I traveled four thousand miles across the ocean and two thousand miles across the prairie to marry Liam Callahan, Kathleen said, stepping off the stagecoach in Baker City, Oregon.
A note arrived, delivered by a solemn-faced boy, requesting my presence behind the Methodist church. It was signed by Clara Callahan. Reluctantly, I went.
Clara stood by the old oak, her back to the church, her silk dress a startling contrast to the rough frontier landscape. She held a small leather reticule clutched in her gloved hand.
“Miss Burke,” she said, her voice devoid of its usual simpering sweetness, now sharp and direct. “Let’s be pragmatic. You’re out of your depth here.”
“I believe I understand the depths rather well, Mrs. Callahan,” I replied, crossing my arms.
She produced a thick envelope from her reticule. It wasn’t sealed. “$300 cash,” she stated, fanning the crisp banknotes. “Enough for a steamship ticket, first class, back to Queenstown. You leave Oregon, and all this unpleasantness vanishes.”
I stared at the money, then at her. My family was gone. There was nothing left for me in Ireland but ghosts.
“I am Liam’s wife, under the law of this territory,” I reminded her, my voice unwavering. “My place is here.”
Clara’s lips curled in a sneer. “A technicality, dear. One a judge would overturn in a heartbeat once the proper legal challenges are presented.” She tapped the envelope against her palm. “You can have your dignity, or you can have a full purse and a safe passage home.”
As she spoke, a corner of a document peeked out from her reticule. It was stiff, with an official-looking wax seal. My eyes, trained to observe, caught a glimpse of bold, stamped lettering: “WESTERN PACIFIC RAILROAD SYNDICATE.”
My breath hitched. The pieces clicked into place. The broadsides, the freezing of the timber, the urgent pressure to sell.
“You have a contract,” I stated, the words cold on my tongue. “With the railroad.”
Clara’s smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of surprise and then anger. She quickly shoved the document deeper into her bag. “That’s none of your concern.”
“It is entirely my concern,” I countered. “The railroad wants the Callahan timber. And they want it by October 1st, don’t they?”
Her silence was damning. October 1st was barely a week away.
“You need Liam dead by then, don’t you?” I pressed, my voice barely a whisper. “To claim full widow’s title, unencumbered, before the contract expires. That’s why the tonic. That’s why the rush.”
Clara’s face contorted, all pretense of gentility stripped away. Her eyes, usually so carefully composed, blazed with naked malice. “Liam is a dying man! I am merely securing what is rightfully mine!”
“By murdering him slowly?” I asked, my voice rising.
She recoiled as if slapped. “You will regret this, Miss Burke. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.” She turned sharply, her silk skirts whipping around her, and strode away, leaving the scent of her expensive perfume hanging heavy in the air.
The $300 bribe, the urgent October 1st deadline, the railroad contract – it was all clear now. Clara wasn’t just greedy; she was a calculating, cold-blooded murderer driven by a desperation for high society and a fat railroad payout of $4,500.
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