mop of red hair. “Why would a woman from Boston want to talk to me?”
Clay wished he knew. His gut said it was because of Sam’s inheritance. All in all, that came down to the only explanation. “You haven’t sent any wires? Discussed the will with anyone?” He’d already asked, and for the most part believed Sam when he said that he hadn’t.
“No, why would I do that?”
There was no reason, Clay knew. But he also knew Sam was relatively unknown, even in the mountains he’d lived in all seventeen years of his life. That was the way of most trappers, and Sam was especially shy around people.
“Maybe she’s here to see your opera house,” Sam said. “Folks come from all over for that.”
The unexpected tightening in his jaw had Clay shifting. The opera house was a part of Nevadaville and brought in a good income, so he’d buried the memories associated with it—and Miranda. Yet ever since Katherine had mentioned the playhouse, his past had started to haunt him again. Picked at his nerves like buzzards on a carcass.
Maybe she’d met Miranda at one of the playhouses in Boston. Clay had no idea where the acting troupe was performing now. Perhaps Katherine had heard he was an easy target. She’d find out differently. He’d spent money on a woman once, and wouldn’t do it again. He’d grown up with next to nothing, and now that his mines were successful, he enjoyed sharing the wealth, investing in things that helped others prosper, but he wasn’t a fool. Once was enough. He’d learned a hard lesson.
Clay’s insides recoiled. What was he thinking? Katherine wasn’t after him, she was after Sam. Just because Clay couldn’t get her off his mind didn’t mean the opposite was true. Furthermore, he’d bought her a ticket east, and told Reggie Green she had to use it. She was probably in Denver by now.
Sam, poking a stick into the flames and sending sparks flying, glanced up with a deep frown. “Did you meet One Ear Bob?”
“That trapper who was looking for you?”
“Yeah.” The youngster kept stirring up the fire. “Pa knew him.”
Clay sensed there was more behind Sam’s words, but knew he’d have a hell of a time getting anything more out. Sam had a shell as hard as an acorn’s. Clay let out a long breath. “No, I didn’t. Why, did he give you any trouble?”
“No. He just wanted to know where I was living now.” Sam shook his head and then glanced up. “You thought any more about signing over the deed to this piece of land?”
A gut reaction said there was more to One Ear Bob than that, and Clay made a mental note to poke around when he got back to town. “I told you, it’s not mine to give you,” he answered.
“Yes, it is. This chunk of land is in the will, and you have control of it.” Sam tossed another log into the flames. “It’s all I want. You can keep everything else.”
Clay squeezed his temples. “It doesn’t work like that, Sam. I can’t give it to you until you’re twenty-one.” The terms of the will had shocked him. As if he didn’t have enough to do, Oscar had saddled him with two underage wards. Thank goodness the other one, Kit, was back in Chicago, being looked after by Oscar’s lawyer, Theodore Watson. The lawyer had traveled to Colorado a year ago to tell Clay the terms of the will. Everything Oscar Becker owned was divided in half, between Sam and Kit, and until the two grandkids turned twenty-one, Clay was in charge of investing the earnings. Once the youngsters were old enough, he could either buy them out or take them on as partners.
The whole thing was a mess he hadn’t expected. Then again, Oscar’s untimely death—a carriage accident in a rainstorm—had been a shock, too. Life was like that, throwing in things a person didn’t expect. Like Katherine Ackerman.
“You could give it to me now,” Sam said. “If you really wanted to.”
Clay pulled his mind back around. “I can’t. The will’s ironclad. If either you or Kit attempt to claim your share early, it’s to be sold to P. J. Nelson for a dollar.”
“P.J.?”
Clay didn’t comment. He should have stopped talking before saying the man’s name. That part of the will had surprised him, too, for if it happened, it would jeopardize everything Clay owned. Oscar would have known that, and, Clay fumed, had used it to make sure he kept close tabs on Sam.
“P.J. ain’t nothing but a drunk.”
“Maybe, but he was Oscar’s first partner, and Oscar said if there ever came a time when he no longer wanted the claim, he’d give P.J. first chance to buy it back. Guess he figured if you or Kit tried to mess with the will, it meant you don’t want it.” Clay didn’t mention he’d written to Theodore Watson six weeks ago, asking if there were any alternative options. Four more years of arguing with Sam over a small chunk of land was useless. Made no difference in the long run, and if he had his way, he’d put Sam’s name on the deed.
Up until two years ago, Sam had lived in a shack in the mountains, never coming to town. His old man, little more than a hermit, had downright despised people of any kind ever since his wife, Amelia, who was Oscar’s daughter, had died. Leastwise that’s what Clay had heard. He hadn’t known anything about any of them until Sam had shown up at the Wanda Lou, claiming to be Oscar’s grandson. Clay had wired Oscar, who’d made the trip west immediately, and spent half of the next year trying to convince Sam to move to Chicago and live with him.
“Sam,” Clay started, trying not to sound repetitive.
“Why don’t you come to work at the mine, or the stamp mill, or even the railroad?”
“Because I don’t want to work at any of those places,” Sam said, puffing out his narrow chest. “I’m a trapper.”
Clay’s temples were now pounding. This was the same conversation he’d had with Sam for a year, and it was tiresome. Almost as wearing as Katherine had become the past two days.
Kit pushed the ticket back under the little half-moon shape in the wire cage of the train depot ticket booth. “I will say this one more time. I don’t want this ticket, I want one to Nevadaville.”
Smiling as if he couldn’t make another facial expression, the little bald-headed man, whose shiny black string tie rubbed on his Adam’s apple, pushed the ticket back toward her. “That’s the ticket that was purchased for you, ma’am. And the one I was instructed you’re to use.”
“I don’t care about that, Mr….” She paused, waiting for his response.
“Green. Reginald Green, at your service, ma’am.” His grin widened, exposing a plethora of oddly angled teeth.
Kit shivered at the experience, but pushed the ticket back under the wire. “Mr. Green … Reginald,” she started sweetly. “I understand Mr. Hoffman purchased that ticket for me, but you see, he didn’t inquire about my plans prior to his purchase.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I must see the opera house in Nevadaville before I head back East.” Stopping Mr. Green from sliding the ticket back in her direction with her fingertips, she pulled up a smile that hurt her cheeks. “I will accept this ticket after that. Until then, I need one to take me to Nevadaville.”
Mr. Green had been shaking his head the entire time she’d been speaking. “I can’t sell you a ticket to Nevadaville, ma’am.”
Keeping the smile plastered on her lips became increasingly difficult. “Why not?”
“Because Cl—Mr. Hoffman said so. He said you might want to go to Nevadaville and I wasn’t supposed to sell you a ticket to there. I was to give this one to you and see you got on the train.”
“Really?” The evening before last, when he’d dropped her off at the hotel, she’d almost grown to like Clay Hoffman. Actually, for a few hours she’d pondered all the wonderful things Gramps had said about him, and confirmed they were true. However, right now she loathed him more than before she’d met him—sky-blue