Bloody Sunday (15 page)

“All right.” She forced herself to calm down and continued. “I don't know why, but Alfred hired detectives to look into my life, and they found out the truth about me. Their reports were locked in his safe. I don't think he was ever going to use them.”

“Unless you gave him a reason to.”

“Maybe.” She shrugged. “I said he was a good man. I never said he was a fool. I think if Hugh hadn't done what he did, though, eventually Alfred would have lost all his doubts about me, and he would have burned those reports and forgotten all about them. As it was, when Hugh opened the safe after Alfred's death, he found them and turned them over to the authorities.”

“And you looked even guiltier than before,” Luke said. “The reports gave you a motive for killing your husband. The police would think he was about to expose you for a swindler and throw you out.”

“That's right. You can see why I had to run . . . and keep running.”

“Until you got to Painted Post.” Luke frowned. “Why here?”

“I was headed to California,” she said. “I thought that's where the law would look for me. I figured that if I got off the train in some little town along the way and lived as quietly and discreetly as possible, I might be able to hide out and never be found.”

“It didn't take me that long to track you down,” Luke pointed out.

“That's because I didn't stick to my plan. I was going to get a job as a seamstress or a waitress or some other job like that. I was going to turn myself into a mousy little thing that no one would look twice at, let alone suspect of being a fugitive murderess.”

Luke didn't say anything, but he thought that she never could have transformed herself into a mousy little thing that no one would notice. That just wouldn't have been possible.

Glory went on: “Instead of doing that, I wound up marrying the biggest rancher in this part of the state and landed in the middle of a range war. But when I met Sam, I couldn't resist him. I know what you're thinking, Luke. I found another rich man to marry and possibly swindle. But it wasn't like that. I swear it wasn't.”

He didn't say whether or not he believed her. Instead, he said, “There's something I'm wondering about. You don't strike me as the sort of woman to just let this Hugh Jennings get away with murdering his own father, a man you claim to have loved. But by running away, you made sure he'd get away with it.”

She shook her head and said, “No, I was just biding my time. I was going to save up my money and then try to find someone to get to the truth. When I married Sam, I admit that I thought his money would make it easier, once I'd finally told him everything. But I was waiting to do that until after things were settled with Elston, and then . . .”

“And then it was too late.”

She sighed.

“Yes. Sam was dead. And I knew my first responsibility was to save the ranch he'd left behind. That's what he would have wanted. If that means war with Harry Elston, then so be it. My problems from before don't matter right now.”

“So what is it you want from me?”

“Don't you see? I want you to believe me! I've been carrying this around—” Again she raked her fingers through her hair. “I want you to help me stop Elston from taking over the MC. If you do that, Luke . . . I'll do anything you want.” She took another deep breath. “I'll even go back to Baltimore and face whatever's waiting for me there, once I know Sam's ranch will be safe.”

“Safe for who? Does he have any children?”

Glory shook her head.

“So you're all he had left. The ranch is yours. You're a rich woman.”

“I won't deny it.”

“And you could use that money to fight the charges against you and expose Hugh Jennings.”

“That's right.”

“But only if you can protect the MC from Elston.”

“You understand, Luke,” she said. “You have the truth. The whole picture. The question now is . . . what are you going to do about it?”

They ate supper in the hotel dining room. The tablecloth and the place settings were fancier than in the Elite Café, but the food—fried chicken, corn on the cob, and beans—wasn't as good. It was at least edible, though, and the coffee, thank goodness, wasn't bad, Luke thought.

He had told Glory that he would have to think about her question. She wasn't happy with that answer, but after spilling her guts to him the way she had, there wasn't much she could do except wait for him to make up his mind and hope that he believed her enough to throw in with her.

Not surprisingly considering everything that had happened, their dinner conversation was a bit strained. Luke was just as glad when the meal was over and they could go back upstairs to their rooms.

He told Glory good night while they were in the hallway outside Rooms Seven and Eight. She looked like she wanted to say something important, but then she just nodded slightly and told him, “Good night.”

The door clicked shut behind her as she went in.

Luke went into his room, tossed his hat on the bed without lighting the lamp, and found one of the ladder-back chairs next to the small table. He picked it up and set it next to the door, which he left open about half an inch.

The corridor ended in a blank wall. No window, no side stairs. Glory's room was closer to that blank wall than his, so she couldn't leave without going right past his door. If she tried to light a shuck out of Painted Post in the middle of the night, he intended to know about it.

Fully dressed except for his hat, still wearing his guns, he leaned the chair back against the wall in the darkness. His eyelids drooped so his eyes were half-closed. He wasn't asleep, but after a few minutes he wasn't fully awake, either.

However, all it would take to make him instantly alert would be the scrape of a foot or the faint squeak of a floorboard on the other side of the door. Luke was confident that Glory couldn't get past his room without his knowing it.

