The Hidden Vein of Love (Preview)

Prologue

1884, Medicine Park, Nebraska

A trail of smoke rose lazily from the forge as Zachariah swept clean the last corner of his blacksmith shop. He’d cleaned his tools, reviewed the orders for the next day, and updated his ledgers. With one more bucket of water on the fireplace and a careful lockup of the building, he’d be free for the night. 

Not entirely free, however. Zachariah’s father, the mayor of Medicine Park, a man of letters and easily the most popular person in the town, was expecting him for dinner. In fact, he was meant to meet Zachariah outside his shop so that they could walk back together to the house he’d grown up in. But Mayor Beesman was nowhere to be seen when Zachariah finally locked the door behind him.

It was a perfect May evening, warm without any oppressive heat, and the trees buzzing with life having revived themselves after a fairly mild winter. Zachariah took the opportunity to sit down on a chair he had out front, resting his knees, tired after a long day in front of the raging forge. 

From where he sat, he could see the banks of Medicine Creek, happily bubbling along, glimmering with the reflection of the setting sun. It was a beautiful sight that he was normally too busy to appreciate. After all, he’d never traveled anywhere outside of the neighboring towns, so Zachariah it was natural to take the bucolic charm of the town for granted. 

It was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone’s name. There was no such thing as anonymity in Medicine Creek, no matter how hard anyone tried. Although, ever since the train station was built, the place started to get more traffic. Some folks in town didn’t want the train to stop in Medicine Creek, worried about too many outsiders invading their peace, but Zachariah for one was grateful for the extra business that came with travelers.

He was used to his father running late, given how occupied he always was with town business, but as the sun started to hover over the horizon, Zachariah started to get concerned. It wasn’t like his father to forget about his commitments, and it would soon be dark. 

Sighing, Zachariah started to head over to the town hall himself, in case his father had gotten caught up with work. He tipped his hat as he passed by various people from town, including George from the general store and the clerk whose name he couldn’t remember who worked at the post office. 

As busy as being mayor was, Zachariah was equally busy as he was the only blacksmith in town. Business was booming, and it left him with less and less time for himself. It seemed things were starting to change in Medicine Park, and those changes were flying right over Zachariah’s head. 

The sun had set by the time Zachariah got to the town hall. From the street, he could see that there was still a candle lit in his father’s office. It looked like Mayor Beesman had gotten caught up with work after all. 

With a sigh, Zachariah walked into the town hall, preparing to have an argument with his father’s clerk over whether or not he could bother the mayor. He brushed some soot from the sleeves of his coat, well aware of how informally dressed he was, compared to his father. Zachariah preferred his worn and comfortable clothes, just as he preferred his honest work in the shop to the devious politics required for government, even on a local level. 

His father never made him feel inadequate, but in Zachariah’s weaker moments, he wondered if he ought to make more of himself. 

The foyer of the town hall was eerily empty, which was to be expected given the late hour. Still, the long shadows against the well-polished floors seemed to follow Zachariah as he walked toward his father’s office. 

Given the candle in the window, he’d expected to see his father’s clerk, Mr. Darwin Randolf, sitting at his desk, his ink-stained hands sore from a long day of struggling with the typewriter. 

Only Darwin was nowhere in sight. In fact, his typewriter had been flung to the floor, and ripped papers were strewn across the floor. Hardly anything was left on the desk at all as if everything had been thrown off it in one fell swoop. 

“Hello?” Zachariah said tentatively. Something, or someone scurried by down at the end of the long hallway, moving so fast he only caught sight of its shadow. Instead of calling out again, however, Zachariah backed out of sight, quickly realizing that whoever was to blame for the mess on Darwin’s desk was potentially still in the building. He put a hand on the hilt of his pistol, ready to pull it out if necessary. 

Zachariah looked toward his father’s office, noticing that the door was slightly ajar. His heart started racing, beating so hard he could hear the blood pumping in his ears. In two long strides, he was in front of the door. Just as he was about to call out again to his father and push his way into the study, he noticed drops of blood on the door handle. 

All of a sudden, his own safety meant nothing anymore. He needed to know where his father was and what had happened to him as soon as possible. 

“Pa?” 

No answer came. Zachariah pushed his way into the office. The candle flame he’d seen in the window was now dying, the wick almost having reached the base of the wax. He had to blink to get used to the darkness of the study.

