“Economy of motion,” Sebastian finally said. “Fidgeting accomplishes nothing.”
“Suppose you’re right.” The contemplation left Williams’s expression and he was the careless rube once more. He half rose from the chair. “I’ll get you a map then, and you can start your hunt,” he said brightly.
“Not quite yet.” Sebastian let the silence pull on purpose this time, long enough for uncertainty to flash across the sheriff’s face, long enough for the advantage to swing back to himself. “I’d like to speak with Obregon and Miss Moreno first.”
And properly do this investigation that you’ve botched.
“Are you certain? Obregon’s all the way in the sanatorium in Pine Ridge—that’s a three-hour ride, and I’ve already—”
Sebastian rose suddenly from the chair, stopping Williams’s babbling more effectively than a fist to his throat.
“Take me to Obregon.” More silence, darker this time, as he loomed over Williams. “Now.”
A gunshot to the gut was a terrible thing to endure. Given the state of Sheriff Joaquin Obregon, perhaps even more terrible to survive.
Sebastian noted the waxy cast to the other man’s skin, the tortured pull of his breathing, the limpness of his limbs in the bedclothes. A man this broken might not remember what had brought him to this state.
There was only one way to find out.
“His pulse is dangerously elevated and erratic,” the nurse fussed at Sebastian. “Perhaps you can question him later?”
If he dies, there will be no later. “The doctor assured me it would be fine,” Sebastian said.
The thunk of the nurse’s bottom hitting her chair spoke to her displeasure, though her expression remained serene. Dealing with the rich consumptives who came to these mountains for a rest cure must have given her a great deal of experience in hiding her irritation.
He studied Obregon for several moments. If not for the agony weighing down every inch of him, the man would have been handsome.
Miss Moreno was likely handsome as well. In Sebastian’s experience, those blessed with fair features tended to couple with each other.
He was not so blessed—not that he intended to couple with any lady.
“Sheriff Obregon,” he said firmly.
Obregon turned his face toward Sebastian, his eyes open but glassy, unfocused. This was a man in the grip of a pain so deep, he could perceive little else.
Sebastian’s task was to pull the information he needed from this man, pain or no. If Obregon were more alert, he would understand. He was a lawman.
Or had been.
“Sheriff Obregon.” Closer to a command now.
A long blink. A clearing of his gaze, slightly.
“I am Marshal Spencer. I’ve been sent to track down the man who attacked you. I need you to tell me about the events of that day.”
Silence. Obregon’s gaze remained steady, but nothing came from his lips.
Sebastian waited. And waited.
“I don’t think he remembers.”
Sebastian trained his gaze on the nurse, watching her flutter under it, flutter and flicker and…
She dropped her gaze, her cheeks going red.
Good. There’d be no more interruptions from her.
He turned back to Obregon, whose breathing had grown more labored.
“They came from the trees,” he finally forced out.
Sebastian leaned forward so that his ears could catch each dropped word.
“I shot them,” Obregon said.
“Them?”
“Three. Careys and the other.”
The Careys were the Carey brothers, both found dead at the scene of the attack. And the other—well, he was the one Sebastian must find.
“Who fired first?” A crucial question, one Sebastian couldn’t find the answer to in Williams’s report. If Obregon had fired first, and the three men were defending themselves… that put an entirely different cast on the affair.
“They did.”
Hard to discern if Obregon was truthful. There was no inflection in his voice—only effort.
“So they fired first,” Sebastian allowed. “All three of them?”
Obregon shook his head. Sebastian waited for him to elaborate, but nothing more came.
“Did they hit you, when they first fired?” Sebastian asked. “Or Miss Moreno?”
Obregon shook his head again, his eyes shut in agony.
All right. Shots fired—not by Obregon—no one wounded. “What happened next?”
For several long moments, Obregon did nothing but fight to breathe. At one point the nurse rose, then fell back into her chair after catching Sebastian’s expression.
“Killed the Careys.” The rasp under the words made them difficult to decipher.
Now that didn’t make sense. Was Obregon saying that he’d killed both the Carey brothers with no one else getting a shot off?
Of course he wasn’t. Such a happening was impossible. Obregon was confused.
“After the Careys were killed, what next?” Whatever Obregon remembered was suspect, but Sebastian wanted it anyway. He’d only know if Obregon’s memories were worthless if he had them to examine.
The other man’s brows drew together, his gaze clearing. “She screamed. She never screams.”
That wasn’t true. Anyone could be made to scream, if one only applied enough pressure. Sebastian’s father had proved that particular point multiple times during his childhood.
Sebastian tightened his grip on his control. His father was dead. Those screams were in the past.
He had to focus on her screams now.
“Miss Moreno? She was the one screaming?”
Obregon was lost to pain once more, his jaw clenching tight. Clamminess broke out across his skin while he struggled with his agony.
Silence wasn’t working, and neither was waiting. “Miss Moreno?” Sharper, louder, a call to Obregon to come back to this world. “Was she the one who was screaming?”
A minor point, really—of course she’d screamed. Any woman would have, even one as frigid as Miss Moreno supposedly was.
