Wyoming Wildfire (Harlequin Historical) (5 page)

“Or any other parts that I know of. What about your brother? What kind of dealings did he have with them?”

“None—until last fall when Allister laid eyes on the stallion. As I told you, he made Frank an offer in Laramie, and Frank told him the horse wasn’t for sale at any price. That’s the last we heard until the week when the Felton marshal served us with notice that the Gates brothers had redeemed our mortgage and we had three days to clear off the property. Later that day, Allister came by with a half-dozen cowhands from his ranch and took the stallion.”

Even as she spoke, Jessie was amazed that she could tell the story so calmly. There had been nothing calm about that afternoon. The men from the Gates Ranch had galloped up to the house armed with pistols. They’d caught Frank outside, unarmed except for the heavy double ax he’d been using to break up a stump. Holding him at gunpoint, they’d put a lead on Midnight and taken the stallion out of the corral. Jessie had rushed outside in time to stop her brother from hurling his ax at Allister, which would have surely gotten him shot.

“You have no right to take that horse!” she’d shouted as Allister’s men led the stallion down the trail. “He’s not part of the ranch. He’s ours.”

Allister Gates had shot her a contemptuous look, spat in the mud and ridden away.

Frank had been beside himself. It had taken all Jessie’s persuasive powers to keep him from getting his rifle and going after Allister Gates right then. But that didn’t mean he’d murdered the man. If he had, he would never have been able to keep it from her.

She glanced back over her shoulder to where her brother’s body lay slung across the bay horse. Now that Frank was dead it would be all too easy to blame him for killing Allister. Case closed. Frank was beyond judgment, but his name would be forever tainted with the stain of murder. And the real killer, whoever he was, would go unpunished.

Whatever the cost, Jessie vowed, she would not allow that to happen. She owed it to Frank and to their parents’ memory to clear his name. And the one man who might be able to help her was riding at her side. No matter how much she might resent him, she could not afford to drive him away.

“What can you tell me about the Gates family?” the marshal asked, breaking the silence. “Did Allister leave a wife? Any children?”

“That’s a story in itself,” Jessie said. “The Gates brothers were both bachelors, and since Allister was in his fifties and Virgil in his forties, nobody expected that to change. Then, last summer, Allister made a trip to St. Louis and came home with a wife.”

Matt gave a low whistle. “You’re right. That is a story in itself. What’s she like?”

“Younger—a widow, I’d guess. Nice looking. And she knows how to dress. I’ve seen her in town a few times, but that’s all. I can’t say I know her.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Lillian—I heard someone call her that.”

“Lillian.” He repeated the name thoughtfully, as if he were tasting each syllable. Maybe the marshal had an eye for rich, good-looking widows, Jessie thought with a stab of irritation.

Impatient, she seized his arm. “Don’t you see? Now she owns half the ranch. And Virgil owns the other half. If he marries his brother’s pretty widow, he gets it all! Virgil had a lot more motive for killing Allister than poor Frank ever did!”

“So how do you explain the fact that Allister was shot with Frank’s gun? Nobody could have known the gun would be there.”

“No, but Virgil could have found it and seen the perfect opportunity to kill Allister and let Frank take the blame. Or it could have been someone else—maybe one of the ranch hands who had a grudge against Allister. Heaven knows, he wasn’t the most likable man in the world.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know him.”

The coldness in Matt’s voice hit Jessie like a slap. For the space of a breath, she weighed the wisdom
of telling him about Allister’s behavior when he came for the stallion. No, she decided, that would only lend weight to the case against Frank.

“I know him by reputation. From all reports, Allister Gates was an arrogant, abrasive man.”

“But I’ll wager he wasn’t stupid. Allister had to have known the horse wasn’t his to take. My guess is, if you’d called his hand, he would have given the two of you a choice—the horse or the family homestead.”

“And he was betting we’d choose to give up Midnight rather than lose the ranch. Allister didn’t need our land, and neither does Virgil. But now he’ll take the place. It’s that or lose his money.”

Matt exhaled wearily. “You should have kept the stallion, Jessie. With Frank gone, you might have been able to trade with Virgil and keep your home.”

Jessie shook her head, fighting tears. “Frank died for that stallion! I won’t dishonor his memory by giving up Midnight to Virgil Gates!”