What met his eyes once he could see properly threatened to stop his heart forever. There, in his usual chair, sat his lifeless father, slumped over the desk, blood dripping from a wound to his head. 

Zachariah wasn’t sure how long he stood there, frozen, thoughts slowly moving through his mind like a river of molasses. Someone had murdered his father, and it was probably the person he’d heard scurrying around earlier. The killer had slipped back into the night, and it was unlikely Zachariah would ever be able to find the person responsible. 

He’d let the murderer go. His father was dead, and nothing would ever be the same. 

Chapter One

1885, One Year Later

Medicine Park, Nebraska

“You can wait outside for the sheriff. He should be back any minute now,” the deputy said with a tight, would-be polite smile that Zachariah could see right through. He could see there were three empty chairs in the sheriff’s office, but the deputy didn’t want anyone like Zachariah waiting inside.

“I prefer a bit of a breeze anyway. It’s stuffy in here,” Zachariah lied, deliberately staring straight at the available chairs before marching out the door. 

He’d been having the same conversation with the same deputy once a week for a year. Ever since his father’s murder, Zachariah had been doggedly trying to find out who was responsible for the killing, and more importantly, why they’d done it. 

But he seemed to be alone in this curiosity. As far as Zachariah was concerned, the sheriff had hardly lifted a finger in the investigation, or if he had, nothing good had come out of it. The murder was still a complete mystery. 

Zachariah closed his eyes as the wind blew up the dust around in front of the sheriff’s office. A year ago that very day, he had discovered his father’s body. The memory of it threatened to turn his stomach with disgust over how little had been done to get to the bottom of the crime. 

He had his theories as to why the murder of even a prominent mayor would go unsolved, primarily based on the color of his skin. Zachariah’s grandmother on his mother’s side had been from French West Africa, and though he’d never met the woman himself, he saw part of her reflected in him every time he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror or passing window. 

It was easy for even the kind folks of Medicine Park to disregard and ignore him when he called for justice. His neighbors liked him best when he was their hardworking blacksmith, not a rogue complaining about how the sheriff was skirting his duties. It didn’t matter that his father had been a white man. Now that Zachariah was the only one left, he had to shout twice as loud to be heard. 

Three men on horseback galloped past, kicking up even more dirt into Zachariah’s eyes. He looked up just in time to meet the gaze of the tallest of the men through the haze of dust, and anger gripped his heart. For a brief moment, the two of them were the only people in the world, two split halves of the same coin that would never be rejoined. 

The truth was that Zachariah wasn’t the only son of the former Mayor Mitchell Beesman who was left in Medicine Park. He had a half-brother, two years younger than himself and the product of his father’s second marriage. 

Harrison Beesman was the spitting image of the kind of man folks in Medicine Park respected. Tall, fit, with blonde hair that even the ladies envied, it made sense that Harrison had succeeded his father to become the next mayor of the town. What didn’t make sense to Zachariah was why his half-brother had refused to help search for the murderer. 

“He’s gone. There’s nothing we can do about it now. Might as well move on with our lives,” Harrison had said at the time. 

After a debacle about the inheritance that ended in Harrison paying his older brother off with what he claimed was half of the value of their father’s estate, Zachariah opted to steer clear of the new mayor at all costs. He knew, even if he couldn’t prove it, that Harrison was cooking the books to keep more of the inheritance, but he also knew that no one would believe him even he could prove it. 

He could make his peace with the money. Zachariah had never lusted after gold the way other men did. Over the years, he’d heard of countless hopeful boys he’d grown up with picking up and going to California, or worse, all the way to Alaska, in search of their fortunes, only to lose their lives or run into ruin in the process. He was very happy making an honest living that took care of all his needs.

It was the loss of his father that he couldn’t forgive Harrison for. Not to say that he believed his half-brother had killed their father himself. As far as Zachariah knew, Harrison loved their father just as much as he did. Why, then, would he give up on finding the truth so easily?

As far as Zachariah was concerned, it was a bridge too far. It had been six months since he and his brother had had a real conversation, and there were no signs that that was going to change anytime soon. 

The more he thought about the injustice of it all, the more frustrated Zachariah got. He watched as the cloud of dust following his brother disappeared into the distance, somewhat surprised to see what looked like another ball of dirt tumbling toward him. 

As the oversized tumbleweed got closer to him, Zachariah could see that it was a man running at full tilt, his arms laden with sacks of something. On foot, about a hundred feet behind him was Sheriff Conrad Wedgewood, trying to catch up with the man but somehow falling further behind with every stride. 

