Familiar Stranger In Clear Springs. Kathryn Albright
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Her neighbor’s eyes were alight with anxious speculation. It wasn’t every day that the town spinster was caught alone with a gentleman caller. She wouldn’t be surprised if Mrs. Flynn had this spread faster than a fever all over the village by tomorrow. She groaned inwardly, realizing the looks she might have to endure at church services tomorrow morning. If only she had thought to keep the door wedged open. At least that would have made everything more socially acceptable. As it was, Tom’s entrance had completely flustered her.
“Nothing untoward happened,” she said irritably. For goodness’ sake, she was a grown woman. And this was her store. Her house.
Mrs. Flynn set the covered dish on the counter. “I understand, dear. I just thought you might need my help with an uncomfortable situation. I was on my way over when I heard raised voices.”
That stopped Elizabeth. “You interrupted...because you were worried?”
Mrs. Flynn readjusted her wire-rimmed glasses on her button nose and peered down at her. “Of course. You live alone. Someone has to watch out for you. And I know your mother would appreciate it.”
“Then thank you. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful just now.”
The older woman fussed with the placement of the towel over the bowl, trying to keep the steam and heat contained. “Did you know that man, dear?”
Elizabeth sighed. “Once, a long time ago.”
“He’s rather gruff if you ask me. And unkempt.”
Her appraisal sparked a memory, making Elizabeth relax her grip on her frustration. “You should have seen him in his army blues. He was quite dashing.”
She ignored the woman’s sudden renewed interest and rose, walking over to the counter and the bowl of stew. The aroma of onions and cooked meat wafted up. She wasn’t hungry in the least. Not now—now that she knew Tom Barrington was near. “Thank you for this. It smells delicious.”
“You are entirely welcome. I’ll...just be going, then.”
“Good night, Mrs. Flynn.”
Elizabeth waited for her to leave, and then shut and latched the door. Through the crack between the shade and the window frame she peered out the window and watched her neighbor enter her house. Exactly how long did the woman intend to look out for her? Until she herself was ninety? Her brother... Mrs. Flynn...they meant well. In their way, they made her feel safe. She loved La Playa, loved the harbor and the people. Truly, she did. But lately the town seemed to close in on her in the same way that the air could feel heavy before a threatening storm.
She walked to the stove and poured the hot water from the kettle over the tea infuser while her thoughts centered on all that Tom had said. He thought she was married! All this time! For all these years! It was so improbable. Could that be why he had never answered her letter?
And now, what did it mean that he was back? He had given no reason for his being here, and since he’d believed she was married, it certainly wasn’t to see her.
Would he return? Would she see him again? He might come back—although judging from his past record she didn’t know why she should believe that. Slowly, the tightness in her chest eased. Perhaps the question she should be asking herself is whether she wanted him to. Just thinking that way made her stomach churn. No. Definitely no. It would not be for the best.
* * *
“Come on to the house.” Sam Furst tilted his head, indicating Tom should follow him. Tom descended the hotel’s steps and together they walked past the livery. Neither spoke until Sam stopped before a house that was easily the largest one in the small town. An aged picket fence surrounded the two-story clapboard house and matching carriage house.
“Watch your step,” Sam said when he opened the gate for Tom to pass through. “Got a few loose bricks that need repairing.” Sam led the way, unheeding of Tom’s slight hobbling and slower gait. That’s how Tom wanted it. No concessions.
When he entered the house, Tom heard a woman speaking in a cultured tone somewhere down the hall and out of his sight.
“Amanda is in the kitchen,” Sam mouthed quietly. He ushered Tom into the small private library off the hall and shut the door. “She has taken it upon herself to ready this house for me to inhabit again. We haven’t been here in years—ever since we moved to the city.”
Tom wanted to ask how his sister was doing, but thought it best to see first how Sam handled the meeting. If he was tense and...hostile, Amanda would be that and more.
As Sam lit the lantern, Tom removed his felt hat and took in the changes that a year had wrought on the man.
Furst had put on weight. Nothing that would slow him down. His face was slightly fuller—fleshed out—as though he didn’t get much time to be out of doors now that he’d entered the banking business. His light brown hair had been cut short recently and his small mustache and goatee, although thin in areas, had been trimmed to a tidy length. His clothes looked to be brand-new and a bit on the large size. Maybe, like this new job, he was counting on growing into them. He looked more the part of a banker now—stable and moneyed. Sam removed his hat and with his other hand smoothed back his short, pomaded hair. With the motion, his jacket parted, revealing a silk vest with a chain and watch fob.
Sam didn’t extend his hand—not that Tom had expected him to. Too much water under the bridge for that. The last time he had seen him they weren’t on the best of terms so Tom figured he should address him formally.
“Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Furst.”
Sam hesitated a second—as if the title were still new to him—but then motioned to the wingback in front of the cold fireplace while he sat down in the chair opposite. Tom moved to sit and Sam followed his every move, sizing him up with his gaze. “I thought that injury would have healed by now.”
“It has as much as it’s going to.” He hoped that wasn’t a point against him in collaborating with Sam.
“I wouldn’t have recognized you. You always have been a chameleon.”
Tom rubbed his beard, thinking maybe he should have shaved for this meeting, although he doubted a small thing like that would put him in the Fursts’ good graces. Besides, maybe he once was a chameleon but no longer. It had been hard enough to blend in with his six-foot-four-inch frame, but now the catch in his walk made it even harder. It made him slow...and awkward at times. A person could pick him out of a crowd, which was not a good thing for someone who was a field agent.
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you’d gotten out of this type of work. Last I heard the government let you go.”
So Sam had been keeping tabs on him. Interesting. “Just took a hiatus. Had to let my leg heal...” And a few other things he wouldn’t go into.
“But you are not with the government?”
“No. Not any longer. My choice.” The desk job they insisted he take hadn’t suited him.
“I am surprised the agency sent you.”
Tom didn’t blink at the rub. “I am the best man for the job. Wells Fargo knows that.” He’d been running down thieves and criminals for years—particularly gold thieves. He knew how they operated and was usually one step ahead of them.
“I suppose so...now that Cranston is gone.”
On hearing his partner’s name, a shaft as cold as an icicle sliced through him. Sam probably didn’t need to know that he had asked for this assignment. First, Tom needed to prove to himself that he still had it in him to manage an operation, but more than that, he needed to atone for Cranston’s death. He owed it to Cranston, and to Amanda, his widow.
“Just so you know...when Amanda heard it might be you they were sending she wasn’t happy.”
“Guess that’s understandable, considering things.” Considering