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Chapter Two

Dutton Savings and Loan

Comstock, Colorado

Late July 1895

Marshal Keenan Bristol held the door to the bank open for a very expectant Millie Baker, wife of one of his deputies.

"Missus Baker," Key said in greeting, doffing his black felt hat.

"Marshal," Millie acknowledged. "You're still coming for dinner after services on Sunday, aren't you?"

"As long as you're feeling up to company, I'll be there."

"I've got at least a month to go, so I'm fine. Now get on in the bank and grab yourself a cup of coffee and a piece of cake," Millie urged.

"What's the celebration?"

Millie shot him a quick smile. "I'll leave the explaining up to Mister Wentworth given he's not able to stop bragging."

Key waited for Millie to negotiate the three narrow stairs and reach the waiting buggy. The Baker's farmhand was there to help her up onto the cushioned seat. As soon as she was safely on board, Key stepped into the bank's lobby.

Millie had been right about the celebration. Noise came at him from every angle. Hoots and hollers from the customers, combined with Phillip Wentworth's glad-handing and laughter, filled the room.

"I hear there's a celebration afoot," Key teased. "A new account, a big investor?"

"None of those," Wentworth said, giving Key a nudge. "I'm to be married within the next few weeks."

Key's gaze narrowed. Phillip Wentworth didn't strike him as the settling down type, despite the new edict from the head office of the savings and loan. Wentworth liked the ladies at the saloon far too much to consider life with just one woman.

"Weren't you the fellow who, just last week, said there wasn't a woman worth marrying in all of Comstock?" Key clarified.

"I was, and I still believe that. However, my bride isn't just any woman. She's… here… look for yourself." Wentworth shoved a piece of paper in Key's direction. "A letter directly from Hermonie Dutton, president of the Dutton corporation's vast holdings."

Reluctantly, despite his curiosity, Key scanned the note before rereading the last few sentences. ‘ We'd be most pleased if you'd consider fulfilling your employment contract by marrying our dearest Adela. She's a graduate of the prestigious Boston Academy for Women, is adept at all the social graces, and will make a wonderful wife and mother .'

"Their dearest Adela?" Key questioned.

"That's the big boss' daughter," Phillip said excitedly. "Hermonie Dutton's only grandchild."

"And they're sending her off to live in Comstock?" Although he kept his thoughts to himself, there was something about the arrangement that didn't sit right with Key.

"Don't sound so surprised," Phillip insisted. "I met her a few years ago, at one of the Dutton family's holiday parties. We hit it off."

"Congratulations," Key said honestly. "Sorry if I sounded skeptical. I just never pictured Comstock being home to a Boston socialite. We're lucky to have a decent five-man band. There'll be no symphony, or art gallery for years to come."

"I'm hoping our marriage will move me up the ladder and onto bigger things. Eventually, even a share of the business if I play my cards right," Phillip admitted.

"The ladies down at the Nugget are going to be disappointed," Key joked.

"For a while maybe. At least until the honeymoon's over," Wentworth responded with a sly wink.

"I'll leave you to your celebrating," Key said. "I just stopped by to make sure you're ready to receive the payroll for the miners this Friday. I got a telegram from the mining company's headquarters in Denver. They hired armed guards to accompany the stage."

"We're all set," the banker confirmed. "I'll have full staff working all day Friday to verify the morning delivery, and then to wait on customers after lunch and until closing."

Giving the bank employees a nod, Key made his way outside before setting his hat back atop his head. He stepped down from the sidewalk and turned toward the far end of town. His shift was nearly over, but he had time for one more walk-through before calling it a day.

"Afternoon, Marshal," Sally McGibbon greeted from in front of the mercantile. "Terrance will be along in a few minutes," she explained. "I baked some apple bread this morning, so he's gone home to grab a loaf for you and the other deputy."

"That was kind of you, ma'am," Key acknowledged. I enjoy a homemade treat from time to time. I'm sure Jack Baker will as well."

Key continued along the dirt road that bisected Comstock's businesses. To his left was the jail, the dressmaker's, Mae's Café, and the telegraph office which, as of a month earlier, now also housed the phone exchange.

Lines were run along the shortest route between Denver and Comstock, yet barely reached farther than the dozen or so buildings on the main road. The phone company had promised three more business lines by the end of summer, but the outlying residents of Comstock would undoubtedly be waiting another year or two for the convenience of a call box in their home.

Key wasn't sure what he thought of the blasted thing now hanging on the wall of his office. He supposed it was handy at times. He could contact the hotel, the reverend, the mercantile, and the doctor just by ringing Mabel Stephens, the town's operator. The thought drew Key's chuckle. No doubt Mabel listened in on every conversation.

He gave a cursory glance toward the saloon, relieved to see all seemed quiet. The clanging of metal on metal greeted him as he passed the livery. He stopped long enough to peek into Doc Howard's clinic. Marylynn Howard, the doc's middle daughter, was seated at the reception desk. When the bell above the door chimed, she lifted her head. Her smile spread.

"Afternoon, Marshal, is there something we can help you with?"

"Nope. Just checking that all's quiet. I know there were a couple of injured miners who came in early this morning, and they were none too quiet about how they got hurt."

"The men are always grumbling about something. My pa's worried the mine might not be up to standards."

"I'll take a ride out tomorrow and have a look around," he assured her. "In the meantime, if there are any serious mine injuries, let either me or one of my deputies know right away."

"I see to it myself," the young woman promised, her softly worded offer accompanied by a bat of her long, blonde lashes.

Key's gut tightened. Now that he was settled in, on what the marshal's service promised would be his last assignment, he was anxious to lay down roots, find himself a wife, and start a family. Yet, at barely eighteen, Marylynn Howard wasn't exactly what he had in mind.

