Page 80 of Charlotte's Reckoning
“Tell the sheriff I’m not available.”
“It’s not the sheriff.”
“Who is it, Morgan?”
“Said his name was Quentin Sneed and that you and he had important business.”
Curiosity propelled her to the door, and she yanked it open. “Did you say Sneed?”
“Says he’s the old boss’s brother, but he looks nothing like him.”
“Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
She closed the door, her heart pounding against her breastbone. Fen never mentioned his family, except for his recent trip to New Orleans, and he hadn’t elaborated when she asked for details. A warning bell went off in her head. Quickly, she gathered the papers and the valuables and hid them in the wall in her room.
A few minutes later, when she descended the stairs, Charlotte took a moment to study Quentin Sneed. He was short and balding—the little hair he had was oily and plastered to his scalp—and his potbelly strained his shirt. For the life of her, she couldn’t see how he and Fenton were related.
When this new Mr. Sneed caught sight of her, he smiled and moved to meet her at the bottom of the stairs.
“You must be Charlotte,” he said, grinning to reveal crooked, yellowed teeth.
In contrast, Fen’s were straight and brilliantly white, and his eyes were an unusual gray, unlike the lackluster brown behind this man’s round spectacles.
“My brother sang your praises, but he didn’t do your loveliness justice.” His grating slightly nasal tone was a stark contrast to Fen’s melodious baritone—when he wasn’t bellowing up the stairs at her, that was. Surprisingly, she missed that and wished he were here to do it again.
“What brings you to our humble establishment today?” she inquired, trying for cool and composed but falling short.
The smile left his face. As he closed the distance, his intense, almost-predatory stare made her deeply uncomfortable. Everything did from his ill-fitting, rumpled clothing that screamed of neglect to the smell of whiskey and stale tobacco on his breath. She wanted him gone and would have loved to throw him out, but she needed to tread carefully until she understood his motive for being here.
“Fenton and I had unfinished business. The news of his death has left me shaken.”
Charlotte managed to contain a snort of disbelief. He looked anything but.
“The responsibility falls on us to address it, I suppose. I’m the new owner, you see. While visiting recently, Fen put up the saloon in a rather high-stakes game of poker.” He looked around, lips pursed in distaste. “Sadly, he failed to do this place justice, too. But with him gone, it is what it is, I suppose.”
Charlotte blinked, trying to process all he’d said.
“Fenton wouldn’t do that to me.”
“But he did, I’m afraid. After losing a substantial amount of cash, he tried to win it back with”—he waved his hand, clearly not impressed—“this.”
“I don’t believe it. He couldn’t gamble what wasn’t his. We were fifty-fifty partners in the Red Eye,” she lied. Her interest was only 40 percent, but he didn’t need to know that. “We have a contract that states I inherit Fenton’s half if he died.”
With a condescending smirk, his tone dripping with smugness—one thing he had in common with Fen—Quentin retorted, “You can’t inherit something that was already mine.”
“We’ll see about that,” Charlotte snapped.
She wouldn’t allow this con man to take away her livelihood and steal what she and Fenton had worked so hard to build.
“I find it odd that in the ten years I knew Fenton, he never once mentioned a brother. Furthermore, you look nothing like him. You learned of his death and came here to swindle me,” she proposed. “Well, I’m not about to allow you to perpetrate this fraud on me. Morgan, show this gentleman”—she cleared her throat, nearly choking on the word—“to the door.”
“Happy to oblige.” Morgan smiled, his words a little too cheerful, as he took Quentin’s arm and steered him toward the exit.
“Release me, you big oaf!” he demanded.
Morgan didn’t react or break stride as the much smaller man struggled in his grip.
“You haven’t heard the last from me,” Quentin snarled, his voice thick with barely suppressed rage. “Mark my words, the law is on my side. When I take ownership, I’ll be the one throwing you out in the street.”