But for some strange reason it mattered, to have Obregon say, yes, she had screamed.
“She never screams,” was all Obregon got out.
Sebastian pushed down his rising frustration. He wouldn’t allow himself the luxury, to feel that sharp bite of irritation, not so far from his notebooks and the absolution they provided.
Time to start from the beginning, see if he could lead Obregon to the finish from that direction. “You and your fiancée, Miss Moreno, were out for a drive that Sunday.”
The sheriff’s report had included at least that much.
Obregon managed a nod.
“Three men ambushed you,” Sebastian went on. “One of them fired first. Which one?”
Nothing from Obregon. If the man’s eyes weren’t half open, Sebastian would have thought him unconscious.
“Who fired first?” he demanded.
Still nothing.
“He can’t remember.” A dart of exasperation from the nurse. “Return later—today is a bad one for him.”
Sebastian didn’t look at her. “He has to remember. Otherwise this case is already lost. If he were awake and aware, he’d realize that.”
“Then question him when he’s awake and aware.” The nurse sounded as though she were holding Sebastian’s irritation as well as her own.
She was welcome to his—he didn’t want it.
“I’m here now,” he said. “I need to know what happened.”
“She screamed.” Finally, Obregon was speaking again. “I don’t remember after.”
It was more exhalation than statement, the effort of which had Obregon closing his eyes completely.
The nurse was up and at his bedside before Sebastian could blink. “His pulse is weaker.” Closer to accusatory than she probably should have dared. “You’ll have to leave.”
“I’ll wait until he’s recovered.” He
settled himself more securely in his chair.
“I don’t believe the doctor would approve, not with the condition Mr. Obregon is in.” She crossed her arms, sending Sebastian a look of implacability that even he, the master of such looks, had to admire. “Shall I fetch him?”
He could battle with this nurse, and likely the doctor as well, and wait who knew how long for Obregon to be fit to speak. Assuming Obregon’s memories of the attack were more intact than the interview suggested.
Or he could seek out the other victim and interrogate her. She wasn’t curled in agony in a sanatorium bed. She’d answer whatever questions he put to her. He’d make certain of that.
“Very well,” he said, rising and settling his hat on his head. “As soon as he’s recovered, send word to me in Cabrillo.”
Time to find this Miss Moreno and see if the stories were true. And to wrest every last bit of the story from her—willing or no.
Chapter Two
Isabel Moreno set aside Tess of the d’Ubervilles and took up her pen.
She’d picked up the novel—about the violation of an innocent young girl at the hands of a villain and her tragic end—the way one would poke at a sore tooth, tongue probing until it triggered that sweetly stabbing pain. But the exercise lost its appeal after a few chapters.
Lesson plans. There were always lesson plans to prepare. Pen poised, she looked toward the sheet of paper at her right hand—only to have her bedroom window pull her gaze toward it.
Low sagebrush, taller, brighter pines, gently rolling hills. And boulders poking up like cracked teeth. Nothing novel in that landscape.
But he was out there somewhere. The man who’d attacked her.
Breath-stealing, heart-rattling, mind-blotting panic came upon her each time she looked out at where he might be. Panic that she hid as well as she could, panic that was stealing upon her even now.
He could be watching her. Might be imagining his hands around her throat once more, dreaming of all the disgusting, depraved acts he’d promised to visit upon her…
She reached for her collar—the collar that was strangling her—but forced her hand to stop at her breastbone. She must not pull at it. She’d torn off a button the other day, struggling in one of her attacks. She’d had to hurriedly sew it back on before anyone could notice. Because the only thing worse than these attacks of paralytic fear were the looks of pity she received when one was upon her.
She lingered on the scene for a moment, using the time to master herself.
Only greenery, mountains, and the creek appeared.
He wasn’t lurking outside. She was two stories above ground. This fear would not control her.
A terrible thing to no longer be able to trust one’s own sense of fear. To be at such pitched trembling that one couldn’t discern true dangers from the ones manufactured by one’s own mind.
Tightening her grip on her pen, she turned back to her paper and began to write. Not on Tess of the d’Ubervilles—that was much too racy to teach to impressionable young minds. No, only a lesson on sentence diagramming. Always difficult, to find a way to present that subject in the detail required without losing the students’ attention. Perhaps if she tried—
A knock at the door had her tossing her pen across the room, the fear so thick and hot upon her she could hardly breathe. She slowly rose, the better to give her shaky limbs time to settle, crossed the room to retrieve her pen, wiped it clean, and set it carefully on the desk. By that time she’d managed to erase the worst of her shock, although her heart was still racing. But no one could see that.
“Come in!”
Her elder sister, Catarina, bustled in, moving at a slightly faster pace than usual. “That marshal went to the sanatorium to speak with Joaquin. He’ll likely head here after; I wanted to come warn you.”
The marshal. Sent here by a man who hated her mother, a man who must never learn Señora Moreno’s true identity. While Isabel understood Mr. Merrill’s impulsive request for help had been noble, part of her wished he hadn’t done it.
