Love on the Range

by Mary Connealy

  “Go ahead.” Win squared her shoulders. “I already believe the worst about him.”

  “Your pa killed his parents.”

  Win turned away. Kevin pulled her against his chest and held on tight.

  A line of furrows appeared on John’s brow as he looked between Win and the letter.

  “We need to hear the rest of it,” Kevin said quietly.

  John nodded. “Their pa had a mean temper and was given to taking a fist to them. Their ma was quick with a switch, too. The townsfolk knew it, and that’s why they let the boys get away with small crimes many times, felt sorry for them. But when their parents went missing, folks noticed because their pa was always at the saloon. He swept up in there and kept his family fed but only just.”

  “How long were they missing?” Sheriff Corly asked.

  “About a week. Finally, a sheriff came to the house, and the boys all claimed their parents had run off, abandoning them. But the sheriff didn’t believe it. It didn’t take long to find two graves dug in the root cellar. The boys’ story changed, and they claimed their folks killed each other, and the boys’ only part in it was burying them. But the questioning went on until Randall confessed that Oliver had killed them in their sleep. They all three got sent to Jeffers. But they were young, and there was some sympathy for them, so they stayed a few years, finished growing up, got fed better than they had at home, and learned to read and cipher. Then they were let loose.”

  John looked up. “Clovis had been out a year when he married your ma, Falcon. Randall and Oliver left the area. I suspect they headed north, got rid of their Tennessee accents, and set out to get rich however they could.”

  “Oliver was always the worst of us.” A voice turned them all around. They watched Randall Kingston sit up on the cot in the jailhouse. He rubbed both hands over his face. “I was a thief. Clovis a liar and a cheat. Oliver a killer. A fine lot we were. The one thing we came away from our childhood with was loyalty to each other. That’s why I’ve kept quiet about Oliver all these years. I had my doubts about how his wife died, but I wasn’t around and didn’t really know about it. I could let myself believe she’d died birthing a child. I never heard tell of the housekeepers.”

  Wyatt wondered how long Randall had been awake. And he wondered how good a liar he was. Good enough to talk his way out of that jail cell by turning on his brother? “Why’d you shoot Rachel?”

  Randall’s eyes came to Wyatt. Cold eyes. The same golden brown as his. Only Randall’s were cold as the grave.

  “Oliver told me she’d shot you. And tried to kill him. He’d heard she was back around.”

  “How’d he hear? She slipped in at night and stayed to the house.”

  Randall’s jaw tightened. “We have someone who keeps an eye out at your place. Youngster named Jesse.”

  Cheyenne and Wyatt had matching expressions of rage.

  “He looks in the windows when he can. He saw her. Heard your plan to ride to White Rock Station and the trail you’d use. Jesse told Oliver. Oliver told me she was coming back to kill him. I set out to stop her.”

  “We’ve got a hand we need to fire.” Cheyenne’s voice could out-cold Randall’s eyes any day of the week.

  “I’m glad you survived it, Miss Rachel. I know a few other things, but I’m not saying another word until I’m sure I’m not going to hang for what I done. And I don’t want to spend any more time in a cell.”

  Wyatt looked around the group. A lot of purely suspicious expressions in this room. None of them believed Randall was all that innocent.

  “What’s more . . . I know . . . well, no.” Randall’s eyes went flinty. “I’m not saying another word. Except you’re going to need my help, and you’re not going to get it unless I can walk free from this jail cell.” Randall glared at Sheriff Gatlin for a long minute, then he turned sideways to lie down on the cot.

  Despite questions, he refused to say another word.

  Twenty-Five

  They didn’t all go charging out to the Hawkins Ranch.

  Molly had to go because she knew exactly where the safe was. Win stayed behind because she couldn’t stand to be part of it. Kevin stayed behind because he couldn’t leave Win alone and unprotected, and he didn’t count Sheriff Gatlin, who stayed behind to guard Kingston and protect Win. Rachel stayed because the ride to town had worn her out.