It didn’t take long for Zachariah to figure out what was happening. As the obvious thief stormed past him, Zachariah acted fast, jumping on his horse to pursue. Seconds later, he had caught up with the robber. He considered pulling out his pistol before deciding that it wasn’t strictly necessary. 

“Drop the bags!” Zachariah yelled, giving the man the chance to do the right thing. 

“Fat chance!” the thief shouted back, doing his best to outrun the horse. “You’ll have to shoot me first!”

Zachariah held in a chuckle as he freed his left foot from the stirrup. Much to his father’s chagrin, he’d taken to practicing all kinds of tricks on horseback when he was a child. It was risky and the skills rarely came in handy, but in this one instance, the practice was going to pay off. 

He leaped from the horse, landing with one hand on the neck of the thief as his feet met the ground, already running so fast it was like he’d never been on horseback. The robber screamed in fear as Zachariah pushed him to the ground, easily using the element of surprise to disarm the man. 

The bags he’d been carrying tumbled open onto the ground, revealing the money he’d evidently been trying to steal from the bank. To attempt to rob a bank without having a horse to escape on was so foolish an idea it almost made Zachariah laugh until he looked up to see how far away the sheriff still was. 

If Zachariah hadn’t stepped in, the crook would have likely escaped, despite his terrible plan. The sheriff’s incompetence was on clear display, though Zachariah didn’t need the reminder. 

On the other side of the road, a few ladies from town were watching from the porch of the teahouse. It brought him no small pleasure when they broke into a small round of applause he knew was meant for him, and not the sheriff who had now stopped to catch his breath. 

“Hand h-him over,” Sheriff Wedgewood huffed when he finally caught up to where Zachariah was holding the thief, already having tied his hands behind his back. 

“He’s all yours, Sheriff,” Zachariah replied, hardly surprised that he hadn’t been offered even the hint of a “thank you.”

“You r-r-really ought to… to let the professionals do… do their jobs,” the sheriff wheezed. It sounded like he’d lost a lung in the run, but still, he wasn’t going to acknowledge Zachariah’s actions in the slightest. 

“Right.” While Zachariah couldn’t bring himself to apologize, he did manage to keep a comment to himself about how the professionals seemed to think that their jobs consisted of letting criminals go. 

His horse ambled back to him, so Zachariah went to take the reins again. The moment he took his hand off the robber’s back, he tried to bolt again, but Zachariah was too quick for him. 

“You’re not going anywhere, my friend,” he warned, making sure he had a good grip on the man’s collar. 

The sheriff grumbled something, which Zachariah took as a request to help escort the thief back to the jailhouse. With one hand on the collar, and his other holding his horse’s reins, Zachariah marched the criminal the entire way, even going so far as to help get the man into a cell, safe and sound. 

Even when a deputy finally clicked the lock shut, Zachariah didn’t hear one word of appreciation, though the sheriff was certainly in the mood for celebrating. 

“And that’s another criminal off the streets, not likely to be bothering us again anytime soon, will you now?” Sheriff Wedgewood taunted through the bars. “Thought you could just walk into our bank and leave with whatever you fancied? Well, think again, my friend, think again! The Medicine Park Sheriff’s Department is not to be toyed with!” 

The thief kept his eyes on the ground as the sheriff instructed his deputy to write to the newspaper straight away so they could report on his bravery. Zachariah knew better than to expect any kind of acknowledgment, not that he wanted the publicity anyway. 

“Mind if I have a word with you, Sheriff Wedgwood?” Zachariah finally interrupted after getting the feeling that the lawman was going to break out the champagne sooner than he was going to pay attention to him. 

“We’re sort of in the middle of something, Mr. Beesman. Why don’t you come by tomorrow and we can–”

“Right now would be better for me,” Zachariah insisted, taking a step closer to the sheriff. He didn’t like to use his height or breadth as a tool of intimidation, but sometimes that was the only way he could get the stout sheriff to respond. 

Zachariah nodded toward the hall, not wanting to have a conversation about his deceased father right beside the jail cells. With a sigh, Sheriff Wedgewood conceded. 

“Make sure you get that letter off to the newspaper straight away. And don’t forget to add something about the extraordinary success rate we have in capturing criminals here in Medicine Park,” Sheriff Wedgwood instructed his deputy before finally leading the way to his office. 

“Mind if I take a seat?” Zachariah asked, knowing that he wasn’t about to be offered one. 