This marshal could expose her mother’s true identity to their family’s greatest enemy—or he could capture the man who’d tried to murder her and her fiancé. Isabel prayed that the latter could be achieved without triggering the former.
To have played such a part in endangering her mother… Well, once this marshal was gone, their mother’s secret still safe, Isabel’s guilt would dissipate.
“We’ll need to prepare refreshments if he is coming.” Always best to focus on mundanities—it helped keep the fear away.
Catarina walked toward her, her eyes focused near Isabel’s neck.
What is she looking at?
“I’ve already prepared tea and food,” her sister said. She raised her hand toward Isabel, coming straight for her throat—
Isabel slapped her hand away before the command to do so had taken shape in her mind.
Catarina pulled her hand into her chest, rubbing it as she took two quick steps back. “I’m sorry, I forgot—“
“No, I’m sorry,” Isabel rattled out before Catarina could go on. Thank the Lord Catarina hadn’t managed to touch her neck—Isabel might have slapped her cheek.
Someday Isabel would have control over these reactions again, wouldn’t give herself away. But until then…
She moved further out of Catarina’s reach.
“You have a speck. Near your collar,” Catarina explained.
Rather than simply tell Isabel so she could deal with it herself, Catarina had done as she always had and taken the task upon herself. An accident of birth made Catarina five years older than Isabel’s twenty-one, but that accident meant Isabel would forever be treated as a child by her sister.
“Thank you. I can remove it myself.” She brushed her bodice clean with a flick of her wrist.
“There—it’s gone.” Catarina’s expression remained downcast—and green. But still eye-achingly beautiful.
An angel with morning sickness. A nasty thought, to be sure, but if Isabel couldn’t be honest in her own mind, she’d go mad. Catarina was married, mistress of her own house, the green cast to her skin a testament to the coming baby she hadn’t yet announced to the world. Her sister wanted nothing more than what she already had.
Isabel sometimes thought she might never assuage her wants, that she might hunger and hunger and never fill herself—she certainly felt empty now. Joaquin, the man she was to marry, might never rise from his bed again. This town, the one she’d hated for as long as she could remember, might never release her to find the life she’d always dreamed of.
“What were you doing?” A strained attempt at conversation from Catarina.
“Writing a lesson plan.” She didn’t much feel like talking, but it was better than staring out the window.
“A lesson plan?” Catarina asked. “But you’ve no teaching position this term.”
Thank you for the reminder. She hadn’t even the escape of practicing the profession she loved. She’d had a teaching position, one in the valley at the base of the mountains—not quite as far as she’d like, but certainly forward movement.
Then she’d been attacked, and there was no question—she was staying in Cabrillo, in her parents’ house, until the man was found.
The worst part was, she wanted to remain in the house, behind the illusion of security these walls and her gathered family provided.
There was always next term.
If the man had been caught by then.
If she had the courage to leave the house by then.
Of course she would.
“I’ll return for the spring term.” Firm, confident, as if she could will such a thing with only the force of her voice.
“Certainly.” Catarina put a pinch of pity there.
Pity. She was choking on everyone’s surfeit of pity.
“What were your impressions of this marshal?” Isabel asked. Catarina and her husband had met the marshal at the train depot. Any impressions Catarina had fo
rmed would aid in the coming interrogation.
“He was very still. Almost menacingly so.”
Menacing. Isabel doubted this marshal was half as menacing as McCade had been. No doubt the marshal thought to make himself mysterious and intimidating with his silence. No doubt he’d ask the same questions the sheriff had, grow as frustrated with her answers—and then hopefully leave her alone while he hunted the outlaw.
He’d gone to see Joaquin, then. Three hours to Pine Ridge, an hour at the sanatorium, three hours back—he’d be here soon.
Isabel had made that same trip a few days ago to visit Joaquin. Sheer torment, to drive in that same buggy, passing places identical to the site of her attack. She’d reminded herself that her brother Juan was sitting right next to her and had a pistol strapped to his thigh, that there was a rifle just under the buggy seat…
But Joaquin had been carrying a pistol that day, and there’d been a rifle at her feet as well. Such things hadn’t saved them the last time.
No matter. She was safe at the moment.
There was no one at the window.
“Well, I suppose I’ll find out about this marshal for myself,” Isabel said evenly.
Uncertainty pulled at Catarina’s features. “Do you think… do you think he knows exactly who our mother is? And how she’s related to Judge Bannister?”
Panic spiked high in Isabel’s breast. “How could he? Unless your husband told him?”
Catarina stiffened. “Of course not! He might be the judge’s son, but Jace would never betray our mother.”
So certain her sister was, after only a few weeks in an initially unwanted marriage. Isabel wasn’t yet ready to put her certainty in a man so closely related to Judge Bannister. Estrangement or no.
“As long as we all remain silent, she’s in no danger,” Isabel reminded her pointedly.
Not that Isabel had the choice to be silent. About her mother, yes, but about this attack… Over and over again she’d had to recite the story, first to her parents, then to the sheriff, then to the parade of townspeople coming to offer their sympathy—and to obtain the salacious details from the source herself.
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