All in Good Time (The Gilded Legacy) - By Maureen Lang Page 0,2

the walls as thickly and lovingly as it had ever been applied to a roof.

He would add today’s catch to the stash he’d already buried. Once that was done, Henry knew his work as an outlaw was finished.

Just as fast and easily as he’d planned.

1

Twelve years later

DENVER, 1887

HENRY HAWKINS watched the smoke cloud hover, then disperse over the head of Lionel Metcalf, who was not only one of his biggest investors but one of the most influential men in Denver, the Queen City of the West. That Lionel allowed Henry to invest his funds—the legitimate ones, at any rate—was no small accomplishment on Henry’s part.

“We could use a man like you, Henry,” Lionel went on. “Established, not too young but not too old, either. Smart, well spoken. Not bad to look at, and still a bachelor at . . . what? Thirty years old? We might not let women vote, but don’t forget for a moment that they influence the men around them who do. You represent what every man in this town wants to be: successful, respected. Free to do as you please. They’d listen to you.”

Henry had started shaking his head before Lionel was half finished with his sugary words. He didn’t even look at Tobias Ridgeway, who was not only Henry’s uncle but also, as of five years ago, his bank manager. This bank was a large step up from the more modest banking and mercantile Henry had begun with, and he had needed a man he could trust.

Lionel was a scout sent ahead to test the political waters that Henry had no intention of jumping into. That was all he’d need, a bunch of spies prying into his personal life. Henry’s present life might be pristine compared to the corrupt politicians too often found in public office, but his past life was something he would rather not have investigated.

“No, Lionel. As flattering as all that sounds, my answer is still no, just as it was when you wanted me on the city council. Colorado has two fine senators already, and I expect both to run for reelection. You don’t need me muddying the water.”

“But that’s nonsense!” Lionel said as he puffed his cigar. He leaned forward, exhaling and waving a palm as if the smoke were in the way of his words reaching Henry. “We can always use new talent. Bowen’s term is nearly up, and I have it on good information that he likely won’t win even if he does run for reelection. Which is why we must get someone on the ballot who can.”

“Interesting, Lionel. But I’m still not your man.”

“Think of where it could lead, Henry. From senator to governor, or bypass governor altogether and go straight to president of this entire nation. It’s time the president was chosen from a Western state, isn’t it?”

If Henry laughed more often, if he hadn’t grown so unaccustomed to doing it, he might have laughed at the notion of his being in the White House. Instead, he issued one of his rare smiles, along with the not-so-rare shake of his head.

“If you don’t take the offer, Henry, we’ll go to Turk Foster.”

Henry stiffened, abandoning whatever trace of a smile he’d managed to extend. It was exactly the kind of threat that could tempt him into making a foolish mistake. Pulse pounding in his ears, he very nearly spoke before Uncle Tobias did.

“It would be a sad day for Colorado to have the likes of Mr. Foster running for the Senate,” Tobias said with a jovial laugh. The huge man was more often cheerful than threatening; even his insults sounded friendly.

Henry’s moment of temptation passed. Tobias was right. Foster, on a similar path to prosperity as his, might be ambitious and clever, but his sins were far more visible than Henry’s. He would have a tough time getting elected, even in Denver, where the veneer over corruption was thin, but there nonetheless.

Henry stood just as a tap sounded at the door. Before responding to the summons, he said to Lionel, “It’s your job to choose the best man. I know that man is not me, but I also doubt it’s Foster.” Then Henry walked around his desk to open the sleek, paneled hardwood door of his considerably sized office.

Mr. Sprott, his clerk, stood there with a somewhat anxious look on his face. “An appointment for Mr. Ridgeway, sir.” One of the man’s nervous habits was to adjust his clothing—a tie, collar, cuff, or anything handy—as if he