These Honored Dead (A Lincoln and Speed Mystery #1) - Jonathan F. Putnam Page 0,51

lightning?” Martha shouted back.

“I don’t think so. It usually strikes in the woods.” My words were punctuated by another lightning strike, closer this time, and accompanied by an urgent growl of thunder.

Hickory put down her head and willingly struggled onward. But the hard-packed path we’d been traversing only minutes earlier was quickly turning liquid. As we went up a gradual rise, rivulets of water coursed down the hill against us. For a moment, the wheels of our carriage seemed to become waterborne, floating away from Hickory until she regained her footing and continued her trudge.

“Hold on to me tight,” I shouted to Martha as another blast of wind hurled past.

Hickory came to a halt. It was all she could do to maintain her position against the whipping wind and drenching rain. Martha and I embraced each other, the warmth of her skin providing some comfort against the heartless elements. I began to fear the tempest might outlast us.

And then, just as quickly as the storm had come on, it was over. Concentric circles of yellow and orange appeared on the horizon. Pockets of sunlight, unnaturally bright against the dark clouds, emerged and began muscling the thunderheads out of the way. The rain sputtered and stopped, its constant monotone drumming replaced on the suddenly still prairie by the rhythmic chirping of crickets and the exuberant singing of wrens and vireos and yellow-breasted chats. It was as if the angel of desolation, having amply proven his power and awe-inspiring fury, had abruptly decided to do his terrible bidding elsewhere.

“Are you hurt?” I asked Martha, trying to wipe the water from my eyes so I could see properly again.

“Nothing a warm bath can’t heal.”

“You may have to wait for that,” I said with a laugh. “But let’s see if we can’t find a farmhouse hearth to warm up by. The Buffalo Heart settlement can’t be too far distant.”

An hour later, Martha and I sat in borrowed gowns beside a roaring fire while our clothes dried nearby on a rack. Upon reaching Buffalo Heart, nestled on the southern tier of the crescent-shaped Lake Buffalo, I’d made for the cabin of a merchant I knew from the circuit. We were in luck; not only was Peters, a lively little man with apple cheeks and a cherubic smile, home when we called, but his wife had just placed a large pot of chicken broth into the fire. Peters’ liberal hospitality even extended to uncorking a bottle of sparkling catawba wine from Cincinnati. In recognition of Martha’s good cheer during the storm, I let Peters pour her half a glass.

As I settled back into my chair, Peters asked what we had been doing caught out in the middle of the prairie.

“Returning to Springfield from Decatur,” I said.

“Decatur? I would have thought Knotts has that market pretty well covered.”

“He does. We weren’t traveling for commercial purposes.”

“On a weekday? Do you mean to tell me, Speed, your sales are so firm you can afford to become a man of leisure?”

“Joshua was showing me around the county,” Martha said brightly, before I could think of a lie to tell Peters. “I asked him to, as this is my first visit to Illinois.”

“That makes more sense,” said Peters, as I smiled at my sister gratefully. “My figures are a disaster. They have been ever since springtime.”

“Mine as well,” I replied.

“We had a market fair a few weekends back—we’ve organized one for the last Sunday in July for as long as I can remember—and I made a total of eighty-three cents worth of sales. Eighty-three cents. You better enjoy the catawba, because at this rate it’s the last I’ll ever buy.” He raised his glass toward us and gulped it down.

“Things will turn around soon,” I said.

“We should drink to that,” he said, refilling his glass.

With the suddenness of a thunderclap on a clear day, I realized this was the second reference I’d heard recently to the Buffalo Heart market fair. That same fair was where Rebecca had been on the day Lilly was murdered. Peters should be able to confirm for the sheriff and Prickett, if they still harbored suspicions, that Rebecca had been miles away from her home at the time of the murder.

“Do you know the Widow Harriman, Peters?” I asked. Martha shot me a look that I ignored. “Harriman & Co., up in Menard.”

“Of course.”

“Do you recall what she was selling at your July market fair?”

“Nothing.”

I looked at the man in surprise. “You mean her sales were even