  Wyatt knew exactly how many hands were working out there, and the caliber of men they were. He’d assured everyone there’d be no shooting trouble from the cowhands. They were too lazy to fight for the brand. None from Hawkins, either, unless there was a chance to do some back-shooting.

  Molly bent low over the saddle, the horse’s hooves pounding as they galloped at full speed. Wyatt had gained the lead because he had a fine stallion to ride, McCall right with him, but the rest of them were close behind. Everyone wanted to be a part of bringing Hawkins to justice.

  He was a killer. That’s what his older brother had called him.

  “I was a thief. Clovis a liar and a cheat. Oliver a killer.”

  Kingston had said that. And he’d been so calm about it. “I was a thief.” A hard thing to say about yourself, especially when you want to get out of jail. But compared to being a killer, he probably thought it sounded decent. Even knowing he’d shot Rachel—and there she’d stood, looking him in the eye—the man thought he had something they’d bargain for.

  “Clovis a liar and a cheat.” Well, seeing as how three brothers had lived a life created through Clovis’s lying and cheating, they had to agree with that description.

  “Oliver a killer.” Those words had come out as if it was a childhood chant that he’d known all his life.

  Thief, cheat, killer. A dark legacy for one family to dole out into the world.

  Molly wondered what Kingston had meant by “you’re going to need my help.” What did that man know?

  Even as they galloped toward the Hawkins Ranch, Molly felt like they were too late. Kingston had an ominous attitude, as if he was sure they didn’t know everything.

  “Be on the lookout for someone shooting from cover,” Wyatt shouted. “That’d be Hawkins’s way.”

  Wyatt and Falcon rode side by side. They were busy, looking at any spot where boulders and woodlands came close to the trail. Molly smelled dirt from the trail and the cold damp of snow, kicked up by the horses in front of her. They rode southeast away from town, and the wind kicked swirls of snow across the trail. Wind bit at her cheeks, and they felt pink and chapped.

  Despite the cold and their terrible mission, it was a day of breathtaking beauty. The mountains rose up before them, and the sun, fully risen but still low in the eastern sky, painted snowcapped mountains in shades of orange and pink, against a sky so blue it made her heart ache.

  A magnificent land, Wyoming Territory. One she’d like to have for a home. If they could just get all the danger settled. Not counting blizzards, of course. Or cattle stampedes or rattlesnake bites. But those she’d face. It was the danger that came from evil men targeting her family that she wanted to end.

  With the thundering hoofbeats as the music to drive them along, she thought of secrets from her own past and urged more speed from her horse, as if running away from the truth. She heightened her vigilance, looking all around for danger. She’d ridden to the Hawkins Ranch from the RHR when she’d gone there to work. She’d never ridden there from town. She knew nothing of the dangerous parts of this trail, so all she could do was keep her eyes open, keep up, and keep praying.

  The trail was wide, and she suspected they didn’t take the shortest route, so they could avoid certain spots.

  One thing she did know, Wyatt had been riding for town when he’d been shot. He’d split up from Falcon and Cheyenne, who had followed Ralston’s trail. Wyatt had chased after Rachel, thinking she was part of the gang with Ralston. Now they were riding from town to the Hawkins Ranch. The place Wyatt had been shot was around here somewhere.

  They kept moving fast and were goin
g at a full gallop when they charged into Hawkins’s ranch yard. No one had attacked them along the way. And now that they’d arrived, no one poked a head out of the barn or bunkhouse.

  The whole place had an abandoned look about it.

  Wyatt swung down and hitched his horse by the back door. By the time Molly dismounted, Wyatt had the door open and was inside, shouting Hawkins’s name.

  “Falcon, Cheyenne.” Molly rushed after Wyatt. “Hawkins is usually in his office. Check there. I’m going to look at his safe.”

  There were unwashed dishes in the sink. Dried, burnt food in pans on the stove. It looked a lot like it had when she’d started as a housekeeper here.

  Pounding up the stairs with Wyatt on her heels, she found a mess. Clothes strewn about. The bed unmade. Ignoring all that, she went straight to the safe, dropped to her knees beside the dresser, and flipped open the cunningly hidden floorboard.