“If that’s what you’d prefer. I thought you loved being on your feet,” the sheriff replied sharply, reminding Zachariah once more that his help was unappreciated. 

The office was brightly lit by a big window, and every inch of wall space was covered with signs of Sheriff Wedgewood’s success. A large painting of the sheriff looking much younger and better looking than he really was hung behind him. Only a keen eye would be able to see that much of the department’s success stories, archived in certificates and newspaper stories were from nearly twenty years earlier, and attributed to Wedgewood’s predecessor. 

“You’ll have to wait a moment. There are records I must update now that we have a new prisoner,” the sheriff announced haughtily, clearly planning on taking his time and forcing Zachariah to wait as long as possible. 

But he wasn’t in the mood to be taken advantage of any longer. The small insults were starting to pile up, as evidenced by Zachariah’s balled fists sitting impatiently on the armrests of his chair. 

“The records can wait. Or if you’d prefer, I’ll find one of the many witnesses to tell the newspaper that you had some help taking down that bank robber,” Zachariah threatened, his voice low. He was positive that the sheriff would remember the ladies applauding the daring capture, and sure enough, his chess move worked.

“Fine. What do you want?” Sheriff Wedgewood asked though they both were quite well aware of what they needed to address. 

“It’s been a year since my father was killed. A year today. I’d like some answers, for once, as to why nothing has been done about it.”

Zachariah could feel the sheriff’s eyes move down to his hands, noticing how tightly curled his fists were. Despite how much Zachariah may have wanted to hit the man, he never would have stooped to such violence. Sheriff Wedgewood, however, clearly thought he was at risk of getting clocked. 

“Now, now, there’s no reason to start shouting,” he told Zachariah, though neither of them had raised their voices in any way. 

“I wasn’t.”

“Calm down! Calm down. We’re all just doing our best here, Mr. Beesman. Trust me, my men and I have looked into the murder time and time again, but we’ve hit a brick wall. Every time we get a hint of a lead, it goes dead the very next day. There’s nothing I can do about it!”

“Surely, there’s more you can do. There were clues left all over that office!” 

“Clues that took us nowhere,” the sheriff admitted. “Clearly, whoever killed your father was an expert in his field. Even you have to admit that finding a motive has been impossible! There isn’t a person we’ve stumbled across who would have wanted that man dead.”

He had Zachariah there. As far as either of them knew, there was no one in Medicine Park who would have wanted the universally beloved Mayor Beesman dead, nor anything to gain by the murder either. Everyone had thought the world of the old mayor. 

“So, it must have been done by someone who wasn’t from here,” Zachariah pressed. 

“But why? Nothing was stolen from the scene of the crime. If not theft, then why would someone have killed him?”

“So, you think a prominent man like that was simply murdered in cold blood by a stranger coming through town because… he felt like it?” 

Sheriff Wedgewood slowly leaned back in his chair, looking Zachariah up and down. 

“No. I don’t think it’s very likely. Come to think of it, you are one of the only people who got anything from Beesman’s death. Inherited a pretty penny, didn’t you?” 

The accusation made Zachariah’s cheeks go red. He would give up all the money in the world to have his father by his side again. Even if he’d inherited an entire fortune instead of whatever his brother was willing to let him have, Zachariah would be just as eager to find out what happened to their father. It was clear that the sheriff was looking for any excuse to get Zachariah off his back, even if it meant resorting to threats. 

“If you want to go down that road, then I wonder why you haven’t looked into my brother? Harrison not only inherited a larger portion of the estate, but he also stepped right into my father’s mayoral shoes. Wouldn’t you say that proves he had more to gain from the death than I did?” 

Sheriff Wedgewood’s eyes went wide. “Mr. Beesman, are you accusing your brother of killing your father?” 

Zachariah swallowed. It certainly was not his intention to put any kind of suspicion on his brother, nor did he believe that Harrison would be capable of that kind of violence against his own kin. They may not have properly spoken in months, but that didn’t mean Zachariah wanted to see Harrison wrongfully behind bars. 

“No. I don’t think he had anything to do with our father’s death. But even if I think he did, I doubt you’d look into it,” Zachariah declared, choosing that moment to make his exit. Nothing useful was going to get said or done in that meeting, and Zachariah was liable to say something he didn’t mean if he was forced to listen to Sheriff Wedgewood’s nonsense for much longer. 

