Wyoming Wildfire (Harlequin Historical) (9 page)

Or Frank Hammond’s life, Matt thought. “Tell me what you remember about that night. How did Allister know there was someone in the barn?”

“My husband and I had stayed up late playing cards. We’d just gone to bed when we heard the horses fussing around. Allister pulled on his clothes, grabbed his pistol and ran outside to see what the commotion was about.”

“You say Allister took his gun. Did he use it?”

Lillian’s pearl earrings quivered as she shook her head. “He may have used it to threaten the thief. But I only heard one shot—the one that killed him!”

She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders
shaking. When she looked up at Matt again, her face was dewy with tears. “When I heard the gun go off, I threw on my dressing gown, lit a lantern and ran outside. Someone was galloping down the drive, but it was too dark for me to see who it was.”

“What about the hired hands?”

“They were asleep in the bunkhouse. The gunshot woke them, but by the time they got outside, I’d already found Allister. He was lying facedown in the corral…” Her breath sucked in painfully. “His pistol was on the ground, a few steps away. It hadn’t been fired.”

“And the rifle?”

“One of the men found it a few paces from his body.” Her fingers twisted the wedding ring. So far her story matched what Matt had already heard. It was the discrepancies that always sparked his interest. So far he’d heard none.

“How long had your husband been gone when you heard the shot?”

“Not very long. I remember lying there, wondering if I should get up and light a lamp or just wait for him to come back to bed. Then I heard the gun go off.”

“And how long was that? Five minutes? Ten?”

She hesitated. “Somewhere in between, perhaps. Why, is it important?”

“Maybe.” In Jessie’s version of the story, they hadn’t heard the gunshot at all. The time would have
to have been long enough for Frank to get back across the river and for the two of them to ride out of hearing range. One of the two women was either mistaken or lying. And one key player in the story was still unaccounted for.

“Where was Virgil while all this was going on?” he asked her.

“I can answer that question, Marshal.” The bullnecked man who strode through the doorway seemed to crowd the room. After seeing him ride past at the head of a mob, Matt would have known Virgil Gates anywhere; but this was his first chance to study the man’s features. What he saw was a fleshy, handsome face, the wide mouth crowned by a thick wheaten mustache. Horse-sized white teeth flashed when he spoke. His eyes were the color of a frozen lake.

“I went into town around eight for a few drinks and some poker,” he said affably. “I was at Smitty’s Saloon till around eleven—you can take my word, or you can ask the old man who tends bar. By the time I got home, my brother was dead.”

“You didn’t hear anything? Didn’t see anybody on the road?”

Virgil raked his sweaty blond hair back from his forehead. His skin was pale above the hat line, the mark of a man who’d spent his life outdoors. “Not a soul. But would you take the main road back to town if you’d just stole a horse and shot a decent man in
the back?” He glanced around as if looking for a place to spit. “I hope the judge hangs that back-shooting little bastard high and slow, and I plan to be there to watch every minute of it.”

“I’ve heard rumors that you and your friends were out do the job yourselves,” Matt said.

Virgil looked startled for an instant. Then he grinned. “Hell, Marshal, me and the boys were just out for a little ride. No law against that, is there?”

“Not if you didn’t kill anybody, there isn’t,” Matt said. “You and your friends were lucky.”

Virgil’s eyes narrowed. “So what brings you out this way, Marshal? I thought you had the murderer locked up in the county jail.”

“Just checking evidence, making sure we know what happened,” Matt replied. Sooner or later, he knew, word would get out that Frank Hammond was dead. But until he’d filed his official report, the secret would remain his and Jessie’s.

The thought of Jessie filled Matt with a sudden sense of urgency. He’d ridden off and left her this morning, telling himself it would be less painful for them both. But what if he’d been wrong? What if she’d needed him and he hadn’t been there for her?

Jessie was an independent woman, but she was alone and vulnerable. It was time he finished up here. He would take a few more minutes to talk with Virgil and to interview the butler and the ranch hands.
Then he’d mount up and ride for the mountains. The sooner he got back to her the better.

“Have they set a date for the trial?” Virgil asked. “We’ll want to be there, of course. And I’m guessing you’ll need Lillian for a witness.”