  Sheriff Corly came into the room behind Wyatt, and Molly was glad he was here. She wanted a witness to what was in the safe. Someone who didn’t have a grudge against Hawkins, as she knew every member of the family did.

  John was a step behind him.

  Reaching in, she dialed the combination and opened the iron safe. It was still full of packets. Whatever had happened, Oliver hadn’t taken time to clean it out.

  “Sheriff, you take these out. I want you to know I haven’t done a thing to tamper with them.”

  The sheriff knelt beside her and drew out envelope after envelope.

  “Did he create a packet and write a poem for each woman he killed?” Wyatt crouched beside the sheriff.

  “B-but there are a dozen or more of them.” Molly eased back. She pressed her hand to her twisting stomach. To think of so many murders.

  “The top one says your name, Miss Garner.” The sheriff held it up for her to read. “And there’s one for Miss Hobart. Those show he intended harm but didn’t do murder.”

  “Because we got away,” Molly said grimly.

  The sheriff nodded. “Let’s hope more of these packets are the same.” He got everything out of the safe, then lifted all the contents up to spread them across the top of the dresser.

  “This is the one down the farthest,” the sheriff said. “It’s got two names on it. A man and a woman. Last name Hunt.”

  “He kept a record of his parents’ murders?” Molly didn’t look anymore. The rest of them, save Falcon and Cheyenne, who hadn’t come up yet, began combing through what they’d found.

  “The next one has his wife’s name on it.” Wyatt tore open the sealed letter and pulled a small painting out. He held it up, a small oval painting about two inches wide and maybe three high. “The woman in this picture looks a lot like Win. And there’s a poem.

  “My beloved wife, my betrayer.

  My heart aches for what she made me do.

  No greater serpent have I nurtured to my bosom, save my own mother.

  Do not ask my forgiveness for you are not worthy.

  Now I must go on alone.”

  “He’s blaming her.” John reread the poem with a cynical scowl on his face. “In my work, I’ve found it’s typical that an abusive man blames the woman. Whatever he did, however she ended up dead, he blames her for it.”

  “Hawkins makes no mention of his wife dying birthing a child,” Wyatt added.

  The sheriff said grimly, “I consider this poem as good as a confession.” He looked at John.

  Molly felt the lawmen banding together. It was a little annoying considering she’d been something of a lawman herself while in Hawkins’s house. Plus, she’d found the safe and now opened it.

  She wasn’t going to be left out. “We should search the house. I’ve always wondered what’s on the third floor.”

  “And we should take his account books.” Wyatt sounded like he didn’t like being left out, either.

  “If he’s run away, where would he go?” Molly wondered out loud. “Could he have a hideout right here in the house?”

  “Rachel looked at the floor plans and talked to one of the men who helped build it,” John said. “She hasn’t specifically said there isn’t a hidden room, but she’d’ve mentioned it if there was something like that on the plans. And she found both safes, so they knew she was wondering what he might be hiding.”

  “I’m surprised the builders talked that much,” Sheriff Corly said.

  “I asked Rachel about that, and she said Hawkins was tightfisted, slow to pay his bills, and, in the end, cut back on what he paid by complaining about shoddy workmanship.”

  Everyone took a moment to look around the oversized bedroom. The house was splendid and still standing in very good shape twenty years after it was built.

  “Yep,” Wyatt muttered, “I’ll bet they didn’t mind gossiping about him.”

  “The account books are a good idea, Wyatt,” John said. “I’m going down to fetch them.”

  Wyatt handed him a strip of paper. “The top number is the combination to the downstairs safe, and there was more in there than just account books.”

  “I’ll bring everything. I’ll look through his desk, too.”

  Wyatt told John which picture to look behind.

  John went downstairs. The rest of them went to the door to the third floor. Molly remembered the sounds she’d heard from up there, the feeling of the house being haunted. Could Hawkins be upstairs? Molly, more curious than honestly believing Hawkins was there, tried the door. It was locked.