Even though he hadn't told her about it, he had made up his mind how he was going to proceed. He wasn't prepared to believe her story completely, because he had heard too many people he knew good and well were guilty as hell proclaim their innocence, but he leaned toward believing that her stepson, Hugh Jennings, really had murdered his father.

He wasn't sure how she planned to go about proving that, with or without his help, but for the time being that wasn't relevant.

First and foremost, he was going to help her protect the ranch from Harry Elston's rapacious grasp and get to the bottom of Sam MacCrae's murder.

None of that intruded on his thoughts as he leaned against the wall next to the door of his hotel room and waited for something to happen. Instead, he dozed lightly, with the experienced frontiersman's knack of snatching some rest whenever the opportunity presented itself.

When a tiny noise finally intruded on his hearing, it wasn't what he expected. Instead of coming from out in the corridor, the faint click he heard originated right there in the room with him.

In less than the blink of an eye, he was awake. Soundlessly, he eased the chair's front legs down onto the floor. The fingers of his right hand wrapped around the butt of the Remington holstered on his left hip. He slid the revolver from the cross-draw rig and looped his thumb over the hammer.

He didn't draw it back, though. That noise would have given away his position.

Breathing so shallowly that it couldn't be heard, he waited.

Several moments of silence went by. Then a floorboard gave a little as someone moved.

“Luke?” a voice whispered at last. “Luke, are you awake?”

Glory. That meant the noise that had roused him was the door between their rooms opening.

Luke still made no sound. She might have slipped into his room to shoot him or, more likely, slide a knife blade between his ribs. She wouldn't have him as an ally against Harry Elston if she did that, but on the other hand, she wouldn't have to worry anymore about him turning her over to the law, either.

“Luke, blast it, say something.” Her voice was still a whisper. “I know you're bound to be awake by now. Why won't you—”

He heard a small thud and a muttered curse. More than likely she had banged her knee against the bed or the table in the dark, he thought.

“Luke! Blast it, are you even in here?”

He came out of the shadows, a moving patch of deeper blackness in the darkened room, and wrapped his left arm around her waist to jerk her back against him. As she gasped in surprise he laid the Remington's barrel against the side of her head, such a light touch she probably barely felt it. The gun's muzzle wasn't against her temple, but it was close enough to be a threat.

“What do you want?” he asked.

She trembled as he held her, but he got the sense that it was from anger, not fear. Her voice was certainly angry as she said, “What the hell do you think I'm doing? I came to see you.”

“Why? To get me out of the way so I won't be a threat to you anymore?”

“Why do you think?”

He moved the arm that was around her. She wasn't wearing much, just whatever had been under her riding clothes earlier. When she twisted her head he felt the thick, tumbled mass of her hair brush his face and knew she wore it loose.

“Well, if you don't plan to kill me, then I'd say you're here to make sure I help you by bribing me with your fair white body,” he drawled.

“You really are an unpleasant man,” she said tightly.

“So I've been told many times. But am I wrong in my assumption?”

She hesitated before answering, but she finally said, whispering again, “No. No, you're not.”

“You must think I'm pretty easily manipulated if you believe you can get me to do whatever you want just by falling into bed with me.”

A short laugh came from her in the darkness.

“You're a man, aren't you?”

“Not any doubt about that.”

“Why should you be any different from any other man I've ever met?”

“Because I am,” Luke said. He holstered the gun, put that hand on her as well, turned her around toward him.

If he was wrong about her being armed, he might be feeling cold steel in his guts any second now, he told himself.

Instead, she seemed to melt against him, and with the unerring accuracy of instinct, her mouth found his.

It was a good kiss. Luke's hands and arms tightened on her in response. The bed was close beside them, and he knew that if he lowered her onto it, she wouldn't resist.

Maybe because she so fully expected it of him, he did something else. He slid his hands from her waist up to her shoulders, broke the kiss, and moved her back a step.

“What's wrong?” she murmured. “I'll do whatever—”

“I know what you're prepared to do,” Luke said. “And depending on how all this comes out, maybe someday I'll take you up on it, providing that you're still willing. But not now, Glory. Not when I'd never know if it was just because you thought you needed my help.”

Her shoulders stiffened under his touch. She said, “Damn you, Luke Jensen. I finally make up my mind to come over here and you . . . you reject me!”

Luke chuckled.

“Hell of a note, isn't it?” he said.

Before she could respond, the hotel room window erupted in an explosion of shattered glass, flame, and noise.

Luke acted instantly. Since he still had hold of Glory's shoulders, he swung her to the side and gave her a shove that ought to have sent her sprawling on the floor next to the bed, although the room was too dark for him to see if that was where she wound up.

In a continuation of the same movement, he whirled around and drew both Remingtons. The opening where the window had been was a little lighter than the surrounding area because of the glow in the street from other buildings, and he saw something dark bulking against that faint illumination. Firing from the hip, he triggered the guns twice each and sent four slugs through the gaping hole. The shape jerked back and disappeared.

Luke knew better than to run to the window and look out. It could be a trick to lure him into making a better target of himself. Whoever had fired through the window had used a shotgun, but the would-be killer could have a confederate posted somewhere on the other side of the street with a rifle.

