Chapter 2 - Shadows from Boston
The morning sun broke over the snow-covered peaks of the Rocky Mountains like a burst of crushed gold. Willow Creek glistened under the winter light, the smoke from chimney stacks rising in straight blue columns into the crisp air.
Lillian arrived at the schoolhouse early, her heart lighter than the fresh powder beneath her boots. She hummed a tune as she stoked the potbelly stove in the center of the room, arranging the wooden benches and wiping down the slate boards.
At seven-thirty, the door burst open, and little Emma Sutton bounced inside, bundled in a heavy woolen coat and red mittens. Her eyes were bright, and her honey-colored braids flew as she ran straight into Lillian’s arms.
“Miss Lillian! Miss Lillian!” Emma squealed. “Papa told me! He told me last night when he picked me up from Mrs. Henderson’s! Is it true? Are you going to be my real mama now?”
Lillian dropped to her knees on the cold floor, wrapping her arms tightly around the small girl. “If you’ll have me, sweetheart,” Lillian said softly, her voice thick with emotion. “I’d be the proudest woman in the territory.”
Emma pulled back, her missing front tooth showing in a brilliant, gap-toothed grin. “Does this mean we can burn bread every single Saturday?”
Lillian laughed aloud, the sound echoing through the empty classroom. “We can burn as many loaves as it takes to get them right, Emma.”
Thomas entered a moment later, carrying an armful of firewood for the school stove. His eyes met Lillian’s over Emma’s head, filled with a quiet, fierce tenderness. He set the wood down and walked over, placing a hand on Emma’s head while glancing down at Lillian.
“She hasn’t stopped talking about it since six this morning,” Thomas said softly.
“I don’t mind,” Lillian replied, standing up and reaching out to touch his sleeve. “I don’t mind at all.”
The school day went by in a blur of joy. The children seemed to sense their teacher’s renewed spirit. Even spelling recitations and arithmetic problems were met with unusual enthusiasm. But as the afternoon sun began its descent toward the jagged western horizon, the classroom door rattled open.
A stranger walked in.
He was a tall, sleek man in his late forty, wearing a heavy beaver-skin coat, a silk cravat, and polished leather boots that were entirely impractical for Colorado mud and snow. His hair was slicked back with oil, and a thin, manicured mustache framed thin, cold lips. Behind him stood two burly men wearing heavy dusters, their hands resting ominously close to the revolvers holstered at their hips.
The chatter in the classroom died instantly. The children froze, sensing the immediate shift in atmosphere. Emma shrank back behind Lillian’s desk.
Lillian felt a sudden, icy drop in her stomach. The room seemed to tilt. She recognized the man instantly.
“Julian Vance,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
The man smiled, bowing slightly with mock courtesy, sweeping his top hat from his head. “Miss Foster. Or should I say, the elusive daughter of the late, bankrupt Arthur Foster. It took my men sixteen months and a small fortune in private detectives to track you to this God-forsaken edge of the earth.”
Lillian stepped forward, putting her body between the stranger and her students. “What are you doing here, Mr. Vance? My parents are dead. You took everything in Boston—our home, our furniture, my father’s business. There is nothing left.”
Julian Vance stepped deeper into the room, his cane clicking sharply against the floorboards. He looked around the humble wooden room with utter disdain.
“Your father owed my investment firm forty thousand dollars when he jumped—or fell—from that warehouse roof,” Vance said coldly. “You fled Boston in the middle of the night, taking with you a leather satchel containing your mother’s diamond jewelry and Arthur’s private ledgers. Ledgers that belong to me.”
“That is a lie!” Lillian snapped, her eyes flashing with righteous indignation. “My father died penniless! I took nothing except my clothes and my teaching credentials! Your men cleared out our house before my mother was even buried!”
Vance’s eyes narrowed into slits. “I don’t care for your dramatic denials, girl. You are Arthur Foster’s sole heir. Under the law, his debts belong to you. You will hand over the ledgers and the jewels, or I will have the territorial marshal arrest you for grand theft and fraud. You will rot in a Denver jail cell before the week is out.”
Before Lillian could respond, the heavy wooden door was kicked wide open. Thomas Sutton strode into the schoolhouse, his face thunderous. He had seen the strange men from the sawmill down the road and had run the entire distance.
He stepped directly between Vance and Lillian, his massive frame towering over the polished city banker.
“Get out of my wife’s schoolhouse,” Thomas growled, his voice a low, terrifying rumble.
Vance scoffed, stepping back slightly but keeping his arrogant posture. “Your wife? She isn’t married, my good man. And this is legal business. Step aside before my men put a bullet through your chest.”
The two thugs behind Vance reached for their holsters. In a flash, Thomas reached behind his back, drew a heavy frontier hunting knife, and slammed it deep into the oak desk beside Vance’s hand. The wood splintered with a crack like a gunshot.
“I said,” Thomas whispered, leaning down until he was inches from Vance’s face, “get out before I drag you out.”
Vance’s face went pale, but he composed himself quickly. He straightened his coat and gave Lillian a dark, lethal look.
May you like
“You have three days, Miss Foster,” Vance said smoothly. “Three days to produce forty thousand dollars or the ledgers. If you do not, the law will handle you—and no mountain brute will be able to save you.”
With a sweep of his coat, Vance turned and walked out, his two thugs following closely behind.