  After fiddling for a few seconds, Wyatt pulled his gun and shot the lock off. The door opened on a narrow flight of stairs. As her head rose to the level of the next floor, she heard a strange sound coming straight for her and ducked so hard she fell backward. She shrieked, then Wyatt’s strong arms clamped around her, steadying her.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she said, “There’s something up there.”

  He plunked her on her feet, drew his gun again, stared up into the stairwell for a long moment, and then holstered his gun. “It’s a pigeon.”

  Molly was a step above him. They were the only two that had come up this far. “He’s got a pigeon in a house this well built?”

  “Maybe there’s a broken window.”

  There was no wind, but the small peaked attic was cold. Of course, it was unheated in Wyoming in October.

  Wyatt slipped past her and went on upstairs.

  John McCall appeared at a run at the base of the closed staircase. “I heard a gunshot, then a scream. Trouble?”

  Molly smiled down to see him putting his gun away. “No, the door was locked, and Wyatt shot it open. There’s a pigeon up here. It startled me. I’m sure it’s—”

  “A pigeon.” John came up the stairs at a jog. Molly heard the distinctive coo of a pigeon. Wings continued to flutter in the space overhead.

  Molly hustled to get to the top of the stairs because John was coming fast. He seemed fascinated.

  Molly had no fondness for birds diving at her head.

  “One got out of its cage, but there are more.” Wyatt pointed at the window in the east wall.

  John strode toward an elaborate wire birdcage with many small coops sized for one bird.

  Once Molly looked there, she saw several more pigeons. Then she looked around the attic and saw crates and trunks, stacks of unidentifiable things. What looked like massive shrouded pictures leaned against a wall. Molly wondered if Win knew these things were here.

  A light pattering sound drew Molly’s attention from the stacks of things lining the attic to see John throw something. The pigeons got very busy eating.

  “He had pet birds.” Molly glared at the poor things. “And he just abandoned them when he ran? That’s awful.”

  John tossed what must be feed on the floor, and the flying pigeon went for it fast. As hungry as the others.

  “It’s awful for that rattlesnake Hawkins but good for us.” John rubbed his hands together. “We’ll use them to find Hawkins without letting Kingston out of jail. It doesn’t suit me t
o let a man shoot Rachel in the heart and him not go to jail and stay there.”

  “Aw, now, John, don’t be fussing about it,” Wyatt said sarcastically. “She got over that shot to the heart mighty fast.”

  “You’re right.” John went to study the coop and the frantically eating birds with a mean smile on his face. “I’m petty and spiteful. One little old bullet to the heart of my coworker, and I’m holding a grudge.”

  “I think it’s a little strange that I lived in this house for two weeks and never knew he had pets, was never asked to feed them. He made me do everything and never lifted a finger to help. I wondered why he wasn’t making me dust up here. But I didn’t ask about it. I just thought the house was so large he’d closed part of it off. All I felt was relief.”

  She looked again at the stacks of things stuffed in here. Glad she hadn’t been set to the task of dusting all of it. “I realize now he was insistent that I leave the third floor alone. He made it sound like he was easing my work, but I’d say, he didn’t want me to see he had pigeons. I heard rustling up here, too. It was spooky, but I thought maybe the house creaked in the wind or he had rats. Why would he keep these birds a secret? And how in the world can pigeons help us keep Kingston in jail?”

  “They can help,” John said with cool satisfaction, “because they’re not regular pigeons, they’re homing pigeons. I’d bet anything if I let one of these birds out of that cage and shooed it out the open window, it’d guide us straight to Hawkins’s hideout.”

  “You’re assuming he’s got a hideout and these birds would know to fly there.” Wyatt looked skeptical.

  “What I’m assuming”—John crouched by the pigeons, studying them—“is that if three brothers lived within a few miles of each other and no one ever realized they were connected, they had to have a place to meet.”

  “Sheriff Gatlin said they were seen together in Casper,” Wyatt reminded him.

  “Yes, and the fact that no one mentioned them being brothers when they got together over there is all the more proof that they had some other way to communicate.”

  “It makes sense, I guess.” Molly tried to fit it all together. “If this madness could ever make sense.”