“Oh, must I go?” Lillian’s pained eyes darted from one man to the other, as if seeking a rescuer. “All the terrible memories of that night—I don’t think I could stand reliving them.”

Virgil gazed down at his brother’s widow. In his eyes, Matt glimpsed something he’d failed to notice until now—a glimmer of protective, possessive heat. Heaven help him, the poor brute was in love with her!

Virgil rested one ham-sized hand on Lillian’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ll be there for you. You’ll be fine, Lil. Just fine.”

B
y the time Matt got back to town, angry clouds were spilling over the peaks of the Big Horns, threatening an afternoon storm. The mountain trail would be slippery in the rain. But he’d been in worse places, and it would take more than a little mud to keep him from getting back to Jessie.

What he’d learned about Allister’s death from the servants and ranch hands had scarcely been worth his time. The few cowboys who weren’t out on the range had claimed to be asleep when the fatal shot was fired. None of them had witnessed anything of importance. And they’d sworn that Frank Hammond was Allister’s only enemy. If anyone but Jessie was to be believed, the man had been a candidate for sainthood.

As for Virgil, he would have been at the top of Matt’s suspect list, but the aging bartender at Smitty’s
had confirmed his alibi. Virgil had been playing poker until eleven. Then he’d left, presumably for home and presumably alone.

Before leaving town, Matt paid a quick call on the undertaker, who had Allister’s body laid out in a costly walnut casket for tomorrow’s funeral. The murdered man, ten years older than his brother, looked weary, almost elderly, lying there in his black suit and starched white shirt, with his thin gray hair carefully combed over his pink scalp. His only visible injury was a curved, purplish bruise on his temple—the kind of mark that would be left by the hoof of a shod horse.

“Take a good look, Marshal,” the undertaker said. “This time tomorrow, he’ll be in the ground.”

“Thanks, I’ve seen enough.” Matt took note of the funeral time. If he could rustle up some clean clothes, he might want to pay his respects. A lawman could learn a lot at funerals just by watching and listening. But what mattered right now was getting back to Jessie.

Thunder boomed across the sky as he left the main road and headed up the mountain. Ignoring spatters of rain, he nudged the gelding to a trot. Higher up, the going would be slow and treacherous. The more trail he could put behind him before the storm got worse, the better.

Jessie’s face filled his thoughts—the flash of her
heart-stopping violet eyes, the softly swollen lips that he had kissed…and kissed…

But what was he thinking? Jessie had every reason to hate him. She’d be more likely to meet him with a rifle aimed at his chest than with open arms. And he’d promised himself he wouldn’t touch her again. Break that promise, and he might as well turn in his badge. As long as Jessie was a suspect in Allister’s murder, he had to keep her at arm’s length.

Most of her story rang true. The only discrepancy lay in when that shot was fired. Lillian had claimed to have heard it minutes after her husband left the house. Jessie had insisted she’d heard nothing, which would mean that she and Frank were out of earshot, riding for the hills, when Allister was killed.

So who was he to believe? A woman who had just gained half-interest in a ranch, or a woman who, at the time of the murder, had been helping her brother steal a horse from the victim’s property? The hoof-print on Allister’s head supported Jessie’s story. But it did not refute Lillian’s. Allister could have been struck by the horse at any time during the struggle.

By the time Matt reached the place where the trail cut upward from the wagon road, the rain was coming down in gray sheets. Soaked to the skin, he pushed ahead, trusting the horse to find solid footing. Progress was agonizingly slow, and thinking about Jessie only made matters worse.

With every mile, his anxiety increased until his pulse broke into a gallop as he rounded the last bend in the trail. The cabin was still above him, hidden from view by rocks, trees and blinding rain. Matt pushed aside the dark premonition that hung over him. Jessie would be all right, he told himself. She would be there, waiting for news, and they would shelter together until the rain stopped. No one, not even Virgil Gates, could expect her to move out in this weather.

Urging on his tired horse, he came up over the lip of the trail and into the clearing where the cabin stood—or where it had stood. The sight that greeted Matt’s eyes sucked the breath from his lungs.

The place Jessie had called home lay in charred, crumbling ruins. The sheds and corrals had been burned to ashes. Where the cabin had stood, only a few scattered timbers and the iron stove, with its blackened chimney thrusting skyward, remained.