They were coming over the last ridge now. Gazing down into the narrow valley below, Jessie could see the cabin, with its outlying clutter of sheds, corrals and pens that had been her home for the past fifteen years. It was a poor and shabby place—calling it a ranch bordered on a joke. But she’d been happy here. The years of poverty and backbreaking work had been sweetened by the harsh splendor of this mountain country, the warmth of family love and the
beauty of horses. Her father had spent some time among the Shoshone and had learned the skill of “Indian breaking” a horse with gentleness and trust. Horses broken by Tom Hammond were valued by cowhands and ranchers all over the county. Even the big roan that Morgan Tolliver favored had come to him by way of the Hammond Ranch.

Tom had passed his horse-breaking skills on to his children. But his unexpected death had left them ill-prepared to handle the business of horse selling. Worse in terms of the future, more blooded horses were being imported from the East and bred on the big ranches. There was less demand for the wild-caught mustangs that had furnished their livelihood for years.

Jessie and her brother had been at the point of selling out when Frank had seized on the idea of buying a prize stallion. Midnight had become his dream, then his obsession. Now there was nothing left.

“Where will you go, Jessie?” Matt Langtry asked her. “Have you made any kind of plans?”

Jessie stared down the hill at the ruin of her world.

“No,” she said, swallowing the ache in her throat. “Frank and I were given three days to clear off the property. That time will be up tomorrow night. But I’m not leaving the county. Not until I know who really murdered Allister Gates.”

T
he Hammond family graveyard lay on a flat knoll above the ranch. Amid the scattered clumps of mallow and blue-eyed grass, Matt could make out five graves. Two of them were adult sized with names and dates carved into crude wooden slabs. The other three were nothing more than weathered, overgrown baby mounds with no markers. Stillborn children, Matt guessed. A woman giving birth could have a bad time in this isolated spot, especially in winter, with no doctor or midwife able to get through the snow.

Would it have been Jessie who attended her mother? He pictured her frightened young eyes in the lamplight, her small hands doing what needed to be done. Swiftly he willed the image away. Life had toughened Jessie Hammond. He admired her strength and courage. But that didn’t mean he could afford to sympathize with her, let alone like
her. Until the murder of Allister Gates was resolved, he would have no choice except to view her as a suspect.

Jessie had left him here and ridden on down to the ranch to put away her mare and get a shovel. She had made a point of telling him that the graveyard was outside the boundary of the homestead. They wouldn’t be burying Frank on property that belonged to Virgil Gates—or to Lillian Gates, Matt reminded himself. Now, that was a situation that warranted some checking into.

Looking off the knoll, he could see Jessie coming back up the path on foot. She moved with a determined stride, balancing two shovels under her left arm. In the crook of her other arm she carried a rolled bundle wrapped in a sheet of oilskin.

Above her, boiling black clouds spilled across the sky. Sheet lightning danced above the western peaks, followed by a distant echo of thunder.

“Here.” She flung one of the shovels at him. “Unless we want to finish in a storm, we’ll need to get this grave dug in a hurry.”

“Fine. Let’s get to work.” Matt jabbed his shovel into the sod to mark the edge of the grave. He would have been willing to do the job by himself—Lord knows, he’d dug graves alone before. But Jessie was right about the coming storm and, for all her doll-like size, she’d proved she was no weakling. Maybe the
effort of digging would release some of the grief and anger she held so tightly in check.

“Do you have any place to stay when you leave the ranch?” he asked her as they scooped away the rocky earth. “Any family? Friends?”

“Are you making me an offer?” She shot him a scathing glare.

“Not unless you want to share a single bed in a boardinghouse.” Matt saw color flood her cheeks and couldn’t resist adding, “Of course, if we could work it out with my landlady, I’d be happy to accommodate you.”

She lowered her blazing face. “Don’t be smart with me,” she muttered. “I don’t need your help, or anybody else’s. I can manage just fine by myself.”

“Can you?” Matt thrust his shovel into the ground and scooped up the rocky soil. “I’ve known other pretty women who thought they could manage by themselves. I don’t even want to tell you what became of them when their luck ran out and they had no place to go.”

“Then don’t tell me. I can guess. And it’s not going to happen to me. I’m strong and I’m good with horses and cattle. I’ll find work.”

“If you can find anybody who’ll hire a woman, especially the sister of the man arrested for killing Allister Gates.”

Her head jerked upward, eyes wide and angry.
For the space of a breath, Matt thought she might swing the shovel at his head. Then her shoulders sagged. “Frank was innocent. I’ve told you all the reasons why. But you still don’t believe me, do you?”

“What I believe doesn’t count for much. It’s what other people believe that’s going to determine how they treat you.”

“You’re saying I should leave? Make a new start someplace where nobody knows me? Maybe change my name?” The blade of her shovel crunched into the dirt. “I happen to be proud of my name, and I’m not about to see it stained by lies and deceit.”