Instead, he backed toward the door, in a crouch with his guns ready to fire again. When he reached it, he pushed it shut with his foot and holstered the left-hand gun long enough to reach behind him and turn the key, just in case a second bushwhacker tried to bust in that way.

He was half-deaf from the scattergun's blast followed by the roar of the Remingtons, but he called, “Glory! Glory, are you hit?”

To his ears her voice sounded like it came from far away, but he heard the words clearly enough as she said, “I'm all right, Luke. What about you?”

“I'm fine,” he said. “Are you on the floor?”

“Yes.”

“Stay there.”

They waited. Outside, people shouted questions, wanting to know what all the commotion was about. Luke heard footsteps hurry past in the corridor, no doubt other hotel guests wanting to get away from the scene of the trouble. Finally, after several minutes, somebody pounded a fist on the door.

“Open up!” Jared Whittaker called. “This is the sheriff! What's going on in there?”

Luke didn't fully trust Whittaker. It wouldn't surprise him to find out that Whitey Singletary had fired that shotgun blast through the window, and Whittaker might be planning to finish what the deputy had started.

So he holstered his left-hand gun again, went to the door, and unlocked it, then stepped quickly to the side in case Whittaker tried to shoot through the panel. Instead, as Luke backed off with the other Remington leveled, the door swung open slowly and Whittaker asked from the hallway, “Who's in there, damn it? I told you, I'm the law.”

Luke couldn't see Whittaker and knew the lawman was being cautious, too, hanging back out of sight.

“The only law I care about right now is in my fist, Sheriff,” he said. “Come inside slow and easy, with empty hands where I can see them.”

“Jensen! I should have known you'd be in the middle of this. Who have you killed now?”

“I'm not sure. Maybe nobody. Yet.”

Light from a lamp at the end of the hall spilled through the open door. Whittaker stepped into the glow, and as Luke had told him, his hands were out in front of him, clearly visible. He wasn't holding a gun.

“I leaned my rifle against the wall out here, Jensen,” Whittaker said as he came into the room. “Why don't you put away that revolver? Pointing a gun at a lawman is a crime in itself, you know.”

Luke lowered the Remington but didn't holster it. He glanced at Glory, saw that she was climbing to her feet. She didn't seem embarrassed or upset about her skimpy attire, even though Whittaker's eyes flicked toward her, then lingered a little longer than was necessary.

As always, even under less than perfect conditions, Glory MacCrae was spectacularly beautiful.

She reached toward the bed, as if she were going to pull off the spread to wrap it around herself, then stopped as she saw the hole blasted in it. A little shudder went through her, and Luke knew what she had to be thinking.

If they had been in that bed, they would both be dead by now. Every now and then it paid to be chivalrous, he supposed.

“Well, I reckon I know some of what was going on here, anyway,” Whittaker said dryly.

“Don't be obnoxious, Sheriff,” Glory snapped. “And you might be wise not to jump to conclusions, either. My room is next-door. When I heard the shot, I ran in here to make sure Mr. Jensen was all right.”

“Is that what happened, Jensen?”

“A gentleman never contradicts a lady,” Luke drawled. “I'm fine, Mrs. MacCrae. You can go back to your room now.”

“I'll decide when anybody can leave,” Whittaker said sharply. “Somebody took a shot at you through the window, Jensen?”

“That's right. I fired back, and whoever it was disappeared. Maybe they're lying out there in the street where they fell right now.”

Whittaker shook his head.

“This is the front of the hotel. If anybody was lying in the street I would have seen them when I ran down here after I heard the shooting. How do I know you didn't get drunk or go loco and shoot out the window yourself ?”

“For one thing, I don't have a shotgun,” Luke replied in a tone of patient contempt. “You heard the shots, and you can see what happened to the bed where the buckshot hit it. You know a shotgun was involved. For another, look at all that glass on the floor. You've probably felt some of it crunching under your boots. It was blown in, not out, and that means it was broken from outside.”

“All right, fine,” Whittaker said. “Somebody tried to bushwhack you. Did you get a look at him?”

“Unfortunately, no. Just a glimpse of a shape. If I were you, though, right about now I'd be asking myself where that deputy of yours is.”

Whittaker stiffened and said, “By God, I won't stand for you accusing Whitey of this, just because you've got a grudge against him—”

“I'd say the grudge runs the other way,” Luke cut in. “I was the one who whipped him yesterday, after all.”

“Well, I don't believe it, and I'd better not hear about you spreading rumors against him, either.”

Glory said, “Just how long do you intend to make me stand here like this, Sheriff ?”

Whittaker gave a little shake of his head, almost like he had forgotten she was there, although in her current state of undress that seemed impossible. He said, “Sorry, Mrs. MacCrae. You can go on back to your room.”

“Thank you,” she said coolly. “If you need me, you know where to find me, but I can't tell you any more than I already have.”