But right in the center, posted higher and newer than the rest, a single sheet of paper caught his eye. He moved closer, and the bold heading made his blood run cold.
MISSING PERSON - REWARD OFFERED
Rose Prescott, age 19, auburn hair, green eyes, middling height. Last seen Virginia City, Montana Territory. May be traveling under another name. Family worried for her safety. If seen, contact Vincent Dunhill, Virginia City. $50 reward for information leading to her safe return.
The words blurred before James’s eyes as ice flooded his veins. Rose Prescott. His Rose. The woman kneading bread in his kitchen just hours before. This Vincent Dunhill…who was he?
“Something wrong, James?” Holbrook’s voice seemed to drift from very far away.
He forced his expression to remain neutral, though his heart hammered against his ribs. “This notice—when did it come in?”
Holbrook glanced over, squinting at the paper. “Yesterday morning, I think. Came through on the telegraph. Mrs. Holbrook posted it.” He shrugged. “Don’t recognize the name myself, but you never know who might pass through.”
Yesterday morning. That was when Rose arrived in Butte on the stage. She’d left Virginia City the day before.
Fled Virginia City? Was she in danger from this man?
James’s throat constricted as he studied the notice again. Family worried for her safety. The words seemed innocent enough, but something about them sat wrong in his gut. If Rose had family in Virginia City who cared about her well-being, why had she told Mandie there was no one who needed to know she’d arrived safely?
“This Vincent Dunhill.” He worked for a casual tone. “He say anything else about the girl? Why she might have left?”
Holbrook shook his head. “Just what’s written there. Though I got to say, fifty dollars is a mighty generous reward for a missing person notice. Makes a man wonder what the story really is.”
Fifty dollars. James’s jaw tightened. That was more money than most folks in these parts saw in six months. The kind of reward that suggested either genuine desperation…or something darker.
Mrs. Holbrook emerged from the back room, her arms full of bolts of fabric. “Oh, hello, James. Tom, did you tell him about that poor missing girl?” She set down the cloth and smoothed her graying hair.
James turned and gave a nod of greeting. “Mrs. Holbrook.”
“Such a sad thing.” She shook her head. “Though I have to wonder what would make a young woman run off like that, leaving her family to worry. The message came through so urgent-like, with instructions to post it in every town from here to the Canadian border.”
Every town. James’s stomach dropped. If this Vincent Dunhill was casting such a wide net, he wasn’t planning to give up easily.
“Did the telegram say anything about why she might have left?”
Mrs. Holbrook shook her head. “Nothing else in the message itself. But you know how these things go—a young woman of that age, probably got her head turned by some smooth-talking fellow promising her the moon.” She tsked. “Mark my words, she’ll come crawling back home soon enough, once she realizes what the world’s really like.”
James’s jaw clenched at the assumption, but he forced himself to nod as though he agreed. The image of Rose’s careful wariness, the way she’d paled when Mandie asked about sending word of her safe arrival, painted a very different picture than Mrs. Holbrook’s speculation.
How had he let so many years pass without going after her? If only he’d traveled to Virginia City when he first learned her whereabouts. He could have seen for himself her situation.
“Well.” He stepped back from the notice. “I hope she stays safe, wherever she is.”
“Fifty dollars though,” Tom mused, returning to his paperwork. “That’s serious money. This Dunhill fellow must be mighty worried about her.”
Or mighty determined to get her back. The thought twisted his insides.
He pulled Mrs. Wang’s memo from his pocket, his hands steadier than he felt. “I’ll need these supplies when I’m done hiring men.”
As Tom perused the list, James left the mercantile and headed to Nelson’s place with leaden feet, the missing person notice burning in his memory like a brand.
The saloon squatted partway down Walnut Springs’ main street, its weathered boards dark from years of mountain storms. Even in the afternoon, men’s voices and the clink of glasses drifted through the door propped open to allow in fresh air.
James stepped inside, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. The familiar stench of whiskey and tobacco smoke hit him, along with the sour tang of men who worked hard and bathed infrequently. A handful of patrons hunched over drinks at the bar, while others clustered around tables in the back.
“James Balfour!” Nelson himself looked up from polishing glasses behind the bar, his Scottish accent still thick after twenty years in Montana Territory. “What brings you to me establishment in broad daylight?”
“Looking for men to hire for a few days.” James approached the counter. “Finishing up the haying. Good wages for anyone willing to work hard.”