Behind her, lightning flickered across the sky. Thunder growled as the fast-moving storm crept closer. Dirt flew from their shovels as they flung their efforts into finishing the grave ahead of the rain.

The grim line of Jessie’s mouth was softened only by the satiny fullness of her lips. She worked intently, stabbing her shovel into the ground with a force driven by pain and fury. Matt had no doubt she meant what she’d said about clearing her brother’s name. He’d known plenty of women in his life, but never one who possessed such dogged determination as Jessie Hammond.

One question gnawed at him. If she’d shot Allister why would she be so bent on clearing her brother, especially when it would be easy to let him take the blame? Was she the virtuous young woman
she appeared to be? Or did that china-doll face and those melting amethyst eyes hide the heart of a back-wood Jezebel who’d do anything—lie, seduce, even kill—to get what she wanted?

He studied her furtively, his attention lingering on a bead of perspiration that had pooled in the hollow of her throat. He found himself wondering what it would be like to lick that bead away, savoring the salty taste of her sweat as he nibbled his way upward to her mouth…or downward to the cleft between those luscious breasts….

Matt jerked himself back to reality. Fantasizing about Jessie might be delicious, but after a while, he knew, it wouldn’t be enough. He would want her. And he couldn’t have her, not as long as she was a suspect in his murder investigation.

For now, he could only regard her as an intriguing puzzle.

By the time the grave was deep enough, the storm had moved in. Black clouds, split by crackling thunderbolts, seethed overhead. The air was heavy with moisture.

There’d been no time to prepare a coffin. But now Matt saw what Jessie had brought up the hill, bundled in the oilskin sheet.

Placing the bundle on the ground, she unfolded it with careful, tender hands. Inside was a beautifully pieced patchwork quilt. Noticing the lack of wear
around the edges, Matt judged that it must be new—a treasure in this rough place.

Jessie looked up at him, fighting back tears. “It’s a wedding-ring quilt. My mother made it for the girl Frank would find and marry one day. But now there’ll be no girl, no marriage, no children. Only this.” She rose to her feet and turned toward the horse that carried her brother’s body. “Help me lay him on it,” she said.

Matt knew better than to protest, even though this seemed a waste of so much loving work. Frank would have rested just as well in the oilskin or the bare earth and never known the difference. But if it would ease Jessie’s heart to wrap him in the quilt meant for his bride, who was he to argue against it?

With Matt cradling Frank’s head and shoulders while Jessie supported the feet, they eased the lanky body off the horse and laid it out on the beautiful quilt. Sensing that she wanted to do the rest alone, he stepped back and watched as she crossed his hands over his chest and tucked the quilt around him. When everything but his face was covered, she bent and kissed his waxen forehead. “Sleep tight,” she whispered, as she must have done countless times when her brother was small. Then she folded the quilt over his face and rose to her feet.

As she did so, raindrops spattered around them, drenching their hair and clothes. Hurrying now, they
used the oilskin to lift the body and lower it into the grave. Then Matt reached down and pulled the waterproof ends over the quilt.

“Go on,” he said. “Take the bay down to the house and get dry. I can finish up here.”

Water streamed off her hair, beading on her ebony brows and lashes as she shook her head. “We can’t just leave,” she argued. “Not without saying words over him.”

Matt sighed. This was the part of burials he always dreaded most. And standing here in the rain didn’t make things any pleasanter. “Go ahead,” he muttered. “Say whatever you need to, but make it fast.”

“You first.”

Matt bit back a growl of protest. Meeting Frank Hammond had set loose a whole string of calamities, and the last thing he felt like was finding something good to say about the poor young fool. But Jessie was waiting, so he clasped his hands, bowed his head and fumbled for some words that wouldn’t add to her anguish.

“Lord, only you know what was in this boy’s heart, and only you can be his judge. We ask you to see the good in him and to welcome him home. Amen.”

She shot him a startled glance, and he realized he should have said more. But never mind. He was done, and now it was her turn. He might as well let her talk as long as she wanted. They were already soaked to
the skin and couldn’t get any wetter. He watched her in silence as she stared down at the bundle in the open grave.

“I know people will say you’ve gone to a better place, Frank,” she began. “But you were in a good place right here, and you left it too soon. You missed the chance to finish growing up, to get married, to have children, and to grow old on this earth. And you left with people accusing you of something I know you didn’t do.”

