“A piece of jewelry taken from one of passengers during the robbery. Blue was able to match it against the descriptionhe was given from the owner, but to be certain, they want to have it authenticated. They’re working out the details of that now. It’s taking longer to make the arrangements than Blue thought it would.”
“What’s the piece?”
Remington put a hand to his throat as if he were choking himself. “A seed pearl collar. I guess it shows off a woman’s neck to a particular advantage.”
“Huh. Don’t see how. Not if the thing covers up her neck.”
Remington lowered his hand. “I asked Phoebe about it. She says it favors the length of a woman’s neck. Draws a man’s eye to it.”
“You told her about the necklace?”
“Uh-huh. I wondered if she remembered anyone wearing it.”
“Did she?”
“No. She said whoever owned it wouldn’t have been wearing it on the train. It’s for fancy dress. Evening wear, she called it. She thought it was probably kept in a case.”
“But you said you had the owner’s description. You know who it belongs to.”
“The sheriff wanted to see if Phoebe could verify ownership. He wants to make sure he gets it back to the right hands.”
“Makes sense. Must be worth something big, a necklace like that.”
“Collar,” Remington said. “I guess that’s the proper term for it. Phoebe called it a dog collar.”
“That’s probably what’s referred to as a woman’s prerogative. I wouldn’t dare call it that.” He dropped his shoulder against the barn again and crossed his legs at the ankle. “Unless the woman’s a bitch. Then I might reconsider.”
Remington said nothing; he didn’t smile, didn’t raise an eyebrow. For all of Ben’s casual way of dropping the comment, Remington thought about it long after Ben was gone.
Chapter Twenty-six
Branding was not for the faint of heart, Phoebe decided, so when Fiona arrived at the site where the calves were penned so they could be dropped, heeled, sometimes castrated, and finally branded, it was not merely a surprise; it was shocking. That Fiona was wearing jeans tucked into a pair of embossed leather boots, a pale yellow cotton shirt, a tan leather vest, and a flat-crowned black hat, caused mouths to gape as she alighted from the buckboard. The only person who did not gape was Thaddeus, and Phoebe suspected that was because he had had a private showing of this very outfit.
“Close your mouth, Les,” Thaddeus called out above the bawling of the cattle. “Unless you like the taste of cow shit.”
Les Brownlee spit. “Developing a taste, sure enough.” But he closed his mouth.
Thaddeus passed the hot branding iron he was holding to Ralph Neighbors and hopped the pen to get to Fiona. He removed his gloves and took her hand. “You certain about this?”
“I must be. I’m here.”
He turned her hands over to examine her palms. “Where are your gloves?”
“I put them on the kitchen table while I was packing the baskets, and then I forgot them.”
Thaddeus looked past her shoulder to where five hampers rested in the bed of the buckboard. “You packed them?”
“It’s insulting that you’re asking,” she said, although there was no scold in her tone. “I’ve spent a lifetime packing trunks.”
Phoebe was close enough now to hear Fiona. She tried to recall the last time Fiona had packed her own trunks. She couldn’t. Still, she did not offer a contradiction. If she took the long view, then she counted it as a very good thing that Fiona wanted to impress Thaddeus.
“Fiona! You look striking.” Phoebe meant it. Her smile split the lower half of her face. “Come. I’ll help you with the baskets. The men put together a table for the spread.” She pointed to the rough planks supported by sawhorses thirty yards from the pen. “We’ll set things out like a grand buffet and they can eat as they’re able.”
Fiona looked over the setting doubtfully. “There is no place for them to sit.”
Thaddeus chuckled. “Do you think any of these men are going to object to the ground? They’ve been wrestling calves, Fiona. They’ll be grateful just because they don’t have to wrestle their supper.”
Phoebe waved him away and took Fiona by the elbow to lead her to the rear of the wagon. “Where’s Ellie?” she asked. “You didn’t murder her, did you?”
