashioned Irish wake. Charlotte raised her glass with the others amid heartfelt words, tears, and laughter, during toast after toast. It was fortunate the next day was Sunday, and they were closed, allowing her a full day of recovery.
This meant they had closed early Friday and had no customers all weekend, which meant the deposit for the week would be light. That was partially the reason she woke with her head pounding today. She had too many things on her mind, from ordering supplies to inventory and restock of the bar to going to the bank and withdrawing enough to cover payroll—tasks Fenton always did—and the biggest worry of all, how she was going to manage it all without him.
Charlotte threw the covers off, forcing herself to sit up on the side of the bed. She couldn’t lie around feeling sad and sorry for herself another day; she had a business to run and people depending on her.
She needed a soak in a hot tub but couldn’t face the copper tub in Fen’s room. No one could, since that awful day. Instead, she poured water into the basin on the commode stand. Maybe a cold bath would get her moving.
It didn’t.
Thinking opening the blinds and letting the sunshine in would help, she went to the balcony doors and peered out. It was raining and had been since the funeral, which seemed right. The gloomy weather mirrored her mood. Closing the blinds with a snap, she turned and faced her room. Fenton’s common refrain at her slow pace echoed in her head.
Move your ass, Charlotte!
“I’d give anything to hear him bellow again,” she whispered.
Determined to get dressed and face the day, she crossed to her armoire and removed a conservative blouse and skirt—her “going to town uniform.” She heard a thud as she shut the doors. Looking down, she was surprised to see the stack of letters Fen brought her from Elise. With everything that had happened, she’d completely forgotten about them.
Sitting cross-legged on her bed, she opened the top one, unstamped and without an address.
My dearest Charlotte,
I hope this letter reaches you in good health and high spirits. Both are richly deserved. I’m afraid I have some unsettling news to share. An investigator came sniffing around not long after you departed. He posed several questions concerning you and a young woman by the name of Rowena Eldridge. I suspect my acting skills could use some improvement. Although I denied knowing either woman, letters soon began arriving. Since I was unsure of your specific destination, I couldn’t forward them until Fenton visited. I truly hope the contents won’t create more problems for you. If so, you’ll always have a place with me.
Always, your friend, Elise.
With trembling fingers, she opened the next envelope, her curiosity battling a healthy dose of dread. The date was September 12th, 1870, only a few months after they arrived in Laramie. Jumping ahead to the signature, she was stunned to discover it was Mr. Abernathy, her papa’s solicitor.
“What on earth?” she whispered as she started reading.
My Dear Mrs. Dunn.
Charlotte stopped, closing her eyes and counting the years since the last time anyone had called her that. It seemed like a lifetime ago—and was. She sniffled, and folded the letter, ready to put it and the others aside until she wasn’t so weepy and emotional, but curiosity got the better of her, and she kept reading.
While home visiting my sister, I learned of your departure from Eldridge House. There are aspects of your father’s will that trouble me greatly. Unable to contact you, I engaged an investigator.I’m hesitant to detail my suspicions in a letter, given the uncertainty of its delivery.
Please contact me with your address, and I will explain my concerns.
Respectfully,
Paul Abernathy, Esquire, Attorney-at-law
The other letters, over the subsequent two years, conveyed much the same message. She spread them out on the bed in front of her, curiouser than before. Trouble and suspicion added up to one thing in her mind—Jael. Despite her pounding head, she hurried to her desk and took out paper and pen and dashed off a quick reply. She’d post it on her way to the bank.
More motivated than before, she dressed and crossed the hall to Violet’s room. After knocking, she called through the door. “I’m going to town. You said you’d never forgive me if I went by myself again.”
“But it’s the middle of the night!” she heard her friend groan.
“It’s almost nine. Meet me downstairs. I’ll have your coffee poured.”
It took two trips up the stairs to knock again, the second time pulling off her covers, before Violet finally got out of bed.
After a coffee-only breakfast, neither of them having an appetite for more, they left for town, Violet yawning and still complaining about the hour.
“Why are we in such a hurry to get to the bank? Isn’t it open until four in the afternoon? Afternoon being the key part of that statement.”
“I should have brought Patsy,” Charlotte said with a sigh.
