The Woman Behind the Brass Bars

Mei Lin Carter arrived in Dry Creek by train, which suited her temperament better than horseback because trains, unlike men, generally went where they said they were going, and as the locomotive groaned into the station beneath a wash of coal smoke and afternoon light she stepped down in a navy coat cut sharp through the waist, a black hat set low over dark eyes, one gloved hand resting near a holster decorated with silver conchos, and paused just long enough to study the town as though it were a contract someone had neglected to read before signing. The porter lowered her trunk and said, “Ma’am, you staying long?” Mei Lin looked toward the main street, where the bank stood between a dry-goods store and a barber shop, its brass lettering polished brighter than anything else in town. “That depends,” she said. “On what?” “Whether Dry Creek deserves the trouble.” The porter laughed uncertainly. “Trouble follows you?” “No,” Mei Lin said. “I am usually following it.” She reached the bank twenty minutes before closing and found the front room quiet except for the scratch of a pen, the ticking of a wall clock, and a woman behind the brass teller bars who was counting notes into neat stacks with the practiced concentration of someone whose hands knew arithmetic better than most men knew honesty. Abigail Reed looked up. She was pretty in a composed, intelligent way, brown hair pinned into a practical updo, striped blouse buttoned high, burgundy ribbon at her throat, and a smile that appeared only after she had taken Mei Lin in from hat to boots and decided she was interesting. “We close at four,” Abigail said. Mei Lin glanced at the clock. “It is three forty-two.” “You are very exact.” “I find accuracy saves arguments.” Abigail tilted her head. “And does it?” “No,” Mei Lin replied. “But it makes winning them easier.” Abigail laughed before she could stop herself. Mei Lin approached the counter and slid a folded document beneath the bars. “I need access to an account held in the name of Carter Freight & Mercantile.” Abigail unfolded it, read the signature, then read it again. “That account is frozen.” “Yes.” “By order of the bank president.” “Yes.” Abigail looked up. “You already knew that?” “I knew before I boarded the train.” “Then why come here?” “Because someone froze thirty-six thousand dollars belonging to my family company and assumed distance would make me polite.” Abigail’s smile vanished. “That is a great deal of money.” “It becomes more irritating the longer I am deprived of it.” Abigail lowered her voice. “Mr. Hollis controls commercial accounts personally. He says the Carter account is under review.” “Review for what?” “He didn’t say.” “Of course he didn’t.” Abigail hesitated, fingers still resting on the document. “There is something else.” Mei Lin waited. Abigail leaned closer to the brass bars. “Your account is not the only one.” That changed the air between them. “Whose others?” “Widows. Small ranchers. Two shopkeepers. Anyone without enough influence to question delays.” Mei Lin’s expression cooled. “And where does the money go while it is being delayed?” Abigail swallowed. “That is precisely what I have been trying to determine.” Mei Lin studied her, not suspiciously now, but carefully. “You’ve been keeping records.” Abigail’s eyes flicked toward the manager’s door. “That obvious?” “To me.” “Is that a compliment?” “It may become one.” Abigail smiled despite herself. “Come back after closing.” Mei Lin rested one hand on the counter. “Miss Reed, do you generally invite armed strangers into banks after business hours?” “Only the charming ones.” Mei Lin’s mouth curved slightly. “Then I shall try not to disappoint you.” At half past four the front door was locked, the blinds were drawn, and Abigail led Mei Lin into the back office carrying a ledger so heavy it required both hands. “I copied withdrawals for three months,” she said, setting it down. “Small amounts, usually. Never enough at once to attract attention.” Mei Lin opened the book. “Who signs the transfers?” “Hollis.” “To where?” “That’s the difficulty. The receiving entries are coded.” Mei Lin turned three pages, then five more. “No,” she said. Abigail frowned. “No?” “They only look coded.” She tapped one column. “These are railway parcel numbers.” Abigail leaned in so close their shoulders touched. “You’re certain?” “My father ran freight contracts from Sacramento to Denver. I grew up reading manifests because he believed daughters should understand any document a man might someday use to cheat them.” Abigail smiled. “I think I would have liked your father.” “He would have liked you.” That came out more softly than Mei Lin intended. Abigail’s eyes lifted to hers. For a moment neither woman looked at the ledger. Then the rear door opened. Mr. Hollis filled the frame, round-faced, red-cheeked, wearing a gold watch chain and an expression of outrage usually reserved for men discovering that secrecy had failed them. “What is she doing back here?” Abigail stood. “I asked her.” “You do not ask anyone into my office.” Mei Lin remained seated. “That explains the theft, then.” Hollis turned toward her. “Excuse me?” “You have been moving customer deposits through railway parcel accounts, withdrawing cash in small increments, and hiding the movement under freight numbers.” Abigail stared at the ledger. Hollis laughed too loudly. