These Honored Dead (A Lincoln and Speed Mystery #1) - Jonathan F. Putnam Page 0,8

in bed,” she said quietly. “But it wasn’t in God’s plan for me. That’s evident. So there’s nothing to be done, nor anything to wonder about.”

I let the subject drop and did not raise it again.

I continued to live a double life of sorts, one that gave me no small amount of pleasure. For most of the time, I was fully engaged in the business of my store, attending to the counter, procuring merchandise, riding out to nearby towns to visit customers and make deliveries. Our business prospered as Springfield grew; seemingly every week brought a new immigrant, hoping to farm her rich black loam or exploit her central location near the Sangamon River. And in the evenings, the other fellows of Springfield provided company and good cheer.

Meanwhile, nearly every month, I arranged to spend a night or two lost and found in Rebecca’s arms. For those precious hours, we seemed the only people alive in the entire world. And then, inexorably, the sun rose and I was back on the trail to Springfield.

While Rebecca and I usually gathered at her cabin in Menard, one summer’s afternoon in 1836 I accompanied her to a village fair in Mount Auburn, a half-day’s ride east of Springfield. A dozen merchants had set up stalls ringing the commons, and farmers from the surrounding area arrived on foot or in small gigs to look over the wares—farming implements, ready-made clothing, small decorative items, and the like. I recognized a few of the merchants as hailing from Springfield or its environs; all of them, save Rebecca, were men.

I had brought a selection of ladies hats, newly arrived from Philadelphia, which I spread out on a corner of Rebecca’s table. She had been particularly insistent we come to this fair, although from the rough look of the crowd, who were picking through the merchandise with dirt-encrusted hands, I doubted either of us would sell much.

After a few hours had passed, my eye was drawn to a young woman who appeared oddly out of place. She was sixteen or seventeen years of age, although she moved about the crowd with the self-possession of a much more mature woman. Her delicate face, set off by prominent cheekbones, was framed with long curls of vibrant auburn hair. She was wearing a crimson dress with a loose, revealing bodice that contrasted greatly with the drab garb of the conservative farmers’ wives mingling about the booths.

As I observed the young woman, it became clear that, whoever she was, she was an accomplished thief. At each stall she visited, she followed a similar pattern. She talked to the merchant about his goods, resting her hand daringly near, or occasionally on, his arm. She’d ask about this trifle or that and bend over to have a closer look. At the moment she was bent over the furthest, when the merchant’s eyes were invariably engaged by her figure, she would reach out far to the side and close her hand over some small item on the edge of the table. Then she’d straighten up, thank the merchant for his time, and walk away toward the center of the commons. Once she was far enough away, she’d dip her closed hand into a burlap bag she carried at her side, secreting away the stolen item.

When I turned to point my discovery out to Rebecca, I saw she too was watching the striking young woman.

“It’s quite a contrivance she’s got,” I said. “Works every time.”

“Their weaknesses are so apparent,” Rebecca replied. “One of many reasons why women merchants can prosper even when the superior sex falters.”

“Have you seen her around before?”

Rebecca shook her head, her lips pursed.

The young woman glanced over in Rebecca’s direction at one point, but when she saw Rebecca’s eyes were on her, she looked away quickly. It seemed clear that she knew better than to try her stratagem at Rebecca’s stall.

Months after the incident at the market, on a winter’s morning in early 1837, I lay in Rebecca’s bed and listened as a great snowstorm whipped around outside. I had helped reinforce the pitch between the logs of Rebecca’s cabin the prior fall, and the walls held fast admirably against the whistling winds. We’d brought in plenty of wood the night before, and the fire in the hearth glowed. There was no place in the world I’d rather have been.

I looked over to say this to Rebecca and stopped short. She was sitting up, a woolen blanket cinched around her naked body,