The sheriff let him have the last word, though Zachariah was positive it was simply because the man couldn’t think of anything to say. It was slightly gratifying to know he’d shut the sheriff up for the moment, but it was hardly the victory Zachariah had been hoping for. 

Somewhere, there was someone out there who knew what had happened to his father. How to find that person, however, was a riddle for the ages. 

Chapter Two

“Did you see it? The man leaped from his horse going at a full gallop, hit the ground running, and then took down the thief as easily as if he was milking a cow or taking a sip of coffee!” Mrs. Carter said, her eyes wild with excitement. 

It was the third time Antoinette had heard the story that afternoon, but she wasn’t liable to get tired of it any time soon. Some days, the hours passed by with agonizing sluggishness. 

Many in Medicine Park were still suspicious of the telegraph machine that Antoinette operated from the back of the general store, despite how many times she tried to convince them that it was the most efficient way to send messages to faraway places. If they couldn’t understand how it worked, then they weren’t about to hand over money to a mystery machine. 

But on that sunny Friday, the general store was buzzing with activity as most of the town came through to gossip about the bank robber who had been taken down right in the middle of Main Street. Antoinette wished she’d been outside to see the event, but since she couldn’t turn back time, she gratefully listened to anyone who wanted to tell her the tale again, even if they weren’t interested in sending a telegraph at all. 

“I had no idea Zachariah Beesman had it in him! It looked as if he’d grown up on horseback. It’s something I would expect from a cowboy, but not a blacksmith,” Mrs. Carter whispered, though there was nothing she needed to be secretive about. 

It was something Antoinette had noticed before. Whenever folks in town talked about Zachariah, it was in hushed tones. Half the ladies in town thought he was terribly handsome, but would only admit as much behind unfurled fans. Now that Zachariah’s heroic behavior had been on clear display to all those watching, Antoinette hoped that the townsfolk would be more vocal about their admiration for him. 

“Actually, he’s always been a talented horseman. When we were growing up, I used to watch–”

“I’m so sorry, my dear, I really have to be on my way. I’ll see you at church on Sunday, or maybe at the fair later today!” Mrs. Carter replied, rushing away before Antoinette could finish her thought. 

She sighed, tucking a lock of her auburn hair behind her ear as she stepped back into her telegraph realm, deciding that she ought to take the time to oil the machine until there were customers to serve. 

As she gently cleaned and oiled the key and sounder mechanism, Antoinette’s mind wandered to the days when she and her mother used to watch Zachariah and his brother practice their riding skills. They hadn’t seemed to mind the audience. In fact, Antoinette still wasn’t sure that Zachariah or Harrison even knew who she was, despite the smallness of Medicine Park. 

That was partially due to the fact that she had always lived on the outskirts of town, tucked away in her father’s eccentric cabin. He’d once been a successful inventor in Omaha, but moved to the western frontier at the request of his wife, and Antoinette’s mother, who had longed for open space. When his wife passed away after a terrible miscarriage, Antoinette’s father slowly started losing his grip on reality. Antoinette had only been twelve years old at the time. 

She’d tried to convince him to take them back to St. Louis after her mother’s death, as he’d clearly be happier and they could start over, but her father couldn’t bring himself to leave the place where his beloved wife had died. He grew more and more withdrawn, only leaving the cabin when he needed supplies for his increasingly ill-advised and nonsensical inventions, or to visit her grave.

Sometimes, Antoinette heard other children in town talking about how scary their house was, and the terrifying boogeyman that lived inside. It pained her to know that her father was so feared, but there was nothing Antoinette could do about it. She spent as much time with him as possible, learning what she could from his failing mind. 

They’d spent long evenings cracking codes together and solving puzzles, but it hadn’t been enough to bring her father back from the edge of madness and despair. Five years after her mother had died, Antoinette’s father perished of a broken heart, and she was left on her own. 

Despite the advice she’d given her father, Antoinette stayed in Medicine Park. She didn’t have enough money to start over, but at least with the Morse Code her father had taught her, she had a way of sustaining herself. 

At the age of eighteen, Antoinette had petitioned Western Union herself to send a telegraph machine to Medicine Park, to be operated by herself. Ever since then, they had paid her a small salary to keep the station running, and Antoinette quickly forgot about any hopes and dreams she’d ever had of leaving. 