“Jessie!” He was out of the saddle, shouting frantically. “Jessie! Where are you?”

The words were swallowed by the steady drone of the rain.

Sick with dread, he used a green limb to stir through the sodden ashes of the cabin. He found fire-blackened dishes and heat-warped metal utensils. He found fragments of furniture, burned cloth, buttons and what looked like a twisted boot. But there was
no sign of a human body, and Matt breathed a silent prayer of thanks for that.

“Jessie!” He shouted her name again and again, with all his strength. But he knew by now there would be no answer.

Matt widened his search to the sheds and the corral. He found no burned animal remains, not even chickens, which gave him, at least, a little hope. He pictured Jessie releasing the creatures to safety, then torching the ranch to leave Virgil Gates with nothing but charred earth. She was capable of such an act, he knew. But Matt could imagine other, darker scenarios.

He cursed in desperation. If he’d only stayed with her today, none of this would have happened.

Extending his search, he circled the perimeter of the clearing. The storm had begun to clear, but the driving rain had washed the ground clean of tracks. There was nothing to be found. Nothing but mud and ashes.

“Jessie!” His cry echoed off the mountains and died into silence. “Answer me, damn it! Answer me!”

Jessie huddled, shivering, in a dark corner of the old trapper’s cabin. The space between the cupboard and the wall was the driest spot she could find, but even here, rain trickled through the sod roof and dripped off the brim of her hat. Her hair was wet; her clothes were wet; her boots were wet, and her teeth
chattered uncontrollably. But at least, for now, she was safe.

The men from the Gates Ranch had come after her, but her knowledge of this mountain with its trails, ledges and hollows had saved her. Hiding the packhorse in a secluded box canyon, she’d led the riders on a long chase. In the end, it had been the rain that saved her. Soaked and weary, the riders had turned their backs to the storm and headed for town.

What if she’d been caught? Jessie asked herself now. She was guilty of burning property that was no longer hers.

At the very least, she would have been turned over to the town marshal, jailed and ordered to pay for the damage. But Virgil’s hirelings, she sensed, would have found far worse ways to punish her. They would have used her in every possible way, then left her body to rot in the mountains. And Virgil would have turned a blind eye. After all, who was she? She had no property, no money, no family. Who would miss her, or care enough to look for her?

Who, except Matt Langtry?

Jessie huddled deeper into her sodden coat, remembering how Matt’s kiss had ignited a bonfire inside her. She remembered how his tender fingers had carried her to the point of straining agony, and beyond, to an explosion of sweet relief. Everything he’d done, everything he’d given her, she had wanted—
his mouth, his hands, on the most intimate parts of her body. Looking back from where she was now, so cold and alone, she knew she would have given him everything if he’d chosen to take it. And after those few waking moments of shame, she would have lived the rest of her life without a flicker of regret.

Had he come back? Was he looking for her now, in the storm? The answer no longer mattered. He was a lawman, and she had broken the law. It would be his sworn duty to find her and bring her in for punishment.

Why couldn’t she have met Matt in some ordinary way—at a dance, at church, or in town? Then she might have flirted playfully with him, catching his attention. If he’d chosen to court her, she would have let herself fall deeply and wildly in love with him. She would have been happy to spend her life warming his bed, having his babies and building a life together.

If things had happened that way, maybe Frank would still be alive. Maybe he’d be courting a girl of his own, someone to share the beautiful quilt their mother had made for his bride.

But why dwell on what would never be? Frank was dead, and she was a fugitive. Unless she wanted to risk jail, she could not allow Matt Langtry to cross her path again.

Something stirred behind the woodpile. Jessie’s nerves jumped as a pack rat scampered out of the
shadows. Unafraid, it settled a few feet from her and began grooming its thick brown fur, cleaning its whiskered face with its tiny paws.

Strangely comforted, Jessie watched the contented little creature. If a pack rat could make a home in this place, so could she. The leaky cabin roof could be patched with fresh sod, the log walls sealed with mud. Years of accumulated grime could be scrubbed away. With summer coming, there would be time to lay in a supply of food and firewood. She could survive here—she
would
survive here.

The storm was clearing at last. The steady drumming of the rain had ebbed to a trickle. Pale fingers of light poked through the holes in the cabin roof. Jessie unfolded her cramped body. Her first movement sent the pack rat scurrying off into the shadows.