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Mei Lin closed the book. “I know enough to ask why the same parcel number appears fourteen times without a corresponding shipment.” Hollis went still. “Miss Reed,” he snapped, “go home.” Abigail’s face tightened. “No.” The word surprised all three of them. Hollis stepped toward her. “You work for me.” Abigail stood straighter. “I work for the bank.” “I am the bank.” Mei Lin rose slowly. “That sentence,” she said, “is usually the beginning of someone losing everything.” Hollis pointed at the door. “Get out.” Mei Lin did not move. “You will unlock every frozen account tomorrow morning.” “You’re threatening me?” “I am giving you the pleasant version.” His hand moved toward the desk drawer. Mei Lin’s revolver was out before the drawer opened halfway. Abigail froze. Hollis stared down the barrel. Mei Lin’s voice remained almost conversational. “Take your hand away.” He did. “You won’t shoot me in a bank.” “No,” Mei Lin said. “The paperwork would be tedious.” Abigail covered a laugh with one hand. Hollis looked at her with fury. “You think this is amusing?” “No,” Abigail said. “I think it is overdue.” Mei Lin gestured with the revolver. “Sit.” He sat. “Now,” she said, “we are going to make a list.” By morning, Sheriff Pritchard’s successor had not yet been chosen, but enough townspeople had gathered outside the bank to make formal law temporarily unnecessary, and Hollis, confronted with copied records, missing deposits, false transfers, and six furious customers who had discovered their savings were only secure when he was not touching them, found himself escorted from his own institution beneath a chorus of language Abigail later described as “economically creative.” The bank reopened at ten. Abigail stood behind the teller window, nervous for the first time since Mei Lin had met her. “You should know,” she said, “the board has asked me to act as manager until they send someone.” Mei Lin leaned against the counter. “They are making one intelligent decision today.” “And your account?” “I assume you intend to release it.” Abigail lifted an eyebrow. “I could make you ask nicely.” Mei Lin’s smile appeared slowly. “Would you enjoy that?” “Immensely.” Mei Lin moved closer to the bars. “Miss Reed.” “Yes, Miss Carter?” “Please give me my money.” Abigail laughed and began counting out the withdrawal. “How much?” “Ten thousand.” Her hands stopped. “Ten?” “I have investments to make.” “In Dry Creek?” “Possibly.” Abigail looked at her. “You said you might not stay.” “I have reconsidered.” “Because of the bank?” Mei Lin looked at Abigail rather than the money. “Not entirely.” Abigail’s cheeks warmed. She stacked the notes between them. “You are very direct.” “I told you accuracy saves arguments.” “And what happens if I want to argue?” Mei Lin rested her forearms on the counter, close enough now that the brass bars felt less like a barrier and more like decoration. “Then I suppose I shall have to keep coming back.” Abigail’s smile turned bright and unguarded. “You may need additional withdrawals.” “I may need additional reasons.” There was a pause. Then Abigail pushed another stack across the counter. “What is this?” “Interest.” “On one night?” “Exceptional service.” Mei Lin laughed, genuinely this time, and Abigail looked absurdly pleased with herself. Outside, Dry Creek went on with its morning unaware that another of its old arrangements had just been broken, because money once controlled by a dishonest man now sat in careful stacks between two women who understood exactly what it was worth, while something far less countable and considerably more dangerous had already begun passing between them. And that was how Mei Lin Carter stopped being merely a traveler with a frozen account, how Abigail Reed stopped being merely the woman behind the brass bars, and how one of the Sapphic Six discovered that sometimes the quickest route to a woman’s heart ran straight through a ledger full of stolen money.