Jack. Celia clenched the edge of the desk to keep her fingers from shaking. “Do you know where they went?”
“They didn’t say. Now, I’m sure if you’d like to wait—”
Celia didn’t let him finish. She thanked him and ran from the building. Untying Tiny, she pondered where to look next. Where would a couple of men out for revenge go with the man they were seeking? She glanced around, taking in the diner, the mercantile, a warehouse, Faith’s post and telegraph office. None of those seemed a likely option.
Where could they have gone? Panic danced a jig in her heart. Just as she was about to collapse in a heap of tears and frustration, she spotted Penelope Purcell, wife of one of the lawyers in Last Chance, and one of the ladies Celia had delivered clean laundry to just that morning. If anyone might know Jack’s whereabouts—along with what every soul in town was up to—it was Mrs. Purcell.
“Celia? Are you all right?” Mrs. Purcell noticed her immediately and came racing over.
Celia tucked a few curls back under her hat in a fruitless effort to appear less harried. News of her search for Jack would be all over town in no time flat, but she’d happily trade that to learn where he might be. “I’m looking for my husband. He came into town not too long ago and met up with a couple of men from New York. I don’t suppose you’ve seen him?”
Mrs. Purcell nodded vigorously, apparently very happy to have her talent at gossip put to good use. “I did, in fact.” She leaned in closely. “Those men he was with didn’t look like very upstanding sorts of people. He’d do well to stay away from them.”
“Yes,” Celia agreed impatiently.
“They were headed toward the ferry. But it was strange—none of them had horses. I don’t know where they’d go once on the other side of the river without horses.”
“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Purcell! Thank you!” Celia wanted to embrace the woman, but she was in far too much of a hurry.
“Who were those men?” Mrs. Purcell asked as Celia left Tiny tied to the post and ran toward the ferry dock on foot. “Where did they come from? Does Mr. Wendler know them well? Is he in some sort of trouble?”
Celia waved behind her, hoping Mrs. Purcell wouldn’t think her too rude. Between the hotel and the depot, she moved across the flattened snow-covered ground carefully so as not to lose her balance on the slick surface. Reaching the riverbank, she scanned the area. The ferry was tied up to the dock, the ferryman standing alone near his craft. To the left where the road followed the river and various businesses overlooked the Grand Platte, there wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. To the right, the river made a slight bend around the ferry depot and moved away, eastward from town. It was hidden from sight, and no one went that way, except for a picnic in the summer or when the fish in the cleaner part of the river west of town weren’t biting.
She followed the riverbank around the rear of the ferry depot, past where Main Street ended. The snow here was higher, but more importantly, footsteps led the same direction. She paused, the town behind her and the frozen river to the left, and stood perfectly still, willing her ears to take in all possible sound. Above the occasional shout from town, she could just barely hear voices. She searched the trees that lay ahead, the ones that began to obscure the river from view. The ones into which the tracks she’d been following led.
Not pausing to think about what she’d do or say, or what she could possibly be walking into, Celia strode toward the trees.
And that was when she heard his voice.
“Now just let me think a moment and—” Jack’s words cut off abruptly from somewhere just ahead. There was a grunting sound, and then a man said, “You’ve had plenty of time for thinking. Mr. Sullivan wants his money, not your thoughts.”
Celia gripped the closest tree, a fir with needles that pricked the sleeve of her coat. It was him, Mr. Jones. Or Mr. Shane, if that was his true name. She’d recognize that musical-sounding voice anywhere. She drew in a great breath and stepped silently through the snow until she saw them.
There, just beyond a couple more trees and in plain view of the frozen river, Jack was doubled over. A tall, slim man Celia hadn’t seen before, but assumed was the other man Mr. Talley had mentioned, leaned against a leafless cottonwood, examining a pocket watch. He looked as if the entire situation bored him. A shiny pistol sat holstered on his hip. Mr. Shane, however, was standing over Jack, his formerly fine jacket covered with a coat of equal quality. His hat sat tipped back on his head, as if he didn’t want it getting in his way.
“If you’d give me—” Jack sputtered as he tried to rise, but Mr. Shane seemed to have no patience for his words. He raised a fist.
Celia covered her mouth. She couldn’t stand by and let this happen. Without thinking, she burst out from her hiding place. “Stop! Please. I’ll help you.”
The man lowered his fist and whirled around. Even the bored-looking fellow looked a bit more interested at her appearance. And Jack looked up, struggling to stand when he spotted her. The side of his face was already turning an ugly shade of red and purple.
“Celia,” he said, his breath wheezing. “Go. Go home.”
Her heart ached for him. Despite what he’d kept from her, here he was. He hadn’t run this time.
And she was terrified that it might kill him.
“Mr. Shane?” Celia forced herself to