Sometimes, she joked to herself that she would eventually turn into the Old Hag of Medicine Park, replacing her father as the boogeyman that children would run away from screaming. Until then, however, the townsfolk saw her as a strange but not unpleasant girl, largely forgotten compared to the pretty daughters of Mr. Maywood who owned the Double Arrow Ranch. Those sisters owned dresses that were more expensive than Antoinette’s home. 

The idea of marriage had long since passed her by. At twenty-six, she was verging on too old to bother with, despite the fact that eligible women were a rarity in those parts. Her unmarried status was partly her own doing, however, seeing as she’d long-since learned to prefer her own company over that of rowdy cowboys. 

Whenever she thought of Zachariah Beesman, however, a twinge of regret tugged at her heart. There was something in him that reminded Antoinette of herself, a kind of wasted potential that might be tragic if it wasn’t so common. She saw the way others underestimated him, likely just because of the color of his skin. Antoinette had faced similar challenges thanks to her sex. 

Even the man who’d delivered the telegraph machine had doubted her when she insisted that she could get it up and working on her own. Luckily, Western Union had more faith in their female employees, if only because they could get away with paying them far less than they could any man. 

Antoinette hummed as she cleaned the brass wheel, utterly lost in thought and therefore quite surprised when a waiting customer cleared his throat. She looked up abruptly to find that the man standing by her desk was none other than Zachariah Beesman himself. Her jaw dropped open slightly as she tried to figure out if he was a figment of her imagination that she had summoned into reality, or if, in fact, he actually just wanted to send a telegraph. 

Before she could shake herself into saying something, however, Mr. Holder came up beside Zachariah to congratulate him for the impressive showing with the bank robber. 

“Don’t know where we’d be without you, Mr. Beesman! To think, that man almost made off with half our wages! You truly are a hero,” Mr. Holder said, whispering just as Mrs. Carter had. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise!” 

“Hardly a hero. Trust me, that thief was running so slow, he was bound to get stopped by someone,” Zachariah replied humbly, shaking Mr. Holder’s eager hand before the well-wisher went on with his shopping. 

“I heard that the sheriff was the only one running slowly. So slowly that a tortoise might have beaten him,” Antoinette declared, still holding the oil rag in her hand. 

“Oh. You heard that? Word really gets around, doesn’t it? But I wouldn’t know anything about the sheriff running slow. Or fast,” he replied vaguely.

“You didn’t see the sheriff running?” Antoinette asked, confused as to why he was being so modest. Did he hope to protect the reputation of Sheriff Wedgewood? Zachariah shifted from one foot to the other, and Antoinette could tell that she was making him uncomfortable. “Not that it matters. It doesn’t matter. Either way, it sounds like the town owes you a great debt.” 

Zachariah raised his hands in surrender. “I just saw the thief making a run for it with our hard-earned money, so I figured I’d do my part. I have a telegraph message to send if that’s alright.”

“Yes! Yes, of course. I’ll just need you to fill out this form.” Antoinette passed over the intake form where senders listed the address of the recipient as well as wrote out the message itself, which she would then translate into Morse Code to transmit the memo. 

“I’ll need a pen and ink as well,” he pointed out. 

“Oh! Right, of course. Silly me,” she apologized, quickly jumping into action. She stood there in silence as he wrote out his message, trying to give him privacy and avoid reading what he was writing, despite the fact that she was going to be translating the words only minutes later. 

“There we go. That should do it. How much do I owe you?” he asked. 

She looked down at the form he’d handed her, noting that the message was only being sent two towns over. The interesting part was who the note was addressed to… Jed Stone, Private Investigator. 

What did Zachariah Beesman want with a P.I.? Did it have something to do with the death of his father? Antoinette had to stop herself from asking. It was a Western Union rule that the operators were only to comment on the subject matter of the message if it was potentially criminal. Besides, she’d already made Zachariah uncomfortable enough as it was. He didn’t need her prying into his private affairs. 

“Oh, uh, twenty-five cents should do it.” 

Silence descended once more as Zachariah searched for the right change. Antoinette had a thousand questions she wanted to ask, and a thousand more things she wanted to tell him. Like, did he know that their fathers had both died on the same day, eight years apart? She wanted to say something comforting, knowing that they were both marking grim anniversaries that very day, but she managed to keep her mouth shut. 

Couldn’t she think of something more… average to converse about? Small talk had never been her strong suit, and Zachariah made her more nervous than most. She wanted to capture his attention, not simply make boring conversation about the strong wind that day to fill the silence. 

In the end, he handed over the twenty-five cents without Antoinette finding anything to say at all. 