He was sure exactly what he was looking for, but he assumed he'd know it when he saw it. Or, more precisely, he'd know her when he saw her. The good Lord willing, of course.

His rounds complete, Key entered the jail with twenty minutes to spare before the end of his shift. Not that the marshal really had a defined shift.

"Anything brewing out there?" Terrance McGibbon asked. "I'm hoping for a quiet evening."

"It seems quiet enough," Key returned. "Unless Baker's stirred up some mischief for you."

Jack Baker held up his hands in retreat. "Not me. While you were out perusing the town, I was buried under paperwork and reviewing wanted posters."

"Anything of note?" Key asked.

"Nope," Baker replied. "The closest we got to a wanted criminal is some fellow robbing stagecoaches in Nevada."

"Just Nevada?" McGibbon wondered.

"So far," Baker confirmed. "I suppose he could be on the move, but that's a mighty far stretch to come anywhere near here."

"The bank is on schedule to get their payroll delivery on Friday," Key reminded them. "And the telephone company will be back next Monday to hang more phone lines."

Deputy Baker narrowed his gaze at the wooden box hanging on the wall next to Key's desk. "I still don't care for those confounded things."

His comment drew Key's laugh. "You will come winter when the snow's ankle deep and you want to contact the mercantile, or the bank, without going outside."

"I suppose there's some good to be had," Baker agreed. "I just don't see these things catching on. I know I'm not planning on getting one even if they do eventually reach outside of the town proper."

"Sally's been bugging me about getting one," McGibbon told them. "The women around here gossip enough already. Imagine how bad it would be if they could do it from the comfort of their danged parlor."

Nodding his agreement, Key added, "Let's hope it doesn't come to that. I got no reason to be privy to everyone's business unless they're breaking the law."

It was half-past five by the time Key made it home to Missus McClary's boarding house. Shift change hadn't taken long once they'd got their opinions on the telephone sorted. He'd made a quick stop on the edge of town to admire the stretch of land he intended to purchase. In his mind's eye, he could picture the house he'd build, the white fence, and the yard filled with a handful of children. The only thing that wasn't coming into focus was the wife who would eventually share his dream.

The moment he entered the boarding house, he made a beeline for his room to put away his gun and holster. They weren't allowed anywhere in the house, other than behind a locked door… a rule for which Key was extremely grateful.

"You're late," Delia McClary said when he came through the kitchen door. "There's a plate in the warmer for you."

"Sorry, and thank you, Missus McClary."

"I suppose I shouldn't expect a lawman to be on time for the house meals," she mumbled. "It's a big responsibility protecting our fine little town."

"A responsibility I take very seriously," Key explained.

"As you should. Now, wash your hands and take a seat, while I grab your meal."

Key did as the older woman ordered, making quick work of his hands at the nearby basin before seating himself at the kitchen table. "I'll eat here, ma'am," he told her. "It looks as if you've already tidied the dining room."

"I have, and I appreciate you not wanting to mess it up again," she admitted before laying a plate of boiled potatoes, white beans cooked with a rather dubious looking piece of salt pork, and a very soggy piece of fish in front of him. The only color on the plate, other than white, was the dark crust on the slice of cornbread.

Suddenly, Key wished he'd stopped at Mae's Café for his evening meal. Bowing his head, he gave silent thanks for his meal. Inwardly, he hoped it tasted better than it looked.

He raised his head and uttered, "Amen," before scooping up the first forkful of beans.

"There's pie for dessert," Missus McClary announced. "Cherry."

"That sounds wonderful."

His landlady poured herself a cup of tea from the silver pot on the warmer and took the seat opposite his. "I take it Comstock was quiet enough today."

"It was," he confirmed between bites. "Nothing too exciting other than all the hullabaloo at the bank over Mister Wentworth's impending wedding."

"I heard. Almost made me sorry I didn't go into town myself today."

Key chuckled, then told her, "There was cake."

"That's nice," Delia said. "Speaking of ‘nice,' you have mail. I set the letter on the desk in the parlor."

"No doubt my mother, or one of my sisters. They're the only ones who write regularly," Key commented.

"Actually… not that I was snooping or anything… but it appears to be from your father's law firm."

He couldn't help the dramatic roll of his eyes any more than his urge to ignore the missive altogether. "I suppose I'll have to read it. Eventually."

"I don't know what's transpired between you and your father, but a boy… even a grown one… shouldn't ignore his pa."

"Well, at least let me have that slice of pie first. The sweetness will help the words go down all the better."

It was nearly an hour later when Key let himself into his second-floor room and discarded his vest, badge, and boots. Taking a seat in the corner rocker, he turned the envelope over and over in his hand.

"Bristol and Kline, Attorneys-at-Law," Key read aloud. "Solicitors to the New York elite, if I'm listening to my father's claim." Sliding his finger beneath the envelope flap, he nudged it open. "Okay, father, what's up."

The moment he unfolded the letter, he realized it wasn't from his father, but rather from one of his many assistants. Scanning the document, he took in what the clerk was explaining in great detail.

17 July 1895

Dear Mister Bristol,

It is with great pleasure that we write to advise you that the estate of your maternal grandfather, Theodore Childress, has been finalized. His property, known as Childress Manor, has been sold and, as per his directives, the proceeds are to be split evenly between yourself and your sisters Carolyn and Jocelyn. The money will be held in escrow until we receive your directions for disbursal of funds.

Sincerely,

Atticus Taylor, Solicitor

Bristol and Kline

Key stuffed the letter back in the envelope. He supposed he shouldn't have expected a letter from his father. Harold Bristol was a stubborn man, even more so than Key himself. It was likely he'd never be forgiven for choosing the life of a public servant over a prestigious Harvard law degree.

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