She paused, swallowed and licked a tear from her lips. “It’s too late to undo the wrong and bring you back. But I’m not going to let it rest, Frank. Whatever it takes, I’m going to bring Allister’s killer to justice and clear your name. I swear it on your grave, and on Mama and Papa’s graves.” She drew in an anguished breath, like the sound of tearing silk. “That’s all I have to say, I guess. Except that I love you. I didn’t say it much when you were alive—I mostly just scolded and bossed you. But I’m saying it now, just in case you’re someplace where you can hear…”

Her voice trailed off as she turned away and picked up the shovel where she’d left it thrust in the ground. Dirt and rocks spattered on the wet oilskin as the first scoop of earth dropped into the grave.

Matt followed her example, digging deep and hard into damp soil and flinging it down into the hole. He wanted to be done with this sad business and get out
of the rain. Better yet, he wanted to wake up in his own bed and realize that he’d dreamed this entire hellish day and had never known Frank or Jessie Hammond.

Jessie worked beside him in silence, her hair hanging over her face in curly black strings. Her soaked flannel shirt clung beneath the baggy overalls, giving him glimpses of her voluptuously curved little body. Matt tore his eyes away. This was a funeral, not a damned peep show, he reminded himself. He’d be smart to keep his eyes, and his thoughts where they belonged.

After the grave was filled and smoothed over, they mounted in the drizzling rain and rode down the hill. Matt was spattered with mud from head to toe and so cold that his teeth were chattering. He knew that Jessie must be the same. Yet she sat like a queen in the saddle, head erect, spine ramrod straight, ignoring her own misery. She was a proud thing. Too proud, he thought. With no family, no home and no money, she was going to need help. The sooner she accepted that fact, the better off she would be.

When he got back to Sheridan, he would make some inquiries. Maybe there was a family who needed an extra pair of hands, or better yet, a hotel or boardinghouse where she could work for room, meals and a little spending money. It was a servant’s job she’d be doing, but that couldn’t be helped. Since
no rancher would hire a woman wrangler, let alone the sister of Frank Hammond, there wasn’t much left to choose from except the saloons and dance halls. And he would lock her up in jail, by heaven, before he’d see men touching her the way they touched girls in those places.

Touching her…the way he was aching to touch her now.

By the time they arrived at the ranch, the rain had turned the yard to a quagmire. Leaving Matt to put the horses in the shed, Jessie hurried to the house to make a fire and start some coffee.

Crossing the porch, she paused to kick off her muddy boots, as she’d always done. Only then did it strike her that it made no difference whether she left muddy tracks across the floor or not. Tomorrow the place would no longer be hers.

Since the boots were off by then, however, she left them on the porch and pattered inside. She would need to get out of her wet clothes, but first she’d start a fire in the big cast-iron stove that warmed the house. Thank goodness Frank had filled the wood box two days ago. At least there’d be plenty of dry kindling.

The truth struck like a sudden blow, choking her with tears. Traces of Frank were all around her—the neatly chopped wood, the clothes in his room, the
razor and shaving brush on the washstand, the book left open on the table. She almost expected to glance out the window and see him come whistling around the corner of the house. But no, she had to accept the fact that he was gone. She would not see him again in this life.

She jammed the kindling into the stove and added a few scraps of carefully hoarded newspaper. The blaze flickered and caught the dry wood. When it was burning well, she closed the grate, measured coffee and water into the big tin pot and set it on to boil.

The air in her bedroom was icy, but with Matt around the place, she could hardly risk leaving the door open to warm the room while she changed. Her teeth chattered as she stripped off her sodden clothes. Beneath them, her skin was puckered with gooseflesh. Her nipples were so taut and hard that they ached.

If he were to walk in on her, would he like what he saw? Would he like touching her? Would she like being touched? Jessie blotted the shocking ideas from her mind. What was the matter with her? How could she be having such feelings about the man who’d let her brother die?

As she reached for a clean flannel shirt, she heard the opening creak of the front door. Her pulse broke into a gallop as she heard Matt’s voice.

“Jessie?” The door closed behind him. “Are you all right?”

“Just ch-changing.” Jessie threw on the shirt without taking time to find a camisole. Her cold-numbed fingers fumbled with the buttons.

“Can I do anything to help?” His deep voice came from just outside her door. “Out here, I mean.”

“Just make sure the f-fire hasn’t gone out.” She shoved her legs into her denims, tucked in her shirt-tails and yanked the belt tight around her narrow waist. “Coffee’s brewing, but it’ll be a few minutes yet.”

“Fire looks fine, and the coffee’s starting to smell good.” His voice came from the kitchen now. Since she hadn’t heard his footsteps, she could only surmise he’d taken off his boots on the porch, as she had.