“Do you need me to stay while you send it? In case there are any troubles, or–”

“No, no! I’ll manage just fine. Thank you, Mr. Zachariah Beesman,” she said cheerily, her voice a full octave higher than usual. 

“You know my name?”

Antoinette froze in place, terrified that he could now see right through her, read her thoughts, and somehow know that her mind wandered to him far more than was appropriate, given that they’d never been formally introduced. 

“It-it’s on the form. At the bottom,” she replied rapid-fire, pointing at where he’d written it on the paper. 

His face broke into a bashful smile and Antoinette felt her heart skip a beat. 

“Right. Of course, it is. Forgive me, it’s just that… it’s been a strange day. I’ve had all kinds of people coming up to me, talking to me as if we’re old friends and yet they normally avoid my gaze on the street.”

“I can only imagine,” Antoinette replied, letting out a girlish giggle she wished she could take back. 

“Are you new here in Medicine Park? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before,” Zachariah said. 

Instead of skipping a beat, Antoinette’s heart now fell to the pit of her stomach in disappointment. While they’d never been formally introduced before, she had been born in Medicine Park. Zachariah had even been into the telegraph office before (two, very memorable times), and she had been the one to help him. Clearly, she hadn’t made the impression on him that he’d made on her. 

“Oh, uh, no. Lived here my whole life!” she said cheerfully, trying her best to hide the hurt. “Would love to see the world someday. Or at least, a part of it outside of this place. But they keep me trapped here in this small office and only feed me once a day. I’m just like Rapunzel but without the flowing golden locks. Or the prince.”

At first, Zachariah just looked at her, and Antoinette was positive that he thought she was being serious. Just as she was about to explain her ill-conceived joke, he broke into a full-bellied laugh. She immediately forgave him for not knowing who she was. 

“I know the feeling. Sometimes, I spend so long in the blacksmith shop that I don’t get to see the light of day. Thank you for making me laugh. I needed it. What’s your name?” 

“Antoinette Mahoney.”

He tipped his hat to her. “Well, it’s very nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Mahoney.”

“Come send another telegraph soon!” she replied as he made his exit. He didn’t respond, but Antoinette couldn’t be sure that he heard her, and there was also the matter of another well-wisher who had pounced on him. 

Once he was out of the general store, Antoinette remembered the now crumpled telegraph form Zachariah had filled out. She still had a job to do. Before she could send the message, she needed to translate it. Though she was quite proficient in Morse Code, she never wanted to risk getting stuck part-way through a message. 

After checking which station the message was being sent to again, so she could connect the telegraph line with the correct circuit, Antoinette sat down to translate the message. Normally, she felt no connection to the notes she sent, but translating this particular one felt a bit like reading someone’s diary. 

 

Need help with investigation into my father’s murder. Mitchell Beesman. Local sheriff useless. Please contact soon. 

 

It didn’t matter that it was such a short message. The few words that were written there in Zachariah’s hand spoke volumes. 

So, Antoinette’s instincts had been right. Zachariah was going to take the investigation into his father’s death into his own hands. She had to applaud the decision. Sheriff Wedgewood had proved useless. What had he managed to uncover in the year since Mayor Beesman’s murder? Nothing that she’d heard about!

She was glad that she’d waited to read the message until Zachariah was gone because otherwise, it would have been a monumental challenge not to avoid asking him about it. It wasn’t often that there was a murder in Medicine Park, and so when it had first happened, Antoinette had taken a keen interest in the case. 

Of course, all the information she had relied on gossip and hearsay, but as far as she was concerned, that kind of evidence was usually based on at least a grain of truth. As the months charged along and the flow of information about Mayor Beesman started to dwindle to nothing more than an occasional drip, Antoinette had fewer and fewer people to discuss the matter with. 

Now, a year after the brutal killing, it was like Medicine Park had completely forgotten about the grim affair. Everyone was very happy that the youngest Beesman had taken over as mayor, and though his father lived on in their hearts as the town’s best leader, there seemed to be minimal interest or curiosity in what had happened to him. 

Zachariah might have been the last person in Medicine Park still hung up on discovering the truth behind his father’s demise… save for Antoinette. It was a pity she would never be able to discuss it with him, however. They’d only just met, after all! How was she supposed to explain why she was so interested in the life and death of a man she hardly knew? 

There were some secrets meant to be kept close, only to be uncovered if precisely the correct conditions came into alignment.