Mike opened the door. The three of them passed the old sheriff’s desk—the check-in area—and the deputy’s desk, where the concierge sat; it was empty at the moment. Sloan saw that the “concierge” was busy serving breakfast to a number of guests in the old gun room. He watched the way Jane studied the place as they entered. She commented to Mike on what a great job he’d done turning it from an old jail into a bed-and-breakfast, while keeping its historic integrity.
“It wasn’t me, really. I mean, I’ve made some improvements, but the guy I bought it from had all the ideas. I’ve made a point of improving the bathrooms, though!” Mike said. “Guests these days expect that.”
They went through the barred wooden door that led to the rows of cells, which were now guest rooms. “There it is!” Mike told her proudly. “The Trey Hardy room. Right where Aaron Munson gunned down the poor guy. Take a look.”
“Thank you.” Jane walked into the room and slowly looked around. There was a towel on the floor and the bed needed to be made. A water glass was knocked over—it seemed evident that the last guests had departed quickly.
“It needs to be cleaned, of course,” Mike said.
“Don’t worry, I won’t be going to bed for hours.” Jane dug into her crimson velvet wristlet—a perfect match for her costume—and produced a credit card. “Would you please charge me now? I don’t want to lose the room, knowing how popular it is.”
“Anything for you!” Mike said, and Jane smiled pleasantly.
After the arrangements had been made, Sloan walked Jane down the street. “What was that all about?” he asked as they posed together by an old watering trough for the pleasure of a few tourists.
“Sage wrote ‘Trey Hardy’ on the mirror. I thought we’d have to wait until this whole Silverfest thing was over to get in there.”
Sloan was silent. She spoke so naturally to him, and he wondered what it was like to be comfortable with seeing things that others didn’t. He’d wondered far too often himself if he wasn’t crazy, if Longman wasn’t a being his mind had invented, a sort of device to help him figure things out.
“Trey Hardy was dead before the stagecoach disappeared,” he reminded her.
“But...there’s something connected to this that has to do with him. I’m positive. Sloan—” Jane stopped to smile and say, “A pleasure!” to the people thanking them for posing. “So, have you spoken with Grant Winston?”
He nodded.
“What was the fight about?”
“Grant’s collection of rare books. He caught Caleb Hough in his office. Hough told him he’d ruin him if he didn’t sell him his own books.”
“Oh. But is that a motive for murder?”
“I don’t think so. I’m more concerned with what Caleb was looking for. I’m going to get back into Grant’s office before the end of the day,” he said.
His cell phone rang as they walked, and he answered immediately. It was Liam Newsome.
“My officer just called from the hospital,” Liam said. “Seems there was a woman in some kind of period costume there. She was bringing a basket of food to Zoe and Jimmy Hough.”
“Who was it?” Sloan asked.
“He didn’t know. When he stopped her in the hallway, she took off. He couldn’t go after her and still guard his patients, so he called to tell me about it.”
“Thanks, Liam,” Sloan said, and hung up. “I’m going to borrow a horse from the stables and ride out to the hospital. With all the traffic, not to mention the street closures, that’ll be the fastest.”
Jane had heard the conversation. “That woman—it could be anyone, Sloan. Could genuinely be a friend. Half the people here are in costume, or wearing old hats and skirts. She could be heading the other way now, you know.”
“And she could be heading this way,” he said. He hesitated, then suddenly took her by the shoulders. “Be careful.”
“I will. And Logan and Kelsey are due soon,” she added.
He started to walk off, but then turned around. “No basements!” he warned her.
“Not unless someone screams blue blazes and I’ll be ready if that happens,” she promised.
“Jane—”
“I’ll get backup, don’t worry.”
He left her on the street and hurried over to the stables. Heidi was just getting a group mounted for the trail ride to the Apache village.
“I need a horse,” he told her.
“Sure, Sloan, but why? Your horses are better than anything we have in our hack line.”
“I’m going to the hospital and I’d rather take a horse than a car right now. Don’t want to waste time going back to my place.”
Heidi looked at him wide-eyed. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “It’s about Jimmy, isn’t it? Is he all right? I should’ve known when he didn’t show up yesterday that something was wrong.”
“Jimmy is doing well, Heidi. Now—”
“Take Bullet. He’s saddled and he has some spunk in him,” Heidi said.
Sloan mounted the horse and rode out of the stables.
He heard a loud cheering and realized people thought that he was part of the festivities. He tilted his hat to them—and set out on the road that led from Main Street to the hospital.
He took the trail at an easy lope until he was a good mile past all the hoopla. Then he slowed Bullet and moved to the side of the road, watching for cars.