Dixon unbuttoned the top of his red serge as he stepped into his office. The night air lacked the bite he needed to settle his nerves. Abbadon, it seemed, controlled an information ring far more efficient than any government agency. If the wire from Fort Calgary was right, the man had something on everyone, and yet no one seemed to be able to nail him with a blackmail charge. Likely, he didn’t use financial blackmail. He probably used the information to play mind games, thus influence his targets to do his bidding at their own volition. Dixon was glad he waited for that information from Calgary. It would give him more firepower come time to arrest Abbadon.
He placed his sidearm on the smoking table and eased himself into the wooden chair by the fireplace. With stiff fingers, he loosened his cross-belts and tugged on his black leather boot. Nothing felt better at the end of the day than to remove your boots in front of a warm fire. Good thing he started it before stabling his horse. He wiggled his toes. The hot coals made for a warm hearth. Steam rose from his socks as he set the heels of his feet down on the stones.
“Dixon?” Mrs. Clumpit’s voice came from outside his office door.
“Come in.” He smiled. Would she stay for a while? Used to be, when her husband was alive, they would visit to well past midnight. But that was years ago.
The office door dragged along the pine floor. “I brought you some supper. Thought maybe you’d be late, so I kept it warm.” Her beautifully sculptured face smiled with a deep peace he often wondered at.
She was always thinking of others. That’s what made her such a good hostess. He drew in a long breath. “Smells good.”
Her gray eyes reflected the light from the fire, making them appear as stars in a fair sky.
Dixon stood to take the tray from her. “Do you have time to visit while I eat?”
The corner of her mouth twitched, but her eyes danced at the suggestion.
He scratched the stubble on his chin. She used to look like that when Jethro teased her. “Course, if you’re uncomfortable or ‘fraid of gossip …”
She tossed her head back and laughed. Her hand landed on his sleeve and, while he liked the sensation it brought him, he knew it bordered on dangerous. She was the widow of an old friend and former NWMP Officer. Memories of Jethro left no room in their relationship for anything but friendship.
“They already do. Matchmakers in the entire county have us pegged.” She grinned then removed her hand to cover her blush.
He looked down and suppressed a smile. He’d seen the old ladies whispering outside the restaurant before, but it was harmless.
“Most know, though, that you and Jethro were close. It only seems natural you’d watch out for me.” She settled in the chair beside him and fluffed her skirts about her ankles.
She fit that room; dressed in gingham, with whiffs of brown curls puffing out of her bun and delightful fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. She looked the part of a pioneer. Her face was beautiful and filled with strength, the kind of strength an officer needed by his side.
Dixon cleared his throat and picked up the fork by the plate. “I bet you miss him.”
She looked into the fire and her eyes softened. “I do, every minute of the day. But the hurt is passing and the memories are taking on a kind, sort of gentle reminder of what love can be.” Her gaze dropped to her hands. “He thought the world of you, you know. Ever since he first met you at Fort Carlton.”
Dixon gripped the fork, holding it inches away from his mouth. The tantalizing smell of pot roast now turned his stomach. Fort Carlton was a place he’d rather forget. Why’d she bring it up? “Oh?”
She rubbed her lips together, as though trying to keep herself from saying something.
He lowered his fork to the plate. “Something on your mind, Ruth?” He liked the sound of her first name rolling off his tongue. Would she be offended?
The corner of her mouth turned up in a sad little half smile. She stole a look at him, and then quickly looked away to the west wall. “Abbadon is entertaining the folks tonight with music. Can’t you hear?”
Dixon paused. The sound of a guitar and a bass voice filtered through the clapboards. It sounded like Abbadon’s. Other voices joined it. With the stranger so occupied, it would be a good chance to examine his room.
“He knows things, you know.” She looked back at him. Sad eyes, trying to send a message, but what was it?
Dixon rubbed his wool socks along the pine floor beneath his chair. How much did she know about Duck Lake? Jethro had been there. He’d always suspected Jethro knew something about his secret trip into town, but the man never said anything. Never revealed any knowledge, even of Dixon’s part in the fire at Fort Carlton—which he was certain Jethro knew about. Surely his secret died with the constable. “What sort of things?”
She jumped to her feet. “I should return, before people start talking.”
Dixon stood and rubbed the back of his neck. “Is something the matter?”
She touched her lips with the tips of her fingers, and then headed for the door. “Be careful, Dixon. Abbadon’s charmed the community, but he’s a devil at heart.” With a sweep of her skirts, she flew through the door like a startled dove.
Dixon’s fingers dug into the back of his chair. Something was up, and he needed to act. He grabbed his gauntlets and his pith helmet. Tonight he would examine Abbadon’s room, with or without a warrant.