Her teeth were still chattering, but despite the stash of dry wood, she dared not make a fire in the rusty stove. The stovepipe was liable be clogged with nests and debris. Worse, Virgil’s henchmen could be watching the mountain. A rising plume of smoke could be seen for miles.

Reaching the door, she flung it open to let in air and light. Then she went outside to check the horses. By now the sun was coming out. Water dripped from the eaves of the cabin and glittered in drops, like liquid diamonds, on the fresh spring grass. Chickadees chased each other through the budding aspen trees.

The mare and the pinto were grazing in the trees, where she’d tethered them in the storm. Their coats gleamed with rain. Jessie made a mental note to build them a stout corral as soon as possible. There were wild mustangs in these mountains, and this pair could all too easily break loose and join them.

She had stowed the packed supplies in a hollow under the cabin—a drier place than the cabin itself. Now she dragged the bundle into the open. It was time to take stock of what she’d managed to snatch from the house.

The quilt she’d used to make the bundle was damp and muddy. Since she’d planned to use it for sleeping, it would need to be spread on the bushes in the sun. Once it was dry, the mud could be shaken out of the fabric.

The bundle’s contents included a shovel, an ax, a saw, a hammer and a few nails, as well as her good skinning knife, her pistol and two boxes of bullets. These essentials she piled to one side while she went through the flour sacks that she’d stuffed with things from the house.

From the bedroom she’d taken some ragged sheets, two pairs of overalls, two flannel shirts, some underthings and several pairs of socks. Sadly, in her haste, she’d overlooked the comb, brush and looking glass set that had been her mother’s, but Jessie had managed to save her mother’s sewing box.
The scissors, needles and thread would come in handy.

From the kitchen, she had saved a kettle, a saucepan, a tin cup and a few utensils. The china dishes had been too fragile and heavy to even think of taking. But she had seized a few of her favorite books off the shelf. There was the Bible, of course, as well
Aesop’s Fables, The Collected Works of Shakespeare,
and
Great Expectations
by Charles Dickens. The other books, much as she loved them, had been left for the fire.

There was little else except food—a bag of flour, some salt and baking powder, a sack of dried beans, a tin of Arbuckle coffee, a string of dried apples and a few strips of venison jerky. What she had wouldn’t last long, Jessie realized with a sinking heart. She could hunt and forage all summer, but sooner or later she would need things from a store—and she had only a few dollars, folded and stashed in her stocking.

But the money problem could wait. Her vow to clear Frank could not. The trail of evidence was getting colder by the day. To find the real killer, she would need to be in the valley—in town or at the Gates Ranch. But how could she watch and listen without being seen? Jessie’s fist balled in frustration. If only there were some way for her to become…invisible.

Her heart contracted as her eyes fell on the scissors that lay in her mother’s sewing box. For the
space of a long breath she stared down at the sharp metal blades. Yes, it was the only way, she told herself. As a woman, she would attract attention anywhere she went. But who would look at a young boy, especially one who was ragged and unkempt, dressed in mud-stained overalls and a drooping hat that hid his face?

Trembling, Jessie snatched up the scissors and, with her free hand, seized a lock of her hair. The steel blades flashed as the first ebony curl fell on the wet grass, where it lay coiled like some dying thing. For a moment Jessie stared down at it, mourning all that had passed from her life. Then, shoving self-pity aside, she reached for another lock of hair and raised the scissors again.

The burial of Allister Gates took place the following day, after a funeral that overflowed the small community church. Matt had decided against sitting through the long, crowded service, but he did join the procession that followed the hearse to the hillside cemetery above town. Mingling with townspeople and visitors would give him a good chance to watch, listen and ask a few questions.

Virgil and Lillian rode behind the hearse in a black-draped open carriage. They sat straight-backed and silent, as if aware of the many eyes watching them. But Matt could not help noticing how Virgil’s attention kept flickering toward his sister-in-law.

For a newly bereaved widow, Lillian looked stunning. Her black silk bombazine gown clung to every curve of her hourglass figure. Her red-gold hair was drawn back in a simple bun and crowned by a traditional widow’s bonnet with a veil. But when the breeze blew the veil aside, the face behind it was fresh and rosy, the sparkling green eyes undimmed by tears.